That's Just The Booze Talking

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Stray Slack



1) "Eight is Enough" and "Just the 10 of Us" weren't just about loving families and how hard it is when there is only one bathroom and Grant Goodeve is in there taking a pizza dump. No. "Eight is Enough" and "Just the 10 of Us" are shows about dudes who cannot stop porking their wives.

2) When people get divorced, we think the woman should have to wear her wedding dress for an entire year as a symbol of her fallen ways. The citizenry would be encouraged to hurl epithets and garbage at her while the man would be free to have sex with his secretary while watching sports. We also think any children that result from such a busted union should have to wear a sandwich board to school every day that reads: "Daddy Lives in That Apartment Complex Down By the Freeway." On the back there would be a silkscreened image of Kermit the Frog doing a Blackshirt Salute.

3) We suspect that all those cornballs going around with "Free Tibet" bumper stickers on their cars are the kind of Liberal horn-rimmed types who like to pretend that they're all sensitive so that they can feel up that girl with the furry armpits at the Sugar Mag Food Co-Op, but if a real Chinese guy ever camped out in their vestibule, all wearing sandals and smelling like coffee pee, they would freak out and call The Man.

4) We really don’t like other people's grandparents.

5) Billy Kristallnacht is a good name for a band.

The Piano's Been Drinking (Not Me)



So given the damage we did to our person on Tuesday, we thought we might ease up a little on our Special Hobby last night. But then the mail guy came by with his little cart and after a brief struggle with some packing tape, we discovered that an admirer had sent us a bottle of Rowan's Creek 12 year. If you haven't tried this bourbon, it's like putting all the Care Bears in the world inside a drained swimming pool, filling it to the rim with Jell-O and taking up residence inside. Predictably enough, we knocked into the bottle at our desk––with a handful of days left in our old position, we're not worried about certain workplace niceties like remaining sober while on the clock.

Fast forward four hours and the contents of the bottle have been redistributed to our bloodstream, there's a suspicious swampy area forming on the floor near the sidebar and for reasons that remain hopelessly obscure, we are watching Jimmy Kimmel. Then this happens, which if we hadn't found the link, we'd have thought we had hallucinated it into being. Takes a while to load, but so worth it.

Beyond the New Order event, we had little to chew over upon rising this morning, except for the by-now inescapable fact that if we keep this up, it's back to Trembling Hills for yet another "refresher course."

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Offend In Every Way



We've wasted an hour on this, and we're nowhere near sated … although come to think of it, that's probably a sloppy choice of words, given the fact that the site is a sex offender database. There are only two in our neighborhood, but we're keeping close watch on the Chewbacca-looking guy across the street. Link via Lindsayism.

Jesus and Tequila



This week has been all about celebrating our Big Career Move, and in keeping with our custom of drinking everything in sight no matter what the occasion, we may have overdone it a wee dram last night. Not to put too fine a point on it, but today we awoke in our kitchen, the linoleum shellacked to our apple-cheeked face via a mixture of unidentifiable booze and what may very well have been the juice that sometimes leaches out of our Soul whenever we go at it hammer and tongs. As it stands, at this very moment it feels as though a pig has used the inside of our skull as a lavatory. Moments like these are what make some people stop believing in God.

All that aside, activity around here is going to be fairly sluggish––or even more so than usual––as we presently have all the cognitive skills of Benny from L.A. Law. More to the point, in lieu of actual drinking, all hooch-related activity will be secondhand, at least until we can nip out for a shot of what we like to refer to as "Daddy's Special Coping Medicine." In the meantime, we strongly encourage you to read this encomium to the glories of bourbon, by the great Walker Percy. It's the best writing about booze we've seen in a while, although that Kingsley Amis thing is a hoot as well.

Note: Our three loyal readers––Aloha, Dikembe! Cheers, Bryce! Hullo, Myron P.!––often ask us what the deal is with the first person plural. While it has become a pox on the ruddy fundament of the Blogosphere, we like the curious distancing effect the royal "we" provides and believe that it's a nifty way of conveying that whole "the lights are on, and the only people who are home are shoving otters down their pants" voices-in-our-head kind of thing that we sometimes suffer from right before lunch. So the we stays.

