Jeff Phillips: The Oyster Binge Slumber Party

Drinkers with Writing Problems

More turned out for the experimental feast than expected. Fats Hugo was consistently told to shut up about his dreams, he could drone on and on about every detail he could remember, and his memory was agile. While his culinary partner, Chubb Champo, was down in the bayou, scouting new ingredients, Fats decided to host the party he’d been stewing on for years; a supreme celebration of dreams. They were both larger men, the product of their ample tastings and re-tastings and devouring of a dish so good, so artful, that cravings couldn’t be suppressed; but oftentimes it was the size of their egos and competitive compulsions that boxed each other out.

In the expanse of a warehouse-turned-arts-gallery-and-party-space in a rundown industrial corridor on Chicago’s west side, Fats had some breathing room for the weekend. He could relax, with a little less judgment in the air, could fully commit to…

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Jeff Phillips: A Wee Hour Pep Talk with an Open Circuit

Drinkers with Writing Problems

I’m beat. Fried is another way to put it. When I think I might need to recharge my batteries, the go-to urge is to be a layabout for a day.

But I’ve sometimes looked to the notion that to get unfried, one has to subject themselves to the literal manifestation of that descriptor, and I mean actually getting fucking fried.

College day shenanigans at my friend Zach’s led to us giving a thrift store find a whirl. It was some sort of thick plastic mask with dull metal prongs lining the inside shell. When strapped over your face, a turn of the dial sent a minor electric pulse to tingle your face. The high end of the dial made your cheeks feel like they were being kneaded by tiny robot hands, while pressing your lips to an old static prone TV. The point was to stimulate your pores, we assumed…

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