Sobriety is for those who insist upon seriousness. I’ve learned not to trust sober people because they tend to take themselves, their existence and my existence way too austerely. Alcohol, like any chemical, affects everyone differently, but for many it is a fun and easy way to relax. There are those unfortunate few for whom alcohol has the opposite effect, heightening their seriousness and usually making them ornery and belligerent. These are the people who should remain sober. I don’t have any advice for helping these people deal with their grave existence except to perhaps try anti-depressants instead.
I spent many years sober, and people, especially those who haven’t seen me in awhile, still call me out on it. The best analogy I can give is by comparing my life to the familiar commands of “you can’t play until your chores are done” or “you have to finish your dinner before you can have dessert.” I spent many years delving into the mysteries of life and educating myself through literature, philosophy and music. But now that I have all the answers, I can fuck around. (Sometimes I feel nobody gets my sense of humor.) Life gives ample opportunity for enjoyment, and what’s the point if not just that? Seriousness has its place, but life is too important to always be taken seriously.
Alcohol is addictive for some, but not all, and most who drink are not alcoholics. Alcoholism is a genetic disease, and alcoholics are compelled to drink for no reason whatsoever, and have trouble stopping once they start. Unlike some other drugs, how alcohol affects your system changes drastically as the quantity changes. Roughly, I perceive the stages of alcohol effect as: 1) Pleasant oral sensation. 2) Cotton balls in your temples. 3) Light body tingling/sense of calm. 4) Clumsiness/Difficulty concentrating. 5) Intense body tingling/Euphoria. 6) Fuck it; more booze! 7) Anarchy (I refer to this as the stage where you still remember what you did but it’s often prudent to pretend you forget.) 8) Spotty memory/No concentration/Disconnect from first person reality. 9) Nausea/Memory loss. 10) Unconsciousness. 11) Death.
I wouldn’t know how to correlate these stages with the amount of alcohol you’ve ingested in an hour or whatever they tell you in school, because if you can keep track of that I can tell you that you’re in stage 3 or less and save you the trouble. The best method I’ve devised for determining how much you’ve drank in any given night is by seeing how much less booze/money you have when you wake up in the morning than what you had when you started drinking the day before.
It is prudent to drink alcohol slowly and pay close attention to how it is affecting you so that you can avoid becoming miserable. Some like being “wasted,” but I don’t like completely losing touch with myself and my surroundings. For me, recognizing when I’m at stage 6 and not indulging it is key. An interesting thing about stage 6 is that because it is so subtle, you are compelled to believe alcohol isn’t having an effect on you anymore, and then all of a sudden you find yourself in stage 7. Although I’ll admit stage 7 can be pretty fun, I’ve never been able to discern the line between stage 7 and stage 8, but once you hit stage 8 you know it, and it is extremely foolish to continue drinking once you’re there.
In order to create a point of contrast, especially for teetotalers, here’s how I perceive the stages of caffeine ingestion: 1) Warm and yummy. 2) Awake. 3) Jittery. 4) Uncontrollable twitchiness/Inability to concentrate. 5) Queasiness.
Two things which will affect how quickly alcohol is affecting your system is the amount of activity you are engaged in and how hydrated you are. Increased activity will cause alcohol to flow through your system faster and have more of an effect. Especially since a major effect of alcohol is lack of motor control anyway, I prefer to avoid engaging in activity while drinking. Alcohol dehydrates you, and if you are dehydrated you will probably have a headache in the morning. Also, alcohol will affect your system much faster if you are dehydrated. Alcohol is a very poor beverage choice when you are thirsty, but I see people do this all thee time. Personally, I always have water nearby and drink it copiously whenever having more than one alcoholic drink.
I am a seeker of quality, which seems to separate me from most Americans. I’m someone who prefers to stay in and experience each moment to its fullest. Drinking to get drunk is like fucking to have children for me; why would anybody want to do that? (Poor analogy I know, but the sentiment is genuine and besides, I think it’s extremely funny and use it all the time despite the fact that it never gets a laugh and usually gets an appalled stare, which of course for me makes it even funnier.) A major epiphany in my life came about 5 years ago, when I was served a $200 bottle of wine that was absolutely brilliant in flavor and effect. Up until that point in my life, I had only had shit beer and shit wine (besides Guinness, that’s virtually all you can get in Iowa) and had spent a lot of time wondering why so many people drink.
