If you are bitten by a Baldwin do you turn into a Baldwin? Is it like vampirism? Suddenly you're a mediocre actor with athletic eyebrows and a permanent five o'clock shadow? I think they're a plague... there are just too many and must be destroyed. However indestructible a Baldwin might seem it does have a weakness. First you must lead it to a poorly lit, ominous location for a climactic ending. Next you must engage it in conversation while hiding so that it must answer as an attempt to keep you talking until it can pinpoint your location. The only way to to destroy the Baldwin it to get it to admit that it was somehow the bad guy all along. Perhaps it had orchestrated the terrorist threat from behind the scenes. They are tricky bastards you know. Once guilt is established the Baldwin becomes mortal and can be eliminated using standard weaponry or dominance in a physical confrontation.
-The Publican (Labatt, AKA Lab Rat)
5/9/08 Drunk @ Home
Okay, I think we all have to accept that I'm not going to keep up with this blog with any kind of regularity. I'm a fucking drunk, what do you expect from me? Besides, I'm teaching myself to knit so I've been busy.
My thoughts tonight have been dwelling upon responsibility. You're wouldn't expect it but I'm an oppressively responsible individual. I always pay my bills on time, I don't have credit card debt (that's more because I'm not much of a consumer), I rarely play hookie and make every effort to not inconvenience my fellow humans despite my misanthropy. I may have touched on these things at other times in the past. Now I'm working on a more "Fuckit" attitude. I'm going to be fiscally irresponsible and buy a motorcycle, tell my co-workers when I think they're being illogical, racist fucks and experience my teenage equivalent rebellion from my father social norm and my mother culture.
On the surface this might seem like some kind of premature midlife crisis where I picture my "new" life in a glorified and righteously cinematic light. I fully expect that I might lose some skin. Motorcycles are dangerous. Co-workers are dangerous. Life, invariably, ends in death that is more than likely preceded by pain. Rushing this ride to its inevitable end is not my scheme but lately, though I haven't touched on it much, life has been shit anyway; real shit. Life has been a nightmare and my sleep is so disturbed by stress that I cannot escape my woes even in that distant state.
For a summary: my boyfriend is sick with an undiagnosed illness that results in him vomiting everyday, being exhausted, in pain and unable to work. I'm supporting us by leaving a job that I liked and going back into medical research working with a bunch of fucking squares. I'm very worried that he may never get better or that he may die. He's been sick for 10 months now. My grandmother just died of terminal colon cancer which she suffered from for a couple months before she succumbed (it was pretty advanced when they found out). I haven't gotten laid well in a long time as a result of my broken man. So, yeah, it's been bad and I've been nothing but a (drunken) girlscout before and after I entered into this time of trouble and for all my efforts I've been rewarded with more troubles. My man and I have decided that the responsible life is not for us any longer and it's time for some jackassery! He's still sick but we'll work around that.
Unless we have some fun there will be no point. I'm sure as hell not going to look back on my life and say: "Man, look at all those bills I paid and, God, my teeth were sure well maintained with regular dental checkups!" I'm not bashing the responsible part entirely as it can leave you with more time unadulterated by consequences, but that can't be all of it and I'm getting damn close to snapping and running away to Mexico.
I can see a very beautiful life to be had in the world just riding around, reading, writing and taking in life. Unfortunately this is getting hard to do. You can't just stop in somewhere that physical labor is done and offer services for a day so that you can get cash for groceries because the employer needs to report your assistance on his taxes, get your SSN, and do all the things that make such an arrangement more of a nuisance. There's still cash work but it's scarce. We have to record and report everything about our jobs and our lives and when you're is nontraditional it leaves the clerks unable to find an applicable form and inquiries abound.
I'm going to start drinking more and hopefully posting some ideas rather than my bitching!
Bare with me.
-The Publican (Old Scratch)
3/6/08 Drunker @ Home (10 pm)
BEER! I can never seem to get drunk enough. I know that sounds odd, and I've gotten to a point of blackout and vomited into wastebaskets while simultaneously embarrassing the hell out out of my near and dear (it's good for them, lightens them up a bit) but I've never totally lost myself. I want to discard the perceived self and be forcibly introduced to that raw and ragged creature that dwells in the brain of all beasts. However, no matter what I try, be it pot, LSD, mushrooms or the queen booze, I never have met myself at ends.
How can I know myself without knowing the most unabashed and unrestrained self? Who is she? Does she bite and kick and claw? Does she weep and wail or is she a pure purpose and, when reduced, think of nothing but the ends which she must accomplish.
There is always the possibility that the most raw me is the daily me. I suppose that would explain the flame of fear in the eyes of my co-workers. I do not feel that I've reached the bottom of this glass of rotgot yet, though. Perhaps I need a regimented schedule of self destruction. I may not be able to deconstruct this palace all at once, but one brick at a time might do the job.
Perhaps there is no base to what we are. Personality may be too complicated and segmented to be reduced to a single self. I do wish there was a solid thing that was elemental and me. A pure substance that could not be reduced any further, but can I really claim that that substance would be what it was when I was 16? 8? 2? I'm more inclined to think that 14 is spot on. Maybe our substance is tempered in the heat of puberty. I certainly came to be a very different individual at that time, with different motives.
I recall, as a young lass, viciously consuming the flesh of one of my high school boyfriends (in an affectionate, not cannibalistic, way) and having all other things gone from my mind; purity. Is that the raw and real self? Is the sexual self lurking behind all things even when the sex is not in the picture? This could be from a Darwinian perspective. Our genes are trying to propagate at any opportunity. No, I don't buy the simplicity of that. I think it plays a part but only a part. I did enjoy those awkward, fumbling, lustful, discovering moments though... high school was good for something after all. (Hi Jason B.)
You see, I'm very drunk, but still only a rambling boob in a world of boobs. Hey, but everybody likes boobs!
- The Publican (Tap Room No. 21)
3/6/08 - Drunk @ Home (8 pm)
This is becoming something of a monthly blog... though I have some archaic paper entries that I will transcribe into this journal at a later date. These were mostly written drunkenly at the bar and will not be dated appropriately when I do put them in.
Holy god it's been a shitty month. There were glimmers of pleasantness as one experiences moments of awareness in bad dreams, but for the most part it was not a month I'd like to live again.
