Posts Tagged ‘Sobriety


The Miracle of Time Travel

(Next week, C-Jane and I are going to a ‘Stupid Dogs that do Stupid Tricks’ Show at Planet Hollywood. Clearly, we are not ‘Dog-People,’ but the show should be a nice deviation from the awful hell that is sobriety. Jesus, save me from shooting myself. Here is the beginning of a series of old posts about Amsterdam.)

Time-travel sucks. Wake up Tuesday at 7am, pack, get a ride to McCarran International at noon, and after having my shoes checked for bombs, fly until landing in Memphis at 5pm, eat some nasty airport BBQ, get on another plane, fly against the sun for nine-hours, finally land at Schiphol Amsterdam at 11am on Wednesday.

Amsterdam Pictures
This photo of Amsterdam is courtesy of TripAdvisor

The best part of my flight was the redneck from Memphis sitting in front of me held the Guinness World Record for the worst dandruff in the world – 9-hours of scalp-flakes in my food, beer, and lap. Yuck. I’ll make sure to pack a whisk broom next time. American airplane food is shit to begin with. Speaking of shit, there is nothing like fun times with constipation while in a foreign country, thanks Delta for 24-hours of bowels filled with indigestible food-like-substances.

In Switzerland, the true capital of the world, everything is written and spoken in four languages, but not in Holland. Disorientation becomes compounded when everyone ‘speaks’ English, but everything is written in Dutch. Catch the train from Schiphol to Centraal Station, then get on the tram, don’t exit at Kattenburgerstraat, but one more exit forward at Rietlandpark. The Lloyd Hotel is right there. Jesus, what time is it now? Hell if I know.

Calamity Jane is a master traveler. I’d have given up and curled into a ball upon the floor, but she charged into the fray, damn the disorientation. She got us to the hotel as I only stood dumbfounded.

But from the moment we landed in Schiphol, the mood changed. What is that feeling? Oh, I remember, this feeling is called ‘liberty. The crushing oppression of America slips off as ‘freedom’ replaces it. The airport is quiet, benevolent, and welcoming.

Amsterdam Photos
This photo of Amsterdam is courtesy of TripAdvisor

Not at the money exchange. 600 US-dollars transfer to only 385 Euros. Yikes! Freedom IS expensive. (5 Euros is the average cost for a pint of Amstel, 2.6 Euros for a one-hour tram ride, Stoli Vodka – 7.5 Euros.) Needless to say, we didn’t drink too much in the new morally ambiguous utopia. (Actually, the Dutch people have fine morals; they tend to believe that people make their own decisions and thus face their own consequences. No need to strangle the rights of their people. Holland is for the Dutch, visitors need to remember this fact and adjust to their culture while exploring their wonderful environment.)

The next post will be about the Lloyd Hotel.

(I seem to have lost all my pictures of the Netherlands, so I borrowed two showing places we’d been. I believe C-Jane has a hidden stash of photos. I hope so, or I’m going to need to amp-up my descriptive abilities for the next post.)


Untold Truth of Hemingway’s Demise

(I’ve gotten away from Legal Disclaimers — see about author if you are insulted by anything I’ve written.)

Have you noticed the lack of postings on this site? Sure, there were all the Seattle posts, they were cool, and I was drunk then. Don’t forget the Hank post is a re-post from two years ago. Sobriety is a writer’s worst enemy.

This is how we party in Las Vegas

Sobriety has got to be the biggest dildo in the most uncomfortable of places when it comes to creative writing. Earnest Hemingway – drunk. James Joyce – Drunk. Truman Capote – Drunk!

Big J – Sober. Big J – Capital Fail!

I now understand why suicide is the #1 cause of death for recovering addicts and alcoholics. Earnest Hemingway was going to AA, he had two-weeks sober, couldn’t write, owned a shotgun, BANG! America’s greatest writer has left the planet. (This is not a true statement, please don’t sue me.)

Think I’m lying? Hunter S. Thompson, one of the greatest journalists ever, was so F-ed up on dope all the time that when he got clean, he died immediately! (That is also not true, that is just my alcoholic brain trying to trick me into drinking… again.)

Sobriety sucks, woe is me. My friends tell me I’m boring. C-Jane hasn’t left me, but only because I’m getting skinnier. Instead of having a cool fun party-buddy with a growing belly, she now gets a sourpuss-downer with washboard abs. I’m going to go curl up and cry.

