You all have one week. Okay, a little less. If you are planning to disappoint, hurt, betray, anger, or otherwise fuck with me, you have until midnight next Sunday. Tell me now and I’ll just let it go. Otherwise, I will not be so kind.
I just want to get it all over with now.
Thanks.
IWI
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
All your favorite movies, they ain't all that funny.
My favorite movie: Breaking the Waves
My favorite novel: Love it the Time of Cholera
It’s all so beautiful and sweet. It’s lifetimes of almost, distilled into 159 minutes or 360+ pages.
For the past four or so years, I’ve been saying that it can’t get any worse. But it always does.
Okay, as I type this, Armando, cat of my heart, slowly, quietly climbed into my lap.
My favorite novel: Love it the Time of Cholera
It’s all so beautiful and sweet. It’s lifetimes of almost, distilled into 159 minutes or 360+ pages.
For the past four or so years, I’ve been saying that it can’t get any worse. But it always does.
Okay, as I type this, Armando, cat of my heart, slowly, quietly climbed into my lap.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Holly's Inconsolable, Unhinged and Uncontrollable, Part II.
There is a 98% chance that M is leaving in three weeks.
That would be on my birthday.
That would be on my birthday.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Holly's Inconsolable, Unhinged and Uncontrollable.
5. My unemployment compensation benefits will run out and I have been unable to get a job. Is there an extension of benefits?
There is currently no Pennsylvania or federal extension of UC benefits.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
It hurts, but it's worth it.
Ooohhh, one of my best moments EVER has been caught on video. About 3/4 through, Galen (bass) pours me some Jameson's FROM THE STAGE.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
She drove it like she stole it.
Short Version:
Saturday:
Drive to Toronto with M sleeping most of the way.
Check in to hotel, walk too far to have some tapas on Queen Street.
Sunday:
Go to Peach Berserk on Sunday and spend too much money, go record shopping with M.
Have dinner and beer with M and Red.
Drink waaaaaayyyy too much.
Monday:
Sleep in, run some errands, get stressed over tonight’s show.
Rock out up front with M, Red and a handful of others.
Drive Tad, Red and B to a great bar in Toronto where I meet a guy from The Constantines who I try to get to marry me to keep me in the country and a really sweet girl who I likewise try to get to marry me.
Curse Galen for not coming out.
Chat with Franz.
Run out of Canadian cash.
Tuesday:
Drop off M on Queen Street from where he will proceed to the airport on his way to San Fran
Drive to Montreal with Red.
QUOTE #1: Obvious American mom to her 8-ish year old daughter: “It’s Canada, they speak French here.” Daughter gives me confused look.
Arrive Montreal and check in, having to carry too many too heavy bags up too many too hot steps.
QUOTE #2: As hotel attendant tells me where to park: “See that castle over there?”
Cab to the show, meet Red and others.
Chat with Galen.
Rock out.
Galen pours me some Jamesons from his bottle on the stage during the break in Hoodrat.
I can die peacefully now.
Go with the guys to a bar down the street.
Meet Bobby for the first time.
Try to learn how to speak French, fail miserably, Red gets my ass home somehow.
Wednesday:
I have no idea how I was functioning.
Check out, the attendant gives me a croissant because I missed breakfast.
Retrieve my car at the castle.
NO SLEEP ‘TILL BROOKLYN.
Nav system fucks up.
Thursday:
Roam around Park Slope and eat breakfast for $4, including $1 tip.
Freak out because I call S and he says that the first band is playing and I’m NOT READY.
Furiously get ready and almost run to Prospect Park.
Unbeknownst to me, the guys I’m meeting have purchased the $50 tickets for the front section.
Those guys . . . buy . . . me . . . a . . . ticket and I cry.
We rock the fuck out and meet other board members (so, I’m a dork, shut up).
Go to O’Connors and hang with new friends and meet up with Tad, Galen and sort of Craig.
Meet the THS lawyer and he asks me to call him “daddy.” (To answer your question, yes.)
Drink too much and stumble back to MD’s.
Friday:
Love to the Natural History Museum for stating the correct age of the planet.
Dinner with C&H who demand that I say with them next time I’m in NYC.
Do something that is so secret, I don’t even tell M.