I'm robotically doing my job in the midst of nazi fuckers who think they're liberal minded democrats. They support eugenics for crying out loud; EUGENICS!?! Only someone with an irrational sense of superiority could feel that they had the right to decide who should be able to propagate their physical, psychological and emotional selves. Holy shit these fuckers freak me out. I thought people this conformist and unthinking were just the nightmare of gutter punks. But be warned, they are real! Hide your children and spike your hair cause they're out there and they think you are very weird and should be forcibly sterilized.
Their opinion almost makes me regret my lack of desire to have children. I feel like these S.O.B.'s will out breed every rational, logical, creative mind in the world.
I've taken to telling my most lascivious stories just because I'm so bored. I'd rather be entertained by their reaction than be accepted into their tribe, which is only so long lived because they are unwilling to take risks. While I will likely die in some sort of twisted metal carnage they will live on in nursing homes and exist in a state that is only half aware; confused between what is left of life and what came before their marbles got tossed about. Oh where is my apocalypse where I can go Mad Max on their asses.
2/7/08 - Drunk @ Home
I've been busy, but now all of a sudden it's come to a dead stop. I've started a new job (I'm a scientist again) and applied to grad school for creative writing so I won't have to be a scientist forever. I lust for graduate school. I went to drop off my portfolio and the department smelled of brains. Sterile hallways of cement block adorned with bits of literature, art and clever cartoons. In the elevator, on my way home, a gent who belonged to this enchanted world made a joke about the elevator brand. I laughed and tried to quip clever back at him, but I was giddy and full of stupid. I'm pretty high right now and hopefully I won't be dashed to pieces with rejection... but if that happens I'll just go back to being bitter and angry.
Speaking of bitter and angry, I heard my new co-workers talking about me behind my back today. People need to grow the fuck up. I like the old adage: "Small minds talk about people. Average minds talk about things. Great minds talk about ideas."
Here, let me give childishness a try: My co-workers smell of cheese. They smell of Stilton cheese!
Okay, my co-workers don't smell of cheese. I don't so much care that they think ill of me but am confounded by why they do. I've only been there a month and have hit the ground running. My work has been exemplary and all results have been comparable to those who have worked there for years. I admit that we have striking social differences. These folks are church going, teetotal and shocked by anything out of the ordinary such as tattoos, makeup on boys, and libertarians. They have emotional reactions to things rather than logical. Poor things. I suppose I should not let it weigh on my mind as I've heard them doing it to each other as well. How unhappy do you have to be to spend so much of your talk-time talking nasty about those around you?
Kids, don't do drugs. If you do drugs you'll end up an average adult, stoned on your couch on a Saturday afternoon, 600 + miles away from where you grew up, and suddenly become paranoid that your father is going to catch you with the weed.
Good night, great emptiness. I'll try to stay in touch now that I've gotten my application in.
- The Publican (Bells Lager of the Lakes)
12/10/07 - Drunk @ Home
Too fucking cool for eHarmony! In my stupor I decided to fill out that eHarmony web site evaluation, with my partner's consent of course. They couldn't find a match for me within a large geographical region, even with the specification that geography was not relevant. I'm one in a fucking million, baby!
Okay, so most people are probably not honest on that. Who's going to say that they spend a lot of time being angry? I will, but that's because I don't feel like lying should be the foundation of a relationship (and 'cause I'm one in a million, baby). That's not a common opinion, believe it or not. My profile just sets me up as more of a person than a categorization. So I've got no match. I am unmatchable. I suppose I won't have to fight anyone to the death... too bad, that could be engaging.
eHarmony doesn't allow you to select any kind of homosexual match preference. What the hell. I've already got a man, maybe I want a sweet chickie to round out the relationship. I'm kind of a monogamist by nature though... I wouldn't dismiss a casual adventure but I cannot spare the time for more than one fully developed intimacy. However, if I were looking for a partner, sex would not be a restrictive criteria. This site must be affiliated with uppity, religious folk.
I offer eHarmondy my sincere "screw off!" Though they did make me infinitely happy by showing me how truly special and unique I am... in a fill-out-this-form kind of way.
Oh, for much fun and excitement to be added to your life, throw a Jello Shot party. Ask all of your buddies to get creative and make Jello shots (extra gelatin will keep them from being sloppy). If they get into it you'll have a few fantastic new favorites, like the margarita shot, and everyone will be too drunk to go home. You'll have people crashed out like homeless kitties.
- The Publican (cheap wine)
12/1/07 - Drunk @ The Tap Room
The Church is near, but the roads are slippery. The Bar is far, but I'll walk carefully. Nothing could be more apt (though I don't really attend church). Tonight is the first snow that's had any reasonable accumulation. It's a Saturday night, so I hate to think of all the fair weather drivers sliding around out there. Even in the warmth of the Tap Room my fingers are numb and trembling from the three block trek to arrive.
It seems to be a slow night, which is not surprising considering the inclement conditions, but it is disappointing. I was hoping for some human interaction and you don't get much more human then when you're drunk. Man is an animal who's trying to be a symbol and one can't hold image when one can barely hold their piss. Sadly, even the best of my friends (save a very few) have thought less of me when I got wasted beyond belief and spent the afternoon vomiting into a trash can in their living room. Yes, I know that it's unseemly, but it is also myself at my most vulnerable and mistaken. I love that me because she is taken down to necessity. I felt like such crap that I no longer cared about keeping up appearances or keeping down breakfast. Life was suddenly so simple. Not that I like the feeling, and I'll probably try to avoid destroying myself like that again, but I have experienced it and I value having been there. I can now sympathize when I see another walking that path and not consider their present state to be the sum of their character.
So many of our ideas of beauty come from touched up photos of people posed after hours of work on their clothes, make-up and hair. They are not any kind of person that you'll see scrapping the ice from their windshield at 6:00 am or rushing through a sandwich on an all-too-short lunch break. They are merely symbols and most strive to be just that. I know women who are embarrassed to eat a meal in front of someone they are attracted to, let along brush their teeth or clip their toenails. These actions would deconstruct the symbolic self, the self that has been consciously established. The real self is often unknown, even to the individual, because it is a reactionary, natural and unthinking self. Not that this unplanned person is unintelligent, it is just unpredictable since all actions are automatic and not reconstructed based on company or environment.
