9622.net

"STDs might not be funny anymore because, well, we all have them, but scurvy, that's always funny."

BBC America actually toyed with this as a tagline before settling on the more direct "Because all the other cable channels show anymore is motherfucking forensics."

You guys are missing the most important news of all: THE MONKEY REVOLUTION HAS BEGUN! [nyt-sorry!]

"Two dozen monkeys escaped from a research center and holed up in a forest, where animal-control workers used bananas and oranges to try to lure them out."

8 remained loose. Go monkey brothers, go!

....and in Louisiana yet. Cold Chef better start mixing up the banana daquiris, they should be knocking any moment now.

Here's a non-nyt link from New Orleans (hi Chef!).

"'Whenever any of our animals get free, they usually come back by feeding time,' she said. 'We expect to have the rest back in captivity by the end of the day.'"

Isn't that always the way? Slave to their stomachs, ruining the revolution.

I don't see any pirates getting themselves elected Mayor, now do I?

readymade, what a triumph for monkey-kind! Damn the torpedoes!

Because all the other cable channels show anymore is motherfucking forensics.

It's funny 'cos it's true! Last night I watched 4 hours of forensics shows on 3 different channels.

There's always a happy medium.

Because all the other cable channels show anymore is motherfucking forensics.

I don't know about ya'll, but that establishing shot they have in every show where the cop walks stiffly towards the camera always cracks me up.

I have a drinking game I play with myself where I have a shot of Canadian Club everytime luminol is mentioned.

Or if, during a dramatic recreation, people are asked if they recognize a victim from a photo and shake their heads sadly at the policeman.

My Wednesday nights are only complete if I hear the obligatory opening-sequence Lenny Briscoe over-the-corpse wisecrack.

Ah, Hollywood! You seductive, forensics-driven jewel!

Animal Planet's new Monkey Forensics sounds promising. You've got your monkeys. You've got your human cadavres. It's a natural.

Then you ave HGTV's "What to do with that cadavre in your crawlspace?"

Great show.

Did someone say Motherfucking Forensics?

I love that show! Jack Klugman is like the best Oedipus EVER.

Ahem.

("Spread the word - save the Covington Eight!")

Synthesize, brethren and sistren!

*dons eyepatch*

Yaar!

*flings poo, hoists the mains'l, screeches*

*slices up cadaver*

Aaar! Yaar!

*sexes up his mother, flings more poo*

Nothing so enviable as the competent multi-tasker.

I've started drinking whenever they have that identity-free fat jiggly torso on one of the news channels as a preamble to one of those How Americans Are So Fat stories.

I'm taking the drinking serious these days.

cowboy_sally, you're a genius. I think I'll start playing your luminol drinking game. Guess I should stop at the liquor store on the way home and stock up.

There's no way that any of you can PROVE I had anything to do with the escaped monkeys. I have a reasonable alibi established. Sure, Covington is less than an hour from me, and sure, I could stop off for a few beers at the beforehand for courage, but that doesn't make it a solid FACT.

No, my friends. You can only SUPPOSE that I realeased our captive furry brethern and sisteren.

Viva la monkey revolution! Er...I mean...I was at church. Praying.

And for that matter, if we decide to switch over to pirates, I'm down with that, too.

*dons eyepatch over crotch*

I don't know about these bikini shorts, though.

Avast! My post two above should have had a link to the Abita Brewery. Argh!

I think tonight I'm going to play the drinking game where you drink a shot of Vodker anytime you hear the word "Ir*q" on the tee-vee.

Who's with me?

*finishes tenth drink*

*passes out*

I dont have no vodker. Does Southern Comfort mix well wit root beer? Let's find out, children....

Vodker!@

Doesn't everything pretty much mix with everything after a while?

(I think the worst mix I ever tried was Vodker and Orance Slice during my high school years. Tastes *nothing* like a screwdriver...)

Report back: It does mix quite well...<hic>

*perks up at the thought of a screwdriver, then remembers he prefers a good drubken state from a tequila sunrise*

*Tanqueray and Pepsi is pretty good if you're in a pinch*

*rum and ginger ale, you'll end up pinching a waitress, or perhaps, throwing a rocks glass (with Nolan Ryan-esque velocity, if Wild Thing-esque accuracy [and, if I might toot a horn, Kafka-esque insouciance]) at a bartender (because of all the hard liquors you could possibly drink and have tried on your lifetime, rum is the one that for some reason really REALLY gets you howling fubking mad) and getting a free 6 month ban from your favorite bar (which is what I did)*

*recalls fondly one notable run incident in which drinking buddies failed to alert Fes that ordinary shot of run had converted to flaming shot of rum whilst Fes was in the can talking to a man about a horse, resulting in the loss of approximately half an eyebrow and all aforementioned insouciance*

*reverie*

Sierra Mist!

