That's Just The Booze Talking

Friday, August 12, 2005

But Duvall’s Going to Make For a Kickass Heathcliff



OK, it’s official: We take back every nice thing we’ve ever said about Bill Murray. What the shit , people?

When Bill Murray dies, God will be all, “Well, I liked Stripes, I mean, that was awesome, and Tenenbaums was pretty great even though it had that fucking Stiller kid in it, and dang, even that movie where you go to Japan and don't nail the pouty girl with the great rack was OK. But Garfield 2? Sorry, man, but you're going to Hell. You can be bunkies with De Niro. He’s down there for that Bullwinkle shit.” **

In a creepy instance of Hollywood synchronicity, the dude who voiced the cartoon version of everyone’s least-favorite feline lasagna enthusiast also voiced the role of Dr. Peter Venkman on the short-lived animated series The Real Ghost Busters. Bill Murray, of course, originated the role in the 1984 blockbuster (one which also introduced the world to the talents of Mr. Ray Parker, Jr.). That’s pretty much the shitty cartoon version of Kennedy having a secretary named Lincoln and then having his brains redistributed all over the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car.

And then there’s this guy. Not enough Es in the word “eerie” to denote the horror, etc.

Enjoy the weekend, kids. Here in NYC it’s going to be 95º F and damper than Laura DeFilippo’s Shameful Baby Area during a late-night recitation of the Stations of the Cross. We’ll either be holed up at our local, drinking away what remains of our storied youth, or we’ll wedge ourselves beneath the sofa, mewing like a cat until Monday comes around again … or we fall blissfully to sleep, where the Forgetting Elves cavort and gambol.

** For the record, we’re petty sure that when we die, God will just ruefully shake his seven heads and say, “Boy, are you a fuckup.” Then he’ll send us back to earth as a gerbil. Hours after our ignoble rebirth, Richard Gere will shove us up his ass.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

How Late it Was, How Late



While we’re loath to admit to caring about anything so base as a television program, we’re coming to grips with the fact that we’re really, really going to miss Six Feet Under, if only because we’ve become huge fans of Peter Krause. One of the things we liked most about his character, Nate Fischer, is that he never seemed to know what the hell was going on. Not ever. Nate always seemed dazzled by the world’s illogic, thrown by the limitless permutations of chance and opportunity. He walked through the world with the watery, loose-jointed gait of a person who truly doesn’t give a shit one way or the other. And when he wasn’t off not giving a shit, he was setting up shop at the emotional antipodes, all hot-faced and pinched and desperately tense. He was a walking contradiction and in that sense, the single most human character we’ve ever seen on TV. Nate was a fuckup because he never knew what he wanted, and on the rare occasions when his wants happened to intersect with fulfillment, he always ended up disappointed. If that’s not a précis of the human condition, then we don’t know what is.

We also liked it when someone kept sending poop in the mail to Stretch Cunningham.

Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Crematorium



We wanted to be good, wanted nothing more than to put our feet up and perhaps take in a little baseball. We wanted just one night where we didn’t feel we had to careen from bar to bar in an almost desperate bid to forget what’s already long forgotten. Or something. But no, our Palo Alto operative returned to New York yesterday on a hopeful errand and so we drank.

First there were Martinis on the roof of the Peninsula, followed by the requisite Bourbons. Rain chased us down to the street and into a taxi; we washed ashore at 7B because it’s the only place in town where you can play “Beef Baloney” on the jukebox and not get shown the door. They made us do shots and all we had to eat were the gin-soaked olives from a few hours previous. Cab, home, and then sweet oblivion.

When the alarm went off this morning, the LCD numbers rearranged themselves to display a middle finger poking obscenely above its huddled confreres.

Today’s hangover is a feisty one. It’s been having sly fun at our expense, toppling our coffee onto the keyboard and whispering breathy portents of doom into the whorled folds of our ears. It reminds us that everyone we know is in league against us and the revelation of our inherent shittiness makes our heart thump in our chest like a dryer with a pair of sneakers in it. At present we are practicing the ancient and solitary art of Reverse Buddhism, wherein we give ourselves over to a state of Total Worry and Despair.

We could end all this, of course. We have options. We could march over to the Barnes & Noble and stand shivering in the Recovery section, shoulder to shoulder with bulimic women and the men who slap them around. Or we could duck into the little bar around the corner, the one with the dog and the terrible jukebox, and just wave the white flag. We give, we could say. We surrender.

