mayhem and holiday jingles

Stayed up all night watching the news to see if we had a president or not. Oddly, it seems the more time that went by, the fewer counties had been recounted. At 9:00, 66 of 67 counties had results, and at midnight, 64 of 67. It turns out that in each county the majority of votes came from dead people. Immediately these votes were rescinded, but that resulted in an immediate backlash all around Florida of people rallying for dead people's rights. Jesse Jackson was there, preaching how the Good Lord grants wisdom to the dead and if they want to vote for Gore we should respect their knowledge. Unfortunately, the only dead man available for comment claimed that he was confused by the ballot and although he did vote for Gore, he was trying to vote for Hubert Humphrey.

Went to Scott's tonight to avoid the election nonsense and record some Christmas songs. All went very well, and we had a great time. But it got me wondering, how many Christmas songs should there be in the world? Here we go every year writing hours of Christmas music, when Halloween only has “One Eyed One Horned Flying Purple People Eater.” Then there's Easter. Easter once had it's own opera, but they since gave that to Christmas in a messy divorce.

It's strange to hang out with someone who is a great friend that you never see. On one hand, you feel like you need to catch up on everything, but on the other hand, you know each other so well that you just want to keep moving forward with more good times. I keep in touch with people 3,000 miles away more often, because I know they're 3,000 miles away. People who are a ten minute train ride are a challenge, because I keep assuming I'll see them soon.

Came back home and made Manhattans. I was going to make “Paulie the Suits,” but they were too much effort. Then it got me thinking. I suddenly flashed back to Seattle, and a strange night at the Back Door Lounge…

I had off that day, and didn't have much else to do but drink. I remember I started at the Cha Cha Lounge, but it got too crowded. Besides, Frank Black and the Catholics were playing at the Phoenix in Pioneer Square, and I wanted to go. I stumbled up the stairs to the Back Door already pretty drunk. I sat myself at a table and ordered a Manhattan. I knew they made very bad manhattans there, but I figured that if I was sitting at a table and didn't have to see the bartender mix the whole thing pour by pour into the cocktail glass, I wouldn't mind. Besides, the waitress was nice and pretty and had nipple rings in each breast.

I drank my drink and admired the waitress and tried to read every now and then, but my head was getting fuzzy and there was too much movement around me. I asked the waitress with the nipple rings what was going on.

“It's a CD release party for the Beastie Boys,” she told me.

“Are they going to be here?” I asked.

“No, but we're playing the CD for the first time here.”

Suddenly the entire room was filled with kids in backwards baseball caps and baggy jeans. I felt cold and foreign. There's something about Seattle kids pretending they're from Brooklyn that sends a unique chill down your spine. I suddenly became scared, and the waitress with the nipple rings was my only safe place.

“ Look,” I asked, “is this an invitation thing? Should I go? Because I really don't feel like I'm supposed to be here.”

She took my hand for a moment. I'll never forget that. “No, there's no reason for you to go. Stay, have another drink.”

I guess I knew she'd ask, but it threw me anyway.

“Are you okay?”

I swallowed. “I'm fine, but can you do me one favor?”

“Sure” she said.

“ My name is Paul.” I told her.

“Why did you tell me that?” she asked.

“Because 3,000 miles away from here they're drinking a drink named after me and in this town nobody knows my name.”

She stared away from me. She suddenly seemed upset. “You talk like a book,” she told me.

“ I don't mean to,” I said.

“You don't have to mean to, it's just there.” And then she walked away.

I never made it to the Frank Black show. I got stopped by a police officer for public drunkenness and thrown into a cab. And I never saw the waitress with the nipple rings to see if she remembered my name. But eventually I came back to the town where there's a drink named after me, and I have dear friends I hardly ever see, and I haven't had a Paulie The Suit in a year.

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