That's Just The Booze Talking

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Buzz or Howl Under the Influence of Heat

Sweet Savory Jesus, it's hot out there. For whatever reason, New York has decided it's actually late July, and as such, our veal fattening pen smells like Fatty Arbuckle's ghost has been using it as a late-night fuckpad, while the corpse of Red Skelton looks on, helpless.


Of course, the smothering heat is something we should all get used to, as it turns out that the hippies may have been right about the global warming thing all along. Luckily for everyone in the world, a former oil whore did us all the courtesy of editing out the bad news from the gubment's kids-tested, scientist-approved climate reports, which means that all the elderly folk out there who are susceptible to combustion when the mercury hits the 100º F mark can rest easy. It's all in your head, Skeletor.

Anyhoo, we got nothing today, except for two wholly unconnected musings on the Bard of Avon and reality TV. We realize that you don't come around for this kind of thing, but we don't have any funny tales of alcohol-fueled pandemonium to report because we sort of took it easy last night. (Although we did eat a fish that happened to still have his head attached. Our dining companion was rather nonplussed, but we just stared that dead seafaring motherfucker down like the Alpha Male we so singularly are. We were like the Old Man and the Sea, minus the old part and on dry land.)

Jesus, have we mentioned how hot it is out there? OK then:

Musing # 1) Think how hard it must have been for Shakespeare's friends to send him birthday cards. They must have been all intimidated, going, “Oh I never know what to write in these things,” so they'd buy a Hallmark card with a lot of pre-produced text on the inside, featuring end-rhyming couplets (“... Friends / ... 'Til the end”), and maybe a picture of Garfield on the front. Then they'd scrawl, “Your pal, Mike” on the bottom and leave it at that. And every year on the day after his birthday, Shakespeare would gather up all the cards and burn them in the yard with the leaves, sighing, “My friends must really think very little of me. What's with those cards? I hate Garfield! Fuck!”

We feel bad for Shakespeare. Also, he was a gaylord.

Musing # 2) We're thinking of pitching the Food Network an idea for a series called The Fugitive Gourmet.*** Basically, you'd have this chef who's been wrongly accused of murdering his wife with an undercooked pork loin. (The working title for episode one is “Trichinosis: The Silent Killer,” but we could be convinced to change it to “This is What it Sounds Like When the Pigs Cry.”) While trying to stay one step ahead of the po-po, the guy is also assembling ingredients for this massive feast he'd been planning before the little woman's oink-related demise. At the end of every episode, he'll have finished one of the component dishes, only to have the cops kick in the door and chase him out the fire escape or whatever. When they fail to catch him, the cops return to the chef's latest hideout and eat whatever he's prepared. Of course, we'll have to find some really erudite foodie cops so that when they dine on the FG's recipes, they'll have some sharp things to say about taste, presentation, etc. (One of the foodie cops will be a hologram, to appeal to the sci-fi enthusiast niche.) At the end of the 12-episode run, the FG will recreate all the earlier dishes, plus a piece de resistance type entrée--think a typical Iron Chef presentation, but without the simpering ingénue offering giggly, inane commentary. Just as the cops kick in the door for the last time, the FG will reveal that he's identified the real killer, leading to a surprise reveal. I'm thinking either Emeril, because he's jealous of the FG's mad skillz and sort of looks like an Ewok, or maybe Christopher Walken, who word has it is quite the cook himself, not to mention wildly entertaining. Then the cops (including the hologram), the FG and special guest The Ghost of the Lindbergh Baby all sit down and enjoy a fantastic meal.

Please keep this under wraps, people. This is the project that will make us rich. Well, either this or another idea we have for a one-hour drama series about a professional tennis player who also happens to be a mummy. But that's for HBO's eyes only.

***Incidentally, we have done something very similar in the past. At a certain television industry event, we cornered a programming executive from that bottom tiered network that frontloads its broadcast slate with shows featuring that woman who used to be in Tony Orlando and Dawn. While this particular gentleman was in the midst of frothy micturation, we croaked out a pitch for a game show to be called Drunk or Retarded, kind of modeled on the old To Tell the Truth show, but with Trisomy and whiskey. Probably the worst look we ever got thrown at us in a bathroom, if memory serves.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

We Forgot How to Use the Internet

Mark Twain once made a famous wisecrack about not being dead even though his obituary had been published in the Hannibal, MO, PennySaver. Fair play to that, although we'd like to take the opportunity to remind our few remaining loyal skimmers that Twain also said things like, “Otters make for some good fuckin'.” So there's that. But oh, yes: The point. See, the thing is, we were away fro a little while. Not so much because we don't love our silly little bloggy blog, but because our new position is rather more demanding than that thing we used to do before, which mainly had to do with showing up at 11:30 every morning and looking for pictures of Mandy Moore on the InterWeb. And drinking ourselves into premature senescence. While the new gig asks so much more of us, we've decided to give TJTBT another go. And though we cannot promise to be always faithful, we'll at least make a token effort to make with the ha ha at least a few times a day.

