Champagne and Music

Liquor store line-up

I need another drink.

Over-Shot the Liquor Store - Again

I know it's only 230. But it's New Years Eve and the shop was jammed with people stockpiling booze. I hate line-ups. I get anxious, angry. I needed a drink in order to buy drink. And there's no better instant courage than Guinness.

Misery loves company

I don't think I can put this nearly as eloquently as the Abbot, but snot, drippy poo and lung grease seem to sum up our Christmas nicely -- not to mention a somewhat unhinged middle child who gets a bit freaked out by illness.

I'm beginning to think that between the surreal and germ-infused 2008 Vancouver winter landscape, the crippling wood panelling of the burbs, and my own psycho Christmas, Abbot, Vivant and Pinot have crossed into some sort of twilight zone.

In such circumstances, The Plague is probably a great choice in reading. I find this to be a very mentally dark time of year to begin with, so, rather than fight it, perhaps it's best to wallow in it. Well wallowed Abbot. I'd rather face the darkness (or listen to the chorus of coughs) than drown it out with faux-happy thoughts.

I think I'll dust off my copy of Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. Short and accessible, unlike some of his other works. At this time of year, I can really only trust alcoholics to write the brilliant depressing novels I need.

Pinot

A pox on a plague house

Late night. Coughs echo from all corners of the sleeping house, keeping counterpoint rhythm with the stifled hacks issuing from my own chest. Five humans, five viruses. Or maybe one virus gone forth & multiplied five times.

Reading Camus. The Plague. It's an odd thing, to be reading about a city in which extreme precautions must be taken to keep the pestilence at bay, when one's living in a house in which small precautions are supposedly being taken for a similar reason. The medical workers and the journalist debate whether it's better to choose happiness (escape from Oran) v duty (staying to fight a seemingly futile war against the plague). Interestingly--and this reminds me again of why I enjoy the lack of moral certitude in these writers--nobody castigates the journalist for wanting to leave. Rather, they applaud his choice for happiness. It's the greater choice, they say. And they can't really say why they continue their fight. Yet they do. Like Sisyphus.

It's done nothing but snow and rain out here. I've hardly been out of the house. Yesterday someone saw a rat disappear beneath the foundation wall.

Hallelujah

When tending to an ailing mother, all is not completely lost. You help your mother out with little things and basically you sit around a lot. I hope I don't sound too much like Camus' fantastic character from The Outsider, Meursault (who didn't cry when his mother died), but I would like to simply focus on the positive and point out that this sitting around does leave time for pleasant things like - reading the paper. And today for instance, I read the paper beginning to end and found much of interest, many clippings - one of which was this piece on Leonard Cohen talking about the great man's revival and in particular the big hit of his song Hallelujah.

Here is one live version of the song:




Can you imagine how much p*ussy this man has had? He's a true artist, brimming with drink.

Hallelujah to the taking care of mothers. Hallelujah to the daily paper. Hallelujah to old poets...

Local beer local pannelling

How do spell panelling? Pane? Pain? Yes - Pain! Pain-elling. The suburbs - nothing but problems. You can't even spell their walls right. This would never happen in bigcityneighbourhoods.com. Everything spells right, smells right, in thebigcity.com.

Suburban crucifix global beer

Thank G*od.

The Abbots Gift

From Sardegna. How appropriate. Barn-yardy. I love it. Perfect for my steak and mushrooms. Thanks. I love you. Merry Christmas.

Christmas Beer

I mean cheer. A fine way to start off Christmas Eve. It's going to be a quiet one as The Blonde Woman and My Children have flown the coop to be with my mother-in-law, while I care for my ailing mother. But that's what Christmas is about right? Beer. I mean helping others out. Especially your mom. Here's to you Mom...

Snow-covered bird house

Out to shovel this morning and the drink of last night has surely left my system. And yet I am very much feeling the "drink" as I look upon a beautiful, quiet, snow-covered world.

Lilac Wine - Jeff Buckley Vintage

I lost myself on a cool damp night
Gave myself in that misty light
Was hypnotized by a strange delight
Under a lilac tree
I made wine from the lilac tree
Put my heart in its recipe
It makes me see what I want to see...
And be what I want to be
When I think more than I want to think
Do things I never should do
I drink much more that I ought to drink
Because It brings me back you...

