At what point does a person strike back, your friendly bartender got to thinking, at what he perceives to be an attack on his reputation? And when is enough “enough!”, he wonders, as he continually watches himself wrongly represented and cruelly painted by the brush of the mainstream media?
Well, according to this blog, now is fucking when, for how many times can a blogger turn the other cheek?
See, since your friendly bartender has taken up blogging he’s noticed how often his ears perk up when he hears the word “blogger” mentioned on TV. Hey, they’re talking about me, he thinks, I’m now one of those guys, I wonder what they have to say about us bloggers? Well here’s what they’ve had to say and too damn often…
“He’s a blogger… you know, some guy in a pair of pajamas sitting in his mother’s basement with a desk, a keyboard and a pot of coffee!” Like we’re a bunch of fucking Bolsheviks waiting for our Lenin. And what the fuck is up with these goddam pajamas? It’s always the pajamas! And the way they say “pajamas”, with that curled up lip and pinched in nose, it always puts a picture in your mind of those nasty, old fashioned, striped monstrosities with stains in the front from too much exuberance and stains in the back from too much coffee not to mention a leather slippers image with the backs of those slippers broken down out of sheer slip-in sloth.
Well YFB takes massive umbrage at this image and here’s why…
On February 21st, when I penned “What are the odds?”, I wore a stunningly chic pair of Bill Blass loungers with gold satin piping on the sleeves and lapels and “YFB” boldly emblazoned on the left breast pocket… a far cry indeed from those old grandpa stripers. And though my slippers did not have backs, that was by design as they were those black, velvet, Peter Lawford slip-ons which also boasted a nifty “YFB” inlay. And if Cotes Du Rhone ’99 can be called a cup of black coffee, I beg to differ with you!
And also looking back to a day, December 27th to be exact, when I wrote “This one’s on me”, bathed in seasonal cheer and the holiday spirit, I was clad in my crimson-red Santa Claus jammies with the snow-white angora trim, the legs of which slid into like-trimmed black leather booties. And if Bailey’s Irish Cream mocha garnished with cinnamon sticks and marshmallows is anything close to a cup of black fucking Maxwell House, I’ll eat my Santa hat!
And on March 28th, feeling quite bold and tres outdoorsy as I tried to convey the perilous “Pheasant under ass!”, Ralph Lauren’s line was dragged into service where a knee-length, Khaki-colored safari affair more than fit the bill and the prevailing mood. Even the go-with slippers… what one might rightly call an indoor desert boot… possessed a certain, “Where the fuck is my spear?” And if squirting hearty burgundy down my throat from the belly of a goatskin bota bag is anything remotely akin to sipping stale Yuban, I’ll fall on that spear!
And though I’m loathe to share this last one (yet ever mindful that “transparency” is the watchword in blogging), on January 11th, when I tip-toed into what I humbly call an online attempt at poesy with “Rhyme and Punishment”, realizing that working with Erato would involve a submergence ever so deep into my feminine side, a pink, satin, backless penoir was slid into rather reluctantly along with some backless high-heeled slippers, each of which sported a white fur ball at the toe. And the tart Moet mimosa I sipped made the concept of a cup of Taster’s Choice (how you say?) yucky!!!
And there you have it, dear reader, those are just four examples I’ll use to state my rebellious case, as there exists an example for all of my blogs to which none is attached black coffee or striped fucking PJ’s. And as far as “sitting in his mother’s basement”, as those pundits are wont to say, I’ll have you know that these very words are being typed by your friendly bartender in his lush penthouse aerie on the upper eastside. All right, all right… so it’s a one-bedroom on the top floor of a five-story walk-up… but it’s still on the highest floor and I assure you there isn’t a parent or grandparent nigh.
And one more thing that gets me… every time I… (woops, I just realized Lord and Taylor’s is running a one-day sale on silk smoking jackets… gotta run!!!)
Over and out from “Blog-land”, see ya’ next week-end!
PS: We must never speak of this “penoir” business again.