Oh, and a word about last night. While wild kitchen incongruities are a matter of course for people who drink too much, the thing we whipped up when we arrived safely home in the wee small hours is one for the books. (Specifically, our autobiography, likely to be found in the horror section of your local bookseller.) So anyway, a pre-dawn sortie through the fridge revealed little of actual sustenance, other than the inevitable sixer, which prompted the quick and joyless consumption of two (2) TUDs, or "Totally Unnecessary Drinks." The food issue didn't go away with the introduction of beer to our system, so, long story short, we weaved around the kitchen as if on the deck of a frigate, throwing together what can only be described as a culinary abortion. Here is what we made:

A clam and lettuce omelet.

Go ahead and take a moment to consider the ramifications of our menu. We're almost proud of ourselves, if only because it tops our previous all-time most horrific kitchen misstep, which was a little number we threw together in college called Hot Dog Fried Rice.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Putting the "F" back in "ART"



Spurred on perhaps by this piece in this week's New Yorker, a few of our favorite time-wasters have added to the keening roar about that shitty new Gwathme building in the center of Astor Place. Since all we know about architecture was gleaned from doing donuts on I. M. Pei's front lawn and the occasional drunken grope of our housekeeper, Thel, who wants to study interior design but can't afford it because we won't give her a raise––now who won't do windows, slattern?––we'd be well served to simply stay out of the debate. Unfortunately, we can't do that, as we suffer from an overwhelming need to give an opinion on every matter under the Sun, especially those we know nothing about. Plus, the view from our new office is now blighted by the glassy fucker, which pisses us off to no end.

All that aside, we think the building, which hides its black heart under the hippie-dippy, Hands-Across-America sobriquet "Sculpture For Living," looks like it belongs in Houston, either as a standalone structure or broken down to outfit 100,000 Texas Rangers in mirrored sunglasses. We hate it and will bear it nothing but ill will until something else comes along and pisses us off even more. This may take a while.

Meanwhile, the big cube is still missing, which means the kids that are all, like, Yay Danzig have nowhere to smoke cigarettes. Besides being a magnet for disaffected teens the cube also inspired this sort of up-its-own-ass radio piece from Rick Moody, which is interesting if only because the artist who created the piece, Tony Rosenthal, explains the sculpture's origins and how it evolved from a static structure to an interactive spinning thing. But the conspiracy theorist part is dumber than a monkey trying to make pancakes and Ethan Hawke, who plays a drug dealer, and who actually cheated on this woman, does his usual undershaven (we're guessing) schtick, a rambling faux coke monologue that makes us hate everything even more than that goddamn building.

Oh, and then there's this, which seems to be how people who don't drink have a good time around here.

Perfectly Reasonable Question, Beef



And this wine you mention, will it make us look like dicks?

Smash Your Head on the Punk Rock



So last night we went to a party at CBGB's to fete the debut screening of the new Don Letts documentary Punk: Attitude. Besides gleefully engaging in our own special brand of alchemy, i.e., turning wine into water, we got to shoot the shit with Jim Jarmusch, Adam Yauch, Tommy Ramone and Legs McNeil. We told Jarmusch we were going to remake Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice, but as a zombie picture and he said, "Hey, I'd go see that." Then we spent ten minutes trying to think up other films that would make for good zombie flicks, and he got the best one: The Color Purple. (For purposes of the remake, we're going to call it The Colored People.)

The flick itself was a pretty good overview of the birth throes of the genre, as Letts interweaves some familiar stock footage––Iggy with the peanut butter, the Pistols on Bill Grundy, Johnny Thunders making a hut out of black tar heroin and living in it for a week and a half––with some ruminations on The Way It Was courtesy of the Usual Subjects, viz: Mick Jones, Paul Simonon, Legs, Thurston Moore, etc etc, but it falls short of greatness if only because we read this all before in Please Kill Me. Not a bad way to spend a Monday night, though, and it kept us out of the bars for at least an hour and a half, so our hepatic bits are happy today.

Oh, and we said what's up to Page Six’s Chris Wilson. Unlike some people, we know not to fuck with Richard Johnson’s minions.