Smokin' and Drinkin' on a Tuesday Night*

Only it's Wednesday.

I just poured a couple of fingers of Crown Royal over gem-shaped ice cubes in a vintage highball glass. There was something inherently amusing about drinking CR over ice cubes shaped like jewels. I also opened up Wicked Ale, because, dammit, I'm a rebel.

I am not normally a mid-week, by-myself drinker. I am more usually a adrenaline-fired, lust-soaked, nerve-seeking drinker. Or a hot afternoon in a best friend's yard, pounding back pineapple juice and rum drinker. Or a hey, look, it's legal to drink mango daiquiris on the street for breakfast in the French Quarter kind of drinker. But I only indulge in the self-absorbed, Tom Waits blasting on the rah-dee-oh sipping of whiskey on certain occasions. This happens to be one of them.

I know in my heart of hearts that I am not cut out for the life of a full-time musician. I am not a good goer-to-bed-at-any-time, I am cranky for three days after a smoke filled bar. But Jesus, I love it. The crowd thrills me, I adore the lights and the gear and the applause. Oh, God, the applause! I love the accolades. The real down side is that when it's all over, I get a little depressed. I mean, not like DT shakes or anything, but the world seems... flat. Muted. The edges aren't as sharp and the middle has no substance. I want to do this all the time. I feel like all the mundane bullshit would just melt away. Three chords and the truth, right?

Anyhow, I'm having an episode with my ex right now, which is probably makes it worse than it is. But I miss the limelight right now, as we speak. I miss people's eyes on me, and them shouting and cheering. Sigh. I won't finish the whiskey or the beer, I swear. I'll just hold them.

*with apologies to Crazy Joe Tritschler. And I don't smoke, but you knew that.

Well, you knew I was a weak woman!

Stupid fabulous rockabilly boys! Deke 'n' Joe 'n' Chris are smokin' hot players, and their music is pretty great, too. I wish I didn't love them so....

Who doesn't love a hedgehog?

Could you die?


Oh, and Miss Thing replies.

Do you love musical theater?

How about supervillains? Captain Mal Reynolds? Doogie Howser? Sarcasm? Laundry?

Okay, if you love all of them, then you already know what I'm gonna say next. If not, hie thee IMMEDIATELY to Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog and languish in the marvelosity that springs fully formed from the mind of Joss Whedon. If you go and watch this and say anything - ANYTHING - derogatory in the comments, then you are dead to me. DEAD, I say, because this is the very pinnacle of webertainment, as far as I am concerned.

If that is not enough to convince you, might I just say that Nathan Fillion's shirt is decidedly nippletastic? I thought so.

An overwhelming sense of nostalgia

Is this what happens when you hit your thirties? This indistinct but resolute longing for a return to childhood? Cuz, damn. Enough already.

I brought myself to tears listening to two songs this week: Dan Fogelberg and Emmylou Harris singing Only The Heart May Know and a very grown-up Mark Knopfler singing a pared down and heart-tearing version of Romeo and Juliet. Then I listened to Willie Nelson's Crazy and had to go lay down for a little while.

Speaking of tears, Wall*E about slayed me. If this had been a live-action film with a breathing actor, it would be deemed too sad, too apocalyptic and desolate for children. It's a portrait of what we do to stave off the burden of loneliness, a picture of how the comfort of routine and purpose keeps hope's candle burning and the darkness of spirit at bay. It reminds us that we can measure our humanity by our connection with other humans, and that mere existence is not living. And guess what? The kids got it. My kids did, at least. Cap'n Jack walked away thinking how great it was that Wall-E found a girlfriend and true love; Miss Thing walked away thinking how great it was that Wall-E found somebody just to hold his hand. Holding hands is something to wait for, even if it takes seven hundred years.

Go see Wall-E. Do yourself a favor, though, and don't listen to Willie Nelson or Mark Knopfler right before.