Glamorous Batman

Xtine, old roommate extraordinaire, got hitched the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, and I was the minister (a calling I found around this time).  She decked me out in this polyester 40 year old vintage fluorescent-mint, monstrous get-up with long, hazy butterfly sleeves.  It was a nightmare on a hanger.  But I itched it on and looked like a goddess when I wasn't scratching myself.  I was made of regal magic and lovely dreams.  From now on, Xtine will dress me every day.  Every fucking day. 

I gave a sermon about The Little Prince and The Pink Panther and did an impromptu interpretive dance to a poem by A. A. Milne because the reader said, and I quote, "This is a poem by A. A. Milne, and while I'm reading Rossi will do an interpretive dance."

"Shit.  I mean, shit.  Sorry.  Go ahead."  And then I vogued with my flowing sleeves and the awkward grace of a dancing bear on a tricycle, and only gave the thumbs up once.   But never in my sermon did I directly bring up how many men Xtine has slept with, which was hard to do because Paul stopped by before the wedding for a beer on my porch and left me with this: "just don't say anything about that time that she fucked those two gay dudes on my couch."  Which is my couch now, by the way, and I silently blessed myself for washing the cushions. 

She and Kevin had popcorn vendors roaming around while we sipped a meet-cute of champagne infused with cotton candy (invented by Adam Moby-Statham during a happy accident) and sang karoake.  We went to a bar afterward where Adam and I teamed up against another co-ed team of attractive pool sharks (I was his wingman, because my dress had wingsleeves) who took their eight ball very seriously.   My sleeves kept on getting in the damn way.  Fucking pool. 

I dislike playing pool at bars with people who insist that we follow professional rules.  Recreational softball is nothing like the major leagues and touch football isn't nearly as convoluted as the NFL, but tall hipster males take their sharking very seriously.  At one point I yelled, "Who the fuck are you, Minnesota Fats?  This isn't a goddamn Paul Newman movie."  And then he tried to get me to play again, which in retrospect was a good sign but me and Adam were through with trying to woo these people and besides all I could think about was how rugged and lumberjacky Kevin's little brother had grown in the past two years after fighting wildfires in California and I really wanted to touch his arm and talk to him about spaceships and conspiracy theories as a continuation of our last conversation in 2009 after we played Risk on his birthday.  Which I won, by the way. 

But alas, I have gained - ho-lee FUCK - 22 pounds in the last two years.  That was the last time I stood on a scale.  I've decided to blame my stolen bike and my friends who left me (I am looking at YOU, MoLinder and Gyna) for this weight gain, because even though I know the bulk of it is bite-size Butterfingers in groups of seven and 2am pizzas (which I blame on CrazyLiz), I refuse to accept responsibility.  Something will have to be done, and I will have to find more obscure things to blame until I am either (a) satisfied or (b) amazing-looking. 

Despite how awesomely I glowed in my dress, how I felt like glamorous Batman on a winning streak in Vegas, I was not mentally capable of starting that conversation and was afraid I would make some joke about how much both of us had grown in two years and come off sounding desperate, which technically I was.  Alas.

Weeks and weeks ago, after hearing about the dress, the Smith Sister Savannah said to me, "Ross, for my wedding?  I would never, ever, ever make you wear something like that," which was her kind way of saying "don't you fucking dare pull that neon circus-garb out again for my wedding."

Coincidentally, Savannah's wedding was the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, so after I woke up the next morning I had to get my ass in gear to officiate another wedding, which will, of course, be discussed in a later post, because I have run out of wine and it is time for bed. 

...

EDIT:  Aaaaaaand there's the dress.  I don't have any pictures of me in it where you can really see it in all it's glory.

...

Raping the Women and Wasting the Men

I am interrupting my memetic programing to tell you this:  the song categories for this meme were created by assholes.  

Because of this, the original days 16 and 17, "a song that you used to love but now hate" and "a song that you hear often on the radio" will be eliminated and new categories created.


So I bring you days 16 and 17, Two Songs I Dominate While Driving. 

Why would I want to show people music that sucks?  And I don't listen to the radio.  Too many commercials.  And I don't have an iPod, so there better not be any iPod categories in the near future. 



I am not a big fan of Bright Eyes (Conor Oberst's other band, which you prolly already knew but I'm saying it anyway because I had no idea who Oberst was when I first heard this song because Bright Eyes sucks) and the Desaparecidos had this brilliantly horrible hollerin' garage-feedback shitty anthem rock thing going on, like Black Flag covering Springsteen.  

Once someone made me a CD with this song on it - Muffy, of course, because I get all of my music from Muffy, Xtine, and my dad - and it makes me wish I'd just gotten away with robbing a bank.

And this next song, well.



Don't even pretend you don't like it.  DON'T EVEN.

When I was a very mediocre keys player/back up singer for a band that really, really could have been big had the members stuck with music instead of taking a "hiatus" to get an "MBA" or go to "law school" so they could get "real jobs" and stop working at "restaurants" and "UPS," we did a cover of this for a battle of the bands and we goddamn killed it.  We practiced constantly.  Fucking constantly.  We were determined to play it in under 3:30 while keeping faithful - which is like running the Kentucky Derby, by the way - and BY FUCKY WE DID.  Thank god.  Every day we'd practice, get hammered, and close with a sweaty, screamy sloppy Iron Maiden cover, and eventually we decided to just do it for real, and we tightened it and cranked it up.  I'm going to see if I can find a recording of it, because we were awesome.

We were competing against all these heavy metal bands that hated us since we sounded like a cross between Queen and Os Mutantes and a marching band, because Xtine is a hipster who plays the theremin listens to things like 1960's Brazilian psychedelic rock, plus we had about nine people on stage.  And a violin.  So these guys, over the course of several nights, all Danzig-ed out and heckling and jerking themselves into a Faygo frenzy had to shut their yaps when we speed-metaled the hell out of them. Their shitty bands couldn't do that. I wanted to cover "Ace of Spades" too, just so we could show those fuckers what's what (and because I would have gotten to sing that, not Xtine) but no one else was on board.


...

P4C7: Ten Drunks Are Way Easier To Manage Than Forty

SCENE: Saturday afternoon, Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 7. A train car. Ten friends are sitting on the upper deck, laughing, drinking, discussing television commercials.

"You guys remember that Herbal Essences commercial where the woman has an orgasm in the shower--"

The conductor below us stops snapping cash from his money belt and starts darting his head around like a scared bird. "What? Who said that?"

Dainon waves slightly, stoic.

"YOU---VESTIBULE! NOW!" the humorless conductor points all haphazardly around the train car. "We don't need that kind of language on here."

"I'm sorry, sir." Dainon is visibly confused. "It won't happen again."

"I don't want to hear it. You can't say that on a train! There are children on this train!" (There is not one child in our entire train car.) "I don't appreciate that kind of language, and neither does anyone else."

