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Wednesday, April 21, 2010

2666

"While we must search for the antidote or the medicine to cure us, the new, that which can only be found in the unknown, we must continue to turn to sex, books, and travel, even knowing they will lead us into the abyss, which, as it happens, is the only place we can find the cure."*

I can tell what kind of day I'm going to have by what kind of country song I wake up with in my head. The other morning I woke up signing a song I hated, something really banal, one of those songs that people mean when they say "modern country music." I can't believe I even live that sort of life anyway, that I have to hear anyone use that phrase, but it's worse than that of course because not only do I know what they mean but I know the songs too. That morning, I woke up with that song and I rode my bike to work and someone almost ran me over and I know that the people I'm giving my shit eating grin to over the counter are the same ones that are trying to kill me on my way there.
This morning though I woke up with a better one. Sort of tender, or at least trying to be romantic. I mean, nothing next to George Jones of course but it could be a lot worse, especially in 2010. So I woke up with this song and as I rode my bike across University Avenue someone yelled out "I love you Keri!" and I don't know who it was but it helped me a lot, later, with the shit eating grin.
Anyway, I'm kind of "back on track" and finally, after a good day of work I sat down to write about it. I've been drinking way, way less. This all started a few weeks ago.

My mom read my blog, just as I hinted might happen in earlier posts, and here's the rub, I actually give a shit what my mom thinks of me. She has always been horrified by my drinking habits, and trying to explain to my mom what poppers are was sort of a low point for me. We had a very serious conversation, where we talked about my life and where it was going, and I cried a lot, and tried to tell her I was a good person, and I think I half-way believe that, but she fully believes that and it amazes me. Then, I took a trip to Mexico with my straight-edge-ex-boyfriend-from-high school and a really cool thing happened, I didn't get drunk for ten days.

I had so much to do in Mexico, with waking up early and hiking ruins and swimming and getting a truly stunning tan, that I didn't really have time to get drunk. I think I just needed to know I could do it. Since I've been back I've been reading a lot more, drinking less, and finally writing and getting my applications together for graduate school. So I don't have a lot to write about it, because I'm not doing anything that fucked up or embarrassing. Actually, the other day I told someone to "suck it" in a pool hall but that's about it. Summer is starting, there's lots of anticipation all around, and maybe that's all I needed. Warm weather and something to look forward to.

* "literature + illness = illness" speech by Roberto Bolano

Thursday, March 4, 2010

friends in low places

"He waged the sad war of daily humiliation." *

Well, I forgot to annotate my last post. I also forgot to post anything for several days (weeks?) but I could tell you exactly what happened. We drank a lot for a few days, we enjoyed everything, especially ourselves, and then I felt guilty for a few days and read comic books in my room for twelve hours on end, and then I worked forty hours, and then I did everything again. At least three times. These little cycles of happiness and defeat are getting to me, but everyone assures me it's just really the weather.
Two other important things happened while I was mentally hibernating. Someone flew a plane into the capitol building in Austin, Texas, and Max Parker and I had a conversation about politics. I know I used to be really, really angry. I still am, about a few things. I wonder if my comfortable lifestyle (drinking with punks really dampens your feelings of isolation sometimes) just diminished some of my old passions or if it's just something that happens with time (arguing with punks really dampens your feelings of outrage sometime). One event, one action, can change your whole perspective. I think Andrew Joseph expected his action to propel others to theirs, and after my conversation with Max I'm wondering what exactly I'm capable of pressing others to do. Maybe this blog isn't the right endeavor though, maybe I just can't get used to writing about punk rock on the internet. Maybe if I had the motivation, the balls, or the fucking time, I'd be able to finish that zine...write that column...etc etc. It's pathetic, how we loose our motivation and our passion, and I don't want to waste another year without either.
On to happier times. I got off work for the house show at the Axe Manor, where Cough and Volcanic Slut played. Someone pulled the electric meter off the wall and the power went off, and everyone had a lot of fun. I remember Fiz said something to me before he moved about how we all used to be in love with our friends, and he wondered what happened to that feeling. I can absolutely say I'm in love with most of my friends right now. It makes drinking less harder but staying away from the bars easier. I'll take what I can get. Here's a video, to hell with the rest.
I'll write more, I promise, if nothing else, I'll write more.