Saturday:
Hang with more new friends, drink, go to karaoke bar.
Have late-night NYC pizza.
Sunday:
Ice Cube and NWA said it best.
And I’m home.
Saturday:
Drive to Toronto with M sleeping most of the way.
Check in to hotel, walk too far to have some tapas on Queen Street.
Sunday:
Go to Peach Berserk on Sunday and spend too much money, go record shopping with M.
Have dinner and beer with M and Red.
Drink waaaaaayyyy too much.
Monday:
Sleep in, run some errands, get stressed over tonight’s show.
Rock out up front with M, Red and a handful of others.
Drive Tad, Red and B to a great bar in Toronto where I meet a guy from The Constantines who I try to get to marry me to keep me in the country and a really sweet girl who I likewise try to get to marry me.
Curse Galen for not coming out.
Chat with Franz.
Run out of Canadian cash.
Tuesday:
Drop off M on Queen Street from where he will proceed to the airport on his way to San Fran
Drive to Montreal with Red.
QUOTE #1: Obvious American mom to her 8-ish year old daughter: “It’s Canada, they speak French here.” Daughter gives me confused look.
Arrive Montreal and check in, having to carry too many too heavy bags up too many too hot steps.
QUOTE #2: As hotel attendant tells me where to park: “See that castle over there?”
Cab to the show, meet Red and others.
Chat with Galen.
Rock out.
Galen pours me some Jamesons from his bottle on the stage during the break in Hoodrat.
I can die peacefully now.
Go with the guys to a bar down the street.
Meet Bobby for the first time.
Try to learn how to speak French, fail miserably, Red gets my ass home somehow.
Wednesday:
I have no idea how I was functioning.
Check out, the attendant gives me a croissant because I missed breakfast.
Retrieve my car at the castle.
NO SLEEP ‘TILL BROOKLYN.
Nav system fucks up.
Thursday:
Roam around Park Slope and eat breakfast for $4, including $1 tip.
Freak out because I call S and he says that the first band is playing and I’m NOT READY.
Furiously get ready and almost run to Prospect Park.
Unbeknownst to me, the guys I’m meeting have purchased the $50 tickets for the front section.
Those guys . . . buy . . . me . . . a . . . ticket and I cry.
We rock the fuck out and meet other board members (so, I’m a dork, shut up).
Go to O’Connors and hang with new friends and meet up with Tad, Galen and sort of Craig.
Meet the THS lawyer and he asks me to call him “daddy.” (To answer your question, yes.)
Drink too much and stumble back to MD’s.
Friday:
Love to the Natural History Museum for stating the correct age of the planet.
Dinner with C&H who demand that I say with them next time I’m in NYC.
Do something that is so secret, I don’t even tell M.
Saturday:
Hang with more new friends, drink, go to karaoke bar.
Have late-night NYC pizza.
Sunday:
Ice Cube and NWA said it best.
And I’m home.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
We put our mouths up to some dangerous drinks.
So, yes, I have a couple of friends who could technically be my kids, if I had been incredibly unlucky in high school.
Digression: Seriously, I have no idea how I successfully used the most unsuccessful birth control method for so long. Sincere thanks to whomever or whatever was responsible from both my parents and me. Especially from my dad who had a bet with the rest of his family as to which kid would get knocked up – or do the knocking up - first. Funny, the person at the top of the list (me) is one of three who STILL does not have children.
Almost a month ago was P’s 22nd birthday, 7/7/7. Unadvisedly, he decided to have seven shots, seven mixed drinks and seven beers starting somewhere around 11:00 am. That morning I sent him a text advising that he avoid “up” drinks and go for mixed drinks with juice or soda. He did indeed take this advice, as well as a mid-day nap. Later that night, M and I met him, his girlfriend and several other friends of theirs around 10:00 pm at a college bar in Oakland, heretofore referred to as CB, as I do not feel the need to admit to where I spent part of my Saturday night. However, if you really want to know, there will be clues a-plenty, including the fact that it semi-recently changed names and I hadn’t even been to it’s predecessor.
Since I hadn’t had much to eat that day, M and I opted for some O fries, which I haven’t eaten in, oh about 10-15 years. Yes, they were good. Yes, I got cheese. Yes, I’m planning to wait another 10 or so years.
