Tag Archives: drinking

Hard Truths

27 Aug


It is arctic-freezing in the office.

…Two air conditioners war from lobby to the WHS Pimp’s office for the sake of incoming clients, who never arrive. I, meanwhile, have turned to ice, attempting thaw now by spending “lunch” pacing…while one-thumb punching in this blog.

I feel a little bit awful.

…This is because Cecil and I spent last evening getting blitzed. Which seemed like more than just a good idea at the time. It was a long-coming, multi-purpose necessity.

…Like the tater tots and pizza, which followed.

At around 11 pm.

….Also now: a regret.

…Funny thing about blow-out binging…it never seems to adhere to the: “chances you don’t take” regret rule. And why is that? It’s only fucking fair.

But, no. No, but no, but…no.

(Another water swig, pausing to make sure it goes down n’ settles.)

Minimal Hangovers are like the nagging mother of bad ideas. Not a big enough punch in the gut to say, “Wow…am so not gonna do that again in a long while.” More like,”There are smarter/healthier ways of doing things, and you should be a more responsible adult…with two more long work days ahead.”

…Minimal Hangovers are the bitchy little “I told you so’s” of day-afters. Which sorta just pisses you off more than prob’ly a full blown blitzer.

…At least then you could be like, “Yeah! I told you that was a totally serviceable set of reasons to get tanked! See! A repercussion that is equal to the joy/rage/disappointment/situation which preceeded it! Embrace it, as it all pukes out in front of you!”

(More water. And more.)

….Have peed no less than ten times today. An every-swallow effort to force-cleanse in the opposite direction of how it currently wants to. And I have done this. To myself. No denial here. Only regret.

…Regret and insane yearning for some fucking ginger ale.

So: there is that, then.

(Water, water, water…to infinity…)

…Also: I want a taco.



On The Piss…Then Off

1 May


I shall survive! This MONSTER bout of general grossness from seemingly all walks of my life, up to (and including) my Birthday, is almost over.

…And now that I am finally coming out of this two week cycle of woe…like passing a really shitty kidney stone from hell…I can report that the world is not ending after all…while showered and shaved, dyed painted and plucked…sitting in some sunshine. 

…Sure, I’ve gained weight back…which is to be expected when you spend three days and nights on-end eating everything you can get your hands on, and getting pissed on every kind of fermented substance known to man.  But it’s over and done…I survived the bitch, and it’s time to collect myself, and hit the waves of “better things” now.

It all began on Saturday night.  This was when I closed the latest show with a particularly terrible performance, possibly due to the collective 4 hours of sleep I’d had in the past 24 hours leading up to it.  Or possibly not.  Maybe I just blew it full-turkey-out-the-ass all on my own.  I dunno.  But I’m never one to just roll over and let those kind of things just run off my back, whether it’s my actual fault or not.  This only put more fuel behind the next 12 or so hours of supreme hormonal meltdown, leading into my 34th birthday on Monday.

…It basically ended in a Nora Ephron comedic sketch of me blubbering to myself in between hot flashes, whilst refusing anything to do with celebrations by anyone with good intentions, and instead closeting myself away in pajamas, to watch nonstop film alone, on loop, and consider the travesties of my youth, with a bottle (or several) of booze…and how I’ve accomplished nothing I set out to, or will, and I might as well eat this pizza and get even fatter, cuz who cares?

I like to call it “Bridget Jonesing.”

…Add to that the fact I’m pretty sure I was (and am) peri-menopausing on top of it.

…Like an idiot, I did research online. This is ruinous for people like me, with anxiety issues that won’t sleep for weeks at a time cuz a zit on my elbow might actually be a cancerous growth I don’t know about yet, but am too scared to really check out.

…So I fester.

…Only lately, it’s been: “fester and sweat.”

…Now, don’t get me wrong, I have always been a clammy sweater. Its in the Latino DNA. Only for the past…oh…year or so, I’ve had these random night-sweats-from-hell that I try to pretend aren’t really there. Except when they wake me at 3 am because I have to strip every fucking thing I’m wearing due to the fact they are doused and soaking wet with sweat. It’s been really special…lemme tell you…

…And as my BD got closer, and I brought it up to Ma, she was all, “Well, yeah…I mean, me and two generations back all had hysterectomies by your age…so who KNOWS when menopause hits this side of the family?”


