Overindulgence, we think, is part and parcel for the famous, for those who lack self control.
Self control, of course, isn’t anything the famous are familiar with. They are paid to put on a show,

a show in which they are beautiful beyond compare, thin without effort, and this requires assistance.
Assistants: they assist, cater, take care, do the things that would otherwise fall to the celebrity.

The celebrity cannot be seen with her delicates in a Kroger’s bag outside the dry cleaner’s.
Dry cleaning is terrifying. Eating is impossible. The world presses in, the mind is a terrible thing.

Things become complicated. The assistants can’t tell her why. They’re paid to fetch, not answer.
Answers can arrive in the form of pay-as-you-go spirituality, 30-dollar red strings for protection,

protection from evil eyes, magazines predicting her downfall, all available at the grocery store,
the grocery store she doesn’t go to because no one must know what she actually consumes.

Consumed by fear when the roite bindele fails to provide, her next best option is the bottle.
The bottle answers nothing, really, but deadens the fear. But only for a little while.

For a little while, it helps. It helps, but requires increasing amounts to continue being helpful.
Helpful assistants are now tasked with procuring bottles along with the delicates. No questions.

Questions only irritate, disrupt the precise chemistry that must happen in order to function.
Functions, openings, fundraisers – she must appear, as ever, flawless. And it’s exhausting.

It played with
No needle
Hiss
Pop or click

Technology
Indistinguishable
From
Magic

 Is this what
Clarke understood?
Music from
A laser as

Tree rings made
Piano strings
Sound the song
Of nature.

–Passing the hotel from [that cheesy chick-flick you love, secretly--see? I'm still not telling] on New Year’s Eve while the fireworks we couldn’t see–could only see echoes of color from in the English sky–burst behind buildings and we were breaking up and still, I loved you, I loved your height, I loved your laugh, I loved your yellow hair. Yet I did all the breaking. We dropped our champagne flutes on the sidewalk, a pretty pile of glass, and I lost a bejeweled shoe on the escalator.

zipper down the side; black shoes, black pants; rags
in every other color; sexy
little business number. Cherish these
mandatory norms, spotless uniforms.

Trinity Brewing Company Flo IPA
There’s not too much “I”
But a whole lot of “PA.”
A crisp, simple brew.

6:13pm 

Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Ale (8.4% ABV)
Pale, light body, with
all the taste of a bourbon…
but without the burn?

Crispin Cho-Tokkyu Cider (6.5% ABV)
Made with sake yeast
and rice syrup; so Bud Lite
mixed with apple juice.

Lagunitas Our Own Bavarian-Styled Dopple Weizen (9% ABV)
Rich, full-bodied wheat
beer. Slight clove/banana notes;
not cloying like most.

6:31

Paper City Brewing Blonde Hop Monster (8.5% ABV)
Light, crisp malt flavor
with a strong presence of dry,
bitter hops. Not bad!

Pretty Things Beer and Ale Project Our Finest Regards Barleywine (13.5% ABV)
Is it *their* finest
regards, or *mine*, now that I’m
drinking it? Syntax!

6:45pm

Cody Brewing Company Honey Ginger Ale
It’s like…ginger ale
(the soft drink), but a beer (but
not like Ginger Beer) .

Cody Brewing Company SOS Belgian IPA (5.7% ABV)
I didn’t really
pay attention to this one;
but I enjoyed it!

6:58pm

Ommegang Adoration Winter Ale (10% ABV)
Too tart, too funky,
too malty, way too spicy;
it’s all just too much.

Brooklyn Brewery Black Chocolate Stout (10% ABV)
Chocolate taste up front
that swiftly fades to tart, malty
notes. I’ve had better.

Staropramen Lager
My German friend says
it doesn’t taste this sweet back
in the Vaterland.

Bay State Beer Company Time Traveller Maibock (7.5% ABV)
A big, golden malt
taste, but still temporally
linear; ah well.

7:13pm

Sam Adams Whitewater IPA (5.8% ABV)
Crisp, fresh citrus hops
up front, with a lingering
bitterness. Awesome!

