not enough in the end

"Even those wild memories of his mad youth left him unmoved, just as during his last debauch he had exhausted his quota of salaciousness and all he had left left was the marvelous gift of being able to remember it without bitterness or repentance."*

I like New Years. A lot of American holidays (yes I'm biased because I am geographically deficient) carry a certain amount of nostalgia but New Years Eve happens to be one of the holidays in which it is totally acceptable to talk about it. Every night at the end of the year people make lists about what they'd like to do differently in the forthcoming year, but all of the lists are tainted by what they've done wrong in the year before. Personally, I'd like to not be an asshole or do anymore dumb shit in 2012, but I'm only saying that because I know I've done enough of it
this past year.

We want to do better because we've done so much wrong. I don't want to sound cynical because I like wallowing in it, so to speak. I hate the sting of nostalgia but it's easily accessible for me. After all, this blog is named after a novel dedicated to nostalgia. I rode my bike home tonight through the growing fog (the night, has been- perfect) and I missed a few people so bad that it hurt. Really missed them. You, you might be reading this and think, "me? surely not me," but really, I mean you. I think about people I'd really never want to talk to again, but I miss them. I could blame it on Time but I know at the end of the day I'm just as responsible for pushing certain people away from me. No, that's the sweet version.

The bad version is that I've been a horrible person to people that put their trust and their hopes on me, and I couldn't be the girl they wanted me to be. I don't just mean boys, that sounds like the right answer but it's not (and they should take some of the blame of putting all of their hopes on me because that is, after all, a product of the Patriarchy which is too big of a footnote to include here) but I also mean my mom who wanted me to go to graduate school and my dad who wanted me to go to law school and my friends from out of state who expected my band to tour and my bosses who expected me to stick around all summer even when I wasn't making money (everyone seems upset when I go off and do my own thing, and I know at some point I'll stick around, I promise).

I want 2011 to end with a big, wet, warm apology to everyone that has been disappointed in me, but I don't know if it would matter at this point. I rode my bike home thinking about the friends I can't call anymore, not just from my own volition but also just from Time and Distance, and I wish I could wake up tomorrow in the new year and be able to. The shitty thing is, is that I won't be able to pick up the phone and make it better. Sure, tomorrow morning I'm going to go meet my dad out by the highway. We're going to drink a beer and he's going to ask me what I'm doing, but he sure as hell won't ask me if I'm happy. Just the same, happy new year to you, wherever you are.

*One Hundred Years of Solitude, pg. 341

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

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.

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

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

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

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.