Somewhere along the way, I blew out my trusty cowboy boot. I blame the mini-bar in my hotel room. Not only did that fuckin' thing forcibly rape my checking account and make it cry, but it also caused me to - in a drunken crutching stupor - ruin my sharkskin footwear.
Specifically, I caught my toe on the carpet as I was leaving the shitter, and the already weakened stitching gave way.
Which left me with half the sole peeled off. And there was no fuckin' way I was gonna rock Vegas with a talking hobo shoe.
So I called up the local Boot Barn, to see if they could recommend a good cobbler to me. They did, but when I talked to them, they told me that the repair would be at least a three day process.
Which meant my only recourse was to get a new pair of boots.
God. Damn. It.
Scant hours before the wedding, Surge and I made a run to the Barn what sells Boots. I think he probably already mentioned the traffic situation, and the experience was made worse by...well...some folly chosen on my part.
Going to the Boot Barn, it turns out, was not the greatest idea in the world. I mean, sure...i found a great pair of dress boots. But on the other hand, I found a great pair of dress boots.
With an accordingly great-pair-of-dress-boots price tag.
And this means that I'm now not only feeling another kick to my checking account's nuts, I'm also a total hypocrite for giving certain women I know dump trucks of shit for their outrageous shoe budgets.
But those boots...those boots...
What fucked me, was the sudden (drunken) realization that since I was at a western outfitter anyway, I might as well get some nice formal western wear.
There's a story, here.
I'd meant to go to KT's weddinghref> all decked-out cowboy style. Like Burt Reynolds. Or JR., before he got shot. When I pitched the idea to her however, KT was less than enthused.
In fact, her words were "If you wear a bolo tie to my wedding, I'm gonna fuckin' kill you."
To which I replied "Huh? COME ON!!! BOLO TIE!!!"
She reiterated that she would, in fact, fucking kill me.
So I just went with the tux. Sans bolo tie.
Now, several years later, I'm in the position to go to another wedding. And since we were in the Boot Barn, that meant I was again in the position to totally pimp a bolo tie.
A couple of hundred dollars later, I had a black dress shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, a pair of charcoal polyester Wranglers that left nothing to the imagination, and a bolo tie that boasted at least 300 karats of onyx. Yeah. Fuckin' ROCK ON.
So, here I should probably publicly apologize to Ru and Kristen.
Sorry. I was totally taking my "KT's wedding cowboy aggression" out on you. It happens. Deal with it.
But I looked fucking good. Except in that awful pic of me that Surge posted in his blog.
That fucking jerk.
Ru and I met up before the wedding at the bar in the Wynn (the horrifically bourgeois hotel Surge was staying at) and dropped no less than $80 for some drinks, before heading up to Surge's room to change. He had more (jaw-droppingly expensive) wine on hand, which we killed. Once his room was booze-less, we segued on to the wedding chapel proper.
I don't remember the wedding.
Or the reception.
But it was booze-a-riffic, I'm told.
What I do remember is getting out of a taxi back at my hotel, and then discovering to my horror that I'd left the key in my other pants. So I - pretty much on drunken autopilot by this point - opted for the logical Jb course of action:
I crutched across the street to a construction site and bedded down in a ditch.
Folks, the desert gets cold at night.
At some point, I drunk-called Surge to inform him about my situation. And then when he arrived with the key, I adamantly insisted on sleeping outside. Kind of that stubborn "I've gone this far, I'm gonna finish it out" drunk thing.
Fortunately, he convinced me to get my ass up and collect the key, and I woke up in my room the next morning. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Or some shit.
I should have rocked the dirt lot, though. I haven't done that sort of shit in ages.
-Jb
CEO FTW, Inc.
05.31.06
