The Pabstismal Fount: Miscellany of a Dandy (Volume XO)
In a week most busy, friends, your Pabstist was the busiest bee. I prowled the skirts of avenues in a land time forgot, shilling the devil’s elixir by means of languid southern ‘charm’ in Dundalk, Essex, and the nameless corridors of Baltimore County. I return with this to say: the lottery is a damned evil thing, and let’s hope to hell there’s no heaven out of which to be cast – elsewise, your hero will have some ‘splaining to do.
For the reasons mentioned, my usual peregrinations were interrupted. I didn’t get back on track until Thursday, where vanity or what-have-you drew me back to Sticky Rice for karaoke. It’s beginning to be a problem: “Dial 1-900-JohnDaPabstist, and kick them nasty thoughts.”
Friday night showcased the surprise birthday party of Mr Randy Price at Gold Leaf Studios. Somebody brought some Colt Blast from Baltimore, and it unsurprisingly made its way into a punchbowl. Madness ensued, appropriately. Word is that I was baby-birding Jameson shots for all comers (from a handle, no less). It went on forever (and ever). For all I know it might still be happening, which is appropriate: Friday + Gold Leaf + 100 ppl. + one zillion PBR’s and Natty Boh’s + punch + Jameson + Fatback DC + alias = Sunday.
On Sunday, Derringer Friday prepared for fashion:district III, which shall be held at Longview on Thursday, the 14th. Our spring things are pulling together and looking beautiful; Durkl is buttoning up while Hugh & Crye remain so. All this notwithstanding, Ginger Roots’s first full line is rolling out, also, and I expect they’ll steal the show. There are still a few tickets, from what I’m told. The only thing better than hanging around in a room full of models is hanging around in the same room with more models for longer, which we shall do come Thursday. I love my life.
In other news, your Pabstist suffers today from a wounded heart, the source of which I forfend to tell. Through pain, silence speaks.*
*Yes, this is the cause for the above volume designation.
P.S. — Bally navy dress loafers with suede tassling just arrived in the mail, and spell-check is trying to tell me that ‘forfend’ isn’t a word. Take that Empson(!)(or whatever the Jeopardy computer is called). If you’re not listening to Let England Shake or re-reading McCarthy’s Remainder, you’re fucking up.
I think I’ll be opening the ’95 with dinner and wearing an ascot to it, and the weather can just be damned.