Saturday, May 22, 2004
How am I supposed to wallow properly when I can't get drunk? How the fuck am I supposed to get properly shitfaced when some unnamed individual has already drank every last drop of hard alcohol in the house and filled the bottles with water to hide the fact? I must admit, when the first sip of Bombay Sapphire was that smooth my first reactin was to wonder at the marvelous strides my tolerance had made. After downing the glass, I returned to the bottle and downed its entire contents in seconds flat. When did I succeed in becoming such a hard-drinking man?

The hard-drinking man: he who has been abandoned by all society and has friend only in drink. I'd quote Daniel Clowes on the subject, but all my books remain packed away in individual boxes emblazoned with the corporate logos of Sysco, Ghirardelli, Snyder's of Hanover, and those of various breweries. You too can become a hard-drinking man (or woman if so yonically inclined) by following the following steps:

You first work a ten-hour shift, during which time you encounter not a soul whom you would ordinarily consider a friend. It is not a hard shift, nor one marked by particularly irritating clientele (though you realize that, ten years ago, the group of emo kids would all have been wearing suits and porkpie hats and braced to skank at the first sound of an off-beat) After this, you proceed to the local hipfuck watering hole, thinking that after three years in a city, one of which has been spent working a block away from said hole, you would find a soul or two with whom to share a frosty libation.

Moments before entering said hole, you are hailed by a gentleman leaving the establishment. Due to the vicissitudes of hairstyles, you do not recognize this gentleman until he has already vanished into the evening's post-Spring-thunderstorm cool dim. You do not realize that this brief acknowledgement, not even returned, was to be savored. And so you head inside, wondering what adventures await.

{your humble narrator has discovered, on closer examination, the necessary ingredients to create something closely akin to what one His Dudeness is given to call "a Caucasian." This, sadly, is not even vaguely what is required of the hard-drinking man, but must suffice for the time being}

It is inside that you find reason for existential quandary. For every person you see and recognize proceeds to ignore the aforementioned existence of such an entity as yourself. Often this will be prefaced by a quick acknowledgement, a response to a greeting, in short: the bare minimum to maintain the illusion of any kind of civility or cohesiveness in what is largely considered a non-exclusionary social scene (so-called).

{At this point in the narrative, your humble narrator feels it important to mention the following fact: on traveling upstairs from his basement hovel to find a proper implement to stir his abovemetioned cocktail (a rusty nail, perhaps, or a plastic-tipped cigar, though in the end a stainless-steel spoon had to suffice) he found the carpet desecrated by the house's canine and himself with no choice but to clean it and imprison the obedience-impaired mutt, thus providing an ideal end to such an evening.}

Your next step in this scenario is to begin wondering if this scenario can be tracked back to any particular external signifier-- spinach on your teeth in a metaphysical or metaphorical sense [at this point the post ends rather abruptly. I don't remember exactly where I was going with this, but it had something to do with being all depressed because a bunch of people I barely know were all ignoring me. boo fuggin' hoo. -Ed]
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