A DAY IN THE LIFE OF NIGHT

May 8, 2007

***transcribed from some bar napkins I scribbled on, some restless fuzzy nights ago***

The weird, the wild, the drunk and smoky...you can't pub-crawl with any meaning unless the emphasis be upon the crawl itself. Learn to crawl before you walk, I say: because seven Irish Car Bombs down the mad and winding road, walking isn't quite all that it was.

Learn to enjoy the crawl, live to love--yea, love to live--the crusty floor you crawl upon; you'll be stretched out, strung out, curled upon its granite before long. Learn to love your neighbor, in that sense.

A pack of Pall Malls to offer up to dear ol'/dead ol' Vonnegut--either to celebrate his life and gift, or gloat upon another liberal gone, either/or like Kierkegaard and just as foreign, if anything is ever truly such: this was all I needed at the moment. Live in the moment.

Love the crawl, love the granite looming ever-near. Live and love the moment.

I suckled that smoke like your mother's sweaty teat. Short breaths, long drags, smoke rings, cancer nuzzled like a lover... "I've never seen anyone enjoy a cigarette like that," the bartender remarked, as I smoked the unfiltered Coughin' Nails to the nub like a joint until it singed my thumb.

"Cigarettes?" I said, "I hardly care. I never really liked them." And then I lit another.

I'm living, drinking, smoking in the moment, in the now. The cigarettes just share that sacred space. I don't enjoy the cigarettes; I enjoy the moment. And next I'll have another double-whiskey, and play some sloppy pool with my limping, leering friend. I'll enjoy it even though I know I'll lose. And then I shall hit upon some random bar slut, whomever might be left or wobbly, whose freckles aren't quite cancerous. Maybe I'll get a hummer in the stall. It isn't quite a honeymoon, but it's pickled drooling refuge for the moments that it lasts. And it's real, unlike the number that I'll give her. Fuck 'er, fuck it all; it's not about tomorrow. Tomorrow is not now. Love the moment, love the now; love the freckles that aren't quite cancer. Love it all, and how.

Some drunken redneck will want to fight; he'll smell like sweat and failure. I'll get caught checking out some girl's behind, because I will not see the mirror. I'll eat some things I shouldn't; the girl may or may not be on that list.

It takes a special sort of Zen to find the beauty in the ugliness in every breath and step I take, lest the next be taken from me. It's a special sort of eyes. Hindsight is 20/20, but I'm down to just one contact, and I've had it in for months. But maybe life is better that way--viewed through a milky, floating lens. At least it is right now.

The gang--those warriors left still standing or not currently vomiting--will gather when all is done, and the Crawl is now just rough slumps against time...stop-sell time, last call for alcohol, and first crack at tomorrow's headache. We'll laugh and do illegal things. The room will move in frames and tracers. Philosophy will soak the air. "It's like...it's the thing," someone will say, "It's everything." In the morning, it's a joke; but I'm sure it will seem quite meaningful at the time. But the best things in life are such, no doubt--deep for a time, and deeply weird forever. The best jokes start out as parables, no?

I'll smoke another Pall Mall, maybe three; I still don't care for cigarettes--and I'll hate them in the morn, but I'm fresh out of cigars. We'll toast one up for Vonnegut again, and talk about Ice-Nine, though some will just pretend to get the joke, and wander, rolling, stoned, into another room. I won't see them again, but they were my best friends in the world. At least they were right then. Someone wants to watch a movie, but they'll pass out on the couch.

Fuck 'em. Fuck it all. Sleep is death. But with every passing movement, dying doesn't seem so bad. Death is just another way of life. I'd pass out sooner, but the cat's left a surprise for me. Every pussy mocks me, even that. Live in the moment, love the moment, yeah...but some moments are easier loved than others by night's end. Still, I'll live it just the same.

Maybe all of that will happen; maybe it already did. Maybe none of it will happen. But I'll still wind up in bed; and the swearwords, I assure you, are the same.

As I nod and drift and cough a bit, fighting back the nausea of the night, losing my gaze as if my very astral form into the ceiling fan whirring above the bed, I'll think but for a moment, Is there something more than this? Surely, there is something more--if not beyond the shell of flesh, if not beyond the silent sky...at least beyond the ceiling fan, I guess.

