I get a few drinks in me and I start making plans. Often I start making plans to lie in bed the next day and then grab Chinese for dinner. More often, I get these wonderful inclinations to involve myself in all kinds of ambitious activities beyond those concerned with the standard hangover recovery procedure. Water skiing, road tripping, sky diving, maybe even a triathlon or something. At the time, they are the most awesome ideas ever. It’s not often that I actually follow through with any of these plans. In fact, most of the time, no one I made plans with even gets as call, it’s just mutually understood that it’s not going down. Every now and then, I act out of character and surprise even myself. That hasn’t happened recently but I think next time I get drunk I’m going to make some solid plans and stick with them. Maybe I’ll go spelunking or something.
For the first Monday in a long time, I can remember the entire evening. I got a decent buzz and left the bar early to go home and finish some work like a responsible sober adult. Instead, when I got home, I made sandwich and watched Magnum P.I. until I passed out on the floor in front of the TV. Magnum is the man. I figure it must be the stache ergo I don’t feel I need to explain mine. All I need now is a Ferrari, a friend with a helicopter and an estate on the beach where I can do my “job” from.
Tuesday made up for Monday. Papouli’s for dinner and then to the Tic Toc for half price wine. It was then that I came up with the great idea for half dressed/half price night. The idea is simple. Ladies will wear half the clothes they normally do and the guys will buy half of their drinks. Wait. I think that’s been going on for some time now. Ahh, forget it; at least Tuesdays I can still get my drinks half price without sacrificing my dignity. I had to walk past the hummingbird to get home but, uh, I had to stop inside to use the bathroom, yeah, that’s it’s…the bathroom. Two games of darts and half dozen drinks later, I was using the alley for a bathroom on the way home. Don’t judge; God said not to.
Thursday was softball. The rules are ridiculous. The count starts with one ball and one strike, the walks are counted as doubles, the games are played for one hour; if this isn’t meant for combining alcohol with, I don’t know what is. Thankfully, I’m not the only one with that sentiment and there were plenty of PBR pounders to keep my electrolytes refreshed and my head in the game. The score doesn’t matter in a game like this (unless we would have won) and it’s the team that really counts. Some of us went straight to the bar afterwards, others (you know who you are) went home to shower and change before meeting up with us. The plan was to grab some food at the Red Eye but since it was pretty late and the kitchen had already closed, we skipped straight to the pitchers. There’s nothing like drinking on an empty stomach. Seriously, it saves soooo much money. So does leaving a tab open at the bar, unfortunately both these things always seem to catch up with me later on.
Across the street at Bird I began to solicit my idea for a bathroom review column and website. It would be done like a restaurant critic would do a column on food, but ummm…without graphic descriptions about how things taste. Apparently, plenty of people liked the idea (or they did after a few shots) and it was agreed that in an effort to remain un-biased and objective, both the men’s and women’s rooms would have to be checked out. Well, you can guess what happened from there, and if you do, please let me know, because all I remember is falling down on my way home later on, and I was pushing my bike, so that must have taken a lot of effort or a whole lot more to drink.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Sailing on a Sushi Boat Across an Ocean of Booze
I can’t think of many things that have gotten me so excited, and then let me down as frequently, as the Cherry Blossom street party. Except for the year that Morris Day and the Time rocked the streets, I’ve been disappointed almost every year. This year it was cancelled because of the rain all day leading up to it. I say screw the stage and the logistics, block the street off, do a BYOB and hand out trash bags for raincoats. The downtown police presence is typically prolific enough to handle a small riot anyhow, so no big deal; Right?
I really shouldn’t complain. There are plenty of other people to do that and I have a knack for fueling my disappointment with alcohol and cigarettes until it transforms into something a little more positive. I’m going to have a drink and forget about it. Had I known earlier in the week that the street party would be cancelled, I would have started this self healing process sooner. I played it safe and prepared to anyhow.
Monday. Ugh, seriously. I woke up still drunk on Tuesday. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Monday is the new Friday? Is it possible I’m not the pillar of sobriety I thought I was? Gulp. What? Shut up!
Joe Tuff got back from a stint over at the oceanless beach on Wednesday. I had been to softball practice that evening and was almost feeling like a healthy, active adult when we cracked the first of what would be a dozen beers. It was already after 2am and three hours later I was setting my alarm. I still managed to get up at seven. I’m getting better at this, the positive attitude thing at least, maybe not so much for the sobriety thing.
Thursday we hit Shogun which must be Japanese for “kick ass sushi served on a massive wooden boat” because twenty minutes after we got there and started flipping through the picture book for kids who can’t decipher sushi menu’s, that’s exactly what showed up on the table. It all disappeared pretty quickly, washed down with a few UFO’s and jokes about the boat being big enough for Gary Coleman to actually use.