All about the Pernod, baby!

*pulls out dictionary*

*looks up "insouciance"*

Ohhh! Now I get it!

Yaar!

Ten monkeys on a dead ape's chest! Rum drinks all around!

*continues to flog dead comedy-horse*

Fes: You really threw a glass at the bartender?

Sorry, but I would have fucked you up on the spot. Run or no rum.

I love Fes! Rocks glasses thrown at bartenders and insouciance in the same post? It sounds like a tiny l'il piece of readymade heaven!

*sigh*

I've never met a bartender I didn't like. They see me coming in, they light up. It's as if they already knew, bless'em.

Same goes for waiters, hotel receptionists, club porters, bouncers. Sometimes I think I'm the only one in the world who truly appreciates what they do. I think of them more often than some quite good friends.

So a black mark to Fes - he deserved to be made suddenly souciant! ;)

Our family was going right to shit until we perked up the dinner hour with Parker Brother's smash new board game "Aggressive Pirate/Pensive Pirate"!

In my defense, the guy was a legendary jagoff (and had, um, just cut me off) and he and I had gone around before this particular incident, and I had a fairly impetuous, windy youth, but yep, I did it. Sorry, Brittney and Miguel. It was the 80s, and I often failed to say No, despite (perhaps - because of? I wonder) Punky Brewster's well-meaning entreaties. I also had something of a temper, which application of rum tended to exacerbate.

Also in my defense, I missed *wildly*. I mean, seriously, not even close. I did get his undivided attention, though :) as well as the undivided attention of about 4 bouncers, who bounced me around (as is their wont) and threw me out. So Brittney, you can take some measure of satisfaction in that. I was moderately bruised, post-toss. Please also know that I typically have good relations with bartenders, was one for several years, and I feel (based on the raised eyebrows of my lunch companions) that I tend to tip well.

Upon reflection, I find it difficult to believe that this sort of tale is all that uncommon amongst we poop-flingas. C'mon now, whom has a similar tale to tell of strong drink and poor impulse control?

*eyes vodker bottle*

That last "whom" is gratuitous, by the way. For whom does the bell toll? It tolls for thee, butthead.

I have a feeling it's going to be a looooooooong Thursday. But readymade, my tiny enchantress, you are a spark of ego-boosting light in a cornucopia of darkness and humble pie. *bows low*

In other poor impulse control news: Monkey Mayor Sex Scandal!

9622: a spark of ego-boosting light in a cornucopia of darkness and humble pie.

C'mon now, whom has a similar tale to tell of strong drink and poor impulse control?

Oh, why the hell not.

Junior year at Baylor. Across the street from my apartment complex was an abandoned warehouse that was connected to a Church Furniture Factory. One night, we're sitting around my friend Keith's apartment (he also live in my complex) and drinking all kinds of nasty shit. Shots of Goldvasser (the imitation Goldshlager), shotgunning beers, who knows what else. So, appropriately lit, somebody (could've been me, who knows) begins to encourage others to go check out the spooky warehouse. Long story short, we wind up finding an open door and enter said warehouse.

Armed with a flashlight and a glass full of vodka and 7-up, I led most of us (we were a group of 7, I think) up to the roof of the warehouse where we relieve ourselves, smoke cigarettes, and play with rocks. We go back down do the second floor where we meet up with the others. Obviously I don't remember how or why, but one of my mate decided to go punch out one of the smaller windows that make up those giant warehouse windows. He does that, another follows suit, then another. I tell them they're all dumbasses as they come back with glass in their hand and blood dripping on the floor. "Use your feet, you fools!" I yell as I stammer over to a window and put it out with a well-placed kick. The pain that I then experienced, along with the glass shattering, made me realize that we were fucking idiots. Here we are at an old warehouse that lies at the corner of two fairly well-traveled streets kicking out windows in a drunken stupor when only three of us are of age and we attend a southern baptist college. I politely point this out to my friends (okay, I think I said "fuck, we're stupid. we gotta get the fuck out of here") and we all take of running back to Keith's place.