"Sir, I didn't curse..."

"I'm not trying to be funny, I don't want to hear that kind of language, mister."

"I understand, sir, but I didn't curse."

"Your language is--" blah blah blah. I don't even know, this guy made no sense whatsoever.

"I will try to watch my language, sir, I apologize."

"You better." Bullshit bullshit bullshit.

Five minutes later, we arrived at our train stop, and we get the hell off that train. The conductor is helping people board and de-board.

"Fuck that guy." I'm annoyed, and full of liquid courage. "ORGASM."

"Orgasm!" an echo.

"ORGASM!" a chorus!

"We got off, are you happy?"

"ORGASM."

Slinger gets closer. "You're just pissed you've never had one." The conductor's head snaps forward, and he stretches out his arm, a two-fingered beckon to Slinger to say it within arm's reach.

We laugh, because now we're bullies. Orgasm? That's the word that makes you quake with fury? Really? Drunk Dave is on the verge of swiping your neat little hat and teabagging your head, and your temper flares when we name-drop an Herbal Essences commercial in jest?

Anyway, then we got drunker, and me and Bobbay tried to learn how to play the bagpipes from Marc, a kilt-sportin' bagpiper from Northern Ireland. He was in a parade earlier that day, where he played his pipes for the Mayor, and he realized he split his bag so he had to duct tape it together and it was really hard to blow.

(Oh, I really liked typing that last sentence.)

...

The City of New Orleans: Deborah in a Tizzy

Day One.

On the train they call The City of New Orleans, one of the Amtrak employees threatened to call the Amtrak police on us within five minutes. Deborah. That's her name. Obviously, Miss Deborah was having a real honk of a day (Is that a phrase? That should be a phrase), and she wanted to take it out on the five girls who smuggled liquor onto the train. She didn't know we smuggled liquor, though, and she didn't know that a member of our party was carrying pot, and she didn't know that we were going to be harassing all of the Amtrak employees about the frequency of train stops where some of us could take smoke breaks, or that we were going to hang out in the lounge car being loud for the duration of the twenty hour trip.

But Deborah was upset with us because we settled into some seats that were "Reserved for parties of three two or more" according to the piece of flimsy chicken-scratched paper tacked up above the chairs, and Muffy whipped out a marker to made necessary adjustments, so the sign read, "Reserved for parties of three two or more Us."

So Deborah got her inner-workings all bunchy and flipped out on us for destroying Amtrak property.

Then, just to be more obnoxious, the second our train starting chugging out of Union Station on Saturday night, Muffy cranked up her Ipod speakers and we all sang along to Willie Nelson, because I mean, come on, when you're on the train they call The City of New Orleans, it's like a rule or something.

Muffy got it into her head that if you shook up a little cup of half-and-half long enough, eventually you'd get butter. Silly Muffy. All you're gonna get is gross warm milk. But Muffy wanted butter, and Bobbay and I sat in the lounge car, taking it upon ourselves to see the butter process through after she passed out. We'd finished all of the alcohol, so really, what was the point of her staying up anyway? Other than making butter?

So I'm just hanging out, shaking the cream, churning the butter, and I turn to Bobbay. "Seriously. Muffy's all, 'I want butter.' And then she makes us do all the work."

"She's lazy," Bobbay shrugs.

"I know. What kind of buttermaker is she?"

"She's...a half-assed buttermaker."

I slam the creamer down on the table. "She is a half-assed buttermaker."

And then, just to prove the exchange existed, Bobbay and I recorded ourselves overacting that dialogue about forty times over the next three hours before heading back to our seats, attempting sleep.

...

On another note, I would like to apologize to anyone I drunkenly emailed any time over this past week.

...

Mischeif. Rawr!

Let me preface this one with as much simplicity as possible: Boomer is fucking retarded.

...

Having no idea what day this is going to be published, I might be redundant in saying that while Rassles is out, getting drunk and rowdy, which is nothing new, only now she is doing it in a city other than Chicago, she has asked me to guest post for her.

Which you can pretty much take to mean that she hates you. She really hates you. While she and I seemingly think of the same freakish things pretty often, she does so with big, awesome words and with a writer's spirit, heart and grace. I do it like a stoned, skater kid who just might be all of 15 years old. Also? She seems really social and I'm kind of anti-social. She makes this stuff seem funny and attractive to people. I make it seem like it came from the brain of a shut-in who only has cats to talk to.

However, I'm pretty sure the day is going to come when Rassles and I will finally meet face to face and the world is going to have to be put on notice because the sheer awesome energy of what will manifest with that meeting will just be too much for most people to handle.

I imagine the conversation will looking something like the following (I'll skip the weird, awkward greeting where we just look weird and awkward to each other), I simply call it "RAWR!":

Rassles and Boomer, sit on bar stools with beers in hand.

Rassles: Rawr!

Boomer: Rawr, Teen Wolf, Nards! Ha ha ha.

Rassles: Total Kenny Loggins, Danger Zone, RAWR!

Boomer: OMG, Scary German Guy - Juke Box Hero!

Rassles: BACON AND FOREIGNER!!!!

Boomer: RIIIIGHT! AHHHH! RAWR!

Rassles: What are you looking at, dicknose?

Boomer: Never say die!

Rassles: RAWR! Random movie quote, obscure reference to something weird.

Boomer: Ah, I'm the only one in the world who gets your obscure reference right now, we so rock and everyone in this bar HATES US!

Rassles: Another round?

Boomer: Dude! Bring it! Robots.

Rassles: Shivs. Rawr!

Boomer: You're awesome.

Rassles: No, you're awesome.

Boomer: NO! You. Are. Awesome.

Rassles: I know.

See? I told you she hates you. This was complete crap.

...

Nawlins Can't Handle My Shit

Fucking Nawlins can't handle my shit.

Do not get me wrong, this town is incredible, but I'm a high-class alcoholic over here. I have goddamn standards. This place is full of amateurs.

Bourbon street is bullshit. I am not an elitist. Ya'll are just assholes. <

You know what's way better is when you find a corner market and get a coupla silos and sit on a street corner. That's some classy business right there. Fucking crackheads settled down next to us for awhile. Serious crackheads, man, these guys weren't fucking around.

By the way, I don't know if you guys know Tom Turner, but the man sells Lucky Dog hot dogs like an auctioneer and caught a forty pound catfish yesterday. He fixed his ol' landladay's roof in return for rent. We met him in front of Rolland's Quik Mart (Amber just corrected me, because it's Rouses Quik Mart. Because yeah, I admit, I just totally made up a name)at ten pm, just hanging out in front with a tackle box and a shit eating grin. Fucking love that guy.