Lilac wine is sweet and heady, like my love
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, like my love
Listen to me... I cannot see clearly
Isnt that she coming to me nearly here?

Lilac wine is sweet and heady wheres my love?
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, wheres my love?

Listen to me, why is everything so hazy?
Isnt that she, or am I just going crazy, dear?

Lilac wine, I feel unready for my love...

My Vocabulary Did This to Me

For those worried about the effects of drink, there may be some lessons in the life of West Coast poet Jack Spicer who drank himself to death in 1965 at age 40.

On his hospital death bed he blamed his imminent demise on his vocabulary.

Imagine that. What a tribute to the terrible power of words.

Here is the New York Times review of:

MY VOCABULARY DID THIS TO ME: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer

The review says that Spicer would often avoid conventional forms of poetry and expression and deliver his art without words.

So was it really the words, his vocabulary, that killed him in the end? Or was it something deeper, like the drink within?

And if so, when "drink" finds drink - is that really a deadly combo?

Now, another question comes up - who cares?

Life is short any way and the guy made his own choices - and he apparently made great art using words, vocabulary.

Would we be talking about this guy today if "drink" hadn't met drink?

Picking up the Sushi

Can be better than lazy-assed dope-smoking delivery. I brave the cold, crisp winter night - and arrive early: that way the sushi will be optimally fresh... and there will be time for an Asahi. Ah...

Recommended Reading

> Acting The Giddy Goat

Wanted

40-something pseudo-intellectual-ex-jock with few skills outside of blogging, dri*nking and f*cking, seeks:

A conceptual group of musicians, writers, drinkers, acrobats, and ship-jumpers who will get together whenever to do whatever circumstances require.

Please reply in comments section. Include any links that may illuminate the nature of your group - particularly any links to photos of tidy, pseudo-intellectual women who also enjoy dri*nking and f*cking.

Lilac Wine - Bottled by Elkie Brooks

It's around noon on a weekday. I need "drink" but cannot drink at this hour. I drink a lot and behave a bit crazy sometimes but - God Dammit - I do have some discipline.

So - what can I reach for? What can I turn to?

How about another dose of Lilac Wine - by a different producer?

Thanks for the recommend, Pinot:



I lost myself on a cool damp night
Gave myself in that misty light
Was hypnotized by a strange delight
Under a lilac tree
I made wine from the lilac tree
Put my heart in its recipe
It makes me see what I want to see...
And be what I want to be
When I think more than I want to think
Do things I never should do
I drink much more that I ought to drink
Because I brings me back you...

Lilac wine is sweet and heady, like my love
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, like my love
Listen to me... I cannot see clearly
Isnt that she coming to me nearly here?

Lilac wine is sweet and heady wheres my love?
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, wheres my love?

Listen to me, why is everything so hazy?
Isnt that she, or am I just going crazy, dear?

Lilac wine, I feel unready for my love...

Overshot the liquor store

Somehow ended up at The Dora drinking one of these little pieces of heaven. Harry Connick is the background singing Blue Christmas (not live). No sign of the Abbot's Circumstantialists. They are but a golden-ethereal memory. Days of Yore. I won't forget to go to the liquor store but what are the odds that after that I will forget to get the Romain lettuce The Blonde Woman sent me out for?

Alcohol and American Life

An interesting section of the NY Times:

It's a blog called "Proof".

Default

Not genius but this is the kind of basic track you might lie down on the floor for at your friend's place in the suburbs with your drunk head against the pounding speaker and think "I love this song":



So, yeah, not genius but... default for the suburbs when drunk head is against speaker...

Suburban stereo console

Band: Default
Track: Wasting my time
Me: Drinking beer: Stella

Just For One Day

onemoresong dot com

squeezeboxer

Legendary Riverdale night.

blowjobsareoverrated

Abott Ablur

My pint, my friend

The band is not playing and I know no one at this bar. I am afraid of the void and find comfort in my glass.

Sweet Canadian Wine

For when you're stuck drinking alone tonight:



"Coulda been here tonight..."

Drinking Alone

This disturbance goes out to Pinot - who dares to drink his rare Canadian wine alone - almost tauntingly - just because we get to drink the Abbot's music tonight in a superb Irish bar...