Back at HQ, we pour more drinks and begin to assess damage. One of the guys (who was up visiting from A&M) had cut his thumb pretty severely. It was bleeding pretty continuously. We considered our options and ruled out taking him to a hospital since we were fucking loaded and shouldn't have been driving anyways. In an epiphanal moment I ran up to my apartment and grabbed Aleve and band-aids. The band-aids may have been some help, but Aleve? Whatever. It was going to cure him right up in my mind. We hung out for a bit more, and I decided to go to bed. Upon returning to my apartment, I hit the kitchen light to inspect my leg up close for the first time, which awoke my girlfriend who was sleeping in my bed after a night of studying. She saw me and kind of freaked. Cool chick that she is, she picked glass out of my leg at 3:45 in the morning and went back to sleep. Me? I went to the bathroom, purged my stomach of any remaining contents, and flopped on the floor in the bedroom dreading the moment that I awoke.

The guy that hurt his thumb supposedly still doesn't have full use of it. This was three and a half years ago.

...and a thousand apologies for that being so long and poorly drafted. I did it quite hurriedly so I could work or something.

His thumb could still get better. I had mine reattached after a bike accident in college, and I used to be able to stick pins in it and stuff and not feel a thing. Then about ten years later, I was picking weeds out from under the rosebushes, and got a thorn stuck in it. I thought, "Hey, cool, my thumb hurts!"

There weren't a lot of thrills in my life at the time.

Strong drink and impulse control...let me see.

Nope, I got nothin.'

*snickers*

Yeah, pulled a fast one on you all, didn't I?

Re: Drinking and impulse control

I actually have two stories of poor impulse control. One is just kind of pathetic: During the winter of my freshman year at Michigan State, a group of us spent a number of Saturday nights drinking ourselves into a stupor in our dorm (during fall or spring we would brave the elements and go elsewhere). Invariably, at about 2 in the morning we would cross the frozen Red Cedar river behind our dorm and enter the unlocked Cedar Village apartments. Whereupon we would run down a long hall, yelling like orangutans, and punching out all of the ceiling lights (unlike ufez's gang, we wore gloves. 'Cuz it was cold). Then we'd run back to the dorm. When we passed a parking lot we'd run accross the hoods of the cars. Pointless destruction. It never made sense in the morning, but at 2 a.m., it was always an awesome idea.

The second is funnier yet more personally embarassing. I was either 16 or 17 -- I was working as a lifeguard at one of the three swim clubs in the city I grew up in (Livonia, Michigan). We frequently drank after work. One night three of us decided we would hop the fence at one of the other swim clubs and take a dump in the pool. If you've seen Caddyshack, you know that shit in the pool is cause for concern -- although it doesn't have to be drained, it has to be closed for 24 hours while shocked with chlorine. Apparently we thought this would be funny since we were friends with most of the lifeguards at this other place.

The mission started ominously, though. I hopped the fence and gashed my shin pretty badly. Then when it came time to "do it," one of the guys chickened out and said he would be the "lookout." So two of us squatted over the deep end. Eventually, I was able to squeeze one out. We took off running and then headed home.

I spent all night awake, debating whether I should break back into the club and dive down to retrieve the turd myself. But I didn't.

The kicker came the next day. I'll never forget it -- a beautiful 95 degree Saturday. Oh, I should probably point out that my family belonged to the other club. As it turns out, my 12 year old brother and my 7 year old sister rode their bikes up to the club that day. Needless to say, they soon returned all bummed out because the pool was closed because "someone pooped in it" (they apparently didn't find it right away, and had to clear the pool when they did). They mentioned how all these families had brought their picnic lunches, and how all the little kids were crying that they had to get out of the pool.

So my mom says to me: "I'll bet some sick person did it on purpose." I nodded in agreement.

As far as I know, until today only 5 people knew about this story.

And now, Google has a cache.

These are great! Keep them coming.

(And Fes, I totally don't blame you for hurling the glass. It's just that this bitch once tried to punch me (I'd just cut her off.) with a rocks glass in her hand. Open side out. She could have seriously fucked my face up.

But she, too, missed wildly. Thank god.

Lessee, impulse control and alcohol.

At this party in Jamaica, Queens in 1991, I went shot for shot with my ex girlfreind consuming about 11 shots of Jack Daniels to match her Southern Comfort consumption. I remember puking very clearly and spending some time with this blond chick.

In the morning, I was given a through debreifing by my freinds. Apparently, at some point in the evening, the aforementioned blond chick wanted to take her bra off and asked for a volunteer to help. I apparently stepped up to the plate, loudly announced to the room "Do not try this at home, I am a professional." After that, me and this girl rolled around on the floor making out and groping, while people drank and conversed around us. I have yet to ever see that young lady again.

Another time, on my last day working for a retail book store. I went out for a few hours and a few beers before meeting my freinds for the big sendoff at midnight.

