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...

Self portrait

Emmancipated robusto

Rubusto in a box

the Abbot's Friday morning rhymes

All together now: you fill in the words!







OR...

A miilon days

Kids have been dropped. No hangover today-I had only four beers and two glasses of wine at the silent auction last night. I'm nestled in the van on this crisp, bright November day. 21st. Birthday. 43rd. How many years left? How many days? Prince is still in my dashboard, singing now: "...only been gone for an hour but it seems like a miilion days..." A million? Hmm. What does that mean? Sounds like a lot. But it's not infinite. It's not eternal. I think I'll smoke one of those three robustos after work today. Would be nice to share them with someone. Get a gift. Share a gift. I learned that yesterday while sat infront of my blogmachine. Blogmachine good. Abstinence bad.

Silent auction

Raising money for a school is beautiful. Bid quietly. Drag that lead pencil. Buy drink tickets. Drink your drink. But stay on your toes. Someone might swoop. My the neighbourhood ladies looked fantastic tonight. As fantastique as my own. But wait Johnny those were your Buddies' Bitches. Sorry Boys - just caught up in the community spirit. Or perhaps it was the music. Yes! Blame the DJ. But never the barkeep. The passions soar. I look heavenward and see a hoop. I am deafened by wanting to give.

It's Official

Only had four drinks last night. Not hungover. Driving in to work. Prince is blaring on the stereo:

"Sometimes i just want to sit on the stoop and play my guitar...and just watch all the cars go by..."

It's official: music is more powerful than drink.

Sex and Drink

My kind of drink, my kind of woman:

Music AND Drink

745pm

Back to white. Mixing red and white. 4th drink in two hours. What does the research say about that? More important - should I drive or dial (or blog) after all that drink?

Robustos

Pistols are singing "no future for you" as I eye Cohiba Robustos my un-puritan EastEuro mother just brought back from Cuba. Do I dare light one up on a "school night"? Or...should I go downstairs to check on the kids? Damn. The wine is good and the cigars are tempting but the thing I really can't tear myself away from just now is the Pistols...the music. Is music the most powerful drink?

711pm

Same glass. Same wine. But topped up. Third drink essentially since initial 540pm post. New location: Office. Sitting in front of precious blogging laptop with sex pistols beautifully obliterating all things "puritan".

God Save the...Puritans

Guilty Puritan message 2

Don't drink and drive--especially in the snow.
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

Puritans and drink

I've always been a worrier about drink- and how much is too much. It must be the puritan in me that I inherited from my grandmother - who I must say was a lovely woman but did not have the drink in her at any time and in any way.

So as I sit here with a Newcastle and savour its brown blandness, I can rid myself of any guilt by incorporating some puritan messaging through photos.

Today's puritan photo message: never dial drunk.

I think my grandma would be proud.
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

605pm

Glass of red. Cab Sauv. I was feeling "red". Know what I mean? Yeah. It's not too soon after the other glass is it? Let'see. 25 minutes. Hmm. A bit tight. But what is time? This feels right. And...tastes right.

540pm

Kids have been collected. They've even been fed. It's dark already outside. Snow is falling. The wife is out tonight. I'm feeling cozy here. Feeling calm. I'd like something to compliment this feeling. How about a drink John? What a fabulous idea. That's what drink does. It compliments one's life. And 540? That's not too early is it? No John. It's never too early or too late. It's merely a question of what feels right.

Cup, with Drink

The booze talking ?

Whenever newspapers or websites lack drink, I often turn to nytimes.com for the possibility of something interesting or inspiring.

Today, in clicking on a link to a feature asking Condoleezza Rice about what President Obama will inherit, I was taken to a page that also had a link to a story entitled "What Is Art For?"

I chose to read the art story instead.

I guess I am really interested in art.