Don't cry for me

Cold snowy night, sick kid, missing Tanner's show again. As I sat here at home feeling sorry for myself, I asked "what would Mike do?"

Of course, the answer came to me in a flash: drink. And while Mike is a beer guy, I know he appreciates any form of drowning sorrows. So I've pulled out an old favourite- Clos Jordan - from earlier tasting times.

I'll miss the music tonight. But the drink will get me through. Here's to a great Christmas guys.

Pinot
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

Little Bottles

Stuck in suburban town taking care of my ill mother I am grateful for the "accident" of these little bottles in my car. Is that haiku? How many syllables? Not a bad Christmas hearth in the background though here in the dismal suburbs. Kinda cozy. But the suburbs can fool you that way. "They" try to make you feel that way - cozy. But they - the burbs - all they do is lie to you. Try to trick you. And that's why you need - NEED - precious little bottles... They are a touche! Absurd v Absurd.

Abraham: did he have "drink"?

The question before the assembled gathering is this: did a guy who was willing to sacrifice his son to the Lord of Hosts, a guy who'd waited till he and his aged wife were three-quarters dust to have this only-begotten son, a guy who'd had the sack to bargain with the friggin' peevish Lord over how many righteous souls it might take to save Sodom from instant heavenly annihilation--anyway, did this guy, Abraham, have drink when he opted to bind Issac and raise a sacrificial altar unto the Lord, lifting his heavy blade on high, poised to strike--or was he just another misguided wanker held in thrall to an ethically bereft charismatic, like so many others before and since?
Remember, he didn't have to do this. He'd already been a religious enough fellow, sufficiently devout to go down as a major player in not one, two, but three key faiths. So what drove him? A devil-may-care insouciance, or simple, sad, lack of perspective?

urinal dora brick wall fantastic

How did i end up here? I'm supposed to come here "next" friday.

I like music

Tartarating

I've Got a Crush on You

I love needing a hair cut. It takes me across the city near to my buddy's wine bar. It's fittingly called "Crush". I'm waiting for the steak tartare to arrive and am sipping on... a beer! They have great Pilsner on tap here. The wine will come later. Did I mention that I love haircuts?

To love somebody

The Blonde Woman has crashed out after a long corpo - family day before 10 pm. It's not like I haven't been working my *ss off too. But all I'm left with is music and drink. No sex.

Blonde Woman evil.

Hard to accept. But... If a gun were to my head and I had two choices out of three, I'd choose music and drink. Both are the stuff of dreams. And a man - more than anything - needs to dream...

(Ironically, this beautiful anthem was on my digital music screen - pictured - as I waited in vain to get f*cked, s*cked. Brilliant. What does it mean - "to love somebody"? Does it mean to let them sleep when sleep is needed? Or does it mean - conversely - to fight off sleep and go rescue your husband from drink and music and reward him with f*cking and s*cking?)

There's a light A certain kind of lightThat never shines on meI want my life to beHere with youI wanna be with youThere's a way I hear everybody sayJust to do everything that I canBut what good will it doIf I can't have youIf I can't have youBaby, you don't know what it's likeNo you don't know what it's likeYou don't know what it's likeNo you don't know what it's likeTo love somebodyTo love somebodyThe way I love you*Guitar solo*I'm a manCan't you see that's what I amEvery breath that I take I take from youBut what good will breathing doIf I can't have youIf I can't have youBaby, you don't know what it's likeNo you don't know what it's likeYou don't know what it's likeNo you don't know what it's like*Musical break*No you don't know what it's likeNo you don't know what it's likeYou don't know what it's likeNo you don't know what it's likeTo love somebodyTo love somebodyThe way I love youThe way I love you*Musical break*No you don't know what it's likeNo you don't know what it's likeNo you don't know what it's likeYa just don't know what it's likeTo love somebodyTo love somebodyThe way I love youThe way I love you

Grillin by the light of the moon

F*ck I love grilling meat outdoors drink in hand alone fresh air. Was that haiku? How many syllables? Haiku is supposed to be about nature right?

V

Blonde woman discharges cesar sauce - while tossing salad - onto the base of my drink glass - in the shape of a "V". I love little moments like these. They inspire me... and turn me on.

All those tears I cry...

