It’s Nevahda, not Nevawda

Master Bacon was in town this eve.  He left a few cryptic texts to which I responded abbreviatedly, and he finally called sometime after eight.  Happy shit.  Just what I needed.  He bought me drinks.  He bore holiday greenery.  He counseled me.  It was good.  He gave me more or less the same advice every other smart person I know has given me.

Let it go, back away.

For now.

Now I’m cooking with butane.

See, it’s not really quantifiable.  To know Bacon is to understand he’s the shit.  There’s no real describing or explaining him.  He still dispenses humor and wisdom in the same tone of voice, with almost the same face.  Almost.  A third visit would allow me to verify that via triangulation.

See, I’m cooking with butane.

It was good to see him and I’m flattered that he again made time for me.

Conversations with him are a lot like conversations with Nebeker, Hataway or Fuckin Faris.  Even if it’s just casual, it’s deep.  Michael Bacon is a gentleman and a scholar.

Curious to be at a place where friends are approaching the import of it all.  Very lucky to have the friends I have.

I make most of my decisions based on my projected energy level at the time.  See?


I watched at least one episode of My Name Is Earl tonight where Norm McDonald  was Jr. Chubby, Son of Sr. Chubby played by Burt Reynolds.  Bacon gave me nugs.  Norm is a funny mother fucker.  Reynolds didn’t suck at all.  His kinda role.  Nice toop.

Bacon’s classiest move was to buy me another drink for after his exit.  While paying the bill, he ordered another double Sapphire for me to nurse in his absence.  How cool is that?  I walked him to his mother’s Cadillac whereupon he stuffed a big fat bud into my half empty box of American Spirit cigarettes.

The bar he tends in San Francisco will be closing in a few days for renovation by new owners.  He has no idea whether he’ll still have a job but he’s paid rent in advance and intends to finish his doctoral thesis on Victorian literature.  I can’t imagine anything I’d like less to read but his concept of “gentrifuge” is so clever and he himself is so bright and vigilant.   I can’t wait to read what he has to say on a subject that finds me so under informed as to have no opinion at all.

I’m at one of the lowest points ever in my life and I feel as though my friends, including my hot, kind and compassionate girlfriend, are the only things keeping me from careening spastic like a full to bursting red party balloon without a knot at the bottom.  I realize my grasp is tenuous but there is comfort here in these people.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I’ll be at my lifelong best friend’s mother’s house.  A remarkable woman for whom life hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park.  A single mother who raised three whip smart and intimidatingly talented children.  She can cook like a house afire along with her son, my best friend.  She put up with being Den Mom to every aspiring teenage artist or musician Carson City could afford her for years.  I will have plenty to be thankful for tomorrow.  I hope you do too.

Bacon wore a pinstriped affair but there was no shirt and tie.  Something else underneath, I don’t remember.  A gold watch with a sophisticated face but a vintage vibe.   I spent as much time talking to his head and his head talking to mine as I could.  His manicured beard lent the conversation a Freudian flavor.

Hey Bacon, were you wearing glasses?

You were.

It is said that you can tell a lot about somebody by the company they keep.  As far as I know, my closest are warrior/poet saints.  They all seem to have found peace.  I seem to have lost mine.

It’s temporary I’m sure.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Drinks for my friends

8 Responses to “It’s Nevahda, not Nevawda”

  • Master Bacon:

    Douglass, this is almost a stenographic account of our 45 minutes. It was a blur to me but you made my day. Who will you get to narrate these entries for your NPR series? If you could dig up Jack Webb…
    Nevada roots run deep and we find ourselves on the outside, looking into that Great Basin of familial morass, cities without sidewalks, freeze-dried Highway 50, that boulevard of broken dreams, and Slot World.
    I did 72 hours and saw 100 people but you, sir, made my trip. I wish you much success in your next plan and expect me to visit Los Angeles in 2010. It’s on the way to Ensenada.
    Looking forward to funemployment. Thank YOU, sir, for taking time out to see me. I am guessing that it was a tonic to the pair of us. Well, me at least. No quinine on you!

  • Master Bacon:

    P.S. You busted me; I stole my schtick from Jack Benny and then I channel Paul Lynde after 3 gimlets.

  • Master Bacon:

    And then the Governor Chim Gibbon walked in to Louis’ Basque Corner. I wish you could have been there in that vast, Vegas vortex. Va-Vooom!

  • admin:

    From now on your Delta Chi name will be Baconnais, because it describes your rich character and my need to use the word in some meaningful way.

    I still haven’t tried it, by the way. When I have money, I don’t think of it. This is a good thing.

    Ensenada is cool. I go there in my novel. Mi’ casa will always be su casa. No worries.

    It was a tonic.

    I gotta look into this quinine thing, it’s such a toxic sounding word. I’ve only recently begun to consume it because you just can’t drink that plastic jug swill straight and I’m on a budget.
    I like to use a lot of fruit so I feel like I’m getting vitamins and nutrients.

    Sometimes I mix V8 juice with beer, capers, worchestershire, a little horseradish and some lemon juice.

    Think if I put bacon and mayo in it.

    You can take the boy out of the trailer…..

    Never before 5:30 in the PM.

  • Master Bacon:

    Tomato beer is a classic, and I find that it works best with a pilsner. What you describe is more of a bloody Bud(dy) and let’s take a wild card from the deck and add a pickled string bean. At the Summit Saloon days in Drano, there was a lady with a Nevada belt buckle who ordered three olives with her Coors. If they are the small ones, they undulate in the beer glass like a juggler’s balls. Barroom physics is what I’ve got.
    Regarding quinine, it fends off malarial skeeters and if you find it too bitter, then try mixing it with equal parts of Collins Mix; it’s a mock ‘Bitter Lemon’, Schweppes’ elusive English masterpiece mixer. At the risk of appalling you, cocktail hour is always on the stroke of five in Baconnaise Manor.

  • admin:

    ™tacohead: I did. We talked we’re cool.

  • admin:

    @Master Bacon: Pilsner yes, or a lager, almost any blond brew but no ales or beyond. The risk is gravy. Why risk gravy?

    When one is thinking of drinking, one is thinking of drinking. When one is drinking and thinking, one is drinking and thinking.

    Why not do the legume or even a pickle?

    Barroom physics is good. I’m ordering olives again. I used to and then it seemed to make bartenders nervous so I stopped.

    Malarial skeeters? No need to Google it now.

    Unless it’s carcinogenic.

    My personal contract with myself allows for my discretion in half hour increments. I’ve recently moved back to five because of fall, depression and the recent time change.

    I’m cool with schedule de la Baconnaise Manor.

    Just looking to avoid four thirty.

    Schweppes to you. Can you still get it?

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