Oh The Douchebaggery

A friend and I went out last night with no real plan in mind.
We are tired of the west side and all the kids who get dressed in the dark and refuse to shower on what principle, I dunno'.
And of course the east side is just totally bleak unless you are super fond of Chili's. Or god forbid Tortilla Flats. Worst. Food. Ever.
So we settle on down town (or down city, whatever that whole charade is).
We start at Tazza.
Them's were good times! If by "good times" you mean lame o'clock.
You would have been able to hear the crickets chirping if it weren't for the brain thumping electronica beats in the back ground. I like electronica, I'm a fan. But the poor d.j. was playing to an empty room. It was kind of heartbreaking.
So my friend and I went out on the streets to smoke and people watch.
First victim of our comedic play-by-play was, shall we say, a wee bit inebriated.
He was walking, no, sashaying down the sidewalk... just keepin' it real, kickin' it Colt 45 style.
We see him approaching one of those green electrical boxes. I don't really know what they are there for but they are marked high-voltage so I always try to avoid loitering on or around them.
My friend and I are making bets on whether or not he's going to run into it. What, ooh, watch out guy!
Dude grabs the thing like it's a Nam buddy and holds on for dear life.

The funny thing is that I saw this guy out last week while I was having lunch with my mom at Cuban Revolution.
My mom's kind of the shit. She has been everywhere and done everything...including serving as a U.S. delegate in Cuba. Impressive, sure...but she also happens to have a diabolical sense of humor.
So because of our setting, the talk turned to Communism, how theoretically it's a beautiful thing, blah, blah, blah...
I'm making some point that was I'm sure if I had been allowed to finish would have been so earth-shatteringly relevant that it's effects would have been akin to curing cancer or saving baby seals...But my mom interrupts by grabbing my shoulder and gesturing out the window with a look on her face that says, "oops, I crapped my pants".
I see the dude.
He's drunk and being escorted by two cops down the sidewalk.
It was not even noon yet.
It would have been tragic---in fact maybe it was, but I have a gift for making light of tragedy. Your misfortune is my funny party joke!
But what really made the whole scene gut-wrenchingly ludicrous, was the guy's outfit.
I would describe his garb in three words; cloak of awesomeness.
He was being strong-armed by the law down the streets of Providence in the early afternoon wearing what can only be described as a dressing gown.
And what a pretty gown it was!
It was blue and silky and it billowed in the wind with every misstep he took.
Here's to you, fancy drunk guy! You started our night out right!

And because I just realized that the sheer lunacy of last night was so immense that this post has the definite possibility of turning into a small novel, I am going to break it up.

Ooh, my first installment piece.

I'm like a journalist.

But not. At all!