Apple martinis are the man. You might be under the impression that they’re girly and fey but let me tell you, that sugar rimmed shit is strictly for professionals…. Fitz and I got cranked out of our heads on them in the gayborhood on Saturday. Fuck Halloween. We were ripped open like it was xmas : I was in a skimpy black denim skirt and stilettos and Fitz was wearing his new pinstriped Purple Label suit. We both had white powder caked on our faces, old school, Andy Warhol style.

By midnight we were speaking in tongues and my heels were about to make me a liability. Thank god I had the foresight to bring along a pair of those two dollar plastic slippers that you see all the uptown bitches rocking. We stopped at a liquor store and bought an ancient sherry to take back to Brooklyn…I slid the dusty bottle into one of the stilettos and cradled it like a child. I had the Lost in Translation soundtrack blasting in my two hundred dollar teched-out, earbud headphones and it wasn’t until we got to Fitz’s place that I realized the protective plastic cushion had come off the one in my right ear. No wonder I had the volume at 9 and still couldn’t hear shit. Now I’ve got serious ringing in my ear. I can imagine the jagged tips of the nerves in there, buzzing and exposed and shaking with every little frequency like leaves in a storm.

I may never hear the sound of silence again. One night of apple martinis did what a hundred plus shows could not…now how’s that fer hardcore?


mama said canuck you out.