"He's not my boyfriend, in case you were wondering."

From late night at Sligo with former Russian professor and various uninvited guests.

More of the Same

It happened again, this time at Underbones. While attempting to order a first round, I found myself standing next to a sloshed crew of nondescript 20something men. I asked if they were waiting for the barkeep. The one nearest me said something unintelligible. I asked him to repeat himself. He then said something unintelligible to the barkeep, a young, Asian lady. She looked at me with order-hungry eyes. I said do you have Julius Echter bottles, good, one of those, a Cascazilla Red, and an order of corn fritters. She turned to the unintelligbile dude and said, are you sure you want to get him all that?

I asked what was going on, and he said KARMA. I asked what I could do for him, and he said NOTHING.

I put my wallet away, but left a 20-dollar bill on the bar. The bartender poured my drinks and took the bill to the register. The bearded dude stood next to me and said nothing. I pointed out, only somewhat innocently, that the bartender had taken my money. I jokingly offered to pay for half or all of my round.

The bartender came back with my change. The dude handed me a 20 from his wallet and pocketed my change.

How much should we leave her, he asked. We have to leave a big tip. Give her the 5, I said. He counted 5 singles from the change, dropped them on the counter, and walked away.

Back at the table, Ian could not believe the story. When the same bartender appeared to retrieve our empty glasses, I asked her what was up with the guy giving away free beer.

Who's giving away free beer?!, she asked.

That dude who bought my corn fritters!

You mean you don't know him?!

Never fucking seen him before.

Train Full of Men

Nothing beats sitting in the cafe on the Acela, snug at the center of the 8-car phallus, cruising at half of cruising speed through deathly suburban Connecticut, two beers in and staring at a dozen ugly fat men wearing almost the same blue shirt.

Balls Dropping

The scene is the legendary Broken Spoke in Austin (featured prominently in this Dale Watson video). I'm in my new Stetson hat, trying to learn how to two-step, when someone in another dancing pair accidentally punches my Shiner out of my hand. The bottle explodes on the concrete floor. A fat man seated nearby gives me a dirty look. I remember that I've left another Shiner waiting at my table and head back to reclaim it.

But I've already drank from a fishbowl full of rum and had several margaritas and several more beers. I take a left turn too early, and walk up to what I think is my table. I point at a bottle and announce, "That's my beer."

Up look four absolutely grizzled cow-women in plaid and flannel. The most wrinkled says, "Are you old enough to even be drinking that? Have your balls dropped yet?"

Somehow not missing a beat, I say, "The left one's down, but the right could use a little work."

"Let's have a look," says the worn-faced cow-woman, gesturing at my crotch.

As I begin to undo my belt in the middle of the seating area, I notice that the other three folks sitting at the table are now staring at me in horror. I start working open the button on my jeans anyway.

"I bet we could get that right ball down by midnight," my interrogator remarks. It is at that point that I decide to pick up one of the beers on the table and walk away. A few seconds pass before I realize that I just stole someone's beer and that my belt is wide open.

When it didn't make sense anymore.

Piles of kids in the street in front of the Cambie? Gin-fueled fury? Replacing one's soul with bourbon warmth? All those extra calories? F it all.

I'm only happy when I'm making stuff.

College Point Pub Crawl II Sign Up Sheet--UPDATED

Details here.
Now aiming for an 8pm (TENTATIVE!) start at the Pour House, Friday after Thanksgiving.


Please sign up by commenting.

additionally:

holding your own with people who don't understand a damn thing you say (think up, think down)
inexorable solitude
externally enforced denial of humanity
unwittingly creating an audio/visual record of the above

three cheers for

constantly underestimating yourself
weight loss
subjugation of self to "company"
bourgeois scum not sure why this group would be cheered. --ed.
being better than you ever thought possible, years past
lack of confidence
defiant output
moralistic capitulation to enslavement that favors the collective good
the unelected working class
people being themselves
finding a way out
taking care of your people
getting what you need
meritocratic permanence
relevance

Post edited for accuracy. --ed.

I have republished all my drunk posts from Montreal below.

I feel better about the aesthetic balance of photos and words now. Now I'm going to watch Charlie Chaplin in Modern Times, which I've had out from Netflix for nearly two months. I was supposed to see it with my brother at the Film Forum in Manhattan about three years ago, right when it seemed that our paths were converging and that our backgrounds and educations hand melded us into something similar and productive and we ignored it and didn't make it to the Film Forum and only now do we continue together. After the film, I will try to do and mail my expense reports, then sleep five hours, then go to the airport at 6:15, then fly to Los Angeles. On the plane I will work for about 5 hours. Off the plane, I will rent a car, meet a colleague, and work for several hours before retiring to my hotel. I will be very tired tomorrow night. This post powered by one Zombie and one other rum drink from the Emperor's Garden in Boston's Chinatown. Oh, wait--before the movie I'm going to get a little paper carton of milk and have some more of the milk chocolate I got in the Montreal airport.

NASHVILLE

So Altman did a better job of this. So the $2.50 Paulaner Oktoberfests, Paulaner Dopplebock, two-for-one Yazoo Pales, and Jager bombs were all bad ideas, each in their own right.

Some of post removed for quality control purposes.

Drinking in San Francisco

Also hiking, beaching, and photoing. Soon baseballing. Saw the Holmes Brothers last night. Here we see me being shocked and amazed by Wendell Holmes, 69-year-old bassist for the Holmes Brothers. His sick thumb-pluckin,' slide techniques, and ability to rule the fretboard while singing harmony with brother Sherman (amazingly dextrous strat player) and drummer Popsy Dixon (master of the snare solo and a voice like Smokey Robinson's). Laura Maestrelli, who created this cameraphone image of my head, said I had to put it here, if I'm remembering correctly.

Drinking in the Desert

I have slept 16 hours since Monday, no joke.

Drinking

Until I can't see. If this concerns you, it's probably your fault.


NOTE: I CAN'T TELL IF THIS IS SERIOUS OR NOT, BUT I DID TYPE IT.