Up late on a school night.

I went with John to the Master Pancake Theater show of Conan the Barbarian last night at the Alamo. If you don’t live in Austin, the Alamo is a theater, not the place we're all supposed to remember. And Master Pancake is like Mystery Science Theater 3000: crappy old movies dubbed over by comedians. I’ve seen them do Flashdance, Dirty Dancing, Showgirls, Star Wars, and an awesome clip compilation called “The John Travolathon.” The shows are really funny, slightly dirty, and typically include a live skit that involves partial male nudity. It’s a good time.

Except Conan…it’s not my genre, so much. And it's not just because I am a genre elitist. Which I am. I was about to say it isn’t anyone’s genre, but the guy sitting next to us (who looked suspiciously like Andrew W.K. with a beard) seemed to know an awful lot of the lines and did quite a bit of fist pumping. When it’s time to party, we will party hard!

I didn’t get home until 1:00 and in my rush to be dressed this morning, I put on the same tank top I was wearing last night. (Don’t act like you've never done that before: it was clean before I went and I only wore it for 3 hours. Plus I’m at the end of my laundry cycle, so pickins are slim. Don’t judge.) Everything else I was wearing is fresh off the hanger.

But once I sat down at work, I smelled something. Something that smelled like a bar after last call.

That something was me. I smelled. Like stale cigarettes and spilled beer. I can account for the latter, but the former is kinda unexplainable. I had a beer, yes, but I didn’t spill it. And you can't even smoke inside anywhere in Austin. Yet the smell was on me. And it created a psychosomatic hang over.

Worse than that, it made me think today was Friday, since Thursday night used to be drinkin’ night. And yet. It’s only Thursday today.

Why am I even sharing this story?