Forty Four

This week marks the forty fourth anniversary of my emergence into this plane of reality, and if this universe is a huge, whirling miasma of misdirected justice and delicious things to eat, then its about fucking time that I shed some of the trappings of my previous epiphanies, those which were produced under duress or influence of outside forces, and do more than just take stock of these deficiencies or slyly note the stilted progress since my last spectacular flame out, which was much longer ago than even I realize, and do some-fucking-thing about them, or at least write out the motivation in a long run-on sentence to be posted for you to read and hassle me about the next time you see me, which, admittedly, may be never.

Thus, what follows is an incomplete list of Shit I Don't Want To Do Anymore:

1) Smoke cigarettes - At damn near a pack a day since I started high school, I think I've filled my quota for tobacco dependence and I'd really like to be able trot more than half a block without gasping for air. Similarly, if I ever get laid again, I'd like to spend the denouement of that glorious act with enough lung power to gather my chi for round two  (or three or four, as the case may be) and not lying in a pool of my own stink worried about sweating on you or your ex-girlfriend.

2)  Live in a cave of my own design - When was the last time you saw me have any fun?  If I have, on occasion, ventured away from my beloved bungalow, I'd be standing in a corner of the party passing judgment on the hapless, planning my exit strategy and being a general pain in the ass. So I say to myself in all seriousness, "Lighten up, Pony Boy, and enjoy something...outside, with actual people, maybe some of whom you don't know"

3) Ignore money - Currency is not a toy to be used for self-punishment or a mystical force that gets strippers to talk to me. I want to buy that little bar someday (a couple taps, a great jukebox, hot tamales for the soaking up of the hooch, and a little apartment upstairs; sounds like a blissful retirement plan, huh?), and that aint ever gonna happen if I keep throwing my money around like it's going to infect me with the Ebola virus if it stays in my wallet for more than twelve hours after pay day.

4) Distrust art - I have a vague recollection of being moved, or at least intrigued, by creativity, yours or mine, but I've looked upon artistic endeavors as the great lie of youth in my middle age. Promise and potential squandered or perverted has thickened my hide to the siren's call of The Arts, and I would cherish the wide eyed awe that used to accompany the shotgun blast of the new.

So, there you have it, a ballsy and specific list, to be sure, but not totally outside the realm of possibility. Any tips, dissension or encouragement would be greatly appreciated.

As we used to say in the scribbled margins of yearbooks..."K.I.T., and have a bitchen summer

8:52 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

its late, im drunk, just humor me, he said knowingly

The subject of disappointment is a bitch, to be sure, but it does provide some very valuable perspective and I have been ruminating on this topic all evening and into this morning.

The general shittiness of human beings, myself included, has cultivated and tamed my cynicism for the everyday mindfuck that is trust. Let me tell you, Brothers and Sisters, I am perpetually disappointed by our species, be it inter-personal or on a more global level. From dipshit war mongers to redneck land rapers to simple jackasses who can't rise above their own petty bullshit, I feel cosmically tested just about every day, on one side of the coin or another.

The upside is that I can alter my behavior to be the opposite of what I encounter, an easy observation, and thereby cement my "stand-up guy" status. Coppice?

More universally, for every ungrateful motherfucker there is the person who stuck their neck out in the first place. So, we still exist and thrive; the stand-up guys and the do right women.

And I always have to separate my fandom from the artist as human. And by artist I mean anyone working their angle with style and vision. From biography and history we can surmise that most great artists, tortured and moody all, have been major pains-in-the-ass to live with. Honestly, did Van Gogh ever pay his brother back? Did Miles Davis ever apologise? Did Shakespeare ever talk about anything but himself? I don't know the answers to these questions, but I feel fairly certain that the stories do not end well. On the odd occasion that the self-involved artist repents and goes through a colossal change in attitude, either through epiphany or rehab, their art invariably suffers. Partially, I believe, because the torment and self affliction is just what makes their art compelling in the first place.

In regards to the interpersonal bummers, the he-said-she-said-sonatas, the break ups and let downs, let me just day this: Joke 'em if they can't take a fuck.
To have slogged through all the relationship swamps we have traversed in our time and not come away with a fine sheen of invulnerability is just absurd.
As the Okies say, cowboy the fuck up.
Kna'mean?

