Oh, 1992. You Were a Vintage Year.

So much so that I will be revisiting you in weeks to come!

In support of upcoming birthday celebrations, my friend Monica (twisted backstory: used to be best friend, broke up 6 or 7 years ago (dude, that time thing - it stops mattering when you start to measure them in years) because we became different people with different priorities, reconnected last year because, uh, we're now different people with different priorities?) and I will begin the celebration part of the birthday part, hers being the day before mine, by being in the audience when Evan Dando plays a wee bar in a town smack dab in the middle of the cities that we live in.

Oh, Evan Dando, how I had dreams of marrying you. And yet, the hilarity of my consistent back-turning ignoring of you on the few times that we met continues to be stuff of legend. Which is probably for the best, because had we married, the crack and heroin? Well, that would have had to stop. And then you would've lied about it, and we would've argued, and you would've chosen the junk and I would've dumped your ass. So its all for the best.

PS: The pterodactyl bar? Has a goddamn delightful heated bite!