Drinking Thinking Quirking Working

Yes, a fiasco occurred. There was a lot of heavy drinking, some bellowing, riotous chants and about 300 Charleton Heston Planet of the Apes, "Landon! Hah Hah Hah!"s. People dropped like flies. Certain pretty girls went from straight shots to chin on chest in seconds. Dady and T seemed to survive and operate pretty well for first-timers. It's a dangerous crew. Conversely, Tink was asleep in no time. Not easy hanging with the big kids.

But what cuts short the typical depiction of said debauchery is a confidential line that came at the tail end of lunch the day after. Which reminds me, the new Mexican joint in DHell, worth a trip. The waiter we had was cordial when he wasn't punctual. Best part, he didn't seem to care. 

"Can I have my third Mountain Dew, man."  I had been heavy with the hot sauce. He brought my pop ten minutes later.  But he was funny and entertaining and the food was really good, so we'll call it even. 

Again, that is neither here nor there. I was exiting with Parts Cleaner Brush Hairdo and the Prettiest Girl Ever!--and this particular secret sentence struck me. I told her. We laughed and thirty minutes after dropping her off, I phoned to say, "HEY! That's the end to Expanding Definitions!"

I've talked about the book before and I'm sure in other posts were I willing to search. It's the weirdest love story ever. It existed before Resourcing Humans hit the market. Which, reminds me, you should buy a copy of that soon. Get a second. The contract dies in 2011 and I've decided to relegate it to Out-of-Print status. However many thousand are out there might be all that are ever out there. You can click a couple links to your right to drop your 20 bucks so that I might get three.

That's the second to last sales pitch you'll hear for that beast. Both of these works are even coming up because my extended and numerous appearances in bars lately have caused a few past customers to ask me if I'm writing another book and I always have to answer, "Well, I have manuscripts that are sitting around waiting for me to finish them." I know, Hater. I know. Yes, there are other people out there who dig my schtick. It just has to be fucking repulsive to you. Eat it.

Well, this particular tale of romantic woe was dying for an ending. Not so much a story but a punchline or a captivating bit of sweetness and it appeared Sunday afternoon and at first, I didn't want to believe it. For, if this is true I might find the motivation to finish the animal. Then the selling starts. Will I prostitute myself to agents and publishing houses or will I enslave myself with the formatting? Do I want to play in the stupidity of the big markets or languish in the tiny? To query or not to query; that is the waste of time.

Well, that really was a waste of time. I thought he was going to talk about how drunk he got all weekend and turns out he's working.  

Posted by: The ZaZ on 2.08.2010 at 10:50 AM | Comments (1) | Permalink

Daymares

When I sleep alone, which is a significant portion of the calendar year, outside of non-snuggles with the prettiest girl EVER!--and the rare drunken stumble bumble into the throes of some odd and typically uncomfortable passion, my bed looks like I hunkered down for the night with a tornado. The blankets are piled in the middle of the bed, upside down. The pillows look like someone spent more time punching them than sleeping upon. My floral nightmare, the greatest afghan in the world, lies strewn about the floor. The only clues we have for such a tangled mess are the last of post-REM sleep dreams, which are typically, nothing more than daydreams with the eyes shut and the brain on snooze.  I don't know what happens in the middle of the night when I'm actually sleeping. It must be a thrashing, tense, frustrated snore fest. It's a Far Cry from sanity or even peaceful Slumber.

So, let's look at the clues. 

Daydream foggy nightmare number one sends us back to the early days of Broadway 2008. Snacho will relate, as he was there. It's the story of the neighbor and the cops. We'd been living in the place less than a month. Living above the downtown bar area, apart from being evil and convenient, was prone to distinguished visitors. We knew this. We're sitting in our only two chairs at the time in the joys of minimalism, when, upon the door, a knock. We look at each other?  Who the fuck?

It's the neighbor. A mother of two, maybe three, I forget, and she's got blood streaming down her face. 

"Sweet Mother of Alf! What happened to you?"

She comes in and we usher her to the bathroom to at least put a tourniquet on her neck.

"Make me a drink!" she bellows.

Some Like It Hot, obviously, but I'm not big on bloody neighbors just stopping over. She related a tale about a family dispute. She knifed  her sister or something like that. This may have made a brief appearance in the blog when it happened, but I don't recall and can't recall. Fast forward, she's well into that stiff vodka I poured her. The one time Snacho and I were happy we had a bottle of Karkov. Bottle being the operative word. More like stiff plastic bag. She's well past relating the tale and now full-fledge into just babbling like a drunken idiot when there's another knock on the door.

Who the fuck?

