Crash

Towards the end of June, 2000, I was walking around with my friends, Jason and Ron. It was a warm, aimless summer night, and Jason idly mentioned that his younger brother had had his high school graduation the night before. At this, we started waxing nostalgic about our own graduation* a few years previous. I don’t know whose idea it was, but someone observed that there was probably a high school graduation going on somewhere in the city, that night. Someone else suggested that we should find one, and crash it.
The idea was absurdly simple; the grad would invariably have lax security, we could breeze in, dance, have bad drinks and take off when we liked. It would basically be a free, fancy party. The idea was bandied around that we should go home and dress up, but it was decided that it would be more fun to try and crash wearing our rat-ass street clothes. As both Ron and myself had recently attended wedding receptions there, the International Inn, out by the airport was suggested. We went out, relatively excited.
We arrived to see a greyhound bus, and scores of well-dressed youngsters, bedecked in corsages. We had found our grad; the trick was then to infiltrate. We were a little surprised to find that adults, teenagers and children were wandering in and out of the banquet hall. Security was not lax; it was nonexistent. So we sat at an empty table, observed the goings-on. While it was kind of a tickle to be crashing, we were crashing a pretty tame family affair. Regardless, we stuck around until around midnight, when suddenly the music stopped, the lights went up and the DJ announced that everyone had to leave the banquet hall.
What the fuck? What kind of grad party ended at midnight? We grabbed some girl and asked her "What the fuck?"
"It’s safe grad," she said.
Huh?
"We all leave the hall, the parents and kids go home, and we have to show our tickets to get back in."
Right. Our tickets.
Sure enough, everyone filed out. The parents and kids left and the graduates all flooded the bathrooms to change from their handsome suits and pretty dresses to skank-ass club gear (I know!). Meanwhile a desk was set up at the entrance to the banquet hall where adult chaperones prepared their materials to presumably check tickets. We were in a jam.
Casually, we sauntered up to the volunteer desk and asked if tickets were really required.
"Yes, or the ticket of the person sponsoring you."
Yes. Our sponsor.
Again, we grabbed some girl (there was a lot of that), and asked if she was sponsoring anyone. No, she wasn’t. Would she… um… sponsor the three of us?
"Sure."
Ha! We were shitting and flying. We passed some time gambling in the hotel’s lounge, and after a suitable while we strolled back to the banquet hall.
It was a madhouse. About two hundred eager graduates were swarmed around a desk with three harried volunteers. This was our chance. We grabbed our "sponsor," and shoved to the front of the throng. Apparently to get into the banquet hall, and be allowed to drink, we would require a wristband and a hand-stamp from the volunteers.
"We need wristbands," we shouted.
"Where are your tickets?"
"Here’s our sponsor."
"You guys aren’t on the list."
"Forget the list, it’s okay."
"Well, you need to be on the list."
"No we don’t, it’s okay."
"How do I know you’re eighteen?""Here, look at our id’s."
"Well… but… you’re not on the list." He was cracking. The crowds were surging all around us. Time was so short!
"It’s okay. Wristbands!"
He snapped under the pressure, slapped plastic on our wrists and stamps on the backs of our hands (except for Ron, for some reason. He didn’t get a hand stamp and thus, couldn’t buy drinks. He was the oldest of the three of us).
So were in. We flashed our wristbands and were welcomed in to the grad party by smiling chaperones. Even now I can say that that was a good feeling. We beat the system.
So we partied. We had bad drinks mixed by chaperones, danced with drunken high school girls; I slaughtered at the fake blackjack table. At one point, I wanted to go and use the bathroom in the hotel lobby, as the bathroom by the banquet hall was packed with pot-smokers. I was stopped by some chaperones and told I had to stay in the banquet area, because of safe grad. Fine.
Fast forward a few hours, around 4 am, I was talking to some boob about something when it hit me like a lightning bolt. Safe grad! They weren’t going to let us leave and drive home whenever we wanted! If our own graduation was any indication, adult volunteers were going to forcibly drive us home, and Ron was parked in the hotel parking lot! Fuck fuck fuck.
