the Frosty Mug

Cover of Thelma & Louise

As an aspiring alcoholic…my life’s ambition had been to drink one big ass mother fuckin’ over the top frothing at the rim beer…at the Frosty Mug, Concord New Hampshire.
I had heard stories about the ‘Frosty’. Women tough as nails and ten feet tall and bullet proof. A mean cross between Tina Turner and Louise from Thelma and Louise.
I waited and waited and waited my turn at the door. The age of twelve had gone by. I could reach the counter at the Chichester Family Store and Fish Emporium. Mouth ridden by truck driver’s past there had been no issue with my procuring a sac of Mad Dog 20/20 and a treasured pack of Camel’s non filtered…only Turkish blend. None of that domestic bullshit.
Sweet sixteen and never been kissed. Fondled, manhandled and otherwise, hitting all the bases with runners on…I took my first hit of acid whilst carry the blood of Christ to the Altar in parochial school.
Still my want. My desire to be the ‘gal you wouldn’t want to take home to meet your blind and deaf mother’ rode me hard. It kicked my wantonly zealous need for desirable trouble like the curve that took Jimmy Dean.
Seventeen came, edgy and risky and impoverished by good thoughts…I tossed my bad ass ways into the pond of ill repute to see how far I could ride the train.
The door creaked open with a noise only screaming pigeons give off…while in the middle of mating. The ‘Frosty’ had been clad in Marlboro red smoke and worn savory leather. A nod from a Hell’s Angel who had been holding up the foundation of the old building had been returned with the ever so cool nod back and ‘whas up?’
Somehow between here and there in my life of living vicariously close to the edge of death I had learned the harder you are the harder it is to fall. My chip, shoulder-high, and my ego, made of brass balls, lead me to a far end of the world seat with leftover ejaculations from the night before.

Love Thing (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Glancing about tugging on a made from the Argue’s Farmhouse Hard Apple Cider, noting the meanness in the eyes that never connected and the Patsy Cline ‘I Fall to Pieces‘ tune playing on the jukebox…I took my very first deep breath. My virgin sigh of relief, per say. I had finally found my home in the world. A notch above the shit that rides in on a cowboy’s heal after a hard night of cow tipping and just a notch below being ankle high in peanut shells and spilled comfort, Southern Comfort that is.

I fall to pieces
Each time I see you again
I fall to pieces
How can I be just your friend

You want me to act like we’ve never kissed
You want me to forget, pretend we’ve never met
And I’ve tried and I’ve tried but I haven’t yet
You walk by, and I fall to pieces

I fall to pieces
Each time someone speaks your name
I fall to pieces
Time only adds to the flame

You tell me to find someone else to love
Someone who’ll love me, too, the way you used to do
But each time I go out with someone new
You walk by and I fall to pieces

(I fall to pieces)
Each time someone speaks your name
(I fall to pieces)
Time only adds to the flame

Original cover of the 1961 studio album, Patsy Cline Showcase, which featured her hits from that year, “I Fall to Pieces” and “Crazy”. The cover (and name) were changed following Cline’s death to the more-familiar version seen today. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You tell me to find someone else to love
Someone who’ll love me too, the way you used to do
But each time I go out with someone new
You walk by and I fall to pieces