In the strip mall next door they were doing some kind of construction so they had these five foot deep trenches dug around them. Me and Rob The EMT and his girl Randi amused ourselves by jumping in them and pretending we were at war, yelling "you'll never take me alive, ya filthy bastards..." Then I dropped my pants to my ankles and peed all over the loading dock. I was making a point, I guess.

THen there was the time in high school that me and two buddies got blitzed and ran to a a golf course. The groundskeepers had left rakes next to the groomed sandtraps which we used to carve obcene messages in the dirt. Then we peed in all the holes.

Wow, I sense a pattern.

I hate to interrupt these drinking stories, but I have a special bulletin.
(& be sure to check out the video)

chick wanted to take her bra off and asked for a volunteer to help

And I thought this only happened on Cinemax!

chick wanted to take her bra off and asked for a volunteer to help

And I thought this only happened on Cinemax!

post, thou blackguard!

Nah, Brittney, you were right, it was a dumb, mean, stupid thing to do, I could have really hurt the shitheel had I hit him, and rum is no excuse. But I have a curvy 2-inch scar on the back of my left hand from a thrown beer bottle I got in front of when I was a bartender, several years later, so I feel my karma is clear on this (one down, 956,342 to go...)

I'm very glad your assailant missed, too. I think this should be a lesson to all bartenders:

Never EVER cut anyone off :D

Thanks to the furious efforts of my girl friends who kept shoving drinks into my hand, I don't remember much from my recent birthday, after the bottles of champagne and Absolut n' Red Bull at the first bar. But everone tells me I offered a round of tequila to my friends and the bartender at the second bar and then promptly passed out. *cringes*

Most memorable hangover:

The first time I ever got plastered, we were a bunch of underage ballerinas at a 6 week summer intensive. We chugged absolut and OJ for someone's birthday on a Friday night. After heaving into the toilets in the wee hours, Saturday morning arrived and we were all supposed to have our first round of classes from 9am until 1-ish. I was the only one out of the group who didn't claim to have the flu. First class was a struggle, but nothing horrendous. The second class was stretching, taught by a Russian pretzel woman who took great delight in forcing our bodies into Gumby-like positions. One excercize required you to lay on your stomach, grab your feet with your hands, and try to bring your feet to rest on the floor on either side of your ears, making a ring with your body. With my companions in crime sitting palely in the front of the room, I was weakly attempting this manuever when Russian Gumby woman decided to help me achieve the last 4 inches to the floor and pushed me down further. I'm not sure whose face was greener, mine or the sympathetic faces of my cohorts in crime. How I managed not to puke remains a mystery to this day.

To this day I refuse to drink Screwdrivers. urk.

9622: lay on your stomach, grab your feet with your hands, and try to bring your feet to rest on the floor on either side of your ears

You know, I'm sure that you felt unattractive and quite miserable, but my guess is that many would find hungover ballerinas even more attractive than plain ol' regular ballerinas.

Just a guess.

"I thought this only happened on Cinemax!"

So about six months ago, my friend Jeff and I were on our way to get our first tatoos. Being the hopeless squares that we are, we had set up an appointment. The venue was to be Renegade Tattoo, in Budapest. Being the swank hipsters that we are, we sat around the Mr. Pizza on the other side of town until five minutes before needle time, and then run to the subway. Entering the subway, we go into that mode of thought where you're pushing off beggars and such in a mad frenzy to get to the trains. So it wasn't until we were on the escalators that we realized that we had turned away a group of five young Eastern European girls who asked us with heavy Czech accent, "Do you know where to find a szexy shop?" We were kicking ourselves for like two months after that.

On the bright side, the tattoos came out well.

This thread has veered into prime wonderchicken territory, thanks to the Mighty Fes. I plan to comsume many beverages and tickle the plastics this evening, so stay tuned for Drinking Tales of The Young Wonderchicken.†

† void where prohibited by law.

(meanwhile, anyone got any yummy rum drink recipes (with very off-the-shelf ingredients, as anything even slightly obscure will be unavailable here (like ginger ale, tonic water etc))?)

Yaar! Rum drinks!

It's not alcohol, but in my younger days, there were these wonderful pills called quaaludes or sopors. I don't think they make them any more, but they used to be made by Rhorer, and they said 747 on the pills.