I ran out to the dance floor and grabbed Ron. "Ron! This is safe grad! They won’t let us just leave!"
"Fuck!" he said.
We ran over and grabbed Jason. "Jason! Safe grad! Can’t leave!"
"Fuck!" he said.
At this point we noticed that all the exits were covered by two or more chaperones. We were trapped (my suggestion was to rush the doors, which was vetoed. I still think it was the best option). Real casual-like, we went up to one of the volunteers.
"So…um… refresh our memories. What happens at the end of the night?"
"Well, at 7am (!) You get back on the bus that brought you here which takes you back to Oak Park High School, and you go home from there."
Ah. A bit of Winnipeg geography: the neighborhood of Oak Park is a suburb literally at the edge of the city; a long fucking way from where we were, and a longer fucking way from our homes.
We called our friend David, who had a car, and asked him if…um… he wouldn’t mind coming to Oak Park High School at 7 in the morning to pick us up, and drive us back across the city to get Ron’s car. Astonishingly, he agreed, although he needed directions to Oak Park. Uhhhhh. "It’s uhhhh…. Down… Fuck." We asked the chaperone if he could give us directions to the High School, but he couldn’t (despite the fact that his children presumably went to this high school. Apparently the only prerequisite for being a chaperone was being completely useless).
"Could the bus," we asked. "Possibly drop us off somewhere else? Other than Oak Park?"
We would have to ask, he informed us, at the front desk; the nerve center for the chaperone operation.
As casually as possible, we went to the front desk and asked if the bus could drop us off… anywhere other than Oak Park, really.
The head chaperone was stunned by the absurdity of this question. "Of course not," she said. "Once you get back to the school you have to be signed out by your parents."
Ah. Problem. The three of us shared a look, and with our unspoken agreement, Jason tried the direct approach.
"Look," he said. "We don’t go to Oak Park, we don’t have tickets, we don’t have a sponsor, we crashed the party. We want to leave, now."
Her head cocked to one side. "What?"
"We don’t go to Oak Park," he repeated. "We don’t have tickets. We crashed."
"What?"
"Don’t go to Oak Park. No tickets. Crashed."
The chaperone had to sit down. "How did you get in?"
"Doesn’t matter. We bullied past the guy."
"How? It…it can’t be…" The poor dear. We broke her.
More chaperones showed up, and me and Ron told our exciting story a few more times.
"So can we leave?" asked Jason.
"Well, no," said the increasingly hysterical head chaperone. "We’re responsible for you! What if you get in an accident! It would be our fault!"
"That won’t happen, we assure you."
"No! No! You can’t leave! Your parents! Your parents have to sign you out."
This was simply not going to happen. We had reached an age where you could no longer call your parents at 5 in the morning and ask them to bail you out. The possible exception was Ron, whose mother had the kind of lifestyle where she might still be awake at that hour. Ron called her, spoke to her briefly.
"She won’t come," he said.
"Let me talk to her," said one of the chaperones, taking the phone with utmost confidence. "Hello! Yes…I… Uh, yes. No… No, I… uh-huh. Right, yes. Okay. Okay. Yes." He hung up the phone. "She won’t come," he said, defeated. Then he burst into tears (well, maybe not).
At this point we had drawn quite a crowd. We told the story about how we were part-crashers over and over again, such that we got pretty good at it. Ron started telling it in haiku form, while Jason did some exciting things with the chronology of the narrative. The poor head volunteer was curled up in the fetal position on the floor. "No tickets… they don’t have tickets… not on the list." Poor dear. She’s in an institution, now.
Eventually some cops showed up to see what all the commotion was about. Again, we told our story, which, to their credit, they found pretty funny.
"Hey, we’ll sign these guys out and put them in a cab," said one of the cops. Blissfully, this arrangement was agreed to, and we were on our way. The lobby was packed with well-wishing chaperones, who were able, at last, to see the humor of the situation.
The cops put us in a cab and left, hopefully to deal with some actual problem. We argued for a bit over where we should have the cab drop us, when the answer struck us: we had the cab drop us off around the corner. We paid the cabby five bucks, hopped in Ron’s car, and drove home laughing like maniacs. Two days later, I turned twenty years old; this was my send-off to being a teenager.


