Drunken Nostalgia

Tonight, I am writing courtesy of Jack. It was supposed to be the little Jack. Not the airline size, the one that has just about three shots. My usual liquor store by my job didn’t have it, nor any other whiskey in that size. Just brandy and rum. I walked east and found the little cheaper place, but they didn’t have it either. I did not want the half pint, I just wanted half that much. Someone suggested I go to the wine shop nearby. Silly me. I thought they just sold wine. A lovely woman at the door gave me a taste of a California white blend, but I was much more impressed with the glass than what was in it (it was as light as a feather). They had a half pint of Jack, so I bought it. And I’ve just finished my second shot. So here we go.

I will only edit for things that I might regret saying after I hit publish, like referring to someone’s mother as a whore. Let me just say that I have a lot of respect for mothers and women who do what they gotta do to take care of their kids, plus I have long thought that we should just legalize prostitution. (Here is a thought – referring back Putin stating that Russia has the best prostitutes, and to the issue of immigration, I do think we need a strong vetting system regarding immigrants, and have always felt we should not be letting in, and I’m being truthful here, many Russians. There’s a whole Russian mafia here in the United States, and they’re not very nice, but those prostitutes! They come here to this country and THEY steal jobs from our prostitutes. That’s where the problem is!)

Eyes scroll up, re-focus. Okay, no editing unless something regretful is said.

You know, I’m always writing crap during the week, in this tone because this is genuinely how I write. But still, come Sundays I am often at a loss. Too personal, too whiny, too – who gives a flying fuck. There is a theme to the blog though it has developed into something else (Note to self – Will you PLEASE update your About page! Sheesh!) I’ve got tons of underdeveloped stories and here, I’ll share another with you, as it should be noted that I am about to get up and pour shot number three, aware that I can still edit at I go, I think.

This is an Amy story. I can mention her by name, like Vicki, as they are both deceased, less than 5 months apart. I liked going to small theater with Amy. Sure in later years I would go more often with Vicki. Good thing I like off-off Broadway because Vicki cannot be trusted in a Broadway theater as evidenced by the time – oh you know this story – when we were at a Broadway revival of Showboat (yawn) and just before the show started I had been telling Vicki my theory that all men are assholes and all you can do is pick your asshole. Vicki then gave one of her sharply inhaled laughs and exhaled, loudly, “Pick your asshole.” Fortunately, the lights went down shortly after.

Let it be noted that I have just taken the first sip of my third shot and in my mind, I am doing incredibly well. I am now also eating bread and butter. *Not that Vicki wasn’t a very smart person, but Amy was a bit of an intellect and we shared an appreciation of small productions of plays. We would go see the classics like Hedda Gabler, which I remember nothing about other than Amy benignly scolding someone for honking, to which that person took umbrage; a college version of The Importance of Being Ernest, of which Amy rightfully pointed out that the English accents were toooo drawn out; Twelfth Night, where we both going to pop the guy behind us who was showing off for his date by reciting along (what do you think the odds are that there was another date), with that same off-off Broadway Shakespearean company, we saw a remarkable thing – A production of Venus and Adonis, one of Shakespeare’s long sonnets done with a cast of seven, three women taking on the voice of Venus and four men as Adonis. It was great! And that I could have recited along with as it is my favorite poem, my favorite work by the Bard. And I don’t even like poetry, but yeah, I have read Shakespeare. I can’t really believe it myself. And get this – my favorite play is August Strindberg’s Dream Play. What? Who? I said this last year and I say it again, now with the spring in the offing, I have got to use my NYC creds and get me to the theater.

So the picture, that’s a tough one with losing Amy and Vicki so close together, seeming like yesterday rather than three years ago. That’s Vicki in the middle, and her sister holding on to Amy, the beautiful blond, because Amy hated having her picture taken.

I’ve just finished the third shot, and it is increasingly difficult to write as I am continually correcting as I go, and still thinking I’ve done well. I want to point out that unlike last week when I experimented by writing off the cuff for the hour before I had to hit PUBLISH, I am writing this on Friday, painfully aware that come tomorrow I must bring the laptop I love so much in to the Geek Squad for whatever it takes to cure its ails. So unless I say otherwise, this is being posted from my cellphone.

BTW – It’s not like I have not written under the influence before, far from it, but this is raw and I’m leaving it as is. And I’ve got another rally tomorrow, Monday. I’ll be sober when you read this, but now, well I think it’s a good thing I’m done.