Whit has been my friend for many years. He has a semi-ex-wife and many grown children. He comes to New York City from his upstate town occasionally, and we find ourselves in one another's environs at some of his visits. When I see him at a nightclub, he is pleasant company, and he is about as polite a drunk as I ever have been. It's often too late for him to get a train back to his upstate home, so I am able, sometimes under duress, to put him up at my place.
One night, after a King Khan & BBQ show at Don Pedro, Whit was jolting around on his feet and asked if I would let him stay my place. I told him yes, if he would not keep calling out from the other room with drunken questions, which he has a habit, albeit forgivable, to do.
As it is with many drunk friends on many nights, it was very difficult to get him to say good-bye to everyone at the nightclub, and it was no easy task to get him into my car for the ride back to Manhattan. He got in and I started the car. He was wearing a bicycle messenger's shoulder bag, and he is, put charitably, portly, so he had to awkwardly wriggle into the bucket seat. I snapped on my seat belt and told him to do the same.
He squirmed about, trying several times, five, six, seven, to get the shoulder restraint across his body but could not. I told him we were not going anywhere until he put on the damn seat belt, and he tried again, fumbling with it over the messenger bag's strap across his chest. It's strap looked like it could have been the car's shoulder restraint.
Loaded and frustrated, he said, "Yeah, but I've got my bag on."
I said, "I know you got your 'bag on,' but you still have to wear your seat belt!"
Don't feed me a frickin' straight line.
the rock 'n' roll element