There are five shot glasses of tequila (They, Might, Be, Giants, Hawaii) and five of us in the kitchen. As I have "They", I make the toast: "That the world does not end within our lifetime."
A few minutes later, and I re-enter the kitchen with a sad Ziploc bag. "Gentlemen," I announce, "this magnificent bowl represents the last of the petty marijuana." And so it begins.
Sunday is slow and something seems missing. Begins with a delicious Manhattan bagel, onion, of course. Ends with a couple games of Boggle. A disorienting nap in between.
We watch Hoop Dreams, and when it is over, Dave checks the internet to find out where William Gates and Arthur Agee have ended up. William has quit basketball altogether, and Arthur plays in the IBC. We privately wonder if their lives would be different if not for the children they both fathered at such a young age.
Kids mean your life is over. I will not have kids.
Thinking about this this morning, in the bathroom, curling the ends of my hair so as to make it look acceptable: can you bring a child to your hairdresser? You have to find a sitter to get your hair cut? Never. Never, ever, ever.