Pinky's Waste of 1s and 0s

Stop your crying, you pussy

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Wed, 24 Sep 2014 07:00:00 +0000

And if I had a chance, for one last time, to either kiss or fuck or go down on you, I’d say no to all of those and opt to just hold you close, the side of my face against your belly, listening to you digest, smelling the closeness of your skin.

And now that you’re so far away that even the prospect of smelling one of your slightly dirty t-shirts is out of the question, every little part of me is broke.

[TILT]

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Wed, 17 Sep 2014 07:00:00 +0000

While you were piloting a two-beer buzz and entranced in your turn at the pinball machine, I took the liberty of gazing uninterrupted at your profile, my stomach gently bubbling with narcotized butterflies. I drank it all in, everything that was already burned into my brain. Your perfect and precise jawline, tiny nose, and freckles that were barely visible in the dim and noisy lights of the machine.

If the world froze now, and said freeze lasted forever, none of us dying or moving, and somehow fine with it, never aging or breaking down, just stuck where we were…I knew that I wouldn’t mind at all, because then I’d never have to say goodbye to you, never have to look away, never have to refer to the admittedly perfect image of you in my mind that I have to content myself with for the majority of my days and nights.

“FUCK! It just goes right down the middle! What the hell am I supposed to do with that?!” You playfully shook your tiny fist at the machine and scowled a childlike scowl that was just another brick in the wall of me loving you.

You looked over at me and I held your gaze for an extra beat, smiling, trapped in your eyes. You smirked that little smirk of yours and every atom in my brain went off like a car bomb.

“Good game, kid”, I said as I stepped to the machine, brushing against your body, partly out of necessity, partly out of need. The night ended, as it always does, and I went home with your smell on my clothes, your face in my mind, and a sense of love so heavy that it may very well crack the goddamned Earth in two.

Dead DJs Don't Spin

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Mon, 15 Sep 2014 15:06:00 +0000

In the bathroom hallway, which has a 2 watt bulb lighting it, some girl who was slightly more intoxicated than me was standing ahead of me in the two-person line. With no warning, she launched herself against the wall we were facing, pounded her fist against the flier that was on said wall, and yelled, "Oh my God!!!" (Ok, she was a lot more intoxicated than I was).
"Errr....what?" I had to ask.
She slowly turned her head towards me, in an almost ominous manner, and said, ""DJ AM? He's dead, isn't he?"
The flier was advertising some DJ night at the bar, and someone named DJ AM Gold was "headlining." My brain spun through its Rolodex of dead DJs and stopped on DJ Cam.
"I think DJ Cam is the dead one." I said this is normal, conversational tone. No snark, no snottiness. I wasn't even sure if I was right, but I knew she had to be wrong because dead DJs don't spin.
She glared at me for a second, pulled her still clenched fist off of the wall as the bathroom she was waiting for became available, and before she went in she mustered up about 15 tons of shittiness and said, "PSH! Sorry I can't READ!" and then slammed the bathroom door behind her.
What? Even my mental Rolodex was all, like, "Wait, what?"
I finished up my lackluster date and went home. Later on I looked up the dead DJ. It wasn't DJ Cam (sorry, homie) but was DJ AM. So, she was half-right, I was close, and she was still a psycho.

Attack of the Clones

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Thu, 11 Sep 2014 07:00:00 +0000

She had your smile, and she had your nose, and I wasn’t ready to see you again. Even though it wasn’t you. But it hurt just the same, that sense of missing and loss. I would have told her to leave, to kindly fuck off, but she worked there and I was just ordering beers. So we chatted, and laughed, and she was easy to get along with cuz that was her job, and I was easy to get along with and, in a rare move, charming because I was pretending she was you. And at the end of the evening I left too big a tip and went home missing you more than I’ve missed you in years. Missing us, the banter, the comfort, the secret and not so secret desires, the devastation of saying goodbye to that connection.

All I wanted was a goddamned beer.

OkStupid, Part 74: Why I Don't Have the Internet

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sat, 06 Sep 2014 15:15:00 +0000

-->

[Message received on OkCupid]

Her: Pretty funny. ;) How can I not respond to this? Hmmm…yeah, we should definitely not have a drink together and talk about the bad bands we like.

-Theresa :)

[I had no idea who this was or what she was talking about. I had no recollection of writing this person. The problem was, I had been housesitting and drinking and had the internet available to me in the wee hours. I use my phone primarily for communication on Cupid, and since I have fat fingers and can barely type on the thing, coupled with Cupid’s idiotic messaging layout, I tend to not write much… ESPECIALLY if I’ve been drinking. But you give me a full-sized keyboard, three gin and tonics, and the internet, and some bullshit was bound to happen. So I had to go back and see what she was talking about]

:ORIGINAL, FORGOTTEN MESSAGE:

Me: Screaming Trees reference from someone who just sold me a newspaper with a headline telling me that black students are finally allowed to get into college in Tennessee? [I had no idea what that meant. After (re)reading her profile, I still have no idea what this is referencing. It’s like my brain just barfed all over the internet] It’s too bad you like socks, or else I’d offer to buy you a drink. [What?!] Don’t think me too forward, don’t be weird about it. We don’t need to hang out or anything. I’d just drop a gift certificate off at your favorite drink spot. It’s really a win/win situation for you. I’ll also leave you two slurps of milkshake, too. No more, no less. I need my dairy as well. [Again…what?!]

[Even in braille or solresol this would be the worst email ever sent. Why she responded to it is beyond my comprehension. But since she did, I had to write back…because I need the Last Word when I’m feeling like an unbelievably giant dipshit. It’s a symptom of Panic Mode brought on by Word Diarrhea.]

Me: Well I’m glad we can be mature adults about this. Look at that… through all of the bullshit we can still agree on things. We had some good times, sure, and they’ll always be fondly remembered, but we’re both still growing and learning and there’s so much to see and experience. Let’s not limit ourselves. Good luck to you, ma’am. Your drink ticket is at the bar, and Miami Nights 1984’s “Turbulence” album is a masterpiece. [Unsolicited music recommendations are about as useful as unsolicited emails from assholes]

-P.R.

[So I just broke up with her. Which made sense. I still stand by my decision. It was the best thing for both of us. Then, she wrote back, successfully snatching the Last Word trophy from my sad, sweaty hands!]

