the smoke hidden deep in your throat when you whisper my name

You could sniff my hair right now and get cancer.

Boy do I ever miss New York bars. I think I just smoked a half-pack of unfiltered cigarettes and now my throat is burning and my eyes are bloodshot and I smell awful. I managed not to cry into my drink, which is an accomplishment. I think every time I’ve gone out with friends since January, I’ve ended up sniveling in my beer. A glass of wine before bed has a mild sedative effect (without having to take a Benadryl) but any more than that and I just get weepy these days.

I miss the Black Swan, mostly its smokelessness and the Fosters on the tap. I took three senior research seminars my last year at Bard (very small, stressful classes) and we’d sometimes hang out at the Swan on the weekends, listening to music and playing slap card games in the back room until we got tired or remembered the shitload of work waiting for us in the morning and we’d mosey on back to our dilapidated old Tivoli shacks. Good times.

Easley bars are just depressing. 1) I can’t breathe, which always puts a bit of a damper on things. 2) It’s one thing when a bunch of stupid college kids are drunk out of their mind, but when the age range of completely sauced ranges from about 16 to 65, it’s just sad. 3) The music is worse than awful. Actually, tonight was supposed to be Karaoke night, which I’m usually game for given the appropriate level of mild inebriation. I do a pretty good Karaoke version of “Did I Shave My Legs For This.” (Or once, I did Dusty Springfield’s “You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me.”) However, the machine was broken and so all there was to do was listen to other people talk about their tanning beds and boob jobs. Though I will say that bars in the South are infinitely better for unemployed, broke girls like me. Sure you can buy me a drink.

I was reminded of Lucinda Williams. Lucinda creates a damn good soundtrack for life’s unsavory bits: Shooting up heroin in a back alley, having lustful and/or desperate sex, sobbing down the highway in a beat-up truck after a nasty breakup, or sitting in a sad bar in Pickens County watching 50-year-old women stumble to the bathroom. I can’t imagine being happy and having Lucinda playing in the background.

“the night’s too long/ It just drags on and on/ And when it’s never enough/ that’s when the sun starts coming up/ don’t let go of her hand/ you just might be the right man”