So I was hungover as fuck this morning. Afternoon. Whatever. And then Muffy and Bobbay returned to the Ambassador after wandering around with their goddamn skirts and found me sleeping on the cot with the room door wide open, because they are retarded. What if someone wanted to rape me, you cocksmokers?

Bobbay says, "Yeah. Sor."

...

When I Was Young and Full of Grace

Triggering off the guest postage, as an introduction to a week I like to call, "What it's like when Rassles isn't blogging," I asked the writer from the newest blog I'm obsessed with to play on here.

Although A Free Man is still new to me, technically, I'm playing catch-up on his blog, and it's really super neat. Partly because he's got this Michael Stipe thing going on, and partly because he's an excellent writer with good stories to tell, and partly because he's got this glorious, fair outlook on on everything that's inspired by feelings rather than complacency. That's a killer combination.

So because I'm in New Orleans right now, he's driving in a post about his time there. Oh, I can dig it.

...

“Turnaround is fair play”, my fictitious folky uncle always would have said. Rassles fills in for me while I was basking on an Antipodean beach, so I fill in for her while she is no doubt drinking Bourbon Street dry. I jumped at the opportunity when I saw the words ‘New Orleans’ and guest post, because I’ve got a story I’ve been itching to tell since I started blogging.

I made a crucial novice blogger mistake back in those early days – I gave the URL to my Grandma. Now she’s no elderly internet prodigy, but she can peck out a few letters and being an older lady she’s got the patience to wait for her Paleolithic dial-up connection to sputter out a picture of her great-grandson. But the critical bit is that she occasionally reads whatever nonsense I’ve posted for the day and calls me up on the carpet the next time I talk to her on the phone.

Long story short – I have to censor myself over on my site. Have to leave out the juicy/sexy/tragic stories. But no more. I’m hoping that dear Grandma won’t bother to follow the link over here, granting me the anonymity that I so covet.

(Grandma, if you’ve found your way over here. Please stop reading. Nothing to see here. Why don’t you give Esther across the lake a call and go out for a nice stroll.)

Sometime in the early spring of 1993-ish I was wallowing around in Florida’s capital city. I had rented a cheap cockroach infested studio in an old house in a particularly fetid part of Tallahassee. I was half in school, half working and half drunk – really doing only the latter with any kind of verve. Most of all, I was bored.

So one Friday afternoon, I called up an old school friend – let’s call him Erwin because that will annoy him - who happened to be in another Florida university town and said “Erwin, let’s go to New Orleans. The Big Easy.”

“Yeah”, Erwin replied, “let’s do that sometime.”

“No, let’s go tonight.”

Erwin was always the yin to my yang. Responsible and well-mannered where I was reckless and boorish. Studious and serious to my lucky and drunk. But to his credit, he had an inner rebel that needed little plying to leap out. About three hours later – around nine o’clock at night - Erwin pulled up in the drive. I was prepared with a towel, a swim suit, a bottle of Southern Comfort and half a sheet of blotter acid.

“I’ll drive”, I declared and with a grinding of gears and a cosmic groan.

I have a philosophy of life by which I stand pretty firmly. It’s not a great philosophy, nor really one to live with. In fact it’s more of an excuse for bad behavior than a philosophy per se: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Fifteen or so years later, I can’t imagine why it would have seemed like a good idea to pop two tabs of LSD onto my tongue as I accelerated onto I-10, but there must have been one.

I honestly can’t remember if Erwin dropped acid that night or not, but either way he’s an idiot. It’s a six hour drive from Tallahassee to New Orleans dead straight through dank cypress swamps down I-10 – fortunately for anyone that may have encountered a late 80’s Japanese pick-up truck piloted by a drug addled moron on that late night. Curves or hills may have resulted in a different story told by a Panhandle coroner or Alabama state trooper.

You’ll be surprised to hear that I don’t remember much of that long midnight drive. Only one thing in fact – R.E.M.’s “Life’s Rich Pageant” playing on a loop on my truck’s tape deck. Particularly…

I believe in coyotes and time as an abstract
Explain the change, the difference between
What you want and what you need, there's the key,
Your adventure for today, what do you do
Between the horns of the day?

Over and over.

I’m not a religious man. I’m a scientist. I demand empirical evidence before declaring a truth. But I can guaran-damn-tee you that there is some kind of benevolent higher power out there, because Erwin and I crossed Lake Ponchatrain with the dawn sun peeking up behind us a matter of hours later. Unscathed, slightly damp (to this day I don’t know why) and beginning to come down.

Ladies and gentleman, Bourbon Street at five in the morning is not a nice place when you’re coming down from an LSD trip. It stank of urine and vomit, was littered with trash and comatose drunks. It looked more like my fraternity house after a kegger than the depraved glamour that I had in my head. Both Erwin and I, being sensitive intelligent lads, hadn’t fared well with the ladies thus far in our young lives and I know I had visions of exotic, smoky voiced New Orleanian ladies of the evening that were riding streetcars just waiting for a little piece of A Free Man-boy to complete their day. When I saw what, even to my sexually naive eyes, was clearly a drag queen vomiting into a Dauphine Street gutter I realized that I wasn't getting lucky that morning.

We sat in Jackson Square for a little while shivering both mentally and physically. I took a slug of SoCo and said, "Let's go."

And we did. And that might have been the end of the story. But I decided to take the scenic route home, the long Highway 190 causeway across Lake Ponchatrain which ends up in the small town of Covington. At that time, and today for that matter, Covington Louisiana means only one thing to me - Walker Percy. If you don't know who Walker Percy is then you're either a Yankee or a moron and you should get off the internet and go read "Lancelot". If you do know who Walker Percy is, you'll understand why Erwin and I spent a good part of that day scouring the cemeteries of this sleepy Southern town looking for his headstone. If you've ever read "The Thanatos Syndrome" you'll understand why we spent the rest of that day drinking Southern Comfort at his grave. And if you've ever read "The Last Gentleman" you'll know that he probably would have approved.

I always like to end my posts with a take-home message - a lesson learned. But I don't think I have one for this story. I don't do acid any more nor do I drink Southern Comfort. But this particular adventure has little to do with those decisions. I think I'll throw it up to Walker:

"You live in a deranged age, more deranged that usual, because in spite of great scientific and technological advances, man has not the faintest idea of who he is or what he is doing."

...

There Has to be a Finish Line

Now, I've been feeling this foreboding for a couple of days now. At first, I thought it was because all I had to eat on Sunday morning was pancakes when I wanted bacon and eggs. Pancakes are delicious and all, but ultimately unsatisfying. Not enough salt. Salt is a finish line.

So in my brain I'm backtracking to what actually instigated this bullshit inner-gasiness, and I think I got it.

Friday night. Some bar somewhere. There is a dude handing out very obnoxious Guinness hats, and I want one so I can sell it to an idiot. Gyna has met the second microscope salesman in her lifetime, which is two more than most people, and Rob keeps on getting text messages from a number that he doesn't recognize.