Fair enough, you're all off the hook...for the time being

2:54 AM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

FOOD IS MY LIFE / I HATE FOOD…

TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM…

My business is the business of feeding those who have the class and cash to afford themselves service. In this fruitless endeavor, I have encountered many a shithead who can't distinguish between friendly customer service and slave labor, and it is these people who stick in my craw like the proverbial broken off end of the toothpick. Similarly, I have also spent a lot of time talking to cops and lawyers and all I really have to show for that is a healthy vocabulary of bullshit and a belief in the notion of the letter of the law, if you can get behind it in a righteous way.

To wit, there's this pain in the ass private party that I'm supposed to cater a reunion weekend for and they're making all manner of unreasonable request; bringing in a ringer chef and not buying our wine and whatnot. Nothing criminal, just trying to nickel and dime us, but with that shit eating grin, a kind of "I'm going to do you a favor and fuck you over" kind of grin that I am all too familiar with. The letter of the aforementioned law, in this case, involves the fact that they can't do that, and I have to break it to them, gentle but firm-like, before the thing gets out of hand and our license gets yanked.

So, before show time I break it down to the assembled General Managership of the hospitality group that employs me that we gotta have our story straight before we go into the lion's den and put the kibosh on a paying customer's slightest whim. Such is the nature of the gig.
I get a letter from the suits upstairs that lays out the uptight liquor commission edict what says they can't bring in their own hooch (a bullshit bylaw, I believe, but the word of the law in these parts), as well as the county health code what says the guy that cooks the steaks must possess a
rudimentary knowledge of how not to poison somebody (perfectly valid, in my mind). I get the document signed by the higher ups, making it legit, and am fully prepared to bust it out before we grill steak one.

With this trump card burning a hole in my baggy chef pant's pocket, I load up the van and schlep the chow up river to the venue and, upon arrival, me and the crew (mildly competent, all) start about our business, but are interrupted by the host (who, as it turns out, IS A FUCKING EX-COP, retired, and the rest of his party, 45 strong, ARE ALSO EX-COPS) who wants to try and get out of paying his fair share of the tab by pulling this slimy tactic and that smarmy nonsense. I stick to my guns and let him know that he's in my precinct now, (not dickishly mind you, I act like a perfect little gentleman while telling that fat fuck what's what) and if he wants to bring in his own booze, he's still gotta pay. Like a glass rental or respect money to the local thumb breaker; it's gonna cost him to operate under his own rules in somebody else's house. Then, he actually tries to negotiate the fee, as though one could honestly and without irony barter their way out of the set menu price. It simply isn't done. At least not on my watch. So I hit him with the letter, signed by my boss, which clearly states that his cook, actually a "security consultant", is not allowed anywhere near the broiler, and further more, if they want to drink wine with dinner they have to buy it from me, and not Trader Joes.

And he looks at me like, "Ok punk, it's on...", and I think to myself, "...like Donkey Kong...cocksucker".

Now, let's keep in mind that in my illustrious career as a sarcastic muckraker and general malcontent I have certainly had this conversation before, but always with the stakes stacked in favor of the aforementioned cocksucker (read: COP) at the end of a mag-light
shining into the driver's side and demanding the proper papers. The scenario has rarely ended well and occasionally ended tragically, but a few well placed, early morning, mandatory court appearances taught me the lingo and pentameter and tone of those who had the law on their side
and would not hesitate to use it for legal purposes or simply for the hell of it. Thusly, I was prepared for the hit and braced myself accordingly. I felt fairly confident that I was getting through to the guy and after some more manipulative misfires on his part, he slinks off to slurp more shitty box wine.

With the predicted unpleasantness out of the way, I get down to the business of doing that thing I do: fire the proteins, plate up the veg and starches, scramble for the right utensils, etcetera…but it all goes to shit on my end when the grill doesn't get hot enough to warm milk, and the zucchini doesn't stop cooking in the chafer, and we run out of napkins (napkins? napkins!), and there's only two sets of salt and pepper shakers for eight tables, and, Oh sweet Christ, all that possibly could go wrong does. In other words, everything I had fronted fell apart.

