Tag Archives: liquor

Yeah, you right!

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I spent yesterday strolling the garden district (hoping to run into Anne Rice so I can kick her in her fat crotch). So many mansions, each more elaborate than the next. I mean, servants quarters and a mercedes being buffed in the drive kinda fancy. It got pretty hot, so there was nothing else to do but sit on the porch of a great hotel, having fried catfish and mint juleps.

In the evening we went to Mama K-Doe’s, which is a bar and shrine set up for the legend Ernie K-Doe “Emperor of the Universe”, by his wife Antoinette. K-Doe is like the Little Richard of New Orleans. this place is packed with memorabilia- from a life sized dummy of the Emperor himself to his drivers license and cell phone. Then we zipped over to another bar to see the Treme Brass Band. Think Louis Armstrong singing “Gimme My Money Back”. It was really great. Their bass drum player is Uncle Lionel Batiste- he is 71 and very sharp with an eye for the ladies. At intermission he came to my table and offered me his autograph- he drew me a little picture of himself with his drum! Did I already say it was really great? I mean really really great? At one we went to still another bar to see Sun Pie and the Louisiana Sunspots. They played cuban african, blues, and Zydeco music. Really Great! I wolfed down black bean and chicken quesadillas and the accordion sang! (hee, the drummer was from the band War. You know, Why Can’t We Be Friends?) Did I already say it was really great?

Shake it!

-xo

ps. today I am having dinner at Paul Prudhomme’s restaurant. Nothing to do in this heat but have a mint julep and bake on the deck for a while until suppertime. Where I will have a vast quantity of tasty food, whose contents I will detail to you (this being a BLOG and all).

When the levee breaks…

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The wild and beautiful sprawl of New Orleans made me quickly forget the Ugly Americans I was surrounded by en-route. Ok, I did not exactly forget them (they talked loud, dressed loud, and even smelled volubly) but my culture shock dissipated. New Orleans. Right. There was a bit of flooding here- the rising Mississippi. The cabbie mistook me for a local because I went straight from the airport to a bar. The Half Moon. It was not exactly in a ghetto, but a ramshackle part of town. I have never seen such a variety and splendor of Shacks. In the evening, I went to the French Quarter to see a local band extravaganza- they were a mixture of Tom Waits, southern gothic and carny music- with a pump organ, standup bass, violin, walkie talkies, megaphones, and a rubber fish. The singer dressed like an old fashioned undertaker with mad hair and a john waters moustache. It was full, beautiful, and melancholy music followed by stamping and howling. Amazing. I rambled the narrow streets of the quarter, eating spicy food, drinking bourbon and glimpsing the river. Then my friends took me to Snake and Jake’s Christmas Tree Lounge, which was really a pressed tin shack covered in christmas tree lights.

Welcome to the Last Bohemia!

-xo from the Road

It must be jelly, cuz jam don’t shake like that

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My friend Jim has informed me that its peanut butter jelly time, as they say.

Tonight its Lambchop on toast. I am going to wriggle into a slinky something for the Nick Cave show. Then to an after-party. Its on a boat. See, I told you I would not be averse to a cocktail on Nick’s yacht. I wish you could come, Lickety, you have such a way on the docks! My only goal for the evening is not to get so drunk that I am falling down and acting like a retard. Like most Saturday nights.

xo

Take the skinheads bowling

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I like to bowl even though I am not very good at it. What other sport encourages you to drink beer and knock things over? The Disco Bowl in Kreuzberg is where its at! My team was horsing around and bowling a strictly average game over tall glasses of Schultheiss. In the next lane was a man called Crocodile, with one good and one malformed arm. Crocodile was bowling alone, and he held the ball up with his stump, throwing one strike after another, spinning the ball from left to right. Shazzam!