In one of the O windows there is a poster for some sort of alcohol with a white background and an airy table set with pastel colors surrounded by open windows with curtains flowing in a gentle wind. Yep, the top floor looks just like that.
At CB, the kid at the door carded me and I asked if he was joking. For some reason, this always bothers M just a little but I do it anyway. The floor is dirty plywood, dirty as only years of spilled beer, puke, cockroaches, piss, grease, cigarettes and spit can make a floor dirty. I guess not so different from, say, the Electric Banana before it became Zarra’s or the Upstage before it became for-rent office space. Where we part ways is that instead of people who would be my friends wearing black boots, these are typical college kids in flip-flops. When I used to go to the Upstage (shut up) and my friends would dare to wear any form of sandal, I would tell them to think about the floor and what may or may not be on it, especially in the bathroom.
In typical college bar fashion, CB offered up an abysmal selection of beer. To their credit, CB has $1 Yuengling bottles and Guinness drafts. No Guinness in the summer for me, thanks. Give me a dark and stormy night and I’m there, but not on a summer evening with a low temp of 65. It does seem to be a trend now that crappy college bars have 1-2 decent beers on tap, possibly for kids to impress their friends with their stunning taste in beer, possibly for kids to impress their friends with their stunning ability to throw cash around, possibly because it deludes them into thinking that they will now attract a higher class of people.
To the left of the bar and fastened (stapled?) to the sloping ceiling is a giant drink list of sorts. There are about eight different specialty Bacardi drinks to choose from, each with their own color coding and sexual innuendo name. I am repulsed and it’s gonna get worse. Scanning the room, I see that these color-coded sexual innuendos are served in plastic mini pitchers with a straw. At the end of the bar is a tall, stocky, early 20-something guy wearing khaki shorts, a blue oxford shirt and flip-flops, holding a pipe in one hand and a mini-pitcher of something blue with a straw in the other. (Readers, I cannot make this shit up.)
After scanning the bar and finding no decent whiskey or gin, I decide that a black russian might be nice. Both ingredients are available and it should be quick and easy to make. This is seriously an attempt to be nice to the bar staff. M orders a Guinness, I order a black russian with Absolut (no well-liquor, but with Kahlua, the taste of the vodka won’t be noticeable so there is no need to go higher) and we proceed to have a conversation. When the drinks are delivered, he has a Guinness and I have some sort of frothy, creamy thing in a collins glass.
Me: Look of shock and horror
Pretty Blonde Bartender:
Me: That’s not what I ordered.
PBB: What?
Me: I ordered a black Russian.
PBB: But . . . can’t you just drink that?
Me: NO!
PBB: Why not?
Me: Because it has cream in it.
PBB: Really?
Me: Really.
PBB: What did you want?
Me: A black Russian
PBB: Isn’t that what it is? Pause. Did you want just (mumble that doesn’t sound like “Kahlua”) and . . . (voice trails off on what I think is the word “vodka”)?
Now there is a five-minute discussion between PBB and the ABB (attractive brunette bartender).
Clarification: For purposes of this blog entry, “pretty” means that she could wear a sundress and have lunch with your mom; “attractive” means that she could wear a low-cut black dress and beat the crap out of your little brother.
ABB proceeds to angrily grab a glass, fill it with ice, grab a cocktail shaker, pour in Kahlua and, without asking, pour in well-vodka. Now, both PBB and I look on in horror. ABB looks up with a scowl. PBB tells her that I asked for Absolut. Seething, she makes another.
For some reason, M feels the need to leave a tip.
Digression: Seriously, I have no idea how I successfully used the most unsuccessful birth control method for so long. Sincere thanks to whomever or whatever was responsible from both my parents and me. Especially from my dad who had a bet with the rest of his family as to which kid would get knocked up – or do the knocking up - first. Funny, the person at the top of the list (me) is one of three who STILL does not have children.
