Composed an 800 word op-ed I need to sell on "Baby, It's Cold Outside." It's not a sexual assault paean or hornbook--sorry, virtue signalers. I imagine many people feel this way and would not wish to say so in a highly visible public forum. I'll say it, though. No problem. And I'll present an argument why, and good luck refuting it.
Walked three miles, climbed the Bunker Hill Monument once. Shaved for first time in a week and a half. My hair is getting long and starting to curl in the back. Also, it occurred to me recently that maybe some people think one of my regular winter hats--the Vaccines one I'm wearing on the main page of this site--is a "rah rah, hooray for shots!" kind of deal. A number of attractive young women have recently complimented me on my hat. The Vaccines are an English band. Do that many people know that, or is it just some shots in vogue thing? It's a nice hat. Perhaps it's just an easy way to flirt. For the record, I completely judge people by their ability to wear hats well. Also, the timbre of their voice. And if they like the sea. And hockey. And don't put sugar in their coffee. Someone who wears hats well, has a voice with a nice tone, loves the sea, can enjoy a good hockey game while drinking coffee black or with milk is someone whom it is tough to go wrong with.
Tomorrow will be a landmark day of composition. While battling. A friend today cautioned me by saying, "You are creating new forms of art. You need to celebrate that even while these people are trying to bury you. You are doing things that haven't been done. It's not ordinary. Even if it is for you."
I wanted to put this up the other day, on its anniversary. But, there was too much to do. It's the Who in Pontiac, Michigan on December 6, 1975. One of the better bootlegs. The full set doesn't exist, but in its truncated form it reminds me of the original Live at Leeds in its initial six track form. You'll note Keith Moon's drumming. One of the people in the comment section even provides a time stamp. He's spot on.
On Sunday morning I passed into Boston Common, at that top portion near the church. Not many people were out, but there was a bearded man, let us say mid-fifties, working at a pushcart. He had a tape deck, and it was playing--again, it was mostly just the two of us on an icy morning--"Eye of the Tiger." I wished him good morning, and said, "You seem like a man who enjoys rocking out hard." To which he replied, "How do you know I'm not trans? Nah. I'm just fucking with you." Then he offered me--from a Dunkin' Donuts cup, no less--a "snort" of Fireball. This I declined. "You have already warmed me enough, sir." And then we wished each other happy Christmas.
Today it is 933 days without a drink. It was somewhat ironic that later that day of the "Eye of the Tiger" buff, a friend going to a party phoned me asking for help in picking out a whiskey. There are several thousand dollars worth of whisky in storage in JP. As I don't know if I'll ever drink again, I have been pondering this of late. A dream of mine--no, that's not the right word; a reality I am going to bring about, leaving however many bodies is required in my wake-- involves getting to where I am going, with the accordant recognition, impact, and financial wherewithal, having my house in Rockport, a place on the Cape, and this apartment in the city finally repaired and habitable again, and taking down a dram of Lagavulin late at night in Rockport or Sandwich, reading over some Flaubert or something I newly composed, listening to Bach or the Stone Roses on the stereo, staying up just a bit later before repairing to bed where a brilliant, dynamic, character-laden earthy angel is already asleep, though waking up ever so slightly as I nip my way in under the covers. So, the whisky remains for now.
But my friend, he can be a Fireball drinker. "What if I get this bottle of Baltimore, do you think that's good for the party?"
"There is a whiskey called Baltimore?"
"Yeah. It's probably good, right?"
"No, it's not probably good. It sounds like it comes out of a spigot under a Baltimorean bridge manned by some dude in a Cal Ripken jersey. Would you really want to drink a whiskey called Boston?"
"What about Three Fingers?"
"Look...fold up your pinky and thumb and turn your hand on its side. That's three fingers' worth of whisky. If that's your unit of measurement, you're probably drinking rot gut. Or else you're in a Western and you just came into Dodge after a three month cattle drive. Ask if they have Bowmore. It should be like $40."
"Don't say it..."
"I wasn't going to. I only drink Fireball in private. It's my alone-time drink. It's just for me. When I'm feeling low. And the kids are in bed. We have a cat now. Can I just get Jameson?"
"Yeah. Just get that."
Question: Do you wish football announcers would stop saying, "He's gonna pin his ears back and get after the QB!" Another question: Do you think any football announcers know what this expression means? I think they think it means that pins are actually involved, and ears are actually pinned to skulls. I think they think it's tough guy stuff. When a horse is going to bite you, when it is pissed, its ears are back. It's just horse-based body language. Co-opted and misused by football announcers everywhere. Unless they grew up on a farm.
A piece on Gabriel Grub from The Pickwick Papers will be up on The Daily Beast any time now. I updated the news tab on this site. It's going to take forever to get the last few years' of links up in the categories. Right now, what is there, is about 80% of what has been published over the last four years.
The slogan for Fireball Whiskey is "Tastes like heaven, burns like hell!" Which could also describe a scenario (and its resulting aftermath) wherein syphilis is contracted.
John Wilmot, better known--well, back when people knew things--as the Earl of Rochester, was sometimes constipated for a month at a time. It was very painful. As you might imagine. This is a good poem. It could be about the publishing system. "But none had modesty enough t' complain/Their want of learning, honesty, and brain/The general diseases of that train."
"The wine was in but the wit was out" is a nice phrase. It's not in the poem. It was an expression in England during the period of the Napoleonic Wars.
Today's Downtown segment. Was a good one today. Funny and touching, I think. Wise and heartfelt.