(no subject)

So when you wake up on the floor of your apartment sweating all the toxins out. When you wake up at three fucking thirty with the shakes so bad that 30mg of valium barely makes a dent. When you wake up shaking so badly that the seltzer water you are trying to drink keeps shooting out of your throat in a soft drink blow-back. (but you have to keep re-swallowing the now warm fizz so you don't lose any of that precious diazapam...) When you wake up like tha, you ain't got nothing to do but take stock. Take a little inventory of all the bruises and scars and abrasions you have accumulated over the past few days. Take stock of all the things that you may or may not have done to seriously damage people. Things you might have done to ruin your reputation. Har! Ruin my reputation! Never really thought about it much, but I suppose by doing all these things...By spinning uncontrolled in the front door of a bar and out the back with a smuggled drink in my hand...trying to smash windows...tipping over just about anything I can get leverage over...I suppose that IS what my reputation is.

So there was saturday night, which bled into sunday and sunday night. I kept on drinking until I passed out, somewhere after eleven-thirty last night. I know this because that is the time my telephone tells me I called someone I really shouldn't have called.

So there was saturday night and I was simply going to go into town and have a couple with the Baron and discuss recent advances in Dextromorphan abuse and his Porno career. However, along my way there, I got a call from the textillian. He had the Pixie and her father over at his place, a short ways away from the bar. I stopped, made pleasantries and all. Gifted the textillian with the aforementioned rubbish tin, and we moved on to the bar.

Now, I have to make sure y'all understand that she just lost her brother. Y'all also have to understand a lot of things about her that you couldn't possibly understand without spending any time with her. Without taking the trouble to actually know her. Most of these creepy guys that follow her across the globe (I'm not kidding) don't even really know what she is all about. They just see a happy little waif that they think they can take in and feed. She followed me to Holland mom, can I keep her? They don't understand the hidden mechanics in the steam-engine of her soul. The steam engine entirely fueled by rage booze, and a complete disaffection/disscociation with what most people percieve as the "real" world. If any of this sounds familiar, her little engine that can is a lot similar to The one that keeps SaltDog going.

So there was saturday night and I'm talking with the baron and she doesn't even finish her martini. She bolts. The textillian bolts after her. He will call me if he needs me. Decatur closes at midnight, and I head over to Mickey Spilane's on atwells. And of course i had to declare m yself "100% fire-work free" in order to get a drink. A drink that I couldn't even finish because I was freking out. There wasn't a seat for me at the bar, and everybody just seemed so fabulous in there. I figgured that I had been seperated from the Pixie and textillian, and resolved to go over to Nick-a-Nee's for a couple of tall Jameson's and somehow find my way back out to my secret lair here in warren. But Oh no. They were there.

I really don't know exactly how it all went down. Nobody really knows. But somehow some group of latinos started going all Peurto-rician parade day on the pixie. Groping and pulling on her clothes. And I stepped in. I stepped in and got knocked about a little. They tell me that very time I got hit I wobbled a little and laughed at the guys. I can't say that I didn't flinch, but I stood my ground. And the next thing I know we are in the textillian's house crying on the deck. The pixie and I were crying on the deck and oblivious to a small parade of people coming through the house because they heard that she had "been abducted" from outside the bar. They came and went, and we were lost in our own little cocoon of tears.

Eventually she fell asleep and I kept the textillian up all night over beer. We started to plot reclaiming her dog from some evil bastard down in the south of RI who is holding him hostage for her affection. Like I said, there is a large contingent of men who do some really strange things to make sure they have a hand in her life.

We woke her up around eight and headed downtown for breakfast and bloody mary's and promptly got cut off. Practically told to leave the joint. And then we sat around the textillian's back yard drinking and talking until maybe like three. We were emotionally exhausted, but couldn't do anything else. We had to keep going, because if we stopped, especially if we all stopped right there, all together, the fragile house of beer-coasters we had been building around our souls would all catch on fire again.

My face hurts. There is a little swelling, but no real bruises. My arms are all scrapped up. Got fingernail cuts. A knot on the left side of my head. I'm still shaking and I'm surprised that I kept my lunch down.

But I bought a car on eBay last night. Hoping that I can trust this dude. It's a Jetta and my old ship-mate who is all fast and furious assures me that it is a coveted "edition" among the eurocar fanatics. To me, it's just a ticket out of here. Finally. Gonna try to get with the Textillian, and the viking and see if we can get the dog back. And then I'm either going to take her away to the cape, so she can have a little peace, and a chance to actually mourn for a few days away from the fucking weirdness that follows her most everywhere. Away from the wierdness and nestled in the tall dunes. With vodka. And her dog.

But if not? The old ship is in NYC for a few days. And I got people down there I gotta see. All I know is I have to get out of this town in the next two days. I'm sick of waking up with my gun out on the coffee table.