When y'er five Angkor's in debt to the bar tab, and you've run out of local currency with only Ben Franklins in your wallet (which you do not wish to flash in public), AND some mangy clatter of trustafarian backpackers start playing quarters for shots of Jeägermeister, those skewed and screwy subtitles on the bootlegged DVDs not only take your mind off of the Nat Geo re-run ambiance and the fried roach'n'cat soup (which, by the way, in case you're wondering, smells like soured pussy), those skewed and screwy subtitles begin to not only make a sense because, after five local beers, you think, hey! there is a convergence of events taking place (burp. gotta pee) and at this here moment there is real live poetry in progress, so somebody bring me a pen and a bar napkin.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5puAN1PGQw
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5puAN1PGQw
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2 Comments:
It's my favorite - when one of your blog posts equals just about a whole novel.
That's my favorite poetry, the kind that seeps out of these five local beer moments. Which probably doesn't recommend me. Oh well.
I wrote this? Says last night.
Lemme think. Started off the night at the Wanderer's, had a steak, rare, and a couple of Guinnesses. I remember white Russians for dessert--doubles because it was happy hour.
Reads like something I'd write. So, thanks!
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