The hands at right and the Bud at center belong to my friend Dean, who in the late 90s worked across the parking lot from the Austin building targeted Thursday by some guy smart enough to be able to (at least at one point) afford & pilot a Piper Cherokee, but dumb enough to think that flying it into some local government offices would be a good solution to his tax issues. Right after it happened, my buddy checked in with his old boss, then called his college friend “Fuego”, who used to work nearby, and who he'd meet for lunch at the Dave & Busters or Taco Cabana -- which, if you don't know, is the greatest fast-food franchise in all the world. Fucking dogballs, it is good.
“Holy shit, 10am. If this'd happened while you were still there, you'd have seen it from the 183 overpass,” said Fuego, alluding to the fact that Dean was "notoriously and habitually late", and would've been just then arriving at work.
“Fuck no I wouldn't have,” said Dean. “I'd of gotten there at nine with a massive 40 hangover, then curled up under my desk, listened to Seven Mary Three and missed the whole thing.”
Which is not boozer's braggadocio. He loved alcohol, and Seven Mary Three, still loves the former, and at least maintains a soft spot for the band. Regardless, I've never once heard him apologize for things he once enjoyed (and if not Seven Mary Three, then what?).
As for plane-flying manifesto writers who grow so densely self-absorbed they undergo nuclear-fusion, their brand of unapologetic has become cumbersome.
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