If you are a drunk, don’t be vain. Vanity, well, it is just stupid. Be drunk, be ugly, be happy. I hope to survive one more month of this hell, and then I’m going back to drunken bliss. I have lost nearly ten pounds in this month of suffering. One more month of agonized uncreative horror and I’ll be eye-candy. C-Jane will need to use her karate to chase all the little hotties away. That will be something to write about.


Die Larry, Die!

I had great expectations with this post, but I’m afraid it is going to suck. You see, I quit drinking. The doctor said I’m going to die, and my wife said, “No Big J, you can’t die!” Sigh, so I stopped drinking.

Lady Liberty Stands beneath the sign promoting 'Alki-hol'

The point is I’m dull now. But, by not drinking for two weeks I’ve lost 3 pounds, my liver is happier and my heart is less stressed. But boy-oh-boy is my art boring. My friends don’t even like me.

Ready to roll

So I decided to exact my wrath on some poor animal that could not defend itself or call the police on me. C-Jane and I got in the car and went to the market, hooking up our security first.

Wait, WHAT? You thought I was going to hurt the dog? No way, that is the security system for the car. Who’s going to steal my ‘Whitney Houston-Bumping Hi-Def system’ with a snarling Doberman sitting in the back seat?

No no, we went to the ‘meat-market’ to find our victim. Look here –

Faceless Victims

We planned to abduct some poor unsuspecting sap from here. No one will ask questions, no one will care. As you can see by the picture, the market has already mangled most of its victims before we even got there; looks like they had their fun. We took some smoked mussels and salmon before we found Larry.

Say hello to my little friend.

Upon seeing Larry, I asked him if he ever saw Eli Roth’s Hostel. The lobster blinked twice, the universal quadriplegic signal for no. At least I took it as a no. “Well, Larry, how would you like to come home with this pretty lady and I for the evening… see what we can cook up?”

A bubble erupted from his mouth, fighting to the surface to burst – “Okay.”

Larry in a box

I don’t think Larry liked being in the box, so we put him in the refrigerator as soon as we got home so he’d relax a little after our trip. Sydney, our security system, had nuzzled the box a few times. She then growled at me, thinking she deserved a snack for protecting the car. I yelled, “No big dog! That’s my Scooby snack!”

Her teeth came out and the hair on her hind quarter rose up. C-Jane diffused the situation with a smoked mussel, Sydney was placated and sat down. So we bumped Whitney’s CD all the way home. The trunk of the car humming with a metalic rattle as — “boom –And Iiiiiyyyyeeee-Iiiyyee will alwaaaaaays love youuuuu – boom – boom.” I wonder now if Larry even liked Whitney Houston. Come to think of it, he looked more like a Bobby Brown fan.

Larry and I dancing together, he's doing the Mambo

Once home, we needed mood music. Al Greene’s ‘Let’s Get it On’ should be alright. Larry comes out of the fridge, and he’s calm like a bomb now. Next, we play some music reminiscent of Reservoir Dogs, “Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right – here I am – Stuck in the middle with you.” And we danced, and we danced, and then when Larry least expected it –

bubble bubble

Slash! Into the boiling water. “Ah ha ha ha – didn’t see that coming, did you Larry?”

“Help me!” he screamed, but I pushed his ugly un-lovable face under the water with a wooden spoon, laughing maniacally- mwahahahaha! Within minutes, he looked like this –

Larry, you look a little tense

Larry now looks a lot like an old B-52’s song.

But then, the reality hit me – “Oh my God! What have I done! I’m sorry Larry! I’m sooo sorry.” It was Murder, with a capital M. Look everybody, I’m way too cute to go to prison! They’ll tattoo tits on my back and name me Nancy!

F-all that! No evidence, no crime. The cops’ll NEVER catch me! So I tore Larry into little pieces and set him on fire.

burn baby burn, disco inferno.

I looked over my shoulder, past C-Jane and saw my old friend. A tear dripped from my eye, “If you were still in my life, this never would have happened!”

C-Jane said, “Aw Big-J, I’m still here.”

With an exasperated, “No, not you,” I moved her to the side and pointed to the cupboard –

Hello my old friend.

Hey, that gives me an idea!

Larry Bisque





(DISCLAIMER: this is a mock story, although the events in the pictures are true, the story is questionable and somewhat fabricated. It is a lot like your friends at FOX NEWS. IE – see the ‘Karate on the Beach’ post if you enjoyed this one. These events did happened in Seattle, it was Sister Calamity’s plan, and her Sydney who watched the car. I was elected to do the dirty deed of tossing Larry into the vat of boiling water, but he never begged for help. Not even a yelp.)


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