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that was the title i really should have used for the previous entry that mentioned Topper. when Our Hero began tippling with the deceased and riding around in their Death Car, many frolicsome antics ensued... and wound up on the Front Page in Bold, above the fold, just like it says, up there. how cavalier the thirties were, with unsubtle drinking binges aplenty... thumbing their noses at Prohibition, and the Powers-That-Be, they were. i've managed to gloss over some of my own recent indiscretions in days past. Thursday, usually my get-your-shit-together day, deteriorated rapidly. i mean, i got bills paid and the cat fed and looked-after, but i was soon out the door... it was the first sunny day in more than a week, after all. i though i'd make a hit-and-quit "howdy" at $Bill's house. i thought like shit. since the Contessa has Thursday off, too, i had a vodka&tonic in my hand before i could sit down... and was so repeated until 2AM, when gravity got the better of me, and my head sank into a pillow on their couch. did i mention that i had a radio show to do in twelve hours? wounded. zozzled. spifflicated. i was still feeling that way when i awoke at 8, gathered my wits, personal effects, and my shades to make the quick trip home with the sun in my eyes. were it not for the healing properties of aspirin, jet fuel coffee, decongestants and the gravity of the "On Air" sign, i'd still be sleeping on that couch with the pillows over my head. i recall a very appropriate scene in the movie where Cary Grant and Constance Bennett were balancing an inebriated Topper between them, invisibly... save for their comment, "Don't drop him! He'll splash!" my sentiments, exactly. i'd have splashed, too. like a flammable water balloon. |
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