Adventures in Drunken Boobery
Try as I might – I just don’t quite get my landlord.
No sooner than he pops the cork (or in his case; breaks the seal) on a bottle of Cabaret and he turns into a complete Dickus Maximus. You may remember me bitching about him from past, shall we say, failed socio-experiments; where I unsuccessfully attempted to introduce him to a more refined sense of musical taste. Sadly, the situation has not improved any. The man is as resistant to change as a pogonophobic* at a ZZ Top concert.
Honestly, sometimes it’s like living with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Drunken Dipshit. During the day he’s just your average, good-natured, smart guy who enjoys his wine, knitted caps, and clam diggers. But by night, he’s a non-stop raging karaoke machine. You may recall how I have, on occasion, been woken up in the wee hours of the morning by his loud inebriation. Believe you me; I’d rather take a belt sander to my ball sac than have to be rudely awakened at 4:30AM to Neil Diamond loud enough to shake the neighbors from their beds.
No matter how many juicy bootlegs I throw his way, I’m still going to have to live with the fact that I will still be awoken by cheese pop and limp-dick radio crap in the night. I’ve been fighting a loosing battle.
Consider what I’ve given him already: Ray Charles at the Palais de Sport, Al DiMeola and John McLaughlin at the Symphony Hall, Aretha Franklin at the Fillmore West, Thelonius Monk at the Maison de la Radio, Dizzy Gillespie at the Royal Festival Hall, Curtis Mayfield at the Montreux Music Festival, Yes at Yale University, Louis Armstrong at Memorial Hall, and David Byrne at the Church of St. Anne and the Holy Trinity – just to name a few. And just look at the selection of crap that I have to endure once he decides to get his buzz on: Darkness, Tony Orlando, George Michael, Pet Shop Boys, Bryan Adams, Culture Club, Queen, K.D. Lang, Melissa Etheridge; and for some reason – Ozzy Osborne. As my landlord likes to refer to it: “It’s killer stuff, man”. He may be the only person on the planet that owns more than three Kenny G albums and who can actually name more one other song by Sade aside from ‘Smooth Operator’.
Well, BFD fella’ – that’s not really anything to fucking brag about!
Being the snobby music aficionado that I am, I struggle to grasp his desire for shitty music. I mean, I give him Bonnie Raitt and Little Feat and I get Kiki Dee and Elton-fucking-John! Where’s the justice in that? I’m sure that he did possess some quantity of culture at some point or other**. He still rolls his joints on an old Genesis ‘Trick of the Tail’ vinyl album cover and he can play the opening cords to Supertramp’s ‘Fools Overture’ on the keyboard, so he MUST have had some degree of significant coolness to him at some point. But why then is he still so obsessive about his shit music?
Personally, judging solely on his nocturnal DJ habits, I think he’s a closet homosexual.
Just look at the above play list***; as his inebriation progresses throughout the evening, the incessant crap pop gives way to ‘Frankie Goes to Hollywood’, and eventually to popular show tunes as the morning begins to break on dawns horizon. His loud transition of musical gayness is so in-tune and psychically complete that I’m afraid that I too may wake up and suddenly find Orlando Bloom hot. Right down to the final chords of 'Hello Dolly!', its a total sexual metamorphosis.
C’mon, the guy is queerer than a $3 dollar bill! What kind of grown man sits up at all hours of the morning on living room floor sipping merlot from a goldfish bowl like some kind of Buddhist sommelier and popping CD’s in and out of the stereo and flinging the discarded discs across the room like discusses? Recently, when I happened to be in his company during one of these particularly dangerous episodes in his drunken knobness, I was almost decapitated by a Duke Ellington CD; but thankfully I was bent over at the time in order to retrieve a Jazz Mandolin Project CD from the floor from one of his previous pitches.
But some drunks are just incorrigible. Personally, I wouldn’t bother drinking anymore if I know ahead of time that after four bottles of wine, I turn into a complete sexually confused ass hat who likes to swoon in front of my speakers to ‘The Power of Love’ being played at maximum volume. That’s not something that I would want to advertise to the neighborhood in the middle of the night. I think I would prefer to exhibit and embrace my homosexuality with a hobby somewhat less obvious and intrusive to the neighbors like 30’s cabaret or French cuisine. It’s easier to explain and less likely to keep them up at night. Because you can bet your sweet Anal Eaze that they aren’t sharing your deep midi-amour for Yanni at 3:30AM.
* The fear of beards. Hey, you’re expecting A-material %100 of the time?
** Which, by my humble standards, equates to sitting on the couch in a stained t-shirt and farting out the theme to Transformers.
*** Okay, I can’t explain the Ozzy Osborne apart from a possible fetish for men in tight black leather and an appetite for pigeons.