…And she said, “Well…maybe peri…”


…And she said, “Reasons.”

…So, needless to say, after a really shitty performance, in my really not best show, with streaks of white waiting to be dyed out of my temples, a bitchingly horrid period, and (apparently) peri-menopausal sweats, I decided to be terribly terribly depressed on the day of my birth.

I’m usually anxiety bound…so this was a new thing. It sucks too. Especially the involuntary bursting into tears bit. You know…the, “I should take a shower, but what’s the point, I’m fat anyway…my back hurts like I’ve been punched in the kidneys…I think I’ve bled so much I may have turned anemic and SUNOFABITCH it’s HOT IN HERE!”

…That kind of thing.

…Wrapped up in: ” All my LIFE I wanted to be EQUITY and pro, doing only theatre by age 35, and now its only one year away and I’ll never make it…or if I do, I’d only work like once every five years…there aren’t enough houses here to support it anymore…and I’m a coward…totally unlike The BFF who just opened her first solo company in freakin’ New Orleans last week…you know…cuz she SAID so…and also, no matter WHAT I do, these last ten pounds just won’t go away. It’s like my body is STARVING for the fat…to keep it warm and sweaty (apparently)…also my mood swings could basically be categorized as step-one bipolar disorder…if that’s even a thing…and I’m in my mid-thirties…and STILL struggling to pay bills and live life and figure out my head…and sometimes am maybe a little lonely…but never enough to deal with the shit that people have to deal with when they come in twos…”

…And also: “CHOCOLATE!”

…And, “Maybe I need some sex IMMEDIATELY, or at least more often…or maybe not ever again. But definitely salt. Like NOW!”

…And, “How DARE my mother call me menopausal! Peri or otherwise!!!’

{gentle sob}

…It’s been an interesting few weeks, to say the least. And by “interesting” I mean: “viciously feminine and horrifying.” And though the actual REAL heat outside is not helping my body’s imaginary already over-indulgence, the sunlight does. So I’m trying my best to use it as a guide…to get out in it and sweat more (on purpose) and hydrate like a sonofabitch…and try, try, try to find the humor hiding in all my personal little woes. It’s there. They are the original basis of Rom-Coms (minus the love story bit)…which is totally fine with me…cuz I obviously have enough shit to deal with right now without adding secondary subplots into the mess.

…And whatever all THAT means/achieves in outting crap for some better self mental-help: so be it. Consider it writ. You can now commence to make fun of me. Meanwhile…I’m packing up and going for a walk. Like a person.

Hurrah for me.


General FYI

28 Sep


I try not to “chug” Jameson.

…First of all, it’s “crass” and rude.  One should only “chug” bottom-shelf. But it’s been a week.  Plus, WHS Pimp has YouTube’d video’d me to a duel.  He was doing Jagger shots, with Red Bull chasers. I figure, I already pull ahead by doing a legit booze challenge with a “medium shelf.”

…At home (alone) after a particularly well received Friday performance, (after a particularly shitty week at work), I am two full glasses of Jameson, down.  Two swigs, like they were water.  I recorded the last to turn in (as WHS pimp did) his own.  I feel that I “win.”

…No “chaser.”

…Mine was two full tumblers. Straight. After a week we have shared. From hell.

….So, maybe, I’ll give him some lee-way.

…Anyway.  I am writing this now: toasted. As I deserve to be.

…The show tonight was well received.  We made people “gasp” and “laugh” and “yearn,” and I am home, directly after, reviewing my week.

It was the day in the life of an actor.  In that it was repleate with shit having nothing and everything to do with it,  And it was real,

My whole life has suddenly become, “real.”

This means something like: ” there are consequences.”

Decisions were made this week, which equal “that.”  And  decisions were NOT made, and equaled “that.”  This is what it is to be a human, in today’s era.  I kinda suck at it (is what I’ve learned from this week,)  But never-the-less, here we are.

…From all the “shit” accumulated…the fact that WHS Pimp still exists (however short his voluntary term is), I consider, the ONE  “blessing” in disguise.