*Our own graduation was somewhat more banal. Uncharacteristically, even for those days, I didn’t have a drop to drink. Our safe grad involved chaperones driving everyone to their individual houses at 2am. This posed a problem, as everyone then had to find their way to my friend Ron’s party. My parents, also rather uncharacteristically, offered me the use of their car, as long as I didn’t drink. I was true to my word, which was helped by the teachers at my school convincing me that the streets would be swarming with cops on Grad night, who would be searching for drunk teenage drivers. I never saw a single cop car, all night.
In the days leading up to Grad, we figured there would be lots of parties going on, so we decided to just have our own party at Ron’s. As Grad night progressed, we gradually became aware that there were no other parties, and the entire graduating class was coming to Ron’s. We had visions of mayhem, but fortunately everyone was so drained by the long Grad day that it was a very mellow, pleasant party. That was Grad.

Special Message

(Note to blog readers: Please excuse the following as it is a special message from myself, to myself.)

IDIOT! COFFEE HAS CAFFEINE! DON'T DRINK COFFEE LATE AT NIGHT IF YOU HAVE TO WORK EARLY IN THE MORNING! YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO SLEEP! IDIOT!

(Thank you.)

I'm not a stalker!

I never get spam email. That kind of bothers me, but I don’t know why. Everyone I know receives buckets of mortgage/porn/penis-enhancement offers, but I never get squat. What gives? My dick is too grand to need enhancement? I assure you, internet, that is not the case. I got a lot of shit going on downstairs. So where’s the offers? Help me out, here.
I always feel slighted when I’m excluded from really ignorant things. For example, my coworkers are always attending work-related focus groups to discuss their jobs, but I’m never invited to these things. Granted, the few times I have gone to them made me want to pull my own head off, but an invitation would be nice.
Also, spam comments. All the other bloggers complain about hordes of morons clogging the comments sections with abusive gibberish. My commenters are universally intelligent, kind and funny. What the fuck? Morons are too good to comment on my blog?
Anyway, last night I walked a friend of mine home. It probably wasn’t necessary, but her neighborhood isn’t the best, and man, if I didn’t walk her home because I was too lazy and something happened to her? I would spend the rest of my life trying to make up for that one. Plus I know it can be spooky for the ladies walking around at night. As I work downtown, and live close to downtown, I often walk through bad neighborhoods late at night. I very consciously try not to freak out any female pedestrians who are sharing the sidewalk with me (there’s a very funny short film called ‘Stalker Guilt Syndrome’ about this very phenomenon. Find it yourself). I try to keep my distance, and walk in a very casual, I’m-not-going-to-assault-you manner. I’m sure it just freaks people out worse.
So as I walk my friend into the lobby of her apartment building, another young lady walks past us and out of the building. I say goodbye to my friend and head out. As I leave, I notice this other girl walking ahead of me, and she gives me this suspicious look over her shoulder. I start thinking "Oh shit, I’m freaking this girl out; I should cross the street or something." But then I start thinking: "Hey! This girl just saw me walk another girl home. Shouldn’t that exclude me from potential-stalker status?" I think so. I still tried to be non-threatening, but I resented it. I mean seriously; as if I would see a girl safely home, then turn around and say, "Okay, let’s assault a stranger, now." I don’t fucking think so! So fuck you, strange girl, and fuck your paranoia. Fucking stalker guilt syndrome.

