Tag Archives: liquor

Bela Lugosi’s Dead

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Never you mind my earlier ramblings! I’ve gained purchase, a new lease on life. After my nightly Nyquil swig that allows me to breathe, I looked up cough syrup addiction because Crazy John told me that teens the world over guzzle tussin because the active ingredient causes hallucinations. I found all sorts of vile cocktail recipes involving tussin. Most of those were up there with the “Listo [Listerine] and OJ” and “Listo and Pepsi” favored by some of the homeless population. Apparently you have to drink a good six ounces, so I think I don’t have to worry.

Then I found this paean to tussin addiction, set way back in 1997. A proto blog. It involves goths, Charlottesville, VA, and the charming effect of hyperlinking every other word. Why, there’s even a glossary! This site should be laminated. Even the links are poetic: “Amy-“Gothic Amy”; we slept together once.” And there’s a photo gallery. Ah, the internet, fresh with dew.

-xxoo

A story

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It is a terrible story. The Story of Nicholas. (as told by Mr. H and his parents)

Mother: One day the boys came home, and they asked if their friend Nicholas could come over and play. I said “who the hell is Nicholas?”

Mr. H: So we pointed out the window, at the kid in the yard.

Mother: I said “Isn’t that Johnny? His name is Johnny. Why are you calling him Nicholas?”

Mr. H: We said “we don’t know.”

Mother: Then I realized– and I said “Don’t call him that anymore, his name is Johnny, call him that.”

Me: I don’t get it.

Mother: He was the only black kid in Acton!

Father: sotto voce, in loud restaurant: Nigga lips!

Me: Oh my God.

Mr. H: I wondered why I’d say “Hi Nicholas!” and he’d hit me!

Me: *snorted Chardonnay out of my nose*

Mr. H: The big kids used to tell the little kids to call him that, and we thought they were saying Nicholas.

Poor Johnny.

-xxoo

I’m OK, you’re OK

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A flash of peripheral motion caught my eye out the window, and I looked up to see a red-tailed hawk on the ground, bending and bobbing over something. Then it swooped off, clutching the limp dangling body of a squirrel. Stupid squirrel, of course you’re going to show up against white snow. Duh. My mother used to dress my sister and I in bright colors, to avoid hunters, she said, but maybe she was trying to attract hawks.

I owe this nature hour to the backyard of Mr. H’s parents’ house, where we’re still bunking. The evil building management people say our new place will be open for business on February 1, and that the holdup is the state elevator inspection people. I wonder if they have heard the phrase “cross my palm with silver.” It seems to be indicated. I have also heard of a person called a “permit expediter.” Apparently they hand out $100 bills all day at City Hall. Maybe this doesn’t work with a state agency, although I don’t see why it wouldn’t.

Some alert and concerned readers have asked if Lambchop and I are both stark, raving mad. I would have to say we’ve both seen better days, but in many ways no more so than usual. She handles the mania, and I am in charge of ennui. You see, we are a team! We both might fancy a trip to someplace warm, involving umbrella drinks!

-xxoo

Hospital Johnny

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In a grim display of foreshadowing, I watched the grade B Zombie Nightmare last night. This morning found me arising at an unholy hour to go to the radiologist. I found myself sitting in a little Kabine with a bench and a mirror and a Barium shake. I lay on a table that tilted me like a bottle of pop to shake my contents. The cute technician took photos of my small intestine. He let me keep the plastic barium shake bottles with the built in crazy straw. They have pictures of Tracts on them. I wiped the chalk from my mouth and put on lipgloss. I think the pale blue hospital johnny suits me.

I want to go blonde and learn to play the harp.

I want to do portraits of all my friends ( I am working on a smashing one!)

I have learned something valuable- on the train, people tend to give a person room when they are drinking out of a bottle with a picture of a Tract on it.

A narsty bank teller refused to give me money on false pretenses, and the replacement card still has not arrived, leaving me stone broke at lunchtime after having to fast before my appt.

This evening I came home to be washed in bill collection threats- they toppled menacingly from my tray over my head, like a bucket of pig’s blood on prom night.

The last thing I consumed before my pre-radiology fast was a flute of champagne.

-xo

bang up indeed

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I beg to differ, Lambchop, Allston did not used to be Berlin. That is wishful thinking on Allston’s part. But everyone knows that Lowell is the new Prague! I am trying to convert people to move up there and open a transvestite disco with me. And I say “up there” like it’s the great Arctic circle or something, really it’s 30 minutes from Boston. Why, you could all hop on the train and be wearing a lampshade in my living room in no time. As soon as I have a living room. And some lamps. Speaking of lamps, Happy Fun Lamp has a spiffy new design.