During our formative years we are, instead of discovering our "selves", establishing and developing a system of "selves" that can be accessed throughout our lives. There is, obviously, a seed of our raw being at the heart of all of these people. There must be a piece of the author in the fiction. When someone reaches too far in this creative endeavor the projected self becomes flimsy and transparent. We have all met someone practicing with such an unfamiliar image. A good liar can pull it of... beware of these folks.
If you want to meet the person behind the farce, the wizard behind the curtain, either be completely alone for an extended period of time or get tight (or both). If you don't spend much time with this person you'll find them underdeveloped and possibly annoying as all get-out. I think this is at the root of most violent drunks (I mean the unpleasant, awkward violent, not the fun type). They have not allowed their core self to mature in the shade of all their decoys. Decoys can be shot down without consequence to the real duck. When these folks are intoxicated that nasty, neglected bastard comes out. Unfortunately they're so embarrassed the next day that they further stifle the 12 year old that desperately needs some attention.
This obsession with the symbol and not the reality is mostly for simplicity. It's a lot more complicated to truly get to know someone than it is to categorize and we know that and take advantage. This is also why a person, when drunk, can become interested in another that they would otherwise not associate with. Upon getting up the next morning they are unable to reconcile their partner with the type that their projected self would take and interest in, though their root self might because of a differing taste from the norm or lack of refinement of their taste. Our base selves, if ignored, will function on a very simple reward/punishment/genetic predisposition mode.
It's dangerous to write about someone who is sitting near you, but beside me are two men and one woman. The men I will name big-mouth-fuck-nut (bmfn for short) and quiet (or hereafter known as Q). Girl apologizes for and complains about the behavior of bmfn, who abandons her with Q to play video games. Bmfn returns for drinks and discourse (chugging a beer in 9 seconds while making Girl time him) and Girl tells him to leave because her and Q were having an "intellectual conversation." But Girl does not actually want him to leave. This is obvious by her taunting, goading tone. She wants to make him jealous and pay attention to her. Of course, bmfn doesn't leave but paws at her as Q looks sadly on. Bmfn tells her to come watch him get the high score on the video game, which she does. Despite what most say, women want the loud mouth, frat sons-of-bitches who fuck them and fuck them over. It's a dominant male thing. Then, of course, they bitch about wanting a nice guy while Q is still single and bmfn, who can chug a beer in 9 seconds and get the high score (all the while with his girlfriend idly watching) is crawling with women, and probably herpes. Good luck to those crazy kids.
Bmfn, Q and Girl have gone over to the video games and been replaced by a couple of chicks and a guy. These ones are all the more entertaining. So much desperation. "Oh my god, if my friends come over I have to move all my dildos," "I have dildos in, like, every room," "I've very sexually liberated, I'm into chaining up boys and being chained up," etc, etc, etc; all said for the benefit of the one male that is in proximity (and obviously a source of competition). These types are likely the most boring lays around. I've always found the Q's of the world to be the energetic freaky fun types.
These chicks cannot seem to develop a conversation that is not centered around sex. It is no wonder they need the dildos, no man could tolerate being with someone so insecure for any length of time; someone with so little depth that they need to flaunt their orifices in order to attract a mate... who would become disenchanted fast enough to be one in a string of one night stands. I see the one male is likely going to play this role. He's bouncing between them like a ping-pong ball.
*Serve*
Girl #1: "I don't need a commitment, I just like to get some action."
*Serve*
Girl #2: "Oh my god, it's cold in here, feel my nipples."
Don't get me wrong, I own and enjoy a few sex toys, but I don't yell about them at the bar... I suppose unless it's really, really funny. Why the hell would I? They are for my enjoyment. If I want to get laid (supposing I needed to pick someone up) I think I'd use a tactic other than: "Guess what?! I use a dildo which proves that I have a vagina that you could put your dick in! I'm just chuck full of holes!" This method inevitably leads to disappointing, sloppy, booze numbed sex. As opposed to fun, booze numbed sex.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Use a little class people.
Man... how can I be this damned bored.
- The Publican (whiskey then beer)
11/23/07 - Drunk @ Home
Black Friday is here and, as promised, I've been drinking mimosas. I've also been reading most of the day; Hunter S. Thompson's The Rum Diary. As with most of Thompson's work, it's rough and tumble and a fast read, but I've noticed oddities to the physical thing as well as the content. I get most of my literature from the library and this paperback edition is no exception. For starters the thumbing zone (pick up a paperback and flip the pages with your thumb, it's probably positioned a little below the center of the edge) is filthy. People with filthy hands have been reading this book. The second thing I noted, and this is equally expected along with the filthy handedness of Thompson fans, were a couple spots of blood on pages 96 and 97. These were not from a single blood spot that was transfered from one contact point when the page was turned and the blood still wet. There are two separate dollops. My theory has to do with the reading speed of the intoxicated along with the numbing effect of alcohol, causing the reader to leave an oozing cut untended and repeatedly reposition his or her hand in a desperate attempt to focus and keep their place on the page but doing all this at a retarded speed, thus giving the blood ample time to dry before moving on. Or, it could be that the book was left open in the vicinity of an ugly fight and spatter can be inevitable under such circumstances.
Speaking of blood spatter: Our cat brought a fully live robin into the house a few months ago and released it for his, and I imagine he thought our, entertainment. We successfully let the avian out the bathroom window, unscathed to our pet's disappointment, but we knew that birds indoors will fly around the ceiling looking for a way out and unwittingly scrape their noggins leaving behind smears of the red stuff, so we went about looking to see if the poor beast had done any such thing when we noticed one little splatter of blood. It did not seem smeared but more like it had landed there after being flung upwards and out from our kitchen. We still don't know where it came from.
-The Publican (mimosas)
11/22/07 - Drunk @ Home
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
I just saw a television commercial (yea, I'm stuffed and lazing about the house) where Meijer advertised their sales for "black Friday." That's our phrase! They can't use it! That's what the people who hide indoors while the insane masses beat the hell out of each other over an MP3 player say! They can't take that phrase from us. As revenge I'm going drink mimosas and watch news footage of the Friday bloodbath going on in Wal*Mart as old ladies club each other to death with discount merchandise.
