The Net Dog Blog

For some reason I can't explain, I've always been a crazy magnet. That is to say crazy people always seem to be attracted to me. Take Friday night for instance. Blake and I met one of his rugby mates for a drink at Compton’s. We actually met some guys from Louisville. Apparently they live right around the corner from our house in Louisville. Small world, huh. Anyway, we were standing in a circle, the way our people seem to do when talking in groups, when all of a sudden this nut in a suit walks up to me with his hand out. "I'm Ryan," he slurs. I give him my name in return hoping that will be the end of it. He proceeds to tell me that he's a lawyer somewhere up north. "That's nice," I tell him. I take out my cigarettes and he asks me for one. I oblige, thinking that he probably only wanted a smoke. Then, he pokes Blake in the stomach like he's the Pillsbury Dough Boy and asks "Who's this?" Blake introduces himself. "Help me get rid of him," I mouth to Blake, who doesn't seem to be able to read lips. Annoyed, I walk over and ask one of the rugby mate's girl friends for a light. She doesn't have one so she turns and notices the suited lawyer and taps him and ask him to light my cigarette. Just great. I was trying to get rid of him. I accept the light and walk back to the Louisville boys. Luckily, by this time, he gets the hint and totters off.
Not 10 minutes later, some gin soaked hobo staggers up to me and shouts something undecipherable at me. I think it had something to do with him being short of money since he was pointing at a few coins he was holding in his outstretched hand. "Well, I'm short about a million pounds," says one of the girl friends. She then tells him to move along.
We then decide to move to a new bar. I think it was the Duke of Wellington. Most pubs close around midnight (clubs will stay open later). This one closed at 11. While we waited for our friends to exit, Blake and I sat on the sidewalk outside the pub. Suddenly, I find a hand on my shoulder that doesn't belong to Blake. "It's a long, long way to Tipperary," the drunk sings into my ear. "Yes," I reply. "I've heard that it is." I smile, thinking he will go away. Instead, he tried to high five me. Of course, since he's crouching over me, he misses my hand and smacks my face. Still singing, he stumbles off into the night.
At this point I believe my crazy quotient has been filled for the week so I decide that it's time to go home. Blake agrees. Of course, now I can't get "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" out of my head.