Everything is stupid. First of all trivia night at Bar Great Harry did me in. Now I'm going to be hyper-active-attention-deficit all day. It's a Food Network day. I feel like I accomplish so much when I watch other people cook. They all have such lovely kitchen supplies. Living in a Brooklyn apartment I don't have much room for lovely kitchen equipment. That's another thing I love about the FN: I can dream about all the stuff I would have in a kitchen if I had a real kitchen and not a converted closet. And the chef's are always saying, "See how easy this is to make?" It's not. Believe me I've tried. Most of the time it's because I don't have all the wonderful toys to play with but more than likely its because I don't have 12 sous chefs standing just off camera waiting to do the real work. If I had a sous chef AND a secretary my life would be a dream. And a lap pool in my apartment, and the aforementioned perfect kitchen, and buckets of money lying around waiting for me to spend it. That's all. So now we're reducing something on the stove, these foodies are always reducing something. They love reducing. OOOOOhhhh, beets. I love beets but they're not pretty. He just called beets a Celebration of Spring. Whatever. I celebrate Spring when my skin stops cracking open from the sub-zero temperature of Winter. Ace of Cakes. I love that show. I've been planning a cake for them to build since I first saw the show. I'm thinking of reproducing a gruesome crime scene. Now that's what I call a cake. And the look on every one's face when I unveil it, not to mention the episode they build my cake would be the best ever. What's next? Barefoot Contessa, her recipes are HARD...I don't care what she says. Now my computer is doing something stupid. I hate my computer and I want a new one but not for Christmas. I want pretty things for Christmas and not kitchen pretty things but pretty things to wear. What was I talking about? Barefoot Contessa and then Semi-Homemade. Love that show! She makes a cocktail for every occasion. Children's first birthday...cocktail! Home from open-heart surgery...cocktail! Yes, cocktails. And the couch. The couch looks like a good place to watch people cook. Ow, I think I just broke my finger. Oh no, it's alright.

Death of a Superstar

The days are dark. The nights are lonely. The great glam rocker Jimmie England is dead. As I mentioned in an earlier blog, Jimmie England ran the pallet picker for our local beer supermarket. Most looked upon him with pity because all they saw was the washed up superstar who fell to earth. But not me. I still saw the glam boy of yesteryear, the androgynous guitar god who set Iceland on fire, the...you get the picture.

Gone. All gone in an instant.

It seems during the great Thanksgiving beer rush of '07 someone dropped a case of Fuller's London Pride and neglected to clean up. Everyone's trying to get their beer and get home before the bird burns or kickoff, whichever comes first. In one dark corner of the mart, the spilled Fuller lay dying and an innocent Jimmie wearing his trademark platforms was heading right for the puddle of tasty nectar.

In the roar of the maddening crowd no one heard Jimmie crash to the floor. He wasn't missed by the other workers since he never was much help in the first place. Everyone assumed the crowds had spooked the aged rocker and he went home...crowds just reminded Jimmie of his past glory days or he hated people, something like that. Most of the beer slingers were happy to have him out of the way.

That happiness would come back to haunt them a few hours later. While cleaning up for the night Jimmie's spandex-clad body was found face down in a puddle. How fitting...Jimmie England drowned in the pride of London. Most wept for Jimmie, some for the London Pride.

I haven't managed to get back there since hearing the news. For me Jimmie was the beer mart. But he lives on, in his music, in the hearts of his fans, and in the dark corner of the beer mart. Apparently his ghost has already been spotted, whirling and playing air guitar, his face dripping with joy.

Poles and Splints

Jesus H Christ! I haven't blogged in days because you can't type with your fingers in splints. No kidding, people are barbarians. I think the human race is getting crazier. We are definitely more angry animals than ever before.

My husband and I decided to check out a new bar not far from our place. I got there first, chose prime seats and made my self comfortable. Nice place, plenty of taps, friendly staff.

Now: the ceiling is low and in two places along the bar there are poles that extend from floor to ceiling...obviously holding the place up. My prime seat was right next to one of the poles and it was very cozy. The bar in front of me, the pole behind me. Soon I am joined by my darling husband and we settle in for an afternoon of drinking.

All of a sudden some drunk bastard staggers out of the back room, loses his footing and grabs for the pole. He's so drunk he must see two poles and not being sure which to grab he goes wide...smacking Scott in the back of the head. I mean he SMACKED him! I fell off my perch laughing and mid-fall I accidentally knocked some lady's (and I use that word loosely) beer out of her grasp. She's on top of me before I hit the floor. Now I'm fighting for my life, time stops. I have no idea what's happening with Scott, I can only worry about me. I attempt to poke her eyes out. I saw it on Oparh once, very effective.

Two guys who have nothing to do with anything decide they need to get involved. At first I thought, "Great how many people do I have to fight today?" Luckily their idea of getting involved was to peel the she-man off me.

Cops came, arrests were made. I broke two fingers on my left hand, three on my right. Scott has whiplash. We've been banned for life from that bar.

That's it! If it ain't broke don't fix it. No more new bars for us. Bar Great Harry: great beer, great people, no nut jobs, no poles.

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....