They were abundant, and they were wonderful. They gave you this illusion that the silliest thought in the world was perfectly rational. I remember trying to practice imaginary tightrope walking on the yellow lines in the middle of the road. It was never violent stuff, it was just goofy - like going in to my parents' room to say goodnight, and suddenly diving onto their bed. Or climbing into a stray grocery cart at the top of a hill, and just letting yourself roll down out of control. They were a great drug for kissing strangers or getting naked in public. It all seemed so sensible at the time.

ya got any pineapple juice, staverino? rium & pineapple juice is some badass shit.

ya got any pineapple juice, staverino? rium & pineapple juice is some badass shit.

ya got any pineapple juice, staverino? rium & pineapple juice is some badass shit.

The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill, now post motherfucker!

Heh. The last time I got really, rolling on the floor, staggering up against the walls, shit-faced drunk was at this great party. Only the hard-core partiers were left, and we were all picking out obscure dance tunes and dancing the limbo and doing conga lines and shit. It was really late but none of us cared; we had plenty of beer and there were still lots of cds to play and jokes to slur at each other.

Then I fell down the stairs and broke my leg in three places.

That kind of shit never seemed to happen when I was younger.

in my younger days, there were these wonderful pills called quaaludes or sopors.

That sounds like the bedtime stories my grandpa used to tell me. Fear the Quaaludes and the needle beer!

Rum and ginger beer is good. I learned that in Jamaica. (I also learned that same trip that Brugal Rum is an effective disinfectant when you put a cheap corkscrew through the soft tissue between thumbkin and pointer.)

Off to shoot Jager!

(Jager makes me angry/vomitous.)

Lemme think. Poor impulse control and hooch. I've lived such a pure and straight life until now, I'll have a hard time coming up with anything....

Okay. Let's go back to 15 years old. Hot summer evening, hanging with the neighborhood kids, who were all as poisoned with booze and hormones as I was.

Apparently I thought that the love of my life was there that evening, and HE DIDN'T LOVE ME BACK! I didn't know much about him, other than that we were meant to be together, when I learned that he liked another girl. Can you stand it? Can you believe it? Unheard of.

So I'm staggering drunk, and hell hath no fury like a teenage girl scorned, so although I don't know how it happened, I started yelling at whoever was nearby. And I mean yelling! "Fuck you!" blah blah blah...Whereby they apparently tried to bring me down a notch. Which pissed me off worse. "Don't you touch me! Don't touch me!"

Okay, this clearly is going towards a bad end. Cops come, worried about a rape, find 6-7 drunk teens roaming the streets. They're asking for our information, and everyone but me is lying their asses off. "Date of birth?" "1924." "Excuse me?" "I meant, 1964." "What?"

Etc. People gave names like "Amelia Earhart" until the cops were actually just outright laughing at us. Piled us in the car, drove us to my fathers house, dumped us unceremoniously in the kitchen, whereby my father both humiliated the lot of us, and hit on the female officer that had ferried us home.

Ah, youth.

I don't drink, I never really have, but I like to lick the gooey innards of roach traps clean and then stumble off and pick fights with nuns.

When the revolutions comes, I'll be the one with the ruler shoved up his ass.

post, you fascist.

I'll be the one with the ruler shoved up his ass.

Which immediately started my mental DJ playing the Bee Gees : "How deep is your love, how deep is your love..."

(No pineapple juice, sadly, jon, but drinks are a-chillin' in the drink-chillin' machine.)

Without further ado, here's a tale of Wonderchicken Boozing and Bad Judgment previously told on the 'Bottle. I'm cheating, sorta, but I'm still sober, so cut me some slack, jack.

...one particularly wild evening in Quintana Roo, Mexico, a few years back.

We'd been hired, Craig and I, to do the sound and lights for a party, a big one, that was being held in 'a barn' in Tulum, a couple of hours south of Cancun. Tulum the town, which is a nondescript collection of buildings on a crossroads on the highway, not Tulum the gorgeous Mayan ruins nearby, which are, you know, gorgeous. And ruined.

We took the 3 ton cube van down, loaded with gear, made it through the army checkpoints (we always sweated a bit with them, carrying pyrotechnics as we usually were) and found the place in the early afternoon. It was a concrete shell, barn-sized all right, and it didn't have a roof. Great. But we took it in our stride, in true make-the-best-of-it Mexican style, and had a beer while we figured out how we were going to set up. Manuel, the young Mexican guy who worked with us (and spent a great deal of his time shaking his head in bemusement at the antics of the crazy longhaired gringos) came back with some bad news : the building was connected to the grid, but that was it. No internal wiring at all.

Craig, who was the guy who actually knew how to do shit, after conferring with the promoters, told him to wire us up to the main circuit box. Manuel looked a bit doubtful, but after being reassured that everything was fine, he wandered off to start juryrigging shit together. It was the usual modus operandi - improvise, make do, and make it work.