Wingdings and Things

Howdy, all. It’s been a few days since I’ve posted, for which I refuse to apologize. I should mention that, as I don’t have the internet in my apartment, everything I post is while I’m at work. This actually goes a long way to explain the frequently bitter and snarky nature of many of these posts.
Regardless, it was a relatively busy few days. On Thursday I went over to a friend’s place where I was subjected to a few hours of reality television. Have you seen that Donald Trump show? What an absurd program! My understanding, correct me if I’m wrong, is that Trump is trying to find an executive to run one of his companies, right? So why the fuck do the candidates have to do these crazy specialized jobs? The episode I saw had them trying to design and market office furniture for Staples. Then, the losing team was chastised for failing: "You’re supposed to be hot shot lawyers, and this is what you come up with?" I don’t know about you, but if I wanted someone to design office furniture, I would go to a … um… designer. Why would they expect lawyers to be able to design timesaving products? Weird show.
Also annoying is the fact that the regular bartender at my local pub is in Scotland for a month, the bastard. As he was a first hand witness to my astonishing capacity to drink, he was pretty supportive about my quitting. So much so, that he would serve me my club sodas for free. Well, he ‘s gone, and the replacement bartender is apparently not aware that I have a disease, and the fucker charges me 2.25 for a club soda. I am going to say that again; 2.25 for a club soda. My regular man even gives me a full-ass pint of club soda for free; this son of a bitch gives me a small-ass glass. For 2.25. Let me put this into context, a rye and coke of the same proportions is 3.25. Apparently you’re mostly paying for the coke. So I call bullshit on the replacement bartender. And you know what? The motherfucker still greets me like a regular! "Hey, man, how’s it going?" It would be going a lot better if you weren’t fucking me on the club-goddamned-soda, you insensitive prick!
Still, the night wasn’t a total wash as a friend of mine came back from Europe, and it was good to see her. Also, I saw these girls, who have downgraded from being merely chilly to me, to ignoring me completely. I won’t say I don’t deserve it, though. I don’t have a lot of amends to make from my drinking days, I wasn’t that kind of drunk, but I do regret the way I treated these girls. And not just because they come to the same bar as me every week.
Later that night I smoked a good deal of the reefer, which I haven’t done in some time. Witness. It felt really good to be fucked up on something, and I realized on Saturday that it’s really escape I’m addicted to. Whether it’s booze, or drugs, or movies, or writing, or whatever. I just want to get out of my own head as much as I can. Booze is just my weapon of choice. So the trick now is to figure out why, oh why, I hate myself so very much*. Unless I can crack that one, I don’t think I’ll ever be happy, without being drunk. The plus side is, if I can figure it out, I can probably go back to drinking, armed with my new self-awareness.
So, #1 on the to-do list: Figure self out. I gots high hopes.



* Maudlin!

More bitching

So last night was a first for me; I went to a coffee shop. It was perhaps the third time in my life I have willingly set foot in a coffee shop, and the first time I paid for fancy coffee. I got a… oh, shitballs, what was it? A mochacaracci, or something. It had about a pound of whipped cream, cost 4.50, and took me about two minutes to drink. I sat in the coffee shop and edited some writing. Sipping my fancy coffee. I have become that which I hate most *.
I don’t think hanging out in coffee shops will be a suitable replacement for hanging out in bars. The vibe is too different, not dangerous enough. I can’t see any kind of fight breaking out in a coffee shop, or any asshole coming up and harassing me. Nor can I see myself harassing some poor young woman. What’s the point?
Unfortunately, all these little tricks and diversions I set up for myself to avoid drinking just make me want to drink more. It didn’t help that across the street from the coffee shop I was sitting in was a giant, gorgeous new Liquor Mart. It was so bright and shiny, with big neon signs on the outside: "Wine, Spirits, Beer." I could hear them singing to me…
But, I persevered. I guess coffee shops beat hanging out in my apartment, but not by much. At least in my apartment I have my cat, who is like an obnoxious drunk in a lot of ways.
Maybe I could bring the bar vibe to the coffee shop myself! I should just start talking loudly and crudely, and picking a lot of fights.
Goddamn, I’m brilliant; I’ll lick this sumbitch, yet.


*Okay, maybe going into a coffeeshop did not turn me into a violent, child molesting bigot. Not yet, anyway.

I'm Looking at You

It’s no secret that I’m a big fan of that ‘next blog’ button at the top right. Goddamn, I love that little thing. One click and I’m embroiled in a random stranger’s life. I wish I had something like that in real life.
That being said, there are certain things that cause me to go to the next blog. Let’s call them dealbreakers:

1)Hella. When the fuck did this fucking trend start? Hella? "I will be hella mad if…" Shut the fuck up. Next.

2)Students. I barely cared about my classes when I was a student. I sure don’t care about yours. Oh, you’re sick of studying? Stressed by exams? Good to know. Next.

3)When people label their blogs as "the pointless, stupid, ramblings of an insane, unstable, dull human being, looking for answers in a crazy etc, etc, etc." If it’s so stupid and pointless, why the fuck am I reading it? Next.

4)Spelling. I’m looking at you young people. "WelcoMe to my BloG. U R in Hot ChikZ HeaVEn." I was more coherent when I was drinking. Next.

5)Christians. I’m sorry, it’s great you’re happy with your religion, but you’re too damn chipper and you don’t ask enough hard questions. Makes for dull reading (prove me wrong, Christians! Prove me wrong!). Next.

(Interlude: Am I mistaken, or has this blog devoted to actor/comedian Richard Belzer been active for 15 years? No, right? Because that’s just crazy, right?)