Then again: Blow us, we're doing this for free.

So before we get into the how you say “nitty gritty” of today's post, we'd like to take a moment to use the Internet to break up with Neighbor Girl. If you can read this, N___, it's all over. We used your toothbrush to unclog the tub drain and we erased your number(s) from our tiny phone. You were creepy and needy, which was bad enough, but then you asked us if we thought we maybe drank too much, to which we can only reply, “Vaya con Dio.” Yes, N___, Go with Dio. Maybe you can listen to Holy Diver with Ron Jim and figure out what your next move is, wiener-wise. Whatever you do, know this: I am going to be steadfast in my commitment to shun you like a retarded man's yard sale.***

OK, so unless you're a nine-year-old fighting over a rubber ball, the odds are no one is going to murder you here in New York City. In fact, according to a new report, New York ranks 221st out of 240 cities nationwide in the crime index, averaging 7 slayings per 100,000 people, a damn sight better than Los Angeles (13.5/100,000), Chicago (14.5), Philadelphia (22.1) and Detroit (41.5).

What the release doesn't say is that New York is way up in terms of nuisance citations and generalized police harassment. We'll offer two (2) examples from our recent self-imposed hiatus:

1) As you can well imagine, there are a lot of recyclables knocking around at TJTBT HQ. In fact, Sunday night we had to bring out a big bag of bottles for yesterday's pick up, and our landlady sort of jumped when she heard all the breaking glass noise when we not-so-gently tossed the bag onto the curb. “That's not recycling,” she said. “That's a cry for help.”

Ha, landlady. And fuck you.

Anyhoo, the rule in Park Slope seems to be that should you have an inordinate amount of bottles, you have to display them on the curb in a completely transparent plastic bag. This means that everyone who walks by inherently understands that a dedicated drunkard lives in the cute little brick house with the white trim and the green shutters and the screaming lunatic on the second floor. This can be rather embarrassing, especially when we're in arrears to our landlady (slunt) and even the most cursory arithmetic reveals that we have spent in excess of $500 on sweet, sweet booze in under a week. So, long story short, we use regular black Hefty bags, the kind Tom Bosley uses to dispose of his Potsy porn or whatever the hey. The upshot: Last night, upon staggering leglessly up all those goddamn fucking stairs, we discover an invoice from the Slope's trash barons, charging us $100 for using the wrong bag.


Sure, we threw it out almost immediately upon gaining entrance to our shabby lair--When did Travis Bickle move in? Why is there a pair of pants in the kitchen sink?--but if we get another one of those in the mail, we're calling in our phalanx of high-powered attorneys to crush our unwelcome new correspondents like so many dung beetles.

2) The other night we had a verrrrryyyy interesting conversation with a policeman. At issue was whether or not we would comply with his request to stop knocking over the Village Voice box across the street from our local. For a while there, it looked iffy, with Officer Krupke coming down all hard on our whatever-eth amendment rights, while our friend Johnny B tried to hide whatever it was he'd purchased in the bathroom down the front of his sparkly pants. A driver's license was perused, a flashlight was aimed at our retinas, queries were put forth. But apparently, the booze ran away from all the trouble it had started, because as soon as the cop decided to go find some other taxpaying drunkard to harass--those newspaper boxes are plastic, man, it's not like we were going to break them or anything--we were as sober as a judge. We wouldn't have, you know, flown a plane or tried to operate a steamroller or anything, but we were alert enough to realize that the adrenaline surge that accompanies the idea of a long weekend of ass play at Riker's tends to diminish if not wholly dismiss the intoxicating effects of the booze with which we had spent the whole day plying ourselves. In other words, that cop stole our buzz, man.

More later. Maybe. Oh, and thanks to Dana for still caring.

***Yes, we understand that there would be bargains galore at such a bazaar, but we imagine that the stuff on sale would be unsettling and weird. We are picturing a loafer filled with peanut butter and a bicycle with eight wheels.