"This guy has been texting me for like over a month," he shakes his head and shows me his phone, which says something like, "yo baby girl where you at"

"Why don't you just ask who it is? Be all like, 'bitch, who you be?'"

"I don't know. I told him to come here, though. Figured why not." Rob gives one of those uncomfortable snickers that I seem to be getting more and more every day from guys and it pisses me off. Not Rob, but the frequency of uncomfortable snickers. He holds up his phone again, and shows me another recent text. One of those painfully common little limericks about smooth skin and eyes like stars or whatever. I don't know. I was drinking. Everything was hilarious. (Rob, if you're reading this, post that shit in the comments).

"Dude, give me your phone."

"Why, are you going to call him or something?"

"Duh."

"Seriously?"

"Uh, yeah. Gimme your phone." He hands it over, and I plug the strange number into my phone.

Rassles: What up snatch?

"Did you text him?"

"You know it."

Rob compulsively rubs the back of his neck, "They're totally gonna respond to you. You think they would come here?"

Stranger: WHO DIZ

I love it. "Yehhhhss. Love it." After every text, I show my phone to anyone who will pay attention to me.

Rassles: Bitch wut

Stranger: Who iz diz

"Shit. Who am I? You guys. Hey, guys, come on. Give me a name."

Rassles: Kaykay

"Is this racist?" I start asking people. "Am I being racist right now?"

"If you have to ask, you're probably being racist."

"Gaaahhhh, whatever, my good-and-evil-shoulders are itching for exercise anyway."

Stranger: Awwww

Rassles: Where you at?

Stranger: On ma way home u cumn ta ma partie

"You guys, we're totally going to a party."

"What, are you still texting that guy?"

"Hell yeah."

"Wouldn't it be hilarious if we like, ran into him, like, after he finds us?"

"There's no way. This guy can't even spell 'party,' you think he's gonna triangulate some shit?"

Rassles: U know

Stranger: WHO U WIT

"Fuck. Fuck. Guys, guys, I need more names. Who'm I wit? Who'm I wit? This is hard."

"You have to say like, Tyrone."

"I think I'm just gonna say Mike and Jenny or something."

"No, Lashay," someone suggests. "We work with a Lashay."

"Oh, I love Lashay! Yeah, say Lashay."

"I know! We should have asked her to hang out."

"I don't know Lashay," I say, because I don't work with them. We. Are. So. Caucasian.

"We'll have to tell her about this."

"I think this might be racist," Gyna says through laughter.

"Fuck this, shit ain't racist," I am committed, now, "it's psychological profiling based an ethnographic study of like, what's it called, lexical innovation. I'm allowed to do shit like this because I majored in Anthropology."

"You were a Speech major."

"Same thing. Whatever. Shut up."

You know, half the time I speak I think I only have a vague understanding of the words I choose.

Rassles: Elliot n Lashay but they not cumin

Stranger: Aite i guezz

"I have to end the conversation."

"No! Don't!"

"Seriously, I don't have unlimited text messaging and this is gonna get long."

...

So there was that whole thing. And then on Saturday, there was this:

Smith Sister: What do you call a stamp collector

Rassles: Philaterist?

Rassles: No - Philatelist

Smith Sister: Yeah thanks it came to me after I texted you we are the smartest

Rassles: No - Loser.

Smith Sister: B says not awesome I say amazing

Rassles: What do you call a person who knows what you call stamp collector?

Smith Sister: My hero or shiny

Rassles: Dicknose.

And a further onslaught of other text conversations throughout the weekend.

I love it when people call and text me with questions. No one does that anymore, now that everyone's got internet on their phones. But it used to be a daily thing, getting "what's the word for" and "who's the president of" questions. Fucking internet, ruins my life as the person who knows things.

But, as I said, there was a point, and thus the foreboding event is exposed:

I am almost positive I'm going over my texting limit. I can feel it off in the distance like a fallen tree, if distance were time and the fallen tree of finance was my fucking cell phone bill that I can't afford to pay. Or salt. Fallen tree of salted finance. Should tie in fallen trees to salt, because of beginning of blog, fuck it, salt the earth and move on. Whatever. Shut up.

Lame.

...

This Has Always Been A Good Neighborhood.

At the parade on Sunday, I realized that I know absolutely nothing about the South Side Irish, much less the parade itself, because Bowser zeh German asked if we were in a dangerous neighborhood and I was like, "It used to be." And then I pointed west. "Go that way."

"No it wasn't," Gyna corrected me. "Beverly's always been super Irish and like, family oriented. The neighborhoods that are all 'dangerous' are east, over there."

"No, but like, twenty years ago? Wasn't it worse off?"

(By the way, I have such a loose grip on reality that the phrase "like twenty years ago" comprises everything that happened from like, 1965 to 2000.

For example: "You know, like twenty years ago when we were in 'Nam..."

"You didn't go to 'Nam, you have to call it 'Vietnam'."

"Fine, whatever, but like twenty years ago--"

"And dude, Vietnam was like forty years ago."

"Whatever, fucking 1970, alright?"

Similarly, anyone older than I am whose age I don't know exactly is "like, forty," whether they're thirty-two or fifty-seven. My boss is "like, forty" and my landlord is "like, forty" and my aunt is "like, forty" and I'm sure their ages are scattered throughout a quarter of a century. And, pre-emptively: no, I don't care about your feelings.)

"No," Gyna shakes her head and laughs with this masterful, logical, unoffensive sneer that like, discredits my thought process with as much admiration as possible. I'm a jackass, yes, but in a puppy kind of way, as long as I stop talking and let Gyna continue, "This has always been a like, solid, safe community. All families of cops and fireman. This isn't the ghetto, it's not like there are like, drug busts and drive bys occurring daily here. Or at all."

I did know that. "Yeah, I know, but--"

"No, seriously, this has always been a good neighborhood. My mom grew up here. It's known for it," she repeats for emphasis.

I decide to shut up, because I was about to head into that territory where I make things up to prove a point that I didn't realize I wanted to make in the first place.

So anyway, after dumping some beers into solo cups we walked the mile to the parade route, and I spilled all over myself about seventeen times. I blame the city of Chicago and their lack of roadwork, because earlier that morning, our transport bus was aiming for potholes, so my beer and Jameson breakfast was all jostled and squeamish.

Poor Germans. I wonder if they felt uncomfortable, with Gyna and I straight up prowling for hot uniformed men. This is St. Paidi's: subtlety is for losers, dicknose.

Eventually we picked a spot on the fence about six feet from a street cop. We had to get ourselves situated. In actuality, I'm not quite sure that establishing a fixed position is really required to get drunk and yell at people, but whatever. This is the only day of the year that no one will get mad at me for drunken obnoxiery, so situated I must remai--awwwwwwww fuck I got beer all over myself.