No sooner than he pops the cork (or in his case; breaks the seal) on a bottle of Cabaret and he turns into a complete Dickus Maximus. You may remember me bitching about him from past, shall we say, failed socio-experiments; where I unsuccessfully attempted to introduce him to a more refined sense of musical taste. Sadly, the situation has not improved any. The man is as resistant to change as a pogonophobic* at a ZZ Top concert.
Honestly, sometimes it’s like living with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Drunken Dipshit. During the day he’s just your average, good-natured, smart guy who enjoys his wine, knitted caps, and clam diggers. But by night, he’s a non-stop raging karaoke machine. You may recall how I have, on occasion, been woken up in the wee hours of the morning by his loud inebriation. Believe you me; I’d rather take a belt sander to my ball sac than have to be rudely awakened at 4:30AM to Neil Diamond loud enough to shake the neighbors from their beds.
No matter how many juicy bootlegs I throw his way, I’m still going to have to live with the fact that I will still be awoken by cheese pop and limp-dick radio crap in the night. I’ve been fighting a loosing battle.
Consider what I’ve given him already: Ray Charles at the Palais de Sport, Al DiMeola and John McLaughlin at the Symphony Hall, Aretha Franklin at the Fillmore West, Thelonius Monk at the Maison de la Radio, Dizzy Gillespie at the Royal Festival Hall, Curtis Mayfield at the Montreux Music Festival, Yes at Yale University, Louis Armstrong at Memorial Hall, and David Byrne at the Church of St. Anne and the Holy Trinity – just to name a few. And just look at the selection of crap that I have to endure once he decides to get his buzz on: Darkness, Tony Orlando, George Michael, Pet Shop Boys, Bryan Adams, Culture Club, Queen, K.D. Lang, Melissa Etheridge; and for some reason – Ozzy Osborne. As my landlord likes to refer to it: “It’s killer stuff, man”. He may be the only person on the planet that owns more than three Kenny G albums and who can actually name more one other song by Sade aside from ‘Smooth Operator’.
Well, BFD fella’ – that’s not really anything to fucking brag about!
Being the snobby music aficionado that I am, I struggle to grasp his desire for shitty music. I mean, I give him Bonnie Raitt and Little Feat and I get Kiki Dee and Elton-fucking-John! Where’s the justice in that? I’m sure that he did possess some quantity of culture at some point or other**. He still rolls his joints on an old Genesis ‘Trick of the Tail’ vinyl album cover and he can play the opening cords to Supertramp’s ‘Fools Overture’ on the keyboard, so he MUST have had some degree of significant coolness to him at some point. But why then is he still so obsessive about his shit music?
Personally, judging solely on his nocturnal DJ habits, I think he’s a closet homosexual.
Just look at the above play list***; as his inebriation progresses throughout the evening, the incessant crap pop gives way to ‘Frankie Goes to Hollywood’, and eventually to popular show tunes as the morning begins to break on dawns horizon. His loud transition of musical gayness is so in-tune and psychically complete that I’m afraid that I too may wake up and suddenly find Orlando Bloom hot. Right down to the final chords of 'Hello Dolly!', its a total sexual metamorphosis.
C’mon, the guy is queerer than a $3 dollar bill! What kind of grown man sits up at all hours of the morning on living room floor sipping merlot from a goldfish bowl like some kind of Buddhist sommelier and popping CD’s in and out of the stereo and flinging the discarded discs across the room like discusses? Recently, when I happened to be in his company during one of these particularly dangerous episodes in his drunken knobness, I was almost decapitated by a Duke Ellington CD; but thankfully I was bent over at the time in order to retrieve a Jazz Mandolin Project CD from the floor from one of his previous pitches.
But some drunks are just incorrigible. Personally, I wouldn’t bother drinking anymore if I know ahead of time that after four bottles of wine, I turn into a complete sexually confused ass hat who likes to swoon in front of my speakers to ‘The Power of Love’ being played at maximum volume. That’s not something that I would want to advertise to the neighborhood in the middle of the night. I think I would prefer to exhibit and embrace my homosexuality with a hobby somewhat less obvious and intrusive to the neighbors like 30’s cabaret or French cuisine. It’s easier to explain and less likely to keep them up at night. Because you can bet your sweet Anal Eaze that they aren’t sharing your deep midi-amour for Yanni at 3:30AM.
* The fear of beards. Hey, you’re expecting A-material %100 of the time?
** Which, by my humble standards, equates to sitting on the couch in a stained t-shirt and farting out the theme to Transformers.
*** Okay, I can’t explain the Ozzy Osborne apart from a possible fetish for men in tight black leather and an appetite for pigeons.
2 Comments:
Music is taste plain and simple. Hey my dark secret is 'Duran Duran'.
Though I've convinced that that guy in the Darkness is Tiny Tim's love child. That's the only way to explain that high voice.
Last I heard, Simon LeBon was working on his twelfth wife and still makes regular monthly child support payments. Your sexuality is safe. Unless you're still modelling Simon's 80's-style quaffed hair doo, that is.
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