There’s a key ingredient in whiskey that isn’t on the label. Guilt.
It must have a lot in it too because the next day I wake up full of it, reaking of shame and shamefully reaking.
Usually for good reason.
I’ve been known to do some pretty stupid things on whiskey.
Piss on the bed.
Key my own car.
Steal a pumpkin.
Last night I was under control. The only mildly regrettable act of the evening was a theatrical fart for a couple of strangers . It was a good night. Drinks for a friend’s birthday at Electric Lotus, a hip Indian restaurant with a DJ in the back in Los Feliz. A Christina Aguillera sighting in West Hollywood. And a nightcap at a mutual friend’s house with some interesting, cool cats. We sat in the yard by a firepit and chatted about what I can’t even remember.
I couldn’t figure out what the guy did, he was young, he had a nice house, and there was a picture of him standing between Seigfried and Roy in the bathroom. I must have had to piss three times in the hour and a half I was there, mostly to get another look at the picture.
The guy who owned the house was very sincere and serious in the photo, so was Seigfreid and Roy; but I wondered how many people take their photo with the duo with an over- the-top, mocking smile? Or Fabio. How many people stand there with a ‘look at me with Fabio’ expression? It must be a weird reality to have strangers come up to you and pose with that look on their face. “Look at me standing next to Danny Bonaduce!!!”
It’s probably what’s breaking Bonnaduce.
They only want to be in a photo with you because you’re a joke. A bigger star they wouldn’t have the guts, they’d just stand there with their mouth hanging open, but you, Richard Simmons, should feel grateful there’s someone who wants to be in a photo with you, you freak!
I commended him for placing the photo in the bathroom.
I can’t remember if I mentioned that or not. I was too busy childishly blowing farts on cue.
All in all a pleasant outting. Yet…
Whiskey always has me waking up feeling guity for something. Sometimes I forget and think that I made it through the night without making an ass of myself. My wife is still talking to me. My car is safely parked on the lawn. The dog still has 4 legs. Yet there’s still a lingering feeling that something unnatural happened the night before.
Like the pumpkin.
I had forgotten all about the theft until my friend reminded me later that night.
“Shit! I did steal a pumpkin. I knew I did something stupid. I couldn’t think what it was. Damn.”
That’s usually my response.
“Fuck, I keyed my name into my car last night.”
“Uffda! I humped a goat last night.”
Still. I like whiskey. I have fun on whiskey.
It’s not like there’s anything better to do with my time.
