Tag Archives: Boozin’

(Van) Damming Up Whiskey River, or, the Truths Revealed by House Party 2: The Pajama Jam

The 290 West exit off of South I-35.

That’s a shot of Jean Claude Van Damme playing yours truly in a biopic about what I’ve been up to lately.  Namely, growing out a greasy mullet and toting handguns while practicing gnarly motorcycle tricks on highway overpasses.  Also, my knees have begun to emit steam.  You know, typical macho bullshit.

Let’s take a look in the ol’ reader mailbag, shall we?

Dear Fat Fingers Justice,

Did you know that if I Google “Sam Elliot Mustache,” the Fat Fingers of Justice is the ninth image result?


Sam Elliott

P.S. Call my agent asap!  I just finished your script, the Old West period piece, and I’d be honored to play the mysterious, widower sheriff who dispenses folky wisdom and hides a revolver in his mustache.  My current stint as the voice of Smokey Bear is a decent gig, but there’s only so much nuance with which you can deliver “Only you can prevent forest fires.”  And the lack of character depth is very frustrating.  I mean, did his parents die in a fire?  The love of his life?  Does he have survivor’s guilt?  Let’s just say the U.S. Forest Service’s marketing team isn’t the creative epicenter I’d been promised. 

P.P.S.  How is Smoky Bear totally not a gay icon?  I mean, c’mon, look at that fucking bear.  Ah, but I ramble.

YES, I do, legendary actor Sam Elliot.  WordPress is very informative in terms of helping me manage and finely curate my surely-at-any-moment-award-winning content.  ‎”Sam Elliot Mustache” is among the top five search engine terms that lead to my site. The others?  “Bee gees hairy,” “porcelain cats,” “truck nuts,” and last but not the least insulting, “fat man with beard.”

Fuck you, too, Google search matrix.  You could put down the hoagie and run your ass around the block a few times yourself.

But I know it’s just tough love.  You see, as recently as two years ago, friends and foes alike were asking, “Fat Fingers, how do you always seem to be in peak physical condition?  Your mental agility and acuity is rivaled only by your rippling musculature.”

Others would add, not incorrectly, “If polished stones of various shapes and sizes were to achieve consciousness and quickly evolve cooperative abilities, they would hold a brief meeting and unanimously decide to combine to form the perfect rock-hard body – your body.”  (They would also make a truly horrifying and unstoppable rock army that I only hope could be reasoned with.  But none of my appreciators considered that rock army situation, as they were too full of lusty thoughts to think it through.)

Ex-girlfriends would sell semi-nude photos of me to pay off their student loan debts.  Unsurprisingly, the images received nearly universal, vaginal acclaim.

But surprise, surprise – experiment with alcoholism for a few years, come down with a chronic case of taco-itis, and almost literally forget how to exercise, and the results are not good.  Other than a solid beard and decent shoulders, I’m pretty much a “Before” picture waiting for a makeover.  I’m the left side of the screen when visually breaking down pre- and post-ownership of a Bowflex.

The only peak condition I’ve found myself in recently is peak drinking condition.  And maybe peak sandwich hunting condition.  I’m often found valiantly thinning the overpopulated sandwich herds in the deli savanna.

Unfortunately, those shirtless photos have proven to be slightly less lucrative.

So, perhaps it’s time to cut back on drinking and eating with the gusto of the condemned.  It’s time the Fat Fingers took hold of a healthier lifestyle.  I never intended the Fat Fingers to be literal.  Corpulent appendages were not the goal here. (Editor’s Note: “What was?”  Me:  “Shut up, Editor.”)  I fear getting to a point where I find  myself getting winded making a sandwich.  Or breaking a sweat getting dressed, because then you’re clothes are all sweated-up, but you can’t just change shirts, because then that second shirt would be all gross, too.  Man, life is tough on the lazy.

So, enough of the whiskey coke floats and waffle grilled cheese sandwiches.  Enough of the buttered cigars, the chocolate-covered curly fries, and even my favorite cheesy broccoli recipe – 4 parts cheese, no parts broccoli.

However, perhaps worse than the physical toll the booze and poor diet takes, is the mental.  My brain is just a bag of gin-thinned chowder and crushed, mushy saltines.  And my memory, oh lord my memory.

A recent experience solidified this concern.  While perusing Netflix’s suggested films, I discovered that the website’s “Best Guess” for my rating of “House Party 2:  The Pajama Jam” was 3.0 stars.

How could Netflix believe I would like House Party 2 more than I wouldn’t like it?  How had this happened?  Netflix, you’re supposed to know me.  Who am I?  How have my life’s choices and beliefs led me to this misunderstanding?

Even more unsettling than that, however, was discovering that on March 8th I apparently watched 22 minutes of it.  I don’t remember this, and I don’t think it’s a subconscious attempt at saving any brain space for more important things, like famous cat trivia.  It was because one lonely night I’d been drunk enough to think it was a good idea to watch it.  Not coincidentally, that level of drunkenness is also the level at which you kill the brain cells required to remember making such a decision.

I watched part of it today as research for this blog, and in case you didn’t know, House Party 2 isn’t very good.  Should I have watched the original House Party first?  Would that have helped?

Clearly, I need to get my mind right. I need to do some soul – and liver – searching.

Beyond the lapses in memory, I noticed my social skills have suffered.  My brain needs to be exercised in ways other than laps in the liquor pool, because my conversation skills have withered horribly.