While we sweat this one out, TMFTML reminds us that today would have been Philip Larkin’s 83rd birthday. Read this and this and this and be the better for it.

Oh, and: It occurred to us this morning as we went about the bleary task of scraping the fuzz from our choppers that there are advantages to having Progeria. They are:

1) Free trips to Disney World.
2) Can get into bars when you’re, like, four.

One last thing before we go: Pitchfork helps David Berman peel the scabs . “I went down in 1999 for a long, suitcase-battering journey of sub-aqueous intoxication, only resurfacing on January 1, 2004 in a tiny Minnesota village. … There were many phases, but the final one (and the one that takes you down fast, no matter how long you've been juggling powders and pills and think you're above the lowliest drug of all) [was] crack. And Dilaudid when I needed to sand the edges off the horrorscape. Also vodka. Always and everywhere vodka. The vodka is how you clean yourself. I actually thought it was cleaning my organs.”

Oof. Suddenly we don’t feel nearly half as bad.

Monday, August 08, 2005

If the River Was Whiskey



We were all set to tone it down just a little this weekend, seeing as how the summer has just about wrung us out, physically and emotionally speaking, to the point that our body is starting to do things that suggest something may be seriously amiss with one of the organs that regulate our not being dead. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the other day found us producing sounds in the bathroom that were eerily reminiscent of the distressed leonine noises Chewbacca makes whenever he loses at video poker. If we’d been in Mexico, we’d have been able to write it off as a little Montezuma’s Revenge, but since we remained in Brooklyn all weekend, the blame must rest solely in ourselves. Call it Everybody’s Revenge: A spooky curse laid on our lower gastrointestinal tract by every disenfranchised indigene who’d ever had the misfortune to come across the European white man.

Of course, like the butler in an English murder mystery, the booze is always the real culprit. Case in point: On Saturday, we invented a new game called Drink the Alphabet, which wound up being the sort of endurance spectacle that generally results in killing off everyone involved, like the marathon sessions that carried off Dylan Thomas and Dana Plato. Basically, the idea was to quaff one drink that begins with each letter of the alphabet until … well, we’re still not entirely sure what was supposed to happen, other than a spectacular disintegration of motor skills and manners. We started hard, throwing back a special drink called an A.M.F., which felicitously enough stands for Adios, Motherfucker, and looks like off-brand glass cleaner. That was followed in its turn by a somewhat inexpertly presented B&B, which led to the consumption of a sickly yellowish concoction called Careful, He’s a Spaniard. (Can’t exactly go into specifics here with regard to representative liquors, specific gravities, ratios, etc., but we can say that the drink tasted a bit like what we imagine would greet the palate should one find oneself doggedly licking the upholstery in Shane MacGowan’s rumpus room after a bank holiday. It was bad.) Then, in short order, we helped ourselves to a shot of Drambuie, an Espresso Martini, a measure of Frangelico, a gin and tonic, a Heineken, an Irish Car Bomb, a jigger of Jim Beam, a Ketel One and soda, and, in a gesture that was at once grandiose and terminally stupid, a Long Island Iced Tea.

From there on in, particulars became a little vague. At one point we managed to stumble across some sort of time machine which brought us down safely from our local to the floor of our kitchenette, somewhere in the early afternoon hours of Sunday. $38 in drunk money was stuffed in various pockets, and while it was yet another sweltering day in the borough of kings, our first stirrings were greeted by a wash of cool air. Apparently, we had “fallen asleep” while rooting through the refrigerator for something that would fuck up a pregnant woman; finding nothing, we slipped with a thud into the arms of Morpheus. On our way down, one of our broken rag doll limbs splayed out and propped the fridge door open.

When we were finally able to rouse ourselves to a crawling position, we discovered that someone had doggedly ground the business end of a slice of pizza into the living room throw rug. A claw hammer hung mutely from the left stereo speaker and an unforeseen act of domestic jihad had apparently resulted in the toppling of all three of our CD towers, the contents of which were liberally strewn all over the room. As for the bedroom, well, let’s just say we always did hold out hope that someone would be able to offer irrefutable proof of the existence of Sasquatch. We just didn’t think it would be us … nor did we think that the proof would lie in the ruins of our pajama drawer.

All of which is to say that we’ll be checking into Trembling Hills for a long-overdue “refresher course.” If they let us use the Internet, we’ll post something later in the week.