Anyway, in the future maybe I’ll post what I do like about new blogs. At least this blog has no irritating trends, right? Right?

Young and Old

"The beat-beat of your heart! Love it!"
- Beloved

Well, a busy little weekend. A sad revelation; I don't appear to be able to go to my favorite neighborhood bar without being sent into a spiraling depression. Everyone is just drinking and socializing so much, Lord God but it makes me want to get smashed out of my mind. After I visited there with some friends, I had to walk around downtown alone until about 4 in the morning (downtown Winnipeg at 4 in the morning is very, very grim).
On a brighter note, I went to a show on Saturday and saw an old friend. It was a benefit for a feminist film festival, or something, so they had a number of female DJ's. One of them was this chick I went to high school with. An interesting note: in high school I had a mad, insane, ludicrous, bottomless, devoted, passionate, utterly hopeless crush on her. It was a yakuza-style courtship; without honor or dignity. It was also quite unsuccessful, as she wasn't interested in me in that way. It took me a pathetically long time to figure out that you can't actually make someone like you, which broke my young and fragile heart. Anyway, 8 years later, I was kind of nervous to see her again. Would my heart skip a beat when I saw her? Would all those lonely months of longing come rushing back in a single burst and cause my brain to explode in a massive stroke cause by unrequited teenage love?
No.
She came over to say hi, we chatted, caught up on old times. It was nice. No fireworks, no residual angst; my heart was quite still. What in the hell did I ever see in her? Certainly, she's funny and pretty, and it was good to see her. But why did I lose my mind for this girl all those years ago? I honestly couldn't tell you. I guess she changed, or I changed, or some combination thereof. Or maybe no longer having a teenage heart frantically beating in my chest has something to do with it. That's almost kind of sad, isn't it? Will I ever have that head-first lunatic passion again? Christ, I hope so. If any high school kids are reading this: relish the madness of your youth! You will miss it, I assure you.
Man, maybe that's what I miss about drinking. Not so much the oblivion of drunkenness, but the carefree joy of it. Living from moment to moment, whim to whim, without past or future. You know, I never understood the appeal of skydiving; I guess because I was living my life in freefall. My friend asked me the other day if drinking made me feel happy, I had to admit that it did. The freedom to fall from trees, jump from rivers, to live without pride or dignity, or self-respect, or any self-preservation whatsoever. It was rather liberating. I guess the trick is to find out how to get something approximating that feeling while sober. Haven't cracked that one, yet.
At the other end of the spectrum, I helped my friend move her grandfather from one part of his nursing home to the other. Moving is always such a delight, but where's the challenge? Fortunately, the helpful geriatrics at the nursing home thought they would spice up the move by standing in the middle of the hallways staring at us. Now instead of just worrying about not dropping the heavy wooden old-man furniture, I also got to worry about not stepping on and crippling some octogenarian. Thank you, seniors!

P.S. Ubermilf; in case you missed my comments, get a blog!

Update!

In my last post, I mentioned this fellow who had set up a fake blog to mock a classmate. Well, he emailed me and told me the whole sordid tale. Apparently his fake blog was set up in retaliation to this fake blog, which was set up to mock the first kid as retaliation for... etc, etc.
By the looks of things this titanic struggle is nearing its end, but none too amicably, so stay tuned.
You know, in my day, we just started nasty rumors about people we didn't like. The internet lets kids today take their high school drama to the world.

Enough about me...

Blah blah blah. Alcoholism, depression, blah, blah, blah. Enough about me. What are you lovely people up to? Let's find out!
This guy is tracking a "rogue CNN producer," who is apparently supporting the agenda of a foreign government. Neat!
This kid created a fake blog to mock some other kid.
Oy, these kids, today.
This is the Princess from Pluto! About fucking time!

Phew! It's good to know that everyone else is doing okay!
I guess I can go back to being maudlin.

Issues of the Day

So, I 've been on a bit of a self improvement kick, lately. I've kicked, or rather, I'm in the process of kicking the bottle. To that end, I've considered going to an AA meeting. I emailed my local chapter and they were kind enough to send me a schedule for meetings in my city. My goodness! There are a lot of meetings going on, every day! I had no idea... So, I'm considering going, but I have reservations. On the one hand, this quiz on the AA website was a big eye-opener for me, and helped me recognize my drinking...enthusiasm. In fact, let's go through the quiz together.