Downtown at the rook they were doing some drink specials and playing some eighties music. It worked for me. As long as I don’t have to hear that stupid “apple bottom jeans, boots wit the furrrr” song another fucking time, I’m good. A few overpriced dollar shots later and we hit the bird for last call. Not to be discouraged my Macon’s puritanical alcohol laws, we stocked up on car bombs and masons jars of booze. I even closed an old bar tab. Yay me. Three down, one to go. I ended up playing beer pong until the sun came up and the next thing I know I was waking up in an office chair a few hours later. NuWay for breakfast seemed like a good idea around ten but it still didn’t sober me up and it was all I could smell for the next couple hours. I got some cherry ice cream down at the terminal station and went home to rest up for the first Friday shenanigans.
Under the impression that I was super human and that a shower would be the phone booth for my transformation, I left the house early to wander the streets. Vintage Treasure just opened on Cotton and after browsing through their awesome t-shirt selection it was time to eat…and drink…again. My front tooth is still loose from getting smashed in the mouth during rugby practice a few weeks ago. That means burgers with a fork and knife. It’s a royal pain in the nuts but unless I want to start looking like a Jones county native, I’m going to have to be careful until it heals up. I guess I could make a joke here about sticking to a liquid diet but that would be too easy. By the time I finished my food an a few beers all I wanted was another nap. It was around eleven when I walked up to the power station again to have Janaun Bon jovi rock my face off with eighties cover hits. It was their last show and I don’t think I’ve even seen the power station so packed. Back at the bird before last call, I think this was the only night of the week that I went out and didn’t get closed out of the bar after 2am. It gives me something to shoot for though.
I really shouldn’t complain. There are plenty of other people to do that and I have a knack for fueling my disappointment with alcohol and cigarettes until it transforms into something a little more positive. I’m going to have a drink and forget about it. Had I known earlier in the week that the street party would be cancelled, I would have started this self healing process sooner. I played it safe and prepared to anyhow.
Monday. Ugh, seriously. I woke up still drunk on Tuesday. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Monday is the new Friday? Is it possible I’m not the pillar of sobriety I thought I was? Gulp. What? Shut up!
Joe Tuff got back from a stint over at the oceanless beach on Wednesday. I had been to softball practice that evening and was almost feeling like a healthy, active adult when we cracked the first of what would be a dozen beers. It was already after 2am and three hours later I was setting my alarm. I still managed to get up at seven. I’m getting better at this, the positive attitude thing at least, maybe not so much for the sobriety thing.
Thursday we hit Shogun which must be Japanese for “kick ass sushi served on a massive wooden boat” because twenty minutes after we got there and started flipping through the picture book for kids who can’t decipher sushi menu’s, that’s exactly what showed up on the table. It all disappeared pretty quickly, washed down with a few UFO’s and jokes about the boat being big enough for Gary Coleman to actually use.
Downtown at the rook they were doing some drink specials and playing some eighties music. It worked for me. As long as I don’t have to hear that stupid “apple bottom jeans, boots wit the furrrr” song another fucking time, I’m good. A few overpriced dollar shots later and we hit the bird for last call. Not to be discouraged my Macon’s puritanical alcohol laws, we stocked up on car bombs and masons jars of booze. I even closed an old bar tab. Yay me. Three down, one to go. I ended up playing beer pong until the sun came up and the next thing I know I was waking up in an office chair a few hours later. NuWay for breakfast seemed like a good idea around ten but it still didn’t sober me up and it was all I could smell for the next couple hours. I got some cherry ice cream down at the terminal station and went home to rest up for the first Friday shenanigans.
Under the impression that I was super human and that a shower would be the phone booth for my transformation, I left the house early to wander the streets. Vintage Treasure just opened on Cotton and after browsing through their awesome t-shirt selection it was time to eat…and drink…again. My front tooth is still loose from getting smashed in the mouth during rugby practice a few weeks ago. That means burgers with a fork and knife. It’s a royal pain in the nuts but unless I want to start looking like a Jones county native, I’m going to have to be careful until it heals up. I guess I could make a joke here about sticking to a liquid diet but that would be too easy. By the time I finished my food an a few beers all I wanted was another nap. It was around eleven when I walked up to the power station again to have Janaun Bon jovi rock my face off with eighties cover hits. It was their last show and I don’t think I’ve even seen the power station so packed. Back at the bird before last call, I think this was the only night of the week that I went out and didn’t get closed out of the bar after 2am. It gives me something to shoot for though.