Gyna is a parade veteran and loud as balls, so when she started her good-natured heckling at all of the local businesses and schools that participate in the parade, it was only natural that I played too, because really? Yelling is good. Moreso when it's appropriate to yell and splatter beer on yourself while you're leaning up against a paddywagon and saluting an officer of the law.

"Happy St. Patrick's Day, officer."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

But soon all attention was focused on the parade before us, and Gyna asked every single person, "What’s under your kilt?” Which begat the tardation of hecklery.

"Please tell me that's a hovercraft."

"Woooooo hot cop! Gimme some candy!"

“The Metropolitan Water Reclamation District of Greater Chicago is a service that we strongly feel is taken for granted on a daily basis!”

“You create a drinkable water supply for all of our residents and that is appreciated!”

“Shitty water is bullshit!”

“OH MY GOD, LOOK AT THAT DOG! GREEN DOG! YOUR DOG IS GREEN!"

"WE LOVE YOUR GREEN DOG!"

"No way, LOOK AT THAT DOG! Who's a good boy? Who's a good little doggie in a little fireman shirt?"

"Your bow tie is good!"

"Play that bagpipey-accordiany thing, yeah!"

"How did your hair get so curly?"

Yeah, look at you, rockin' out to B96! Your radio station sucks!"

"B96 is for posers and douchebags!"

"You made your costume yourself, didn't you? Yeah, I can tell, looks good!"

"You bedazzled the fuck out of that shirt and I envy you!"

"Old guy in a trolley! OLD GUY! IN. A. TROLLEY! Best trolley conductor ever!"

"Muscular dystrophy is for assholes and I support your organization's attempt at bettering society!"

...and the like.

...

The Awesome-Off

After the horror and headaches of Sunday morning (or three in the afternoon, fucking whatever), I'm pretty sure Jager is off the drink list for at least like, two weeks. There's a dark and dangerous thrill to secret shots, even when they're like, secret shots with a fellow alcoholic peril-seeker, and they're in front of everyone at else at the after party.

It's more like initiation for the Skulls, when you're friends with the hosts, and they choose you, with conviction, "Ross, shot time!" because you're always down for cryptic shots as long as you're sleeping there anyway. Or as long as it's like, free.

And then you have an Awesome-Off, which is basically an argument with Slinger over who is more awesome, and it goes something like this:

Clink the bottles and drink. "Dude, you are awesome."

"Pffffsh," I shrug it off, "not nearly as awesome as you."

"No seriously, you're fucking awesome."

"No, you're fucking awesome."

"No, but you have like, the Rossi Posse. And that's awesome." (I have a fan club. Long story. Maybe I'll share it someday.)

"And you're the President of my Posse. Of Awesomeness," I take a drink of my beer and grab the back of...something. For support.

Slinger contemplates this while he takes another drink. "I am the President."

"The fucking awesome President."

"El awesome Presidente!"

"Dude, you are so awesome."

"I think you're awesome."

And this continued for like, ten fucking minutes.

In the end, he totally won, by the way, for reasons in accordance with the following visual representation:


So really, no contest. But in two years, once I've hit thirty? I will totally be awesomer, and everyone knows it.

...

Thirty is the New Awesome

This may or may not come off as a coherent entry, because I may or may not be super-dee-duper hungover. So hungover, to be true, that after going out to Grandma Sally's for some serious corned beef hash and blueberry pancakes, I drove by an Arby's and decided that the most important thing in my life was a big beef and cheddar. I sat in the drive-thru for two minutes before I remembered not only that I am broke, but I'd polished off a massive late-afternoon breakfast not fifteen minutes earlier.

Last night was Slinger's 30th birthday. Ideally, right now I would burst into catchy Cat Ballou ballad, one where Nat King Cole and I would saddle up into cowboy gear and pluck our banjos while harmonizing about things of drunken legend. Because I love that fucking movie, and I've had it on my brain ever since I watched My Name Is Bruce last Sunday. Twice. So basically, instead of writing about getting drunk and being all around awesome, I think I'm going to watch Cat Ballou.

But I have to say, that Ang and Dainon are my favorite people for letting us destroy their house. It's all cut up into this kitschy swinging ridiculous 1970's bachelor pad, which is odd for a married couple, full of red and leopard print and a fully stocked bar in their basement with more full bottles of booze than half the bars I've hit. But my love didn't escalate just because Dainon played barkeep while he dished out shots and beer.

It was because at six in the morning, Ang busted out a big vat of cooking oil and fried the shit out of everything in her freezer.

I struggled into the kitchen, because when you've been drinking for ten hours, life is a struggle. Ang was standing over the stove, dropping little frozen bits of heaven into the pot of oil. "Wait...are you...are you actually frying things? Not just baking them in the oven and hoping they're not soggy and bullshit?"

"Ross, what the fuck kind of black woman would I be if I didn't force feed ya'll some fried chicken?"

"I do not want to answer that because it confuses me," I had to lean on the counter for support, "but you are the most amazing human on the planet if you're seriously deep frying those jalapeno poppers right now."

"Girl, you know I take care of you."

"You blow my mind. I doan even know how you can fuckin use a stove."

"Here, honey, have some pizza puffs," she pointed toward a basket full of fried goodness. "And there's ranch dressing over there."

I did exactly as I was told, and started struggling away.

"Ross, don't forget your beer."

I looked at her with as much puppy as I could muster. "I wish I was a lesbian and you were my wifey."

...

Who Am I To Mock Your Fun?

Apparently, for Valentines Day, the best love that me and Gyna were able to muster up was from our fathers.

Because Gyna mentioned this VDay phone call from her dad:

"I think someone got you something sweet from your sweetheart for Valentines Day!"

"Is it candy?"

"If you guessed chocolate candy, then you would be correct!"

My Dad drove out here on Sunday to wander around a used bookstore with me and have dinner, which was unfortunately the best date I've ever had. Because seriously, there are few things more satisfying than coffee and the smell of old books.

"Is it sad that our only Valentines are our dads?" Gyna asked me on the way to the VFW.

"I don't think so. Nevermind. Yes."

Some people wouldn't go out with us on Saturday, and gave us sarcastic excuses like, "Oh, I'm sorry, my limo driver has the night off." It's not our fault you live far away.

So we gathered up Xtine, her friend from work, and Bowser ze German, and headed out to the VFW, where we were served cans of PBR by an old veteran named Hot Rod. It was goddamn single hipster central.

Hanging out with ze German is a blast, because his pants are too tight and he dances with abandon and wants to hit on all the American girls.

I wanted to make fun of him so bad for dancing. So. Bad. Because he looked epileptic and painfully Caucasian. I had to hold off. Who am I to mock someone for dancing for fun? Even though no other man in the entire room was doing it? I admire that: the fact that it never even occurred to him to be embarrassed for dancing like a fucking moron. I guess I'm growing up.