My shoes were brand new, red and blue. Very Sharp. I would have pinched them but I don’t do that anymore (though I did knick this photo from art frahm). I set a sterling example to be sure.

xo

Seasick, yet still docked…

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Dear Kitty Winn,

I have a hangover the size of a Buick Espace. The I-hate-myself-maybe-I-ought-to-hang-myself kind. What should I do?

-drowning girl

Dear Drowning,

I hope you are not waiting for word from Kitty before you begin to introduce your body to water! You clearly need copious amounts of it. In fact, go sit in some. And while you are there, look to your arsenal of skin and hair products for your redemptive ablutions. Once you are soft, warm, and lightly scented, you will begin to love yourself again. Unless you are horribly unloveable, in which case neither Kitty nor Sephora can help you and you should probably fix yourself another drink as quickly as possible. Hair of the Dog, as they say!

Most importantly, do not despair! If Kitty thought of topping herself everytime she woke up dry mouthed in a spinning room with her boots still on, she would be as tiresome as a Smiths-loving teenager. You’re going to have to take this on the chin, love.

cheers,

Kitty Winn

Summer in Berlin…its alright

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A Japanese garden just opened in a park in Marzahn. It was very lovely- there were stepping stones for you to cross the little brooks and raked gravel to appear as a pool with swirling eddies where there was actually no water. Unfortunately, order it was Sunday, so I could not take a photo that would not include a bunch of East Germans in it. That is not an example of an East German, that is a frog. There was a pond full of them out front. They were talking a lot. They were saying, “Damn, its hot here.”

Prost!

Prost!

Swiss hit-or-miss

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From the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

The first question is, why does the hot cocoa making vending machine in my new office keep kicking me in the nuts? Every time I get a hot cocoa there’s a good chance it’s waterier than American beer. Today it almost fucked me by flipping the cup on it’s side and pouring the contents all over the machine. I caught the cup in time.

My second question is, why do I keep using the hot cocoa vending machine when it continually kicks me in the nuts?

Perhaps this is a question that only Charlie Brown can answer.

-Hot for hot chocolate

Dear Hot Chocolate,

Kitty Winn believes in miracles! Charlie Brown is unavailable, but you have come to the right place for 5 cent advice. This problem, while seemingly insurmountable, has a very simple solution.

As to your first inquiry, are you always so very paranoid? Kitty is sure the contraption bears you no personal malice. As to the second, you keep coming back because you want the hot chocolate. Hot chocolate, in theory, is delicious! There is no shame in having desires.

So the temptation to fiddle with that wretched mechanical beast is understandable, but just remember that you are better than that. There are people to do that sort of thing, and they ain’t you, babe. Do everyone a favor, and have your bête noire hauled off to the scrap heap. Thus and only thus will you break the cycle of destructive behavior.

Then have someone else prepare and deliver the hot chocolate to you. What sounds better, a kick in the nuts, or a nice frothy cup of cocoa, made with buttery hormone-free milk and rich Ghiradelli shavings? Perhaps you fancy a cinnamon stick or a dollop of sweetened whipped cream to go with that? Does your office not have an office boy? If there is no intern or other such lackey, perhaps you can intimidate one of the weaker-willed employees to do your bidding. You will recline, feet up on your desk, tugging your suspenders like a fiend, while some would-be hausfrau scalds some milk in the kitchen, feverishly melting the chocolate to your liking.

As for the poor quality of American beer, Kitty can’t help you there. Kitty only drinks champagne. The rumors of her nail polish remover consumption are highly exaggerated. Well, once Kitty drank a Belgian ale called Delirium, and she ended up without her knickers. These things happen, and no photographs survive.

Properly dressed,

-Kitty

Anchors Aweigh!

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To those of you who just tuned in, Dan Savage left our Lambchop in the lurch on a very important intimate matter. But David has come to the rescue. I am reprinting the entirety of the correspondence, which contains a letter within a letter with a letter. As you are all so gosh darned clever, I am sure you can sort through it to get to the Naughty Bits:

“Honestly, I cannot leave you people for a moment. I take one little trip to Arizona to watch my boyfriend get inducted into his high school’s Distinguished Alumni Hall of Fame, and everything goes to pieces.