…For now, else, we wait.

…As I do my final show in however many months it turns out to be.


…They are a bitch.

…But, perhaps, a necessary lesson.


Sometimes No News Is Better

16 Sep


It’s been several days since a real blog post, for good reason.  Not because I haven’t written them, but because one tires of the negative.

…I’ve been writing for a week, just to get it out. 

…Even though it feels like the never-ending-buffet-table of excessive “I won’t go away no matter what.”

…So my frustrations have accumulated and sit there, in the draft box, waiting for day-never.

You all certainly don’t deserve to have it show up in your inboxes.  Bills are bummer enough.  And as nothing seems to be going right at the moment, and everything from the office, to theatre, to finances is screamingly fucking frustrating beyond explanation, I have yet to find the spin on these matters wherein I can turn it into something I can make fun of.

Everything is just shit right now.  Period.

…What I’m walking into at the office tomorrow, god only knows.  I haven’t the faintest idea what to expect, which could equally be said with tomorrow’s rehearsal. 

I’ve yet to get approval from Corporate on the minion I picked, who after passing the drug test, still needs to give a two week notice to her current employer, which means she won’t even be here before I host the Corporate top-brass take-over, as well as do contracts on a fourth road show. Meanwhile I’ve already spent a week at a makeshift table by the trash can, in the warehouse, because the offices were three days behind on the fact lift by Monday. As of Friday, we were at eight days behind schedule, without even a toilet to pee in, let alone doors, or carpeting.

…We won’t even discuss the theatre fiasco, it would take too long and work me all up again.

…Meanwhile, I may (or may not) still be employed by next Friday, which means I may (or may not) even give a flying shit if I have an office door, OR a minion by then…but either way, at the moment, I’m mostly irritated because I’m home right now, after only a 3 hour cue-to-cue/tech, and can’t even toss back some whiskey so I can shut my head up from all this stress, and get some sleep tonight.

…I have this stupid personal rule about “not drinking when I’m depressed.”

And I have to tell you: the thought of being a teetotaler for the next foreseeable future is ALSO really pissing me off.

In short: I’ve got nothing amusing to share with you. Or positive. Not even a joke at someone elses expense, or a bitchy one-liner you can make a meme of, later, featuring cats in people clothes or Victorians talking about penises.

Out of a week’s worth of blogs, THIS is the least depressing one I have to give you.

…So it’s good I’ve moved onto other arenas besides “post-a-day” then, ain’t it?

It’s technically now Monday.

If I make it 24 hours without breaking something or sobbing in a bathroom, I’ll be very surprised.

Place your bets, now.


Real Time

12 Jan


Ladies and gentlemen, we are now in hour 1.52 of celebratory Opening Us-ness, post-performance.  Including dance parties via butts (so as not to piss off the downstairs  neighbors.) God.  We need to have a legit cast party at an actual house where we can lose our shit and jump around like assholes.

…We are such good examples of humanity to the youth of our cast. 

Guess what, though?

…Tonight is just grown-up time…with four almost grown-ups.  The Joe, a Marty, The Fella, and Me.

I’m restricted cuz of period pain pills. 

The limitation pisses me off. 

But we still managed to kill an entire magnum of Champagne in an over-sized Wine glass the size that God drinks out of…while playing “Thunder Struck”…which was new to me, cuz I never went to a Big-Ten college.

Then the Kracken and Coke and Vino were busted out…and the dance party got all yay-er.

…Also, we have a matinee tomorrow…or rather “today”…and there are Cheetoes in front of me.

…I dunno that this random stream-of-consciousness is gonna be as awesome when I read it in retrospect tomorrow…something like fifty seconds after the alarm goes off and I have to be in the shower. In fact, it prob’ly won’t…but at least I can say I fulfilled my blogging obligations for the day.

I am a responsible adult, dammit!

…Gotta go. We are apparently watching Katy Perry videos now.


…And Then The Alcohol Punched Them In The Face

1 Jan


Listen: it became the tiniest of gatherings, ringing in the New Year…after a rehearsal, straight to food buying, straight to cooking, straight to eating. 

In the end, it had been deemed the better idea, allowing us to dress in clothes of our preference with zero pomp and circumstance, while getting as embarrassingly drunk as we wanted to, with zero reputation-slaughtering repercussions.

