View from a grassy knoll

11:50 a.m. Saturday morning muse 2003-03-15

Reaped Did I call it or what? Even as I penned this entry, the freedomaniacs were racing to mimegraph their petition to take the freedom initiative straight into the Vieux Carre. Luckily, that carpetbagging attitude don't hold too well here in the Dirty South, as evidenced by Marc Cooper, executive director of the Vieux Carre Commission:
"Every bottle of French wine that guy doesn't drink and every order of French fries he doesn't eat," Cooper said, "I'll make up for it."
Heh heh. Me too Marc, me too.
****
In other news, the latest grisly BR murder victim was a Backwater City transplant. Her picture's been all over the papers, strikingly familiar. *shudder* Given that BR is only an hour or so away, here's to hoping the killer doesn't drive. Freak.
****
Returning to Thursday's Night of One Thousand Drinks, let me again extend my sincerest apologies to my body for ingesting that final and only deadly bottle of Miller Hi-Life, which effectively grounded me all of yesterday in a very disconcerting manner. Such deadly elixir shall pass through my lips nevermore.
Regardless, Thursday's revelries did something to me. Even as the waves of nausea questioned my will to live, I smiled at the thought of what had passed. It filled some deep seated need to dance, drink and flirt. There was a moment, sitting on a bench at the Shim Sham, watching the kids jerk and swing to the hard beats of Iggy, where my eyes just started filling with tears. Tamela should BE here with me, laughing at the drunk guy who's followed me from bar to bar, swing dancing with the jewish lawyer who gives me his calling card, learning that the bar we're slumped over is owned by Rob Zombie's sister. I miss my co-conspirator, my grrl from back in the day, my bon petit libertine. Perhaps some day.
It gets kind of frustrating, not having that chick-comraderie in the same town. Moon is probably the closest girl friend I've got over here, but it's not the same. She's on her own plane of reality , and I'm not saying that's a bad thing, it's just not on the same level. Once she said to me, "When I first met you I thought you were just trying to hook up with Mike." It coulda just been whatever drug we had injested that night, and I appreciate the honesty, but it's not the same click. It's a different relation.
***
But now the sun is shining fitfully, and I have a tent that needs de-mildewing if me & sis are to sleep in it in any level of comfort next week. Viva la weekend. Who knows? It could be the last.
Sown

Fresh Cut
New digs - 2004-05-25
Bachelor hell - 2004-05-10
Grumble - 2004-05-07
Coachella pt. 2, or goddamn do my fingers hurt - 2004-05-05
Coachella part one, or, this monkey's gone to indio rawk heaven - 2004-05-05

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11:50 a.m.	Saturday morning muse	2003-03-15
Reaped	Did I call it or what? Even as I penned this entry, the freedomaniacs were racing to mimegraph their petition to take the freedom initiative straight into the Vieux Carre. Luckily, that carpetbagging attitude don't hold too well here in the Dirty South, as evidenced by Marc Cooper, executive director of the Vieux Carre Commission: "Every bottle of French wine that guy doesn't drink and every order of French fries he doesn't eat," Cooper said, "I'll make up for it." Heh heh. Me too Marc, me too. **** In other news, the latest grisly BR murder victim was a Backwater City transplant. Her picture's been all over the papers, strikingly familiar. shudder Given that BR is only an hour or so away, here's to hoping the killer doesn't drive. Freak. **** Returning to Thursday's Night of One Thousand Drinks, let me again extend my sincerest apologies to my body for ingesting that final and only deadly bottle of Miller Hi-Life, which effectively grounded me all of yesterday in a very disconcerting manner. Such deadly elixir shall pass through my lips nevermore. Regardless, Thursday's revelries did something to me. Even as the waves of nausea questioned my will to live, I smiled at the thought of what had passed. It filled some deep seated need to dance, drink and flirt. There was a moment, sitting on a bench at the Shim Sham, watching the kids jerk and swing to the hard beats of Iggy, where my eyes just started filling with tears. Tamela should BE here with me, laughing at the drunk guy who's followed me from bar to bar, swing dancing with the jewish lawyer who gives me his calling card, learning that the bar we're slumped over is owned by Rob Zombie's sister. I miss my co-conspirator, my grrl from back in the day, my bon petit libertine. Perhaps some day. It gets kind of frustrating, not having that chick-comraderie in the same town. Moon is probably the closest girl friend I've got over here, but it's not the same. She's on her own plane of reality , and I'm not saying that's a bad thing, it's just not on the same level. Once she said to me, "When I first met you I thought you were just trying to hook up with Mike." It coulda just been whatever drug we had injested that night, and I appreciate the honesty, but it's not the same click. It's a different relation. *** But now the sun is shining fitfully, and I have a tent that needs de-mildewing if me & sis are to sleep in it in any level of comfort next week. Viva la weekend. Who knows? It could be the last.	Sown
Fresh Cut New digs - 2004-05-25 Bachelor hell - 2004-05-10 Grumble - 2004-05-07 Coachella pt. 2, or goddamn do my fingers hurt - 2004-05-05 Coachella part one, or, this monkey's gone to indio rawk heaven - 2004-05-05 Random Shearings Rings		Profile Guestbook Mail D-land Older Home 26 Links Bandified Geek Philosopher /. Drudge Worst.Site.Ever.
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Bandified
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/.
Drudge
Worst.Site.Ever.