But seriously, if you're at a place with Xtine, Gyna, and myself, and there's karaoke? You would dance with abandon too, because you walked in with the three best chicks, and everyone there knows that, you lucky bastard. Because we rock so fucking hard. We always turn into minor celebrities for the night.

Sure. Karaoke celebrities at the VFW. Yeah, we're cool.

Still, I love it when strange guys give me high fives and tell me how awesome I am. Inevitably, though, in the middle of our conversation about the Peter Sellers movie in the background, whatever girl who was clinging to whatever guy before he talked to me at the bar would come barreling over and drape herself around his shoulders and glare at me in victory. So I would smile to take the sting away, and ask her if she was singing, and she would giggle and say, "Oh, no, I don't sing. He knows," she tilts towards him and coils around him tighter. "You were great, though."

Friendly smile. "Thanks." Pick up my beer and start walking away. "You should totally sing though. Who fucking cares that you suck so much? Other than him." Beer salute to the dude, grin at the whore on his shoulders, and back into the fray. This happens what, like, four times? Same conversation, exactly.

Story of my life. Back to the friends, who've gained genuine admirers from the crowd. They just want to be around us, I think. Am I really so full of myself, to think that? To assume we can have that effect on people?

No. After all, it's how we all met each other. Hanging out at a bar, being so impressed by how the others shined that we all kind of grouped together and became excellent, inseparable friends. Is it too hard to imagine that we wouldn't meet other friends that way? That people wouldn't be drawn to that?

I don't think so.


...

Agent Provocateur

The Top Five Honchos of the office are at some lame retreat today where they like, talk about the future of the organization and do trust falls and stuff, so the rest of us were like, "Wooooooo, partay."

Or you know, me and my neighboring co-worker, the Smooth Criminal, were like, "That bottle of wine has been sitting there since Christmas, and we are totally going to drink it."

However, we have no wine opener, so I spent five minutes trying to shove the cork into the bottle with my thumb. And then there was this popping sound, and then there was Chianti all over my computer screen. And the wall. And the ceiling. And like, every single piece of paper on my desk.

So then there was rummaging through cabinets for proper cleaning products, and do you know how hard it is getting red wine off of the wall?

I totally wore a pink shirt today, though, so yeah. One disaster, fucking thwarted.

And then everyone else, you know, those silly girls that had never heard of Kurt Vonnegut were all, "Oh, you're so bad, I can't believe you're drinking at work. I refuse to partake in such uncouth behavior" fucking blah blah blah. I'm like, "Seriously? Have some wine."

Apparently, the good-and-evil-shoulders of my coworkers are far, um...gooder than mine.

Whatever. Wusses.

...

Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo: A Modest Beginning

If you've ever taken the Metra all over the Chicagoland area, you'd know that nearly every single stop is accompanied by a bar. Years ago, after sharp surveillance, Drunk Dave said to MSM one day, "We need to just like, you know, fuckin' just go to like, all of 'em," and then he swept his hand for emphasis, knocked over his beer, and ordered a round of Rumplemintz for everyone who witnessed the faux pas.

MSM is a little gossip queen, and the following Sunday morning we were drinking at Orazio's, and she told a Smith Sister and I about Drunk Dave's plan.

"Well, we have to do this," I said. "I don't think we have a choice."

"I'm pretty sure this is the greatest idea ever, except for that one time you made beer cubes," the Smith Sister pointed out.

"Yes," I solemnly agreed, "My beer cubes were a huge success." I took a sip of my drink and pondered. "What should we call it?"

MSM lit a cigarette. "We don't have to call it anything, we just have to go to a bar, drink, get on the train, drink, get off the train, go to a bar, drink, and repeat until we can't see anymore."

"No, we have to call it something. I like Naming Things."

Within moments, we were silent and gazing upwards in contemplation, until the Smith Sister broke the silence. "Wait. Okay, I got it. What sound do trains make?"

I did the best train horn I'm capable of replicating, but I'm no Michael Winslow.

"Well, yeah," Smith Sister humored me. "But I was thinking more like, 'chooooo choooooo'."

So I did more train sounds, because I was all stuck on calling it a train sound and then giving it a symbol, like Prince.

"No, like, chugga chugga chooo chooo-" Smith Sister corrected me.

"I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can--"

They both ignored me, and MSM turned to the Smith Sister. "Oh-oh-oh...and what do you do with beer?"

"Chug it."

I "WAIT! I know! Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, a big fucking television. Choose the best fucking train crawl ever."

"Ross, we don't need to go too abstract here."

"Bu you know? From Trains-"

"Shut up, yes, I know. Focus. Think."

"Pubspotting!"

After like, fifteen more tries they got me to stop quoting movies about trains and describing my love for Shining Time Station and we settled on a name.

The word has spread, and what began as a fifteen person pub crawl has since escalated into a forty-person extravaganza of excellence. Any man that gets left behind? Stays behind.

Yes.

Next one's in May. Everyone is invited.

...

Concerning P4C6

Well, birthday celebration aside, Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 6 was of course, a train wreck.


The Recap:

birthday girls: 2 (me and MoLinder)

bars attended: 3

bars that kicked us out: 1

trains ridden: 3

trains that nearly kicked us off: 3

times Muffy argued with an authority figure and doesn't remember it: 9

hospital trips: 1

men left behind: 0 (booyah.)

bars that gave us our own room because we are rowdy as fuck: 1

largest round of shots I purchased: 11 ("Give me nine shots of whiskey. No, ten. No, nine. No, fuck it, just empty the bottle. Eleven!")

strangers that offered to take me to Ireland on Tuesday: 1

times we sang "happy birthday" to me and MoLinder: 5

egg rolls I tried to eat: 1.5

old childhood next-door neighbors that I randomly ran into when I was good and plotzed and probably should have been embarrassed because they're friends with my parents but I wasn't and I make them by me a shot: 2

people that drove that had no business driving after twelve hours of drinking: 1 (you dumbass, no driving after P4C7, promise?)

times Gyna yelled, "MAKE OUT" at someone for no reason: 147

people who purchased a pair of boots while on the pub crawl because their feet were cold: 1

stolen beer bong thingers that are not technically a beer bong and more like a three-liter graduated cylinder with a valve release but were nonetheless stolen goods that were once full of beer: 1

secret guests that made me squeak with surprise, which is weird, because I don't have a high voice at all: 5

people I drunk dialed: 2

fights I got into: 1.5

times I cried: 1

text messages I couldn't finish because my thumbs de-evolve into unopposable appendeges when I drink too much: 7

largest gathering of P4C6 participants simultaneously at a bar: 36

total number of people who love me and MoLinder and came out for our birthdays because I fucking dominate and threatened people until they gave in and reluctantly showed up but had a good time anyway: 41

So yeah. Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo 6? Excellent.

