Dear Drunk Lady,

I live 3,000 miles away from you, yet I am terrified for my life. Your blood is not supposed to be made of alcohol. Please go to rehab before you run over America with your car. I am serious.

Love,

J-Ho

One of my longtime best buds, the gracious host of Barber College, Mr. Adam “Gordo” Clifford, got himself all married-up on Saturday. Now that I’m good and drunk - but home safely - I need some friggin’ sleep.

Don’t attempt to ride your bike while intoxicated and eating Yesterdog when there is a trash can in the near vacinity. It can only lead to hilarity for those around you. Thanks, random drunk guy! You made my week!

PS - Additional PSA: Don’t walk extended distances wearing canvas shoes and no socks. It can only lead to blisters.

Some of the best times of my life have been at terrible parties. Those messy, overcrowded affairs at shitty college houses, where you get there and you don’t know anyone and decide it’s time to be a bastard.

Yes, my fellow state-college Diaspora, I was that ironic-tee kid lingering all night around the keg. I over-bantered with people I didn’t know and mercilessly teased the host’s girlfriend.

I was your best friend for 20 minutes, flinging open cupboard doors and passing out Cheese-Its. Then I messed with way-too wasted dudes and ran to the bathroom to flush whole boxes of q-tips. No consequences, no honor—just pure “yanking-out-speaker-cables, pissing-off-the-porch-on-to-somebody’s-Camry” fun.

Yesterday, my friend told me he ended up driving to see “Grindhouse” at a drive-in in Wisconsin on Saturday night with a dozen people he had never met and who the buddy who brought him had also never met. They were giddy bastards, I’ll bet, running from car to car, cracking lame jokes: free from expectations and ever having to explain.

They got home at 5 AM.

I sat on the couch with my mother-in-law (who’s lovely. really) and watched an old Hitchcock, sadly being myself.

The DUI I can tolerate, but his disregard for modern statistical analysis is what would prevent me from hiring him were I a major league GM, which I will be someday. Oh well. I suppose I’m just taking this news item as an opportunity to plug this site.

Chances are I’ll be incapacitated and/or watching football all day Monday, so this counts as my HNY for 2007. See ya on the flip side, fuckers.

&Rock music to Sting: “Ditto.”
And now a study in contrasts:

Let’s say you work at Burger King and somebody comes in and calls you names and throws their drink at your head. Sorry, but you can’t leap over the counter and punch them in the face. Thems the rules. Now on the other hand if somebody jumps over the counter and touches you, by say going in for a kiss, you can totally punch that guy. Why? He broke the rules and came into your space and touched you first. That the difference between assault and self-defense.

Everybody east of the Mississippi, be sure turn your eyes to the sky tommorrow and wish J-Ho a save flight as he wings over you on his way to the land of ice and snow, of the midnight sun where the hot springs flow. J-Ho, you’ll be happy to know I just spent 20 mintues finding these lines from “Masters of the Universe,”

Teela: Don’t say goodbye. Say Good Journey.
Duncan: It is an old Eternian saying. Live the journey, for every destination is but a doorway to another.
Julie Winston: Good Journey.

Speaking of fond fairwells, let me say a few words about our dear Uncle Grambo of whatevs.org shuffling off this Midwestern Coil, bound for great things shilling for Viacom in NYC. CBGBs closing doesn’t make me sad, ’cause hey, there are a million shitty, filthy bars in the world and having a punk landmark is an effing lame contradiction. But there is only one Mark Graham, and even if she doesn’t deserve them anymore, Detroit needs more guys like him, not less.

I can only imagine more of the FOW crew will slowly leak out of town and while if you’re looking for an effing lame contradiction, a guy who left town complaining about people moving away from Detroit is a fine speciemen, but whatevs — Did you know Peabs got married? What’s next will Krengals say something smart? Will Gorilla stop talking really fast when he’s drunk? Will Retrobuzz be less surly? Will Tiz not tiz? I’ll admit I suddenly have a lot of time on my hands, but it worries me all the same.

These drinks sound alright, but I think I’ll stick to my warm PBR served in a combat boot with a broken Casio watch floating in it.

Look, I’m not Irish, so I’m not really sure what St. Patrick’s Day is all about. I think it has something to do with drowning snakes or some shit like that. Let me also tell you that I’m not a big fan of holidays in general, especially ones that are used almost exclusively as excuses for Americans to get drunk. So maybe this year instead of reinforcing negative stereotypes, how about we be more constructive? So yes, I’m asking you to abstain from drinking alcohol tonight. Instead, try something from this list of Irish-y stuff that I’ve prepared for you:

1) Fight the Irish Potato Famine by sponsoring one of those Sally Struthers kids in Africa (I know they’re not Irish, and I know the Potato Famine happened 150 years ago, but close enough).

2) Watch Leprechaun in the Hood, starring Warwick Davis, Ice-T, and Coolio.

3) Hold a fake U2 concert on your roof.

4) Read Finnegan’s Wake and explain to me what the fuck it’s about.

5) Record a sack for the University of Notre Dame’s football team.

6) Turn a Druid on to Catholicism.

7) Debate a friend on Thin Lizzy’s impact on the NWOBHM scene of the early 1980s.

8) Write a letter to Frank McCourt asking him to please stop writing books.

9) Buy me a box of Lucky Charms and separate out all the nasty toasted oat thingies. You can have those, but I get the marshmallows.

10) Kill an Englishman.