Her: Hi there! Wow, so generous with the drink ticket! I’m curious if it’s top shelf or well…clearly we’re both people of action and have no time for mediocre beverages. I feel as though I should leave a drink for you also, maybe see where it goes from there. [She’s clearly out of her goddamned mind] I mean, if we can both drink solo, I think we’re off to a good start. A good beginning of inebriation, at the very least.

Thanks for the music tip. At first glance, I’m baffled…but interested.

- T :)

[At this point I’m wondering if she is as drunk as I was. So I kept going. My only desire: to get the Last Word in.]

Me: You speak reams of sense, ma’am. For truly, if two people can drink apart, then there’s no telling what they’re capable of when it comes to doing other things apart. Going to college? Raising children? Detailing cars? Finding the best deals at WinCo? The possibilities are limitless.

In regards to the drink ticket, I only offer up top shelf with those, but for all other occasions when drinks are purchased, it’s strictly well…unless well is Old Crow and a couple of other brands of swill that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. In those cases, I go for middle shelf.

We may have to do this drink exchange thing at the same time, in the same bar. Past experience has shown that some bartenders refuse to honour such vouchers (good tenders of bar will honour them with a “u” because they are purveyors of class and take pride in their work). [The best way to get in the last word is to just keep going without taking a breath until someone passes out] I understand that this potentially complicates our vows to never be in the same room with one another, but I’m willing to face such a challenge.

Are you up for such things? [Worst “Asking Out on a Date” move EVER! The saddest Hail Mary ever before typed by human hands!]

-P.R.

[And that was it. I won… and lost. I don’t know what I did or accomplished. And this is why I don’t have the internet, and probably shouldn’t be internet dating, and maybe shouldn’t be drinking. Well, let’s not get carried away. Let’s kill the first two, then we’ll see if the last one can stay.]

One Last Dance

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sun, 06 Jul 2014 01:59:00 +0000

It was a night out, an evening of fun with friends. It hadn’t happened in quite a spell. Live music, smiles, drinks, laughs, dancing. These were the moments that inform nostalgia years down the line. The memories, the few hours of spiritual freedom, the notion that everything within these walls was flawless. No matter how fuzzy the memories ended up, or how horrifying the hangover may be, just the knowledge that nights like this can happen, that there are people in your life that you can share moments like this with, are what create a damn near unbreakable sense of life being nothing short of beautiful. Yeah, genocide. Yeah, AIDS. Yeah poverty and malnutrition and politics and three-dollar apples at New Seasons. Yeah, stubbing your toe so hard that the nail falls off and at that moment of impact, knowing that the pain is equal to being shot in the chest with a small caliber pistol

But for now, this is for us—a release and a relief—our Footloose moment. Dance your ass off. This is our time.

You pulled me up to a fast song and we did that thing we do. We danced, and smiled, and laughed and mugged and vamped. We bumped into strangers with friendly smiles and apologetic hands on shoulders, to be met with more smiles and mimed versions of “It’s OK!” We spun, we bobbed and weaved, we floated like slightly buzzed butterflies and stung like stingerless bees (yeah, I know. Doesn’t make sense, but I had to finish the Ali appropriation).

And the fast song stopped, and the slow jam kicked in and we fell into a familiar stance, your arms around my waist, one of mine up and around and between your shoulder blades, the other down and around and planted firmly in the small of your back., that perfect valley of intimacy We swayed a well-known sway, your head against my chest, my chin gently rested on the top of your head. Saying nothing, just slow, weight from one foot to another, in unison, just being there. And every mistake I’ve ever made blossoming in my mind and my heart.

Thankfully before I could get too involved in myself (and let’s face it, that’s my flaw. Always involved in myself. This entry is a glaring testament to that) the song ended and we decoupled, smiled, raised hands to the low ceiling and cheered.

Back to the table with friends, and drinks, and small talk, you danced with an old man, and young friend, all of us like chattering squirrels, talking in tongues that would make no sense to someone who didn’t speak the language.

And then another slow song, and you stood up and held out your hand and there wasn’t even a moment of hesitation. In my mind I was reaching for your hand before the song even started. But in the real world, you reached first. You always did. Because you’re the brave one, the smart one.

And we went back to it: waist, between shoulder blades, small of back. The difference this time was I was already opened up, emotionally, so everything became almost “Too Much”, but it was a “Too Much” that I didn’t mind. The smell of your hair, the softness of it as I turned my head and rested my cheek on top of your head. I forgot how your hair always smells a little bit like rain, even in the heat of summer. Things I couldn’t relive right now, due to circumstances, like how my lips fit perfectly into to dimple of your temple. The tightness of your hold on my waist, how I held you so closely that it felt like I was trying to absorb you into me, the fear of the song ending even though it had only been going for about twenty seconds. Our tempo floated off into its own thing, my mind was fogged with the now, the notes and drums and din of the room fazing out like a DJ dropped the lo-pass filter (I had to nerd out at least once, right?). I was peripherally worried that I might be holding you too tight, but then I noticed that you weren’t being dainty either. My hand that was on your lower back was pulling as tight as it could, as was my hand that was up high. I couldn’t get you close enough, tight enough; I couldn’t block out the surrounding environment enough to be happy. I wanted us to just float off and up through the roof, into the sky, away from all of the bullshit and missteps I’ve made. I knew that couldn’t happen, but this was an acceptable Plan B.

I was cracking inside, but it wasn’t pain that was leaking out. It was a glow, of knowing that the world could make someone as overwhelmingly magical as you. And that I was able, if even for a scant few minutes, to experience you like most others would never be able to. It’s a deadly sin, I know, but I took great Pride in that blessing. And also wondered why in the hell I was allowed such a privilege.

And then, as they always do, the song ended.

Someone needs to make a thirty-minute slow jam. These four-minute ones aren’t cutting the mustard.

We held on after the music ended, just for a brief moment, arms still in a vice-like grip around one another. Then, slowly, we separated, and smiled slowly, shyly, and went back to the table. Whatever I may have talked about with anyone after that moment, it was all autopilot. I have no recollection. My brain wasn’t so much in the present as it was jammed in a locked groove of the previous dance, of the previous few years, of the knowledge that no one will ever… well, no need to get in to that.

And like all songs, the night ended.

“The one thing that is better than the last slow dance we had?

Everything.

And what’s better than the last slow dance we had?

Nothing.”

- J. Beauregard

Backdated…But I Forgot the Date…

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sat, 28 Jun 2014 15:42:00 +0000

Had I known that it was the last time we were going to kiss… well, had I been privy to that information then it would have meant that I didn’t have my head so firmly and resolutely jammed up my ass. Which would mean that it wouldn’t have been our last kiss. It would have been one in a lifetime of many, and I wouldn’t be writing these fucking words.

