Tag Archives: drunk

Friendship Wars, History, Ithaca, Music, Novelist, Punk, Technology, Washington

A Basis For Back To The Basics In Ithaca

Leave a comment

rose
Our Lady of the Flower(s)
samplex

Date: Wed, 23 Jul 1996 8:26:08

Point of Origin: Itaca, New York

Hey, well, wherever shall I begin???!!

Had a great time with my mum and aunt. We went to the Cornell museum and botanical gardens...they are duly impressed by the first school I've attended that has a real campus—just like the ones in movies. My mum's parental fantasies and ambitions for me appear to be being realised—at least for the moment. We also worked on decorating my bedroom—its draped in black lace—their idea strangely enough. Next time they come we're going to make a black lace canopy for the bed—very Morticia Adams-ish. It seems that they're finally willing to decorate according to my tastes, realising that my interior decorating tastes like my fashion tastes will never be quite the same as theirs. Of course while they were here I gorged myself on the milk of maternal kindness and charity getting as much free stuff, labor, and meals as possible. The basics.

Unfortunately my indulgence (indirectly) led to a problem. After leaving a Thai restaurant (where I has a couple of beers), we went to the grocery store to get Asian food products—the store has an extensive selection. After leaving, as we sat at a traffic light waiting to leave the parking lot I was in an accident. A van in front of me suddenly went into reverse, backing into me. The driver ( young w/ pigtails, a nose ring, and a Henry Rollins t-shirt) became rather belligerent. My mum went to call the cops, although the other driver protested it. It turns out he doesn't have insurance, the van was a rental, and he only had a student id (Ithaca college), no driver's license with him (and the one he does have is from another state and expired—he just received a ticket last month for that). Thus his reluctance to involve the cops. But I insisted on getting them. After exchanging phone numbers, he left and I waited for the cops. Got an estimate yesterday—its going to cost a $1,000 to repair the car, but at least its driveable. Meanwhile this guy—Patrick Kennedy—has been in contact. He doesn't have much money—and will soon have even less since the cops have issued him three tickets—a fact which has him very upset. He seems to blame me for this, feeling, as I've said, it was wrong to involve the cops. I've tried to explain my position which is that without an official accident report I have nothing with which to pressure him into paying for the repairs. Anyway...

I was of course drinking all the while. He ended up making the usual offer of giving me his phone number and in a haze of beer and sexual fantasy I called him (he’s in NYC) and we talked until long past dawn. But oddly enough it didn’t involve any phone sex. He’s sent me some e-mail and I’m planning to reply.
It's good to hear Steve has been welcomed back into the bosom of the Dollhouse family. I have also had a reconciliation of sorts with a friend. I'm sure you've heard me speak of Themis. We had a falling-out a week before I left the city—drunk as usual—I can't remember what happened—blacked out as usual. I only know that it happened somewhere between my flat and a bar a few blocks away and that it must have been pretty bad cos I've never heard from him again. I suspect I told him a few unwelcome truths (aren't they always unwelcome?), not for the ifrst time, but appparently for the last time. In any event late Saturday night he called me, having got my number from the phone co., acting as if nothing had ever happened. We talked for awhile, but neither of us mentioned that night. I don't know if we're friends again or not or what prompted him to call. I can't decide if I should call him or not or perhaps e-mail him (my fave occupation). I'll have to write you about him and our strange relationship—but I'm not in the mood right now.

Went online yesterday and had an encounter in the ever-popular members rooms with a certain BenofDover. Went on for quite some time—he's a sub in search of a little discipline which I was naturally willing to virtually administer. I was of course drinking all the while. He ended up making the usual offer of giving me his phone number and in a haze of beer and sexual fantasy I called him (he's in NYC) and we talked until long past dawn. But oddly enough it didn't involve any phone sex. He's sent me some e-mail and I'm planning to reply. I'll let you know what happens.

So what is going on with you and this prostitute??!! What exactly were you planning and who was the friend who was arranging it and who was interested in the sex? Are you still pursuing this?

So you aren't able to roadtrip. Perhaps its just as well—I'm quite busy, desperately working on grant proposals, a task I've shamefully neglected. The fall semester, school, and grant deadlines are breathing down my neck and I'm beginning to panic. And I was feeling rather uncomfortable with your roadtrip requirements.

