Too Many Hands Under The Table

The Beastie Boys are on the radio.  Aaron is slumped over at the table drooling on himself – he’s been drinking whiskey since 2:00 and insisted on playing King’s Cup with whiskey even though we warned him.  Whitebread and Billy are engaged in a heated debate about the superiority of Chris Cornell over Eddie Vedder.  And I have too many hands on my legs.

I’ve got one hand on each leg to be exact.  And they each belong to a different person.  Don’t they know what assholes they look like?  Hand One belongs to a scraggly-haired, tattooed, MBA student who is trying to start his own energy consultancy.  Hand Two belongs to a clean-cut, mild-mannered, drummer in a band who has lived in Aspen for four years now.  Seems like the circuits got crossed somewhere when God created this two walking contradictions.

Damn shame that Mr. Tattooed-MBA had to show up tonight.  Where has he been hiding for the last three months?  My style is completely being cramped.

I raise my eyebrows at Summer across the table.  She’s watching whole thing.  She shrugs as if to say, “Looks like you’re SOL.”  My horoscope the other day said, and I quote, "Stop being such a whore.  People are starting to ask questions."  Thanks astrology.  Either way, I’ve got too many hands on my legs and their owners don’t seem to notice, or care.