Yeah, belly dancing. Ended a weird week of meetings and bullshit and meetings and training and bullshit with dinner with Mason. Any Boston comedians who might stumble across this shit here might know Mason. Funny chick. Nuts, but funny. Together we just ended up this week taking over a little corner of work and got some extra dough in the deal for our troubles.

So we’re drinking wine at the Morrocan place that’s between our apartments and the belly dancing starts. I have no idea where to look or what to do, because a woman undulating just doesn’t do it for me. In our social awkardness and our respective cultural reserve (Mason’s Southern and mine New England Catholic), we are just sheepishly looking, looking away and laughing. The belly dance chick was blond and totally American. We chatted quick when she asked us to get up and dance. Yeah, fucking right, that’s going to happen.

As Mason might say, “Good Times, Good Times.”

Must have been the wine, but I let Mason take a picture with her phone with me in a too-small fez and the belly dancer chick. If she sends it I will post, because honestly I have lost a lot of my shame and embarassment in this life.