The other night while stopping into 7-11 to use the restroom, I just beat a strung out dude with a needle in his hand heading into what Archie Bunker so succinctly referred to as the "turlet," while singing a very off-key version of The Commodores "Brick House," that staple of all weddings. My companions never made it to the bathroom which was in full use after Mr. Brick House, the only sounds coming out of the door being a strange groaning. I bought some aspirin and hangover chasers (made in Detroit, folks! where optimism over bodily destruction and the ability to do something about it reign supreme) to prepare for the morning after what might be a night of heavy Christmas partying. I went to the counter where my sister was buying a National Enquirer which back in the day used to be reserved for tales of the bat boys and Gene Dixon predictions about the future which in those long ago years was the early nineties as distant as the moon, but now is reserved for the crassest of celebrity gossip, focusing on super scary pictures of cellulite (a favorite for us civilians no doubt) and other prurient tales. This one featured Chasity Bono, daughter of Sonny and Cher. Bulked Up By Thirty Pounds! screamed the headline.
"I think she gained all that weight because she hates herself being gay and all, but she can't do nothing about it," said the cashier, a real porker himself. I wanted to ask if that's how he had gained his weight, but kept silent. "And her mother has really gone overboard with the plastic surgery," he continued. "Women got to age naturally." Hangover chasers, National Enquirer, and a solid dose of philosophy, plus a Commodores serenade -- Damn, I had hit the jackpot. The night was still young and the weather mild, the way of a Texas winter. I thought back to watching the Sonny and Cher show when I was a little girl and how they used to bring Chasity out at the end of the night, a tiny little baby with her whole life in front of her. Nothing bad had happened; her father had not skied into a tree and her mother had not become tabloid fodder. Her personal life didn't warrant the opinions of homophobic 7-11 clerks, and I could still hear "Brick House" and not instantly recoil at the thought of another drunken wedding party where no matter what you did the night before to prevent it, there would be consequences.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Don't take your toys inside just because it's raining." Cher
Cocktail Hour
Drinking memoir suggestion: Floor Sample Julia Cameron
Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Thursday!
3 comments:
The guy with the needle reminds me of a piece in Sixx's "The Heroin Diaries" where he shoots up in a public toilet. Was enough right there to keep me off heroin.
Made in Detroit morning after pills, will probably work better if you crush 'em up and put them up your nose (hey it's a Detroit thing.)
Every junkie I know shoots up in a one stall washroom because they can lock the door and nod out, you were fortunate to get in there before he hit the brick house.
Remember you are representing Detroit now so you HAVE TO party like there is no tomorrow.
peace
mark
your posts really do make detroit alluring...if it weren't for the weather i might consider moving there!
i wrote a piece a while back called 'the morning after' about when aspirin came on the scene in the late 19th century. i wondered whether folks responded to it the same way many do today over the 'morning-after pill.' hangovers are a natural deterrent to intoxication, the logic goes--take that away and you take away natural consequence, and the moral fabric of society begins its unraveling. very relevant in light of the 'reefer madness' paranoia still being pushed today (largely through govt propaganda).
btw, where the HELL do you get all these pictures of yourself? love 'em, though.
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