I’m not nearly as into hot wings as I used to be. Really, they were more of a social thing than anything else. Ric and I would eat hot wings at a place called the Wing Dome, which is in Seattle, and is built in an old Vespa garage. Then we’d go to one of our places and watch some obscure sci-fi movie, like ZARDOZ or Colossus: The Forbin Project.
Hmm. We’d eat painful food, served in a loud, cold, drafty environment, then watch movies we knew to be bad. It’s entirely possible that Ric and I are masochists.
That would explain our friendship, given that he spent a decade enduring my public ridicule, and that I never, in that entire decade, ran out of material.
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