…Marty n’ I were well into the champagne, laughing at “Legally Blond,” tripped out in various pj attire and shoving eleven kinds of food in our faces like Hoover vacs…mostly getting it in our mouths…when a call came in from one of our most beloved “Twelfth Night-ers.” So we whooped loudly, everyone talking at once over speaker phone, while cackling dirty laughter with our mouths full of chewed up food bits, when our “Joe” arrived, fresh from Party #1, in his three piece suit, bow tie and fedora. 

…The slobs embraced him thoroughly, and provided him with his own bottle of alcohol, and he, in turn, popped the cap, immediately proceeding to make out with said bottle mouth for the rest of the night…like those couples who can’t keep their hands off each other, only getting worse the drunker they get.

…But because, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” I cannot disclose the full beauty of what happened afterward…having nothing at all to do with sex, but everything in the world to do with the greatest hits of being totally trashed with people who you trust.

It was magical.

…And upon command of, ” We have to DO something when the clock strikes…a gesture…something to really punch it and make it matter,” an idea was put out on the floor to do a symbolic slaughter. Something of the past year, or an idea, or a thing that has haunted us that we want to start the New Year totally free of: write it down, then all rush outside, light the New Year stogie (saved for just this occasion), and pass it amongst ourselves as we light and watch disintegrate, that crappy whats-it from our past.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

…In a cold cloud of relief.

…Then back to the drinking as regularly scheduled…”Galaxy Quest” and “Back to the Future” tag teaming the TV in the background.

It was a night of a thousand giggles and guffaws, with tons of surprising moments of delighted “yay.” I may never know how long it truly lasted, as I peeled away at ’round 6 a.m…to pound water and pass out on a soft surface.

…To bed and to rise, with this crazy bright New Year sun screaming at me, and liquor corpses in the living room…which I should really do something with, but I figured they are well preserved, so can prob’ly wait at least as long as the length of a blog.

For reasons that don’t at all add up, I haven’t got the faintest tummy oots, or brain pain. It’s prob’ly that whole side of cow I ate that soaked up all the toxins, so I’ll have to remember to light a candle for it later…before confession.

…Keeping to tradition, Marty will bounce up with eyes round as saucers, blink a couple times and ask, “what’s happening, what’s next?” Cuz she’s the only human being I know who can get totally blitzed…not ONLY without repercussion, but can get by on 2 hours of sleep after it, waking up with the innocents of an infant, ready to start the day.

Our “Joe” being a new team member, still has the Jury out in debates.

…But either way, we had a helluva time…able to be the most basic us-like us’s, with complete freedom of safety, in a warm little house, stocked full of goodies to imbibe on, and beds and pillows to swallow us up afterwards.

A Happy New Year to you all! Hope your Alka Seltzer breakfasts and bed-buddies treated yuh well.

…And so off I go, to administer to the dead.


Why Yes, And Thank You

18 Oct


I always feel such a sense of accomplishment when a friend from Russia reads these posts.  Just to see that massive landmass all shaded, indicating readership coverage.  It sorta makes me feel like a mini Dictator to watch SWAL’s words take over the globe.  Either that or the History Channel’s maps they put up charting how plagues have spread across the world, and the total devastation they leave behind.

…Which is basically the same thing, when you think about it.

I am nothing more than a word dictating disease.


…I need to work on some more metaphors and similes, I think.

In Other News: I am on day 4 of a self-inflicted booze abstinence. I think I pulled something last time I made trips out to the recycling bins, and decided that there is really no need for me to consume more than one can carry, in one trip, over the course of two week’s time. Sure, I’m not the only one swilling at my house, but even if you cut those arm loads in half, there is still a whole lotta rotting grape going on in the “me,” on a consistent basis. I thought it was time to scale it back a bit. And by a bit, I mean cold turkey for now…firstly to make sure I can (and haven’t catered to my family habit of turning accidental drunkard), second: to drop some weight off, and third: because I am perpetually broke right now, and something had to go.

…So far, so good.

