I Loved You in Wayne's World!!

I agreed to meet himself last night for dinner. "We have to talk about the project," he says over the phone, "meet me at the café in town." Being hung over for most of the day, it takes a bit longer than initially expected to make my way in to town from Cruiskeen Gardens and by the time I get to the café it's dark and extremely cold. He's standing outside Busyboots by himself, looking pissed off.

"Why didn't you go in and get a table?" I ask him.

"I don't like sitting by myself. It looks desperate somehow."

We go in and are shown to a table near the back. I order a coffee. He orders tap water.

"I wasn't crazy about the blog thing," he begins, "I didn't want anyone reading this stuff before I adapt it." He takes a mouthful of water. 

"Looks like no one's reading it anyway so far."

He goes on for a while about what I should be writing about, but I have a habit of tuning out when he talks. When we're leaving, he grabs my arm before I get to the door.

"Stall it a second," he says, "check out yer one sitting outside."

I follow his gaze to what may be a woman sitting at a table out front.

"Sweet mother of fuck," I say, "she looks like Brendan Kilkenny's ma!"

I manage to covertly take a picture on my phone.

It might not be the clearest, but she's sporting a pretty impressive mullet.

We leave the café and as we pass her, himself stops and holds out his hand.

"I just want to say, I loved you in Wayne's World," he says as she bemusedly shakes his hand. As we walk away down the street, I fight the urge to look back and wonder if that's not the first time she's been told that.

Grand Opening (Three Drink Minimum)

I'm sitting there with yer man in the same café in town; trendy place with a novelty name, Caffeine and Busy-boots or something. I'm drinking tea. He has a glass of water in front of him, he says he doesn't drink anything hot, but I reckon he's just tight.

"So all I want you to do," he says, "is write down the stuff that happens to you."

"Like in a diary?"

"If you like. Or just take notes." He drains his glass of tap water. "Whatever."

"And you want this why?"

"I told you, I want to adapt it into some kind of narrative and make lots of money out of it."

"I know, but why me?"

"Because you're an average schlub."

"What's a schlub?"

"It's like a schmoe," he says.

"What's a schmoe?"

"A schmoe is... sort of like a schmuck, I think. Except more average."

"How about a blog?"

"No, a schlub is nothing like a blog," he says.

"No, how about if I write the stuff into a blog?"

"No, that's a woeful idea. Besides, anyone can read it then. The exclusivity is completely shot."

"Okay, not a blog," I say.

But feck it, I'm doing a blog.