fr_defenestrato: (oban)
Today is Day 30 of my alcohol-freeness, and I have decided: Lent be damned. I will drink this weekend in San Francisco.

Thirty days is the usual 'drying out' period for me, anyway. Time to get wet again.
fr_defenestrato: (oban)
Because [livejournal.com profile] maestro_live just put me to mind of the song 'The Gnu' (I am not Gary Gnu, thank you very much... it really pays to know w'hoo's w'hoo) and in perverse observance of my own temporary teetotalage vice [sic] my tendency in all other times to drink 'til aswim in penes, I offer this reminder of the not inconsiderable charms of Michael Flanders and Donald Swann:

fr_defenestrato: (Default)
Today is the 10th day of Lent and so my 10th day of teetolaling. By far the oddest and most unexpected effect of this drying-out—and I'm theorizing here, but I have no other explanation for the phenomenon*—is that my cats are suddenly treating me differently: they're noticeably stand-offish, aloof, pretty much refusing to curl up next to me on the couch or accept petting for more than a minute or so. This is new, starkly different from previous behavior, and so far as I can see not attributable to any other causative factor. I'm assuming that an alcohol-free Gourd smells so distinctly different from my besotted self that the cats are freaked out, wondering who this bizarre new version of their househuman is, and don't trust me in the least.

Cain't say as I blame them.

----
* doo doo de doo doo

A while.

Mar. 2nd, 2009 10:30 pm
fr_defenestrato: (Default)
I've been fairly scarce on LJ since my first full day at Carnivale in Nwalins. There are many reasons and no reason for this. This is meant to be a very generic catch-up post.

First, Carnivale was mostly great. I drank a hundred cocktails and sucked a hundred cocks. Well, ok, not that many cocks. Probably not that many cocktails, either, but close. After spending way too much money in the first two days at Corner Pocket—a surfeit of wallet-surfing hustler boys, several of whom Maestro and got to be fairly friendly with; four dancers from Taboo in Montréal, for example, one of whom French braided my hair on Friday night; we bought drinks and, thus, their continued attentions—we mostly stuck to the quartet of bars around Bourbon and Ste. Anne: Lafitte's, Oz, The Pub, and Good Friends. I got my suck on pretty nicely on Sunday but felt I could be doing it better: so Sunday night I swallowed half a tab of Viagra, put on my orange jock, and headed out. Had a spectacular time in the upstairs backroom at Lafittes: had my dick out and hard, but it was just bait to lure along other dicks that I could play with. Fellated a small batch of guys, the last of which was rrrrruff! hot and perfectly content to hang out tumescent in my mouth for a good long time. I have no notion it was he who stole my wallet, but I suppose it might have been.

Called the police from the room; waited for a callback. Called my credit card company and reported a stolen card. Luckily I had very little money in my wallet, but of course it meant I had no way to get to what money, real or plastic, I had left for the vacation. Also no clue how to get on the return flight without ID, so Maestro called Fabian and asked him to stop by my place, pick up my passport, and FedEx it for priority delivery Tuesday.

Of course, Tuesday was Mardi Gras, and that really does count as a holiday in NOLA. We learnt this by calling FedEx national to track the package: no delivery from the NOLA FedEx distribution center. Maestro sprang for a cab ride, 9 miles and $35 each way, and we picked up my passport. We had an early night out and an extremely early flight Wednesday morning.

So Wednesday was Ash Wednesday, and while I have absolutely no inclination to rethink my lack of religious belief, it began, in the weeks leading up to Carnivale, to strike me that I might could use a break from the consumption of alcohol. So I'm dry for Lent. It's a silly excuse, I know, but still a good idea. Today was the sixth day and I'm doing ok. I'm finding myself declining or even canceling a bunch of invitations and engagements, including several IMs from my friend Tritelli last Thursday exhorting, wheedling, cajoling, beseeching me to accompany him to Secrets. Worse, I think I cannot attend the NYC gathering of old PennBO balalaika types the weekend after next, because I can't see myself partying with these folks without partying. Sigh.

The Wire Season 3 is magnificent on second viewing. The end of the Avon Barksdale/Stringer Bell tale is positively Shakespearean in scope and depth. Wow. And, goddammit, I love Bunny Colvin. I'm pausing before a second run through Season 4.
fr_defenestrato: (brother voodoo)
Good lard: at the office until 11 p.m. yesterday working a proposal due two weeks from today. Caught my Fairfax Connector bus to West Falls Church, caught the last orange line train downtown, which meant I was certain to miss the last yellow/green trains north. So I exited at MacPheremone Square and walked three blocks to the Green Lantern for a nightcap. Four beers and two shots later I cab home, feed them katzen, pack my stuff for the weekend (Lord Pancakes Aren't Animals Are They is shortly coming here to the office to pick me up; hence we hie to Ohio for the wedding of Lord Dan the Obstreperously Intent on Connubial Bondage), check email and LJ, and head to bed for an extremely efficient four hours' sleep before I need to get up and out for an 8:30 mandatory meeting, which fuck you Erica.

