On Saturday night, Carl and I went to the Celtic Music Festival at the Valley Forge Convention Center and had ourselves a Hootenanny. There was a whole lotta "hoot," via many beers...and a lil bit of "nanny," i.e. hits off the whiskey flask. Carl at one point called his friends who were on the way, but couldn't hear them over the music, so just yelled "bring more booze!" into his phone and hung up. Which they did.
Me to Steph, yesterday: I heart Searson.
Me: They are this Celtic folk rock band with three sisters and a brother and I love them. I want to be the bassist for Searson.
Steph: I see.
Me: She is so cool. And hot. The chick with the fiddle is hot too. But I really like the bassist. She's all chillin back there, laying down smooth beats while her sister freaks out on the fiddle...
Steph: Wait, wait. Do you want to be the bassist, or do you want to do the bassist?
Me: Yes. Um...wait. Be. Be the bassist.
Steph: Ok, but do you want to be the bassist herself,
Steph: ...or do you want to just be you in the band as the bassist?
Me: shut up! I wanna be the bassist in Searson when I grow up now leavemealone!
Also, an ice-tea bottle full of booze + Celtic folk bands = Carl leaning his head on someone's shoulder, rubbing their back, and stage-whispering, "I'm drunk! Don't let me go shopping for things!"
We spent a lot of time after that stumbling around shopping. For things. Things like little frog earings and candles and a black leather sporran (man-pouch ball-sack) to match his black leather kilt. And a Searson CD, which they signed while I stood there like a slack-jawed idiot, only mumbling "I-love-you-guys-you-rock" as we were backing away, clutching the CD like a couple of giddy drunk squirrels with a nut.
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