…Of course I haven’t really fed the beast by enticing myself either…with things like pasta and steak and pub hang time, which are the usual catalysts for gross amounts of boozing intake. But I’m pretty confident that I still could withhold even then. After all, I do have a full bar set-up in my living room, (with all the fixins.) And I do pass by it multiple times per day. And there are two bottles of red still corked and flirting with me from the corner pocket there. And I haven’t considered even tasting them, right now.

…Don’t feel any different physically, haven’t begun to lose any weight as yet (which could totally be Mrs. Johnson’s fault, as she waits just there in the wings.) All I know is: I know it ain’t “essential” to me, which is good. And I’m sure I’ll miss it at one point, which is fine. And eventually I’ll pour me out a glass and enjoy the hell out of it, like always. So be it.

And Also: My Horoscope (which I don’t really believe in, only this one app I use is like freakishly accurate 95% of the time) yesterday said that I have some really cool things coming my way, and that if I just accept the gift of them instead of balking it, almost everything in my world will be coming up roses. I can only assume that this means one of you will be splitting your Lotto winnings with me, or gift me a house, or car, or a much needed vacation in the Bahamas. For which I am stating, right now and for the record:”Why yes, I will take this boat/car/house/vacation/million dollars that you are willing to give me. And thank you.”


A Study On Textures (When You’re Tired)

14 Sep


Just a little ditty.

The BFF is here, fixing Old Fashions. 

…With a spoon in a glass, she crushes sugar cubes. Crunch, crunch…grind, crunch…stainless steel meeting sweet grained sand.

…A sigh of relieved pressure and soda water is splashed in…fizzing like pop rocks as it meets the sides of the glass.

Glug, glug, glug…bourbon…golden, yellow-brown…clean-edged with no bubble or froth…and a stir. 

Suddenly: A circular orange slice jumps in.

…Citrus, the perfect circumference of the tumbler glass, floats on the top, gauging each sip with a kiss on your lips.

Spaghetti, homemade…the kind of left-overs you dream about while you’re still eating it the first night, hit the plates. Steaming.  Garlicy. Italian sausage like butter, melting in your mouth.

On the player: Miles Davis: Quiet Nights.  A souvenir of Vacation, and travel, and tonight.

…Sliding some butter on a french bread…so fresh it ceeds to the knife with every swipe.

Yummy noises, and noodle slurps resound.

I’m tired…the good kind.  From so muchness and doings.  The BFF too…from working and life.

We sit in silence as I finish this blog.

“Too tired to try tonight,” I say.  “It won’t be a long one.”

“Take your time,” she hums, taking in the vinyl liner notes from the back of her new toy.

…The music fits this.  It’s random.  It’s kind of never ending.  It sort of goes nowhere in particular.  I say this aloud.

“You know nothing about Miles Davis at all,” The BFF defends, staunchly.

“I saw this documentary once,” I throw out on reserve.  Like that orange slice.

“Okay, so maybe you do know some stuff.  But that doesn’t mean you understand his greatness.”

“I do not,”  I admit.

…Another swirl of spaghetti on the spoon…the red sauce spatters me at the corner of my lip.  I’m too lazy to do anything but leave it there, while I pocket the pasta in my cheek and munch on.

…Sweet, garlic…silver onion…spices I can’t pick out…al dente pasta.


…Another sip of Old Fashioned.

“This is yay,” I comment .

“Yes,” The BFF confirms with a drink. “And later: a cigar.”

…I sit back from the table and inhale my guts to rest.


Everyone should have them.


Harbor Lights, Drunken Old Men, & Some Salsa

8 Sep


The BFF, texted me at 10 A.M., demanding we kick off my week of vacation on Friday, by consuming extra strong cocktails in the company of drunken old men, directly after work.

…To catch you up: there’s this place on the waterfront called Harbor Lights, which has the reputation of levelling anyone within a two-drink maximum consumption…I don’t give a shit WHO you are.

…You could be the hairiest, Harley-riding, spike-pierce-tatted, four-hundred-pound-beer-gutter ever invented, and I promise that you will still crawl your ass out of those doors like you’ve never had a drink before, if you even TRY to go one over the limit.

…I mean, we are talking “professionals” here, people. With it’s chasing globe-light sign and retro interior, it is the notorious favorite haunt of the older crowd pensioners — who have all been drinking socially for three times your life span and can still hold their liquor better than the badest-ass badass.

