JOEY AWAKE NOW

Some poems,
right some poems.

I’m a lover of poems.
And yes, we lovers of poems

must stick together. Don’t mind me. Pardon? Glenn?
Glenn? Glenn. It is nice to meet you, Glenn.

You are thinking you are in luck.
Because look,

a strange old man has joined you at the bar.
How fortunate you are

this fine day. I beg your pardon? Indeed.
The secret’s out. I am indeed

a man with English, how do you say Raul, issues,
exactly, English issues.

No, not for fifty years.
Hoboken Italian now for fifty years.

I’m English when there are wars.
I was English when there were wars.

Oh no you don’t have to pretend
you give a damn. You came here to write, my friend,

then a sleepy old fool comes dropping by to tell you
what it was like in his day. Well I’ll tell you:

I was extremely handsome. It took me
seconds to go to the bathroom. End of story.

Raul, the same for him and the same for me,
he’s being much too polite. English, you see,

not like us. I’d have said Bugger off
by now. Raul doesn’t get that, ‘bugger off’

he thinks it’s some kind of cool
new vodka, don’t you, Raul?

Raul says he understands,
he understands

bugger off
it’s what I was afraid of,

no secrets now, no secrets
for the Brits,

not from Americans
Glenn, no secrets from Americans.

The war?
Ah-ha.

Look at him, pen at the ready, like I could say
some poetry. We lovers of poetry.

What’s so important in the world that you can’t
stop the ride a moment,

open a little black
empty book

and remind the world you’re blue? There’s not a thing.
Burning building? Nothing.

Love of a lady?
‘I am at work. Please ask her to wait in the lobby.’

His eyes are glazing over, he’s remembering
something he’s forgetting

something. If you ask me, to tell you,
Glenn, if you’re sincerely truly going to,

I may
do so. I may

tell you a thing or two, I wouldn’t do so,
I wouldn’t—muchas gracias—I wouldn’t do so,

only it’s Saturday.
Not Saturday,

Black Saturday.
And in sixty years of rinso white Saturdays

it never did find
one to hide behind.

You go through morning into afternoon
and it’s always sunny, Saturday, in rain

or snow or storm who cares?
you pass the hours,

you’re free and the crowd is free and the whistle blows
a goal is scored, the long shot by a nose

then you happen to glance at the sky
and I say you I mean I . . .

I say you I mean I, me
riding on my bike and I

saw this mass of planes
in patterns they were their planes

and with the sky so thick
the light was weak, your hold on it was weak

your life so far
some kind of lucky break. They were everywhere

and in the day,
not in the night in the day like your worst fear suddenly

figured it out and came.
What’s stopping us? I rode my bike straight home

to tell my gran and I’m pedalling for my life
I know they can see me up there! Hey Ralf

shoot zat paper boy or he’ll never stop!
Never stop

telling ze vorld on us . . .
Raul’s laughing at me. You’re not? That’s how it was.

Personal, kind of. Felt you were in their minds.
They were in our minds,

pale types, munching schnitzel! Here
well it’s true they had thejaps but not here,

they didn’t have them out of a blue sky
over the skyline on a Saturday.

September 7th. What do you mean it’s the 8th?
The Saturday was the 7th, it wasn’t the 8th.

He’s telling me. Where do you come from? Pardon?
Say again what garden? Well-in-the-Garden?

Oh there.
Shredded Wheat’s made there.

That was the sort of place we thought we’d get to.
Because we had to get to

somewhere, we were bombed out
on the first night of the thing. Or, we weren’t bombed out

precisely, me and my gran,
she always believed what I told her, did my gran,

Mrs Katherine Mabel Stone.
Truth of the matter is, I had my own

reason for getting out.
It isn’t a thing you know when it’s happening. But

you’re young,
you’re wearing a wedding ring,

we figure it out in time.
You’ll understand how it was if you give a damn.

And if you don’t give a damn it’ll still be there
a year or so anywhere

you find me. Soon I won’t be giving one either.
Then you and I can give not a damn forever.

  — Glyn Maxwell (b. 1962), English poet.

I definitely overindulged in pretty much everything except riding this weekend; especially meat and heat.

From Nancy’s 4th of July BBQ on, well … the 4th, to The Reverend’s “America, Fuck Yeah” BBQ on Saturday night. Brats, burgers, chicken and beef skewers. Jennie’s lemon tart cookie things. Beer. Vodka. Couch-time watching the Tour.

Not the absinthe, though … that was some serious nastiness, so after a few sips, I ditched my glass, and returned to my nice, refreshing Grey Goose and tonic.

Going back to work tomorrow morning is going to feel like a vacation. It will definitely be a de-tox day.

VeloNews | Boonen tests positive for cocaine

Paris-Roubaix winner and former world champion Tom Boonen has tested positive for cocaine, Het Laatste Nieuws reported on Tuesday.

The newspaper said that the 27-year-old Boonen tested positive for the drug three days before the Tour of Belgium on May 25, although anti-doping officials say the rider will not face suspension since use of the drug is not specifically banned except in competition.

Boonen and his Quick Step squad have scheduled a news conference for Wednesday at the team’s headquarters in Wielsbeke, Belgium, promising “an annoucement regarding the current situation.”

More on the Boonen situation on VeloNews here and here, Eurosport, and the Guardian UK.

