Patrick Shannon’s Blissfully Oblivious: Drunk In Downingtown With Mike And Jess
Jackie my love and Jwow Covey on a rare East Coast appearance. The Hotel? Good enough for the girls we roll with; The Pharcyde on the juke box. Drew Brees juking dirty birds left and right, making a name for himself, or setting a record or something. In tears again about the year.
Mike pumps me up about anything he can think of to take his mind of his own week, tells me he’s been reading these and how much they’ve meant to him. I haven’t read a one since the send key, figure they’re best served to hit the world as they come to me.
Words aren’t music after all.
There’s no mix down; either you said it or you didn’t.
So I went back and read a few, and the hard ones too.
I caught a comment that assumed I may have jacked the title of my column from some nonsense that I was barely cognizant of, and despite the fact that I didn’t (or if I did, it was on some subconscious level that they haven’t made copyright laws for yet), I will from now on refer to my writings as “Blissfully Oblivious.”
The jerk store called, they’re out of you.
Thank you, goodnight.