Routinely, we pass this place while taking the Ruston walk for fresh air, and see the willow-like frames of it’s inhabitants passing in and out it’s doors, smelling like the Jack Daniel’s distillery, yet amazingly still totally functioning and upright. To date: neither one of us has ever actually ventured into it’s doors. We are pretty awesome drinkers, but we know it would break us in nothing flat and we secretly fear for our egos*. (* “I fear NOTHING!”, The BFF counters immediately as I read her this sentence, in review.)

…But tonight! That all changes, my friends!

…The goal here is to get comfortably plowed at minimum cost, without a ralphing hangover lasting halfway into tomorrow. If we can manage it, I will declare us the, “Righteous Dames of Perfected Excess.” If not, you might be looking at another in-depth study on my stomach contents as they float in a toilet.

We can only try.

As curious as I am to launch into said experiment at all, this comes with a double bonus in the types of character study, that even my brain couldn’t possibly make up. What glory of ultimate delight awaits us? It’s frankly too good to waste by not leaving an open-ended two-parter episode option, I think.

…For this reason, I leave you now, in order to complete the kind of investigative reporting that you fully deserve. If I had a book deal or research grant, I could totally write it all off as an expense, based on topical study. But since I don’t, I can’t. Instead, this entire enterprise will be privately funded by The BFF’s Fella, so its kind of a giant deal.

…So don’t bitch that we never made sacrifices or gave you anything. Me: by willingly exposing my stomach lining and The BFF: by dating a gentleman, The Fella: for bankrolling our exploits.

…At some point, we’ll need to establish a PayPal Kick-Starter account, just to continue to enthrall you with our various shenanigan-wonderments.


…Dear God, that was a freakin brilliant idea. I am so glad I just wrote that down…

**End Act One**
**Act Two**

It is Happy Hour.

…Almost everything they make is five bucks, and at first sip we instantly realize the rumours have been true. I cough. The BFF grins. I make it through one and a half Mai Tais before my words start slurring as we take in the crowd.

We choose the bar instead of the restaurant…all of which is themed like something between a Captain’s ship and the cavern set for “The Goonies.” Everything is dated and falsely-preserved…including the bartender, upholstery, and dead, stuffed fish on the walls. It takes zero time at all to realize that all the septuagenarians in the room know each other…on account they call out one another’s name as new ones are added. This is what “Cheers” would have been like if it was still filming today.

…Only three people who don’t belong in the mix (besides us) are present: a youngish woman sitting by herself. A forty-ish man stirring a drink with his finger and staring morosely out the plastic tinted window toward the sea. And, the creepy dude at the bar who totally makes a point to turn, take in The BFF from head to toe and back to her boobs, before making his drink order.

“That just happened,” I say, as The BFF roles her eyes.

…It is shortly after this that The BFF’s Fella is added to the group. To make him feel properly welcomed, we yell his name upon sight, like everyone else in the bar sees fit to do. They smile and toast us in our efforts. He orders a “Peachy Drop.” It takes a “man” to just throw that kinda name out there, and still drink it with confidence.

The Fella is all over it.

…We finish our drinks and haul off home. It’s decided that “eating” should probably take place…and should probably have done so before these monster drinks. Free food takes precedence to sitting here all night, soaking up overheard conversations (and looks from Creepy Bar Guy.) And, since we are privately funded and can apply our non existent grants at our whim, we exit with about twelve kinds of alcohol swishing our insides, like three walking, toxic waterbeds.


…A lot of food-making action thence takes place…and sweating, cuz the kitchen is one step hotter than hell…and eating, cuz we could medal in that. It is somewhere shortly after dinner, that The Fella suggests our next feat of wonder: going Salsa dancing.

Our guts: full of baked chicken, mashed potatoes and stuffing, all trying their best to beat down the alcohol into a functioning position, aren’t sure that they agreed with the plan. But DAMMIT, this is my VACATION, and I am the boss of the me! Plus, the idea has already come up about a dozen times before this, every time we collectively passed that studio on 6th Ave. Along with lessons, it has free open door social dancing on Fridays, and we keep meaning to go, but get too lazy to actually do it. Tonight, since we were already breaking precedence, we decide to break that one too.