Here were my answers:
1) Have you ever decided to stop drinking for a week or so, but only lasted for a couple of days?
Yes, until recently my record was a day, before I'd freak out and buy beer.

2) Do you wish people would mind their own business about your drinking-- stop telling you what to do?
Yes, I have a friend who was always telling me about this guy he knew who drank himself to death. It irritated the shit out of me.

3) Have you ever switched from one kind of drink to another in the hope that this would keep you from getting drunk?
Yes, I started drinking wine. Read this. And this. Didn't work.

4) Have you had to have an eye-opener upon awakening during the past year?
Yes, but I tend to wake up about noon. Does that count?

5) Do you envy people who can drink without getting into trouble?
God, yes, the fucking bastards.

6) Have you had problems connected with drinking during the past year?
Yes. See blog archives for more details.

7) Has your drinking caused trouble at home?
At the time I did this quiz I answered no for this one. I always believed that my drinking never damaged my personal relationships, but since quitting I've learned that that's not the case... So this is a yes.

8) Do you ever try to get "extra" drinks at a party because you do not get enough?
"Wait! After this case of beer, and that case of beer, there's only three cases of beer left!"

9) Do you tell yourself you can stop drinking any time you want to, even though you keep getting drunk when you don't mean to?
Yes. That's all, just 'yes.'

10) Have you missed days of work or school because of drinking?
No, surprisingly. I always dragged my sorry carcass in to the office. Oh, wait, except once, when I was really hung over. Does that count?

11) Do you have "blackouts"?
Christ, yes. It became a day-after ritual to call my friends and ask them if I embarrassed myself or offended anyone the night before. Also, I woke up on the floor, a lot. I think I spent more time sleeping on the floor last year than in my bed.

12) Have you ever felt that your life would be better if you did not drink?
Obviously yes, because here I am.

"Did you answer YES four or more times? If so, you are probably in trouble with alcohol."

So, there's that in their favor. But then there's articles like this: "Drunk Like Me", which makes a pretty convincing case against AA. Should I or shouldn't I? I guess there's no harm in going, but I'm kind of uncomfortable with the whole "relinquishing control of my life to God" thing. I mean, I'm trying to gain control of my life. Why would I just relinquish it?

The other question on the plate is pills. Pills, pills, pills. Pills that fuck with one's already fucked up wiring.
I'm talking about anti-depressants. It's come up in the comments a few times recently, and they've been on my mind for years. I probably need them, but Lord God in heaven above do I hate the thought of them. I mean, I just got away from one kind of self-medication, why should I jump into another? I know people who've tried these things with mixed results, and who've come back with reports of withdrawals when they tried to quit. I've got enough of that shit, already. Also, doctors don't even know how the pills work! Depression is still largely a mystery, but hey! Let's just throw these pills at the problem! They seem to shut the patients up! I don't even like pills, in general. Man, I don't even take tylenol! No way am I going to start taking pills that screw with the way my mind works.
But shit, I could probably use some help. Goddammit. Goddammit, goddammit, goddammit. People never believe me when I say this, but sometimes I wish I was more normal, more average. I see people living their lives, flitting in and out of relatiosnhips, enjoying life. It seems so easy for them. God, how I envy that. What I wouldn't give...
But hey! Fuck it. I am who I am. A titan. A God! A seven-foot tall, tattooed Russian strongman! I am a train, an engine, a locomotive traveling with undeniable momentum into an uncertain future! I am a grain of sand, a snail, a toad, a tiger, a griffon. I am impossible to deny, unforgivable to ignore. I am a giant, I am insignificant. I exist. I never was. In the morning I will sing, in the afternoon, I will weep, and at night I will wither and fade and my petals will drop. In the morning I will sing!
Who needs pills?

Q&A Session

"Look at how he moves. Why does he move like that? How does he move like that?"
-Jorgen Leth, The Perfect Human

Q: So you were kind of freaking out, before.
A: That’s not a question.

Q: Okay, were you freaking out back there?
A: Most definitely.

Q: Are you still freaking out?
A: Not so much. I think I’m always freaking out a little bit, these days. Right now I am freaking out, but not so emphatically. Not with so many italics.

Q: Should we expect more anxiety-laden posts?
A: I would hazard that yes, yes we should.

