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Before I use my Saturday to do something gay like write a short story, I thought I'd post a blog, which more people will read anyway.
So it goes.
For the record, I haven't been wasted in a while. I flirted openly with it at the lingerie show, but then baled out early. Obviously, I'm letting you down. Or as Grizzly Evans said of me, "Man, you've become a lameass lately." When I successfully turned down free drinks at the Bird, Danimal asked, "Is everything alright?" Maybe I'm an alcoholic in reverse, abandoning the bottle when times are tough.
Truth is, I just haven't felt like it. Being drained by the lizard, I was almost always ready but -- and it could be the lithium talking -- since I fell in with the 11th Hour, I haven't had the urge.
That'll probably change in a minute. In the meantime, I'll paint you a portrait of the blogger as a young deviant.
In the winter of 1998, I was on the verge of dropping out of college for the first time, preferencially bolstering my underserved intellect with Derrida and Girard via my Comparitive Lit lady, a tutor with benefits. Life was good and I was dumb in love.
One night, Army of Darkness was showing at Vanderbilt and for that occassion, I had my first (albeit unofficial) whiskey slam. Up until that evening, I hadn't been a big fan of whiskey. I had good teachers, however, and in no time, I'd knocked back 13 shots of Jack. I remember the wobbles, collective over-confidence in my large frame and comments made about a friend we suspected of being queer. (Sidenote: He came out of the closet last year and I couldn't be happier for him).
The movie -- highly kinetic and weird all on its own -- proved too much for me so I took naps off and on. Saving my strength, I reasoned in the moments when I had the minimal amount of brain with which to reason.
Oh-so-fucked-up was fun and leaving the theatre, I asked if we were going to keep drinking. "Of course," they said, not yet sharing with me the secret art of "maintaining".
This story takes a bitter turn here.
In addition to my propensity for excess, I've almost always had a mean, jealous streak. Once, in middle school, when I heard that my best friend, Clint Bob Fadon, had called the girl I was "talking" to, I confronted him in the boys bathroom and upon confirmation of the rumor, punched a hole in the wall. A year later, on a youth trip to Savannah, I broke a knuckle repeating the same mistake with a stop sign.
My maturation in college had only curbed the "punching things" aspect of jealousy -- not yet perfecting the calm, rational thought for which I'm primarily known now. When my good buddy started doing shots with my girlfriend sans Mr. Chris, I took the bottle and did almost seven straight shots -- just to prove that I could. Then...
Then... I grabbed my notebook, pen and a couple cigars, and headed for the door without deference to the questions about my going.
My plan was to further cement -- as if the seven shot sucession hadn't already done it -- my title as Cool Guy Supreme. And what would prove how cool I am better than writing the Great American Novel? Not the first chapter, not an outline for it -- the whole damn thing, outside in the cold while the party raged upstairs in the dorm. I'd be the crazy, impulsive artist type. It'd be a story all the interviewers wanted to hear. It'd become legend.
It'd be a really bad idea about ten minutes later.
So, I'm sitting there leaning on the door to the Admissions office, my King Edward Imperial lit, the pen and paper ready for work but nothing else coming except something that felt like the end of the world. I wasn't going to vomit, that I could tell. I would, probably, die. It then became my mission to tell my girlfriend how much I really cared, but by the time I got to the intercom, all I could muster was a groggy plea for help.
"Where are you?!" She asked, angry and demanding.
"Outside. The Admissions circle. I love you. Come quick."
The only time I've ever blacked out was then. Apparently, I walked back to my spot against the glass door, replaced the notebook and pen, kept smoking the cigar then passed out.
My memory picks up when they found me. Friends -- girlfriend in the center -- surrounded me. Since I had to wake up to see everyone, I was convinced in the moment that I'd already passed away. And that's why I cried, periodically screaming about having just died. What upset me most was that I hadn't finished the Great American Novel and thus, had left no legacy behind. There was that, and I should mention that among the strangers to pass by during my tearful fit, one was my girlfriend's most recent ex-boyfriend who stopped to ask "Who's the freakshow?" and "Can I help?"
"It's my boyfriend," she said as I wept louder, "No, it's okay. He doesn't want to go to the hospital."
And I didn't. For one, I didn't have insurance or money, and two, I could be kicked out of school for being drunk. If I was going to leave, I was going to do so on my own terms.
The day after is a mystery to me as is the rest of that night. I have no clue whether I went to sleep or was hungover or what, but I do know that I never puked. That began my long affection for intoxication without reguritation. The few times that I have felt the need to return my alcohol to the soil from which it sprang, I haven't enjoyed it.
In the wake of that incident, I didn't drink for a couple months. Not a drop. I had a quarter of a Heineken solely to test my readiness and it made me queasy. See, it took a lot of hard work to get back to being a fun drunk, but with steely determination, I did it. Otherwise, I'd have to try filling this clog space and my bi-monthly 11th Hour column with tales of ultimate frisbee or some such lame activity.
(disclosure -- I've tried ultimate frisbee and found it too taxing.)
So, this is what it is. Drinking tends to lend itself to something stupid and that something stupid, once properly digested, becomes a story. I love stories and telling them, so I keep drinking. The examined life can be tough on the head and liver, but it's better than leaving myself open to insults from dead philosophers.
Kiss my ass, Socrates!
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