Internal Monologue: Jim Bowden’s Night Out

Hoo, brother. Could use this. Lately, I’ve been going to bed at night thinking of the nap I’m going to take the next day. Gotta make some changes. Dark-wash jeans, the kind of cuffed shirt that makes the velvet ropes recoil. Nice start, Jimmy Dollars, nice start. Not gonna act my age tonight, no sir. Hoobastank, yes. Linda Ronstadt, no. But just for tonight. From now on, I’m only reading books that have a studio portrait of the author on the cover. Those are the books that teach you stuff. Wonder if this limo has seat-belts. Is it lame if I put on a seat-belt in a limo? I’m not gonna be able to relax if I’m riding bareback in this death machine. I feel young, but I still know I’m mortal. Which sucks. I know the stats on these things. I wonder if limos are more likely to crash. You’d have to think the driver is more distracted than other drivers, right? Lotsa neckin’ to check out in the rear view. But he’s experienced, right? Eh, I’ll be fine. Need a scotch. But I might go with a Bud Light Lime in one of those aluminum bottles, the kind that makes your palms go numb because it’s at the perfect temperature. That’s probably what these bosses drink, right, Jimmy Radios? Damn right. Do I still have John Smiley’s cell number? I think I do. Should call that guy some time. Seafood dinner. Sounds good. Sea bass. Maybe punt the Atkins for tonight and have some russet potatoes with some McCormick herbs on top, sauteed in Quaker State. Boom time. She’s looking damn good. Might need a carrot peeler to get that dress off. Right, Jimmy Horn o’ Plenty? Bah. What does that even mean? Carrot peeler. Dress isn’t even that tight. Irish diabetes. Whoa! What does that mean? Where did that thought come from? Palm Pilot’s buzzing. Ignore it, daddy-o. But I wanted them to know I was ignoring it. Forgot to turn the ringer on. What’s my ring-tone? “Send in the Clowns,” right? Yeah, that’s it. It’s all good, Hollywood. Scooby-dop-bah-dah-bah-doo-bop-bop! Damn right, Jimmy Hotbot Snot. Good night ahead. Chicken parm, ain’t no harm, baby babe. Right on, German Herman, action-sports highlights with Len Berman! Boomity boomstick, private dick! What’s the deal with this limo, don’t they make whitewall tires anymore? Is Roman Gabriel still alive? Should look that up. I could beat most living Grammy winners in arm-wrestling. Sure of it. No doubt, brook trout. Gospel according to Jimmy Good Times! Shit …