So I go to reset my cell phone alarm to Ridiculously Early O'Clock, except my cell phone's not where it ought to be. Wait... no, it's not ANYWHERE it ought to be. Uh. Hmm. Head upstairs to Irv A and dial my number on [livejournal.com profile] misterdarkness/[livejournal.com profile] peregrin8's phone and run down the back stairs quickly to tiptoe through my apartment, ears up and microadjusting, listening for the buzz of my cell phone (because of course I never have the ringer on, ever). Nope. I try again. Nope. Ok: I left my phone in the cab. I email Lord Broccoli to advise him of my work number and address and that I've lost my phone. I email My Sunshine (My Only Sunshine), [livejournal.com profile] maestro_live, that I've lost my cell phone. He emails back almost immediately that he's contacted the cabbie and the cabbie will drop it at his place. Whew. Leave it inside your outer gate, I tell him, and I'll pick it up on the way to the Metro in the morning.

I set the loudest and most annoying alarm clock in the work, ganked decades ago from Travelodge on Main Street, Newark, Delaware, where I was desk clerking, and go to bed for what is now maybe 2 hours 15 minutes' worth of sleep. Except oops. I wake up at 10 a.m. having missed the mandatory 8:30 meeting, but more importantly OH so close to being late already for the 11:30 meeting, in which, in essence, my entire job is being picked apart by an external quality assurance auditor.

Auditui meo!

Emergency mode: deodorant, mouthwash, put on a suit, tie in pocket; email boss: "Very sorry. I will be there by audit time. Long story"; shut down, unplug, pack computer; scram to Maestro's place, grab the phone, head to Metro, green line train sits in the tunnel between Shaw and Mt. Vernon for several minutes. At this point I WILL be late for the meeting. Get out at Archives and grab a cab, who drives me to Tysons and, because he doesn't take credit cards, stops at the Exxon near my office. The ATM gives me a process error. Nothing to do with my account. I am in hell. I am in hell. I am in hell. What I tell you three times is true.

Second try on the ATM and success. Cab drops me in front of my office. I uncoat, brush teeth, slime and ponytail hair, grab coffee— and someone has made double-coffee. So much coffee in the basket that it has overflowed and grounds are everywhere, in the carafe, on the burner, all around the machine. Fucker! What the fuck, fucker? I make new coffee with 4 minutes till my audit. Grab my shit, laptop, notepad, etc. Put on my tie. Head to conference room.

AND I FUCKING KICK ASS.

Auditor asks me question after question and I have reasonable answers to everything. He even tries to get me on an exception to our process (the prop I'm currently working on) where the Capture Plan was skipped due to time constraints. Says to me: "Maybe you should write that into your SOP..." I called up the SOP that he had "perused" (def. 2) and found precisely where I had already written the exception clause in.

I rock.

Another meeting now. Road trip soon.
fr_defenestrato: (LaTasca)
We really did say "dinner" and we really did eat dinner. But it was our first outdoor hangout of the season, and Fox & Hounds on 17th St. N.W. is famously dangerous: you ask for a simple mixed drink (mine, there, is Jack and Ginger) and they bring you an 8-oz. glass of iced liquor with only about half an inch empty at the top, and a bottle of soda or juice. You mix your own, and the first sip is pure liquor till you can get sufficient ullage to make a decently proportioned drink.

I had 418 of these last night. The monkfish and mash were no match.

So then, being the Very Bright Person that I am, especially when way drunk, I go home and put on a movie. What movie could I possibly pick as appropriate for a major inebriation? Yup: A Home at the End of the World.

At 10:55 I was a blubbering mess, on the phone with [livejournal.com profile] maestro_live, bawling my eyes out, barely able to make sentences. (Holy cow, I'm even getting misty right now just thinking about that movie.) P talked me down pretty efficiently, though, which is why I was then able to sit through my first viewing of Harold and Maude in probably a decade. It's hippie and it's dippy in places, but damn, that movie holds up, largely on the sheer likability of Ruth Gordon and Bud Cort. I been singing "On the Road to Find Out" to myself all day long, apart from a brief fling with "Tea for the Tillerman" in the shower. Cat Stevens is my most personal and wrenching reason for loathing fundamentalist Islam.

Anyway. The previews on the DVD extras menu! Hal Ashby filmed some full-on passionate kisses between the two leads but they got excised before release, presumably by skittish industry execs. (Those that know the movie know that the most explicit extant evidence that Harold's and Maude's shared connection is a physical one is a morning-after shot where they're about as far apart as they could possibly be on Maude's bed, with Maude conveniently asleep and Harold blowing soap bubbles.)

Also, one preview also showed an odd, surrealistic looking landscape, with the movie characters in the foreground and a bunch of leafless trees in the background shaped to spell out "FUCK WAR" (although the F was not all in shot). Who knows where that came from (other than the ongoing-at-the-time Vietnam conflict and the popular opposition to our "staying the course" there so bloody long... but that's completely irrelevant today, of course).

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