It’s My Party and I’ll Die If I Want To
Well, we do find ourselves in a bit of a pickle. Having won three of our four NFL playoff bets this weekend, on Monday we found ourselves in the unique position where a) our pockets were (metaphorically) stuffed with little green pieces of paper with Ben Franklin’s yearbook picture on them and b) we had the kind of Nic-Cage-at-the-end-of-Leaving Las Vegas hangover** that happens when you combine sudden fiscal solvency and bourbon. Also: We did shots of something called “Careful, He’s a Spaniard,” which as far as we can put together in a sort of CSI: Park Slope-cum-every second Buscemi’s on-screen in Tree’s Lounge kind of post-mortem, was composed of equal parts tequila, brandy and dandruff shampoo.
So upon waking Monday, we decided to resort to the age-old remedy known in the vernacular as “hair of the dog”––actually, it was more like “tuft of the dog,” given the sheer volume of bloodies we introduced to our system in an attempt to pull things together––and yet, we still felt somewhat empty inside. Unfulfilled. If the Germans ever made up a compound word for how we felt and then we translated it back into English, it would be something like “Everyone-you-know-is-in-league-against-you-and-you’ll-die-alone-which-is-all-you-really-deserve-anyway,” plus whatever the Bavarian word for headache is.
So what happened next is we get on the horn with our friend Big M___, who is even more of a degenerate than we are and who also happens to own an automobile. Long story shortish, we decide to hit the trail for Mohegan Sun, a Connecticut casino destination owned and operated by a Native Americans. Why not? Clearly the Wagering Deities were with us, and if nothing else, experience has shown that when you’re hot you have to keep balling the jack. So.
Just before we pull up to the casino, M___ throws in a burned CD that looks as though its had recently been ravished by a porcupine. “We need to listen to this song before we go take these Indians’ money,” M___ said, hitting the FF button until the unmistakable operatic wank of Iron Maiden’s “Run to the Hills”*** fills the interior of his terrible hatchback like so much aural bong smoke. Not quite comprehending the reasoning behind the song selection, we sort of mumble and shrug.
“When the Indians hear our music, they’ll know that we’re on their side,” M___ explained. “As such, their strange Forest Gods will look on us with charity.”
Three hours later, we’re as drunk as a couple of boiled owls, thanks to the tribe’s somewhat unorthodox views on alcohol consumption. (A lot of Native American-owned casinos don’t serve booze because of their people’s weird and troubling history with distilled spirits and Whitey. Not so Mohegan Sun.) We’re still up, having stuck to Blackjack, but M___ is way down and will only communicate with us via insulting finger gestures.
Eventually, we head back to the city, M___ keeping the car on the road through the agency of some suspicious-looking powders and perhaps the intervention of the Forest Gods, who have been serenaded no less than 13 times by Iron Maiden. So this week is shaping up to be a bit of a chore. Plus, we have a head cold.
At any rate, we’re back. There was a shaky moment back there where we were about ready to call our blog down to the living room and perform a spirited karaoke version of the Sonny & Cher breakup classic, “You’d Better Sit Down, Kids,” only wherever the word “kids” popped up, we were going to substitute “blog.” Meaning, we were like thisclose to quitting this foolish fucking thing, but decided to press on after one of those weird Progeria kids who are always getting free trips to Disney World sent us an email begging us to update the site. And you know us: We’re a sucker for an eight-year-old who looks like Don Ameche before he takes that dip in Cocoon. That said, as soon as the little fucker croaks, we are out like our man Hoon. Fair warning.
**Ridiculous fucking movie. Not even the worst alcoholic in the world can drink like that. And we should know; we’ve been diagnosed.
***Seriosuly, though: Everything we ever learned about our country’s genocidal interaction with Native Americans was gleaned from watching that video. It’s like a capsule summary of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, updated to include an apperance by Maiden's spooky zombie mascot, Eddie