Gonna get-get-get get you drunk, get you love drunk on my junk.
First off, before I get back to the spiritual journey, I want to send a shout out to my audience. Seanche, Sean-O, and Korean Meat Beater, I owe you all phone calls. I think especially Seanche. But I think David Gray said it best: please forgive me if I act a little strange.
Yes, I just put in the David Gray reference because maybe some woman will accidentally find this blog in a web search, giving me my first female reader. For some reason the gentler sex isn’t really that interested in what I think about Molly Hatchett. So anyway, Seanche, say Hi to the family for us.
The last time I talked to Sean-O, I was drunk at an office party. But it was mild as office parties go, since nobody threw up on the L and I didn’t have to pull anyone out of a tree. In fact it might have been the last story-full of any office party. Ever. But Sean-O, what’s the status on the blinds next door? Any chance you could just nail some plywood over their windows? Just make up something about an impending typhoon, or maelstrom, or Godzilla, or whatever comes off the Pacific Ocean.
Haven’t talked to Korean Meat Beater in a while, but I’m hoping to see him later this month in Vegas. I’m looking forward to seeing what the Meat Beater has been up to. Probably pretty much what you think. But since he’s not finding a lot of love action in Korea, I think he’ll probably be too busy to talk once he gets to Vegas.
So yeah, I’m going to Vegas. The last time we were there, we stayed in the Imperial Palace because it was by far the cheapest place we could find at the last minute. But this time we’re staying in the Luxor to hang out with the English Meat Beater and Ms. EMB, who are celebrating their tenth wedding anniversary.
I have a couple new shirts and a supertight Speedo, so I think I’m pretty much ready to go. Except I can’t decide what book to bring. I usually like to bring a book when I’m out of town. It helps to fill the awkward points when, for example, somebody at Thanksgiving dinner asks me to say Grace.
These jokes felt so much fresher in my first attempt. Now it all just seems so stale.
Anyway, back to the books. Maybe I don’t even need a book, because I usually read before I fall asleep, but I’m expecting so much Marty-O lovin’ that there won’t be much sleeping. Ha haaa haaaaa…. *sigh*… *cough.* No, really, I might not need a book because I’ll be ready to pass out from all the free drinks at the casino.
I had the worst Scotch ever in Vegas a few years ago. His name was Ewan. No, seriously, I decided I was wasting the free drinks opportunity by ordering beer. So I opted for a Scotch and soda. I’d had one once before, at Spin on a New Year’s Eve, and it was good. But then again, Spin probably buys Scotch in bottles, not 2-liters.
Did you ever have a drink so bad that it sobers you up a little? That’s how it was.
But the other thing is that the books I’m reading now aren’t really poolside vacation reading material. The first is “Borstal Boy,” by Brendan Behan. It’s a memoir of the time he spent in prison and in borstal (Brit juvie) after being convicted in Liverpool in an IRA bombing conspiracy. It’s absolutely friggin’ brilliant, and it’s no kinder to the Irish than to the English. Seanche, I’ll send it to you when I’m done.
The other book is a translation of the “Heliand,” which is a Saxon retelling of the Gospels intended for an early medieval German audience. I wish I had known about it when I was back in college and early medieval hagiography was my thing. (Okay, who can come up with a less employable “thing” to be into in college? Not counting Sean-O’s hair grooming trends.)
I’m not sure which of those books will make me more of a leper. Poolside-wise. Any advice, gentlemen?
And while we’re speaking of the Imperial Palace and asking for advice, I want some suggestions on the best buzzkill karaoke songs to perform at the IP’s stripside bar. Here are some thoughts:
“Better Fitter” by Radiohead. In case you’re not familiar, it’s a vaguely facist set of self-improvement rules for employees, read by a computer, over an angry ambient background track.
“Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” by Gordon Lightfoot. I actually knew the name Gordon Lightfoot without having to look it up. Shame on me. Bonus points if anybody’s left in the casino by the end of the song.
“Convoy” by whoever the hell. I think this was Sean-O’s suggestion. The only drawback is that it could be kind of a crowd pleaser. I guess. You’ve seen Vegas, right? Lots of sunburns, mullets, and novelty flip flops.
Mozart’ “Requiem.” All of it.
“Last of the International Playboys” by Morrissey. I’m a huge fan of Moz, and I love this song. But it’s pretty much unsingable except by a sexually ambiguous tenor Brit.
“Moby Dick” by Led Zeppelin. The singer has to b-box the drum solos, including the extended 4-minute one, without hyperventilating. (Harder than it sounds. Trust me.)
Any song by that Japanese noise-rock band that I saw at the Intonation Fest last year. All the rock cognoscenti were like “this is soooo genius” and I was like “aaaarrrrrrrrcgh.” Bonus points if you use live mice instead of a Moog for the shrill squeaky parts. Yes, yes, I know, I just don’t understand it, and I’m sure it’s pure musical gold. But damn, what the hell was that all about? I thought the Green Line was going off its tracks. But apparently you can buy this album to put on your iPod and, I guess, drive your car off a cliff or something. Did you ever hear a song so unlistenable that it sobers you up a little? That’s what it’s like.
The extended remix of “Things Just Keep Getting Better,” by whoever the hell, remixed by whatever. It’s the theme from “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” remixed to an absurd length. The Korean Meat Beater was complaining about it the night that I was drinking Scotch and soda. I said something like “but I thought you guys liked it when things get longer,” and he left in a huff. Ewan Huff, I think.
So let’s see if this post worked. I’m anxious to hear your thoughts.