*One Hundred Years of Solitude pg 249

Thursday, February 11, 2010

The Secret Life of Punks

"Once again she shuddered with the evidence that time was not passing, as she had just admitted, but that it was turning in a circle. But even then she did not give resignation a chance."*

I have a very similar story for you, just like last weeks. Friday night I thought I'd stay in, maybe just have a few cups of wine with my friend Megan...and wound up at a keg party until who knows when because I barely remember walking home. I had a very confusing morning, so confusing in fact that it has now taken its place in my vocabulary along with Chaos Fuck Night to become Confusing Day, and it's how you feel when you don't remember exactly what you did and you don't want to think too hard because you know it wasn't good. Max saw me kissing someone. Details will be withheld.
Saturday, the punctuation of work, with its hangover and new title (see above) but I think I crawled into bed feeling pretty good about myself, since with the exception of Friday I'd been pretty well behaved all week. I started volunteering with the horses (and children? and children) and I got my 2nd job, so now I have a good reason to wake up early and a better reason to stay sober some of the time.
Sunday I got drunk in honor of the super bowl. I never liked football and I feel like I've somehow let down the little punk rock 17 year old inside me, but truthfully I've started to enjoy it, and everyone at the party seemed to enjoy it too. I watched the Saints win, doing poppers and eating fried gator, and I wasn't sure if it was exactly the best thing I could be doing at the time, but I did have all my friends with me, and I did have someone to walk home with. Nick and I are actually working on a comic about it together, so hopefully I'll have that to show off soon. Our comic is called the Secret Life of Punks, after the UK compilation, and it's probably going to be a lot like this blog, sorry world.
It's been a good week, but don't worry, it's Friday, and every thing's sure to start getting interesting soon.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Chaos fuck day / Chaos fuck nights

"Gentlemen...we are a very special breed...we possess a vast capacity for reasoning, understanding, and similar forms of mental activity...a keen perception of those connections between ideas which awaken amusement and pleasure, and an hysterical willingness to fuck up!"*

I could do this one or two ways, the first to tell you exactly what I did and how awful I felt in the morning (both emotionally and physically) or I could just expound upon my shortcomings and antics in a philosophical manner, lean dangerously close to sentimentality, and still feel uneasy about the whole thing. Listen, I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing. It was a long weekend.
Everything started ok, I was so ready for my Black Metal Master Cleanse that I set myself on the dangerous course of Drinking Binge 2010 (my first, this year). I got off work Friday, had a couple of beers, finished the Kingsolver book (it was great, seriously) but then around 10:30 I started drinking again, this time with real intent, and ended up doing a drug that I can't talk about on the off chance that my mom will ever, ever read this blog (yes it was that bad, or funny, depending on your perspective). I am sure that I had fun, and while I would never be embarrassed about dancing (on stage) to 2 Live Crew, I am about hitting on someone I've had a crush on for a couple weeks (still went home alone, don't worry Mom).
I ended up walking home with Adrien and Alexis (Anna said she heard us outside her house on 6th place, me in the street screaming about boys) and then getting into bed with my friend Max Parker. Max and I are just friends, so it seemed like the safest place to be at 4 in the morning, high on my secret drug and after drinking an orange Four Loco (gross). Max told me in the morning that I wouldn't leave the bed, let alone his room, and we stayed up talking until 7 in the morning about punk rock, which is actually really sweet, and made the rest of the night seem worth it. In fact, being so scared and freaked out seems worth it just to have my friends calm me down at the end of it, I don't know if that counts in a if-a-tree-doesn't-do-drugs-in-the-forest kind of way but it seemed nice to me in the morning. No apologies no hangovers, that ought to be my new motto, and I swear I'm halfway there.
Saturday I worked, stayed sober, and crawled into bed around 5 in the morning after getting stoned and reading several chapters of Moby Dick. Max and Robbie wanted to have Chaos Fuck Day, sponsored by the band Screaming Noise, but it had to wait for Sunday, when I really harnessed my self loathing and misanthropy into a singular idea, complete with catch phrase.
Sunday I started drinking by 4. I can safely say I was drunk by the time I went to Gator Beverage at 8, bought more beer (and poppers from next door), and went into my work to get shots. Our little troop of fuck ups went to Wayward Council, I think I dismissed the show in the interest of tuning out of reality, ate a weed cookie, and walked home (at some hour, unremembered by me).
Monday, I felt so hungover all day that I had to drink 3 beers at work just to make it until 2:30am, which is exactly when I passed out, fully clothed, before sleeping for 12 hours.

