There’s a bar on Carson Street in the Southside of Pittsburgh that I think has one of the better names for a bar anywhere. No, it’s not GNJB’s long lost cousin The Jaggerbush (but if you knew anything, you’d know that The Jaggerbush is off of Carson). The bar I’m talking about is Excuses.
I love everything about that name because it’s so pathetic. If you’re a regular at Excuses, odds are you fit the description of a deadbeat. You’re wife probably left you, and now you owe her alimony. Your boss is on your ass all the time, but nobody notices because you’re such a dick anyway. Hell, you probably steal from the collection plate at church. There’s a reason you’re at Excuses; you got nothing else.
There’s a strikingly truthful American saying that goes like this: excuses are like assholes, everyone’s got ‘em and they all stink. Unfortunately, I’m no different. As much as I want to say mine are legitimate, I know it doesn’t matter to anyone except myself. But honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been this busy.
I’ve got Movember and a plethora of emails to send out badgering people to donate. I’m also trying to help organize my annual Thanksgiving football game from another continent. Then there’s the football game my buddy Ian and I are trying to get together for next weekend in Martvili. I’m taking Georgian dance lessons three times a week, and because I’m so deathly afraid of my instructor Vephkhvia (derived from the Georgian word for ‘tiger’; yeah, he’s intense), I have to practice just as much outside of school. I also started piano lessons with Nino, the music teacher at my school (one thing I’ve realized so far, my musical IQ is comically low). Not to mention how I’m trying to drastically alter the curriculum by splitting up my year VI-IX classes (a vast undertaking that will require much more planning and teaching on my end). In the words of the six-fingered man from The Princess Bride, “I’m swamped.”
I’m heading off to Vardzia for a weekend excursion tomorrow, so there probably won’t be any updates between now and early next week. I have several solid ideas brewing for posts including my long-awaited thoughts on Georgian men and their cars, a glossary of terms that may be helpful to first-time readers, and a dissertation on Georgian names and their uselessness since everyone is referred to simply as Gogo (girl) or Bitcho (boy). But the whole point to this post was to make a ton of excuses that will only help you deduce that I, much like the regulars at Excuses, am a deadbeat. But please excuse my excuses; as Patrick Bateman said in American Psycho, “What can I say, I’m a child of divorce.”