That's Just The Booze Talking

Friday, April 01, 2005

Not a Great Day to Be Famous, Really

With the Pope winging his way toward the Great Altar Boy in the Sky and Terri Schiavo having finally given up the ghost, the world awaits Celebrity Death #3. Chickens, rejoice: Frank Perdue, the Joe Stalin of the pullet world, is dead at 84. Not sure which part of the Perdue legacy we enjoy the most––the fact that he killed a guy in a car wreck back in 1974 and hired Arlen Spector (then a Philadelphia attorney) to get him off, making his human-to-chicken kill ratio something like 1:30,000,000,000, or the startling resemblance the man bore to poultry.

Speaking of Terri Schiavo, our Special Naked Friend invented a game recently that she calls "Terri and Michael's Last Fuck," which involves her lying down as if she were comatose and us huffing and puffing away through a hole in her nightie. Later, we break out the feeding tubes. So hotttt, but then again, not so different from the regular course of things, now that we think about it.


Monday, March 28, 2005

Sister Christian

So we finally joined the rest of the 20th Century and bought ourselves a tiny phone. We spend a little time on Saturday trying to decide who’s worthy of being put in the tiny phone’s address book, when we come across all these numbers in the back of our date book. For good or ill, these are all women with whom we had brief but unsustainable flings, and because we are nothing if not morbidly curious, we decide to call a few of the more sane entries. One of them is a girl whose father more or less runs all of downtown Manhattan, and as such has money raining out of her vagina. (Not literally, no, but you get the point. Or maybe not. That’s what the comments area is for.) Anyways, since our parting of ways was more or less amicable, we agree to meet later this week for drinks.

OK. Here’s where things go screwy. We call this other girl who was absolute H-E-double hockey sticks on wheels: Booze, drugs, unfettered sex, two ex-husbands and a pair of suicide attempts. Fun. So we call, and it’s her birthday, so she’s in a good mood, and even though the cessation of, um, relations was pretty abrupt and admittedly unkind, she asks that we come over, seeing that we’re practically in the neighborhood. So, Yay.

We get to her place and notice three things in rapid succession: 1) She has this the-lights-are-on-but-there-are-way-too-many-people-at-home look in her eyes, the kind of crazy normally associated with defecating in toy stores and setting things that don’t really belong to you on fire; 2) she has chopped off all her hair with what we can only guess were a pair of garden shears and 3) there are pictures of Jesus all over the walls. Not wanting to be unnecessarily cruel, we ignore the fact that she looks like the understudy for the lead role in the off-off-Broadway production of Cooking With Sylvia Plath and gesture as nonchalantly as we can to the many likenesses of JC, most of which, on further inspection look to have been rendered in crayon by someone who was in the grip of an unflinching bout of mania.

“What’s with all the Jesus, _____?” we ask.

And she goes, “That’s why I invited you here tonight. I want to tell you about how I was reborn in the blood of Our Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.”


Us: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

We’ll skip the blow-by-blow reconstruction of the 20-minute spiel she gave us about her conversion from Unstable Party Girl to Unsettling Christ Person, but let it be known that we spent much of our time in her cat-pee-smelling apartment alternately giggling and biting our tongue. Eventually, we managed to make it to the door, muttering our apologies and savoring the giant bourbon we were going to inhale at the first bar we came across. So weird.

Oh, and why did we stay 20 minutes? Why did we subject ourselves to that loony nattering? Um, well, we still thought we might get laid. Yes, we know.