That piece - which I am still in the middle of - is mostly about writer and intellectual Lewis Hyde. I was interested enough in Lewis Hyde, a one-time McCarther Genius, and then learned that one of the works he is famous for is: "Alcohol and Poetry: John Berryman and the Booze Talking". Just the kind of idea I am preoccupied with these days - as are you, my fellow drinkers...

I love those kind of cosmic coincidences.

Anyways...the work is described as such:

"This pamphlet won the first Pushcart Prize for its remarkable exploration of alcoholic addiction as a disease of "spirits." Beginning with spiritual thirst as the human desire to move with powers greater than oneself, Lewis Hyde asks and answers what would compel anyone to become addicted to intoxication rather than inspiration. John Berryman's poetry provides the imagination of alcoholism."

I guess the only difference for me (perhaps I am in denial?) is that I don't see my "alcoholic addiction" as a problem.

As you know - I see drink as a partner, a friend, a brother and perhaps a mentor to the drink within.

But perhaps I am in denial?

I haven't read the Hyde piece but I have real doubts - atleast in my case - whether "it" really is the booze talking.

Somedays - in some situation - the very same, equally powerful, intoxicating and joyous drink rises up in me, even when I have not had a "drink".

It happened this morning for instance when I arrived at the hockey rink at 8am with my son and the sun lit up a tall golden-leafed tree just outside the doors of the arena. The sight of that tree, against the grey and white sky, in the midst of real quiet and crisp November air - filled me up for much of the day.

It was just so surprisingly beautiful - and powerful.

I felt that and saw that and yet I had not had a drink. I mean who drinks in the morning but "alcoholics" right?

The Drink of Celebration

Relaxing at home. Yes, Odysseus found this tiresome, after 2o-odd years away from wife, son, dog, and swineherd. But sometimes, after three or four or eight nights out, I like a night round the hearth-fire, glass of mead in hand. No wine-dark sea in sight...instead, I see dark wine, in this case a cheapie called Nero. Not zero, hero, or Fred Shero, but Nero--to be drunk only when the palace is burning.

So lately there has been much celebrating, and celebrating has drink inherent in it. Celebrating a friend's achievement--and scoring 500 NHL goals over 18 years verily smacks of drink. Celebrating 30 years out of high school, and particularly the smashing of those hideous walls that kept groups from groups. The bringing down of those barriers has drink. Celebrating no sleep--and celebrating sleep too, when it comes, and comes again. Celebrating, now, the cusp of another chapter in the celebrated annals of WPBHL-rooted sport, as we stand poised on the precipice of five months of intense hour-long tilts in the gym. All of this veritably smacks of drink.

Greatest Hits of Drinking Water

Took me a while to find this. It's perfect.

Chris Chambers - a poet with drink.

He starts the poem with Guinness - my drink of choice post-fast.

Listen > here... and drink up ^

Drive Thru

4pm. Suburban coffee drive thru. Back soon to urban centre noblese to cavort with cocktailing intelligentsia. I'll take this weak, watery, sugary drink for now. Anything to speed up and distract from the dismal highway drive.

The Effects

This morning I sit in a coffee shop enjoying a double espresso and an expensive Saturday newspaper telling the story of The Bubble. I feel good. I feel fresh. And how can this be given that I had big plans to celebrate the end of my drink-fast last night? Well...I fell asleep on the livingroom couch at 730pm and couldn't really wake up until 530 this morning. That's right my fellow Drinkers. Asleep at 730. Do you see how abstaining f*cks you up? Perhaps it was the fact that I had gotten up at 4am Friday morning then had two delicious pints of Guinness straight after work - after not drinking for three lonnnnng days. Maybe. Maybe those two pints put me under. I did have a couple of nice glasses of California Pinot at the house later too. Yes they must have contributed too. I was planning to watch The Abbot's band play at 9pm last night but, suffice it to say, I never got there. I never got to drink his music. All I got was sleep.