Almost a month ago was P’s 22nd birthday, 7/7/7. Unadvisedly, he decided to have seven shots, seven mixed drinks and seven beers starting somewhere around 11:00 am. That morning I sent him a text advising that he avoid “up” drinks and go for mixed drinks with juice or soda. He did indeed take this advice, as well as a mid-day nap. Later that night, M and I met him, his girlfriend and several other friends of theirs around 10:00 pm at a college bar in Oakland, heretofore referred to as CB, as I do not feel the need to admit to where I spent part of my Saturday night. However, if you really want to know, there will be clues a-plenty, including the fact that it semi-recently changed names and I hadn’t even been to it’s predecessor.
Since I hadn’t had much to eat that day, M and I opted for some O fries, which I haven’t eaten in, oh about 10-15 years. Yes, they were good. Yes, I got cheese. Yes, I’m planning to wait another 10 or so years.
In one of the O windows there is a poster for some sort of alcohol with a white background and an airy table set with pastel colors surrounded by open windows with curtains flowing in a gentle wind. Yep, the top floor looks just like that.
At CB, the kid at the door carded me and I asked if he was joking. For some reason, this always bothers M just a little but I do it anyway. The floor is dirty plywood, dirty as only years of spilled beer, puke, cockroaches, piss, grease, cigarettes and spit can make a floor dirty. I guess not so different from, say, the Electric Banana before it became Zarra’s or the Upstage before it became for-rent office space. Where we part ways is that instead of people who would be my friends wearing black boots, these are typical college kids in flip-flops. When I used to go to the Upstage (shut up) and my friends would dare to wear any form of sandal, I would tell them to think about the floor and what may or may not be on it, especially in the bathroom.
In typical college bar fashion, CB offered up an abysmal selection of beer. To their credit, CB has $1 Yuengling bottles and Guinness drafts. No Guinness in the summer for me, thanks. Give me a dark and stormy night and I’m there, but not on a summer evening with a low temp of 65. It does seem to be a trend now that crappy college bars have 1-2 decent beers on tap, possibly for kids to impress their friends with their stunning taste in beer, possibly for kids to impress their friends with their stunning ability to throw cash around, possibly because it deludes them into thinking that they will now attract a higher class of people.
To the left of the bar and fastened (stapled?) to the sloping ceiling is a giant drink list of sorts. There are about eight different specialty Bacardi drinks to choose from, each with their own color coding and sexual innuendo name. I am repulsed and it’s gonna get worse. Scanning the room, I see that these color-coded sexual innuendos are served in plastic mini pitchers with a straw. At the end of the bar is a tall, stocky, early 20-something guy wearing khaki shorts, a blue oxford shirt and flip-flops, holding a pipe in one hand and a mini-pitcher of something blue with a straw in the other. (Readers, I cannot make this shit up.)
After scanning the bar and finding no decent whiskey or gin, I decide that a black russian might be nice. Both ingredients are available and it should be quick and easy to make. This is seriously an attempt to be nice to the bar staff. M orders a Guinness, I order a black russian with Absolut (no well-liquor, but with Kahlua, the taste of the vodka won’t be noticeable so there is no need to go higher) and we proceed to have a conversation. When the drinks are delivered, he has a Guinness and I have some sort of frothy, creamy thing in a collins glass.
Me: Look of shock and horror
Pretty Blonde Bartender:
Me: That’s not what I ordered.
PBB: What?
Me: I ordered a black Russian.
PBB: But . . . can’t you just drink that?
Me: NO!
PBB: Why not?
Me: Because it has cream in it.
PBB: Really?
Me: Really.
PBB: What did you want?
Me: A black Russian
PBB: Isn’t that what it is? Pause. Did you want just (mumble that doesn’t sound like “Kahlua”) and . . . (voice trails off on what I think is the word “vodka”)?
Now there is a five-minute discussion between PBB and the ABB (attractive brunette bartender).
Clarification: For purposes of this blog entry, “pretty” means that she could wear a sundress and have lunch with your mom; “attractive” means that she could wear a low-cut black dress and beat the crap out of your little brother.
ABB proceeds to angrily grab a glass, fill it with ice, grab a cocktail shaker, pour in Kahlua and, without asking, pour in well-vodka. Now, both PBB and I look on in horror. ABB looks up with a scowl. PBB tells her that I asked for Absolut. Seething, she makes another.
For some reason, M feels the need to leave a tip.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