How is it saving money if you're buying things you don't need and would not otherwise buy? Are they Christmas presents? If they're gifts then should you not be trying to exercise some generosity rather than frugality? Fooling your girlfriend into thinking you spent more than you did is just a way of saying that you're a selfish son-of-a-bitch who wants to trick her into a $500 blow job for only $99.95. False generosity, a lie, she means only enough for small sacrifices so long as she's fooled into thinking they're larger demonstrations than they are. You want more than you want to give. Bake your loved ones some fucking cookies if you're broke. I suppose there is something exciting and valuable about doing battle in the isles to achieve something for one you care about, but I doubt it's the battle they're in the game for, no, it's the "savings." Well, I hope they're cold tonight as they camp out in front of the JC Penney or where ever these lunatics go.
To all of you lovely creatures who will, instead, spend your Friday morning in bed with your loved ones, kitties, a good book or a battery powered device: hats off, kids, to you and all of your kind.
-The Publican (rum with lemon in tea)
11/21/07 - Drunk @ The Tap Room
I just witnessed a sad interaction of desperation. Over conversation about his wife, a worn looking 40-something woman flirted with a "sharp" looking business man. I say "sharp" because I know there are silly folks out there that find certain kinds of attire and stick-up-my-ass behavior to be signs of success and therefore attractive. They talked about the big dinner his wife was lovingly making for him the next day and that he was married for 25 wonderful years. Then they went out to franticly screw in some alley or car. She returned by herself, disheveled and looking a bit sick. Then she promptly began hitting on the next strange man that sat down on the stool beside her, where her momentary lover, who proved she was still attractive by his willingness to cheat on his wife to fuck her and then never think of her again, had just been. I suppose she needed more proof, or likes VD and wants to collect the whole set.
Then she started dragging me into it. I don't even know these people but when she asked him sexually explicit questions and he reacted with an uncomfortable pause she looked across to me and said, "Well, that's what us girls what to know! Am I right?" I ignored her and returned to my beverage.
Sad behavior for anyone. If you want to get laid that's fine, but this was not for getting laid as that was accomplished. She wanted to know that despite her skin's loss of youthful elasticity she could still get men. Not a man, but men. A single datum does not make for trend after all.
Class needs a resurgence. It doesn't mean we can't have a good time. Hell, look at Sinatra and Mae West. Either gender can enjoy sexual and intoxicant adventures without having to be a whorish about it. A smattering of self respect can go a long way.
-The Publican (beer)
11/19/07 - Drunk @ Home
Has it really been nine days? It feels like more, maybe 18 or 37. It has been a crazy week, though it was myself that went a bit nuts and not the seven day span itself. My job, oh that place that I go to do things that people pay me for; scraps of paper that they give me that translate to a different kind of paper that I can trade for goods and services despite any real value beyond a governmental designation. Kind of scary when you think of it. I recall once I was wasted, and in respectable company. I don't know how I found myself there, I think they were friends of my boyfriend and he thought it would be fun to take me out on the town in such a state, but anyway, we were all in a restaurant and I could not grasp the concept of paying for dinner. Fortunately I didn't have to pay. When you take the little stoned girl out on the town you don't expect her to remember her wallet after all. It wasn't that I couldn't understand that this was the custom, but it all just seemed so silly to give them these bills and coins, bits of our less valuable natural resources refined into shapes and sizes that are acceptable as money. On the other hand, I'm, when sober at least, happy to accept such arbitrary representative objects. No, I'm not a hippie!
So where was I going? Work? My job? Yes, my job. I used to love my job. I sell books. Somehow I was recognized as competent and that's when it all started going to hell. I was promoted and given a pittance more in exchange for everyone asking me all their bloody stupid questions. However, I thrive on change and for a while it was great and I could lord my power about the place, which was fun for a time. Now, I'm bored. I'm again like many other Americans: bored and underpaid. We had a management shift and our new manager is a moron so I've decided it's time to go. Though the business itself I love, I can no longer tolerate the ludicrous pussyfooting around the place. So I'm available, baby!
I get the feeling, when I hold a glass of wine, of cupping the well rounded breast of a woman leaning forward. It's very erotic. I was disappointed to find out that champagne glasses, the little squat ones not the flutes, were not modeled after a beautiful woman's breasts. I had heard they were formed from the titties of Marie Antoinette but alas the glasses were designed in 1663 and that lady was born in 1755. It's a shame as it makes for a fantastic story to tell when sipping a bit o' the bubbly. I still find the glass to be breast-like, though that may not have been the intent in it's design... at least not the conscious intent.
-The Publican (cheap wine)
11/10/07 - Drunk @ Home
I've had two dreams in my life (that I recall) which have included literary figures. One was when a coworker kicked me out of a party with Gore Vidal. I was very pissed at him the next day... despite the surreality. The other had to do with William Faulkner, and this is the more interesting of the two. I dreamed that there was a beautiful glass case in a museum. I was walking through this museum with my shoes echoing off of the white marble floors and approaching the case, which was lit with five overhead lamps, one above and the other four shining into it from the four corners. I approached to see a manuscript, open and scrawled upon with sloppy writing, covered in vomit. The story, that I omnisciently new, as happens in dreams, was that Faulkner was drunk and writing some unpublishable gibberish when he threw up on the unfinished work. Faulkner's esophageal discharge was forever preserved for the ages.
-The Publican (Rum in hot water with lemon)
11/8/07 - Drunk @ Home
The new Beowulf movie looks horrible. Yes, I know that Angelina Jolie is naked with gold paint and a tail but that doesn't make up for it. The stiletto heels are a bit ridiculous and Grendel looks like hamburger with Mr. Potato Head eyeballs. Genetics be damed if he can fall out of her... or the father was actually a pile of raw burger. I have not seen in (nor will) so maybe she's not supposed to be the mother... hopefully at least. Anyone who has any fondness for the story, even if not in its original olde English incarnation, will set themselves afire in the theater. I think those chairs and the wall drapings are quite flammable so you might even make the news for that level of catastrophic destruction. Every time I see a commercial for the 2007 movie I think it's for some terrible video game because the CGI is so poorly done. If you want to see some more interesting Beowulf media you could see The 13th Warrior, read the book Grendel by John Gardner or see the 2005 movie Beowulf & Grendel... or just read the original.