Liquor store stop on way home from first drink in three nights

It feels like it's been three years not three nights. Joan Baez is playing in the background. She had drink. (Is she the first femme-mention on this crazy-assed blog?) I thought I'd just stop here because we needed to replenish our table wines for the house. Trouble is that the "Vintages" section is looking so inviting....

Coaster

I couldn't use my flash for I am in a proper pub - and people would look at me strange. But there it is - a shadow in the dim light of the room on the bartop infront of me. Ready to be had. I lift the glass of Guinness and before I can drink, I laugh. The custom Guinness coaster it sits on has a much more beautiful image of the legendary pint than mine and the caption: "Good things come to those who wait." Perfect. I love advertising. So fun. So concise. The few people who knew I was fasting - otherwise known as "experts" - said that my first drink would be worth the wait. And? You know what? (He takes his first sip) The taste is wonderful; perhaps a little more wonderful after three days of fasting; but worth the sacrifice? I don't know. I'll decide later after I open that Pinot Noir at home. What I do feel is that I was more on my game during the day because I wasn't up late drinking for three consecutive nights. I might even have felt "the drink" (the muse; inspiration; joy) during the day - without the drink - if you know what I mean. Surely by now we have established the difference between drink and "drink" - haven't we? But I digress. And oh, look!, half of my Guinness is gone now! What was I saying? Oh there's the coaster again - and the caption. Yes - my precious - good things come to those who wait. But - my precious - good things also come to those who just drink without think.

The Wife

This shameful person is my wife. She tries to hide from the camera. And so she should. I'm am challenging myself with a three day drinkfast and she comes home from a night out drinking with her corporate girl friends and has the nerve to ask "Why are you denying yourself? That's crazy. That's not like you. Help me finish off the Sancerre..." She is clearly drunk. But she has no "drink", no morals. Wait! She is now trying to tear my clothes off! She is clearly hammered. How on earth is a guy supposed to "fast" under such conditions? And ontop of all this my friend is sending me photos of his nine-year-old drinking beer at a bar. I take three days off from drink and I begin to see the world for what it really is - f*cked. No wonder we drink. It's a circle. And as long as we stay inside that cirlce in which drink brings out the drink within us - the world is beautiful. Step outside of it for three days and...well...read the above.

The Filter

This is the third and final night of my "fast" from drink. I am staring once again at coffee in the evening instead of wine, beer or scotch - and I am reflecting - as I like to do.

Now - I had more energy today and didn't feel rough. I slept well last night. But I am drowsy now. It doesn't really compute since alcohol is a depressant and if I for instance had a nice little glass of the California Pinot Noir nestled in my basement - "No! Don't do it John!" - I just know that it would pick me up. And more than that the beautiful wine would raise up the drink in me and send me to a dreamland...

But I won't do it. I'll just replace the filter and drink my coffe and wait patiently for after work tomorrow at which point I will go to my favourite pub which pours the best Guiness in Canada - and I will drink.

The question is - will that Guiness taste better than ever and will all of this "fasting" have been worth it?

Drinkfast

I don't know who ever thought of this but I am in the middle of a fast - from drinking - and can't say that I see much benefit in this type of "life-style". Hence I am at 7pm perched in front of a coffee pot instead of flexing my wrist with a corkscrew. 3 nights without drink is the plan. Tonight is night number two. I can do the three nights. No prob. The question is why? "Why" is of course the eternal and universal question - and I suppose I ask that too. Why not drink? And why not tap into the drink within? Is it so self-destructive to reach for the corkscrew of life and the soul on a daily basis? Isn't it noble to go deep everyday and and take the pain of physical and emotional hangovers when they inevitably arrive? Oh! Coffee's ready! Mmmm. Hot. Perky. But no muse.

I am cup

Hall of Fame

If you were a star athlete retired with cups aplenty what would you desire on your induction to a "Hall of Fame"? Well...drink of course...and music (which is drink)...and women in dresses (which is...women in dresses).