It was a sunny afternoon when Cranky rolled up to my suburban Philadelphia-area hotel in his midlife crisis car.

Hell, I don’t remember what the model was – (was it a Ford Fiero or a Mazda Miata?)- all I remember was Cranky breaking the 100-mph mark as soon as we hit I-95. I decided it was probably better to keep up my “tough guy blogger” persona rather than do what I felt like doing – bursting into tears like a woman. I closed my eyes and held on for dear life.

When I opened my eyes, we were downtown on the river at some place called “South Street”. It was packed with pedestrians, same-sex couples, muggers, merchants and an entire assortment of miscreants.

Cranky turned to me and said, “a lot of people parallel park down here… I just park on top of them.” And before he had even finished his ridiculous sentence, he pulled up on the bumper of an already-parked Mercedes McLaren and scaled it, parking his mid-life crisis car directly atop a car of greater value. That took stones, my friend. Stones. Cranky said “Stones” was his middle name. Cranky Stones Neocon. I think he was lying.

As we crossed over a few blocks, we were nearly hit by this guy…

… but luckily jumped out of the way before he could filet us like so much carp.

Cranky took me to a place called Downey’s, “the only Irish pub in town”, he said. The service was serviceable, the food was good and the beer was even better. We discussed a variety of topics, nearly all of which were laced with a testosterone so out-of-control that other diners around us were frequently taken aback. Even the bearded jerk-off directly behind us who was blaming Bush for the Israel/Lebanon conflict and somehow worked in a Katrina reference to boot.

When we both dove for the check, we nearly decapitated our waitress, who jumped back, shouting, “back off, fags!”

Due to both of us having an early morning the next day, we decided to head back and Cranky dropped me off at the hotel. He drove much better after having 6 black-and-tans crammed down his gullet. Luckily, I was able to snap a digital pic as he aimlessly weaved in and out of I-95 traffic….

Our Reagan masks kept the chicks away all night.
It’s tough when you’re world-famous bloggers *and* married.

Now I can boast that I’ve enjoyed alcohol with three of my co-bloggers (Smantix, Cranky & JWR). You’re next, Sadie and Annika. Don’t make me come out there to California.

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