As all of this is happening, the rest of the guests are glaring at me like I just kicked a grandmother in the crotch. There was much gnashing of teeth and rendering of garments and the guy's wife nearly pops a vessel at the indignity of the whole scene, and still two more courses to drag through.
And now the ex-cop host is looking at me like, "I gotcha, punk..." , and I wind up having to supplicate myself, tableside. I apologize profusely to all within earshot and some-fucking-how we slog through the rest of service and finally get the coffee and pie on the tables, leaving only clean-up to complete the sentence. Or so I think, because while I'm supervising the packing of the van, word comes from the dining room that the client would like to "discuss their horrible experience and see how you can make it up to them". I relay through the now shell shocked server to have the host and his reps meet me behind the kitchen in ten minutes and we'll hash it out then.

Have you ever known that you were completely fucked, without a viable excuse, but still had to preserve whatever shred of dignity you walked in with?
Right then, here we go.

When the parties in question arrived at the back door, I apologised like a horny President, offered to comp a bunch of their tab and personally prepare forty-some-odd box lunches (gratis, 'natch) for their big river trip the next day. I just kept opening my mouth and making noise until their eyes glazed over in a cheap wine haze, and the fat lady sang. Literally, She was about 240 lbs of Fresno Housewife and She started warbling a tune that reminded me of an old Nazi spiritual at first, but soon I realised that she was having some kind of seizure. She drops to the ground, spastically wiggling like she'd just been tasered, and her Hubby barks,
" Jeeezus, Roberta you know you cant mix booze with your meds!" Then, the flat-top-ex-cop actually whips his billfold out the back of his Tommy Bahama cargo shorts and wedges the thing into his twitching wife's foaming mouth...

Ok, I gotta stop here for a second and point out that this, stuffing your wallet into a siezure victim's mouth, is something you always hear about but very few ever actually witness. I seen it...and it shook me.

The punchline to the whole saga is that the paramedics had to come and cart the broad off to the local horse doctor, and I got off the hook without a scratch.
And my Mother wonders why I drink......

11:33 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

A RECENT FLASHBACK

When the deal with the lecherous bastard at Rock and Roll University fell through,
and my bluff was certainly called,
I had no other choice but to suck it up
like the half-witted fool I fear I was
slink off to my room and think about what I had done.
Definitely feeling my bones decay
at the sight of yet another half-naked nineteen year old girl,
that would believe ANYTHING you laid on her.
The possibilities were literally endless.
This whole fucking town is built on a foundation
of lies and percieved value,
so the more preposterous the monologue
the wider the doe eyes would become.
The stained mouth would part slighty,
just enough to reveal the tatoo on her lower lip
and seven grand worth of reconstucted choppers,
allowing the hook to embed itself
in the pillowy cheek of her butter face.
This is a strong and halting thing to experience,
let me tell you,
and the power trip was a bit too close
to Jim Jones
or Carson Daley
than I would have like to have flown.
So, at that point,
I would steadily back my way out of the circle,
marveling at the ambiguous and loose rules of the game.

11:08 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

FIND THIS MUSIC AND BE SAVED
Category: Music

Similak Child Black Sheep
Wherever You Are Neil Finn
Si Tu Disais Calexico
Wild Wood Paul Weller
Cold Irons Bound Bob Dylan
Smiling Faces Sometimes Dramatics
Blue Flowers Dr. Octagon
Get Down Moses Joe Strummer
Spooky The Grays
Little Dreamer Van Halen
I Might Be Wrong Radiohead
Do Your Thing Charles Wright
The Riverboat Song Ocean Colour Scene
Never Stop Echo and the Bunnymen
What Do You Want From Life The Tubes
Gut Feeling Devo
So Much Better Moke
The Ghost At Number One Jellyfish
Satan Is My Motor Cake

1. Similak Child Black Sheep
- In '92 I'd be driving around San Francisco in my ex-girlfriend's mini-truck
bumping this jam until my head throbbed. "Like a punk on dick street,
a coupon in the ghetto, I said 'Hon, whatcha drinkin?', She said milk and
amaretto..." Indeed.

2. Wherever You Are Neil Finn
- A weird song, to be sure..at first all chick rock sounding, but about mid-way through the hiccuping carnival organ and ridiculously simple melody redeem the tune's freaky stalker vibe...

3. Si Tu Disais Calexico
- It could be Barcelona where, in a clatteringly loud bar, on a brick paved street,
in the middle of the afternoon, a furtive lover whispers, "Every wall, every crack, I'm sick and tired of this place..." into your salty ear.

4. Wild Wood Paul Weller
- If you were on a stake-out, armed only with your wits, riding a matte black Vespa, you'd need a certain sneer on your lips and a twangy baritone guitar riff...