Haiku, betch!

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sat, 29 Mar 2014 14:26:00 +0000

I don’t want to be

The one to tell you that you

Are the antichrist

Chin Yen, c.850

(do contractions count?)

Dreamscape #63: Kelp Forests and Rogue Meteors

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sat, 29 Mar 2014 14:22:00 +0000

Night, an indoor lap pool, the room is the length and width of the pool plus an extra four feet on all ends for walking, sitting, placing shit whilst working out. The lights are out, but ample skylights allow for an overeager full moon to illuminate the room like a million candles—all soft and luminescent, rounded edges heavily outlined by deep shadow lines. The whole thing felt like the sonic qualities of Shlohmo’s “Don’t Say No,” which ends up being appropriate.

I was in the pool and naked. Not in a sexy way, just because that’s what you do when lounging in a moonlit pool in the middle of the night. Up against the wall at about the halfway mark, elbows up on the deck to keep from having to do anything with my hands and arms. She slowly came at me through the water with a look that I knew all too well.

She stopped right in front of me, her arms not fighting their natural buoyancy, gently swishing aimlessly like an underwater kelp forest. I missed those arms. She was naked too. Again, not for any sexual reasons. It was just the proper attire for such environments. She looked through my eyes and into my brain, that serious, pained, confused, and longing look that we’ve all seen at least once in our lives if we’ve lived at all.

“I know you love me still. I know it’s killing you.” Her voice was hushed in the dark, muffled by the water and the small space.

“No shit. I’ve made no effort to mask it.”

“You know…we can’t… you had your chance.”

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t mean it can’t fuck with me a little, does it?”

And with that she propelled herself into me, her arms up over my shoulders, clinging like a scared child, so tight that if it were a hot day and we were two cassettes left on a dashboard, we would have fused together.

I dropped my elbows off of the decking and slid down into her arms. My arms reflexively wrapped around her, tight, desperate, and my face buried into her neck. Not for a kiss, that would have been out of line. This naked, desperate hug was only about 98% out of line. No, I nuzzled in to her soft, long neck just to feel her warmth, to experience her smell again. It was the only thing in this world that I missed.

She pulled her neck away as she hugged me tighter.

“No. We can’t kiss.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Her being so slight, so tiny, so perfect in my arms, I let go with one arm but left the other which wrapped clear around her so that the tips of my fingertips were touching the front of her ribs on the opposite side. I knew that letting go was going to be impossible. I knew that letting go was going to be necessary.

“I hate you,” she said, looking directly into my eyes. I knew it was the safe thing for her to say. I knew it was more of a declaration for her than it was for me, as if she was training herself to try to feel what she knew she should feel.

“I know,” I said, agreeing for the hundredth time, looking down into the water between us as I let go of her, paying close attention with my hand of every millimeter of her sipped away and out of my arms, away from me, for good.

She backed up about a foot, the silence and bullshit in the air was denser than the water we were standing in. I wished someone would rush in and tie an anchor around my neck, throw me into that silence and bullshit and let me drown in it. It wasn’t an unreasonable desire, but literally drowning in a moment was a silly and self-indulgent literary wish that just made one look like a sappy douche.

We stood like that for a moment, in the dark, in the silence, and then the door to the poolroom opened and in came her boyfriend.

“What’s up, guys?” he said jovially, radar clearly oblivious and unused. She looked over at him and painted on a smile that I could see through like it was the frame of a window that had been kicked out by misguided anarchists.

He waded into the pool wearing baggy shorts and an oversized t-shirt, cuz that was what you wore when lounging in a moonlit pool…

He was a good guy. Short, unimpressive, I had no ill will towards him, but sometimes I wished that a rogue meteor would destroy him. And whenever I thought that I swapped him for me at the moment before impact because I knew it was a bad thing to think…every day.

She drifted over and touched him on the cheek for a second then excused herself to go do whatever it is that women do when they excuse themselves. I made the world’s most pained yet successful effort to not look when she exited the pool. I didn’t need to look. The image of her body, her hips, her walk were permanently burned into my brain. Still, a refresher image would have been nice.

“Hey babe, turn on the light when you come back, hey? It’s crazy dark in here. I can’t see a thing.”

I wasn’t looking, but I felt her aura droop a little bit. Who the fuck wants a light on at a time like this? [And there’s me under that meteor again]

We sat in silence for a few moments, not much to say. We didn’t NOT get along, but she was the unifier. Without her, we’d never have a reason to be in the same room, let alone the same part of town.

And as it usually goes, because I have to kill uncomfortable silences, I ask, “So, you heard that new Machinedrum album yet? Good stuff.”

He responded with a regretful negative and we prattled on about this and that for a few minutes that felt like a thousand hours.

I woke up before she came back.

OkChillOut

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sat, 22 Feb 2014 16:57:00 +0000

From the Lost Files of OkCupid Correspondances:
[This happened. The name has been changed to protect the unhappy person. She mentioned in her profile that one of the things she was doing with her time is "trying to figure out men." She clearly should have been trying how to figure out how to communicate with people.]

Me:
Don't overthink men. Then we become pretty easy to understand. That may seem rather reductive, but we're really just simple animals that act on impulse and a few tens of thousands of years of genetic programming.
[Feel free to say I'm wrong. Maybe I did deserve this immediate dressing down?]

TouchedByAnUncle:
"a few tens of thousands of years of genetic programming. "
[Nice cut and paste control.]

You sound like one of those stereotypical idiotic, whiny, basement-dwelling, pathetic excuse-filled, misogynistic, MRA, grown Boys. You know what you can do with your "all men act on impulse because of our DNA" masturbation fantasy? Yeah I'll help you stick it up there- Oh sorry, I forgot the lube. I guess my evolutionary programming must have forced me to forget it(or maybe it was my degree in evolutionary biology)- you know how women are! Oh no you don't. That's why you like to harass strangers on an online dating site :D
[Full Disclosure: I did live in a basement once. And I don't know what an MRA is.]

Me:
Wow, you sound sweet. If you were a Care Bear you'd be Tender Heart Bear. We should cuddle sometime.
[Nothing difuses psychosis like sarcasm. Right?]

TBAU:
How the fuck do you block people on this site?!
[It's right there on the screen. Clearly her righteous indignation blinded her to such an obvious button.]
Oh good. Now I see the "Block him" button has reappeared. Irony much, polygamist?
[Seriously though, I don't have the energy for polygamy. I can barely commit to caring for myself emotionally.]