**Act Three** (a bonus)

We divide to doll up, and digest our evening’s imbibings privately.

Then: Behold, only fifty minutes later, I’m being flung all over the studio by a variety of partners I have never met before. Though arriving with no partner, I never sit out a dance…even when I try to, (so I can bogart one of the fans and search for water.) Only about ten seconds into my plan, a dude materializes, holds out a hand, grins, and nods. This is the universal sign of “wanna dance?” when the music is set louder than the five industrial fans blowing sweat all over a studio ballroom. And because its fun as hell, of course I take them up on it. Every time. Which gets me everywhere from partnering with a barely pubescent boy, to a tiny, tiny Asian man who flings me around in super speeds…which I somehow manage to follow…thus looking like I not only actually know what I’m doing, but might even do it at competition levels.

“Oh my god! Did you see that?!” I demand of The BFF as I wobble back toward the fan she and The Fella are currently frequenting. “I had no idea where in the hell to spot or anything, and that turney-turney-turney-loop thing? What the hell was that?! It was masterful!”

“That dude has serious game! You actually looked like you knew what you were doing!”

“I know, right?!”

…And the screaming conversation ends, as another hand shoots out in front of me, and I’m off to the races again with what turns out to be the co-owner of the studio.

…We had quickly become favorites of the other one, earlier, on account of me jabbering about theatre. This was in hopes it would sidetrack her from noting my total lack of technique when it became my turn to be her partner, in the earlier mini class lesson (which we arrived at the ass-end of.) She got so excited about legit fellow performers in the room that she demanded I point out The BFF and The Fella too. (Which, come to think of it, is prob’ly the real reason I got so much instant man-dancing-meat out of the deal…but I totally don’t even care…cuz it was amazing-fun.)

“Who needs sex? I can just Salsa the rest of my life!”

This is my new slogan and theme I invent, as we wobble back to the car. Upon exiting, we promise to come back, and receive monster hugs despite all that sweat, for doing so.

“Do we know that woman who just hugged us?” The Fella asks, outside of the door.

“She owns the place. She thinks we’re rad cuz we actually dressed up. And do theatre, and she used to, and misses it. Also: she was a mad-skills ballroom dancing competitor, but had to quit cuz she got injured and sick.”

The Fella’s eyebrows raise in question.

“…Back when we first wanted to come here, I did a shit-ton of research on the studio and the owners.”

“Of course you did,” The BFF resounds. “Hey, lemme have the keys, I’m driving.”

“You okay to drive?” The Fella counters, just to make sure.

“Babe, I’ve been sober since about five minutes after we showed up there. All the alcohol got sweated out like an hour and a half ago.”

…And I realize this is actually true.

I also realize that maybe I wanna do this EVERY Friday night.

Possibly, for the rest of my life!

…But maybe, minus the stuffing.


Your Id Called…

9 Aug


I live by a pub.  So I happen to know first hand, through hours of careful subject study, that the following is in fact a scientific truth.

Here’s what I think: alcohol is actually magic.  We’re just used to it, so take it’s many elemental aspects for granted.  I know this for two reasons:

1) I have seen drunk people do and live through things only a Superhero could.
2) If enough is consumed, the subject actually reverses the history of evolution.

…If that ain’t magical, I dunno what is.

If you are honest about it (and why not be)…there is a specific threshold of amazement that we all hit while imbibing in the various juices of rotting chemistry.  We grow a little taller, get a little sexier…our wit becomes landmark in its styling and nuance. Almost every time you are drunk you can suddenly debate everything from Politics to Philosophy far better than the assholes who happen to do it for a living.  You solve world hunger and economic crashes, end Wars, cure Cancer and prob’ly even invented the internet that one time. 

…If humanity were allowed to live in this higher echelon of thinky amazement all the time, we would own the universe, live on Mars and need no God.

Also, we’d have figured out “recycling.”

