Achado bloguístico do dia: Drinking Blog – Diary-a of a Chronicle Drinker

There was a scene at a formal reception and i’m guessing Eastwood used fake wine. The wine wasn’t the deep red of real wine or the luminous pink of rosé but instead this odd tinge that Crayola would call fake wine if they made a crayon of it.

I wanna get drunk with Michelle Rodriguez. i wanna get drunk with her, do some crazy things in public, get punched out by her and then get arrested with her. That would be a cool weekend.

You know how you drink with John Keats? Sure he died going on 300 years ago so he doesn’t have a whole lot to offer up by way of conversation and he really isn’t super interesting but at least he doesn’t drink much and you can steal his drinks easily and after a couple bottles of wine you don’t have to pretend to pay attention—you can just nod off whenever you want and wake up refreshed another round.

Zooey is still fun as hell to look at. She’s got this natural brewed charm that Lowie lights up the screen like a mellow beer buzz and makes her one of life’s simple pleasures to just watch.

You know how you drink with Jim Jarmusch? You’ve seen Dead Man and Down By Law and you can’t wait to hang with the guy who hangs with Tom Waits, Bill Murray and Johnny Depp. So he gets there and you’re all excited and you sit down at the table ready to have this super intense conversation with the writer of Broken Flowers, Coffee and Cigarettes, and Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai. Then nothing happens. He just kinda sits there and looks at you. And you wanna say something but it’s Jim Jarmusch and he’s so much cooler than you could ever be so anything you say will sound completely stupid so you sip your drink and wait. And wait. And he doesn’t say anything. At all. He looks at you and kinda smiles sheepishly. He says “Wow, it’s quiet in here.” Then nothing else for twenty minutes. Then he tells you it was nice meeting you and stands up and leaves and you have to pay the tab.

She rolls her own cigarette with her own mouth and i swear to god, i’d drink scotch and razor blades through an anal I.V. for a month if i could smoke a cigarette rolled off that tongue.

You know how sometimes you drink with a really morose mother mucker? He’s always bummed and the true problem is drinking makes it worse. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t yell, doesn’t brood, he just sits there and stares into space remembering all the horrible things that have happened to him in his life and the only reason he’s in the bar in the first place is to take up space until death comes for him. You can try to get him to crack a smile or stream your best glib to get him to open up but he’s beyond the point where anything in this world matters and can’t be bothered to care anymore. Not even the pitcher of mojitos sitting in front of him or the blonde in his lap trying to to get him to take shots from her cleavage break his mood. He certainly has the best reasons ever to be sad, but that doesn’t mean you’re forced to party with him.

Drinking Blog: Diary-a of a Chronicle Drinker