Archive for the 'disco' Category

The Salmon Of Disco

Dig: The graph below demonstrates the difference in energy required to get a sober vs. a drunk person to dance at the disco party.

catalyst_effect.png

Notice that less energy is needed to activate a [red] catalyzed reaction — while a greater energy input is required to activate & drive its uncatalyzed [blue] counterpart to completion in the same amount of time.

Look the graph over once more while you chew on the above paragraph please; it’s entirely brain wraparound-able.

Like [blue] is the dude who just showed up cold sober to the party. While [red, catalyzed] is a properly liquored up party goer.

The reactions are complete when each hits the dance floor.

The red line denotes the amount of energy required before a lady-friend’s entreaties successfully convince a drunk person to disco dance. Blue for the amount of convincing Joe Sober dude needs.

The drunk person goes by the name Drunk Yo.

Joe Sober requires more energy to convince him to dance to We Are Family. You can count on it like a law of physics.

Drunk Yo’s activation energy is far lower than Joe Sober’s since Drunk Yo is halfway to the dance floor already.

Singing I got all my sisters & ME!!

By strategically lowering the activation energy required to move a drunk ass to the dance floor, liquor makes Drunk Yo a million times easier to convince. In this way liquor at the disco party behaves remarkably like chemical reaction catalysis.

Joe Sober will get funky eventually. It’s human nature. But without the benefit of catalysis…not funky enough. Not fast enough. Joe Sober is of no use to the party.

Not without liquid booze fuel.

Consider: a salmon steak breaks down far more readily, to its’ molecular components, in the presence of enzymes — digestive catalysts — in the stomach, than when left to rot in the sun. Each result — the molecular LEGO set from which salmon steak is originally assembled — looks quite the same.

But catalysis accelerates the situation in magnificently handy ways.

Yeah — whoa! — like Far Out.

Bitchin!!

If you learned one thing here today remember this: The crucial difference is speed.

Any questions?

Advertisements

superstar love revisited

Dear Batya,

Remember how we thought we could sell a short book of our emails? My old & fiesty friend: we were On To It! Which is why I no longer fuck with email much even; just slap this letter here, my first to you in 5 years, straight on open container speedWay!

Where everything is for sale.

+$!

They were on the counter. Flowers. No one had — or has since thank goodness — ever fired me up a bouquet from afar. Dudes: bouquets suck! In Lieu of Flowers just replenish my online gambling account. From now on. Thanks!

But one thing about these flowers was so good it changed me.

Probably I cruised up to the Godz Club — the old place to be — to smoke pot in the walk in cooler. Hits from a carved parsnip bong. Cauldrons of Alien Turd Tea. Stirred with giant chocolate speed-dipped sporks. Yep. First they got the sporks banned. Then outlawed hallucinations altogether. What next? The dreaded ‘nuclear option;’ the US Supreme Court upholds a Texas verdict outlawing possession, manufacture or distribution of make-believe. Whoa!

Did they really?

For sure they banned smoking pot in the walk in cooler. Ask anyone — the place has gone sharp down hill since. Plus they changed their name: they’re the Organo Plug Butt-crunch Restaurant & Pimphouse now.

This! After all the hard work you & me put into that hell hole?

All a friend can say is ain’t it a Shame!!

+$!

Last time I seen her Batya wore a tank-top with 2 words — Oui on her right & WIN! on her left — emblazoned with a green Sharpie across her boob-flesh. The upper & meatier parts of each. Exposed brilliantly when flashed from her tank top; a creme colored affair with miniature lace whips, dangled like hells bells, where her spine curved crater-like into the small of her back. Two words were embroidered in scorpion-apple red across the back pockets of her vintage cut-off Sergio Valenti jeans.

Bitchen Dinero.

I always thought she meant her stack of cash was bitchin’ — Super cool.

But before I got the chance to ask off she go — amid a wild chorus of woohoOz! — with whoever says they’re sober to drive, on a daybreak airport run.

Absynthies says: “That’s the coolest thing about being Batya — must be! She comes. She whoops everyone’s asses, parties harder & harder every second until she leaves — then wooshOO! Gone. Like a hundred dollar bill on a drug run.