Of course--and like all fate--it finds me. As I roll and scratch my friendly bits, I'll feel a crunch beneath the sheet. An issue of Blue Blood or some such goth chick porn awaits, perhaps--battered by age and the crusts of countless dead. Ah, something more indeed!

"Thank you, Lord," I'll say within, and jerk myself to sleep.

Amen.

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A LOUD BELCH IN THE LONELY NOW

December 28, 2006

In the months since I have been "in exile," I have had physical contact with exactly one other person. She gave me a large bottle of sake' for Xmas; I have no complaints. Otherwise, my sister drunk-dials me periodically to make sure I'm not dead. And that's about it, really--the only voices I hear, for the most part, are the ones hurling invectives in my head.
But to my chagrin, it does get awfully quiet in the Lonely Now. Not that it wasn't my choice--I needed "me time." I had to go on walkabout for awhile. But the isolation does funny things to you sometimes...for instance, when you're hammered.

For instance, one night, whilst draining my last ounce of loser juice, I semi-drunkenly messaged nearly all of my attractive female friends, and solicited them for saucy/sexy/sleazy voice comments.

This was a bad idea.

In fact, it scarcely even counts as an "idea," as the very word itself suggests that some sort of thought went into it. Truth be told, in my personal history of poor judgment, this ranks right up there with "Hey, I wonder what heroin is like..." and "I bet this chick would love a finger up her ass!"

Needless to say, it proved to be an unpopular decision.

Note to self: No matter how inebriated, pathetic, horny, despondent, or lonesome-in-a-manly-sort-of-way-and-certainly-not-the-gayass-emo-kind you become, your hot female friends are not obligated to be your personal harem of voice-whores, under any circumstances.

Shortly after downloading enough porn to indict me in seventy-two separate nations, I passed out for a few hours with little memory of exactly what all I did. I awoke, however, with the nagging feeling that something horrible had occurred...
I checked all of the message boards I post at...nothing, no drunk-posts, no flamewars. I checked my e-mail, vigorously eyeing my "sent" folders for anything that might lead to a conviction. Again, nothing... I began to sigh with relief.

And then I checked MySpace, and my world unravelled like my faith and hope so many years before. Oh...fuck.

Hoping that at least one or two of the resident hotties I converse(d) with had a sense of humor, I reluctantly checked my Snapvine account for snarky voice messages and hateful diatribes.

In one single afternoon, I had accumulated nearly 40 voicemails.

And now for the punchline:
Thirty-nine of these voicemails were people asking me for furniture.

Huh?!

You see, a certain resourceful (and hilariously spiteful) ladyfriend decided to take revenge on me by placing a falacious ad on Craigslist.org, offering scores of free furniture, electronics, etc., with my Snapvine Voicemail extention as the callback number.

I just can't be angry. I have to admit, it was pretty funny; and I probably had it coming. Craigslist removed the ad pretty quickly, so no harm done. If you're curious, here is the text of the ad that was placed "in my honor" as such:

*******

Last week right before the holidays my mother passed. She left me everything. I am unable to use most of the things she owned. I would like to give them to a family, or someone in need. It is the Holidays and I would really like to help someone out

Queen Size bed
Blankets
Television with built in DVD/VCR. (seems to work fine)
Kitchen utensials
Granny clothing. Most are size medium, robes, shirts, pants, shoes.
There are a few pocketbooks also
Sewing Machine, not sure of brand
VHS Collection
Small Record Collection
2 full size dressers
Picture Frames

If you would like any of these items, you will have to come pick them up. I am unable to deliver them. I can bring some items to people in my area. Please call my number and leave a message. It will be first come first serve, and to those most in need. Thank you and God Bless
********

Sigh.

For sure, it was pretty clever, and showed a certain creativity, if nothing else. And I will continue to remember that cleverness and creativity (as well as her phone number) on countless bathroom walls, for many years to come.

And at the end of the day, a man talking dirty to a woman is forever harassment, whilst a woman talking dirty to a man is...$3.99 a minute.

There's a lesson in there somewhere...


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