The decline of visual media does not surprise me. I seems to accompany the decline of literature and vocabulary. My fondness for vocabulary comes from my insecurity of my own and my desire to be able to communicate with more specificity. Even if you don't know the big words you can effectively communicate but not with such precision. For example: I recently learned a new word, this word is apodictic (look it up) and I could easily explain its meaning if necessary but the word sums up that meaning, as words have a tendency to do. "He spoke in an authoritative manner, with a certitude in regard to the topic" could just as easily be phrased as "He spoke in an apodictic manner." It's not as poetic but it is precise. This may not be the best example but it points in the general direction of where I'm trying to go. I have issues communicating with my fellow humans so I find this sort of thing to be elusive and beautiful. I desire the ability to express myself clearly, concisely and without the frequent misunderstandings that come with poorly constructed sentences or limited vocabulary. Sadly, however, as I develop these skills I'm confronted with the perception that I'm trying to be pretentious. Bettering one's self is often met with resentment, but I say fuck 'em.
Earlier today I thought that, maybe, our decline in social propriety is a result of a disappearing middle class... not that this is a bad thing (the lack of propriety that is, not the increasing number of individuals stricken by poverty). If you've ever moved through many circles you'll see that vulgarity is the luxury of the low and high class. The rich have the ability to call each other sluts and do way too much coke, just like the lower class is given liberty to cast off their inhibitions (though crack is more common here 'cause it's cheap). One group has nothing to lose and the other can afford the consequences, you figure out which is which. I think our movement away from any social grace has to do with the loss of the keepers of said grace. The middle class was our definer of social norms and they used to be a large enough consumer demographic that companies concerned over offending them. The extremes are dominant and we have no median group to meet the vices halfway.
I think we should bring back the old tradition of going to a show for free and throwing some coin their way if we like the actors. We need people to bridge the gap and help keep perspective in our value system, or I fear that my fellow poverty stricken friends will only see the rich in their aspirations for a better life and not someone who just works hard and benefits from their labors (not that this is a plausible option these days... there is too much going wrong to cover in this rant...) or who strive for their passion and not the money that it offers. We need the middle class for role models because they can provide everything between destitution and depraved luxury so we can witness a myriad of options in case we're not creative enough to imagine them. Better yet we need a world where there are no poor, but that goes against our natural, pack-minded, hierarchical tendencies.
- The Publican (Wine, not cheap!)
11/6/07 - Drunk @ Bar Louie
Bar Louie is a chain restaurant/bar, but they have a $1 burger special... I get two decent beers and a burger for five bucks. This redeems them to me. At a table, not far from me but out of earshot, a young, thin blonde is talking enthusiastically to a man who looks happy but uninterested. I want to revel in his state of being uninterested because she is, socially considered, beautiful. Setting my bitterness aside he does look happy. I suppose he does not have to find her ramblings interesting to love her, or even find her, as a person, interesting. He may find her motivations gripping. She could be talking about (remember, I am out of earshot and so this assumption is terribly judgmental... cause it's fun!) whatever pop culture bullshit, celebrity fuck up that's in the news, but he may hear: "Life can take you in unexpected directions and I need to know that you will be there for me when I need you, even if I freak out or lose everything else." In a way this is sad, pathetic and deeply rooted in personal underdevelopment and insecurity, but I suppose it's still sweet. Maybe that's what people mean by "you know me better than I know myself."
Art is the struggle to create something meaningful, or meaning itself, as a way to combat the meaningless, the absurdity, of life. I'm paraphrasing/deriving inspiration from Camus... mmm...
I think of reading as a kind of digestion. This gives rise to such exclamations as the one above. You are taken in, then there is time to digest (here you contemplate and recognize, maybe are shocked with an eerie familiarity) and then you are excreted out into the world much changed. I'm not saying that, after reading something of value, you're nothing but a pile of shit... but shit is sort of a wonderland if you're intestinal bacteria.
- The Publican (beer beer beer)
11/4/07 - Drunk @ Home
Folgers coffee is not good. Don't believe the commercials. It is not good. They only get away with saying that it's good because it's subjective and they can claim that there are people, who have had their tongues severely burned I assume, who would find that taste appealing.
For the most part I find that commercials insult my intelligence. It is rare that I see a commercial and wish to try their product. More often I see a commercial and then find out what products that company makes and then swear off of any future purchases. Screw you, Wendy's!
Ugh, Smirnoff Ice makes me feel sick... I don't know if it's the sugar or what. We had guests that left a bunch of wild grape Smirnoff ice at our house and I can't justify dumping it. I am instituting a new rule: if guests buy this crap they have to finish it or take it with them when they leave. I prefer it when people leave straight liquor.
I'm recalling with fondness my evenings at bars. I have had brief relationships with people from all around the world and those going all around the world. About a month ago I met a gent who was on his way to Argentina to start a new life and another who was working on a nation wide database for philosophers to interact in real-time. By far the most interesting among those I meet are the older folks who have lived a full life and have the wherewithal to relate their adventures for the edification of us youngins.
Even though I love my parents, in the way that is necessary to respect those who have raised you and fed you until you were 17, I still feel a greater kinship with people who I meet at random. Vagabonds, tramps and troublemakers. Maybe it is the transience of these relationships that allows me this affection. Bartenders and bar patrons are dearest to me as they are sharers of burdens and joys and you can all leave the excess emotions in the empty glasses when you exit. These folks will not pry, but will commiserate with the sentiments that you vomit forth and as easily disregard you.
For these things I love them. Givers or takers, they are temporary in my life, so will relieve themselves of their excess and take up what they can still carry. The bar is the trading floor for joys and sorrows. Their moments of comfort are earnest because they have no reason to lie or pretend that they care when they really want to make the conversation as short and simple as possible so that they can go back to watching television. I have found more sympathy and advice in a ten minute friendship over a pint than I have found with my mother. Maybe that's because the short term interaction cannot get boring. My family is likely bored with my long term suffering but, to my fellow stool jockeys, it's all new information. More likely I am at better ease to divulge my struggles to those who I will not have to interact with beyond that moment. There are no more zen-like friendships than those of the bar.
