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.