u s e y o u r h a n d s

His cart had a bum wheel and it turned right into the shelf. But even it if had been freshly oiled, Clover would still have knocked down the row of tomato paste. Nobody peeked their head down his aisle, even though surely someone had heard the crash. The store was that small.

Clover was suffocating. He needed the alcohol to live. But instead of the boozy peace he used to attain, now he felt restless and ashamed inside, while his body became this bumbling shell which was dying, literally rotting away. And he began to cry. Nobody could really remember how long he had lived in the town, because even though Stockton Falls was small, nobody paid attention to the past. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been doing his shopping like this, so drunk he couldn’t see. So drunk that sometimes he wet his pants. Clover didn’t want this life, but it seem to have found him all the same. Town drunk. And neither he, nor anyone else, chose to remember any other incarnation he may have had.

She peeked her head around the corner and her face nearly broke when she saw his unabashed weeping. Clover didn’t notice her taking the list out of his shaking hand. He didn’t notice that she found all of his items and placed him in his cart. And he didn’t notice that she put a twenty in his front shirt pocket.

When he felt cried out, he started pushing the cart again and saw it was full. He didn’t know how. Clover chalked it up to being drunker than he thought.

I’m just about to the age when waiting in line for several hours to get good seats at a rock concert is just stupid. But not quite. And that’s why my feet hurt after two nights of Morrissey. Two nights, the first at Chicago’s Aragon Ballroom, the second at Milwaukee’s Eagles Ballroom.

Morrissey’s nearly 50. On his recent album, he says “You knew I couldn’t last.” And that’s what we are afraid of. Many of the people at this weekend’s shows had seen him before, 10 years ago or so. I remember everyone going to go see Morrissey when I was a junior in high school. I didn’t go then, but I’m glad that I could go now and get so close to him. And though I prefer to keep Morrissey more myth than man, but I got to channel my not-so-inner angsty teenager just feet from the legend himself.

Many thanks to: Morrissey for two great performances; for the Milwaukee crowd for being badass; and to the fine folks at Nokia for inventing a way to steal a few blurry memories.

Here are some photos from the Milwaukee show, taken with my cameraphone, the only thing I could sneak in. The Chicago show was a total gestapo experience.

There was a period of time that, when I was a child, I played cocktail waitress. And while lots of kids bring their dads drinks, I actually had a waitress’ costume that had been an old work uniform of my mother’s.

My dad would come home from a 12-hour salesman’s day and park himself in an oversized La-Z-Boy recliner to start on the several hours of phone calls he had to make each evening. And this was my cue to prepare his array of ’50’s-style bar snacks. I’d arrange handful of each of the following: cheddar cheese (cubed), a few wax peppers (I forget the brand, but I really liked the logo), and some green olives. I used the same platter, a ’70s square wooden job.

This tray of nummies was in addition to the drink. Fingers of booze, fingers of mixer, some ice cubes.

I’ve been thinking and talking about this often as of late. I just started a new job a few months ago and, as usual, I’ve made quite a splash among the funbunnies. So I’ve taken to organizing the happy hour.

I have organized the happy hour at nearly every job I’ve ever had.

I’m sure that if I still had sessions with Dr. Burroughs, my former tiny Belgian psychiatrist, that he would draw a parallel between lots of parts of my personality. And he’d probably be right on so many levels. But knowing why doesn’t really help living with a situation, does it?

This legacy of drink-love leaves me feeling mixed. On one hand, I am generally the most popular person in my office. I am a hoot, drunk or sober. And in my real life, I throw bomb parties and keep the conversation going. But on the other hand, I always worry if I’m going to be looked at as a silly party gal. It’s a difficult balance to strike, for me at least.

However I figure this out, let me just implore you that you shouldn’t train your kids to be servile, skittering bartenders-on-the-spot. Because you never know what’s going to happen fifteen years later.