Strawberry Fields

Muddle a handful of frozen strawberries in 2oz of triple sec (or any orange liqueur) and the juice of one lime. Divide into pint glasses, add ice, and pour 2-3oz of a light rum (I recommend Cruzan) on top in each glass. Top off with club soda and garnish with a frozen strawberry and a sprig fresh basil.

Kentucky Nerdy

• two parts grapefruit juice
• one part bourbon
• one part gin
• a squeeze of lime
  
• dash of triple sec (or other orange liqueur)

Shake or stir with ice, pour into a martini glass lined with citrus bitters, and garnish with a whole red cherry (or two).

Invented on the fly with the sister last night.

A mundane, slow-moving disaster movie

Sitting in the bar window, the sunlight
refracts through my pitcher of Switchback
shooting slivers of rainbows onto
the pages of my book.

The sunlight is so clear and warm,
it almost fools you into thinking
it’s a nice day outside.

My friend Mikey says that
windows in the wintertime
are not windows,
just projections of nice days.

I remember Februarys in Georgia:
difficult and cold,
frustrated by the deception of sunshine.
If I had only known that was just
the surface--
a veneer of winter
over a temperate climate.

How many tote bags can one hippie tote?

As many as they give away for free.

The ways in which my life is like What About Bob?

• I feel good--I feel great--I feel wonderful--
• I'm afraid that I won't be able to find a bathroom, and my bladder will explode.
• I divide people into groups based on how they feel about Neil Diamond.
• I use toilet paper or tissues as a barrier between my skin and public surfaces.
• Baby steps get on the bus.
  

Well, let's do it

Kelli Mae: "But sauerkraut is a lot of work to make."
Sam: "No, no. Once you get a food processor, sauerkraut it makes itself--it makes itself, honey."

Is it bigger than a...

I have finally realized the need of a breadbox. When you make your own, you need a place to put it.

Makes sense

Me: "I haven't had coffee or alcohol in three days."
Sister: "God, no wonder you're depressed."

This is why I'm not getting a Ph.D.

Going to see the Gilmores,
to see Yalies who get dressed up
in dresses & suits & brooches & ties
to have drinks with their friends
on a Friday night,
who pithily talk about intellectual matters.

I want to be clever, have witty conversations while half-drunk
about t.s. eliot and heidegger,

but there’s no room for me here,
no place for me to freak out,
to make perfectly valid comments, like--
What about the pope, huh?
only to get blank stares.
or yell--
No! no! that’s bullshit!--
flailing my hands about,
how i do when i’m myself
around people who know myself.

In my hobo-chic clothes
drinking musty red wine
and smoking spliffs on the sly,
I tell people that I work at a co-op in Vermont
and insist that Bridget Jones Diary 2: The Edge of Reason is a meta-text,
while white couples hold hands limply.

The lonely-hearts couplet

“You can’t play frisbee alone.”
“Get a fucking dog.”