Ok, time to assess. I had fun with my friends (good) and also did a lot of weird drugs (also good, in my book) but I also drank so much that I barely remember it (that's the part I'm trying to avoid). I think what went wrong is that I got so fucked up on Friday, that I felt like I had something to hide and/or bury deep into the fantasy world of drinking and it sent me into some kind of problem spiral for the rest of the weekend, which has lasted until today. I ought to be editing this post over the next several hours so that I can connect more dots, and erase some inaccuracies. Chaos fuck day gives way to pathetic mornings, that's what we learned this weekend.
As of tomorrow, it ends. I somehow managed in the course of this weekend to get a 2nd job (stoked, and needed) and also to sign up for a volunteer program helping special needs children ride horses. My days will start filling up, and my nights will become less empty.

*from Maakies w/ Drinky Crow by Tony Millionaire

Monday, January 25, 2010

steadier on the heart

"He felt a flash of jealousy as do friends when they lose another to love, especially those who have understood that friendship is enough, steadier, healthier, easier on the heart. Something that always added and never took away."*
That quote sums up my experiences from the past few days. I've been maintaining my vow of fence-walking sobriety and because of that I have much less to write about. No one wants to read about your sunny picnic in the woods, my creative writing professor once told me, they only want to know about the ants and the lightning. Well, I have to say anyway that the weather has been fucking perfect.
Friday I did stay out late, chasing down a stupid party but having a lot of fun in the process, and I got to see an old friend of mine (and we drank together, which felt like for the first time) and if she were writing this blog she'd have to tell you about falling off her bike, over and over again at the same intersection.
The rest of my weekend I spent riding my bike on the trail, finishing a book (the Inheritance of Loss) and starting a new one (La Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver). It's nice to wear shorts again and be busy outside. Staying busy is really the trick. Now that I have band practice to look forward to and my upcoming trip to Mexico, staying in and not drinking seems easier. After this weekend, which I plan on being incredibly, stark raving wasted (just kidding, I swear) the drummer in my band and myself are going to go on a Black Metal Master Cleanse, in which we do that stupid water-lemon-cayenne pepper-maple syrup-water diet but also only listen to black metal while we do it. That starts Monday and I'm sure I'm going to have a lot to document, it will be probably be depressing, and incredibly awful, and you'll have a lot of fun reading it.



*The Inheritance of Loss, Kiran Desai, pg. 273

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

A: And Poetry? Q: And Poetry.

"How terrible and brief was my desire of you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid."*

I woke up early today, before noon, to ride the Hawthorne trail and enjoy wearing shorts (sunshine, thank god, finally). Robbie asked me how my blog was doing and I felt a little uneasy. That's right. I'm suppose to be documenting everything, and I forgot a little. It's really just the same, I went a day or two drinking within my limit and then Friday I blew it way off field, stayed up until 5am so drunk I couldn't see and then slowly transitioned into feeling weird and then just bad. Saturday was practically ruined on a hangover and Sunday I stayed out too late again and watched two of my friends try to fight each other. Or maybe that was Monday. Either way, the same up and down issue I've been having. So yesterday I made a decision to just steel myself against drinking. I have to stay sober and be alone no matter how difficult it seems. It does seem difficult, let me assure you. I've been reading Moby Dick, the Good Thief, and 20 Love Poems and a Song of Despair the past few nights but being sober leaves me with a kind of restlessness I'm not accustomed to. Easily mistaken for loneliness, it's the realization that thing's aren't going to change. I have to stay in my room at 3am, and it doesn't matter if I'm awake, alone, and thinking about how much of a loser I am (or nuclear holocaust, or Discharge records, or books I'd like to write, or boys I'll never meet again), I have to deal with it and go to sleep anyway. When I'm really drunk, everything is funny when I'm alone at night. I can go to sleep without feeling restless, I can go to sleep without feeling anything at all.
Instead, I'm going to try to spend more time alone. I'll ride my bike everyday if I have to. I'll finish Moby Dick. I'll write more (actually write, not just blog, sorry). I'll act on all the sickening feelings and restless impulses until I have something more to show for myself than a hangover. Eh, we'll see.

*Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair


Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Life of Crime

"And then he lost his memory, as during the times of forgetfulness, and he recovered it on a strange dawn and in a room that was completely foreign."*

I groaned to myself a little when I woke up in Athens, Georgia, without my pants on the kitchen floor. I know I didn't do anything bad, or otherwise inappropriate, but I certainly lost some hours on Monday night. I remember the show, which wasn't as good as Friday's but still worth the drive, and I remember thinking I had to drink as much as I could before the bar closed at 2, but being handed more beer at Jill's house. I think I would have liked to remain coherent but everyone assured me I was funny. The car ride home was miserable, I curled up in a ball in the back seat under my leather jacket and felt kind of awful for six hours. Back in Gainesville I tried going to the Chronic Youth/Diet Cokeheads show at the Atlantic but couldn't get past two drinks and walked home, cold, tired and sad.
Today I had a margarita and a PBR, convinced myself everything could get better, and walked Kaysie home from the Top.

