Weekend Made Me Smile

Sure was a good weekend. We survived traffic trauma and scary close encounters with law enforcement and arrived in Brooklyn nearly intact, if not on time. Shuffle the playing order of bands like a deck of cards- doesn't matter really, since there is no audience.
Where are my friends? Right outside! Yay!
The club might be empty, but I'm sitting at the bar, flanked by beautiful women. Pinch me!
I know I'm not dreaming, 'cos this is good, and my dreams aren't. I might have to start believing in some sort of Almighty Cloud Being, because these angels have to come from somewhere.
The angel on my left captivates me. I try really hard to pronounce her name, but I fail. I could blame it on the beer and weed, but I'd be tongue-tied in the presence of this goddess regardless of my mental state. The angel on my right reminds me why it's important to get out and meet people-if it wasn't for her I wouldn't be there. I'd really like to kiss her, but her boyfriend might take offence. I bask in the warm radiance of these twin suns.
This part of the evening doesn't last long enough.
Pack up the gear! Load up the van! Find a diner!
We find a diner that serves breakfast food and liquor. That's very cool. A philosophical roundtable discussion on the merits of pickles begins. We are some silly people, but we tip well.
Back to the motel! There's a nubile asian girl in her underwear sitting on the steps, crying into a cell-phone and drinking beer. This doesn't seem at all unusual.
In the room, Katie suggests that I should probably go talk to her. Well, OK.
I can't recall what I said, but at least she's not crying anymore. Turns out that some footwear company music tour is putting all their bands up in the motel. She asks me what band I'm in. I'm not. She really wants me to be in one of those bands. She tells me she just turned eighteen.
Someday, someone is really going to victimize this vulnerable waif, but it's not going to be me.
Back in the room it's suddenly dawn. Maybe we should sleep. For two hours.
Hit the road. The road hits back. I-95 is a broiler traffic jam all the way home. I learn what it feels like to be a lobster. It feels red, like a fourth degree sunburn.
Eventually we make it back.
I haven't been at work for five minutes before someone calls about their sewage emergency. I resist the urge to tell them I don't give a shit.
This weekend makes me smile.