...

Top Ten

1. Instead of just hanging out and getting drunk at the Kalinas' house, Humboldt Gong put me to work again and had me host live band karaoke out in the suburbs.

2. Some hammered glittery girl wanted me to help her sing her songs, which is fine, but unfortunate and embarrassing for me, because it meant that everyone in the bar learned that I know all the words to "Folsom Prison Blues" and "Just a Girl." Seriously, representing Johnny Cash Come Latelies and No Doubt? For shame. I'm too fucking elite for that.

3. Then some people mustered up sixty bucks to have the band play "Mustang Sally" to bring in the New Year, which is fine with me because I don't care what you say, I love that song and I'll sing the fuck out of it (this totally falls within my rights as an elitist). The band (Eli) is being all Johnny Lee Hooker about it (Hooker banned the song from his bar in San Francisco) after an overexposure to blues rock from serving at whatever Chicago blues bar for however long.

I'm granting myself the freedom to be sloppy and long-winded today because it hurts behind my eyes and my elbows are all fucky. Frakkin' two-day hangovers.

4. People start calling the bar around 1:45 asking for me, wondering when I'm gonna hit up the Kalinas' party. They avoid my cell phone, and call the bar at least four times, yelling into the phone, "GET THE DJ. THE ONE ANNOUNCING THE SONGS. SHE'S PROBABLY SINGING 99 RED BALLOONS. AUF DEUTSCH! WHY ISN'T SHE HERE YET?"

5. I leave the bar eventually and head over to the party, where Schmee has already taken off all of her clothes and settled into bed, which is crap because I wanted to get drunk as balls, so me and Phil tried to get her naked ass to hang and failed miserably.

6. Kalina starts force-feeding me Jager (fucker) because I'm not drunk enough. I can't do Jager bombs, because Red Bull and all other forms of energy drink ruin my life. Except for Five Hour, but I am never doing shots of Jager and Five Hour again. Fucking horrible.

7. Drinking, laughing, fun. Drunk Dave gets slurry and yells at me for like ten minutes, all, "Do you love him? You love him. I can fucking tell. You're my woman, and you love him." It was funny at first, and I played along, but he started getting pissed off and serious after awhile. I had to shove him into a chair and calm him down, like, "Fucking Dave, I have no idea what you're talking about. Chill. And I ain't your woman. Have a cigarette, call your girlfriend, and shut up. No, Dave, you light the other end. Goddammit, lemme do it. Here. No, don't hit that, pot makes you puke and we don't have any buckets."

8. Mrs. Kalina (I never call her that, but it's funny because it makes her sound old instead of like, my age) adamantly separates Phil and I at bedtime (about 6AM. I can't hang anymore, man. I was exhausted). She was all ushering people into bedrooms, being a good little married hostess living a big house with her husband and his hammered friends, saying sing-songy things like, "Okay, Phil's in here," while she grabs my shoulders and steers me around, "so you have to sleep in this room. Would you like some water? No, honey, go in this room. Right over here. Don't forget to take off your shoes! Yes, you're sleeping in here. Go to bed. We are not opening another bottle of Jager. Good night, Ross."

9. Am woken up circa 1 PM by jumpy and snuggly MSM, who is still drinking, and Phil, who yells at me for not spooning.

10. It is decided that the first day of the New Year will be "no pants day," which was much funnier when everyone was drunk and now sounds kind of lame.

11. Leftovers are sometimes the best part of a holiday, and NYE leftovers are the greatest of all, because instead of turkey or baby carrots, it's the dregs of thirty bottles of champagne. We hand out mimosas to everyone (all six of us that are left), while I concoct a battalion of bloody marys for the troops. No one can beat my bloody marys, man. Ask around.

12. Drunk Dave returns to the party from an afternoon of drinking at The Can (bar). He has yet to sleep, after leaving the party in a cab, walking his dog, taking a cab back to the party, drinking, taking a cab to The Can, drinking, taking a cab home to get his truck, and driving back to the Kalinas' place with a friend, Drunk Ethan. Smart man, that Drunk Dave

13. While we all sit inside and feel sorry for ourselves and moan about hurt elbows and new bruises, Drunk Dave takes off his pants, sits in the garage, tries to do solitary keg stands and mumbles to himself.

14. Drunk Ethan calls his mom so she can come get him, and passes out while she is on speakerphone, yelling and trying to wake him up and to find out where her son is.

15. Ethan's mom shows up, and Dave still has no pants. "Where are your pants, Dave?" And Dave growls, "Right here" and points to a crumpled mess of clothes on the floor. Then he walks over to Ethan, throws him over his shoulder in a sad attempt to carry him out to his mother's car, but Dave's too hammered and drops Ethan on his head, gets all embarrassed and heads back to the garage like a depressed Charlie Brown.

16. Kalina says, "How much you guys wanna bet Dave's gonna piss himself?"

17. Drunk Dave comes back inside the house to tell us that the keg is dry. And to show us that he pissed himself.

18. It is funny.

19. I have to stop drinking, because it hurts behind my eyes (I'm saying it again, because it really fucking hurt) and I know that I've got a forty five minute drive back home.

20. Drunk Dave provides unending entertainment. Schmee calls out dance moves at random, which Dave attempts and fails at over and over again. The Mashed Potato. The Watusi. The Worm (that's just Dave humping the carpet).

21. During the four hours after I stop drinking, we consume large quantities of this delicious concoction of corned beef and cream cheese with like, onions and heaven mixed in and balled up into a giant beef ball. It is excellent on Triscuits and makes your breath smell awful, but goes well with Bloody Marys and beer.

22. I have one final beer after the four hour hiatus and the courage to leave. Also, me and Schmee dominate Catch Phrase.


Happy New Year, everyone. I know this was long, and I don't care.


Quote of the day: Are these stories real? In reference to things that did not necessarily happen yesterday, but the time when Dainon found the naked crackheads asleep in his backyard. And when Schmee got drunk and high, wasn't allowed to drive home, then convinced herself people had kidnapped her so she snuck out of the house and ran into a church looking for help, and ended up talking to a crisis counselor at the hospital at three in morning, and when asked to explain her behavior, she said, "I don't know, man, I've just been watching a lot of 24."

...

An Abundance of High Fivery

Saturday was one of those nights where we got drunk, made Bad Decisions, and passed out with the sunrise. Those are the best kinds of nights. 'Round here we call that, "every night." We're incomparable at naming things, over here. We also enjoy referring to ourselves royally, apparently. Our blog must be a dictatorial monarchy. And if you believe that "dictatorial" is an imaginary lexical derivation of "dictator," you would be secretly correct, then thoroughly overruled by us, and hung by your feet in the gallows while we played "Flight of Icarus" and "My Brain is Hanging Upside Down" really, really loudly and threw rocks at you.