We started setting up the triangle truss sections, the Par64 fixtures and their gels (sprinkled with sand from the last beach party a couple of days ago) and the amp racks and speaker enclosures, and 6 or 8 beers later, as if by magic, the sun was beginning to go down, and we had everything set up. There were a few more people hanging around, smoking dope, drinking, watching lazily as we tested the audio and lights. This was always my favorite part of a gig - finished the hard work for the moment, and relaxing before the party geared up. Leaving all the decisions and troubleshooting to Craig meant that I could enjoy as many beverages as I felt appropriate. The one exception had been when we'd done the indoor fireworks for New Year's Eve at Senor Frog's back in Cancun, but considering that we had blown off several thousand dollars worth of pyro inside a bar with sawdust on the floors, that had probably been wise.

Just as the last of the light was fading, it began to rain. The music had started, though, and people were arriving in droves, and they didn't seem to mind. It was a flash crowd, and soon our roofless concrete barn was packed with wet bodies, dancing under sheets of hard rain and the intermittent flashes of lightning. We put up some tarps over the audio equipment and the dj, and let it go. The rain didn't let up, but no one seemed to care. There was a weird earth-magicky kind of vibe happening, and the harder people danced, the harder it seemed to rain. Huge, warm drops grown fat in the wet air out over the Caribbean, hammering down like a waterfall.

The hippies and tourists just danced harder.

Manuel sidled over to us about half an hour after the rain really started coming down, looking terrified. Craig followed him outside, and came back a few minutes later, looking disturbed, which for him was a bit unusual. I arched my eyebrows in inquiry; he shrugged and handed me a beer.

Later that evening, things started to get bad crazy. Craig's girlfriend arrived, and Manuel found himself a peasant-skirted girlfriend from Bolivia, who lived here in Tulum, and she had a large quantity of acid. Driven by the strange, powerful feelings I was getting from the storm and the crowd, I danced like a maniac in the warm rain, and swallowed everything anyone handed to me. The promoter was thrilled at the crowds, and kept us in drinks. Even if we refused tokes, the air was thick enough with the smoke to bring on a deeper appreciation of the reggae.

I don't remember the party winding up, or loading the gear back into the truck. I do remember Craig, who despite being gloriously stoned was as usual the one experiencing the fewest visual anomalies, driving us at a snail's pace down the jungle road to the sea side cabanas where we were staying. The rain was still pounding down, there were no lights on the road, and the truck's lights weren't working. We couldn't see a damn thing out the windshield. I made Craig stop, got out of the truck, climbed up on the bumper and leaned back against the cab window, facing forward, arms spread out as if I'd been crucified, like a huge hairy moth that had been splattered on the windshield, and alternately pointed left or right as he drove. He drove totally blind, guided only by my frantic pointing as he edged toward one ditch or another, while Manuel and his new Bolivian girlfriend made out on the passenger side of the bench seat.

It worked pretty well, except when we hit speedbumps.

We made it to the place we were staying, eventually, wired tight, but couldn't handle it indoors in our thatched huts, and spent the rest of the night on the beach, watching the waves and the sparkle of phosphorescence as the raindrops struck the sea. All except Manuel and his girl, whose enthusiastic grunts and squeals we could hear in the distance, over the rain and surf.

The next day Craig told me that Manuel had "wired us straight into the mains. No breaker, no ground, no nothing." I didn't see how that had been such a bad thing, but then I made the connection to the fact that the dancers out on the concrete floor, myself included, had been frolicking in water that by midnight was about ankle deep, sliding on their bellies like seals, doing rain dances, inches from the wiring that was feeding power to the audio and lights. Craig had wanted to shut it down, but the promoter was adamant, and in the way of connected men in Mexico, was not a man that one could say no to, and stay in the area for long. We got lucky, as usual.

The Bolivian girl disappeared before Manuel woke up. Through some strange coincidence, his wallet had disappeared as well. The drive back to Cancun was a quiet one.

booze and bad judgement... just read my blog... it's almost fucking weekly.

upon reflection, more like weakly.

So my old buddy Barry and I are cruising the streets of Vancouver, after the bars close, with our buddy Rick, the guy who was killed in the Bali bombing, in the back seat. It's 1987 or so. We've got a bottle of Royal Reserve rye whiskey, and we're passing it around, and Bon Scott is imploring us in his dulcet ocker tones to join him on the Highway to Hell. We've been sitting in the Cecil most of the night, talking philosophy and ignoring the strippers, 'cause that's what we think smart drunken men without women should be doing on a Saturday night.