5. Cold Irons Bound Bob Dylan
- Me, Bob, John Dillinger and Jesse James walk into a bar...

6. Smiling Faces Sometimes The Dramatics
- How many times do I gotta tell ya this? A healthy sense of distrust and suspicion has kept me afloat for more years than I can remember. Take heed...

7. Blue Flowers Dr. Octagon
- "Shakespeare's gone, don't even think about it...". Thank you for clearing that up for me.

8. Get Down Moses Joe Strummer
- Me, Joe, Bruce Lee and Tookie Williams walk into a bar...

9. Spooky The Grays
- Driving north on Ventura Blvd., choking on the monolouge you just delivered to an answering machine, and chain smoking in sobbing jerks and fits. Then realising the bitch had it coming to her and heading towards Mullholland to watch the sun rise...

10. Little Dreamer Van Halen
- David Lee Roth? Second biggest cock in show business, behind the immortal Milton Berle. My hand to God, true story...

11. I Might Be Wrong Radiohead
- The sound of coming unraveled. Loudly.

12. Do Your Thing Charles Wright
- Dig the fucking tamborine. I can just see the cat, working that shit out on
stage in a dive on Crenshaw and Normandy, the air thick with menthol smoke.

13. The Riverboat Song Ocean Colour Scene
- If Pirates listened to Oasis...

14. Never Stop Echo and the Bunnymen
- Cello and big hair...

15. What Do You Want From Life? The Tubes
- A song filled with valid questions and distinct possibilities.
"...Or a baby's arm holding an apple..." - best punchline in rock history.

16. Gut Feeling Devo
- Sitting on the curb, outside the Olympic Auditorium, waiting for your cool uncle to pick you up after your first punk show, when up pulls a new Mercedes full of west side girls, who take you to Canters for matzo ball soup and cocaine, then to Daddy's condo for a trip to third base and more coke, only to pass out next to the hot tub and wake up three hours later without your glasses and a handful of pubic hair...

17. So Much Better Moke
- And I am feeling much better, thank you.

18. The Ghost At Number One Jellyfish
- Me, You, Brian Wilson, and Rodney Bingenheimer walk into a bar...

19. Satan Is My Motor Cake
- The spastic movements I am currently making are actually a cryptic form of dancing.
You give it a shot. It's done wonders for me....

10:53 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Larry Two Dimes

i remember
sitting alone by the woodshed
in which unmentionable things had happened
with the counter girl's best friend
on my last smoke break
fresh outta some sort of hassle
perpetually on the verge of enlightenment
and without my car keys
when from the top of the alley
I heared a clarion cry
a call for justice and fair trade
a four syllable sermon
barked through cracked teeth
punctuated by the tips of spiny fingers
similarly cracked
tapping at the ashen lips
of the herald's gaping maw
"Two dimes...Patrick, you got two dimes?!"
I knew it was coming,
but damn if I didnt go for the
tip pocket in my army issue satchel
(having seen one carried by the paramour,
of my last obssesion,
I sported that man purse
for the better part of a decade),
came up with twenty five, held it aloft
and called back
"No...but i got a quarter"
like a shot he started down the alley
with the marionette strut and the funky chicken arm swing
"I only need two dimes, Patrick...but if that's all you got..."
the stench arrived before he even got close
but I was no spring flower, myself
and being open to new experiences
(at that time)
and searching for a guru,
(any guru)
and wanting a straight answer
(still)
an invitation was extended
and we joined at the shaky table
tobacco was produced and distributed
at my guests behest
I surrendered my americano
in exchange for his positioning
himself downwind
I launched into a diatribe and
fished for a sympathetic nod and
was satisfied with the response,
(although he may have been answering someone else
calling from inside his head),
"Yeah, I gotcha...you got any beer behind the bar?"
indeed I did
but was holding out for the night shift
when the young turks would arrive
and with them the high white noise
of misdirected hormones and jangled nerves
"C'mon, Patrick, hook me up..."
ah, what the hell
I snatched the cooler from under the register
and broke one off for my man
and one for me
surreptitiously transfering
the contents of the can
into styrofoam containers
"Damn, Patrick...cool...where you live at?"
I gestured up over my shoulder towards the hills
vague and ambiguous
not wanting to find my companion on my doorstep
one muggy day
asking to use the hose as a shower
"Right, right...you told me before...Sierra Madre, right?"
affirmative, the gem of the foothills
"You got any, like...what are they called?...girls up there with you?
negatory, too hard to get them out by morning
"Yeah, you do alright..I seen you"
and indeed I did
but was, again, holding out
despite my previous dalliance
in the aforementioned woodshed
my heart belonged to them all
and therein laid the rub
compounded by the spirit of the day
and the freedom afforded the truly adored
which was reflected back
with relish
"Patrick…damn…that's the worst story I ever heard"
though it sounded right on the money to me
and as we drifted off into the haze
of a two beer buzz on an august afternoon
I came to terms with my relationship with
Larry Two-Dimes

