Wish you were here

 There’s to be a “big bash” tomorrow night, a farewell party for omg that he’s throwing for himself, footing the bill to fete the residents—past and present—here at Boomer-rama. I was out having a smoke earlier and omg was quizzing me about the IPA I usually pick up at the IGA/Food City. He was barely coherent and I could barely understand him through the slurring. “Jusht makin’ shhh-your I’m getting’ everyone what they want,” repeated about fifteen times. He’d been out in the courtyard drinking since noon so by six he was well and truly shitfaced.

Really, and this bears repeating, I feel sorry for the guy. Yes, he’s generous to a fault but that’s all transactional—he’s buying our affection. At the very least, he’ll hand out beers so people with sit with him and chat him up or listen to him pontificate. Since Billy and Patty moved, he’s pretty much been on his own. Oh, I’ll go out to smoke but I won’t stay, mostly because I want to write or read but also because I don’t have much tolerance for his drunken, repetitive rambling.

Needless to say, it’s unlikely I’ll make it back here tomorrow night but who knows? Maybe I’ll get so bored by the Boomer-rama pizza party that this will be my escape. But at the very least, I feel obligated to eat omg’s pizza and drink the beer he bought for me.

I know that sounds shitty but hey, that’s my reality out here in the middle of the desert, living among boomers.