The impulse to adopt a pet during quarantine makes a lot of sense: You’re home now more than you’ve maybe ever been, lonely and touch-starved, desperate for a project to take your mind off obsessing about Coronavirus all hours of the day. Why not welcome a friendly, furry companion into your life, now that you have the time for one? …
I talk to my dog incessantly. I work from home, so we hang out all the time. I’ll send an email, fire off a tweet, write two words of a story — you know, work — and then casually glance over at her and inquire, “Do you love your mom?!” When I can’t stop obsessing over something dumb, I tell her, Dr. Dog, all about it. Then, like any sane person would, I ventriloquize her in the high-pitched, yet world-weary tone I’ve assigned to her. (“Hmmm… okay” would probably be her tagline).
For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt best around 4 p.m. Throughout the day, I’m alternately groggy, anxious, and distracted — but come late afternoon, my mood lifts, and I find the focus and calm that’s been eluding me.
It’s been this way throughout changes in my age, lifestyle, and schedule: as a teen getting a second wind in time for after-school soccer practice; as a college student hitting the library for a study sprint before dinner; as a full-time employee bemoaning the productivity kick that came too late in the workday; and today, as a freelancer, hitting…
If you’ve ever had a thirst and set out to quench it at a fine (or less than fine) drinking establishment, you’ve likely had a thing for a bartender, or at least found yourself in the company of some drunk idiot sweating over the person behind the stick.
Falling for the bartender is a cliché at this point, an age-old phenomenon that’s persisted ever since those first few restless, horny monks decided to pitch their foul buckets of fermented barley and defect from the compound in search of boozy offerings from a less holy hand. …
An Ode to Uncle Willie’s Frozen Whiskey Coffee (from Skinny Dennis and Rocka Rolla)
There’s a heat advisory in NYC today but I’m not afraid,
Willie, you make me brave.
I’m powered on your icy bits
liquid cold drip through my veins
It’s not brain freeze,
it’s a toothache
cuz I think you’re sweet
I’d hook up to an IV of you
and just pump
I’d fill my car and it would ride better than fine
on your gasoline dream.
Swirling coffee grinds
in a frozen vortex
with a whiskey surge that’s sharp and sweet
then mellowed out with a little cream…
When I turn 30, I’ll give so few fucks that by the law of supply and demand folks will be lining up outside my door just drooling for a piece (that will never come).
If you want one, it’ll have to be a handwritten request sent in on the back of a circus dog with the scruffiest of hairs and then maybe just maybe I’ll consider it, but most likely I’ll just play with the dog and forget all about your vague desires.
See, when you turn 30 (I’m not sure how old you are as you’re reading this)…
But will there be anything more to it beyond a catchy title? said my roommate/ friend, friend/ roommate to whom I tell all my sticky secrets because it feels good to say them out loud and he who has no shame in turn does not judge. No small part of success is knowing when to quit, but I can’t get it out of my head: Single with Shingles, and oh, it’s Shingles Night at the Stayin’ Inn, I’m your bartender and your drunk, slinging Calamine cocktails, 2-for-1; if you also have HPV, you drink free. …