It's been quite some time since I've posted photos. I have been remiss in carrying my camera around these days, and for that, I sincerely apologize. I've failed to blog about several musical bingo nights, including one where we moved it temporarily to Psycho Suzi's. I also failed to blog about the Overheard in Minneapolis (OIM) first anniversary party [see photos] at Mac's Industrial Sports Bar where I met Ed Kohler and the delightful Miss Ang, who runs OIM and was coincidentally celebrating her upcoming birthday. There were also too many other entertaining characters there that night to name.

I also failed to take copious photos last night, when I was served a disgusting corned beef sandwich on stale, moldy(!!!) bread on the patio at Wyld Times in St Paul. The poor waitress, who quite obviously was very embarrassed even though it wasn't her fault, was very apologetic multiple times, and my meal was comped. But what I want to know is how the fuck does the person making the sandwich, even if he or she is wearing those food serving gloves, not notice that the white bread in their hands is hard as a fucking rock and mottled with specks of mold? And that seems like a situation where the manager should come out to apologize, as well, instead of throwing the waitress under the bus. But mistakes happen, and I'm not going to completely dismiss a restaurant based on one experience. I've never heard anyone complain about it, so I'll give it another shot.

Thursday night, through a thread over on MNSpeak, there was an impromptu gathering organized by Aaron at Merlin's Rest at East Lake Street and 36th Avenue in Minneapolis. The place just opened a few months ago, but I hadn't heard of it until the other day. The name made me think that perhaps it was one of those places you go to buy Magic the Gathering cards or fancy bongs shaped like wizards and skulls. Or both. Ed was there for a while, but had to leave before I was buzzed enough to take photos unabashedly.

Aaron directs me to wait to take the photo until after he farts and Oliver, who comments here as Teucer, is getting ready to tell a rollicking tale of pitching a massive tent during an afternoon nap at the office.


Ang is about read to spit out her beer after the tent story. Oliver is pleased with himself.


You know I love Summit, but I'm not sure that I agree with serving it in a Guinness glass. Somehow it seems sacreligious, like an affront to the almighty dark draught.




Alie looks innocent, but she just elbowed me in the junk under the table. Oddly, instead of doubling over in pain, I just looked kind of pouty.


Ang smiles gleefully at my ball pain.


If you look closely at the scribbling on the toilet paper dispenser, it says "mmm jazz" for some reason. At first, I thought it said, "mmm jizz" and looked in vain for the glory hole.


I thought it would be funny to take a photo of me wearing Ang's glasses, but it just looks like me before LASIK, completely weakening my bit and my sauce.


In the end, a good time was had by all. Some felt it the next day more than others, but work and life go on, even when you're hungover, which I wasn't, so suck it.