Pap's Blue Ribbon
Chuck Palaniuk,
Chuck Palaniuk,
Chuck-Palaniuk's-Kidney-Stone,
Chuck Palaniuk's Kidney Stone
Necklaaaaaaaace!
Yeah...
The fam is watching Fight Club in the other room, and I'm in here typing as I have seen the movie so many times I no longer need visuals to follow it. Besides, it's been a long day- worked a double at the cafe- and the only thing that sounds good right now is writing. Writing... and... coffee. Pardon me a sec... must reup...
That space above (^) signifies the passage of time. Cool eh? O yes, I am full of such tricks. The past ten days or so have burned away like Bob Marley spliffs, and I am only now beginning to remember what happened.
I went out with my friend Mr. Greene and Steph last night to a bar in Walnut Creek. We ordered three pitchers of Pabst (king of the cheapass beers,) shot some pool, and sang karaoke. It always cracked me up that Pabst was called Pabst Blue Ribbon. In fact, the first time I heard of it, I interpreted it as Pap's Blue Ribbon. My imagination supplied me with an image of a jolly 250 pound man with teeth like a lazy haiku selling beer-by-the-bucket at the county fair. Pap's Blue Ribbon. The R on "Ribbon" would be backwards, of course. The image duly prepared me for the taste, which is, in an endearing sort of way, beer soda.
The beer soda gave me frothy courage for the karaoke, and I ended up singing She Talks To Angels with plenty of the necessary drunken swagger. Unfortunately, karaoke is to working musicians what Pabst is to Sierra Nevada, but sometimes being a singer-songwriter needs more cheap thrills, dammit. You spend a week (month, year) laboring on a song that becomes less and less clear the more you work on it, and, well... sometimes a Pabst pitcher and a drunken rendition of No Woman No Cry is exactly what you need to cleanse your palate. Hooorah. All told it was a good night, good crowd and I was with cool people. I got a suprisingly good sleep on Greene's couch, and worked a double shift today that would've worn my patience if not for the pages of Tom Robbins I devoured on my breaks. Once again, in words I found emancipation.
I'm going to go see the Lemon-Lime Lights tommorrow in Berkley. If anyone wants to come with, give me a call, ey? 'Night.
-™-
Chuck Palaniuk,
Chuck-Palaniuk's-Kidney-Stone,
Chuck Palaniuk's Kidney Stone
Necklaaaaaaaace!
Yeah...
The fam is watching Fight Club in the other room, and I'm in here typing as I have seen the movie so many times I no longer need visuals to follow it. Besides, it's been a long day- worked a double at the cafe- and the only thing that sounds good right now is writing. Writing... and... coffee. Pardon me a sec... must reup...
That space above (^) signifies the passage of time. Cool eh? O yes, I am full of such tricks. The past ten days or so have burned away like Bob Marley spliffs, and I am only now beginning to remember what happened.
I went out with my friend Mr. Greene and Steph last night to a bar in Walnut Creek. We ordered three pitchers of Pabst (king of the cheapass beers,) shot some pool, and sang karaoke. It always cracked me up that Pabst was called Pabst Blue Ribbon. In fact, the first time I heard of it, I interpreted it as Pap's Blue Ribbon. My imagination supplied me with an image of a jolly 250 pound man with teeth like a lazy haiku selling beer-by-the-bucket at the county fair. Pap's Blue Ribbon. The R on "Ribbon" would be backwards, of course. The image duly prepared me for the taste, which is, in an endearing sort of way, beer soda.
The beer soda gave me frothy courage for the karaoke, and I ended up singing She Talks To Angels with plenty of the necessary drunken swagger. Unfortunately, karaoke is to working musicians what Pabst is to Sierra Nevada, but sometimes being a singer-songwriter needs more cheap thrills, dammit. You spend a week (month, year) laboring on a song that becomes less and less clear the more you work on it, and, well... sometimes a Pabst pitcher and a drunken rendition of No Woman No Cry is exactly what you need to cleanse your palate. Hooorah. All told it was a good night, good crowd and I was with cool people. I got a suprisingly good sleep on Greene's couch, and worked a double shift today that would've worn my patience if not for the pages of Tom Robbins I devoured on my breaks. Once again, in words I found emancipation.
I'm going to go see the Lemon-Lime Lights tommorrow in Berkley. If anyone wants to come with, give me a call, ey? 'Night.
-™-
posted by ThoughtMeats at 9:47 PM
2 Comments:
good, so you are alive.
incidentally, next time someone starts wondering where you are and reports that you've been missing for days, i'm going to keeeeel you. or maybe just frown at you once or twice.
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