Certainly my own fault. Traipsing around the artic LES sidewalks last night. Making certain many saloon establishments were given equal opportunity to float my kidneys. I am an equal opportunity drinker. The color of one's liquid will not come into play when deciding if it is acceptable to pass my gums.

Only one pair of long johns. Whiff of scrotum. Seeing as the thermometer has refrained from topping above freezing, the thermals have seen their use. Bouquet reminds one of dried apricots. Reluctantly tossed the warming devils into the hamper. The thighs and yambag had to face the frigid wind blade on their own. Reached the west end of Tomkins Square Park and the shivering consensus was to throw my body in front of the first available taxi. Back in my crib, wrapping a scarf around my neck, I told myself in the mirror that as long as I walked quickly downtown the muscle fires would keep me warm enough. Mule puckey. Mr cabbie man, you will drive my chattering butt cheeks to Whiskey Ward.

Jav was not pleased with my seat grab. Antsy bastard when he wants to be. Unsettled, darting his gaze around for better position. Twice he ordered other patrons to skootch over to make room for us.

Precarious balance of an acoustic wrapped in vinyl casing kept troubling me. Due to Jav's cruise directing of seats, a musician's axe had to leave it's protective perch. Three times I slammed my elbow into it. I was famous as a lad for coming into the life of an object at the exact moment when the laws of disorder set upon it's ruin. The church lawnmower's rip cord severed in two as I tried cranking her up, sending the frayed end into the sputtering blade, wrapping it around the axle and turning the device into a piece of industrial sculpture. I once took the bottle of orange juice out of the fridge. Pop bought concentrate, same two bottles always used. Directly after removing it from the shelf, the bottom just gave out. Me holding a bottomless container, OJ dripping out, standing in a puddle of the citrus stuff. My jinx cloud had a twisted Rube Goldberg spirit. Utterly concious of where my arms were, imagining launching my man's guitar into a wood chippper that happened to be passing by.

Shirer arrived. Javier had the brilliant idea that shots were necessary. Shots are always an unnecessary monkey wrench tossed into a professional night of potent imbibing. Interupting a fine streak of Stoli to insert alien whiskeys.

My grumpy engines were revved. Shirer is another feline suffering from accent disease. Requiring that whatever cock to be unleashed near her sounds Irish, Latvian or Morrocan when squirting out it's payload. It's just silly is all. I could care less how some chick's baited whimper is tuned when I pop junior in her backside. I mean, as long as it's feminine. I don't want Barry White humming on my sack.

More crew to hook up. Faced the outdoor meat locker to head somewheres else. Don't recall the name, someplace on Rivington Street I believe. Underground basement joint. Tragic cowboy hatted mutton chopped hipster behind the bar. Lam, Ama and a bartender from Kush showed. Somebody's inspiration struck again and shots were ordered. Restless feet insisted that it be a crawl night. Onto the next.

Barramundi on Ludlow was the destination. By this time the cold had reached astronomical proportions. Dove into the bar, the ice crystals that formed inside my bunghole thankfully began melting immediately. I was given two pencils promoting Win A Date With Tad Dorkmeister, or whatever that rotting dump of a movie is called. An artist pal of Ama's was assuring me that I only need to begin painting to heal my insanity. I was complaining that all creatures on earth have unjustly labelled me crazy. Normally, all you regular cookie cutout's delightful opinions have minimal effect on me. Not even sure exactly why I was so preturbed last night about it.

I heard the same artist lady say "......some big guy should do something about that idiot". Inexplicably, I chimed that I was a big guy. Found myself arguing out in the subzero with Nick Zed, who had just perforated another drunken idiot's scalp with his knuckles. To both our fortunes, we decided we both needed more drinks inside.

More movement. I had enough antifreeze sloshing around my guts to not protest going to 119. Ama struck up a temporary friendship with three college girls. Again, without realising, another movement decision was made, I found myself going to an Irish pub on the other side of Irving Plaza with these ladies.

Last thing I recall was being grumpy again. These chicks were doing all this amen and hallelujah talk about how much they knew what motivated the male mind. Their theories were horseshoes and hand grenades missing miles off track. I began chewing the snack mix just to drown out their discussion with pretzel crunching. The self help racks at bookstores are eagerly awaiting your dollars. No wonder that scrotumless jerk Dr Phil is so popular. I see many candlelit evenings of rifling through tissues, plowing through chocolate bon bons, and writing bad poetry based on how much Johnny sucks for not calling. Sigh.

Woke up with lucifer pissing in my throat and ears. Avoided the sick for so long. My mistress firewater done me wrong. Got me all loose and whorelike, opened up my rib cage and easily inserted a cold in there. When I can see straight and breath without pain I will paddle her bottom till it looks like two Japanese flags.