Me:
It's a shame that you weren't properly socialized as a child.

[And that's that. It was a short but sweet interaction. Some people you see and think, "How is the hell is s/he single?" and others you know immediately and they end up on the receiving end of a long, drawn out, "Oooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh....yeah. I can see why s/he's single."]

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sun, 01 Dec 2013 15:40:00 +0000

Not the inside of a giant's mouth

This is a macro-drunkro-accidento-shot of a couch in a strip club.
My friend T-- likes strip clubs.
I don't like strip clubs.
My friend was down from out yonder in the woods and wanted to shit it up in the bright lights and big city... and he wanted to go to a strip club.
We went to a strip club.
First we spent three hours at Tony's drinking Pabst, him huffing the bartender of the evening (she did smell good), me contemplating ordering that hot dog that was behind the counter. I knew it was the same one that was there when I was in up in this piece about a year ago. It was probably the same one as when I first discovered the place, about eight years ago.
Neil Diamond on the juke. Some Chicago. A little Stevie Wonder. Old career alcoholics holding down the fort. A forgotten Cappy slap in the bathroom on the paper towel dispenser.
Good times. I do love me some Tony's.
Then it was off, drunk, into the "entertainment district". Some guy was stamping hands for discounts to get into Spyce, so we got stamped and ended up in Spyce. It may always be a dollar to get in for all I knew, the stamp just a shrewd and brilliant plan to get drunk guys to feel like they're saving some bucks. Either way, the price was right, so in we went.
We walked in and found a couch to occupy. The music didn't suck and I soon realized that in a strip club, women get totally naked. In a gentlemen's club, they keep their unders on. I also discovered that there are some awesome underwear that exist for women.
Anyhoo, we got in a round of shitty beer and watched the show. Well, my friend did. I put every ounce of my not sober attentions into the one tiny TV screen that was up on the second floor, right under the DJ booth. There was some sports thing on. I don't like sports, but I'd rather watch sports than naked women. Why that TV was there, I have no idea. Maybe it was for the dancers to look at while they danced. Whatever the case may be, thank God for that tiny TV.
Don't get me wrong, a naked woman is a beautiful thing to behold. But the idea of being in a room with a gaggle of other drunk dudes salivating over some naked ladies has always seemed weird to me. And I never feel like they get tipped enough. In a fair world, they'd get $100 just to walk in the room. $200 to smile and pretend like they didn't hate you. And $500 to take their top off for a second.
I don't have that kind if money, so I don't go to these places. And even if I did have that kind of money to burn, it'd still be weird for me.
But T-- loved it, and when I was forced to look away from the TV, I did see some lovely women with great underwear being all smiley and gymnastic.
My friend also likes to fuck with me, so he was chatting with random dancers that came through the room and he sat one next to me. Cute, glasses, tiny, seemed sweet. So i told her that she should go talk to someone else.
T-- was trying to buy me a lap dance. I could think of nothing more uncomfortable. She was persistent. So was I. I wasn't looking at her as were were having this interaction. She followed my gaze to the TV and asked if I liked sports. I said no. She asked why I was watching them then. I told her that this was not my idea of fun.
Eventually she left and my buddy had a good laugh. Two more beers in, more ladies talking to T--, more me staring at the TV. One that he was talking to climbed over him and said hi to me. I said hi, and that she would be better off talking to my friend. She asked why? I said that she was pretty and sweet but this wasn't going to happen and that I was skint on cash so I would understand if she went elsewhere. My neck hurt from looking up at the TV for so long. She said T-- bought me a lap dance. I said, "Thanks. He can have it". She looked back at him. He laughed, she shrugged, and turned back to him to keep talking.
Fuck. Strip clubs make me a wreck. I'm glad we were only there for three fucking hours.

Your Dick is a Joke

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sat, 25 May 2013 15:54:00 +0000

Hasenpfeffer homie How You Say needed a title for a collection of break up letters. Here's my suggestions. Hopefully s/he finds something better.

1) For a Dude, You Sure Are a Bitch: Break Up Letters From You to Me

2) Yeah We Had Fun, But I Hate You Now

3) I WILL File a Restraining Order

4) We Don't 69 Anymore

5) I Hate You More Than You'll Ever Hate Yourself

6) I Had to Get Drunk to Say Goodbye

7) I Faked All My Orgasms

8) Let's Forget This Ever Happened

9) You Can Tell Your Friends That I Cheated On You...Cuz I Did... With Your Friends

10) I Never Loved You

11) Paper(cut) Heart

12) You're The Worst Boyfriend I've Ever Had: Smart Words From Smart Women

13) The Fact That You've Been Inside of Me Makes Me Want to Chop My Vagina Off

14) Leave

Any other ideas, people?

Black Atlass!

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Thu, 22 Nov 2012 18:32:00 +0000

I was just meandering through the internet and came across this guy Black Atlass. I suggest you go here, in a timely manner, and get his EP:
https://soundcloud.com/blackatlass/sets/the-black-atlass-ep
Or if you're reading this later on down the line, just google his name.
Smokey, murky, sexy, candle-lit coolness. It's neat that no one that is famous right (Lohans, Kardashians, Hiltons, Biebers, etc) does anything worthwhile, and cats like this are buried. Can we work, as a country, to fix this? Please?

Try Not to be a Pain in the Ass, Please

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sat, 10 Nov 2012 16:38:00 +0000

[Sound of cord plugging into electric guitar, amp on, quick feedback burst]

“OK, I got a song I wrote for you. You ready?

[strums Em chord, screams (in key, of course. I’m not a monster)]…

“YOU GOT THE PRETTIEST FUCKING EYES THAT I’VE EVER SEEN,

AND, THE THE THE…

[you hold up a hand and make a disgusted face]

Huh? Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize I was screaming. It’s just that I got a little carried away and it’s a loud song, but I wrote it for you and…

Wha? Yeah, I know you don’t like the language. I’m sorry, it just came out. When I think of you…

Whu? Yeah, I know. Yes, yelling and swearing aren’t good manners, I am aware of this, it’s just that…

Yeah, I know but if you’d just give me a sec…

Whu? Oh come on! Jesus, every time I try to compliment you, you do this. Yes, every damned time. You don’t even acknowledge the fact that I’m trying to be nice, you just correct the presentation or change the subject. Yes, you most certainly do. I…

No, it’s...