*One Hundred Years of Solitude pg. 69

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Annihilation Times

"[He] did not know at what moment or because of what adverse forces his plan had become enveloped in a web of pretexts, disappointments, and evasions until it turned into nothing but an illusion."*

At work tonight I drank a frozen Tequila sunrise, despite the room temperature of 63 degrees, and contemplated my failures from the past few days. I'm not sure if they can really be considered "failures," since I've been having a Really Good Time, but I've certainly been drinking too much. On one hand, a few people around me have been acting considerably worse than me, so maybe I should be evaluating myself on a curve and be sort of proud of the fact that I wasn't the kid passed out next to the barrel fire (and subsequently pouring beer on his burns), or the kid running into a bands' equipment at a show, or one of the several people trying to pick fights about meaningless aesthetics. On the other hand, I stayed up until 4:30am when I knew I had to work at 10 the next day, and last night I stayed up past sunrise and wasted my day feeling sorry for myself. How do I measure this kind of bullshit?
Thursday night I didn't end up working, which was good since I had drank a quart of Miller High Life in the early evening. At the bar I ended up doing shots (this is where the trouble starts, maybe? Can anyone notice a pattern?) and having two more beers, then moving over to the Top where I had another draft beer and another shot. I'm happy I left the bar, because it seems like even when I'm drunk and maybe even acting stupid, it seems to be a lot more fun when it's with my friends in their houses or in their backyards. I wound up at 6th place, complete with more beer and poppers (again, theme for the week). I got in an argument with someone named Burnout over a cigarette and stayed up too late staring into the fire thinking about the inevitable cold walk home, and the cold empty bed waiting for me at the end. I think I was very close to "acting stupid" but I didn't quite cross the line. Luckily, I got myself home and then to work 5 hours later.
Yesterday I worked for 9 hours, then went to the Junkyard to see Brain Killer, Scapegoat, Mauser, and Religious as Fuck. I know I went there with 4 beers, which is one past my limit, but I also had a Margarita before I left and bought more beers afterward. All the bands were really fucking amazing, and a lot of my friends were in town. I think I maybe I stayed up a little too late, but after the show we had a really good time annihilating Adrien's kitchen by smashing the ceiling lights over each other's heads and basically just laughing and hurting ourselves but in a kind of benign way. Once again, we did poppers and got other people to do them with us, and I think this morning I sort of swore I'd never do them again but I know that's a flat out lie.
The show and subsequent hang out were everything that I like about my friends and how we interact, and reminded me why I don't really like bars. I keep wondering though if I would have been able to talk to more people or have better conversations sober, and that's the thought that's really driving my little experiment. In any case, failure or not, it's been a really good weekend.

*One Hundred Years of Solitude pg. 13

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

01/04/10 and 01/05/10

"One has a great time rocking out to a band drunk but in the end can't remember if they were all that good. Same goes with girls. There were lots of them but it wasn't like other first kisses. They were fun and sloppy but lacked real feeling, lacked depth and nuances, lacked subtlety and restraint; some of the best things about kissing."*

It occurs to me that I haven't had a first kiss sober in a really long time. Maybe that should have been one of my goals for 2010, but I think I threw out kissing people with the whole bread basket of drinking less (don't throw away the bread with the basket, is that how that anecdote goes?). Not that it would work out though, my bed has been full lately with two cats and a very lonely roommate.
Monday night I tried to drink a Miller Lite that was left on a table while I was working. Totally disgusting. I didn't even finish it. Afterwork I drank a Jameson and gingerale and I think it may have made me feel a little extra warm for the bike ride home, but then I spent a few hours trying to fall asleep thinking about (what else?) kissing people.
Yesterday I broke my limit again. I had a Yuengling with Kaysie at the bar around 6, and then watched some action movies with 2 High Lifes. Then I had band practice, and when there's band practice there will be drinking, in this case 2 shots of some generic Whiskey and a Busch. I didn't get drunk though, which helped since it was our first practice. I know last time I was in a band I was drunk about the whole time, and I still feel uncomfortable when I think about our sometimes sloppy shows, and how dismissive I was toward other people when I was more concerned with entertaining myself. If I get a chance to be different in this band I will.

