Post-Modern Drunk: Stocking up on drano and paper towels

Post-Modern Drunk: Stocking up on drano and paper towels

People really seem to like throwing up in my sink. It's true. My sink is apparently where it's at when it comes to vomit. I think it's actually required, when you enter my apartment, to leave a little of your dinner in the sink. If you can spell "Kilroy was here," with your chicken wings, all the better. I really should take down whatever sign it is that indicates it's the local custom, though. Is it the Scottish flag? The Van Gogh skeleton smoker? The heaps of empty wine bottles? My sink is where it's at!

Oh well. That's what drano and paper towels are for.

April Wine Club Addendum

If you are the cute girl I got along well with after a bottle or two of South American wine, please email me. I was far too shy and inebriated to ask for your number, but I really should have. I promise to clean out my sink before you visit.

All-in on a Stone Cold Bluff

My new toy making me much happier than any inanimate object should that's not a sex toy: high quality plastic poker cards. It's really embarassing how much one small non-fetishized object can make me, but I can't stop shuffling my new deck of playing cards. I'm hugely addicted to playing poker, even though I'm not particularly good, and I have the perfect cards for playing it. They're washable! And so supple that if you shuffle them you might get lost in a tactile wonderland of smoothness and light. Shuffle only in the privacy of your own home, or with a designated buddy to bring you out of your reverie.

And then let's get together and play some low stakes poker.

"And I Don't Want to Die Alone."

The Mountain Goats are fucking awesome. All New Yorkers should come out and see them Thursday and Saturday night. 'Nuff said.

Hero Apostasy

I had the enormous pleasure of meeting Ethan Coen (of the Coen Brothers) this past Saturday night. As far as meeting an idol goes, this one was pretty sedate--I tend to go to great lengths to avoid seeming like a sycophant, so I avoided saying all the true-but-toadying things I could have said, like, "I've seen The Big Lebowski more than any other movie except maybe Star Wars or Raiders of the Lost Ark" or "I think you guys are some of the most brilliant filmmakers of the last 30 years," or "Could you introduce me to Scarlett Johansson?"

Instead, I just introduced myself as "Stu" and mentioned that I was from Fargo. I thanked him for giving me the perfect conversation opener anywhere in the world, and for elevating my hometown above and beyond the place where Charlie Korsmo came from and Kevin Sorbo went to college.

But Ethan's response neatly illustrated a fairly common problem I have. His first question was what my last name is. And my last name is Stuart--my nickname of "Stu" comes from my last name, not my first. So instead of finding out just how Norwegian I was and enabling us to chat amiably about lutefisk, lefse, romegrot, and how great it is to come from a place where everyone is named Thorsen and Johansen and Olafsen and such, my one conversation with an idol focused entirely on how my name was not actually "Stu Stuart."

Get Serious About Flab. Try Proven Methods

This is the best spam mail I've ever seen...spam as if it was written by Mark Leyner, or Thomas Pynchon after watching too much TV.

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For DB elimination, here.

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Message ends. Just when I was getting sucked into the narrative.

So I'll follow suit.

comments[6] | 5/3/2005 | perma-link

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