"How do you feel at the end of the day? Are you sad because you’re on your own? No, I get by with a little help from my friends" The Beatles from "A Little Help From My Friends"
As I lay shackled to my hospital bed by bulky leather wrist restrains counting the holes in the ceiling panel the nurse brings me my daily does of pharmacuetical normalcy in an "Arby’s self server ketchup sized" Dixie cup. Dear Sweet Woman! She leans over me pouring the chalk covered pills into my waiting oral cavity and asks why I never have visitors. I want to shout "Because this is all in my head, you nit wit" but the pills have already started taking effect. All I can do is drift away thinking about my friends.
We used to host this annual event we dubiously called "The Grinch Party". Every year round Christmas time we would frantically muster our holiday crew like the fucking Avengers. "Grinchers Assemble!" And like they were trying to board the last train leaving Auschwitz (What? Too soon?) they would cram into whatever domicle we had procurred. Booze would be consumed at frat party levels. Bottle after bottle of Mexico’s finest and/or cheapest tequilla would be shot, beers from far away lands with buxom strumpets on the labels would be imbibed leaving only a green glass mountain to be dealt with the next hungover morning. Cigars that smelled of Havana in June were usually on hand and it always involved a group screening of the Dr. Suess masterpiece "How The Grinch Stole Christmas" as narrarated by Boris Karloff.
It was a tradition that was more meaningful to us than Phoebe Cates pollside striptease, and that means a lot to every red blooded American male. The same people would show each and every year, usually being the only time I any contact with them. But somehow they all felt like family. Drunk Uncle’s that would embarrass themselves with Swiss watch precision. Tea toadling Aunt’s that would dispense romantic advice as if they were Dear Abbey. Cousins that, when enough alcohol was gulped, were so arousing that genetics be damned, you had to have it. Kind. Loving. Hammered. Good people. Trying to think back, I realize that most of the misadventures have been lost in alcohol related black-outs, but there was always a feeling, for days after the party, that a good time was had by all.
What kind of traditions do you share with your friends? What’s the one party you will never forget?
Dixie Cup of Love: Red Dawn.
Please leave your comments and heaps of kudos below.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Re-Union of the Snake
"The union of the snake is on the climb.. It’s gonna race it’s gonna break -Gonna move up to the borderline.." Duran Duran from "Union of the Snake"
The nurse that hands out meds here at the Asylum was talking on her blue tooth about her high school reunion when she sauntered in to dose yours truly. Bless her for the happy little pills. But her phone conversation got me thinking about my own 10 year reunion.
I hadn’t planned on attending the quasi-wretch inducing event. Some people look forward to these soiree’s. Some want to get back in touch with their long lost "BFF", as they robotically wrote in the yearbook. Some want to see who has pushed the level of drug abuse to a Keith Richards like level. Some just want to say "Fuck you" to the person they were too intimidated by in their youth. I didn’t care. But a budy talked me into it.
There we were, a small band of my misfit, outcast chums were huddled around a circular table, sipping our over-priced imports, and talking a Nebraska farm-sized load of shit. There was a lot of "Look’s like Tina couldn’t push back from the buffet", "Check out the hairline on Johnny Football, Rogaine anyone?", "5 kids! It’s a vagina not a clown car!". Amongst all this defamatory commentary I spied the object of my prep school crush walking into the room. "Adrianna still wears leather pants." I quipped at the site of her. This statement turned the head of every Y chromosone at the table. It also caused an array of domestic violence as wives slapped, pinched or kicked their non-signficant others. Many were the nights that thinking of a spa side game of "Flick the Clit" with her fueled my adolescent assent into manhood. And it could not be denied. Adrianna was still hotter than Georgia asphault.
The vision of her still looking as tasty as she did covered in Adam Ant make-up in Social Studies made my nicotine level plummet. Nirvana awaited in an open courtyard where I railed down smokes faster than Tony Montana draining a gram vial. Somewhere between emphysema and lung cancer I was joined by my mastabutory muse and her husband. I still call him The Lucky bastard. I say hello, introducing myself to The Lucky Bastard. As I shake his hands he asks if I was friends with his wife in school. What could I say, "No, but I jerked off thinking about her alot." But she saved me from the embarrassment of admitting that she was the sole member in my MHS spank bank. "We weren’t really friends, but he used to drive by my house all the time." Holy Shit! Busted!
There was no choice but to fess up like a criminal at the end of a CSI: Miami episode. She responded by putting a bullet in my head. "How come you never stopped?" Was she fucking kidding me? This woman was the personification of sexy, still is, but she was like Kryptonite to me in school. Too hot to touch, made me weak to be around her.
