Tag Archives: Amy winehouse

To Gizzy’s house: part IV.

Ah, when we awoke the next morning it was the glorious 4th of July. AMERICA! ‘MERICA! As we proudly proclaimed all day long.

But my mood quickly changed from happy and celebratory to confused, and, well…more confused.

After we passed out the night before, Clay had sent me a text around 3 am wanting to know what I was doing. Since I was sleeping, I didn’t respond. Then at 9 am, he sent me a good morning text.

While I was reading the “good morning” text and sifting through some others, he sent me ANOTHER text saying this:

“U don’t have to ignore me you know. Asshole. Thats hypocritical of me sorry I was a dick but ur gender has yet to prove other than a vagina ur existence is not necessary. OK that was mean I’m sorry u r extremely attractive and I really have not stopped thinking about u can we try this again”

If you’re wondering, yes, that was all crammed into one text message and yet another example of Clay having a legit conversation by himself. Nothing like calling me an asshole and a member of a worthless gender and then wanting to meet up.  Picture me, cackling through this all. 

I replied back with a solid “well, good morning.” We had a weird conversation about how I wasn’t ignoring him per se I was just wary of getting involved with him because he had a girlfriend. To which he said…


Okay, douche, I don’t check Facebook every fucking day to see if you and your woman are together or not. Frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck.

Anyway, the dude was drunk, so Gizzy and I check Facebook to see what exactly happened. And this is the slew of Facebook statuses we see:

Ok I refuse to be with a whore, I am single, so ladies lets have fun.  I have only 3 weeks left lets do the damn thing and stop thinking about tomorrow.

I hate my life, and the stupid bitch that told me I was everything to her, that’s bullshit, where is she tonight? Not with me.  I hope your aborted children provide you with a supportive landing in hell.

Happy 4th LOL

Clay is going to establish alcoholism today being as my first beer was pounded at 8:39 you’re welcome now who will join me in celebrating our country’s birthday?

If whites only come out at night why do I drink during the day?

If whores only come out at night why do I drink during the day?

  • Comment: Jackie – are you drunk?
  • Comment: Clay – if you’re wondering if I’m drinking, yes, and if I’m drunk, yes, but if you say it like that it sounds uneducated.  All I’m doing is flushing my kidneys and destroying my liver if I could put this shit in an IV I would, because it would save me the time of putting my beer to my mouth and allow me to come up with awesome status updates even faster.
  • Comment: Jackie – I would’ve asked how you’ve been but it’s pretty clear.
  • Comment: Clay – it’s clear that your gender has castrated me for the last time, and I am no longer obligated to believe you thundercunts are nice people.  So why would I? Assholes finish first right? Fuck the world, I’m about to kick it down the escalator.

Whores are like fireworks, you only shoot them at night and yet at first they look innocent but after a few shots they explode on you causing pain if not careful.

  • Comment: Clay – happy 4th retards
  • Comment: friend – you’re on a roll today
  • Comment: Clay – give me some butter
  • Comment: Barb – clay be good
  • Comment: Clay- if by good you mean break the female gender down by targeting her weakest attribute and convincing her to sleep with me because she is emotionally unstable then yes I will be good and good at it.  Sorry miss lady you are excluded from this list because you have always been awesome to me and to everyone else love you so much.

 I was once told to be good or good at it.  Happy 4th retards.

When I asked Clay what happened with his ex to make him so upset he said, “She’s a cock juggling thundercunt.” Another AWESOME line that worked itself into our vocabulary the rest of the day.

Fair enough.

To celebrate such a glorious holiday, Gizzy and I put on our swimsuits and headed out looking for beer and anything festive. ‘MERICA! Well, we didn’t find anything festive, but we got the beer and some ice and packed them both into what Gizzy thought was a cooler, when it was really a large thermal container made for a damn crock pot.  Don’t knock it till you try it, that shit worked!

Whatever. We head to the beach and get in line for some junk food. After we scarf that down, we find a nice spot in the sand near plenty of hotties playing beach volleyball.  Hotties/douchers that I already knew from college.

We had already packed some vodka, so Gizzy got us some mixers and we had our way with them. And this is when I start trying to figure out just how many different places I can piss in public (twice in the water, once in the sand, and a few times in actual public view). “Public view” means hanging her ass off a dock to pee, and hanging it off of some steps/seats.  Someone had to know what was going on since I was doubled over laughing and every time she got up there were wet spots that magically appeared on the cement.  I’m not innocent though, the day of the block party we traveled through a maze so that I could take a pee in a parking garage, where our car was not parked.

When I was finished with my vodka, I started drinking the beer like it was my job. Didn’t want to have any leftovers! When the beer was gone, we made the weird decision to walk to where the fireworks were…which was a bit of a hike. I would venture to say at least 1.5-2 miles.  It took us a good hour and a half to get there, longer than it normally would have because we had to simultaneously stop to pee/take shots.  We completely got ready in a public bathroom and then start ripping shots straight from a bottle of vodka.  In public.  Infront of cops, and children.

