23 September 2006
About Town With Hank "Jumbo" Syrah
Dateline: Dirty drunkard Sunday
In a most frightful Irish establishment at a six way intersection. Bartender nice guy, about to go to a party celebrating his sister's acceptance into the police academy. Large girls drink tall beers. A most motley assortment wearing football jerseys yells at a standup table.
A guy walks in, says he just beat up his friend. He has a bloody hand to prove it. He is most offputting, as are all those who have recently scuffled. He shakes and quivers and text messages insults to his friend. Then he eats a shepard's pie and calms down. This place is quite frisky this wet afternoon.
A lurking lurcher sits nearby, guy in a cap. He wastes no time but rather flings himself upon the large girls. He goes from "how are you" to "yeah right there" faster than seemingly humanly possible. More people in football uniforms arrive and are soaked. A drenched Michigan apple comes over for a chat. She cannot stay alas because she is "chafing."
Bluejeans, no underwear and getting drenched can result in painful itching and burning.
Dateline: Rib shack next to movie theater.
Beef briscuit sandwiches and a well built bloody mary go together like a cock and a comb. The secret is a good sauce on the briscuit and brined vegetables in the bloody. Remember when good hearted waitresses made you think just maybe "everything's going to be alright?" The waitress here makes one feel nourished spiritually as well as calorically with the massive cow sandwich she delivers to our faces.
"Talladega Nights" is the movie. It is no "Ron Burgundy" but provides mild divertisement on $5 ghetto Tuesdays which yes, include movie, small popcorn and parking for five dollah to make you hollah. Is America at the "cusp of heretofore unknown glory" or falling into a "puddle of its own sick?" "Talladega Nights" seems to offer evidence for both scenarios.
Dateline: Backyard barbecue with artists.
Skinny types insert encased meat into lubricated mouths. There are two grills, so sickly vegans do not have to touch meat. Strange characters introduce themselves near the ravaged homemade "margarita bar." Critically requiring: a quality shaker, homemade ice cubes and kosher salt. Artists are always a dizzying assortment of pouting and conspiring but occasionally they pull out the good stuff late at night – like an old handwritten young magician's notebook. Obsession it is said is the mark of a future great magician. And this drawing filled notebook displays it in spades.
One strange character turns out later to have an art show with lots of white teddy bears that weeks later still has the power to frighten just by thinking about those god forsaken bears piled face down in the middle of the floor.
Dateline: TV sodden sports bar
Always bring a gay guy to a sports bar – something to shake away the clodden dumbassery eating chicken wings and staring at screens. This bar though is different in that a magician comes up to us. A big guy but smooth, he asks us politely to do some tricks and turns out to be real good. Cards, coins, even a little chemical explosion in his palm. Magic goes by many names - sometimes even "John for Events and Parties."
How much do you tip your tableside magician? Our table overtips. The magician moves on. Our group leaves the barrage of TVs and walks into a quiet treelit night.
To fight, fornicate or get enlightened we know not whither or whether we stagger.
In a most frightful Irish establishment at a six way intersection. Bartender nice guy, about to go to a party celebrating his sister's acceptance into the police academy. Large girls drink tall beers. A most motley assortment wearing football jerseys yells at a standup table.
A guy walks in, says he just beat up his friend. He has a bloody hand to prove it. He is most offputting, as are all those who have recently scuffled. He shakes and quivers and text messages insults to his friend. Then he eats a shepard's pie and calms down. This place is quite frisky this wet afternoon.
A lurking lurcher sits nearby, guy in a cap. He wastes no time but rather flings himself upon the large girls. He goes from "how are you" to "yeah right there" faster than seemingly humanly possible. More people in football uniforms arrive and are soaked. A drenched Michigan apple comes over for a chat. She cannot stay alas because she is "chafing."
Bluejeans, no underwear and getting drenched can result in painful itching and burning.
Dateline: Rib shack next to movie theater.
Beef briscuit sandwiches and a well built bloody mary go together like a cock and a comb. The secret is a good sauce on the briscuit and brined vegetables in the bloody. Remember when good hearted waitresses made you think just maybe "everything's going to be alright?" The waitress here makes one feel nourished spiritually as well as calorically with the massive cow sandwich she delivers to our faces.
"Talladega Nights" is the movie. It is no "Ron Burgundy" but provides mild divertisement on $5 ghetto Tuesdays which yes, include movie, small popcorn and parking for five dollah to make you hollah. Is America at the "cusp of heretofore unknown glory" or falling into a "puddle of its own sick?" "Talladega Nights" seems to offer evidence for both scenarios.
Dateline: Backyard barbecue with artists.
Skinny types insert encased meat into lubricated mouths. There are two grills, so sickly vegans do not have to touch meat. Strange characters introduce themselves near the ravaged homemade "margarita bar." Critically requiring: a quality shaker, homemade ice cubes and kosher salt. Artists are always a dizzying assortment of pouting and conspiring but occasionally they pull out the good stuff late at night – like an old handwritten young magician's notebook. Obsession it is said is the mark of a future great magician. And this drawing filled notebook displays it in spades.
One strange character turns out later to have an art show with lots of white teddy bears that weeks later still has the power to frighten just by thinking about those god forsaken bears piled face down in the middle of the floor.