Standing there I realized that I was a coward. "Dear Wizard, I need the nerve.. Signed Lion." So right there I manned up, "If it’s alright with The Lucky Bastard, I’d really like to dance with you, you know, to make up for the stalking." And we danced. To Duran Duran (one of the hazards of graduating in the 80’s). It was a dream come true.
Have you ever had a crush you never fessed up to? Ever felt the sweet redemption of confronting your teenage nemesis? Ever get to dance with "The One"? I wanna hear your stories, it makes the days in the Asylum go by faster.
Dixie Cup of Love: To Adrianna for being an Ant fan and my dream girl.
The nurse that hands out meds here at the Asylum was talking on her blue tooth about her high school reunion when she sauntered in to dose yours truly. Bless her for the happy little pills. But her phone conversation got me thinking about my own 10 year reunion.
I hadn’t planned on attending the quasi-wretch inducing event. Some people look forward to these soiree’s. Some want to get back in touch with their long lost "BFF", as they robotically wrote in the yearbook. Some want to see who has pushed the level of drug abuse to a Keith Richards like level. Some just want to say "Fuck you" to the person they were too intimidated by in their youth. I didn’t care. But a budy talked me into it.
There we were, a small band of my misfit, outcast chums were huddled around a circular table, sipping our over-priced imports, and talking a Nebraska farm-sized load of shit. There was a lot of "Look’s like Tina couldn’t push back from the buffet", "Check out the hairline on Johnny Football, Rogaine anyone?", "5 kids! It’s a vagina not a clown car!". Amongst all this defamatory commentary I spied the object of my prep school crush walking into the room. "Adrianna still wears leather pants." I quipped at the site of her. This statement turned the head of every Y chromosone at the table. It also caused an array of domestic violence as wives slapped, pinched or kicked their non-signficant others. Many were the nights that thinking of a spa side game of "Flick the Clit" with her fueled my adolescent assent into manhood. And it could not be denied. Adrianna was still hotter than Georgia asphault.
The vision of her still looking as tasty as she did covered in Adam Ant make-up in Social Studies made my nicotine level plummet. Nirvana awaited in an open courtyard where I railed down smokes faster than Tony Montana draining a gram vial. Somewhere between emphysema and lung cancer I was joined by my mastabutory muse and her husband. I still call him The Lucky bastard. I say hello, introducing myself to The Lucky Bastard. As I shake his hands he asks if I was friends with his wife in school. What could I say, "No, but I jerked off thinking about her alot." But she saved me from the embarrassment of admitting that she was the sole member in my MHS spank bank. "We weren’t really friends, but he used to drive by my house all the time." Holy Shit! Busted!
There was no choice but to fess up like a criminal at the end of a CSI: Miami episode. She responded by putting a bullet in my head. "How come you never stopped?" Was she fucking kidding me? This woman was the personification of sexy, still is, but she was like Kryptonite to me in school. Too hot to touch, made me weak to be around her.
Standing there I realized that I was a coward. "Dear Wizard, I need the nerve.. Signed Lion." So right there I manned up, "If it’s alright with The Lucky Bastard, I’d really like to dance with you, you know, to make up for the stalking." And we danced. To Duran Duran (one of the hazards of graduating in the 80’s). It was a dream come true.
Have you ever had a crush you never fessed up to? Ever felt the sweet redemption of confronting your teenage nemesis? Ever get to dance with "The One"? I wanna hear your stories, it makes the days in the Asylum go by faster.
Dixie Cup of Love: To Adrianna for being an Ant fan and my dream girl.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Manifestos, Commandments, and Other Things Worth Dying For
"Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends, step inside, step inside." Emerson, Lake, and Palmer from "Karn Evil 9"
Spring has sprung like a fat kids boner the day the Victoria Secrets catalog shows up in the mail. Rejoice. Time for all those wonderful spring things to start popping up. The birds will start singing a sweet, seductive tune. The bees will move from flower to flower faster than a certain rehab addicted celebrity moves from club to club. Proms will be given Velveeta cheesy themes like "Night of 1000 Premature Ejaculations". Virgins will become certified pharmacists and many a girl will never remember her first time. Ah, youth. It really is wasted on the young. But the single greatest gift that Spring has to deliver has nothing to do with proms, birds, bees, or drug addled actresses, no it’s the sweet stench of the asylum doors being kicked wide open for "Bring your Kids to Shock Treatment" night. And I’m standing in the door way greeting you with a grin that promises both something sinister and something sweet.
The One Man Asylum Manifesto - written by Bill Kaczynski, brother of that Unibrow guy.
The Promises
1. The Asylum will not dispense romantic advice too often. If you want that read Stephanie’s Blog. I know nothing about these things, don’t pretend too.
