The Gin Life

I hate gin. It tastes like bile from the stomach of a diseased monkey. I can't even smell the stuff without gagging and retching. To me, it smells like hell. When I go to hell it won't be brimstone and fire but a big vat of gin I swim in for all eternity.

This isn't a case of I got wasted on gin one night, puked my guts out and now I can't drink it. That's the usual reason a person can't touch a certain alcohol. But not me, not with gin.

I spend a lot of time in bars and really don't want to discriminate against anything on the shelf. So I decided to get to the bottom of my prejudice.

I did meditation, re-birthing (maybe mom had gin in the delivery room), hypnosis, music therapy. Nothing. Then I visited a past life tarot reader. A seer who uses the tarot to see your past lives...

It was prohibition and my husband was a gin runner. He made it in the bathtub of our small, dark tenement apartment in Pittsburgh. Our stink must have been getting to me because I insisted we needed our bathtub back. I wanted out of this outlaw life. It seems the hubby was quite happy being a thug. I was all set to pull the plug. And I almost did it, I almost pulled that plug but just then the bastard put his big paws around my neck and drowned me in the gin.

Now do you blame me?

Jimmie England

I want to talk about my friend Jimmie England. No, not this guy , I don't know who that guy is. The Jimmie England I know hauls cases of beer for a local beer supermarket. Yep, it's a supermarket that only sells beer....it's kind of a favorite spot. I feel peaceful there, my head is clear, my thoughts are pure.

Anyway.

Jimmie hauls cases, he drives the funny little vehicle that picks up pallets. A pallet picker. And he wears the uniform of his past glory days. Spandex tights, thigh high platform boots and sparkly shirts. He's practically incoherent from the massive amounts of mescaline and due to the 50 pounds he's packed on since the glory days, he's quite a sight in the spandex.

I watch him balance two cases on his head, teetering in his platform boots, I think of the Jimmie England. That fab glam rocker who almost gave Bowie and T Rex a run for their fame. Cutting the air with his Stratocastor like a samurai. Whirling and swirling in a cloud of glitter as the frenzied crowds just get more frenzied. The drugs were better in those days weren't they? Strutting across stage, in better fitting spandex. Ah Jimmie...where have ya gone?

If only he had chosen to tour Europe instead of Iceland. There was no reason to insist that his music only be released on 8 track. No reason to put all his money into the pet rock boom. No reason to pee on Elton John's shoe. But he did.

And now... Personally I'm thankful the drugs were so strong. Jimmie has no idea where he is and I doubt he remembers. Except every once in awhile I catch him strutting, playing air guitar, lips moving. And I wonder...does he feel it, just like it was in the 70s? Does the brain-dead glam boy ever entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe, he'll be invited on the next Glam Rock Reunion Tour? And the beer and pallet picker and the teasing neighborhood kids can all go to hell.

Drinking in the Afternoon

I hate it when people say noon is too early for a drink. This country is so uptight and I blame the death of the three martini lunch. I'm not a martini person but I am a drinking person and I prefer to do it in the afternoon.

There is nothing better then a half empty, dark bar. Watching as the suckers slouch home from work. They look so beaten, so dead. Afternoon drinking gives you a chance to feel superior to these suited up lugheads who feel like life isn't worth it unless your boss loves you. Lets see who can climb the corporate ladder the fastest. Yea, lets but I'll need a drink to get started.

Drinking in the afternoon gives you a chance to get to know the bartender better. My two new favorite bartenders are Mike and Ben at Bar Great Harry. Don't start spending every afternoon there because you may accidentally sit in my seat and I'll be forced to accidentally dump you on the floor. Anyway, chatting up the bartender assures you will always get a fresh drink even it the place gets crowded. Like it did yesterday when a bunch of people who should have been at their desks came to drink. Lucky for them my seat was already occupied.

Drinking in the afternoon is the only way this country is going to get back on track to it's former glory. The rest of the world will love us more because we won't have time to invade other countries. Can't shoot a gun with a drink in your hand.

Hitler most definitely did not drink in the afternoon.

The Death of Privacy

On this dreary day in Brooklyn, while California burns and the South counts the days until the reservoir dries up, I mourn the death of privacy. Privacy - freedom from intusion or public attention. Crap! Everyone who is everyone knows if your not getting public attention you don't exist.

Why do you think I'm starting this blog. Because I have wisdom that will save the world, because I want to help others, because I care about (insert proper concern) and want to bring an end to the (insert proper affliction). No. Because everyone else does it. I hate to be left out ever since I was the only girl not chased into the alley and given a hickey by a member of the football team. Hickey...when was the last time anyone talked about getting a hickey.

I want to exist and in order to exist I need public attention. Remember? No privacy. It's dead. You have to expose your every move to the web while simultaneously begging for privacy. That's how the movie stars do it and we all want to be a movie star. Unless you want to be a rock star. They're the only people who exist. I know this because you see pictures of them everywhere and they have no privacy. The stars learned of privacy's quiet death long before the rest of us who stand in line waiting to use our double coupons to buy paper towels while airbrushed beauties smile at us. They never worry about double coupons. Hags!

So I'm killing off privacy once and for all and sharing myself with all my new best friends on the web. My floors are clean. I need to pick up my wash. I drank too much wine last night and keep telling myself I won't drink tonight. I have a lot of dishes to wash. My Day of the Dead altar looks spectacular. I haven't made the bed in a year (but I have changed the sheets since then).

Exciting isn't it....