Wired
Something I learned today: don’t order a root beer at the Nancy Whiskey pub. I went to lunch there today with coworker Matt. I ordered a Diet Coke, a solid, dependable, honest drink. Matt ordered a root beer. He would not get it. Instead, from the bar came an incredulous reply, “Root beer!?! We don’t serve root beer!” He was appropriately shamed. It served him right.
The Nancy Whiskey is a drinking man’s bar, no place for a Pennsylvanian that can’t pull his weight. Lined up along the bar were old salts whose minds were already stained with Jager shots and harder stuff than that at 10 am in the morning. Now it was 12:30 and there was no room for anything so dainty as soda squeezed from sassafras. He reluctantly took a Sprite.
Last week, I had told myself, and ex-coworker Jason, that I was not going to buy the complete series box of The Wire
Today it arrived. I don’t do well with arriving boxes. I am physically incapable of leaving them sealed. I must gut them like fat brown fish. In this particular box was a sturdy granite shell with stickers on the plastic wrapping proclaiming 60 episodes on 23 discs. This is what five seasons of televised excellence looks like.
I have yet to open the shell and get at the actual discs but that will happen soon enough. If it weren’t for the Super Bowl big game this weekend, I might just wedge my eyes open and try to ingest the whole series, episode by episode, all day and all night for as long as it takes. Even with the game, I am sorely tempted: get some grub, sit in the dark, and let the discs play out. One thing though: there won’t be any root beer.
Comic Contemplations, Part 3 | Todd Terwilliger posted: 15 Feb at 10:40 pm
[...] the final hurrah, the end. I set the alarm early. We had stayed up too late last night watching The Wire. You simply cannot watch just one episode of The Wire. It gets on top of you too fast. Before you [...]