…But because of the adage, “Too much of a good thing”…and how there’s all these “pluses” needing “minuses” to balance stuff out in the universe…the magic juice eventually turns a chemical corner. Somewhere between cup two and eight (depending on your particular constitution), the subject of said magic will alter drastically.  Most of the time it appears nearly instant, and unforgiving.  Suddenly, after an all-night bender of intake, a person breaks through the invisible barrier of the human world into an entirely new dimension of  being. You can tell because they begin to regress in intellect and motor skills immediately, becoming Aliens to this world and it’s limitations.  Suddenly the thinky genius has been smacked down by the hand of God himself (probably)…a direct result of having to…on account if not, what use would be consequences, and things like heaven and hell?

…The air starts getting heavier all of a sudden, the subject’s head begins to bobble like an infant.  Next, like the building of Babylon, new tongues arrive, replacing  the old. Said subject is suddenly aware they’ve forgotten how to speak the human language almost entirely…or else every one else has, cuz no one seems to be understanding  them.  They waver and bend and flop and bray, trying their best to explain that the body they were handed  at the door (they “guess,” cuz they don’t really remember) isn’t working so well.  The legs are all floppy, the feet don’t fit, and the air keeps pushing them down.  Why this vendetta with “space,” they don’t know…only like a bully in a schoolyard it keeps socking them to the ground. Or maybe someone stole their bones?

“My bones! My bones!” They cry, as people who’s skin actually fits them,  watch from tables nearby.

…Maybe here is when the magical juice decides it wants to backfire a bit. Prob’ly because the various mixings of its various elements are now cooking in the Bunsen burner of said subject’s gut, and their body has decided the compounds don’t really go together as well as one thought they would.

A heaving out of the magics, thus commences. 

…Great chunks and colors explode about, blessing with baptism whoever happens to be nearby.  And there is anger and confusion across the land.

And maybe a fight.

…But because of the residual magics still soaked in, (the ones that haven’t all hydrogen bombed out, in a regurgitation mushroom cloud of sick)…said subject is still blessed with their one remaining power that they, until now, had no idea they possessed.

“And invincibility shall be yours!” Quotes the magics from inside.

So it is.

Faces, absorb fists like quick sand with nary a mark. You can’t break a bone with the wildest kick or snap, when you have none to break. Falling over becomes a slow motion sport wherein said subject can actually arrest time and manipulate the elements. Throw them against an object,  (a parked car, rock or street sign), and like putty they merely bounce back, ricocheting off with the use of their enemy’s energy with superb (though floppy) return. This can go on for hours, or minutes…or minutes which seem like hours…but in the end leaves the exhausted human-hybrid freakishly still somewhat functioning. Not a broken or incapacitated part of their anatomy to show for their enemy’s work.

This too shall pass, however. Because the magics will only charm so long before they are drained of their power. And this is where the great wizard of humanity, falls from favor and begins to revert back to the human entity of before.

…A quivering, vomiting, sweating, gurgling, sopping mass…like the things which once first pulled themselves onto land and began to crawl the earth. No language or comfort can reach them.  No reasoning can enlighten them.  They are now as once were cavemen…grunting, rolling upon the ground, soiling themselves with disgrace and completely in shock at the great journey they have, that evening, made.  Space and time travel could not possibly outdo the wonderment of disease-curing humanity, to Biblical wizard, to Superhero, to this. 

“How did it happen?!  Why was this done?!  Dear Lord, may I never repeat it, if I ever live beyond this moment of horrific gut-pain and puking loss!”

…But because (as Tolkien and Harry Potter and Buffy teach us) the magics are hypnotical powers, calling to our ancient selves in search of constant enlightment of things that could be! There is almost never a, “never again,” as sworn.

…The “what if?” And “imagine this.” Are far too great a possibility.

And so, there came to be great crops risen, far across the land…called “pubs” and “bars,” “distilleries,” “vinyards” and “breweries.”  And like the lost hopefuls that we are, humanity doth frequent them, rise up with magics of greatness and return to earth with wild crashings. 

It’s because we care. 

…We want to solve the burning questions and fucked up philosophies…we want to be our most beautiful and invincible selves. 

…We do it because, like all experimenters across time who have walked the earth: perhaps someday we will manage to obtain and sustain this great enlightenment for the  good of all mankind.

…And perhaps it’ll be this Friday.

Oh, but we shall do our best to try.


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