Fuckin rock star that Batya!!”

Hero. She does the stuff of heroes.

One time Batya emailed me a few hours after her latest stunning daybreak departure. Said she jumped a straight-shot taxi ride to her workplace’s front curb. About 10AM Chicago time. To cook food for the health conscious People. Except she inadvertently switched the blender flip on while she dislodged a root of ginger with her fingers from the industrial strength high speed blade.

It was just me & her on email back then. She fired off a detailed ‘still drunk’ missive of the incident moments later from the computer at her work. I replied: “Batya: I’m proud of you!!” Then jumped on the phone to tell all our friends! Gossip? No — this is news.

“Yep.” I said. “Last thing said was she planned to commandeer OJ & Champagne for Emergency Room Mimosas. And trade lesbian sex for loose doses of opiate pain yummiez!”

Who does that? Seriously. 2 cool!

I remember another time.

“A’right you guys I just bought every Beastie Boys cd ever made.” She commanded. “So look out.”

It was awesome after that.

Awesome but like all the good things in this world — not for long. I don’t remember when Batya left town exactly. I just remember, protestation aside, I admitted I couldn’t blame her.

Batya lives in New York City and I like the way New York City moves me.

I hit the top stair and swung to my right & into the once epic hangout now known as the Plug Butt-Crunch.

“Whose got me birthday doobages?!” I blurted.

“Right here,” Absynthies proffered the boquet Batya sent me. “Smoke up Johnny!!” “Shit yes,” another concurred. “Smoke ’em way the fuck up!!”

“Give it to Mike E: He’ll smoke anything!” Absynthies said of the daffidol or whatever the shit was. She picked on me, of course, but with deliberate kindness — it was after all my birthday.

“You should smoke the card Batya wrote you dude!” Absynthies assured. “For real. That will get you high. Like Mike E likes it!!”

That good? I thought. Someone else In The Know said, “Read it.”

It read:

Superstar Love!

GollygulpWe’eheeez!!!

It was — & very much is — among the coolest well wishes offered me by anyone ever.

I read it again. Thought about it ever since.

Back at yooz like a boOmSlang 180. Batya: I’m proud to be your friend!!

From one superstar to another: Dang. We superstars gotz to stick together these days!!

Oh..an entire medium-size Vermont town wishes you happy birthday Batya!

The crowd goes wild.

Superstar Love (spiked with XXX make-believe),
Mike E

with style.

The weirdest thing happened last night.

I’d been up for a few — I think I slept a couple quick hours Wednesday morning & not a wink since. This all happened near midnight on Saturday…

…and I ate my last speed around Saturday noon.

Grr.

I was broke & hungry & so tired I was sure sleep would do more harm than good. I was a little twitchy & too conspicuously talking to myself out loud to be in public; though the Bar was in many ways preferable to the nervous confines of someone else’s living room.

Plus I’d begun to get creeped by anxiety over whether I’d find someplace to stay the night. And how bad it would suck to wake up tomorrow, if I did, still broke & hungry but feeling that special kind of Worse, after nowhere near enough sleep, than one feels on no sleep at all.

The bartender bought me a glass of wine. It helped considerable with the Twitchy Thing. But made me tired for real. So the bartender bought me a coffee.

If the Bartenders weren’t on my side I am certain I’d never Succeed.

My buddy Mike D was at the Bar. I remember the first time I met the kid. He was like ‘What’s you’re name?’ ‘Mike E.’ I said & he goes ‘Oh you’re Mike E? I heard about you — Yo I’m Mike D!!’

Mike D spins disco. Like We Are Family & shit — but also the disco you don’t really know. Deep sugar cube funk. There were turntables at the Bar. Mike D had some records. Next thing I knew it was shazam:On.

Human beings need water, shelter & food to Survive. But when we come up short on one or even two of these…if we can dance we get the chance to not just survive but do it with a little bit of Style.

I don’t remember the last time I danced. Think I should do it again sometime, though — on account of something real weird that happened halfway through the first song:

I smiled.