St. Patrick's Day.

Sam came by the Dojo last night. It's been awhile since we caught up with her, she's one of those interesting, left of center girls (like all my girlfriends really) I find worth staying in touch with. Plus, she's an artist. Like, a real one. I don't think of myself as an artist. I'd never go out and do something completely crazy for a sustained period of time. The difference between some crazy activity being art and some crazy activity simply being simply some stupid thing you do is how well you plan it and how often you repeat it IMHO.

So, Sam's now training to be a pole dancer. Her big idea is to go to Tokyo and NY and pole dance in those places and get some guy to photograph her. With the money she gets in tips from pole dancing in gentleman's clubs, she'd then go and reinvest that money in a host club, so she can photograph the boys who work there. John later asked her if pole dancers got to wear clothing.

Sam: "Of course they wear clothing, it's necessary for protection".
John: "Protection for the dancer or the pole?"

At some point I started bitching about losing $50 bucks at BluJazz a few days ago, and this guy who was just sitting around, whom I didn't know, suddenly said maybe it's in my stomach. Maybe I'd somehow eaten the money.

Me: "What the fuck? It's not like I was working at some kind of fetish bar where the guys stuff the money into my throat instead of my underpants."

I noted the look of horror on his face. I suppose it was kind of rude, and he must have been wondering what kind of freak I was, but hey, Sam started all that talk about pole dancing and tipping and shit.

Then we saw Erlend Øye from Kings of Convenience outside this stupid Seesha bar and we tried to say hi, but we were all kind of lame, and he looked a bit unfriendly (it's the Viking thing, they all look a bit unfriendly on first sight) so we didn't hang around. I could kick myself for not touching his nose. I should have touched his nose and gone off about the whole "From where I come from, if you touch a big nose, it brings good luck in the fertility department". FUUUUCK! I fucking hate it when I see a guy I want to talk to and then don't, you know? You should always try and talk to someone you want to talk to, because the worst that could happen is he tells you to piss off, and, big fucking deal about that, really. And, maybe I would have gotten laid last night if I'd touch his nose.

Back to the MGM saga. I went over for a couple of drinks, or four, and he told me about his epic weekend, which is more epic than you can imagine, and clarified one thing which we all got wrong: The thing he was watching with Lady M. when he greeted us (The fixer, Ash and me) in the wee hours of Saturday morning. It wasn't lesbian porn, it was House. What the fuck!