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.”

Untitled

tired, hungover, hungry,
it was rainy outside
and i didn’t have my coffee yet

i go to look at the cover of the Times,
like every morning--
my heart crushed from the night before
again and again
drinking and making bad decisions--

i glance at the headlines
but the above-the-fold is dominated by a gigantic, full-color photo
of a brown pelican
covered in oil
flailing
struggling out of the water.

we are both so tiny
and so far from each other
and from anyone who can help.
but i will live.

a co-worker walks by, seeing my tears,
rubbing my shoulder,
understanding the sentiment
if not the severity of my reaction.

and all i want to do is drink the oil,
drink the damaged ocean
and die
for that pelican.
he is better than me,
better than the rest of us
combined.

and then i go to work.