So the Smith Sisters had a party, and I went, after falling asleep early on Friday and spending all Saturday wrapped in a blanket, feeling sorry for myself and watching Pride and Prejudice by candlelight.

Shut up.

But eventually I get to the party after battling the wind and snow and emotional overload, and I can feel this surge of desperation inside of me as I sit down with my beer, so I pick up a deck of cards with one hand and thumb over card after card, keeping my beer in the other hand so it doesn't have to travel as far to my mouth.

"Are you playing Highlowredblack by yourself?" Slinger asks, seating himself across from me.

"Yeah."

"That's wicked awesome." He strokes his spankin' new molester mustache.

I keep guessing cards and drinking as I flick over each card. "Dude, I am so getting in a fight tonight."

Slinger peers at me over his indoor sunglasses and barks, "Yeah buddy. Let's get all fired up."

"Why do you think you're going to fight?" asks Dude Who Obviously Doesn't Know Me Very Well Yet. That'll change.

"I can feel it." I don't even look up as I finish off the deck and my beer. "There's a full keg out there--"

Slinger tips his head and refills my cup with the pitcher. "Not for long."

"Yeah buddy," I say as we high five, "it's cold, I had to go shopping and I fucking hate shopping. I watched Pride and Prejudice today--shut up"--I glare at Slinger without missing a beat and point at him, and give him my Threatening Face as he starts shaking his head--"Shut. Up. And there were candles, and I didn't have any coffee...I'm either gonna cry or fight. My guts are all..gutty."

"I got dibs on the former," Slinger yells.

"But why?" asks A Smith Sister.

"It's a thing. It's very lame." I take a sip of beer, shaking my head.

"Because whenever Ross does anything girly she gets drunk and cries." He leans and aims a finger gun at me, sternly. "You go back to cowboy movies. When you watch cowboy movies you're fucking awesome. Or those other ones you made me watch with the swords. I don't like it when you feel things."

I nod. "Like Keanu Reeves in everything."

"Yes!" And we totally high five, because for some reason, whenever Slinger is around, so is an abundance of high fivery. "Be that guy."

...

Drunk Blog

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Not Gonna Give It To You

I agreed to do this Holidailies thing after Kitty started asking people to do it, because saying "no" to a blogger who you-don't-know-very-well-but-really-do-like-a-lot-even-though-not-really-that-way is like the blogging equivalent of trying to stagger home after some hyped up paparazzi party and meeting some dude at a gas station and letting him drive you home while he got himself stoned with a pretty glass pipe. Then, after much protesting and frustration on his part, you bolt out of the car, yell, "Hell no, I'm not gonna give it to you. You can't come inside, suckah!" throw him the horns and drunkenly head into your apartment.

And then you strut through your front door all cool and confident, because you're coy as fuck, and you have an innate ability to work it.

You wake up the next day with an awful hangover, like someone went Sarah Connor on your head with a hydraulic press. You walk out of your room and think, "how the hell did I get home last night? Oooohhh, that's right, working ass and breaking hearts," and then think, "Man, what a dbag" and get ready to high five yourself for a ride well earned, when you look on your coffee table and realize you stole his half-packed bowl.

And it hits you: that's what he wanted you to give him.

...

War of War

Last night, after a rip-roaring good episode of Heroes, MoLinder got hammered by herself and switched on her newest alternate personality, The Most Entertaining Human Being On A Monday.

First, in a feat of drunken disgust, she hand-plucked all of the fur off her cat's ass out of sheer hatred for cat ass scabs, throwing bits of fur and scab on the ground with such ferocity that she pulled a muscle.* Then she yelled and hollered for nearly two hours about celebrities, how Bono is useless, what she would do if she won the lottery, the snow, and how Gyna's mom was underappreciated because of teaching something something something.

She kept on almost falling.

Then the subject of Gyna's mom triggered this whole other rampage about societal values and Japanese handmugs, and how her two favorite words are "Tool" and "Dbag." I watched her finish off all of our beer before she told me her deepest, darkest secret, which I will now unload on the world:

"If I evermeet Maynard Keenan inrealife, Iam...droppingtomylegs. Knees. Hahahaha. I amdropping.to.my.kneez. Yes. And giving him a"--raises her eyebrows and whispers--"blow job. Right. There. Because he has the SEXIEST voice," she pauses, and then with a grand, sweeping, beer-spilling arm swipe, she breathes, heavily, "Ehhhhvveerrrr." She sways on her feet for several seconds before continuing, "A lot of people don't like Tool. They think they're too..." she squints, angrily, "aaaaangreeee. But I LOOOOOVE Tool. I L-a-La-LOOOOVVE Tool. Let me tell you. I LOOOOOVE Tool."

"So you like Tool."

"Oh my god. LOOOOOVE Tool. Lemmetellyou. If I evermeet Maynard, I WILL SUCK HIS DICK. Right there."

"Because his voice is sexy?"

"OH MY GOD I LOOOOVE HIS VOICE. It is sexy. I would blow him. I pro-mise you. Because I LOOOOVE Tool. Love Tool. I. Love. Tool."

"And you love Maynard's tool."

"Dude lemmetellyou. When wewereon Route 66, in Arizona, if therewuz time...and if we weren't all powering through...I wouldah made you go to his winery, so I couldbeall eat that Shana."

I don't know who Shana is, so I just nod in agreement.

"An thenif HE wuzthere...I would blow him. He...deserves it."

This continues for several minutes. She yells at me until I order her a pizza at like 1AM (she couldn't really use a phone), and then she eats three quarters of it and passes out, mumbling something about Doctor Spock killing Veronica Mars and how babies were bullshit anyway.

I tried to wake her up. "Dude, drink some water before you go to bed, or you'll be all salty tomorrow."

"Murmuhrmuhrmuhrmurrmurhr."

I'm laughing at her now. "I don't know what that means."

"Dude. Srrsslee?"

"Yeah, you're fucking mumbling."

"Dude. You. Need. To...light the books. Tell your parents. They save things."

I try to laugh quietly, but it doesn't work. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Okay. Pay tension."

"Okay."

"You need to arfwar."

"What is arfwar?"

"PAY TENSION!"

Snort. "Okay." Breathe. Ready. "Okay."

"War. Of. War."

"I need to war of war?"

"NOO!" She slumps and sighs, exhausted from logic. "You neeeeeed to mapquest it. Thennyouwillunnerstand."

"Okay. G'nite, MoLinder."

"I AM MOLINDER. I AM THE TURKEY MAN. That guyz funnee."

"Drink some water."

Her head lolls. "Fuck your war."

...

*This is true. This morning on the bus she was all, "Oww, my arm, I need to stop working out, waaah." But I know it's because of cat hair pluckery.

...