wReck thiS meSS ~ Radio Patapoe 88.3
Amsterdam ~ Ethno-Illogical Psycho-Radiographies 13.12.10
“I was perched on the edge of my seat, shell-shocked into drinking extrapolatory numbers of elixirial ales, waiting for the ale to push me further back into my seat.”
• Beer Mystic
Freedom > Alcohol Kinks > B/art
Long Neck Bottles > Captain Beefheart & The Magic Band [Spotlight Kid & Clear Spot]
The Bottle (1974) > Gil Scott Heron
Alcohol & Jake Blues > Tommy Johnson [Canned Heat / Document]
Schaefer is the One > Beer ad
When I Been Drinkin’ ( 1947 ) > Rosetta Howard
Drinking > Charles Bukowski
+ 37°2 Le Matin > Gabriel Yared [Betty Blue]
Beer is a Beer Hamms > Beer ad
I Drink Alone > George Thorogood
Snoop Dogg’s Gin n Juice > Richard Cheese & Lounge Against the Machine
Ballantine Beer 1960 > Beer ad
6 Pack > Black Flag
Schaefer1 > Beer ad
Spill the Wine (1970) > Eric Burdon and War [Live]
Warm Beer & Cold Women > Tom Waits [Nighthawks at the Diner / Asylum]
Barstool Blues > Neil Young [Zuma / Warner]
MOOG Schaefer Beer Commercial > Beer ad
Drunken Trumpet > Kid Koala [Live]
Drunken Master > General Echo
Whiskey Lied > Olleke Bolleke [Olleke Bolleke / Dureco]
Whiskey-Headed Woman > Sonny Boy Williamson [Deep Blues / ]
Rye Whiskey > Yodelin’ Slim Clark [Cowboy & Yodel Songs / Jasmine]
Chivalry > Mekons
Atomic Cocktail > Slim Gaillard [Laughing in Rhythm / Proper]
Let’s Get Drunk > Jimmy Buffet
Wine Women and Song > Loretta Lynn
Carling Black Label Beer 1950s > Beer ad
Drunk by Noon > Handsome Family
Heilmann’s Old Style Beer / Jimmy Cagney > Beer ad
Schaefer1 > Beer ad
Excerpt from the novel Beer Mystic
14 When you leave work, if you’re like me, you feel an imploding anxious emptiness that is desperate to be filled with going out – you gotta go out or you’re nothing. Staying in is like caving in, like buried in your own misery. But not having it in you or in your wallet, means you’re destined to be out without going out – buy a beer, brown bag it, beer bedouin wandering the streets. But first I rush home to take advantage of the one hour of hot water. I lie pie-eyed in the steamy tub – make it mine immediately by peeing in it. “…And guard you from dread / slumber gently and deep…” I think, I drift: I feel my body, muscular and aching. The worth of work is measured in levels of pain. The less lunch hour you get the more important you’re supposed to feel. We’re supposed to get an hour, me and Robert, but big deliveries of Hammermill paper always come during lunchtime.
I have to remind myself to write all that down when suddenly I hear the dogs outside baying, howling at the streetlights. The story goes [where’d I read it?] that one guy or more – it’s always guys! – are going around calling themselves the Canine & Cat Liberation League [CCLL]. T(he)y come along the avenue with box cutters and slash the leashes of dogs tied to parking meters – dogs freed of their masters. Slash and run acts. We intuitively side with these liberators. But now hundreds of dogs have formed tight-knit packs [organized by howls and scent] that rove out into traffic, upset vehicle movements, cause traffic jams, gallop down shopping corridors, panicking pedestrians and shoppers. Shop owners complain. There is also the issue of canines hit by cars – that vague legal domain sometimes called “accidental on purpose.” Often enough for the Post to report that the city can’t even cart them away fast enough. Chinese restaurant owners have been called in to help. They can have as much of the meat as they can cart away. But this part is just hearsay or a joke or the Post.
Maybe that’s what led me to beer – or more beer. The dogs. Or the owners of dogs and how they allowed themselves to have all their affections rechanneled into these flea-bitten shit machines on four legs. You’ve got to hand it to them. They have managed to make the most of who they are.
There is also the barking – “Ah ah, the dog howleth, the moon shineth” – and at night watching dog owners standing stiff and still as if in deep thought or deep shit, staring as their dogs squat between cars to take a dump… maybe it was the sadness of seeing this hundreds of times per week – that sad hand on a sad limp leash, leading to the neck of a sad dog with sad hunched shoulders sadly squatting in the discolored snow in a grimy patch of turf called a park. And then watching the owner sadly oppressed, squatting down with a plastic sack and sadly gripping the steaming turd and sadly carrying the plastic sack to a sad garbage can. You can also sadly see them attempt to dodge their civic duty, by sadly ordering, yanking their dogs into empty lots or between cars, sadly vigilant before they huff off, another crime under their belts. This no doubt led to more beer.
And what if the dog is constipated or fussy about his squat spot!? Then we can see consternation, tension, tempers flair, people begging, coaxing their dogs, coaching, showing how by example – “What me, watch me, like this!” – and quick kick, an abrupt tug on the leash to express their frustration. Here too you see the dog owners dividing up into victims and victimizers – you can borrow my binocs – each with their own particular strategy of how to profit from the chosen profile.
My neighbors also led to more beer. Sitting on shiny surfaces of cars, sitting on garbage can lids on pieces of cardboard as if to say all that matters is surfaces, their shine, their ability to accept their weight without groan, the ability of surfaces to support them, to keep their buttocks warm. This is what their buttocks, the positioning of their bodies on surfaces said to me. And this was sad. This certainly led to beer. Lots of it – with the quantity being more important than the quality. But the story is not what led to beer but where beer led me.
[Nice, secret researcher and Pivo’s noctivigant partner and most loyal friend: “Furman Pivo has acquired what he calls a ‘dipsomaniacal lobotomy,’ which allows his mind to distill the essence from a drunken stupor, remaining unreachable, eluding all content that gives too much weight to the proposition that one is nothing, nothing at all. His hair looks like it was done by the hairdresser who does the Wishniks’ hair. Like a mad professor in CBGB’s. And that he carries it off is charming. No? I mean his skin’s like that of a ghost threatening to materialize. Like a placeholder, an empty glass of milk, the courage of 1000 dreams, a vicious rumor about to blow up in a face, a dusty halo in a dingy basement. And when people ask, yes, I admit it, I have a big place for him in my heart. Life is not rational. You cannot explain love.”] …
Chapter 14 in its entirety can be found at Sensitive Skin.