- The Publican (Smirnoff Ice (yeck), coffee and amaretto, cheap red wine)
11/3/07 - Drunk @ Home
I watch the Daily Show. It's funny, smart and I find dorks to be very, very sexy. In addition I'm interested in the more insane side of politics and this show distills it to its essence. That essence is thick, sticky and smells of pleather, but I think we need to watch this circus to know that eventually the elephant in the admiral's hat is going to rampage and kill a handful of clowns. Recently I saw that, in one of the many democratic debates, Dennis Kucinich was asked if he'd seen a UFO. Regardless of the answer I have to say... WHAT? How is this relevant? They are obviously trying to pick him out as having a case of the crazies, but by saying "yes" he is only stating that he saw something flying which he could not identify and it was an object.
We have lost our ability to dissect a sentence, separate its constituent organs and determine what the person is trying to say. We don't listen. I write crap and don't listen as much as I should. Our first step will be to LISTEN and second, if we know anything about where the speaker is coming from, to apply our speaker information and psychology and thus figure out what they mean by their language. Many people try to avoid lying when they say things publicly but it's not because they are honest so much as they are afraid that they won't be able to remember what they said. To steer clear of this troublesome conundrum they spend hours and hours coming up with sentences structured to say very little, or nothing at all, of relevance. And they say public education has failed us, it hasn't failed us so much as given some of us the tools necessary to confound the rest.
Some MIT students wrote a program that puts together papers that make no sense but sound like they should. A paper that they put together using this software (Rooter: A Methodology for the Typical Unification of Access Points and Redundancy) was accepted by the World Multi-Conference on Systemics, Cybernetics and Informatics. They used what is called context-free grammar. The sentence makes grammatical sense but doesn't say a damn thing! It sounds right but you can't understand it, so, like anything that people can't understand, they pretend to understand it and at the same time assume that it must be fantastically intellectual since it's beyond them.
Here's a snippet, just for fun:
"Many scholars would agree that, had it not been for active networks, the simulation of Lamport clocks might never have occurred. The notion that end-users synchronize with the investigation of Markov models is rarely outdated. A theoretical grand challenge in theory is the important unification of virtual machines and real-time theory. To what extent can web browsers be constructed to achieve this purpose?"
I think that's what hell sounds like.
- The Publican (Miller High Life and Cheap Red Wine)
11/2/07 - Drunk @ Abe's
Barry White makes fish fuck.
- The Publican (Miller High Life)
10/31/07 - Drunk @ Ashley's
Praise to whiskey for it alleviates my mind, heavy as it is. A weakness you say? No, this assertion I refute, for my heart is weakened by unabating hardship, of which I have little control and such a drink does not deaden my pain so much as fuel the flames of my fury to fight my secretive foes. The biliary conflict which has entwined the one I love and the poverty that howls like an ill wind, shaking the shudders and endangering the fires of life's passion, are relentless but to them I also will not relent. Steadfast with my friend, the liquor, making my body limber enough to endure the onslaught without being shattered by its blows.
I happened to come into the pub today at a very auspicious hour. I ordered my cold weather drink of choice, Jameson and coffee, only to have the drink paid for by a man sitting a few stools down. It turns out that he is their vendor for Jameson, as well as an array of other liquors. When I was half way through that he, in an effort to convince the buyer that it was a customer pleasing beverage, had another coffee poured for me to which he added some vanilla Kahlua from his sample case. A couple of free drinks and of course I had to stay and buy a few as well before stumbling back to work.
The Kahlua was okay, a bit on the sweet side, but it was the sample case itself I was impressed with. It was a sturdy, black leather bag, the kind I imagine doctors once carried, that flipped up to reveal eleven partitioned sections for large bottles and a pouch full of mini bottles. I want to go door to door with that. I'll bet there's money to be had. You could go house to house pouring shots and thus providing your samples as well as lubricating the deal. I'm sure there are all kinds of laws designed to prevent my innovative exercise of capitalism, that's why I'll keep it as a one time sale and won't leave contact information. Buying wholesale might be an issue... but I could hop state borders between low priced states and high priced states, or buy cheap stuff, filter it and pour it into a better bottle. Yup, I'm on to something here; I could be the greatest huckster of the decade.
"Hello, is the lady of the house home? I have for you today, and for today only, a fine bottle of Laphroaig for the price of your standard rotgut. No, of course this is legal. I am a bonafide purveyor of discount spirits; spirits to raise your own."
Happy Halloween.
- The Publican (Jameson and Coffee, Vanilla Kahlua and Coffee)
10/28/07 - Drunk @ Home (Eventually I'll be Drunk @ the bar)
Well, my hand at PBR so far is the ace of clubs, queen of diamonds, jack of diamonds, five of spades and six of hearts. Unless I crack another beer or two I'll have nothing at all. If one cannot gamble with one's self then one should not gamble at all.
Sunday is the best day to get drunk and laze about the house. I've never been one for church. All church goers have done for me is ring my bell too early on Saturday to give me crazy literature and block the roads on Sunday. I've only ever been to church twice. Once I went with a friend out of curiosity and the other time was a vigil before Christmas... but I don't remember why I would have gone to that, I was very young. The friend I went with broke into a church to steal the communion wafers. He said they were delicious but I'll have to take his word for it. Theft of the body of Christ... it really ought to be an all you can eat kind of situation. Same for the blood. Why would any Christian be against getting wasted on the blood of Christ? It should be a religious experience; the more you drink the holier you should be. I was once so holy that I blacked out for three days. That is being blessed.
Blessed be the ugly. Okay, I don't know so much about religion or blessings but ugly is a lucky thing to be. If you want to shake up any beautiful person you should ask them if their significant other would have been drawn to them, or would stay with them, if they lost their looks. It sends a shiver because they know that they must solidify something more permanent between meeting and getting wrinkly and fat, but the ugly will always know that they are loved for something less transient.
Here are a couple drink recipes to cap off the night:
Flaming Dr. Pepper:
1 shot of amaretto with a skim of bacardi 151
1 short glass of light beer
Light the shot on fire and drop it in the beer. Be careful not to light your hand and the bar itself on fire or they'll stop serving you... trust me. Slam the drink. For some reason it tastes like Dr. Pepper.