Q: That’s kind of a drag…
A: That’s not a question.

Q: So, are you okay, now?
A: Yeah, more or less. Don’t worry about it.

Q: Are you still going to become a recluse?
A: Maybe not. I do still enjoy going to bars, although they do depress me now, a little. Still, if I sit at home, I have a 0% chance of meeting a woman*. If I go out, that jumps up to 5%.

Q: Did you mean all that identity crisis shit?
A: I don’t know, probably. Look, this is kind of a fucked up period. I’m pulling my shit together, but at the moment I’m kind of stripped bare. I’m like a house undergoing renovations. My plaster’s exposed, my floors are ripped up, my wiring’s hanging loose. I just have to keep at it and have faith that the work will get done, and I’ll be myself again.

Q: That’s a really pretentious analogy.
A: Hey, fuck you!

Q: No, fuck you.
A: That’s not a question.



* Well, technically it's not 0%. I mean, there is a chance that an attractive neigbor might knock on my door to borrow a cup of salt, and some playful double entendres might lead to noisy sex. It's possible, but improbable. So, I'll go out.

Hooray for Me

"Look at him. Look at him, now. And now. Look at him all the time."
- Jorgen Leth, The Perfect Human

Still sober. Starting to regret it.
Why the fuck did I quit drinking? Why did I have to acknowledge my problem? Yes, I was miserable. Yes, I was in a downwards spiral. Yes, I had (have) a disease. Yes. Yes. Yes.
But at least I was drunk.
Now what the fuck am I supposed to do? Where the fuck do I fit? I've been drunk for seven years. For seven years my role has been to be drunk and make wisecracks and eventually fall down a lot. Ha-ha. Life of the party. Now what? Who or what am I supposed to fucking be? I don't have a clue. I can't be the drunk, anymore. That's out. If I start drinking now, everyone I care about would lose a lot of respect for me. That would be no good. I can't be a barfly, anymore, either. I love bars but it's too fucking hard being around all that and not joining in. I don't even know how to socialize sober. I just get so goddamned depressed when I'm hanging out with my friends I can barely lift my fucking head. How the hell am I supposed to do this?
The only thing I can think of is to become a recluse. Shut myself up, draw the shades and write. Just focus everything I have on the fucking writing, and hope everything else sorts itself out. That's the best I got right now.

Return from the Belly of the Machine

Still sober.
So I went to the club last night; I would say it was a tentative success. After about five minutes I was seriously jonesing for a drink, but I survived. Once again, I felt struck by envy, a serious desire to join in and share everyone else's good time. It's mostly the social aspect of quitting that's gotten me; I miss hanging out with people and getting smashed with them. Despite all the positives, I still feel left out when I go to the bar, I have this nagging sense that there's something I should be doing.
But there were positives; namely I was not struck by my usual blindness after a few hours. There were a lot of pretty girls there! One of them was my friend's coworker; we had a nice, coherent conversation towards the end of the night. Three weeks ago, speaking intelligently (or even intelligibly) would have been far beyond me by 1 am. So, that was nice. Also, I spent 3.00 the entire night, as opposed to my usual 60.00. That's okay, too.
At one point, a friend of mine (very drunk), made kind of an ass of himself in front of some girls by knocking a beer bottle onto one of them, and forgetting the punchline to a joke he was telling. I must admit I was kind of delighted at this; someone was making an ass of themselves, and it wasn't me!

He eats it!

Courtesy of BA, I bring you Steve, Don't Eat It! A column where Steve eats it, and tells you about it!

"Actually, the little pile inside looked kinda like baked beans. It also smelled kinda like baked beans. If they were baked in the filthy heat of Satan's asshole."

Funny stuff.

Into the Belly of the Machine

Still Sober.
Well, tonight I head out to a dance-club, my first time sober at such a club since 1999, the last time I attempted to quit drinking (the attempt failed). Should be interesting, I’m trying to stay positive. On the bright side, I’ll e able to avoid what may be the most irritating aspect of going to a club: getting a drink. I can skip the whole process of clawing through a mass of clumsy, belligerent idiots trying to make their way to the bar so they can monopolize the bartenders time by ordering nineteen different fucking shooters, and then lean on the bar blocking everyone else’s access so they can look fucking cool because there is nothing fucking cooler than assholes leaning on a bar oblivious to the crowd surging around them who have obviously forgotten that they are in public and there are other fucking human beings whom they should consider showing the slightest shred of respect for.
I can avoid that, which will be nice.
Tonight will also, most likely, mark the first time ever that I will dance sober. At this point I am not sure how I will react to the storm of asses-and-elbows that is the dancefloor. It could be stressful without the calming influence of booze.
Still, ah got mah fingahs crossed.

