Crashing at The House of Pain

I like getting up before the crack of dawn these days. It still reminds me of all night parties of yore. There's the same feeling in the air. Last night fades away and it's too soon to start planning for the next night. Neutral territory.

At this time I'd like to extend a big thank you to all those kind souls who allowed me at one time or another to crash at their place. First up was Kennie, who dragged me home from Sporter's to her first place in Boston, a chic little apartment halfway up the wrong side of Beacon Hill. Kennie really knew how to make with the Southern Hospitality.

Martine and Ty are also owed a million thanks. It's so sad that they tore down that building on Milk Street. The house of Kilslug. It should have been declared a landmark for Satan's sake.

The drunkbed in the House of Pain was perhaps my most frequent resting place. Thank you Tommy White for your generosity over all those years. Being wife number two to you has always been an honor. And easy, all of the pageantry and none of the drudge work.

One of the stranger nights spent on the drunkbed had to be the time I woke up to Tupper trying to spoon me. We had had a particularly disfiguring night, but there really isn't enough gin in the world. Besides, Tupper had been resting his eyes in the adjoining suite with his British girlfriend Rachel. How did he end up with me?

Of necessity, the drunkbed was close to the only bathroom and during the night Tupper had come over to use the facilities. Tommy had decorated that bathroom with Incredible Hulk contact paper. Ah, the finer things. Anyway, Tupper just homed in on the drunkbed after he left the bathroom and it didn't really matter to him that it was muy occupado.

Believe me, you don't ever want to wake up to a drunken Tupper in snakeskin underwear pressed up against you. I arose in a flash and a fog and just then Trash happened by, wrapped in a blanket like fucking Crazy Horse, saw Tupper snoring away and me sitting there in black underwear on the edge of the bed with my spinning head in my hands looking abjectly horrified. He just stopped and laughed. For a long time.

One thing about staying at Sgt. Trash's house. There were always morning calisthenics. No matter how recently your head had hit the pillow, when the clarion call of the opening to the theme from Batman sounded, you bounded out of bed to get as close to the tv as possible so you could do this stupid running dance we made up to go with the music. It was really fun when you had about four or five people. We gotta do that again sometime. Thanks Tommy.