Oh oh oh oh oh oh, You don't have to go oh oh oh oh oh
You don't have to go oh oh oh oh oh, you don't have to go.
Ay ay ay ay ay ay, All those tears I cry ay ay ay ay ay
All those tears I cry oh oh oh oh ay, Baby please don't go.

When I read the letter you wrote me, it made me mad mad mad
When I read the words that it told me,
It made me sad sad sad, But I still love you so
I can't let you go, I love you- ooh baby I love you.

Oh oh oh oh oh oh, Every breath I take oh oh oh oh oh
Every move I make hey hey, Baby please don't go.
Ay ay ay ay ay ay, You hurt me to my soul oh oh oh oh,
You hurt me to my soul oh oh oh oh,
Darling please don't go.

When I read the letter you sent me, it made me mad mad mad
When I read the news that it brought me,
It made me sad sad sad, But I still love you so
I can't let you go, I love you- ooh baby I love you.

Oh oh oh oh oh oh, You don't have to go oh oh oh oh oh
You don't have to go oh oh oh oh oh
Oh baby, ba-bee bee please please please
ah ah ah ah ah baby ah ah I really love you baby
oo oo oo oo oo darlin' oooohhhh oh
Oh baby I still love you so,
Oh baby I still love you so ohohoh, ooo, oh oh oh oh oh yeah
(Why?) ah ah oh ah ah ah oooohhh
(Why?) ah ah ah ah ah, oooooooooooooo
(Why?) Ohhh baby....

Drink within drink

This is like returning to an ex-lover: I'd forgotten: it's a paper stuffed with fully-caffienated magazines. I'm overwhelmed yet eager to dive in.

All the news that's fit to print

Blustery Sunday morning. Heavy paper full of drink. Love thy neighbour.

snow covered patio set

Toronto, Canada.
Circa - Dec. 2008

Nz lamb about to be grilled

On idyllic snowy canadian night in bigcityneighbourhood.

Winter grilling

Snow's Fallin but I'm still grillin. Nice to have a "mud room" and a bbq so close. I don't mind the cold or the snow - especially since the "beer fridge" and the spirits are also located in the "mud room" and "everyoneelse" is far away. Grillin is best solitary - accompanied of course by - drink.

Blonde woman with neighbours newspaper

This is just one example of the beautiful sharing that occurs in bigcityneighbourhoods.com. Note also the cup of coffee - a pleasure that is mere steps away (not an SUV trip away) from a bigcitycitizen's front door. I love thebigcity. I love my neighbours.

Making off with the loot

I have the green light from my friend to take the paper from his porch this morning because he is up at the cottage. Now that's friendship. He knows how much I like my morning paper. It is drink to me.

Lilac Lyrics

I lost myself on a cool damp night
Gave myself in that misty light
Was hypnotized by a strange delight
Under a lilac tree
I made wine from the lilac tree
Put my heart in its recipe
It makes me see what I want to see...
And be what I want to be
When I think more than I want to think
Do things I never should do
I drink much more that I ought to drink
Because I brings me back you...

Lilac wine is sweet and heady, like my love
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, like my love
Listen to me... I cannot see clearly
Isnt that she coming to me nearly here?

Lilac wine is sweet and heady wheres my love?
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, wheres my love?

Listen to me, why is everything so hazy?
Isnt that she, or am I just going crazy, dear?

Lilac wine, I feel unready for my love...

Evening boost

Decision time. You've dropped your son off at half-hour guitar lesson in Big City Neighbourhood. It being a BigCityNeighbourhood.com - choices abound - especially since the Depression has not yet fully gutted the urban streetscape. To the right of you is "Maverick's" - a bar. To the left of you is a "Coffee House", otherwise known as "Starbucks". How do you choose?

I feel the pull of a pint. I really want it. But I am a disciplined drinker. I examine my energy level and determine that I need a little boost. I choose "Starbucks" - a global business entity that redefined not just coffee but urban streetscapes as well.

The double espresso is good enough. Strong enough. It's not the Italian coffee that I like. But it is conveniently located and more drinkable than - ugh - "Coffee Time" across the road.

I wonder if Starbucks will be here for me next year? I wonder if my son will still be feeling the pull of his guitar next year?

I hope so.

It's beautiful to have choices in life.

It's beautiful to live in BigCityNeighbourhoods.com.