Here is the sort of thing you were up to while my back was turned:

Dear David,

I must tax you again for your opinion. You see, I wrote Dan Savage ages ago and even asked very nicely a second time, to no avail. I don’t want to plague Dan with some kind of Marathon Man reenactment “Is it safe?…Is it safe?”, so I turn to you for help:

“My friend wants to put me in an empty bathtub and pour bottle after bottle of champagne over me. To which I would happily consent, but I fear injury to my tender bits when sitting in all that alcohol. And though I hate to repeat unsubstantiated lore, I even heard *somewhere* that Natalie Wood ended up in a hospital after springing into just such a cocktail.

So help a young floozy out–is this risky business or can we pop our corks and have at it?”

-lambchop

David responds:

Good lord, I hope my mother is not reading this one.

All right, all right. As you might have suspected, the female anatomy is not something with which I am intimately familiar, so even though I was in the throes of agony recovering from severe dehydration and dashing off my taxes at the last possible moment, I took the time to consult with not one but two physicians on your behalf.

One, a gynecologist, said that nothing should go dramatically wrong, although the alcohol in the champagne might kill some of the beneficial bacteria in your vagina, resulting in a yeast infection. The other doctor said that the bath probably would not cause any harm, but she warns against getting up to any funny business with the bottle, as there have been cases of such things “becoming trapped due to the suction effect.”

So pop your cork, floozy. Christen the ship of love. But if anything unforeseen should occur (Natalie Wood did drown under mysterious circumstances), I trust you will tell the authorities you got this advice from the much put-upon Dan Savage and leave me out of it. ”

Well now, gentle reader, Vomitola has done its part! I bid you all smooth sailing!

xo

Skol!

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I am a social scientist- last night I discovered this weird kind of norwegian schnapps, called Aquavit. It was offered to me by a drunk norwegian writer who proceeded to quote Rimbaud shortly before he fell under the table. The Rimbaud was actually very nice and the Aquavit surprisingly tasty for a culture that eats fish steeped in lye. This was after I went to see the film Life is Shit. err, I mean, About Schmidt. I laughed, I cried, I had to see kathy bates naked. Ponderous mams on that woman. Lastly I went to an oriental lounge with tables cordoned off by gauzy curtains where you lay about on sofas covered in satin pillows and drink chartreuse and smoke the hookah. It was all so very August Strindberg. I have a bit of the existential ya-ya’s today.I ought to rent myself a cheery film like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

smooch

Let the Spirits Flow

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From the Desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn,

I have a lame problem, and I’m trying to wrack my brain to make it seem less lame and more earth shattering, but in the end, it’s pretty lame. Maybe I am lame. You tell me.

I am working on a book. I think what I have so far is really good, and other people have told me so, but I can’t seem to make any progress on it. My therapist says I have a fear of success, but what I could really use in my stagnant life right now is a little success. I thought about hiring someone to crack the whip and make me write, but I can’t really afford it. As it is, I use every diversion at my command to keep from sitting down in front of the computer, and when I finally do, nothing comes to me.

I don’t expect you to have any miracle psychological or logistical solution, but perhaps you can recommend a drug that’ll help me loosen up a bit and get my fingers flying across the keyboard.

Yours,

The Procrastinating Pen

Dear Pen,

What is the writer’s best friend, if not alcohol? Does the name James Joyce ring any bells in your dainty post-everything skull? Where would literature be without booze- you could fill the Library of Alexandria with all the great pages that have been sodden by drink. And then you could burn it down. Perhaps you are not the whiskey guzzling type. Then I suggest you toughen up! Writing isn’t for wusses.

By the way, I would like the name of your therapist. I could stand to have someone pandering to me right now. But maybe thats just my hangover talking.

-Kitty Winn