Will be interesting to see what comes out of this. I can certainly understand the allure of cocaine … when I was younger, I did a fair amount of “experimentation” with various illicit chemical substances, cocaine amongst them … I know firsthand what the effects are, how it makes the user feel, and why someone would want to continue using.

Thankfully, after a really bad night in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco involving glass pipes, getting robbed (twice), and the offer of needles (with other substances, which I turned down), I wised up. I have been clean since August 1991; almost 17 years at this point.

This is not some huge confession that I’m putting out here … I’ve never really hidden this from anyone, and have discussed it fairly freely when the topic has come up. I’m certainly not proud of it, but nor am I ashamed of it.

To me, there is a huge difference between taking drugs to cheat, and taking drugs to escape. What I did, and what Brother Boonen has been doing was seek an escape from the pressures of our lives. Different pressures I’m sure, but not always easy to admit and seek help for.

Hopefully, this will be Boonen’s wake-up call, and he’ll seek the help he needs, rather than continue down the same path that Marco Pantani and Jose Maria Jimenez have traversed, to their unfortunate and tragic deaths.

And lest anyone worry, based on other posts on the blog over the past year or so, as bad as my life sometimes seems to me now, it’s not nearly as bad as it was in the last 1980s and early 1990s … I am in no danger of falling back into old habits.

I’m not even drinking really … a beer here and there, but I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a real cocktail. It certainly wasn’t at home. I still have the same 4 unopened bottles of vodka in the freezer that I’ve had since posting about the The Great Vodka Taste Test last fall.

Update (about 7 hours later): Sometimes, happy hour is a necessity … and the past couple of days at work definitely helped contribute to that feeling.

Met the Mistress and pal Scotty at Tuscany in Cotton Bottom for yummy vodka cocktails (007 Martini for Scotty; and Belvedere & tonic, short glass, packed with ice, two limes and a sidecar for me), then a lovely Enrico Santini Poggio Al Moro Bolgheri 2005 with dinner (hearth cooked flatbread with smoked salmon and caviar for me). Scotty’s risotto was missing something; it was tasty, but needed something … couldn’t place if it was texture or flavor, but while really quite tasty, it just lacked that extra oompf to make it a truly wonderful risotto.

And now I am tired, fairly well fed, had some good drinks and excellent conversation, and I can put my week to bed and forget about the less than wonderful parts.

… as did Denver’s Railbenders, who were playing their first show in Salt Lake City.

Wonder how long it will take for me to ditch the cigarette smell? Wonder which will be worse … the cigarette or vodka hangover?

It’s so nice knowing that there are people in Utah who love their alcohol of choice as much as I do …

In this case, it’s Dr. Cross, and his non-definitive (but still pretty thorough) guide to Scotch Drinking for Beginners; and I can’t think of a more expressive quote from than this:

Wine people who I agree with think that the first requirement of wine is that it be red. If you disagree, then you probably won’t be a Scotch drinker. If you think Pinots are superior to Cabernets, then you’ll probably stick with Highland Scotch (not a total loss at all). If you liked the movie “Sideways”, you’re a hopeless poseur; but I digress.

Now that’s a man with an opinion, who’s not afraid to express it.

What brought this whole post about was a question from me … in general, I’m a vodka drinker (Ciroc, please), as I’ve expressed a number of times in the past. When it’s really cold out, sometimes I like pouring myself a little Jameson Irish Whiskey, or Knob Creek Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey; usually on the rocks (yes, I’m a wimp, I admit it), but occasionally mixed … one of my favorite wintertime cocktails in San Francisco was called a Warm Creamy Bush; essentially an Irish coffee, but with Baileys Irish Cream instead of whipped cream.

Of course, since I prefer Jameson to Bushmills, I generally went with the Warm Creamy James variant … needless to say, that prompted a lot of giggles in San Francisco, which kept me ordering it, as I love to be entertaining.

But as I’m growing up and growing older, I feel like I should at least explore other options for adult beverage choices. To that effect, I’ve been redeveloping a palate for red wines, thanks to my good pal Scotty of Bottleneck Wines & Spirits, as well as some good old-fashioned, “let’s buy a bottle of this and see how it is” experimentation.

Currently, my favorites are Rodney Strong (both their 2004 Alexander Valley cabernet, and 2003 Single Vineyard) and the 2000 and 2001 Judd’s Hill Estate (a cabernet sauvignon, merlot, and cabernet franc blend).

In any case, if you haven’t already read the Doc’s post, hie thee on over to his blog and do so … now!

The Great Vodka Taste Test

Our man in Moscow samples 11 premium brands in one wild night.

The First Nip

It was time to confront the fear. Thanks to a dare from vanityfair.com, there were 11 bottles of vodka in the freezer. When I nervously took a peek at them, I noticed that the freezers pall of frost had obscured the Cyrillic on their labels in a thick, crystalline haze. I was going to need some help.

The doorbell rang, and I welcomed a few friends into my apartment in a Brezhnev-era high-rise in central Moscow. They had arrived to lend a gullet in taste-testing the new breed of Russia’s premium vodkas. The editorial rationale? In the last several years Russia has seen a remarkable elevation in the status of its national drink, as a slew of premium brands has created an entirely new market for pricey vodka. And Moscow and St. Petersburg, Eastern Europe’s 21st-century capitals of wealth and decadence, are the places where these spirits are consumed with greatest enthusiasm.

This sounds like my kind of party.

Good friends … good booze … as long as there’s a good place to crash and sleep off the effects afterwards.

And I’m still looking for the premium tonics …