St. Patty’s Day hit with a blunt thud, and to compound the problems associated with the often negligent and dangerous drinking holiday, The Hat wisely chose to celebrate his birthday at the Lost & Found.
The sign outside says dancing, although there’s very little room to accommodate such a proposition. I decided to show up drunk and disorderly to make The Hat proud.
Raj was rather serious for the most part, taking in the scenery while conspiring with professional Bash thrower Keith.
After the annihilation I suffered at the hands of Keith for my B-Day, I was able to maintain a quiet calm from these proceedings since the target was no longer on my back.
The Hat’s buddy Rex dropped in from Oregon for the weekend, adding to the apparent aberration feared by most.
Massive amounts of chest hair are well-respected in Grant's Pass. Wasted from the Jager, The Hat began to play his kazoo to thrill the awe-struck patrons.
Of course, I reveled in his unmatched playing skill and applied my own haphazard dancing dexterity to the ugliness of it all.
The Hat’s attack on females was stronger than I've grown accustomed to, as exhibited here by his easy infiltration of an unsuspecting clan adorned in bright green Patty wear.
He fortunately achieved their information, which for The Hat usually comes with little effort due to his unabashed charisma. The kazoo closes all deals.
I like the fact that my favorite Lost & Found bartender knows to pour me a Captain Morgan and Coke unless I ask for something different, although I sometimes have to remind her of the importance a lime can have in the grand scheme of things.
That is the mark of a stellar tender, the kind that gets tipped well for service rendered beautifully. She always moves me to the front of the line. The Hat started to get out of control after a few Irish Car Bombs, an expected outcome that heavy drinking can incur.
There was even a late appearance by Josh Lucas . . . err, Wayne Maxwell.
He represented hammered, crushed by a St. Patty’s related baby shower in Venice that shifted his blood-alcohol level into the highly positive range. He thankfully avoided a checkpoint by mere anticipation, the kind of gut-instinct a Basher carries with him effortlessly.
I love when The Hat wreaks havoc on everything around him, undaunted in his advances and naturally joyous around strangers.
I’ve ceased being surprised by the maverick magic on display when he’s operating at his social peak. Women tend to like him, and why wouldn't they? If he ever has kids, I fear for the future.