Jones says ...

Well, he gave me 50 and then when those ran out, he gave me 50 more. Also, I've never had a hangover. Swear to God. I've puked from drinking a few times (not once since I was 22), but I always feel fine the next morning.

There's a reason I got so many Vicodin. The pup knows. I think I told IJAG once, too.

 

If he did, I don't remember. I might have had a hangover.

 

Well, they fucked up the first surgery, so it turned into three. A month and $50K later, I was fine.

 

Vicodin? I don't think I got anything like that. As I recall, it wasn't that bad an ordeal. Had it taken out on a Wednesday and was out on a four-mile walk/light jog by Friday. Showed up at my Friday night softball game and tried to convince my friend/manager I could play, but he kept me out.

The real fun part of it was that my boss had given me off through Sunday for the surgery recovery and was all concerned that he might be having me come back too soon (I was scheduled to cover a golf tournament on Monday). So on Saturday, a co-worker and I go to a Brewers afternoon game and then decide to get nine holes in. So we're on the second hole when we look and realize that about two holes ahead of us are our boss and his son. I figured he'd be pissed I was out golfing on Saturday when I was still on sick leave on Sunday, so we spent the whole nine holes hitting shots, then hiding behind trees when the holes my boss was on were next to the holes we were playing.

 

Ah, that explains it.

And I envy you about the no hangovers thing. Then again, if it weren't for the threat of hangovers I might drink too much too often.

 

"I would never fucking say 'fuck!'"

 

Chris Jones meet Pete Hammel

 

Jones, loved the article on the best bar. Great stuff, as usual.

 

I want joe in Vegas just so I can if his 'stache is as majestic looking in person as it is on his BLOG! avatar.

 

Dammit, for some reason, this thread title has got the song, "Mr. Jones" stuck in my head.

 

Thanks Leddy. See, when I so charmingly encouraged joe to post his, um, post, I was doing so in the interests of furthering the journalistic cause. Through his blog and through my story (available at esquire.com), we can see two vastly different approaches to the same story. Really, the duality illustrates the choices we all have to make the instant we sit down to write. Every story, boiled down, is an exercise in decision-making... Taking what we're acquired through our eyes and ears, filtering it, and presenting it in the way that we feel will best inform and entertain our readers...

Aw, fuck it. I'm trying to smarten up, but I sound too much like Barney after he stopped drinking to become an astronaut.

Anyway, leddy, thanks.

And Inky, that 'stache is stone cold, especially when it has little bits of puke in it.

(Joe neglected to mention in his story that after I gave him a bucket to puke into, he did so, and then he promptly kicked it over on his way to the shitter. I seriously thought he had died in the bathroom. I was like, How the fuck am I going to explain why some redneck bastard from Missouri is dead in my hotel room in Minneapolis? Because we met on a Web site? I think I got about six hours sleep that entire weekend, not in the least because of that peach of a dilemma.)

VEGAS!