We see the fireworks and keep walking to try and snag some dinner. However, there was a fuckload of people. Like literally people were shoving us trying to not let us in because they were all coming out. And then we ran into a saucy hostess who told us the restaurant closed at 10 pm and I accused her of calling us retards.  My absolute favorite convo of the weekend:

Us: Table for 2

Hostess:  Um we’re pretty full, we’re not seating anyone but you can stand here and wait, I’m not sure if we’re letting people in, we might stay open later.

Lucky: So ARE you staying open later?

Hostess: We’re not seating anyone right now

Lucky: Yeah, I heard you, we’re not retards

Hostess: I didn’t say you were

Lucky: Uh! Yeah, ya did!

Bitch.  So we head to a nice little italian place, and order our food and some vino.

Once we do sit down, we have some depressing conversation about missing people, (and I loudly shit talked the aliens next to us for staring at our drunk asses)  and we manage to catch a cab ride back home. However, the cab ride was nice and bumpy, and me being quite wasted, I knew I needed to barf. But it wasn’t anything emergency-related…I figured I had plenty of time. However, when I hand the cabbie my credit card, he says he has to turn the car off completely and restart everything.  Honest to god, it took half an hour.

I told him I needed to step outside and puke. And I did. On a tree. While people and dogs watched me.

But I felt worlds better.

Then Gizzy and I ran inside and busted into Anth’s room, only to find him sexting while in his bed. Typical.  Lucky asks if he’s naked and runs over and rips off the blankets.  I immediately scream, “DID YOU SEE HIS WEINER!?” she says no and we run squeeling out of his room.  He sent me a text the following morning thanking us for the wake up call and thanking himself that he wasn’t actually naked under his covers.  I told him that leaving the door unlocked is like inviting us into his room so idk what he expected.

The next morning was my last in town, and given all the airport drama the first go ’round, I wasn’t looking forward to heading back. However, Gizzy and I hit a few hot spots I had been wanting to see, we had a few beers and more junk food and we were on our way. We even ate lunch at our favorite place—Taco Bell. Holla!

Overall, an AWESOME visit!

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I’m just a penny.

I know it sucks bad enough that it’s Monday, and I also know we owe you the final installment of “To Gizzy’s house,” (which I promise is in the works, and it’s probably the best part yet), but something happened this weekend that I need to address.

One Ms. Amy Winehouse.

If you’re sick of hearing about it, or you’re a hater, please move on.

When I heard the news, I had just arrived to lunch with Boots, and he held out his phone and said, “So, I’m guessing you already heard this?”


“No. Is that legit?” I asked.

“Yeah, it looks like it,” he said. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”

Tears welled up in my eyes.

“Don’t cry, Lucky!”

Yeah, maybe I’m freakin’ crazy, but I’m also crazy for Amy Winehouse.

I remember hearing rehab on the radio many summers ago. And I didn’t think it was a literal story about her record label telling her she needed help, I thought it was a satire poking fun of Britney and Lindsey.

Either way, I loved her sound. Her voice, raspy, yet full of soul. It was everything I loved about Lauryn Hill (the bounce), what I loved about Alanis (the sass), and what I loved about John Mayer (the blues). She was IT.

So I bought Back to Black and, for the first time, I fell in love with an album.

Yeah, it sounds fucked up. But every. single. song was better than the next. She spoke the words I felt during a breakup. I sang them at the top of my lungs every time I got in my car.

But then, an issue of Rolling Stone magazine hit the stands with Amy on the cover: The Diva & Her Demons.

I snatched it up as fast as I could and read it hungrily…and then, I cried.

The article spelled out her demons—cutting, drinking, smoking weed and crack. Not to mention her dependency on her then-fiance, Blake.

I was crushed. She really did need rehab. And all those drug references in Back to Black were true—I just hadn’t known what they meant. I know, I’m really naive, and a little attached. When I find out successful people I look up to do drugs, I get upset. I’ve never done any drugs (not even weed) so that’s why I’m in the dark about them.

Mainly, I just loved Back to Black so much, I didn’t want her to die before I saw her in concert, or before she would release another album.

And that’s exactly what happened.

Once Back to Black ran its course in my car, I purchased an album she released earlier—in 2003, Frank. It’s a more mellow, more Jazzy, Winehouse…yet, still an amazing body of sound.

I picked up a few other songs here and there, an acoustic version of “Best Friend,” and her cover of “Valerie,” to which I loved so much I wrote a short story based on it for my English class in college.

I loved her style and I wanted as much as I could get. She had truly changed the music game, for me, anyway.

When she was nominated for six Grammys, I pulled for her (and boy was I pissed when her visa wasn’t approved). However, she won five and she truly looked happy. And her performance was great.

In the last few weeks, I had pulled out my copy of Back to Black, listening to it, letting it bring me back to that summer. The Rolling Stone article is framed in my apartment and I was thinking about it the other day—how it was a bit of a loss of innocence for me. When really, artists struggle constantly, and deal with it in different ways. For the first time in my pop music fandom, I had admired a singer who wasn’t prepackaged and perfect. She loved crack.

But she was a genius in the studio.

And that is how I hope she is remembered. Okay, so she didn’t go to rehab. Would we have loved the same Amy if she would have? I doubt it.

I’m never really good in moments like these, but wherever she is, I hope she finally finds peace.