Just wai…

You know what? I just wanted to tell you that you had pretty eyes, it’s as simple as that. And you couldn’t accept it. So now…

No you listen to me, dammit… No. Seriously!

You still have pretty eyes but enough is enough. Why can’t you just take a fucking compliment without deflecting it?

Really? Look, I know I’m dumb and sloppy, but opening up to you isn’t easy to me, and every FUCKING time I do it you shit on it. Do you not want me to be nice to you? No, really… should I just stop?

Yeah, I know I’m upset. Cuz I’m sick of this shit. You know what? Fuck this noise. You don’t want what I have to give, so I’m done giving it.

Don’t touch me! No! Back the fuck off! Yeah, this is what happens. I’m outta here.

Dick.”

To Be Read in Your Best Barry White Voice

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 02:26:00 +0000

“Yeah girl, imagine this: You and me in matching leopard skin thongs. No, not leopard print… leopard SKIN. Yeah baby, that’s right… What? No, the skin itself doesn’t have the pattern; I think that’s just on the fur. Yeah, they’re really just grey thongs, but consider the source. We’re like wild cats stalking one another. What? No… look, just shut up and listen.
No, I didn’t mean “shut up”, I just meant…
[fall out of Barry White voice and into normal, not-sexy voice]
Look, I’m trying to make a special thing here. I’m sorry.
Your… no? No, turn off your phone. Come on, really? Fine, text your mom first then turn the thing off… tell her I say “Hi”.
OK, done? No, you don’t need to check your Facebook. Really? Would you just… Look, I put a lot of work into this so could you please just turn the phone off for one hour? Please? OK, thanks.
No, you’re beautiful, baby. OK, now listen, I’m setting up some sexy shit here. Alright, where were we?
[Resumes with Barry White voice]
Oh yes, we’re in our matching leopard skin thongs (why are you making that face?) and then we’ll climb onto the back of a giant stuffed Grizzly bear. Yeah it’s real. But get this: the back is hollowed out and it’s a waterbed. That’s right, uh-huh, and there’s an alpaca fur blanket thrown over it, like a snowy peak on top of our water-filled, four-legged ride to sexy time.
No, wait! Forget that. It’s not a waterbed. It’s a motherfuckin’ hot tub! Oh hell yeah, girl. Climb up onto and into my Grizzly bear hot tub. Uh-huh, aaaaaaalright. You comfy? Here’s a glass of wine, red… like the passion that’s filling up this room like a tornado of… a tornado uuuuuuuuuuv… shit, I can’t do analogies. The room is just full of passion, you’ll have to take my word for it.
What? No, it’s OK to have a glass of wine in a hot tub. You won’t die. Trust me, a glass is fine. You just can’t get hammered.
Oh, what’s that? You spilled a little on the bear’s head? It’s OK, it happens to the best of us, don’t fret. See, the bear is dark colored, so the stain won’t even show (there goes my deposit).
Now slide over here and let me put my arm around you. I’ll turn the jets on and we’ll bask in the glow of my 106” flat-screen television as it plays a fireplace scene, all crackling and warm.
Yeah, it’s weird, I know, but I’m not allowed to have fires in my apartment. What’s that? Don’t worry about how I got it through the door. Just enjoy. I even plugged in a few hair driers and have them aimed at us to mimic the heat of a real fire. You feel that? Nice, isn’t it? All warm and soothing like your body against mine. Damn, girl. You, me, Barry White on the stereo, leopard skin all up on our junk, and a hollowed out Grizzly bear are all we need to…” [insert ring tone, maybe Sweet Georgia Brown]
You look down, a little embarrassed.
I look up, lips pursed and a little irritated.
Ten seconds of Sweet Georgia Brown kill whatever mood there may have been.
[revert to normal, everyday, talking to mom voice]
“Go answer it,” I say, resigned to failure.
You spring out of the Grizzly bear and answer your phone.
“Hello? Oh hi, mom! What? No, nothing. Just watching TV. Sure I can talk. What’s up? Oh I DID watch the Bachelor last night! Can you be-LEEVE what the bitch said? Oh my God!”
I turn off the jets, set my glass on the bear’s head, and crawl out of the water. Then I grab the bottle of wine, turn off Barry White, turn on some Squarepusher (we’ll go with “Big Loada”), and go sit outside to watch the cars drive by. That leopard skin thong was uncomfortable anyway. What really hurts is how much I spent to rent this Grizzly bear hot tub from the Outdoor Store.

The Sense You Made

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sun, 07 Oct 2012 02:25:00 +0000

Early Autumn, late night,
One of the last handfuls of pleasant evenings,
Springwater sesh, pens aflutter, over-pumped ink making One think
“Really? OK, glubs next time”
Crooks of fingers gone blackface and incriminating.
The smells of leaves and rivers and moonlight.
Crickets and frogs chiming in twixt Burial tracks.
Their sounds, these smells,
this empty,
moonlit trail

A lonely moth pulls into the beam of my bike light,
Races and paces me for an erratic few moments,
Then casually throws itself into the spinning spokes of my front wheel,
Presumably now left to a crippled and slow death in my wake,
On the trail.
Considering the scarcity of traffic at this late hour,
I’m inclined to believe that God needed
that particular moth dead for a very good reason.
And I am the bringer of Godly justice
and unblinking wrath.

Beyond that duty,
Three glasses of wine have afforded me the luxury to
Appreciate the serenity and solitude of this late night,
Middle of nowhere as I pull over,
Turn off the lights,
And piss into the dark. Alone.
My mind refreshingly free from thoughts of zombies
And being raped to death by hobos.

All of this
Reaching back into my mind
and forcing me,
once again,
to miss the sense you made.

