I'm too lazy tonight to go through and re-order the posting in any sort of chronological order; therefore, I'm just splatter-puking a sort of post for all ya all. To maintain Patriotism and Help Fight Terrorism, I maintained a constant purchase, consume, recycle, and repeat Carpet Bomb of Booze. I don't believe any of Osama bin Laden's sleeper cells suffered casualties, but innumerable cells in the Battlefield of my Mind lost their lives for the Cause. The amputees just barely crawled home tonight, only to be ambushed at Chumps with $2 22oz. beers and, again, with a round of Becks here within the safety of my bunker, The Corner Quad.
Friday: Closed at work. At home, a small fire-fight armed with Jameson (3 cubes).
Saturday: Day off. Spent the day cleaning the Crack House-like filth from my apartment. Dishes, litter box area, sinks, bales of trash out, sweep the bathroom tiles, threw out mysterious bag of rotting (possibly) vegetable with seepage, Lysol the fuck out of two garbage cans, and clipped the signs of death off my house plants.
Then, out into the real world. Picked up another (final refill) of meds at Lawrence House. Enjoyed the air and sunny day on the way to Best Buy and Jewel-Osco at Evanston Plaza for food and .... a digital camera. Yes, after months of thinking about it, I jumped off the cliff and picked up a Nikon Coolpix 4800 and a big-ass memory card. So, if I can figure out how to transfer the pics to my comp, you may see more pictures here in the future. I'll soon be taking applications for Nude Female Models; just send body and head-shots here. All races welcome, prefer brunettes with some color; pasty need not apply.
Coordinated a last minute carpool to a cookout/beer thing at a friend of a friend's awesome apartment in Logan Square, M.U./C.U. The building had recently been built by another friend of a friend, P. It stands out completely from the two flats, gray-stones, etc of the neighborhood. Red brick and square, it looked a lot like my Lincoln Elementary School. He rents to sisters M.U/C.U. The living room is the best part. Painted a heavy red with much wooden, natural furniture, and paintings lining the back of the Victorian-looking couch, it reminded me of various apartment scenes from Vicious Circle, the artist across the hall. Like a salon of literary and artists could easily glide around the room and create things from nothing but the lubricated cogs of their minds.
Brauts, potato salad, cookies, wine, baked macaroni, and beer flowed and sated our hunger on the back deck two floors up while the neighborhood around us exploded with firecrackers and works. Sulfur smoke mingled with Quest 2 smoke and hops breath. Conversation varied and carried me through the night. My friends are lovingly vulgar and crack me up. I attempted to take some pictures with my new camera. It shoots out a red beep, like a bloated version of a sniper's targeting lazer beam.
Some things that stick out in my mind:
M.C. changing the words to Justin JumpinaLake's song Rock Your Body, substituting words, making it more of an American Psycho remix. "I'm gonna decapitate you before the end of this song..."
Heather philosophizing about that tricky subject of courtship and romance announcing "If you can't even talk to me on the El, how are you gonna be any good in bed?!?"
And, then, much later, unveiling her reality TV show idea: "The Cat-chelor." One crazy, quick to cry lonely woman (um, her sister, I think) and 30 cats suffering from all sorts of maladies, deformities and diseases. Her goal is to get to know each cat and pick the perfect one for her by the end of the season.
Ended the night, fiddling with my camera and a finger of Wild Turkey Bourbon Rare Breed.
Sunday: work all day with surprisingly no PTSD to speak of from all the hooch, just a little groggy and sleepy. I worked with N.S. all day. She read my palm, mumbled "interesting," and then REFUSED TO TELL ME WHAT SHE SAW!!! WTF? That shit ain't right. She cited she could read palms, but it was against her religion (Muslim) to do it, so she couldn't tell me. And then, proceeded to read The Croatian Gyration Sensations palm and tell her what it said because The C.G.S. laughingly refused to talk to her if she didn't. Frustration. Look at my palm, say "interesting," and then keep a secret...damn, that just ain't right.
"I don't dance. Dancing is the Devil making Puppets of us."--Mac.
"And then we ate the sweaty peach truffles."--N.S.
"Well here we are at Glass/Tabletop: I'll be the Table, you be the Top."--N.S.
"Why are you still talking?"--N.S.
After work, I received an email invite late, and rushed over to Mike's house for another cookout and booze-up. Another braut, tons of chips. I didn't have time to run to the store, so I just brought a couple of Becks from my fridge and a 1/4 bottle of Jameson (real classy, no?). Brown-bagging it, baby. We again sat in the park, sipping our drinks under the giant trees. Softball and more of that "cornholing" game. If I remember correctly, Mike and N.J. were the Kings of Cornhole that night. They were One with the Beanbags.
At one point near the end of the evening, just before the rain came, we walked over to the playground. C.T. and I swang a bit, then the boys spun me around in the tire swing until the all the veins in my head came within one G-force away from popping and spraying all my blood into the sand.
Monday: Alone. A beer in the afternoon on my back porch. Emails. The Dresden Dolls during the rain as gray light filtered through the blinds. A nappy-nap with Lilly. A big salad in front of Apocalypse Now Redux "Charlie Don't Surf!" Read a little New Yorker. Then out to the park behind my apartment complex to see the homegrown fireworks display until the park disappeared under the fog of war.
All-in-all, a pretty good weekend, and a party to look forward to this Saturday.