June 4, 2008
When you least expect it,
you’re not elected.
HILLARY CLINTON, GIVE IT UP, GIRL!
Well, exciting Election Night, yes?—what I remember of it, before I did my falling-down-drunk act, with the lovely Hope and Gentleman Jerry getting me safely home. Those vodka crans I kept myself stocked and stoked with snuck up on me like a tsunami.
Earlier in the evening the evil, evil h brown, who had me signed up for off-camera monitoring of his web show, duped me into being interviewed, and about politics no less. Thanks for the opportunity to show myself off as the nincompoop I am! I had just cut my hair earlier that morning and probably looked like a light bulb, but I will never, ever know because I will never, ever watch the damn thing. I have no desire to see myself as I really am. (I don’t think you can call the new compact fluorescents light “bulbs.” They are light curlicues.) As for the pictures Tony D posted that demonstrate why I never want my photo taken, the camera added ten pounds—to my face. Got a crash course in camera operation from techie Paul. Much more comfortable on the other side of it.
Anyway, h was broadcasting live from El Rio on Mission. Fun! Nothing you’ll ever see on the TV news. All the guys and gals were there. A lively crowd of candidates, Pissed-Off Voters and the usual suspects assembled and were three deep at the bar while I was three sheets to the wind.
(eduqna.com informs us, “On board ship, sheets aren’t sails as landlubbers might expect, but ropes, or occasionally, chains. These are fixed to the lower corners of sails, to hold them in place. If three sheets are loose and blowing about in the wind then the boat will lurch about like a drunken sailor.”)
Yes, I was three sheets to the wind, or as urbandictionary.com itemizes, drunk wasted sloshed tipsy hammered intoxicated shit-faced pissed inebriated tanked wrecked blitzed smashed bombed loose fucked-up irish defcon 1 drunkened laced canned trashed well-done jagged up plastered crunk shit-faced annihilated. I‘m just glad everyone I know was in one place to witness it, that way no one had to get the story second hand.
MOVING DAY IS MONDAY
I drag an old-lady cart-full and backpack of stuff to the apartment every day. It won’t be home until the cats move in. There’s not much I can do to the place just yet, but I love to wander its still empty floors, or lie down on them in the sunlight and listen to Parsifal, the only CD that’s not packed–music that has brought me to my knees. Someone gave me tickets to this opera once, and I was expecting to be bored to a Wagnerian magnitude, but the damn thing blew my mind. I have literally dropped to my knees and pounded the floor for mercy over certain passages—just like my middle-aged hangover is pounding me for mercy.
Will I never learn? At least there’s news that there’s a compound in red wine that increases longevity. I’m sure I’ve added ten years to my life drinking it.
SHE CAME TO HER SENSES
Maybe someday I will too. Clinton set to concede on Friday, oops, Saturday. Maybe someday I will too. The woman’s a bulldog. She should be wearing a spiked collar. Did you know that bulldogs were bred in England to have contests with bulls? She fought like a bulldog, but Hillary was finally conquered by the Obama bull. As you may know I am a bull (a Taurus). That means stubborn, head-first, indomitable. I like to rush right in brandishing my horns. I can’t just love a man, I have to keep ramming him, nostrils steaming, to make sure he knows it. I loved a man who wasn’t mine for years, and just wouldn’t concede defeat. Even after I forced the issue, and could no longer delude myself, I couldn’t stop loving this man for years. Life went on, of course, but he was the man I loved and that was that. He’s married now, and that really was that. Romeo was banished. Bulls are massive, I guess they take a long time to die. But the bulldog won that fight.
Gonna keep this one short. I’m neglecting my hangover.
Would someone get a crowbarand pry the author out of that bar?
Drunk on love
Hungover, hung up, hung out to dry--hang it all, I’ll hang myself (from a hypotenuse)
copyright Alexandra Jones 2008