We're at a stoplight on South Granville, where it's 4 lanes wide, and straight, heading out the bridge out to Richmond and the airport. I'm in the front passenger seat, and after I take a swig of rye and pass it back to Rick, I notice the two guys in the Mustang that's just pulled up the light beside us are pointing forward, in a weird, aggressive, jerky sort of way. I light a smoke, and use the couple of seconds that takes to figure out that they want to drag.

Barry's car is a clapped-out, rusty, Datsun F-10. Total engine displacement less than a beer fart.

I look at Barry, he looks at me, I nod, say 'Fuck yeah!', we laugh, Bon Scott launches into another song, the light turns green, and Barry floors it.

Of course, the Mustang pulls ahead almost immediately, but the F-10 labours mightily, and puts in a pretty good showing. After half a block or so, Barry eases off, having nothing to prove. It was a lark, just for the goofy fun of pretending to race with his little shitbox Datsun.

The Mustang, far ahead now, sails through the next yellow light, and we stop at the red. When it turns green a minute or two later, we carry on, and about 100 metres down the road, we see the Mustang, piled into the back of a city bus which had been sitting at a bus stop. The engine compartment has been crushed to nothing, the engine itself forced back into the front seats. They must have hit at something like 100 km/h. The driver and his passenger are clearly dead, crushed flat by the impact and the crumpling of metal.

It was a long time before we imbibed on the road again. Of course, you're supposed to say that was the last time we ever drank and drove, but that's really not the way life works.

The Jager caused not one, but two involuntary body convulsions.

It also allowed my friend Elgin to take a swing at my head (encased in a helmet) with a Nerf bat as hard as he could in exchange for a single cigarette. A motherfucking Ultra Light.

I took pictures. Sit tight. (Actually, you can relax a bit, I'm drunker that Cooter Brown. Think more like next tomorrow evening, really.)

"Drunker than Cooter Brown" would have had much more impact had I not fucked it all up with my drubken, sloppy typing.

A final observation before bed: Jager makes your lips feel heavy.

No, you must post pictures now to entertain me.

Now, heavy-lipped woman!

*fails completely at being all imperious and shit*

*pours another rum drink*

Yaar!

I awfully impressed that Ms. Brittney, who is in my own timezone, was drunker than Cooter Brown while I was having my first cuppa coffee this morning. Ah, youth!

I'm not sure what Pirate Guy there is doing with his finger, but I deny all responsibility if it's, er, suggestive or anything.

Salty damn pirates.

Perhaps that's our own Fishf*cker, or even his grandfather, the original Fishf*cker.

Dirty bugger, I think.

All right, all right. I'll tell.

Back when I was 21 and thought I was invincible, I was working for a government contractor, building Trident II missiles. The 21 and invincible part came in handy because we were on rotating shifts of four twelve-hour day shifts followed by four days off, followed by four twelve-hour night shifts followed by four days off, and then the whole cycle started all over again. Today, this would be a recipe for death but then it was cool because I was earning ALMOST TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS A YEAR. Plus, as noted, I was 21 and invincible.

One morning at the end of a four-night shift, I attended the wedding reception of my cousin. I hadn't bothered to go to bed since I got off work at seven and the wedding was at eleven, so I was a little sleepy. However, once I got to the reception hall I perked right up because my dad was buying the booze. I opened a fifth of vodka, poured him one drink, poured an aunt one drink, and proceeded to kill the rest of the bottle myself, in about twenty minutes.

Did I mention that I'd been up all night but hadn't had anything to eat since about five o'clock the night before? That's kind of important. Because once I'd chugged down all that vodka, I decided that a little food might be a good thing. So, I had a couple of those little triangle sandwiches that are a staple at wedding receptions, and then I had a couple slices of watermelon.

Then, shockingly, I started to not feel so well.

So, off to the bathroom I went.

Now, this reception hall was a converted restaurant, so there were two fairly large bathrooms; one for the men, one for the women. In the men's room there was a single toilet (no stall), a urinal, a sink, and a metal drain in the center of the floor. This drain plays a pivotal role in the story, and I'll get back to it shortly.

At the time, however, I had enough coordination to stand, and so I stood at the sink, turned on the water, and began to hurl. At first, it was kind of funny to me. Then, as the hurling began to get more and more out of control, I began to experience fear on a level I have never again experienced. Things were coming out of my stomach that I was sure should have been gone by that point. Plus, the alcohol that I HAD absorbed was working its wonders on my brain and making it nigh-impossible to remain standing at the sink, and so I sank to my knees in front of the toilet, the smell of which only served to exacerbate the hurling.