I have since discovered that I usually prefer distilled alcohol to fermented alcohol. With distilled liquor, quality becomes extremely important, as the distillation process can produce noxious aldehydes, aka poisons. I’m no chemist, but basically shit distilled liquor will tend to make you sick, and it’s not because of the alcohol in it. Most people I run into have some superstition that, “whiskey/tequila/gin/vodka/etc. makes me violently ill.” I don’t buy it; cheap, poorly distilled alcohol (eg Jack Daniel’s, Jose Cuervo, etc.) makes you sick. Also, drinking higher proof alcohol at the same rate as you’d drink a beer will seriously kick your ass, and if you do that, blame yourself and not the drink. One of the things I like about higher proof alcohol is you’re forced to drink it slow and savor it. Sip it and enjoy it- don’t slam shots, you fucking juvenile. (There is nothing more maddening than having someone try a quality spirit and watching helplessly as they throw it down their throat. If you do it once, I’ll scold you and give you a second chance; if you do it twice, I won’t offer you liquor again.)
While I’m on a tangent, I’m just going to reiterate that vodka is the stupidest distilled liquor I’ve ever had. It is flavorless, so what’s the fucking point? Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard there’s some really expensive vodka that’s good, but why waste money on vodka when you can waste money on Scotch or absinthe or gin? Gin can be brilliant at a moderate cost, and I always substitute it for anything that calls for vodka.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Loud Music
A couple weeks ago, a co-worker and I stopped at a light next to a car playing music so loud it was overloading the speakers and distorting heavily. My co-worker wondered aloud why anybody would play their music that loud. "They're probably lonely and attention-starved," I surmised.
"What makes you say that?" my co-worker asked.
"I used to play my music really loud," I matter-of-factly replied.
"What makes you say that?" my co-worker asked.
"I used to play my music really loud," I matter-of-factly replied.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Honesty
Honesty fascinates me. As much as it is touted, honesty is a rare and potentially dangerous thing. People are generally so unaccustomed with raw frankness that they become uncomfortable, irritated or angry when confronted with it. My bluntness is notorious, but nearly everything that comes out of my mouth has been calculated, edited and filtered unless I’ve lost all patience- although alcohol seems inimical to my math.
This blog is full of intentional omissions. I’m not going to put the private lives of myself or others out there for the whole internet community to read, although I often try to write in a way that gives the illusion that I’m doing just that. (This is similar to my strategy of driving in a manner that suggests to a car contemplating pulling out in front of me that I would crash into them if they did so; even though I actually could stop if needed.) There was one blog in which I imprudently said something undeservedly mean about a specific someone, but I’ve since deleted the statement. I never want to be like those dickheads who write those “tell-all” books.
While I was applying for college scholarships in high school, I discovered that it was highly self-amusing to be entirely honest when answering their bullshit questions. I was aware that doing so was sabotaging my chances, but I became fascinated with the fact that the ubiquitous advice to “be totally honest” is absolute hogwash. The truth was I didn’t deserve their goddamn scholarship money anymore than anybody else, and if they were impressed enough with me being a confused teenager savvy enough to ace high school with no effort whatsoever to arbitrarily give me their money that was their problem.
More often than not, my motivation for being honest is that I find it funny. Interestingly, I have found that I can usually get away with being honest precisely because since it’s so taboo, others generally assume I am joking. Honesty is not necessarily reality. There is honesty as it relates to action, which is always filtered through memory; and honesty as it relates to desire, which is known as “thinking out loud.” To me, honesty of this second type is more harmless than what others tend to make it out to be. Sure, I might want to knock you over the head, rip your clothes off and rape you in the bushes; but I’m not going to because I’m not a psychopath, so what’s the big deal?