10:52 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

The Espresso Bar...

the deal went down in an alley off another alley,
down where the trains used to rattle and shake
the very fillings in our coffee stained mouths.

there was a wide array of miscreants and general malcontents
from the finest homes and fithiest hovels,
all united under the vague assumption
that something else was going on,
while we sat and kibbitzed,
that must have been infinitely more exciting
and that, with the right numbers,
we would be privy to the party.

Some armed with various flasks and tankards
that housed the go-go juice that would augment the joe,
others just geeked out on the very essence of the bean,
the assembled throng would scam and connive and cackle
with the exultant joy that only the truly curious can appreciate.

it was all possible,
and more than likely,
because we deemd it so.
sancutary without the bells,
home plate without the umpire,
safe house without the resistance.

and then we started forming jangley bands
or shooting beautifully tragic pictures
or painting godawfully gorgeous portraits
or writing self indulgent one acts,
or making video taped non-sequitors
mostly, at first, for the chicks
but with much different results.
you have to understand that the mic
was always open
and the slightest pithy insight
could unleash an array of
images and words and noises
meant to convey the sheer immediacy
of the goddamn place.

everywhere you looked
there was another oblivious mentor.
laying down the gospel according to
whatever you were into that day.
most used their powers for good
and those who abused said power
were summarily discredited
and ridiculed.

And the girls.
oh God, the girls.
smelly and ripe
merciful and violent
with the aforementioned possiblilty.
never attaining the mantle of
either whore or madonna.
even back when madonna was cool
and both.
they would be coy and hungry
and then, with a little sauce,
would turn your knees to putty
and your liver to sand.

when the trains would come,
great big fuckers,
and thread the needle of crumbling brick
we would rush like lemmings
out the alley and onto the tracks
and marvel at the size of the noise
while the diesel exhaust blew our
big hair back.
pennies were retrieved from the gravel,
squished and oblong,
bottles smashed against the rails
and replaced with demitass cups.
but remember
no ice
no lemon
no fucking flavored coffees

12:21 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Cocktail Party Manifesto

THE COCKTAIL PARTY MANIFESTO

WHEREAS, in the course of a long evening, it shall be determined necessary to provide
for the formation of a new and better party...

WE, who have assembled here in this place called Here, for purposes both political and social,
declare ourselves official HOSTS OF THE COCKTAIL PARTY, and do publicly and without reservation
swear our unswerving allegiance to the following principles...

- There can never be enough ice.
- No citizen shall ever have to park in fear.
- The government, and it's agents, have no right to bust up a perfectly good party.
- The right to enjoy a cocktail, literal or figurative, any time, any where, shall not be infringed.
- It's all fun and games until someone gets an eye poked out.
- No citizen shall be detained at a party against their will, nor shall they be denied access the means to travel to a better party.
- Calling it art does not make it so.
- In time of emergency, the government shall reserve the right to draft and train such bartenders and wait staff
deemed necessary to preserve the public order.
- There is no excuse for bad manners.
- The most sacred obligation of government is to ensure that every man, woman, and child is having a good time, all the time.

MOREOVER, since we regard these truths as brutally obvious and universal in scope, THE COCKTAIL PARTY does not
strictly deny allegations of an international conspiracy, nor do we, the assembled HOSTS OF THE COCKTAIL PARTY,
disavow a half-hearted desire to perhaps, one day, rule the world...

FURTHERMORE, since We, the undersigned, have already noisily decalred our self-serving intention of spreading
THE COCKTAIL PARTY DOCTRINE wheresoever men and women of good standing fall down...

LET IT BE RESOLVED, that, in this fourth day of September, on the year of our lord nineteen-hundred-and-ninety-five,
in the Rose City of Pasadena, California, WE, the assembled HOSTS OF THE COCKTAIL PARTY and
half-cocked eyewitnesses to this convocation, do solemnly and not-so-solemnly, declare the formation of,
and exsistence henceforth, of a new and better political party - THE COCKTAIL PARTY...