Now, Snacho and I know this has to be a friend. We live in a secured building, the only lunatic we really know in the building is already here. Has to be a drinking buddy who slipped by one of the doors. To prove this fact I go to the door and bellow, "One hand washes the other!" Not hearing the proper response, trying not to spill my goblet of brandy, with a lung dart firmly entrenched in my lips, I unlock the dead bolt, swing the door open in a grandiose manner and bark, "This is where you're supposed to say, 'I fear nothing!'...officers."

The Dream Police, they live inside of my head and here she was at the door. A blonde little number and some oafish guy who had done the door rapping. "You must be looking for her," I pointed out our good times foe. They removed her from our pad and we kind of went back to drinking. As much as two stoners can with the coppers right outside the door. I even cracked the door a few minutes later to make sure everything was cool, but more to get another look at the she-cop. It isn't often you see a sexy policewoman. The only others that come to mind were Angie Dickinson, Heather Locklear and the broad in the tight, green, polyester, Florida, patrol get-up who cuffed and brought me to jail under a charge later defeated in court. That's a ramble for another day.

So! I was coming out of slumber with pretty girls on my mind. I had gone to bed after a brief exchange with the prettiest of them. As that realization began to stick in my mind, I thought even weirder about the mess of sheets and comforter. Was I humping the hell out of my bed whilst asleep and is that why I'm so adept at ignoring many of the impulses that drive most men to lunacy, felonies or worse, marriage? I couldn't just lay there and ponder such madness. I got up, made mochas, loaded Mello Yellos into the fridge. Anything to avoid the demon sleep. Just add a couple cigarettes and maybe we can face the day and by we I mean We Three, my echo, my shadow and me.

Posted by: The ZaZ on 2.05.2010 at 10:10 AM | Comments (2) | Permalink

Bad Influences

What began as a relatively tame and well-behaved day two happy hour quickly turned full-speed insanity. Lakeside, The Z, Speak Easy, culminating in some poisonously-poured drinks at the 17. That guy burnt up Lando like it was deserved payback for his oven antics. "I'm ripped!" he said upon completion.

Slipping into the home stretch, where I elected to walk the last quarter-mile, just for old time sake, I was enveloped in cold. The wind chewed through my flannel and there was about a three minute clip before the bladder just screamed to be emptied. Right there in the street like a loose neighborhood dog.

I caused the laugh of the night early accosting Chubba and Giant Joe with some kind of regaling of the reciprocal nature of my facial hair experiment and its cunningly linguistical mirror cut.  It was that fine line between hilarity and disgust that I stomp over regularly. Sorry, the brain cell holding the verbatim quote was sacrificed.

Jeezis Lando!  Did we see a crowd of people anywhere?  How lame.  

We were forced to make our own fun and the best way to do that is imbibing Lando style. He made the mistake of back to back Long Islands at 17 and you could see the edge slipping away from him. In fact, I haven't heard from the guy since I last saw him. There's a distinct possibility he's sleeping it off in a jail cell. Behave thyself, Lando! The big party isn't for another couple days!

Lakeside was relative, although, my man Huck was a nice find. Affable chap, like myself. Kudos to Mr. Dady for sporting the beers at happy hour. He was representative of the last bastion of sanity, for after he went home, I just started chucking money at bartenders. It just hit me I didn't finish my last 17 drink and I wasn't even driving! Burnt! Love it.

It's all starting to come back to me now like a vivid nightmare of good times. Polishing off the Busch Lights upon return, sending so much fluff to the Prettiest Girl EVER I had to apologize. But like she said, "It always seems like when there are only a few beers left they taste really damn good!" How could you not love that girl? Speaking of girls I'm in love with, some well-intended sentiment was winged to Rita G. It's nice getting drunk and more empathetic. I should be paid a couple hundo per hour just for the counseling I do from my desktop and most of the time, I'm not wearing pants! My sweet little Rita G. She's engaged. You know how that can be sometimes. Happy one day, super grim the next and back to happy. Hah! I was engaged once and frankly, it was horrific. ACK! Subject change!

Did we learn anything, Lando!? We reiterated and proved, again, my theorem that booze hits you like a freight train. That guy goes from dying for a drink to almost dying from them in approximately 11 minutes. He's got one pace: downhill. Take the visit to the Speak, for instance. We're there for one sip, "Uhh, I have to go back to Zorbaz. I forgot my hand-held ridiculous telecommunicating device." Call the Z. Not there. Genius goes out to his car. I dial his number. He answers, "Found it!" Lunacy. Or maybe I'm just excessively retentive. The whole point is just to try and enjoy the cognitive and affective representation of your identity.

I'm happy to report Lando made it home safely. Must have been my parting words of wisdom.

"Don't die...and keep your clothes on."

Posted by: The ZaZ on 2.04.2010 at 10:55 AM | Comments (0) | Permalink