Dateline: TV sodden sports bar
Always bring a gay guy to a sports bar – something to shake away the clodden dumbassery eating chicken wings and staring at screens. This bar though is different in that a magician comes up to us. A big guy but smooth, he asks us politely to do some tricks and turns out to be real good. Cards, coins, even a little chemical explosion in his palm. Magic goes by many names - sometimes even "John for Events and Parties."
How much do you tip your tableside magician? Our table overtips. The magician moves on. Our group leaves the barrage of TVs and walks into a quiet treelit night.
To fight, fornicate or get enlightened we know not whither or whether we stagger.
21 September 2006
VIP Only Insider's Update
I took a tumbler on the bike the other day. Drunk of course, I blame it on Jamison's. Now I sport an encapsulating yellow bruise on my left shoulder. I should get it sponsored by that fine Irish whisky. It was wet out when I spilled, so at least I got that going for me, excuse-wise.
Stress finally swamped me this week. To the point where I was bobbing in rage, could not help wading in it if I wanted. That is life for you on the dirty city streets whilst chasing after that paper. People be nickel and diming the crap out of you in the asphalt jungle. I wish I could stick a fork in this one client's head. Skinny little dickweed, possesses the power to nauseate. Alas, I heard an instructive song in my head, the gist of which - let it go.
I wander forlornly in search of eldorado. Or at least a moment of repose, even a lurching bemusement. Not finding it, I find a friend who takes me out and lets me babble. Misery is such a bore. A chore not worth accomplishing but of course there is no choice.
In my dreams enter frightening and ferocious characters, demanding and entrancing. I wake up gasping, elated or terrified. One dream in particular in which the original 'dream wanderer' appeared, or he advertised himself as such. He bent reality in the most unbelievable way; promised he would show me things.
I drive a lot lately. I went from "Let it be" to "Toss my salad bitch" in 5 days. Now I know how to intimidate. Because otherwise you get your ass run over on these streets. There is so much godawful traffic that not one smiling scrap of humanity remains. I mean, I still let people go in front of me occasionally. But only when they rush ahead to a traffic jam 100 feet in front of us.
Do I also mention the sex dream so consuming I woke up sweating? My dreams are knocking me silly lately.
I listen to Rhymefest's new CD and seethe. "Blue Collar" is the name. Quite good. I cannot read anymore so I watch bad network TV and rest because stress knocks my ass out. I watch old sitcoms, sports and the first Chucky movie in Espanol. I also watch a serial killer show, sadly because there should be better things to do with my life.
I walked around a nice park yesterday. A bright afternoon wind blew on moms, kids, high school soccer players, sexy Ukrainian nannies, loners on benches and overweight people waddling laps. There was no nostalgia, no enlightenment, no feelings really other than an immediate sensory perception. I was too tired for anything conceptual. I walked 4 times around, stiffly, because I still am injured from my drunken wipeout. And it was good still, life. Even beat up, burnt out, mumbling to myself - I was happy to be alive in the park
Magic and mundanity simultaneously torture me. I wander lonely as a cloud. Stars explode above me while hungry worms squiggle below. I create life with a ferocity I have not much control over and try to find places where life grows. Then spew love on it and hope for the best. Oddly it feels like a strange position to be in, but I suppose that feeling is natural.
Stress finally swamped me this week. To the point where I was bobbing in rage, could not help wading in it if I wanted. That is life for you on the dirty city streets whilst chasing after that paper. People be nickel and diming the crap out of you in the asphalt jungle. I wish I could stick a fork in this one client's head. Skinny little dickweed, possesses the power to nauseate. Alas, I heard an instructive song in my head, the gist of which - let it go.
I wander forlornly in search of eldorado. Or at least a moment of repose, even a lurching bemusement. Not finding it, I find a friend who takes me out and lets me babble. Misery is such a bore. A chore not worth accomplishing but of course there is no choice.
In my dreams enter frightening and ferocious characters, demanding and entrancing. I wake up gasping, elated or terrified. One dream in particular in which the original 'dream wanderer' appeared, or he advertised himself as such. He bent reality in the most unbelievable way; promised he would show me things.
I drive a lot lately. I went from "Let it be" to "Toss my salad bitch" in 5 days. Now I know how to intimidate. Because otherwise you get your ass run over on these streets. There is so much godawful traffic that not one smiling scrap of humanity remains. I mean, I still let people go in front of me occasionally. But only when they rush ahead to a traffic jam 100 feet in front of us.
Do I also mention the sex dream so consuming I woke up sweating? My dreams are knocking me silly lately.
I listen to Rhymefest's new CD and seethe. "Blue Collar" is the name. Quite good. I cannot read anymore so I watch bad network TV and rest because stress knocks my ass out. I watch old sitcoms, sports and the first Chucky movie in Espanol. I also watch a serial killer show, sadly because there should be better things to do with my life.
I walked around a nice park yesterday. A bright afternoon wind blew on moms, kids, high school soccer players, sexy Ukrainian nannies, loners on benches and overweight people waddling laps. There was no nostalgia, no enlightenment, no feelings really other than an immediate sensory perception. I was too tired for anything conceptual. I walked 4 times around, stiffly, because I still am injured from my drunken wipeout. And it was good still, life. Even beat up, burnt out, mumbling to myself - I was happy to be alive in the park
Magic and mundanity simultaneously torture me. I wander lonely as a cloud. Stars explode above me while hungry worms squiggle below. I create life with a ferocity I have not much control over and try to find places where life grows. Then spew love on it and hope for the best. Oddly it feels like a strange position to be in, but I suppose that feeling is natural.