This blog is full of intentional omissions. I’m not going to put the private lives of myself or others out there for the whole internet community to read, although I often try to write in a way that gives the illusion that I’m doing just that. (This is similar to my strategy of driving in a manner that suggests to a car contemplating pulling out in front of me that I would crash into them if they did so; even though I actually could stop if needed.) There was one blog in which I imprudently said something undeservedly mean about a specific someone, but I’ve since deleted the statement. I never want to be like those dickheads who write those “tell-all” books.
While I was applying for college scholarships in high school, I discovered that it was highly self-amusing to be entirely honest when answering their bullshit questions. I was aware that doing so was sabotaging my chances, but I became fascinated with the fact that the ubiquitous advice to “be totally honest” is absolute hogwash. The truth was I didn’t deserve their goddamn scholarship money anymore than anybody else, and if they were impressed enough with me being a confused teenager savvy enough to ace high school with no effort whatsoever to arbitrarily give me their money that was their problem.
More often than not, my motivation for being honest is that I find it funny. Interestingly, I have found that I can usually get away with being honest precisely because since it’s so taboo, others generally assume I am joking. Honesty is not necessarily reality. There is honesty as it relates to action, which is always filtered through memory; and honesty as it relates to desire, which is known as “thinking out loud.” To me, honesty of this second type is more harmless than what others tend to make it out to be. Sure, I might want to knock you over the head, rip your clothes off and rape you in the bushes; but I’m not going to because I’m not a psychopath, so what’s the big deal?
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Des Moines
“If your idea of having fun is going to a baseball game and sneaking in a flask of whiskey, then I can see why you like it here.” She sneered the words insultingly, but I couldn’t have summarized our differences better myself. Still, she was my dear friend’s sister, so I continued to attempt to backtrack, “I could have done that in Des Moines.” (I have fond memories of Iowa Cubs games; too bad the stadium sat in a railroad track polluted wasteland.) But she wasn’t going to listen to me anymore, and I had given up awaiting any response to my challenge to name one good thing about Des Moines, Iowa.
She and my friend were adamant that I needed to visit Des Moines again before making any judgments about it, because “it has changed a lot” since I was last there. This is such a tiring demand. I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend any more of my only life visiting Des Moines, Iowa to find out whether or not it still sucks. Would anybody do that? What have they done in the last six years; installed mountains, an ocean, ethnic diversity, cultural awareness, edible vegetarian cuisine, a nightlife, worthwhile music, aesthetic architecture, an extensive art museum (I did like that museum with that bad-ass Francis Bacon painting), a public transportation system and climate-control? I’m just going to assume they haven’t and skip the airfare. I didn’t feel it necessary to point out any of that, but I did mention that I had visited once in 2002 and had one of the most miserable times of my life (my visit with Tara excluded). The conversation stalled to a halt when she invited me to stay with her next time I visited and I meekly uttered, “Thanks,” instead of vocalizing the overwhelming thought, Gee, THAT sounds like fun.
It was one of those conversations that had started innocently and then immediately plunged south. I had simply tried to strike up a conversation with a stranger by saying, “Where are you visiting from?” When she replied, “Des Moines,” I cringed and responded, “Still there, huh?” knowing that Des Moines is where her family is from. I guess her and Des Moines, Iowa are butt buddies or something (to bring back a saying from junior high that I never quite understood), because she got uptight fast. “We really love it there. What don’t you like about it?” I paused and thought about it for a second. “I can’t think of anything I do like about it.” “Well, where are you from?” She said this like she was slapping me in the face inviting me to a duel. “Des Moines.” I coolly but defiantly declared, exaggerating only slightly.
Eventually it came up that I had lived in Oakland for six years. When my friend attempted to take her sister’s side by saying “I’d rather live in Des Moines than Oakland,” I simply shrugged and said, “Yeah?” and that was that. In retrospect, I’m compelled to highlight my response versus hers. Why would I care if somebody doesn’t like Oakland? I don’t want to live there either. Implying Des Moines, Iowa is in any way preferable to Oakland, California is pretty fucking ignorant as far as I’m concerned, but I’m fully aware that that’s just my worthless subjective opinion. So why do I have to have some bitch jumping down my throat when I voice my opinion? She consistently spoke to me in a dismissive and condescending tone, yet never once came up with one good thing about Des Moines. I think I’ll look her up next time I’m there.