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that, while appreciated, your RSVP is not required.

12:20 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

some stories from back in the day

It’s been some time, now, since the halcyon days of our youth, when we ran our game from the back alleys of Pasadena to the gutters of the Mission district. Them was some times, yo.  We were younger and prettier then, but no smarter, alas. Fueled by Irish whiskey and blind gumption, various and sundried girlfriends aside, me and this guy would make with the funny and make off with the desired prey with deadly accuracy. Surrounded by the right kind of freaks, and sorely lacking in anything resembling good sense, we were kings. There’ve been times when the slightest pithy insight was like the snap of the lash, setting off a chain of life altering events that somehow shaped the future we live today. More often were the occasions when we’d just get high and act a foo. Can I get a “Hell Yeah”? Thank you, I knew that I could. And though we’ve gone far and wide in the time since, my fondness for the man has not faded. Every time I witness hot girl on girl action, my thoughts turn sweetly to him, silently grateful for the influence and audience. I think of his paintings, all fleshy and angular, like Raymond Chandler directing a Penthouse shoot, and I wonder; “Where the fuck is that guy?” Now that he’s been found I look forward to trying to safely recreate the aforementioned halcyon days. Here’s to a bitchen summer, my friend…

The year: nineteen-eighty-something-or-other. The scene: a stucco wishing well, soaked with stale beer and broken promises, on the brick patio of a crumbling beer hall, packed to the gills with boozing, brawling freaks and miscreants. We focus on a teenage girl, wearing a Vietnamese straw hat and a 50’s house dress, her cherubic innocence betrayed by the devilish grin and laughingly-sinister eyes that make up most of her face. A slightly older, obviously drunk but rakishly handsome man leans against the well, straining to get in on the action. Intrigued like a curious feline, the man is inexplicably drawn to the hushed giggling, provocative attire and nubile flesh displayed by the girl and interjects a sarcastic comment of his own.  Her head cocked like a spaniel wondering who moved the water dish, the girl regards the man for a moment of scrutiny, before cutting him in on the joke. Their faces close over the tops of their pint glasses, occasionally craning their necks to spy on the crowd, then throwing back their heads in braying cackles of laughter, they form a beer bond, the pair. At closing time, the man is coaxed into scoring a twelve-pack for the underage temptress, with promises of a wild night back at the ranch as incentive. By the time they get to the liquor store, she has indoctrinated the hapless drunk into her seedy world of espionage and proper grammar. Secretly an agent for an international sect of hedonist mercenaries hell bent on turning the world over to bartenders and copy-writers, the agent, called simply RIO, worked in the back alleys and patios of suburbia recruiting the undecided. And so it was on this night some twenty-odd years ago.  Following the incident, the Man carried a scar, worn like the badge of honor, from the countless parties, field trips and bull sessions he shared with this seductress. It has been said that after a time in the north-east, RIO has returned to the place of her birth to continue the good fight for a good time. Bravo and kudos to you, RIO: agent of  fun

8:58 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

the saga of the guz

Not too many people realize that Jon and I were married briefly in 1977, following a stint in Laos as clean-up men for the Nixon administration. It was during Jon’s “Berlin Period”, when He wore only fresh Dingo pelts and spoke only Esperanto, when we tied the knot and I was held captive by his lightning quick reflexes and tender accolades for three glorious months in the basement of a Scientology outpost on the Siberian tundra. I believe it was weatherman, Dr. George Fishbeck  who, drunk on cheap Korean gin, stood up and gave the benediction at the nuptials. My memory of the occasion is rather foggy, on account of all the crank I was snorting just to keep up with Jon’s animal desire to beat me at Pictionary , so if anyone reading this happened to be there, please let me apologize for the histrionics and offer to pay for any dry-cleaning that may have been necessary… but I digress. The nights Jon and I would while away, trying to communicate through crudely scrawled sketches and cryptic hand gestures, seem, in retrospect, as though they went on for twelve hours at a time. I still keep a memento of our love in a sacred place: on the mini-bar there rests a garden gnome dressed as Joey Bishop that Jon gave to me, tenderly inscribed “I.O.U. eleventeen thousand semolians – love Jon”

8:55 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment