That's Just The Booze Talking

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Here We Go Round the Prickly Pear

You know what’s the most troubling thing about this avian flu epidemic , the thing that’s going to kill us all deader than Millie Carballo* playing Gnip-Gnop at an unchaperoned slumber party at Shannon Hoon’s house? It’s that all the shit is coming down at a time when we’re missing the two men who could solve the problem with no trouble at all. We are speaking, of course, about Frank Perdue and Colonel Sanders.

“This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a cluck.” – T.S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

*Speaking of which, here’s #1 Dana on the subject of NYC’s hottttest heroin casualty:

I think about Millie Carballo and her unmemorable friend. I think about how hard it must be for that friend, if there is a heaven and she’s in it right now, knowing that no one cared enough about her to plaster her face all over cobrasnake.

I also think about that scene in Heathers when Ramsey prays to God and says “Why’d you have to kill such good snatch?”

Monday, September 19, 2005

The Nervous Light of Sunday

Because we’re under the gun and because our synapses are merrily misfiring, it’s going to be all about brevity hereabouts for the foreseeable future. We won’t send you away empty handed, however. Here, in time-honored haiku form, is the distillation of our weekend:

You know that movie
Scarface? Well, it was like that
only with more Jews.

Things began more or less as they always do: The joyless consumption of a bottle of something flammable, followed by a trip to 7-B, where we are usually rewarded for our snappy patter and jukebox mastery with free drinkies and the occasional bag of Something Interesting. Unfortunately, by the time we got there (midnight), the place was packed with the spawn of Manhattan’s most prolific and rigorous douche hatcheries.* Everywhere we looked, there were dudes with a weakness for:

1) pink
2) polo shirts
3) with the collar rolled up.

(Parenthetically––which is why we’re using parentheses, doiiiiy––when did everyone decide that turning the collar up like you’re James Spader’s kid brother, circa Pretty In Pink, was a good idea. Stop now. We will kill you.)

For some reason, the CMJ crowd had neglected neighboring Manitoba’s, which is a better bar anyway. Bonus fun: The lovely young thing for whom we began having carnal thoughts––of the all-through-til-the-early-morn-and-then-sneak-out-of-her-apaartment-with-our-shoes-in-hand-and-a-few-CDs-stuffed-down-the-front-of-our-pants variety––informed us that she had dated the drummer for The Unband and that resident genius Mike Ruffino was in town from Northampton. We informed her that she was full of untruths (“You fucking lie,” we said). Ten minutes later, he was standing before us, tiny and drunk.

Kudos were handed out all over the place. The man is the poet laureate of cocktail enthusiasts everywhere. Buy his book immediately.

As it so often does, time dilated. More drinks were consumed and then someone asked us to come with her to a party. Later that morning, when we slunk back out into the stunned Sunday streets, we realized that the building where we went to use the word party as a verb was the same one that houses our G.P., Dr. Feelgood. This was an odd and uncanny experience, a bit like recognizing an old girlfriend in a Weird Al Yankovic video. Or something.

Anyway––and we swear we’re going somewhere with this––we wind up in this cavernous apartment with four or five twenty-year-old girls, Ruffino and our friend Big Mike, who is generally always around whenever there’s a chance that things are going to get chaotic and violent. (Boston’s Cosa Nostra B-squad once scoured the oozy sidestreets of Gowanus after he’d done a runner on a significant debt, which, with the vigorish, added up to an approximation of Star Jones’ annual Hydrox cookie-related expenditures. We’re talking a serious fuckup here, which is why we’re such good friends.) Also, there is what can only be described as a snowdrift of booger sugar all over a coffee table, and two scary maybe Russian guys doling it out like it ain’t no thing.

As a slight digression, while the identity of the person who brought us the phrase “there’s no such thing as a free lunch remains shrouded in mystery, we know for a stone fact that the guy who introduced “Free blow my ass” to the lexicon was Jesus. (It’s true: we saw it in The Bible.) So, our suspicions heightened and our nerves a-jangle from the creepy Drug Lord vibe the Russkies are projecting, we decided to split with one of the young ladies, which turned out to be a Capital Idea all the way around, because whoops, wouldn’t you know it, one of the Russians decided to produce a firearm about a half hour after we left, which had the predictable effect of scaring the shit out of everyone who didn’t also happen to have a gun on them, or so we’ve been told.

So blah blah hump hump sneak sneak and it’s Sunday afternoon, time to lose money on professional football and have a series of tiny heart attacks in a sports bar in Park Slope. Basically, we relived Chapter One of A Fan’s Notes**, only we were rooting for Pittsburgh and not the Giants.

More later once we can get a handle on our weeping.

*What’s the blog etiquette for quoting oneself? Is that totally bad, what we just did there? On second thought, go suck it.

**This book is basically the reason why people were born with eyes ... Well, that and so that dudes have a nice target when they're getting their bukkake on.***