2. The Asylum will not feature a gob of pictures to express a stream of consiouness. If you want that read The Captain’s Blog. She does it better than a lunatic ever could, besides the straight jacket really limits mouse movement.
3. The Asylum doesn’t feature poetry, discussions about the difference between Merlot and Pinot Noir, nor any other subject matter that is beyond the scope of the inmates overly medicated minds.
4. The Asylum will praise those that stand up against the tyranny, privacy evading, e-mail reading Paparazzi. Most of the swill that they chase after with cam-corders held aloft are only famous because TMZ decided that we wanted to know. You wanna see someone that knows how to handle the soul sucking leeches, talk to James Caan.
5. The Asylum will discuss, ad naseum, the truly important things in life, like Lost, Heroes, Jericho, and Inside the Actors Studio.
6. The Asylum will hold in reverence those that make entertainment entertaining. Minds like Smith, Tarantino, Rodriguez, Reitman, Abrams, Spielberg, Coppola, Mendes, and Scorsese.
7. The Asylum will covet the talent of the pensmiths. Names like Bendis, Miller, Vaughn, Cody, Kaufman, Sorkin, Ellis, and Ennis.
8. The Asylum vows to suck less, rock like the balls, and name the names of those that take our meds away.
The 5 Commandments, because 10 is really over used.
Thou shall call Paris either "The City of Lights" or "The Retarded Hilton Girl"
Thou shall leave comments for good or bad.
Thou shall heap kudos upon the Asylum by the truck load
Thou shall TiVo "The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson" because that Scotish-American is hilarious.
Thou shall post pictures of Plastic Surgeries Gone Bad, because lunatics love nothing better than the hatchetted face of a once lovely person (have you seen Priscilla Presley, WTF)
If we were to expand the commandments list to 7, which two would you add?
Dixie Cup of Love: Graham for giving me the idea in the first place.
Spring has sprung like a fat kids boner the day the Victoria Secrets catalog shows up in the mail. Rejoice. Time for all those wonderful spring things to start popping up. The birds will start singing a sweet, seductive tune. The bees will move from flower to flower faster than a certain rehab addicted celebrity moves from club to club. Proms will be given Velveeta cheesy themes like "Night of 1000 Premature Ejaculations". Virgins will become certified pharmacists and many a girl will never remember her first time. Ah, youth. It really is wasted on the young. But the single greatest gift that Spring has to deliver has nothing to do with proms, birds, bees, or drug addled actresses, no it’s the sweet stench of the asylum doors being kicked wide open for "Bring your Kids to Shock Treatment" night. And I’m standing in the door way greeting you with a grin that promises both something sinister and something sweet.
The One Man Asylum Manifesto - written by Bill Kaczynski, brother of that Unibrow guy.
The Promises
1. The Asylum will not dispense romantic advice too often. If you want that read Stephanie’s Blog. I know nothing about these things, don’t pretend too.
2. The Asylum will not feature a gob of pictures to express a stream of consiouness. If you want that read The Captain’s Blog. She does it better than a lunatic ever could, besides the straight jacket really limits mouse movement.
3. The Asylum doesn’t feature poetry, discussions about the difference between Merlot and Pinot Noir, nor any other subject matter that is beyond the scope of the inmates overly medicated minds.
4. The Asylum will praise those that stand up against the tyranny, privacy evading, e-mail reading Paparazzi. Most of the swill that they chase after with cam-corders held aloft are only famous because TMZ decided that we wanted to know. You wanna see someone that knows how to handle the soul sucking leeches, talk to James Caan.
5. The Asylum will discuss, ad naseum, the truly important things in life, like Lost, Heroes, Jericho, and Inside the Actors Studio.
6. The Asylum will hold in reverence those that make entertainment entertaining. Minds like Smith, Tarantino, Rodriguez, Reitman, Abrams, Spielberg, Coppola, Mendes, and Scorsese.
7. The Asylum will covet the talent of the pensmiths. Names like Bendis, Miller, Vaughn, Cody, Kaufman, Sorkin, Ellis, and Ennis.
8. The Asylum vows to suck less, rock like the balls, and name the names of those that take our meds away.
The 5 Commandments, because 10 is really over used.
Thou shall call Paris either "The City of Lights" or "The Retarded Hilton Girl"
Thou shall leave comments for good or bad.
Thou shall heap kudos upon the Asylum by the truck load
Thou shall TiVo "The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson" because that Scotish-American is hilarious.
Thou shall post pictures of Plastic Surgeries Gone Bad, because lunatics love nothing better than the hatchetted face of a once lovely person (have you seen Priscilla Presley, WTF)
If we were to expand the commandments list to 7, which two would you add?
Dixie Cup of Love: Graham for giving me the idea in the first place.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
