Drink Therapy

"You laugh at every joke. Drag your blanket blindly and fill your heart with smoke. And the first thing that you want will be the last thing you ever need. That's how you fight it. Loneliness." -- Wilco Or you could just drink. Alot. And get others to do it with you. See it isn't alcoholism if your friends are drinking too. Having a community means it isn't sad and pathetic in the morning when your hangover smells up the bathroom with used whiskey and potted meat, or that the worse thing that happens is when you discover your roommate has eaten half of the frozen pizza you'd been saving for a hungry day. I theorized recently that the reason patriarchal societies developed was because men don't want other men to know that they are vulnerable and the only people on Earth who can testify to it are women. Keep them barefoot, pregnant and/or cooking dinner, entertaining guests and chatting at the beauty parlor, women are no more dangerous than a bar fight, which a man doesn't need to win or lose in order to get his point across -- that he's a man. That's what community looks like to me and especially now that we're breaking down walls between our genders. It's a bar where we talk in circles about things and buy each other drinks -- sometimes just as a bribe to stay -- hoping our weaknesses only show themselves when we get on the dancefloor or empty our stomachs, which is sometimes on dancefloors. Thank god for bars and bathrooms. Where else would we put our shit? And where would we be without each other? None of us are so dumb we don't see each other hurting and knowing that you either laugh or you cry, we are simply choosing to laugh. We're there for each other and figure that professional help is something that should be paid for. It started off innocently enough. A Writers and Exciters meeting that I was 40 minutes late for, a quarter ream of paper made worthless when I fucked up the printing. Soon enough, it was simply social hour and so if we were going to be sharing stories, they'd all be off the top of our heads and no critique would follow. Only tangents. TCE looked sharp, shirt and tie. A bag of Doritos and several cigarettes later, drinking whiskey meant something again. And he called it. "Chris is drinking whiskey now." That after I learned the beer wasn't helping. While Hipsterpotamus leaned on what the W&E is supposed to be, I got distracted by two IT professionals and a woman in a cowboy hat. One went to work, another off to eat and the last had dinner plans, which I think is different than just eating. M-Y-Z and a viking wandered over from the bar. The fleshy part of the evening came in from the horizon, sweet and juicy like a peach. Drink specials were a casting call. Old Man Riddle and Tangle My Nangle sauntered in, followed by or joining Hank Vegas, Dramaturgy, Pre-K and god I don't know, I'll tell you when I get there. Point is, they was there. Finally, the Get Newt in the GA Music Hall campaign had begun. Riddle, handing me a nomination form, led me to believe he'd made it happen. Later, he reminded me that if we say it, it'll happen. Let it rise into the collective conscious and it'll soon enough join the Consciousness Collective, falling like rain on a hot damn day. For reciprocity, Newt Collier told me a story. Then Starlite Walker came over and Newt told it again. It was about the day "Hold On, I'm Coming" was born. What a way to say thanks, I thought. Don't give me a credit card. It's just retarded. I was told recently I shouldn't say that, but I don't care because it is just retarded. It is occurring or developing later than desired or expected; delayed. It is happiness for a night then hell to pay thirty days later and with interest. It's an excuse to show old high school chums what Bulleit Bourbon tastes like. When there isn't enough real cash in your pocket. Jeff wore a leather vest and I said it was sharp. I'm grateful for The Fish who wasn't there but still paints the sense into things I vaguely remember. Like a ghost, the Creme de la Femme walked back into my life, had a couple drinks then said goodbye until Christmas. Parting isn't so sweet on the morrow. And it doesn't go away just because Clyde is strong enough to hoist my heavy ass on his shoulder, slumped like a bag of potatoes and tired when it's done. Knowing I wasn't done was another issue. The night demanded a sacrifice, no virgin would do. The night was hungry for a whore. That's why I left my jumble of stories on the floor when I left. It was by accident that TCE's recent work was laid there, too. Speaking of, John Griffin and I may have started a local press last night, but I can't be sure because I have nothing to read today. Then to Hank's Afterparty Music Shack for a beer I didn't need and poetry that learned me on what it means to be from Peach County. I want to have taste and culture almost as much as I want food from Krystal's. But no Chicken Bites were harmed in the lounging on that couch. That's probably why I made myself a Ham Spread and Cheese sandwich when I got home. That and I'd been tempted by the label which informed me that it had "smoke flavoring". You know how I love "smoke flavoring". And I later slipped off my Bad Idea Jeans and slipped underneath a big-ass down comforter that's less comforting when I'm alone and aware of a warm woman in Milledgeville. But I couldn't drive there drunk. She told me that and I think the cops would agree. "I just want to sleep," I said, "It's the other half of why I drink." She said that was sad or could be but she hasn't read the first paragraph of this entry so I can't hold her ignorance against her. Really, it's all my fault.