7:25pm

Paper City Brewing Imperial Coffee Stout
Tastes artificial,
but without that sweetness; too
much roasty coffee.

7:34pm

Kennebec River Brewery IPA (5.9% ABV)
Much more bitter than
the body or aroma
let on; grapefruit-y.

B. Nektar Zombie Killer Cherry Ciser (5.5% ABV)
Dude! It’s called fucking
ZOMBIE KILLER! That’s awesome!
Light, sweet, and deadly!

8:35pm

Jack’s Abbey Hoponius Union India Pale Lager (6.7% ABV)
Crisp, easy lager
balanced by grapefruit hops notes;
now I have to pee.

I could do my homework, but yeah, no.  I could tune my guitar, but it’s on the other side of the room, and the last time the band tried rehearsing we all ended up just smoking anyway, so whatever.  I could walk the dog, take a shower, wash the car, blah bluh-blah bluh-blah, but what’s the point?  As soon as I walk out this door, my mom will start ragging on me for putzing around all day, and my dad’ll just sit there shaking his head like I’m a waste of DNA.  Heads-up, Dad: I’ve been wasting DNA all weekend, and as soon as this hentai torrent finishes downloading, I’ll be wasting a lot more.

I tried the whole productive member of society thing, but it just takes so much…effort.  I figure, I’m not some gangbanging jerkoff in juvey, and they’re responsible for me for another couple years anyway, so why not just mooch my way through cruise control until I hit the big scary 18?

I’ll be good later.

Get a job I hate later.

Put up with a nagging wife and screw-off kid.

Later.

It pains me to think
that something very terrible
happened to you at some point
in this Land of Madras Plaid
and Boat Shoes.

Your rage erupts in epic, pissy splendor
splattering across your screen
and on my morning paper.

Hingham! You can scarce
utter its name without
bringing up bile, heaving
green foamy wobs, inspiring
grievous wracking coughs.

Would I could soothe
this torment, to find a means
of removing the small,
but undoubtedly uncomfortable,
bit of timber from this
delicate place on your person
without compromising myself.

For you see, I am Hingham.
I am its small incandescent
white lights along Main Street
at Christmas, its staunch
refusal to sully its streets
with franchises. I resist
everything but my own diversity.
But I never shop at Talbot’s.

I am the Hingham you cannot
see, for the starry pain
that blinds you to its seamier
side. Remove this stick, Sir!
For in its absence you will see
the dead Dodge Aries K

that sat in our yard much longer
than it should have, the pinched
face of the beady-eyed girl
who called me a “fuckin’ loosah”
roughly once a day, every day,
from 1983 to 1985.

Sadly the stick must needs stay,
for without it you’d have
one less thing
to grouse about.

Remember laughs, sure
Protests mean a lot
When you’re there
But what is going to count
In your life?

The rage against deaf ears,
Ninety-nines against ones,
Might as well go tell the cows
To stop chewing cud, don’t go
Getting me wrong, I sympathize

With you, no one wants to be aboard
The sinking ship, not even the captain
And yet a week from now we’ll have
New idols, new champions, it’s more
The times with friends that’ll mean a damn

So rally up when you need to, give
‘Em all hell when it’s your job, your
Neighbor, your skin up against the fence,
Just don’t make a living
Living out those moments,

It’ll eat you, you’ll eat it,
And then what have
You got?

(previously, there were boobs here. and radical ideas. and a photo of a DVD cover whose copyright is not mine. and a clip from the Oscars. and a song from your youth that belongs not to you, or Green Day, but the record company people. and you can’t touch any of it; you missed it all. SOPA.)

Would I were a connoisseur of artistry refined;
would I could create from wood some talisman or shrine;
would I manned the subtle land the masters hand designed;
wood I were, but paint, for sure, would better me define.

Would I were a saboteur, a crafty fox or wren;
would I could create from wood a secret box or pen;
would I manned the golden strand like spiders in the fen;
wood I were, but windy blur would well increase my ken.

Would I were a Douglas-fir in evergreen perfume;
would I could create from wood a massive trough or flume;
would I manned the mountains and the festive sitting room;
wood I were, but I demur when would another bloom.