Sex With Your Mother:
1 glass of light beer
1 cup of milk, 2% or whole
Just like the name, it's not something that you want to have. This is a drink to give your dumb-ass friends when they're already drunk. Make it seem like a manly thing to slam. It's unpleasant.
- The Publican (PBR and coffee with amaretto... I call it nuts 'n' beans)
10/27/07 - Drunk @ Home
I'm watching a horrible movie about futuristic prison escape, but the commercial for exercise equipment interested me more. I hope these folks stay in good shape, that way if there's ever an apocalypse (and I'm sure as hell not going to be floating up into the clouds) they will be absolutely delicious and I'd probably have fewer compunctions about the ugliness than they'd have... being a warlord as I would be. Though the only reason we were given the wide berth for evolving into the people that we are today was our offensive odor and poor taste. It's easy to survive with squishy bodies and no sharpness of claw or tooth when you taste like crap. We are the Necco wafers of the animal world.
Pabst Blue Ribbon has one of the best "keep drinking" gimmicks, not that I need a gimmick to keep drinking. On the inside of of each cap (I'm referring only to glass bottles here) there is a card. So far tonight I have a pair of fours. My whole hand consists of a four of diamonds, a four of hearts, a seven of clubs, a six of clubs, a ten of hearts and a Jack of spades. I had to make a decision at the corner store today... it was 15 Guinness for $16 or 18 PBR for $9. I deliberated for a half an hour.
Cults, to sort of change the subject, don't work in the long term. They might work as far as a group of people consider themselves as part of something with a consistent name but the thing itself either vanishes or changes. I blame children, little bastards ruin everything. A bunch of adults can come together in a diluted fog and decide about a bunch of rules and call themselves something like "The Order of the Flaming Ball of the Sky" but as soon as they start having screaming larvae it's over. The parents might think their kids will be into it. When they were kids they decided to drink, party, fuck like mad and start a cult based on those sacred principles, so they figure that their kids will be inclined toward the same things. What they don't get is that they did it to discover things outside of what their family and culture taught them. Hypothetical conversation with 15 year old cult-born kid:
"Jimmy, have a beer and join the naked bonfire dance. Uncle Harold is drumming tonight and Jeanie is going to be doing the fire eating. There are also sugar cookies," says mom.
"No!" says Jimmy, "I want to wear jeans, listen to Fallout Boy... and sugar rots your teeth! Also, I've been wanting to talk to you for a long time about some other things. For instance; why don't I have a social security number? How am I going to get a job or go to college? I want to study business management and I've been hearing some compelling arguments posed by people who call themselves republicans."
Let that keep going and Jimmy might start to wonder why other people think he smells funny. Rebellion happens and it's healthy. Naturally all children will go through a process of breaking away from their family, this prevents too much inbreeding and lessens the likelihood of having no forearms.
So, cults can't last. Christianity is not what it once was; each generation has its own interpretations, that's why I don't get to see the glory of more bearded men. However, if your dream is to start some kind of fire cult, don't be dissuaded. It works fine for people who join as adults and you can always use birth control.
Hey, I just got another four of diamonds. So, that's three fours. Not a bad hand.
- The Publican (PBR!)
10/25/07 - Drunk @ Home
I have a laptop. It's old but it's a Mac so that still makes it about two years in the future by comparison to the alternative and the efficiency of the software on the available hardware. But still, I am unsatisfied. You see when I write, especially when I'm drunk, the writing goes slow, tedious and frequently distracted by mixing, pouring and looking at funny pictures on the Internet, so I have to go plug the damn thing in every couple hours or sit at my desk rather than the magazine and dictionary strewn futon or sprawl on the floor where I can get close enough to the hairballs to liken them to tumbleweeds. On rare occasion there is a spider to commune with. Have you ever seen a Daring Jumping spider? For being a harmless, mid-western dwelling species, they're fucking scary looking. Don't get me wrong, I tend to like arachnids and insects. They are the creepy little bone pickers that keep our world clean, our children entertained and our pest control experts employed. On the other hand look up a picture of those things. They look like midget tarantula... with green, soul sucking eyes. Give me a spider with long, mechanical, javelin legs any day, but those stumpy hairy legged guys show up and I just can't help but recall being eight and watching Earth Versus the Spider when my parents left me in the hands of my preteen, fist swinging sister. That girl could beat on me for hours and leave no marks. She had a gift that I didn't recognize for years afterward.
There are a slew of microscopic organisms all around me and I have to wonder: do microscopic organisms, the male variety specifically, have scrotums? Funny, my spell check doesn't think scrotum is spelled wrong, but scrotums is for some reason... there can never be a multitude of scrotums, it is not allowed. I doubt microscopic scroti. I am not referring to single cell organisms here, just tiny bugs and I am no entomologist. Someone please, enlighten me. Are these only mammal things?
Anyway, enough about the spiders, microorganisms and the scrotus. They'll keep creeping in the corners (the spiders and microorganisms... not the scrotus), eating the potato bugs that are trying to escape the coming winter, and I'll keep ignoring them until the cat eats them. It is the natural order after all. All I'm trying to say is that I'm pro-floor and anti-plugging-things-in. I remarked, to a brilliant man that I'm familiar with, that I ought to invent a suit that would harvest any excess energy that is given off from the body and rout it into a battery for any device you feel like using. If my battery runs low I'll jig my leg for an hour. My brilliant friend remarked something that I'm not sure is true, he has a tendency to filter information for its entertainment value, but he said that someone has a patent on a strap-on device for such purposes. Once if finished my immature giggling to the word "strap-on," I thought that this patent holder was the hairball in the drain of progress. I don't know if some lunatic payed the gobs of cash required to patent and idea and is now working away in his garage with a screw driver and a hamster, but I do know that there are folks out there with more money than forethought who patent ideas just in case they're invented at some point in the future. It wouldn't surprise me if there have already been patents issued for time travel and pills that make you lactate beer. So, if a dream comes to some biochemist as she sleeps off the company comped old fashions on a hotel pillow and she builds that time machine beer lactating pill, she'll be sued by Microsoft. Now, if our sultry biochemist ventures to patent her device fist she will discover that it has already been taken and we will never get to time travel while lactating beer. It's sad! I want my to travel the centuries and become intoxicated by suckling at sweet flesh of my own tit. I suppose I'd need some kind of hose contraption... but, unless it's been patented, I'm sure someone will come up with that... actually I think they already have, so nevermind.