Also, Lambuel forgot to mention one other shared fond spot for us: drinking under bridges. Why, when she was accepted into graduate school at Yale, what did we do? We shared a bottle of grape-flavored Mad Dog in a paper bag, nestled under the Swan Boat bridge in the Public Garden. Also, we had plastic knives. For protection. We met a lot of wackos that day, go figure. There was the guy who staunchly believed in the Kirlian camera. A brigade of fur-coated women mincing along with tiny dogs glared at us.

Oh, and then the next week there was an official celebratory brunch. We stayed up all night doing things that are bad for us, and popped out for the New York Times and a box of Munchkins as the sun rose. As the various roommates woke, we were doing the crossword puzzle and polishing off our 40s. Then during the brunch, the omelettes started talking to me. I had to excuse myself.

-xxoo

Big Science

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I broke the blog. Sorry! We are back now. In other news, I haven’t tweezed my eyebrows in two weeks on accounta being sick. I glimpsed myself in the bathroom mirror, and it was like staring at a Yeti. I have managed to totally discipline one brow, but the other is like some sort of bizarre control group.

other ephemera:

Now I am a Commuter, on the Commuter Rail. So you’ll pardon me when I cut out early, saying, “I have to catch my train.”

I am listening to Laurie Anderson again. Aw, just like high school.

My bachelorette party is finally scheduled for January 30th thanks to my friend Melissa. Yes, I did get married 4 or 5 months ago, but who had time then? See me for details if you want to go, there will be flaming drinks and flaming men.

Only 365 Days until Xmas

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I hope you have all been enjoying stuffing your faces and gazing wall-eyed at your new pile of gimcracks, thinking of jesus and abusing the scarf your grandma knitted you.

I had a some lovely Turkey at Licketysplit’s house, which she served in an apron bedecked in stars. Christmas night is spent as usual searching for a bar thats open. Don’t You need drinks after spending the day listening to “Good King Wenceslas” and slurping egg nog while your mom asks if you have gained weight? So why did You not open My bar?? Its totally irresponsible, people need drinks!

Speaking of which, you are all invited to Lambchop’s New Years Eve Party. There will be tons of attractive and intoxicated people. We will likely have karaoke and greet the dawn standing on the porch in our underwear, sucking the last of the Freixenet from the bottle. My New Year’s Resolution will as usual be to never do this again.

Don’t you just love new beginnings?

-xo

Grover Sings the Blues

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He’s so anxious, and he is always screwing up. He hollers and bounces off the wall. Need I tell you how strongly I identify with Grover? I was in a cafe today and I read a Grover poem in a Little Golden Book:

when my imagination

takes me by the mind

it leads me so far, so fast

my body’s left behind

yet that’s when I am most myself

lost in wish and dream

and coming back, I smile and think

“I’m more than I might seem.”

While I was reading it, Tom Jones was howling “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” on the piped-in music.

P.S. Lately I have been feeling uneasy about working for a Firm and squandering all my dough on likker and gewgaws, especially the way I ignore panhandlers. So I have volunteered to become a Big Sister. I know you people think I am inherently incapable of anything approaching sincerity, but I really want to give some time and take a kid to the library, and rollerskating, and listen to her problems.

Oh Shut Up.

-xo

Bowie has the flu and so do You

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Of course, in YOUR case, you do not have a nine foot tall african to spoon feed you chicken broth with little dumplings. YOU are sitting and wheezing in a crusty bathrobe, wishing for death. Not so our lovely Licketysplit. She bravely endures countless rubdowns with Vicks and drinks tea with garlic and salt.

In spite of the fact that I have been drinking enough to retard a fetus, not sleeping much, and riding my bike around at night in a blizzard in hot pants, I have not been struck down. This kind of madness is its own reward- the city of Boston is gorgeous on a clear wintry night, sailing (ok, skidding) over the Charles River on the MIT bridge with no other traffic.

The postponement of the Bowie show and perilous hangovers are not my only woes. I have lamps in my room that hang too low. I lived with them without incident until someone pointed out that they were too low. Then I started hitting my head on them every time I came into the room.

It has been very cold and just the other day a friend was describing the nirvana of waking up, laying under six blankets and feeling very warm, but knowing that the world outside is treacherous and bitter and that you can’t stay. And it feels so delicious because you can’t hold on to it for more than a few minutes. To me thats the greatest thing in the world.

-xo

All I could eat

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We consumed our portion of a 30 pound turkey in a home that looked like something out of Yankee magazine.

We had flaming ambrosia and volcanos next to the big fountain at Kowloon while the band played Tiny Bubbles. We gorged on nine-layer dip and tequila, recipe followed by a wake-up call of Rock Star punch (a disgusting mixture of every energy drink in stock at the store 24. Congratulations to my pals for discovering the recipe for anger, generic hatred of mankind and instant colossal headaches.)

We showed Herr W. our side of the Atlantic on this crisp November day in the lovely and salty town of Marshfield.

Then we introduced our foreign friend to Robby the lobster, pictured here steamed.

Now if you will excuse me I have to go slip into a coma….

-xo