*from the zine Blurt No. 1

Monday, January 4, 2010

blood spit nights

"This is a disaster," he said, "look at the air, listen to the buzzing of the sun, the same as yesterday and the day before. Today is Monday too."*
My first failure. Yesterday Izzy celebrated her birthday by playing the Ramones over a PA on an abandoned tennis court, for at least seven hours, at her new house next the prairie. I got there around 2 with her and Eric, and had my first two Budweisers while I built a fire and waited for everyone else to show up. Maybe it's the cold, or maybe it's my resolution, but I managed not to drink anymore beer during the party. I had two cups of red wine after the sun went down, aware that I was breaking my 3 drink rule, but happy that I was drinking slowly and not acting like a jackass. I felt pretty coherent by the time I left at 8, and decided to go out again, which in retrospect was where I made my mistake.
At Adrien's house I had 3 Natural Ice's, 1 PBR, 1 Full Moon (seasonal chic), all interspersed by inhaling poppers. If you don't know what poppers are, I'm not fully prepared to explain them, but needless to say I was dizzy on the very cold bike ride home. After the 2nd or 3rd beer I began feeling a little sentimental, because it's nice to be huddled around a space heater with some of your best and oldest friends, listening to the Swankys, drinking beer and blacking out on poppers (you can't imagine the laughter it inspires), and it's a scene that's just like a hundred other nights you've had, but it's still nice, and you feel like maybe you could still be in love with some of these people and you are, and you know you'll keep coming back to rooms like this and people like this because it makes you feel less lonely, and it's hard to turn down drinks when you start feeling this sappy. Still, I didn't forget anything, I didn't say anything stupid, and I didn't really do anything I regret except maybe drinking 1 or 2 beers too many.
I might remedy this situation by not drinking anything for the next two days, but then again, I might not.

*One Hundred Years of Solitude, pg. 80

Sunday, January 3, 2010

01/01/10 and 01/02/10

"Thus they went on in a reality that was slipping away, momentarily captured by words, but which would escape irremediably when they forgot the values of the written letters."*

I made up my mind about drinking less before I made up my mind about writing everything down. A customer at work brought up the idea, he said he'd written down everything he would drink for a month in order to add up all the calories. I don't really care about calories, but maybe it's something else I need to be adding up entirely. Anyway, the past two days have been easy.
Friday night I didn't even plan to go out. Gainesville has officially gotten cold, real fucking cold, and I planned on spending my night cuddled up next to my space heater and the internet. Instead I labored out of the house with my leather jacket and my roommate and headed out to the house show on the South East side. It being Friday, and ourselves being ourselves, we stopped by the bar first. I told myself originally, no more than three drinks at a time, and hopefully with one or two exceptions I can keep that as a general rule for my little experiment, or goal, or whatever the fuck it is. So far, so good. I had a shot of tequila and a Tecate, and she drank a Modelo. I forget what we talked about, but I think we just had one of those nice easy conversations about boys where we never really come to any conclusions other than that they're cute and kissing them is fun. I had one more shot, this time with her, and she had another beer while I finished mine. Exactly three drinks. We went to the show, got cold, tried to have fun around the fire, watched St. Dad cover Joy Division, got cold some more, and got a ride home after the cops showed up. I think it was the first house show I've been to in awhile where I wasn't drinking a four pack of tall boys.
Today I went on some sort of suburban shopping adventure with my friends. We ended up at Satchels and I had a glass of red wine. Later, at work, I drank another glass of red wine while I was closing. Also while at work I had the aforementioned conversation that led me to this, wide awake at 3:30 in the morning. Cheers to the New Year, and may my reality continue to be merry, and bright.

*from One Hundred Years of Solitude, pg 49.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

2010

At the end of 2009 I finished reading White Teeth by Zadie Smith, for the first time, and One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, for about the tenth time, and I spent my secular holiday worrying quite a bit about repeating mistakes, sabotaging myself, and otherwise fucking up my life. I'm not big on New Year's resolutions, and if anything I think my real New Year's Eve will be June 1st, which is the day I officially moved to Gainesville, in which case I'll let the self-loathing come rolling in, but I did wake up on the last day of 2009 with a little idea. It's a little idea I've had for the past few months now, and it's that maybe, just maybe, I should start drinking less. So this is my plan, I'm going to try my hardest, and I'm going to document it so that maybe I can come up with some conclusions or in the very least some perspective. This blog, my first by the way, will fall somewhere in between observation and understanding. I hope so anyway.