Last night my brother and I went to Groveland Tap and he was telling me a story about some guy whose name was so unfamiliar that I can't now remember it. But apparently I had once beaten the hell out of the guy.
I'm not much of a fighter. Last year, a combination of beer and rugby-induced testosterone drove me to punch a guy outside a bar, but for the most part if I'm in a fight it's because I was goaded into it.
My brother is a big, muscular guy. He enjoys a good fight every now and then. If you were to get into a fight with him, he would beat you in a chivalrous manner -- by driving his big meat fist into your skull and knocking you out in a classical display of strength.
Me, on the other hand; if I'm fighting, I'm fighting to win. That's a nice way of saying that I am a dirty fighter. I'm not proud of that; I wish I were the sort who stood in traditional pugilistic stance, exchanging blows like a gentleman, but I'm not. I'm dirty. Dirty, dirty, dirty.
So, a few months ago, a guy walks up to my brother and says angrily: "Are you Jon Cope?"
"I fucking hate your brother. You can tell him that he's an asshole. I fucking hate him," the guy said and then stormed away.
Upon further investigation, Jon learned that this guy (Ryan?) had once been thumped in a fight with me.
"You just really kicked his ass," Jon told me.
"I don't remember that. That doesn't even sound like me -- I hardly ever get into fights," I said.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. But then I was talking to this other guy who saw it. He says it was awful -- one of the worst things he's ever seen. You were just killing this guy and someone had to pull you off. It's nasty, man," Jon said, shaking his head. "To do that to someone. You scarred that guy for life."
If I've ever beat you up, I am really, really sorry. You probably deserved it, though.
The Groveland Tap, by the way, has gone smoke-free. It was really nice coming home and not smelling like ass. I will now make Groveland Tap my No. 1 bar. If you're looking for a fight, look for me there.
And boy howdy am I in fighting shape. Going backward, here's what I've eaten since Monday: a Clementine; spicy chicken sandwich at Wendy's; apple fritter; piece of cake; onion rings; Buffalo wings; brownie; dinner roll; chicken and wild rice soup; piece of cake; beer cheese soup; an orange; popcorn; piece of lemon loaf cake; two pieces of toast with lemon curd.
Coincidentally, all of that is what this guy has for breakfast.
My wife -- who is studying to be a dietitian -- is going to visit her family on Friday, leaving me on my own and free of her nutritional guidance for a full week. Odds are, I will consume little more than macaroni and cheese, and beer. Good times.
If your name is Heidi and you would like to consume beer with me on Friday (perhaps at the newly smoke-free Groveland Tap?), please communicate to me through the ether.
Have you seen the video of Ashlee Simpson being booed at the Orange Bowl? In a perfect world, people wouldn't be booing her as much as they were the idea of manufactured artists.
Hey, lookie here. Got myself added to noisy ghost's blog list. Consider the favor returned.
Monday I was listening to a radio documentary that was hoping to spot some of the trends for the coming year. What's hot for Britain in 2005? Monogamy and going to the pub (it's mentioned toward the end of the piece). I've been doing that for years -- I'm a trendsetter.