Elephant Gun

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Thu, 04 Oct 2012 02:24:00 +0000

After years of this, of nurturing an elephant in the room, we were fucking around in a bar, as usual, having some drinks and laughing about this and that, and, as usual, we got to the point where bets started being made. I’m not much of a bettor. She lives for them. So it goes without saying that lady trumps man and the bet was on.
“You can’t make me cry. There’s no WAY you could pull that off.”
“I bet you twenty dollars I can make you cry right now.”
Her face furrowed into a dubious challenge. One eyebrow up, one down, lips pursed in a playful “whatever” curl.
“Fine. Let’s see what you got.” She started to take a pull on her beer but stopped in mid drink, mouthful of bev, waving free hand and mumbling an “Mmmmm! Mmmmm!” sound until she swallowed. “But you can’t hit me! That’s not fair. No violencing.” She inhaled, and I’m guessing here, to kill a burp or a hiccup that was rising up due to her interrupted drinking.
“Don’t worry. I know you don’t cry when I hit you… you whine. And since you do that every twenty minutes it wouldn’t be a challenge. No, I bet I can make you cry.”
“OK, dick, bring it.”
So I took a drink, phrased it again like I had a million times before in my head, stepped up to the plate, and shot that elephant in the face, the elephant that had wanted nothing more to kill me for all of these years. Though to be fair I had been feeding the fucking thing all this time knowing damn good and well that it wanted nothing more than to maul me in front of a circus tent full of paying adults and their idiotic, spoiled children.
“OK, I’m going to ask you a question and I bet you answer with a “no”.”
“What? That’s absurd. I can’t promise to answer how you want me to without knowing the question.”
“Look, this is a bet. Do you want to win or lose twenty bucks? It doesn’t have anything to do with anything gross or challenging. Just say “no” as a response to my question. That’s my dare. And I need the twenty bucks to pay for this tab.”
She looked at me, head slightly askew so she could read me at an angle, to try to figure out what I was up to.
“Fine, OK,” she said hesitantly.
“OK, thanks. Alright, you ready?”
“Sure, do it,” and I sensed a slight tinge of apprehension in her voice because she knew as well as I did that there was something that needed to be put down like a sad, old dog. She also knew that I was an emotionally retarded, hyper-sentimental fool who felt too much about too little on most days and that, to rewrite a famous quote, I could take a sad song and make it sadder.
“OK, here’s my question:” and I looked down and into my left elbow-pit, observing the soft whiteness of it, the tenderness and vulnerability, and the question spilled out:
“Will you ever love me the same way that I love you?”
My hearing, never good to begin with due to loud concerts and giant headphones, became muffled due to an avalanche of awareness and fear that soon, in nanoseconds, any and all good cheer would be gone for the night; the plans for a pinball competition would be put on the back-burner for Lord only knows how long. This sucked because I had very few people in my life that enjoyed playing the pinball.
I looked up from my elbow bend, up and to the right of her face. There was a painting of a matador pulling a matador pose, presumably right after the bull had run through his red cape and out of frame. That bull, the one that was never painted, probably felt like a fool. I could sympathize with said unpainted bull. Of course, that bull didn’t volunteer itself for that game, so it probably felt more cheated than the fool. I knowingly put myself here.
Then my eyes tracked to the left on the way to a blank spot on the wall, but on the way noticing her head, in all of its loveliness, etched in a different way now, just her forehead, a furrow of a sharp pain in the heart. Her eyes welled up and she shook her head a little bit. If you were sitting at the next table you wouldn’t have even noticed it.
“Don’t…”
My eyes welled up too; killing elephants is a rather traumatic experience, I’ll have you know.
“No, I didn’t ask you to say, “Don’t”, I asked… dared, you to say, “no”.” My voice was tight, my chest sore, my uvula was even a bit tender.
A tear fell down her face; she was looking into my eyes. A tear fell down my face too. I was looking back to the bend in my elbow. She knew that even without being tied to having to answer this way that it was the truth.
She mouthed the word “No” and I felt everything break, again. Which as much at it sucked, it meant I could finally start rebuilding.
We were never the same after that moment. I mean, we were still friends, and after the trauma of the situation faded things were, for the most part, fun again, but yeah, it was never the same.
At least I won that bet. Twenty dollars never tasted so sad.

I.E.D. Heartbomb

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Mon, 01 Oct 2012 02:23:00 +0000

And this whole time, for over a year now, I had wanted to see her again; just a glance, anonymously, from across a street or from a window. Just to update the memory files. I didn’t want to interact, really, since I could bring nothing good to the table except for a reminder of how fucking stupid I am.
So it comes to pass that I did get to see her, accidentally, at an art gallery thing downtown. I knew it was her from the sound of her laugh, the way she held herself, her shoes, that particular shine to her hair that I was so familiar with, and all of my longings to just see her again, to see her million dollar smile, reared up and kicked me in the heart. That desire that I had harbored for so long turned to queasiness, fear, and shame. My pulse rocketed up, sweat appeared, I got a little tunnel vision, and I told my friends in as few words as possible that I would meet them at the bar up the street, to take their time. I had to get out of there before she saw me, and considering my condition it was a miracle that I somehow managed to pull that off.
I firmly believe that if there was video surveillance footage of the incident, all silent and grainy, black and white with a running time stamp at the bottom, you’d see me see her, then there’d be a beat, then I’d just disappear into a small cloud of idiot, leaving a puddle of stupid and shame behind. Well, not really a puddle; just a misting, a barely noticeable condensation on the windows.
I got my vision back about a block later and regained some of my senses. Hands shaking, heart quaking, I had to sit down, feet in the gutter, and take a second to get my shit together.
Sitting there on that curb I felt just as selfish, assholish, and fucked up then as I did when I had shit the bed the last time I saw her.
On that big Cosmic Report Card in the Sky, there’s a massive “F” on mine. I also failed math, but strangely I got a “C+” in English so things can’t be all that bad.

Thee Archives of Failure, Episode 1: OkStupid

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 00:35:00 +0000

I found this one laying around from a Cupid session a few years ago. It’s probably the quickest I’ve ever shit the bed, and I’m still not sure why it went awry. I thought I had this one sewn the fuck up, but after one e-mail I get bowled over with the dreaded Tumbleweed of Silence.
Tell me if you can see what went wrong. Names have been changed to protect… well, no one. I just thought these names better fit the piece. Enjoy!

GraspingAtStraws0243:
A Cliff Claven-type who throws gang signs (what set you claimin'?!), has an insanely specific spirit animal (would it break the bond if it were eying a pineapple?), and subscribes to the cult of the Oxford comma. Psh, ladies like you are a dime a dozen [as he swoons, biting his bottom lip].

OutOfYourLeagueXOXO:
I knew I was a big old fat cliche. Bummer. Will change status to more exotic things like "I like shopping!" and "puppies are cute!".

