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.

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

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

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

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