It makes me see what I want to see

F*ck was I hungover this morning. Wine tasting last night. Must have been the spirits after the wine. Thank goodness for the Nina Simone CD that had been hiding in the CD case for years without use. I was hungover as said - as I drove to work - and needed something different, a trump card - after having played the hell out all of the other drink in the CD case ( you know - Dylan, Prince, Neil Young...) and Nina came through with this gem - Lilac Wine:



The sound of it, the thought of it, the taste of it, stayed with me all day...

Baby I love your way

Abbot - I just had a *gay* moment: I was reflecting on your Dylan post and our conversation last night about my "blonde woman" posts (with my reference to Peter Frampton) and was thinking about *us* and feeling like "we're not seeing enough of each other any more". I just want you to know dear Abbot that...




And no, dear readers, I haven't been into the drink yet, here at all of 3:52pm. It was the *gay* drink within that rose up inside of me.

The drinking I hope will start real soon though - and that, we know by now, will further activate "the drink" within me.

It's a beautiful circle.

Comrades, do you think that there is any danger in experiencing life in this way?

I look forward to your comments and any referrals you'd kindly like to make.

A drink of Dylan

Yes, Vivant--books can be your friend. And so can Bob Dylan. With books and with Bobby, you can't give them much--except your allegiance--but they can give you plenty. As they do me.

Sitting here listening to Bob, as I so often do late. This time I'm trying to figure out how to transfer photos from my Rogers phone to my computer, so I can post pictures to this blog instead of scouring the web for any visuals to accompany these ramblings. But--and maybe this is just because Ted Rogers died yesterday--this little Rogers device won't cooperate. It's in mourning, I think. Mourning at night.

So no new photos. Just Zimmy.

Reading and drinking

I am sitting on a couch in my basement reading quietly with no media on. A bottle of Pinot Noir accompanies me. I was supposed to meet my fellow warriors post-match at the local pub but the blonde woman did not get home until very late. But I'm good. I make the best. I really wanted to drink with the boys. Converse. But I'm happy to drink too with my books. Can books be friends? Buddies? Why not? They are friends - and if they are books with... something great about them... they are drink, too. You know, you talk about friends, I have to say also that this mobile device I carry around with me - is a great friend too. It is always there for me - when I need to talk, to "write". Whatever. I guess, what I write others might read. In that way, am I then making "friends" for other people? Maybe so, maybe so - especially if my writing might occassionally contain a drop of "drink". Friendships are more readily forged that way - through reciprocating "drink". Whoops. Distracted. Back to my Pinot. And my book. My friends.

Toe face

Drunk Sunday dinner guest has taken a Sharpie to my poor exposed toe and painted a face on it. There is no dignity for this poor boy.

Recession sock

I don't think I'll mend it or throw it out. I need to be reminded of how poor I'll be when the economy withers away.

Decaf Paperchino

No hangover today. It was a calm night. A few drinks, a little tely, early to bed, some reading, a chat with the wife... But now I'm really thirsty. Is it for the coffee though or the paper? God I wish I could afford the money or the time for a Times (New York) every Sunday. Yes - the Sunday New York Times - that is an alluring drink. Guess I'll have to settle for the lame local rag - decaffineated writing - but atleast it has last night's sports scores...

Newspaper box

Sunday morning. Still dark. Family still snoozing away. Coffee shop glows in the distance. Walking clamly but with purpose. There is the sweet smell of a bakery somewhere though I can't see a bakery. I love crisp November. But soon I will be doing a favourite thing - reading the morning paper, indoors.

I am not dirty?

What thou deniest thou art, Pinot.

Blonde woman hovering over me

Menacingly...

Blonde woman with suburban bottles

What I like about this house north of the city is the 70s retro basement bar. It's untouched. Some would call it kitchy but I would call it: "I am comfortable here" or I grew up here. I am feeling...sensing...Peter Frampton. Yes. Frampton Live. And - yes - there are shag carpets here. And a blonde woman.

Blonde woman in cab

Not drinking. Not having sex. But still - inexplicably - happy!

Blonde woman drinking wine

I often have sex with this woman but right now we are just drinking. Pinot Noir Kim Crawford at a friends' place waiting for a cab to take us to another friend's place north of the city. I hope to drink more tonight then have sex with The Blonde Woman later. We'll see how it goes. At the very least I'll be finishing up with a Robusto and music of course...