It’s never good when all I can think of to say on a date is, “Did you know my roommate’s cat can fart as loud as a person?” and then raise my eyebrows like, “Pretty amazing, huh?”  While that may be true, it’s not a great conversation piece.  (But stay tuned for a 3-part startling expose on feline digestive issues in the coming weeks.  By God, Cat Fancy’s finally going to get that Pulitzer.)

Other times, I may share too much, too soon:

“I combed my beard, and a fly fell out.”

“Ew, gross.”

“Oh, settle down.  It was still alive.”

It’s a shame, really.  Because all that conversational ineptitude comes just after I’d discovered a failsafe way to ask someone out – “Would you like to eat dinner and have drinks and consider engaging in a short to long term power struggle with me?”  Guaranteed to work on that cute cynic you’ve been eyeing!

I decided I better get my shit in gear, better get myself in some better health before my heart or liver or both decide to mutiny and leave in the middle of the night, replacing themselves with papier-mâché replicas.

My goal, perhaps rather ambitious, is not to have a single drink for two weeks, then filter in the weekend-only drinking.  I will also cook more meals at home instead of continuing construction on a delivery tube between my bed and the taco truck behind my house.

I’ll let you know how that works out, considering this bottle of whiskey throwing itself at me.


Filed under Drinking, Food, Health, Humor

Taco News! Taco News! Taco News!

Lucky J’s Chicken and Waffles changed my life.

But first:

I’ve dabbled in vegetarianism, most recently for nearly eight months, while, admittedly, cheating about once a month on average.  A few years ago I did 6 months.  Ideally, it’s a diet I would love to consistently pursue for a variety of reasons.  I will continue to limit my meat intake to perhaps twice a week, for reasons I’m too lazy to extrapolate upon at this moment.

However, if you are unfamiliar with the health, moral, and socially-beneficial reasons for reducing or eliminating your meat consumption, I recommend the book Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer.  The book may be even better for those already familiar with the information on an intellectual level, but who maintain a psychological distance or detachment that keeps them ordering cheeseburgers and chicken wings.  This book will compel you to internalize your doubts about eating meat, and convince you those doubts are completely founded.

The book avoids the feeling of a didactic lecture by being more of a memoir of Foer’s personal food choices, and the dietary choices he begins to make for his newborn son.  He merely presents the facts and explores the standards he creates for himself based on those facts, succeeding wonderfully at mixing emotion and reason.

Oh, and there are pictures!  Nothing gruesome, just some creative use of graphs and simple images.  For example, the beginning of one chapter features a rectangle spreading across both the left and right pages, with the following caption:  “In the typical cage for egg-laying hens, each bird has 67 square inches of space – the size of the rectangle above.  Nearly all cage-free birds have approximately the same amount of space.”  To look at it another way – the way you’re looking at it now – that’s about 2/3 the size of your computer screen, in that space, from birth to death.

So, all that being said, I choose now not to discuss the often vile scenes of the contemporary food industry, the cruel conditions of animals manufactured to biologically absurd conditions with growth hormones, the environmental devastation of factory farming, or the very great possibility that so many of our health problems stem from eating this factory-farmed, mutant meat.

Instead I choose to be a hypocrite, shameful and with a meat-laced mustache, because all emotion and reason and all that wonderful veggie truth is  sometimes still not as powerful as the alluring lie of a dead animal prepared in an Austin food trailer.

For I have seen my vegetarian hope’s greatest foe, stared into its greasy, chicken-fried eyes, and have lost.  In fact, I didn’t lose – I willingly surrendered, gave up all the battle plans and government secrets with no torture, no torture at all.  Yes, Lucky J’s Chicken and Waffles, suggested on more than one occasion by more than one friend, finally slayed me.  Drunk on Bulleitt Bourbon (Sponsorship?  Pretty please?  Seriously, I could afford going down to part-time if I had free booze.)  from Rio Rita on East 6th street, and high on buildup from my friends John and Sarah’s championing of the legendary fried-chicken waffle taco, I experienced what can only be considered a culinary grudge fuck.

Yes, meat had been scorned for too long, and it was a vengeful comeback, rough and violent, but ultimately satisfying and even demon-releasing.

The facts, bare but powerful:

The waffle is the taco.

Fried chicken goes inside.

The not-so-secret secret – you apply both syrup aaand hot sauce.  Unfortunately, my journalism powers were weakened due to aforementioned libations, and I do not know the exact type, brand or… anything really, about those two sauces.  And, based on the conditions in which I will undoubtedly eat it again, I can’t make any promises.  I simply may never know.

Some reviewers on Yelp have commented on the appearance of the fried chicken – “either overcooked, re-fried one too many times or the oil is never changed.  In any case, fried chicken shouldn’t be dark brown in color.”

I don’t give a shit if the fried chicken is magenta, if it tasted the way it did at two in the morning.  Sure, I know I had whiskey-mouth and everything tastes like an angel’s pussy at that point, but hot diggity-dog, that was some good eatin’.  The waffle was only barely crispy and began to further soften after the sauce application, but I found it delicious.

Verdict, with a caveat:  The Fat Thumbs of Justice, sticky and greasy and lil’ lapsed vegetarians, are up high for Lucky J’s Chicken and Waffle Taco.

Caveat:  I ate it in the dark, drunk.


Filed under Drinking, Humor