HOLY SHIT WHO THE HELL IS SEAN KINGSTON

It's getting so a man can't leave his keys for a minute to pursue career opportunities. It's getting so things like this begin to happen:



It's getting so I am losing my keys (more on Sean Kingston in a second).

I set them on the coffee table before I go out to The Matador to get some Carne Asada tacos (they were on happy hour but I just had to have some black beans and rice with it). I sit alone listening to lawyers gabble about their "PROBLEMS." When my plate is empty I throw a twenty in the big black wallet they use at nice places, then an extra ten because my waitress is pregnant, then stand up, when a barfly leans over the fence (I was sitting on the patio):

"HEY! MIKE!"
"HI STEVE I'LL MEET YOU OUTSIDE."

Just as I'm crossing the threshold a meaty skinhead with a black button-down shortsleeve accosts me with some restaurant politesse:

"HEY ARE YOU LEAVING YOUR TABLE?" (In floor-manager talk this means "I think you just skipped out on your tab but I can't say exactly that so I'll say this instead.")

"YEAH I'M LEAVING. THANKS FOR ASKING."

I have one tequila drink and some tacos in me, and the carne is pretty tasty, the tacos gourmet-tasting with all that cilantro, but even that is not enough to put me in a good enough mood, thanks to baldy. It's getting so a man can't be unshaven and wear a T-shirt into an upscale place in downtown Tacoma without people thinking he's a meth-head in for a freeload.

So I greet Steve the barfly on the outside and he asks me about the move to Brooklyn. He's got the dog he got back from his ex wife and he looks happy. Maybe that girl who left him in San Francisco finally called him back. I'm listening halfway because I've stuck my hand in my pocket and:

1) My box of cigarettes is empty
2) My keys are nowhere on my person

Shit I never leave home without a set, but here I am, looking over at the shaven floor manager's piggish dome as he buses my table. Our eyes meet again, and I give him one of those head-nods with my lower lip under my teeth to show him I'm not gonna say the "F" word in front of all these nice people but I sure have that first letter ready in case the scene changes. And I'm doing this all without the comforting metallic sound and feel of keys jangling in my pocket.

Long story short, I ride the 11 all the way to Matt's winebar to pick up his set and ride back downtown to, ironically, help some "I like the lights" girl back into her apartment ("Locked herself out," but carrying a ring of keys that would make a dungeonmaster envious). We sip on some Budweisers and she tells me stories from her childhood (hiding in the clothes racks, likes The Fountainhead) and I ask her why she's always hanging out with at least half a dozen men and no ladies in sight.

[. . .]

"...and I never cry."

"I bet you cry all the time."

"Humph! THAT'S REALLY FUNNY."

One thing leads to another, (strictly) conversationally, and finally the question:

"YOU DONT WANT TO FUCK ME TOO DO YOU"

"YEAH I DO" I am an honest man.

"OH FUCKING GREAT" She's sitting in the window that overlooks the trash compactor, petite with tattoos all over her chest and one full sleeve. She drags off her Camel Menthol (I had one too so I can't say much about that) and looks like an upset tough-girl who's had too much to drink. She might even be fighting back tears, I don't know, I've been doing online marketing for a magazine since 7:30 a.m. so I'm a little bleary-eyed.

Pretty soon we're just watching Green Street Hooligans in silence and she goes to the bathroom (faucet running). She comes back suddenly K.O.ed, which is good cause I was trying to figure out a decent way to leave her apartment, but I'm too distracted by the water running, which doesn't cover anything up it just makes it sound like this chick has a fucking flume between her legs.

So I check back across the hall to my place, put on some "Banging Camp," and sip on a Keystone Light while I wait for Matt to get back. He does, we drink and smoke a while, then it's lights out.

This is the kind of thing that happens when you step away from your blog for too long.

There used to be a band, no a "group" more like, called the Kingston Trio, with a girl and two guys. She probably saw each one of them naked, and after the first couple tours she stopped running the faucet every time she used the bathroom in their shared Motel 6 room. Maybe one night she got into some nasty nast with the mandolin guy and lil' Sean was on his way of a sudden. Maybe she read Atlas Shrugged while he lit a cigarette. Maybe all of this happened in Kingston, Jamaica. Anyway, everything in this paragraph is absolute truth, for all I know about Sean Kingston. So I'll have to get back to you on that.

"Hey There Delilah," in the meantime, is a piece of lovelorn shit.