She and my friend were adamant that I needed to visit Des Moines again before making any judgments about it, because “it has changed a lot” since I was last there. This is such a tiring demand. I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend any more of my only life visiting Des Moines, Iowa to find out whether or not it still sucks. Would anybody do that? What have they done in the last six years; installed mountains, an ocean, ethnic diversity, cultural awareness, edible vegetarian cuisine, a nightlife, worthwhile music, aesthetic architecture, an extensive art museum (I did like that museum with that bad-ass Francis Bacon painting), a public transportation system and climate-control? I’m just going to assume they haven’t and skip the airfare. I didn’t feel it necessary to point out any of that, but I did mention that I had visited once in 2002 and had one of the most miserable times of my life (my visit with Tara excluded). The conversation stalled to a halt when she invited me to stay with her next time I visited and I meekly uttered, “Thanks,” instead of vocalizing the overwhelming thought, Gee, THAT sounds like fun.
It was one of those conversations that had started innocently and then immediately plunged south. I had simply tried to strike up a conversation with a stranger by saying, “Where are you visiting from?” When she replied, “Des Moines,” I cringed and responded, “Still there, huh?” knowing that Des Moines is where her family is from. I guess her and Des Moines, Iowa are butt buddies or something (to bring back a saying from junior high that I never quite understood), because she got uptight fast. “We really love it there. What don’t you like about it?” I paused and thought about it for a second. “I can’t think of anything I do like about it.” “Well, where are you from?” She said this like she was slapping me in the face inviting me to a duel. “Des Moines.” I coolly but defiantly declared, exaggerating only slightly.
Eventually it came up that I had lived in Oakland for six years. When my friend attempted to take her sister’s side by saying “I’d rather live in Des Moines than Oakland,” I simply shrugged and said, “Yeah?” and that was that. In retrospect, I’m compelled to highlight my response versus hers. Why would I care if somebody doesn’t like Oakland? I don’t want to live there either. Implying Des Moines, Iowa is in any way preferable to Oakland, California is pretty fucking ignorant as far as I’m concerned, but I’m fully aware that that’s just my worthless subjective opinion. So why do I have to have some bitch jumping down my throat when I voice my opinion? She consistently spoke to me in a dismissive and condescending tone, yet never once came up with one good thing about Des Moines. I think I’ll look her up next time I’m there.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Tara
Tara was one of the handful of cute girls that frequented the PNP gas station/convenience store while I worked there. When you’re a single heterosexual working at such a place, you pay a bit more attention to the cute girls; even if they’re probably still in high school and you’ve just graduated from college. Whoever she was with, including her mom, always bought a pack of Camel Lights, and I intuited who they were for, but I respected the fact that she never tried to buy them from me. Then one day, much to my amusement, I watched her come into the store alone, while one of her usual accomplices (Lisa) waited in the car, and ask for a pack of Camel Lights. Curious, I asked for her ID, and she anxiously shuffled through her purse and eventually fished out a high school ID. Beginning to realize she was not altogether sober, I nicely encouraged her to find a federally recognized form of identification with a picture and a birthdate. She cowered back to her car, where she at last found her driver’s license. It was her 18th birthday.
Eventually, I started dating another cute girl who bought cigarettes all the time at PNP. Amy and Tara hung out quite a bit, and it turned out Tara lived just down the street from me. Some nights we convened on Tara’s porch and other nights on mine, not really doing a whole heck of a lot. I soon discovered that, much like my sister when we were kids, Tara was a willing participant in whatever geeky juvenile innocuous fantasy game I concocted, and soon she and I were running around the neighborhood pretending to be spies, probably working for the Yakuza Clan or something.
Tara was kind, spunky, clever, curious and insecure. As a people-pleaser who was easily intimidated, she could be easy to manipulate. I thought it would be a good idea for her to hook up with my friend Josh, forgetting how unduly jealous he was with his girlfriends. The four of us had some fun times together, but I was relieved when they broke up. I hoped she’d find a gentle, understanding guy to take care of her, realizing full well she wasn’t interested in gentle, understanding guys.