Good night, you vast nothingness you.
- The Publican (cheap wine again... Franzia was on sale...)
10/22/07 - Drunk @ Home
Why don't we have rites of passage anymore? We've got the administrative b.s. like driver's licenses and losing our virginity in cars but nothing that says: "Today you are an adult and we will treat you as such with all of our cultural privileges and responsibilities." There are, of course, stages. When you're 18 you legally become an adult, you can serve in the military and sign legally binding contracts and go to prison for the rest of your natural life (though they've extended that to children in the U.S.) but you still can't drink or rent a car. Once you can drink you still can't rent a car. Even after all of these benchmarks have been met you will still be considered suspiciously until you have a job or a spouse or kids or some combination.
Our maturity does come in stages. If you haven't noticed the assholes around you, some people never develop it, but our cognitive recognition of what is expected of us in blurred. People often live up to what is expected of them and that is what a rite tells them; "We now expect these things of you, as an adult," it says. And the pride that comes with that is extraordinary! It might be a pride that can only be born of a child's ambition but that raw energy gives rise to an image that they now want to fulfill. All kids want to be superheroes at some point.
With such a distinct defining line between child and adult there will be despondency. Suddenly they will question if it's okay to play with their younger friends and their very childish toys, but what is gained is a clear idea of themselves. I still don't feel like an adult and I'm in my late 20's. I can rent a car, drink (obviously), sign away my life or spend the rest of it in prison, but I don't feel like a "grown up." I still ask myself what I want to be when I grow up. I'm lost in an undefined adulthood. I can't even fathom the idea of having children or settling into a stable job. Fuck, I'm still finding myself but that quest has been confused with adulthood. We never find ourselves because we never, or at least should never, stop improving, but with no other way to define our completed development we try to wait until we know ourselves inside and out.
Throw us headlong into that complex world of grown upedness and hope that we can make our way through the jungle. If we are smart and have been raised to understand how to go about learning the ropes then we'll be just fine. Teach us to learn, not to do, and then give us the designation of maturity so we can be just that.
Strange... this has been awfully unexpected and serious dialogue. I suppose I just want to be universally recognized as self aware and responsible for all of my own actions as an adult. Wait... there's something important there... responsibility! In the U.S. today (I use the United States frequently as it is the only culture of which I am intimately aware) has a very BIG problem with personal accountability and fessing up. Just think of all the frivolous lawsuits that we have. When I was in Ireland a bit back I went to a popular tourist spot: the Cliffs of Moore (BEAUTIFUL!). One of the first things that I noticed was that there was no barrier for much of it, no fence to keep the dim from falling right off. For the more uneven land there were upended stones that formed a sort of fence but nothing to deter anyone from hopping on over them. It was the tourists' personal responsibility to not go falling over the cliffs, or to keep their young from doing so. I don't know if people sue for such things in that land but I do know they don't have the disclaimers and deterrents that we do. There is a liberty in that. If you are dumb and go leaping from the rocks, by accident or intent, then that's up to you. Natural selection will have taken place and those that hear of the incident with exclaim what a shame it is and that's the end of it. It is up to you to evaluate your own risks and suffer the consequences if you misjudge, not be protected and told what is good and safe for you like a child (also, it is your responsibility to watch your children or lose them). That should be our burden of adulthood. Stop looking for someone to punish when life takes you places you did not want. The one at fault may be yourself or your loved one (though this does not mean that they are bad people) or it could be no one at all, just chance and circumstance.
I'm beginning to think that if you are unable to sum up your concept in a single sentence without using grammatical acrobatics you have not thought it through and must refine it. So what I am trying to express here can be summed up as follows: Our cultural structure (laws, etc.) treats us as if were were children and so our culture is destined to grow more childish unless we have some rite that transitions us, as individuals, to a point at which we willingly become fully responsible for the consequences of our own actions.
- The Publican (cheap, cheap wine)
10/21/07 - Drunk @ Home
I am pissed off, in a near rage in fact. While you can't see, just trust me that I am a hazard to anyone with comforting words. I just spent an hour composing the most beautiful and thought provoking article about releasing hungry tigers into heavily populated cities only to have it lost, LOST! It was lost through my own error of not saving frequently and adjusting to substandard web development tools (I can't even import my own HTML without paying more, if you look at the source code its poorness is no fault of mine but that of my unwillingness to fork over another $10) but that thought does not comfort me. Lesson learned you bastard of a universe. I'll try to recompose it in the future because I don't want to deprive the vast emptiness of my random jabberings. It has to be that when I compose what I feel to be one of the most perfect bits of prose (exaggeration based on emotional response and intoxication) that chance would have to steal it away into nothingness. Son of a bitch.
-The Publican (it doesn't even matter...)
10/20/07 - Drunk @ Home
While I find the act of declaration to be somewhat distasteful (it does, after all, allow an insight into intent and thus diffuse my ability to be shocking or surprising, and I do so love to be shocking and surprising) I feel that I should explain myself just this once. I like to ramble when I drink so I figured I'd throw another snot encrusted tissue on that garbage heap that is the Internet and publish these ramblings. There, I guarantee, will be typos and vulgarity and you're just going to have to butch up and deal with that as most, if not all, of my posts will be added with an elevated blood alcohol level. Sit back and enjoy this venture into the dying art of public discourse.
-The Publican (Vodka Daiquiri)
| I encourage you all to send me anything that you jotted down in a stupor or if something I have written here has angered, enlightened, entertained or dumbed you down then I equally encourage you to give me a piece of your mind. Be warned that if you do so I won't necessarily give it back. If what you have to say spurs on any emotion or violent biological movement in me then I'll post it. This isn't a discussion sight because I'm not here to be democratic, but I'll certainly engage in conversation if I think it's worth my while... and that is very dependent on my level of boredom so go ahead and send me any old thing. |
| If you feel inclined to buy me a beer, and you know you do, you can do so with paypal. My email address is drunkenwriters@gmail.com. |