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July 05, 2006


Holiday Weekend
To Remember ...

No Computer + Tequila, Friends, Love = Fun

MALIBU, California, July 5 ... Since the wife and I can't catch a last minute flight to Paris on Friday, we opt to spend the long weekend at our Malibu pad. We even make a few bucks by renting out our chateau on the outskirts of Saint-Etienne to an architect and his girlfriend.

Like the movie says, it's a wonderful life. Kid delivers the groceries from that overpriced place on Malibu Ave. I knead, chop, shred and slice the fixings of my famous to-die-for pizza. I bake it perfectly. Christine and I wash the pie down with high-octane margaritas mixed with equal parts Chinaco, Grand Marnier, and Rose's Lime juice.

They say you're supposed to use fresh squeezed lime but I snub them. I am sick of listening to what they say. They are too smug for me. There's nothing wrong with Rose's, it's fine. And the Chinaco is magic in glass. I pour them tall, I pour them proper. I top them with all the ice in the world.

I watch the sun slowly disappear into a shimmering ocean. The first margarita relaxes me. The second one makes me contemplative. The third stuns me with clarity and the fourth kicks me hard in the ass. I'm too clear and the room spins; I have to get to the bed. The ball and chain is in similar shape. We hit the sack.
I love my wife. And I love tantric sex as much as the next guy, but two hours of foreplay, 9o minutes of intercourse, and a twenty minute orgasm later, I have had enough. Of everything. I pass out. I am only a man.

I admit it: on this morning I am hungfuckingover as a fuckingmotherfucker. Nothing outside of having a few on the rocks will change that. I take Advil and drink coffee instead. I correct my sexual faux pax from the previous night - ladies first, after all - and press myself up against Christine. I shift from foreplay to fiveplay and give her 41 orgasms. I count them.

We watch a James Bond flick in bed, then shower, dress, and have lunch in a trendy forgettable restaurant. We go shopping. The wife gets DKNY shades and a Lucky hoodie. I score a copy of Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper by Diablo Cody. This chick is funny. Diablo talks about her life as a stripper and peepshow goddess. She pulls no punches while her clientele pulls their puds. Strippers are angels from heaven.

I sit near the pool, it's late afternoon ... I finish the book in a breezy couple of hours while Christine floats by on a pink raft, back and forth. I drink two Blues ... slowly. The hangover finally splits.

We wake up late. Sean comes by at 4 with his latest girlfriend, Jennifer, and we start drinking. We hit it hard. Oh, it's fun all right but it seems that Jennifer can't shut the fuck up. Not for one fucking minute. I nod and pretend to listen. Jennifer is hot as a crotch - don't get me wrong - but her constant yammering makes me nuts.

Snaps, pops, and kudos to Sean, though - that's for sure. He's a good man. After a dozen or so, towards the end of the night, the bastard starts reading Bukowski out loud. He mesmerizes. For those moments he is Hank. Sean slurs; we all slur. He slurs that he was friends with Buk; I can't be sure.

Truth be told, we stay in bed all day and alternate between having tantric sex and watching more Bond flicks. Did you know that Sinatra sings the theme song of You Only Live Twice? That's right - Nancy Sinatra.

I don't complain, the weekend is swell, but in the early evening the hospital calls - I have to perform emergency surgery on a guy. And I'm half in the fucking bag from margaritas. Luckily, Sean meets me in the parking lot and powders my nose. The operation goes smoothly; the patient goes home the next morning.

How was your weekend?


I ate a collard green eggroll and a sweet potato bisquit at Taste of Chicago. And watched a bunch of fireworks.

Which was fine until I read about YOUR weekend.
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