Love

Jennifer

Friendship Wars, History, Music, Punk, Religion

Friendship Wrecks Thankfully Off Road

Leave a comment

munch-scream
The Scream
samplex

Date: Sat Feb 10, 1996 9:56:24 AM America/New_York

Space, as a follow-up on that friends dilemma, I know my assessments can appear harsh and wicked at times, but as much as I would like to detract or sugarcoat them, my perceptions are as real as snow on top of Mount Fuji.

Sue spent a couple of hours on the phone last night with the seventy year old mother of one of my closest "friends". He is 29, and except for the two quarters of Wooster College partying til he dropped and flunked out, and a three-week stint in a crack house he fled to after on our advice his parents kicked him out a couple of years ago, he has never left the roost. He was educated at the finest catholic highschool in the city, studied Latin and Philosophy. His father is a retired attorney and a daily drunk. They live only a few blocks from us in a hell hole dominated by two stupid dogs, a Rottweiler pup as huge as he is moronic, and a hapless, mixed female shepherd. The son is a complete mess. Used to work as a bike courier until his own drunken ways led him to fracture both collarbones in separate accidents, and a few other minor breakages, all during after hour blackout events. He is the penultimate sponge because he is always borrowing on money he'll never make, as he soaks up the little he does make shooting heroin junk. He worked a year with me on a land surveying crew as my rod and chainman after I convinced him to leave his carpetlaying job he despised back some eight years ago. He was already a hardcore drunk and pot addict at the time, but he managed. Now he is seemingly without redemption.

Name is Shipman, but we call him Shipwreck when the fevers run high. He actually prefers to answer to Satan, a moniker slapped on this fellow by his courier buddies years ago. I refuse to oblige him with that one, and sneer when he boasts of it. I've tried to interest him in my world of computers, as he told me he had considered the writer's game when I first met him about a decade ago, and while he feigns some level of interest, he is always plotting for the next hit of whatever he can get, and soon enough just becomes a bothersome irritant in my coif as he fumbles for a beer, his can of tobacco and papers, and then some punk rock tape he brought over. Don't get me wrong. I am not badgering anybody about their chosen lifestyle, and my own list of alienated turbulence has gotten me banned from more than a few places, but there is a time and a place, and Tim, like a few others who stampede over to our house once what little money or excitement has expired in their own sweep, seems to think that my domain is simply an extention of his own. I just don't get it. I can scream and yell, politely doff my cap, or post my 95 theses on the door like Martin Luther but all I get is resistance to my way of doing things in my own house by a bunko squad of starving for sanity goons who embrace the full & feisty shadow of decadence unlike you or I ever have or ever will. Is just not my scene. Each to his own. I moralize, but keep my judgements to myself, as I try to get along just to get along.

Why do I continue to greet them as friends? Because they are simply here tracing the same circles in the air as I do? Because they "act" like they care about me? Because they suffer me and in fact rally around my own deficiencies and eccentric dalliances, applauding me as some kind of skewed pied piper while they simultaneously try to trash what gives me strength? Because I am painfully needy of friends even though I'm not shy about drawing heavy lines in the sand to distinguish me and my psychological inheritance from theirs?
Why do I continue to associate with them? Well that questions hints at some earlier post you made concerning the definitive parameters of what we generally call friends as you were searching for a word that indicated a relationship less than friendship but more than acquaintanceship. Perhaps the word we were looking for was indeed "associate" which implies to my reckoning a deeper involvement than one might expect from a periodic acquaintance.

All of which leads me into the topic of my second (or first closest, longest?) "friend" in DC or anywhere for that matter. Jack is a guy who lives to enhance the facts and residuals of his own life. The guys is as sharp a wit as I've ever known, and not too shabby with an occasional keen insight. He's scientifically grounded, knows electronics, and music. But he embellishes way beyond any reasonable doubt anything he says about himself with absolutely no hint of shame or embarrassment that a knowledgeable someone standing right next to him could ever contradict his version of the truth.

