“Can you help me hang this stuff?” I say pointing to six pieces of framed black & white pictures of jazz artists that have been sitting on the dining room table for far too long.
“Sure!” he replies.
“We need a pencil to mark off where to drill holes.” I scour the desk drawers and come up empty. “Here. We’ll just use this pen.”
We set the level on top of the frame. I hold the frame in place while he marks where the holes should be.
He drills the first hole, then the second, then puts the screws in place. I hang the frame.
And it’s crooked.
“How in the hell did THAT happen?” he asks incredulously.
“Well shit! Hmm, maybe we shouldn’t do this while we’re drunk?”
“Yeah, good idea.”