I’m house-sitting down here in DC this week for a buddy who took his lady friend to the beach. It’s a relatively easy gig; pretty much I have to feed his cat. That’s it. So it could be a little easier. But worth it; though I have admirably suitable digs of my own — still! a freaking no shit miracle — I am a nomad by nature and always appreciate a change of scenery.
Anyway my friend left me a set of instructions I found rather amusing. So here is the second installment in my current open container speedway series of stuff other people wrote:
Senior E,
House is kinda like an old VW. Sink drips. Mind it doesn’t run. Basement door lock is tricky. The hammer next to it will help. Blue trash can may be used to water the garden. Don’t mess with the amps please. Turntables are plugged into speakers. Turn off circut, if you turn them on. CD player is unhooked, but you are a clever monkey. Car key is on counter — emergency use ONLY. As in, a trip to the emergency room.
Ps. I dare you to do my dishes; here is a pile of herb for incentive. see you in a week..
Fortunately there thus far has been just one crisis dire enough to demand use of the car; when i woke up this morning & realized there was no Starbucks within walking distance.
Way I see it is that quick jaunt for coffee staved off a caffeine withdrawal induced trip to the emergency room.
*wipes sweat from brow*
Whew!
Close call.
In other news, for ya’ll who — for your own weird reasons — still hang around this crap ass blog, I have been busy writing lately. Really. I mean not really busy. But barely busy, which is busier by far than I had been. Really.
They say Work Is The Curse Of The Drinking Man. I agree. I know from experience how easy it is to be broke when you’re an alcoholic — and how hard it is to be an alcoholic when you’re broke.
Unless you’re in the company of a cadre of superbly friendly bartenders who feed you liquor for free. Then it’s wicked easy to be an alcoholic when you’re broke (but damn hard bothering to find a job). I know from experience. For awhile there, back in the day, I drank so much free tequila that I was forced to turn to hard drugs for relief.
But those days are gone — hundreds of miles & a good long while behind me.
I live in a different world now — one where the bartenders senselessly make me pay for every fucking thing I drink. Ah well. If nothing else it keeps me Gainful. Gainfulness also keeps a roof over my head — a condition I would dearly love to keep permanently.
All this takes time spent pulling nails, scrubbing floors & whatever other gig I can find to scrape up a buck. Add to that my precipitous drop in drug intake — most of this blog was written while I was on enough drugs to kill a mule (and bring it to life again) — and writing without them takes a little getting used to. All this produced a scenario where my relationship to the written word has grown estranged of late.
Work is the curse of the drinking man indeed. I put forth that work is as well the curse of the writing man. Unless you write for a living — and probably even then.
So let’s just go the distance & outrightly declare: Work Is The Curse.
If so then writing for me is the Cure.
Bad news for me: If I must work, and I must write — I must — then damn it all to fuck! I don’t have time to drink!
YIKES!! What the hell am I gonna do now that I’ve completely sworn off booze?
Shit. I guess try to drink a little less?
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