After a little of this, it becomes fuzzy. I dimly remember sliding to the floor, conscious that this was a BAD THING, but reassuring myself that AT LEAST THERE'S A DRAIN ON THE FLOOR, and so I can direct the hurling at it and perhaps not make quite so big a mess. Then things went all black.

The next conscious sensation I had was sliding across the vomit-covered floor as someone pushed into the bathroom. It was my father and my uncle (the father of the bride) who had become alarmed at my disappearance and the inability of anyone to get into the men’s' room. I was sprawled in front of the door, and it took both of them pushing on it to move me far enough to where one of them could squeeze in.

I dimly remember being carried to the car and unceremoniously being dumped into the back seat. My wife drove the car home with all the windows open as I was soaked in vodka-ham sandwich-watermelon puke, and since she couldn't lift me out, she left me there until my father came over and dragged me into the house. Which is where they made their big mistake: dumping me onto the waterbed.

The portion of vodka-ham-watermelon that had not yet been spewed quickly launched itself out of my stomach and all over the bed, the wife, dad, and the floor. Now the decision was made to drag me into the living room and leave me on the floor to sleep it off.

The uncle (the father of the bride) ended up paying some poor, stupid kid an extra twenty to clean the bathroom. I wouldn't have done it for a hundred, and it was MY stomach contents.

Now comes the part that to this day pisses my father off. When I woke up on the floor of the living room the next morning, I felt GREAT, since I was 21 and invincible. No hangover, no headache, no cotton-mouth, nothing. I got up, showered, went to the golf course, played 18 holes, and got drunk again.

Jaysus! These tales make my rocks glass story look like a librarian's Wednesday night!

And I don't trust that f**king pirate one bit. Looks like he spent more than a few years "swabbin' the poop deck."

9622: Drunker than Cooter Brown

someone had to say it.

hey, i thought because you're all a bunch of erudite, and let's face it, rather european folks, i'd alert you to the fact that i will be in london from march 24 to april 1, in case any of you want to have a beer with a fish fetishist.

actually, it will probably not really be a beer, as i plan on drinking nothing but strongbow the entire week and bringing home three or four cases of the tallboys.

after which point i'm sure i will have wonderful drunk stories to tell.

an even better story that the one about the time i peed on a friend in a hotel room.

(i know, 'pee' doesn't do past tense very well, but if you put 'urinated' in there, i look like some kind of sicko.)

WHAT.
THE.
FUCK.
CRASH.

As promised, photos from last night's rowdy throw-down.

Now for a nap.

Couple of the images don't load, but I'm too hungover to give a fuck.

Treasure from "Vietnam": A 20th-century mortuary figure of a monkey king, who presides in the land of ancestors.

Britt: I love that, as the night goes on, the pictures devolve into meaningless shapes and shadows...finally being replaced entirely by the red X. Don't fix them. It speaks to me as it is.

Brit: Only about half of those pictures seem to work, but judging by the ones that do...good jeebus, girl. YOu Rawk!

woo hoo!

Crash is (or was) a very naughty boy. I love stories involving uncontrollable expulsion of bodily wastes and such.

So the guy at the liquor store is helping me carry my purchases out to the car tonite, and I asked him, "Are people drinking more with the war and all?"

And he says, "The problem is, the wrong people aren't drinking enough."

That's it.

Let's start a 'Buy Beer For Dubya' fund! If we can keep him totally pissed for the next two years, lotsa people might not die....

Wow. That guy was not just any old liquor store clerk. That guy was a philosopher!

I think Stav's campaign is a good one, and I will stand behind it proudly. Until I get drunk, in which case I might "loll" or "weave" behind it.

I weave behind whatever readymade weaves behind.

I'll be over here, reeling.

Tj:

Splitter!

Hey Thomcatspike, it actually IS the Ides of March today.

Sentio aliquos togatos contra me conspirare.

Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?

Splitter? moi? hardly.

i'd alert you to the fact that i will be in london from march 24 to april 1, in case any of you want to have a beer with a fish fetishist.

fishfucker, arrrrr matey! No international meetings allowed! There can be only one International 9622 Pirate of Mystery and that is me.

I mean, not to BRAG or anything, but I think I'm reigning champion of 9622 meetings. I'm at 14 (if memory serves). Of course, I sent in my stunt double, but I felt like I was there.

Woohoo! I'm only 13 behind you!

(If your memory serves. Serve, memory! Serve!)

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