I have a brother and a mother EXACTLY like this! We're not talking about slightly shaded differences of opinion, or faint fuzzy details reshaped by the moment at hand, no, we're talking full blown unadulterated lies and exaggerations no one who knows him, and we all do after a few weeks, can believe he has the gall to utter much less try to convince us or some stranger is the dyed-in-the-wool truth of the matter. And Jack is a "friend" to every star he's ever laid eyes upon. Bosom buddies who'll do anything for him, and with that kind of power he'll make any newbie coming down the pike into a star. Oh yeah, Jack's the great talent manager wannabe. Another on again off again pal of mine Scoot suffers the same delusions. These are not mere exaggerations these guys deploy. They spout off spectacular impossible schemes as a conquering device, so as to enhance their own self-images as a way of manipulating those they wish to conquer socially. Final word? They tell lies. And those lies spread from the obvious image-manipulation techniques into other areas, all of which trouble me beyond resolve. Why do I continue to greet them as friends? Because they are simply here tracing the same circles in the air as I do? Because they "act" like they care about me? Because they suffer me and in fact rally around my own deficiencies and eccentric dalliances, applauding me as some kind of skewed pied piper while they simultaneously try to trash what gives me strength? Because I am painfully needy of friends even though I'm not shy about drawing heavy lines in the sand to distinguish me and my psychological inheritance from theirs?

It's a queer world I know here in DC. I hope I survive it.

Fats

Atlanta, Cut-ups, Poetry, Punk

Mopping Up The Money Shot

Leave a comment

gtsketch
Sketch & Fetch
samplex

Originally composed on December 5, 1995

So lutely! Great shakes! Cringe past losses. Mix the matcher air with maels minutely charmed. I repented I'd recognize the fare, pull my socks up to my knees together & organize the counting crusader's crude anatomically correct fair, take spat with the common, adopt a sudden stare, blanket all receding wing and split water wares chosen to imitate, now squealing beside themselves, yes to codify the cruxifictionaries, no to ban the bottomless pits, maybe withstand the bottomless bums, accept the irresolute and the unacceptable, bargain the scrap table and the tank blossoms, the sliding spectacle boss and his jolly umpires in the sun, and the quiet rose from the dead characters copywritten by fools not knowing or knotting the snot-nosed difference BE tween fingers and the spare tools time imagines we never corrupt but take for granted as we stagger both feet first to the thin lined edges of this year's lovely bodacious PX.

There were times when eyes wrote the words.

Thinking chains link to something.

Trying this more than that.

Possibly 5.

Icongot.

NX.

$$$

MONEY

$$$

CENTS

$$$

NULL

$$$

By the way, on the way to the mesmerizing dust bins of history does it upset the crumb to bee the remainder beyond the sum of the best western civilization ever ranked not counting a half dozen star-spangled pin-striped Yankees?

To spell the name of GOD I had to accept the limitations of a glass of water.
To break those laws into twos I had to divide by the examples of U & O.
Slurfish I awoke dry between the quips thinking of a taylor maid.
She shined my buckles tho I claimed no boots infallibly struck.
Punctuation a false idolicular beamed the mad yeast coy.
Besides the oh river yesterday swam lewd as a vine.
Asking rather questions like fame or rich I fled.
Spooked in zero the twelve remembered.
Fast idea idiots often cheat degrees.
Placer beckons discontinental nix.
Favors quickened glances set.
If riders studied road aims.
Fish duties knowing.
Marry Ots irons.
Staking fund mentals.
Allotted only so much sheetwise.
Pregnant she thought Oi.
Defiance sailed with.
Tweaking imaginary.
Numbers felt up.
Not friend oh mine.
Savor seconds as much if.
Thirds became her basement.
Personality quotas drilled a scissor.
Expecting noise routinely for harried.
Isles nor ailes he scoffed seasonally.
Never snit much qualify marched.
Mess ages fail to intrigue conned.
Con stages bewhipped battered.
Better buttered clip-ons scale.
But even legs give lessons.
Tired beyond complaint.
Textures corpus fully grasped.
Addition ally spiked without irony.
Failure to communicate points rung up.
B4 seven measures of implementation charged.
Samantha combed back tresses nooooooo window could sail.
Without obedience even floods forget purposes exist but for Aunt Sue coins.
Commons needs inspired common diseases furled beyond evidential true serum therapy.
Every node west of the north pole and west of the south intracted sake begotten ID.
Orthographic dispensers the grape shrew goddess unveiled to wails of admiring me.