I’m putting this one under “The Rants.” I guess it should maybe go under “Whiskey Pages,” as I’ve been drinking, but I feel like we needed a spot of color down here at the bottom of the issue. Plus, I haven’t been drinking whiskey.
What happened was, we went to the movies tonight, my Princess and I. We caught a late show—10:45 showing of National Treasure; and 10:45 really does count as a late show around these parts, believe it or not. When the movie ended—around one in the morning—there was this crazy straight-jacket of fog over everything. The reason I call it crazy is because it was doing things with the world that I had never seen fog do before. I suppose that isn’t really grounds for calling it crazy. But regular fog, when it’s around, what it does is shroud everything in a veil of mystery. Or—if not mystery—at least a layer of I-can’t-see-five-feet-in-front-of-me kind of unknowing that we generally classify as mystery. But this fog, you could see everything, only it was foggy.
It was blatant fog, really. People walked out of the theater, and they were freaking out about how foggy it was. So it wasn’t just me that saw it. I hate when I have to count on other people’s observations to make sure that I’m not just seeing things, but life is what it is, and if I need other people around to make sure my imagination isn’t getting away from me, so be it.
Anyway, so there was fog everywhere, but it wasn’t a “heavy” fog or a “blanket” of fog. More like a “sheet” of fog. Of maybe a “sheer, erotic, see-through-everything-to-make-life-seem-spicier panty” kind of a fog.
I don’t know what you would want to call it, but I’m getting carried away here, so I’m not going to try any more. The point is, there was a fog, and you could see right through it, and if you get turned on, well that’s a problem you need to work out with your shrink, you pervert.
We drove home through it, my Princess and I, and we marveled at the fog, and then talked about it, analyzed it, disagreed about it. I was saying that you could see everything just fine, she was saying that it was really thick…and that you could NOT see through it. And I realized that maybe I had super-powers.
I mean, normally, I can’t see shit. I have to have on high-powered glasses to see anything, really. And since I don’t own any, I’m generally blind until I jab little round discs of plastic into my eyeballs each day. They’re called contacts lenses, really, but if you’re ever trying to put them in after you’ve just woken up, you’ll know that the true description is pieces of plastic that you’re jamming (or jabbing) into your eyeball.
But here is my super-power, apparently. When there is a certain kind of fog, I can see right through it. Ask me how many fingers you’re holding up.
Pointless, pointless, pointless.
I got home, I drank a glass of wine, and I got all romantic about the fog. Yep, that’s where all of this was going. I wanted to write about the fog. I did, kind of. Check out “A Night of Tears and Kisses,” in the Poet’s Corner section if you want to see what I wrote about the foggy night. And then I ran out of wine—yeah, man, after one glass. So I searched through the house for more alcohol.
I was in that Jack Kerouac, I want to drink cheap wine and write poetry kind of mood. Instead of finding more cheap wine, I found a bottle of extra-dry, Martini & Rossi Vermouth. Have you ever had vermouth in a martini? I have. Apparently, I found it lacking, drank all the vodka or gin or whatever I was making martinis with at the time, and ended up with a bottle of vermouth.
Vermouth is pretty terrible. Upon taking my first drink, I cried, “Wretched stuff.” It makes you talk funny, drinking vermouth straight out of the bottle.
Drinking vermouth straight is like taking a really old book out of a used book store, grinding the pages up into near-microscopic pieces, and then adding a bit of rotten vinegar for texture. When you’ve finally managed to stomach the awful stuff, you’re left with a taste in your mouth of old. Not like that peed-pants old that always lingers around nursing homes, but old like you would find in libraries. Like a dignified, yes-I’m-terrible-but-that’s-okay-because-I’ve-been-around-long-enough-to-deserve-the-right-to-be-whatever-I-want kind of taste.
And suddenly you find yourself saying things like “wretched,” I don’t know why.
Anyways, it really is really wretched stuff. I suggest you drink a bottle. What you need to do first, though, is start feeling really romantic about writing poetry, or exhume all your feelings of self-hatred and decide to do a weird sort of self-penance. In either case, drink a glass or so of wine first.
Then write horrible poetry while you polish off the bottle of vermouth. It tastes like moldy nonfiction, but it can be satisfying, too.
Or at least disgusting.
Peace out, my homies.