Family Films!

Okay, still sober.
I saw a couple of movies last night. One was Rick, which was written by Daniel Handler. AKA childrens author Lemony Snickets. It wasn't bad but it was pretty much directly based on the opera Rigoletto, so if you're aware of that opera the movie is pretty predictable. I also saw a French movie called Bad Company. Jeeee-sus Christ. It's about this mousy teenage girl who starts dating this brooding bad-boy type. She decides she loves him, and he decides he wants to go live in Jamaica. His plan for raising the money to get there? She should sell blowjobs at 50 francs a pop! Aaaaaaahhhhh! Until they raise 20,000 francs! Aaaaaaahhhhhh! And she agrees! Aaaaaaahhhhhh! I mean, the onion said there was "shocking debasement," but there is "shocking debasement" and there is "shocking debasement," and then there is teenage girls whoring themselves in public toilets for their boyfriends.
All said and done, the movie was surprisingly sensitive, and didn't shirk away from the grisly consequences. It was kind of tough to watch, but I doubt I'll soon forget it.
Oh yeah, spoiler warning. Sorry.

Sobriety: Week One

Okay, it has been one week since my last drink and I'm still here. People tend to scoff when I tell them how long it's been, but this is literally the longest I've been sober since 2003, if not longer.
So, okay, it hasn't been that bad. I've been out to bars, met new people, attended an improv show; generally activities that would send me scrambling for a bottle, but I handled it. People are still being supportive, which is cool, I don't know why I was expecting resistance. In my experience, sitting in a bar and not drinking generally draws derisive comments, but I guess dropping the "A"* word gets people to back off. I admit, Saturday was kind of a drag because I was hanging out with a lot of people who were drinking heavily, and I felt very envious. Club-goddamned-soda.
It's not intolerable being in a bar and not drinking; it's kind of like being in the office on a sunny day: you would rather be outside, frolicking, but it's not killing you.
Still, on the bright side, I got through the weekend without a) spending 100.0+ dollars, b) injuring myself, c) making an ass of myself in front of women. That's a good thing, right?


* "alcoholic," nimrod.

A New Direction

I apologize for the hiatus, should anyone give a fuck, but it's been a strange week. As of Tuesday, March 29th, I have quit drinking. It was not an easy decision to make, but I have decided it is necessary, as I am an alcoholic.
I've told several of my friends about this (their reaction? "Good, about time."), and everyone's question is: "What happened?" I guess I'm supposed to have some sort of bottoming-out drunken flameout experience that forces me to quit. It doesn't work that way; I have had many bottom-scraping flameouts in the last few years, and it didn't make me quit. It was a combination of a lot of little factors, mainly a growing distaste with my lifestyle.
When I was young, I was somewhat serious about my inherited Christian faith. When I was 15, a tragedy forced me to question those beliefs for the first time. Faith is a fragile thing; once you start questioning it, it collapses pretty quickly. Alcoholism is kind of similar; once you are aware that you are an addict, that you have a disease, it's hard to ignore it and go back to having a good time.
So here I am, teetotal; sober as a judge. I must say, everyone has been very supportive (even the bartender at my local pub is behind me. Isn't that great?); for some reason I thought people would give me a hard time.
It's only been a few days, but it's been an interesting experience. I've been to a few bars, felt tempted, but didn't drink. I ordered club soda, which is what alcoholics always order in the movies. I understand why: club soda is very unpleasant; it tastes like carbonated salt water. Hence, you tend to sip it slowly, giving you the tactile experience of alcohol. It works. Also, I always thought that booze gave me courage, or at least loosened my inhibitions. Not so; I find I feel more confident sober. Who knew? So as a result of all this, the blog must change as well. Gone are the days of falling down all the time and making an ass of myself. But here are some of the exciting upcoming features at DashBradley.com!

- coherent conversations with women!
- saving 600.0+ dollars a month!
- not falling down!
- less self-loathing!

I, for one, am looking forward to it.