I can't believe we're finished. A yearly event and always a good time, CRS now officially stands for "Can't Remember Shit." Last night I was a good boy, which of course means I didn't get arrested.
I must say, it was rather tame. Dinner was at Morton's Steak House, a favorite gathering of Nashvillians, record promoters, artist-wannabes and their ilk. In fact, I think half of the wait staff are looking for record deals. Two of them dropped off samples while we ate.
Another filet was in order, this one only 16 ounces. I'm ramping down to reduce further self-injury. After dinner I made one final trip through the bar and said goodbye to clients and friends. Then...
I went to bed. Before midnight. On the final night.
In my defense, most of the people I've been hanging with had also disappeared to their rooms, there's only so much you can do to your body before it starts telling you to screw yourself.
So now I'm packing, having breakfast with a friend, dropping in on Jim one more time to make sure he's still ticking, gassing up and heading north. The trip home is 4 1/2 hours, so I'd better stop for a chocolate milk and a jumbo bag of beef jerky.
Damn, more beef. Isn't that sad?
2 comments:
You forgot to tell me whether u saw Elvis at the Palm. No? How about Lester Flatt? Hank Sr? Anybody?
OHT - Will Rogers, Patsy Cline and Grandpa Jones at the Palm. Elvis works at the Exxon station on Broadway late at night.
He's even fatter than before - because he's been eating a steady diet of Godiva chocolate.
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