GraspingAtStraws0243:
That wins the Best Message Ever award? Sheesh, I apologize for all the men before me that have set the bar so low.
As a gentleman and a smart ass I feel it my duty to offer up some sort of reparations for this failure on the part of my gender. These days reparations typically come in the form of a drink, usually of the "adult" variety, but that is flexible.
To be sure that this isn't some crafty ruse to get you to go out on a date with me, I can just leave ten dollars with your name attached to it at the bar of your choice.
However, if you chose to accept this payment in person, face to face, I can offer tips to make your profile not so big, fat, and cliche-ridden. We can "pimp" your profile, if you will (Secret tip #1: Be sure to mention that your iPHONE is one of the six things you couldn't do without. Guys like to know that for about 40% of your time together your face will be softly underlit by the romantic glow of the screen).
Mull over this offer, ma'am, and get back to me at your leisure.
Have yourself a lovely day and a beautiful evening.
Yours in sincerity and shame,
daniel q. [ampersand] alyosius jones junior, jr. esq XII

Now before you say “You may have gone ‘too much, too soon, sir'”, anyone who knows me knows that this verbose and idiotic response is so fucking Me that I could copyright it and not a court in the land would blink. So I’m just being me here and… oh… oh yeah, OK. I see. Now that I’ve typed it out I can see the problem. The brutally reflective surface of Text on Screen just cleared this up for me.
Alright, so I’m a jackass. Either I need a serious Personality Overhaul or I need to just learn to love the Tenga Flip Hole. If the thing had a neck I could bury my face in and a body to spoon I’d be cool with it, but it lacks these necessary elements.
Shit…

Bulleit Kentucky Whiskey Bourbon Review

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 16:12:00 +0000

I’m not gonna get fancy with this one. Here is my first reaction:
“Soap? Bourbon?
Soap…? Bourbon…?
Soap. Definitely soap.”
Yes, it has a quick, up front, hit ‘em in the nose taste of soap that disappears almost immediately. If your tongue blinked, you could easily miss it. But my tongue did not blink, and once I noticed the soapy taste, that was that. Much like walking in and seeing your mom eating your dad’s ass, things can never go back to normal after that information is processed. (Don’t get me wrong, it’d be reassuring to know that after all these years your parents were still getting freaky, but at the same time, it’s something you don’t really want to know… you know? Man, talk about a double-edged sword.)
I’ve ordered Bulleit this a few times in bars before this Quest for Flavour started. Since I hadn’t refined my pallet at all and I wasn’t doing any sort of side-by-side comparisons (and I was probably drunk) I didn’t really notice the flavor. It was just whiskey to me. I got it cuz I felt the need to branch out and the orange label popping off the amber liquids appealed to my color fetish. Also, ordering “a bullet, neat” sounds kinda badass.
While I still love the way the bottle looks, I’ll just stick with drinking Palmolive since it’s cheaper than this AND it softens hands while cleaning dishes.

Tullamore Dew Irish Whiskey Review

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 16:09:00 +0000

I can review this whiskey with one word, a word that I’m guessing the last three dates I’ve been on could review my presence and performance on said dates.
“Meh”. (All blame falls on me, this I realize. Self-inflicted, Sensible wounds make for bad company).
As in, it wasn’t great, it didn’t suck, it was nothing to write home about, and on a scale of 1 to 10 (-1- being “like talking to a box of dead squirrels”, -10- being “we finger-blasted each other in the back of an El Camino (yeah you read that right, she got to the second knuckle on me too), and -5- being “the greeter at Wal-Mart seemed pleasant enough”) it came in at a solid 4.2.
Much like those last three dates, the taste of this whisky caused nothing spectacular to happen in anyone’s mouth. If I walked into the bar and saw this sitting there, lonely on a stool reading a shitty paperback, and after a quick but thorough inspection I found that no one named Jameson or Maker’s was in the room, I’d sit down and have a stilted conversation with Tullamore. We’d start talking about the weather within about ten minutes, which is always a bad sign on a date, I’d pretend I had to pee after eleven and go bomb the bathroom with whatever pen happened to be laying around (hypothetically speaking, of course. People who do that in real life are dicks), then I’d make a casual-ish exit and never go back to the bar again just so as to avoid having to repeat the experience.
To summarize, you could do a lot better (easily) and you could do a lot worse (equally simple). At about $26 a bottle, save yourself eight bucks and go the Kilbeggan route.
Simply put, there is no secret magic in this bottle. Move along, folks. There’s nothing to see here.

Half-Dreamscape # Monsieur Satan, 16. 2. 2012

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sat, 17 Mar 2012 15:53:00 +0000

It’s about 3 AM and I half wake up to murmurings outside my window, which considering where I live isn’t anything strange. I’ve heard fights, puking, promises of hard sex, breaking glass, screeching tires, laughter, screaming, cars bumping other cars in sloppy attempts at parallel parking, and a whole slew of other things that make living here so fun.
But right now is different. It’s unnaturally still out. Even my asshole upstairs neighbor who likes to listen to Metallica at this hour is mum.
The murmurings are rising and falling, and they’ve got a phlegmatic hue that makes my gag reflex activate (my only weakness, mucous-based sounds and sights). The cadence tells me that words are being spoken, and it’s clearly a monologue as it keeps on going and I can just feel that there is only one person (?) out there. Like the atmosphere isn’t impacted enough for two people. You know what I mean, like when you walk into a room and you can tell that someone is there? Not for any reason other than you can feel it in the air, as if the molecules are pressed together a little too tight for just you to be there.
Anyhoo, I can’t make out the words but the sounds are accented in a way that makes me think it’s French. Not that I can tell if it’s a language at all, but the syllables are hitting in ways that just feel French.
So apparently I have some sort of phlegmatic, French-speaking demon outside of my window. There was no way I was going to look, so I just stayed in bed wondering if it was going to sense, in the way that I did, that I was alert and aware of whatever incantation was happening outside my window.
And that made me casually realize that the sad little chain on my door that is supposed to make me feel secure wasn’t going to stop anyone, or anything, from getting in here if it, they, s/he wanted to.

Haunted Trailer Park #3: The Pantyhose Connection

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 16:35:00 +0000

[Also from the lost Joshua Tree sessions. This was for a painting of a pantyhose shop that had run out of customers and time. I still wonder, who in God's name would open a pantyhose outlet in the middle of the desert? Seriously.]

You try waking up every damned day in a cramped and dusty trailer that you share with the random scorpion or tarantula and living with the fact that for whatever reason you thought it would be a good idea to open a pantyhose outlet way the hell out here, in this cur’sed heat no less. For the record, no one else can figure out what compelled you either. Sometimes the madness is subtle and slow burning.

