Economic Indicator: Booze Consumption Goes up

Lily: Do you use twitter? I've been told that if I don't, I can't call myself a modern woman. Which is funny, because there's not much I would rather NOT be.

Me: Oh, I don't think that's true. I thought cigarettes were supposed to make us modern women. Or wait - was it loneliness? I forget which.

Pause.

Me: God, why isn't it drinking time?

At the Bar

This is the most accurate picture of me in years:




Artwork by J. Longo (aka X-eyed drunk on the left.)

Even More Random Than Usual

My weekend, in bullet form:

• I did my taxes. I'm actually getting money back, which never happens. I'm not sure why. Everyone else I know takes their refunds and buys a small Caribbean island with them.
  
• I went to three birthday parties. I will definitely need that tax refund now. There were a lot of cabs. Also, last night I wound up in a gay go-go bar at four in the morning. You know it's time to go home when it doesn't even seem odd that the waiter is not wearing pants.
  
• I am exhausted today, predictably.
  
• Back to the cabs. Cab drivers love me. They want to marry and impregnate me. They want to move to Brooklyn with me and start a car service. Of the four cab rides I took this weekend, two drivers chatted me up in some fashion. This is a pretty consistent percentage.
  
• If you combine my magical cab driver seducing powers with my tendency to attract younger men, it becomes obvious that I will eventually marry a 23-year-old cabbie.
  
• I will make him give you free rides places, but only if you're very drunk.
  

That's it for now. Hope everyone else had a lovely weekend as well.

Back in the Day, It Just Went Without Saying at All

Sometimes, New York knows I'm falling out of love, and then she pulls out all the stops.

Tonight, I went to a show, which I never do, and then I went out for drinks, which I do too often. A boy talked to me. He was much too young. I made him play a game. It's called, Guess My Age? I do this with every boy who admits to being in his early 20s.

"27!" he said.

"31."

Now, you can say - and you wouldn't be wrong - that it would behoove him to guess low. The point is, I could clean up if I wanted younguns. I am so not sure why that is, and don't care to speculate, as it's honestly somewhat disturbing.

At 4 a.m. plus, I got off the train to an empty neighborhood. I passed the lone guy outside the bodega, and walked toward Methodist and home, listening to the Dresden Dolls as I often do. My favorite song right now is "Sing," and because we're unofficially sponsoring way post-teen angst tonight, I'll give you a lyric or two:

There is this thing that's like fucking except you don't fuck
Back in the day it just went without saying at all
All the world's history gradually dying of shock
There is this thing it's like talking except you don't talk
You sing
You sing

All of a sudden, the street opened up for me. There were no cars moving through the lights. No one lingered on the corners. I passed Methodist, and saw a long tiled ramp through the doors, leading to chemical smells and sadness and efficiency. There was no one around at all. It felt like being the last living person, or maybe the first.

Sing for the bartender sing for the janitor sing
Sing for the cameras sing for the animals sing
Sing for the children shooting the children sing
Sing for the teachers who told you that you couldn't sing
Just sing

And then thing is, and this is good to know for background, things have lately been slow and blue. The kind of thing where you're disgusted with yourself for ignoring your blessings, but still can't get out of bed on time.

There is thing keeping everyone's lungs and lips locked
It is called fear and it's seeing a great renaissance
After the show you can not sing wherever you want
But for now let's just pretend we're all gonna get bombed
So sing

I thought about the signs I'd seen: Jewish Children's Museum. So-and-so is the Superintendent of this Station. I thought about how there are flowers here, even at four in the morning, spilling out of their containers in front of the bodegas, and how it feels like cheating to see the Purity Diner closed, with chairs upended on tables.

Sing cause its obvious sing for the astronauts sing
Sing for the president sing for the terrorists sing
Sing for the soccer team sing for the janjaweed sing
Sing for the kid with the phone who refuses to sing
Just sing

When I turned down my music, I could hear birds, but also a guy talking to his friend in a parked car. And up ahead, I saw a women walking in a brightly colored quilt, not fast, and realized of course that I'd never been alone all this time.

When I caught up with her, she said, "Excuse me. Do you have a cigarette. I ain't a mugger. I just got out the hospital." She held out her sad thin wrist with the bracelet.

"I know you're not," I said. "Here. You OK?"

"I'm just going home," she said. The quilt looked handmade and was very clean. She looked off her meds, but nice enough.

She went down the slope and I went across it, toward home.

Twue Wuv

My friend the Reverend and I hunkered down over beers this evening, as you do, and discussed true love. It is the Rev's feeling that one is not in love until one is loved back.

"Mutual trust," said the Rev. "Otherwise, is it even real?"

Now before you get all crazy, let me tell you: One of the two of us believes in Miracle Zombie Jesus, and it ain't the Rev. Of the two of us, I am way more Cosmica Rama Ding-dong. However:

"It seems to me that a person shouldn't lose credit, just because their feelings aren't reciprocated."

The Rev took a good swig of his beer. "Well, who said there was credit?"

I think we can agree that I need stupider and less spiritual friends.

Return of the Mouse

The Mouse has a lady, so he's much better behaved these days. Still, you can't treat a drunken mouse sober tricks, or something, so it wasn't really a total surprise when we found ourselves out late on a school night, lurching toward a diner and singing while the Mouse kicked over trashcans.

"Hey," I said, after the fifth can or so. "Hey." I was having trouble focusing on the Mouse, who was cloning himself into many mice before my eyes, so I looked at the end of my finger instead. "You can' do that, y'know."

"Can too. Lookit." CRASH!

"Nuh, nuh, nuh, cuz listen. SHHHH. There are babies on this street."

"Oh!" He looked momentarily concerned.

"Yup."

"Babies! Shhh. Kay."

When we got to the next trashcan? He laid it gently on its side.

How to Catch a Mouse

Mouse: I'm tired. Tired. I need to go home.

Me: One more bar.

Mouse: No! Sleep!

Suze: Are we going to the Library?

Me: No, sadly. The Mouse has to go home and fall asleep on his pink sheets.

Mouse: (Knocking over a glass.) Fuck you! Get your hat! We're going!