Wednesday, December 22, 2010
My bartender is a heroin addict. Over the last year I have watched him deteriorate. He is more pale than he was and he has scabs on his arms, from the itching. He still makes excellent drinks though and he still asks me how I am, without fail, every time I see him. Which is often. First beer down. Party time, a clap of the hands. That guy has energy. Is ready for fun, has play on his mind and elsewhere. I scratch my balls. That's twice in the last fifteen minutes, perhaps I have lice? Sazerac. God I love this drink. I wish pussy tasted this good. Don't get me wrong, it does taste good, most of the time, but it doesn't taste like this. This is an adults version of alcoholic breast milk and this bar is a beautiful oasis. A beautiful, artificial oasis, and a godsend too. It's my favourite place outside of the studio. If this bar the and my studio were combined ? Well the consequences would be felt for moons and moons. Someone here smells like bad cigarettes. Bad smoke. All these bars are non smoking now, she/he must suck it hard. It's a blessing that no one smokes in these places, it'd make it more of of Waitsian/Bukowskian cliche than it already is. Lonely men, happy types, pretend party. This however is all bad tragic makeup. Fake scars. No real loss. Just easy indulgence. Breath deep and take another drink. Zero sum game. So, yeah, whatever. Goodnight.