Haunted Trailer Park- The Geography of Desolation

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 16:30:00 +0000

[I wrote this for an artist who was having a show in Joshua Tree, featuring his paintings about Joshua Tree. These weren't some Georgia O' Keefe nature images, but pictures of abandoned shops, ruined and forgotten cars, and the weathered faces of the desert dwellers. He opted not to use it, and I can see why. The people of Joshua Tree don't need some anti-desert rant knocking them down. The Desert throws enough low blows at them, they don't need some hack running up and kicking them when they're down. Anyhoo, here's the piece. No hard feelings, Jesse]

The Geography of Desolation—all across the desert miniature End Times are taking place, laying waste to random intersections of theoretical latitude and longitude lines—The flash of hope that gave birth to this place has long since died out—the beauty that high-falutin’ East Coast artists flout gets old quick when you have no options other than basic human survival, murder, suicide, or high desert evangelism—
It’s hard to believe that these cars ever ran, that they were once more than just rattlesnake nests and dented tableaus for sloppy graffiti—it’s impossible to accept that these ruins of a single-wide ever housed a person or a family, what with its rusted ribcages and tattered plastics, faux woods and shitty cabinet latches that never worked in the first place—it is utterly unfathomable that anything even close to a good idea was ever birthed here, nurtured, and allowed to blossom from a dream into a reality—the empty storefronts and shattered signage are testaments to that…
What breaks steel can just as well break flesh, break the mind, and it does so, slowly, with great patience and skill—look around, it is no accident that all of the plant life is covered in spines, and the wildlife hates you and will kill you if you insist on pestering it with your presence—this is no place for the soft bellies and tender blinking eyes of our species—we need love and affection to thrive, and there is nothing that is able to be hugged in these parts that will not result is massive injuries and discomfort…
But we have hope, and tenacity, and this thing called perseverance, and we believe we can, if not tame, at the very least co-exist within this harsh environment, but time and time again we loose to the desert—it does not want to live in harmony with us, and we are not worthy adversaries—so it happens, in the dead of night Hope leaves town—in the hell of the afternoon Sun ideas wither and die—the skin wrinkles and cracks, harsh lines Spackled over with the dust of 50’s era atomic tests that are widely remembered but rarely discussed—why do you think you can get 100 acres for $15 around here?—the toll is taken and glances become glares, chemicals become routines, our soft and rounded edges become hard and brittle, we become cacti, all unapproachable and only suitable for black and white photography—the Now is nothing more than a waiting game: Sun comes up, Sun goes down, and in between someone is murdered in a flash of insanity, someone takes themselves out of the game for good with a single shotgun blast to the face, someone drinks themselves to death in a busted-up Airstream, and yet another someone blows themselves up while trying to blow something else up—Time becomes a curse, dragging it all out, but it is also a blessing, albeit a delusional one, because in a Sun-baked mind it is easy to think that if one waits long enough…only if…only if…
And that is what you are left with, a stream of dot, dot, dots stretching off into the Horizon, down a lonely and forgotten highway.

Scotch/ Whisky Review: Kilbeggan

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Royale) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 16:15:00 +0000

I was all about the Kilbeggan for a year or so until I decided to start paying money for whisky/ scotch.
I went to a scotch tasting at the Pearl Liquor Store cuz it was free booze (hammered, I got. Yes, so much so as to make me speak backwards like Yoda) and the guy that was hosting it was Scottish and wearing a kilt, which gives him cred (it wasn’t a utili-kilt, which would have made him a bag of soggy dicks instead of the Johnny Appleseed of DUIs). I credit his as the guy who introduced me to scotch. My friend and I were also there to get a bottle to kill for the weekend and he steered us away from the cheap CRAP (Rogue whisky which is something I would never consider touching now, and some other shit in a mason jar) and turned us towards us some cheap GOOD stuff, namely, Kilbeggan.
Simply put: it’s good shit. If you like Jameson or Maker’s, it’ll fit the bill. I mean, I haven’t done a side-by-side comparison but as far as I’m concerned it’s the bee’s knees when it comes to affordable but ‘licious whisky. It goes on sale occasionally for around $18, but when it’s not discounted you can grab a bottle for around $20 which is four-ish bones cheaper than Maker’s and about seven less than Jameson (don't quote me on that). Those two are my go-to drinks at a bar cuz, let’s face it, Tony’s or the Speakeasy aren’t gonna carry this little-known Scottish prize. But for home drinking, or if I’m going through a flask stage (Goodfoot= yes, you could get a bazooka into that place… Crown Room= NO! I can barely get my eyebrows into that place since the OLCC cracked down in them. Props to them, though: they took my Krink at the door but returned it five hours later when I left. Though they gave a look like I was lucky to get it back. Still, that’s a pretty cool move), this is where it’s at. Hearty, strong, it’s got a good bite on the pallet but only a gentle nibble on the wallet. It’s what a good whisky is supposed to be.
That said, doing a side-by-side in my den of sadness and failure with my previously reviewed Balvenie, I found it, comparatively speaking, a little watery. It still had the kick of a good whisky and lacked the shitiness of anything shat out by Kentucky (sorry Asseline Netherton, your bourbon leaves me feeling neglected). It didn’t have the brute force and viscosity of a low-level yet formidable whiskey. That may be like comparing apples to abortions but I’m not a pro, so I’m sticking to that until someone sets me straight with a fistful of brass knuckles and a branding iron.
All that said, Kilbeggan is usually on hand at the hovel for guests. But the expensive stuff is out of view in a cabinet somewhere for SPECIAL occasions…like when I have guests… which means there isn’t really any reason for me to hide it I suppose.
Damn, I gotta recalibrate my shit.
OK, new rule: Guests get the first glass of good stuff (usually, if they are a friend, or have a vagina, or eyes, or are wearing clothes, or aren’t, or are cops asking about the domestic violence next door, or have more than zero fingers, or less than zero fingers, or … OK, anyone who comes into my house gets a taste) and after that we tear through the Kilbeggan. That way you get cred for having good whisky in the house AND cred for going outside the norm when you drop down into the lower ranks as the night goes on.
It’s the equivalent of having Rachels on your iPOD (System/ Layers (2003) or Selenography (1999)) for normal times, but when things get green or chemically, you also have the Rachels/ Matmos collab Full on Night (2000) to say, “Yeah, I got good stuff, and I also got the SHIT! And you are a valuable enough guest to get a taste of the real shit… that’s hidden behind the bulk polenta.”
I don't know why I have bulk polenta. I don't know what it is or how to cook it. It just sits there, hiding the good stuff.

Avalanche’s one-sentence review: “Like trying to River Dance in a bathroom stall.” [Ed- I have no idea what this means] [Author- I too am not clear on what this means. I also didn’t know I had an Ed.]