Tara became my second female friend that I began worrying almost incessantly about. There is perhaps no more intense a frustration than to look into someone’s projected future and wonder how they could possibly ever be happy; reminds of that Red Hot Chili Pepper’s song: “My friends are so depressed. I feel the question of your loneliness. Confide, ‘cause I’ll be on your side; you know I will, you know I will…. I love all of you hurt by the cold; so hard and lovely, too, when you don’t know yourself….”
I swear, I’d marry Tara in hopes that I could make her feel okay. But perhaps the reason why I’ve never worried in quite the same way about girls I’ve dated is that then their problems somehow tend to become my fault. Typing this makes me reflect that I don’t generally view myself as inhabiting a lot of empathy or insecurity, but to some extend that’s a lot of wishful thinking. It’s always easier to say “Fuck you, world!” when confronted with the helplessness of not knowing how to help those in it than to try to do anything proactive about it.
At the same time, sometimes it’s prudent to admit our limitations, throw up our hands in despair and let things be. The reality is that oftentimes all we can do is let life unfold and hope for the best. I’m a firm believer that there is a lot in life that you just have to give over to luck.
Please be okay, Tara. Please be okay. And know that you are quite possibly the most wonderful person I’ve ever met.
Eventually, I started dating another cute girl who bought cigarettes all the time at PNP. Amy and Tara hung out quite a bit, and it turned out Tara lived just down the street from me. Some nights we convened on Tara’s porch and other nights on mine, not really doing a whole heck of a lot. I soon discovered that, much like my sister when we were kids, Tara was a willing participant in whatever geeky juvenile innocuous fantasy game I concocted, and soon she and I were running around the neighborhood pretending to be spies, probably working for the Yakuza Clan or something.
Tara was kind, spunky, clever, curious and insecure. As a people-pleaser who was easily intimidated, she could be easy to manipulate. I thought it would be a good idea for her to hook up with my friend Josh, forgetting how unduly jealous he was with his girlfriends. The four of us had some fun times together, but I was relieved when they broke up. I hoped she’d find a gentle, understanding guy to take care of her, realizing full well she wasn’t interested in gentle, understanding guys.
Tara became my second female friend that I began worrying almost incessantly about. There is perhaps no more intense a frustration than to look into someone’s projected future and wonder how they could possibly ever be happy; reminds of that Red Hot Chili Pepper’s song: “My friends are so depressed. I feel the question of your loneliness. Confide, ‘cause I’ll be on your side; you know I will, you know I will…. I love all of you hurt by the cold; so hard and lovely, too, when you don’t know yourself….”
I swear, I’d marry Tara in hopes that I could make her feel okay. But perhaps the reason why I’ve never worried in quite the same way about girls I’ve dated is that then their problems somehow tend to become my fault. Typing this makes me reflect that I don’t generally view myself as inhabiting a lot of empathy or insecurity, but to some extend that’s a lot of wishful thinking. It’s always easier to say “Fuck you, world!” when confronted with the helplessness of not knowing how to help those in it than to try to do anything proactive about it.
At the same time, sometimes it’s prudent to admit our limitations, throw up our hands in despair and let things be. The reality is that oftentimes all we can do is let life unfold and hope for the best. I’m a firm believer that there is a lot in life that you just have to give over to luck.
Please be okay, Tara. Please be okay. And know that you are quite possibly the most wonderful person I’ve ever met.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Actual Conversation
Her: Hey, whatcha doin'?
Me: Watching baseball.
Her: Whose playing?
Me: Several teams probably, but I'm watching the Giants. Their best pitcher, Tim Lincecum, is pitching.
Her: Who?
Me: Tim Lin-ce-cum
Her: Never heard of him.
Me: Can you name any baseball players?
Her: (Pause) Does Bo Derek still play baseball?
Me: Watching baseball.
Her: Whose playing?
Me: Several teams probably, but I'm watching the Giants. Their best pitcher, Tim Lincecum, is pitching.
Her: Who?
Me: Tim Lin-ce-cum
Her: Never heard of him.
Me: Can you name any baseball players?
Her: (Pause) Does Bo Derek still play baseball?
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