Dear Debra
Dear Debra McCorkle
We need to talk sometime. We should do it over a beer. If you’re half as boring as your article or the picture that accompanies it, we should probably do it over as few shots as well. “Cultural musings” reads like a bad left wing bumper sticker of a pusillanimous middle age brat. Maybe that’s an unfair characterization of someone I don’t even know, then again, maybe that’s exactly what you’re going for. The “mother earth” image you project is so clichéd that I feel like I can tell things about you that I have no desire to even know. Without a doubt you are more than familiar with yurts, marijuana alternatives, and…god I hope I’m wrong about this…the middle age orthopedic replacement for Birkenstocks, Crocs.
You strike me as the kind of typical liberal feminist taking up the same trite causes that define the worst of your type. I can picture you rambling on about Darfur at the same time you write of “angry Iraq war veterans” performing “free body cavity searches” at Bonnaroo, a festival people like you give a bad name to. I’ve served my country “Mama Karma” and I don’t know whether you have or not, but the attitude your statements project is one of self-service and nothing else. You seem like an educated woman that still struggles to deal with a period of your life that you feel like you’ve missed out on, and you now need to compensate for it.
I’m no Freud, no Kerouac, no brilliant thinker. I’m not a crusader of conservative causes and I have no desire to proselytize my political beliefs on anyone who doesn’t care to hear them, not even when I’m really drunk. I agree with plenty of your points but by the time you’ve delivered your message, you’ve turned me against you. The power of the libertarian ideas that you speak of is negated by the constant radical relationships you associate them with. You are one of the people that have taken up the libertarian cause as a device to trumpet your position on legalizing marijuana rather than denounce an ever increasingly controlling central government. The dualities are always there but you seem to promulgate them unnecessarily with your “musings”
You try so hard to be original that you have slipped into the same category as everyone else that tries as hard as you do; “Cultural musings” could be written by a left-wing programmed, veggie-burger fueled computer. It’s all been done mama, the pastor has been attacked as a hypocrite and the women’s tales of abuse have been told by many before you. Sure I write about getting drunk, but I try to be honest and a little bit insightful. I don’t talk shit about the men and women who have fought for, or contributed to, my freedom and I wouldn’t be writing this if you didn’t either. Change it up mama. We don’t want to hear you fighting for Mumia’s freedom or ranting about the most recent Dave Mathews generation jam concert. It’s cool you like to get your smoke on; you can be an advocate of the ganj to your heart’s content without attacking anyone else’s principals. Maybe then we can sympathize with your POV instead of being driven away by the divisive spike you drive between us and your perspective.
Love,
Alex Bender
P.S. Seriously, let’s get drunk together sometime, maybe you can show me some of your tattoos.
We need to talk sometime. We should do it over a beer. If you’re half as boring as your article or the picture that accompanies it, we should probably do it over as few shots as well. “Cultural musings” reads like a bad left wing bumper sticker of a pusillanimous middle age brat. Maybe that’s an unfair characterization of someone I don’t even know, then again, maybe that’s exactly what you’re going for. The “mother earth” image you project is so clichéd that I feel like I can tell things about you that I have no desire to even know. Without a doubt you are more than familiar with yurts, marijuana alternatives, and…god I hope I’m wrong about this…the middle age orthopedic replacement for Birkenstocks, Crocs.
You strike me as the kind of typical liberal feminist taking up the same trite causes that define the worst of your type. I can picture you rambling on about Darfur at the same time you write of “angry Iraq war veterans” performing “free body cavity searches” at Bonnaroo, a festival people like you give a bad name to. I’ve served my country “Mama Karma” and I don’t know whether you have or not, but the attitude your statements project is one of self-service and nothing else. You seem like an educated woman that still struggles to deal with a period of your life that you feel like you’ve missed out on, and you now need to compensate for it.
I’m no Freud, no Kerouac, no brilliant thinker. I’m not a crusader of conservative causes and I have no desire to proselytize my political beliefs on anyone who doesn’t care to hear them, not even when I’m really drunk. I agree with plenty of your points but by the time you’ve delivered your message, you’ve turned me against you. The power of the libertarian ideas that you speak of is negated by the constant radical relationships you associate them with. You are one of the people that have taken up the libertarian cause as a device to trumpet your position on legalizing marijuana rather than denounce an ever increasingly controlling central government. The dualities are always there but you seem to promulgate them unnecessarily with your “musings”
You try so hard to be original that you have slipped into the same category as everyone else that tries as hard as you do; “Cultural musings” could be written by a left-wing programmed, veggie-burger fueled computer. It’s all been done mama, the pastor has been attacked as a hypocrite and the women’s tales of abuse have been told by many before you. Sure I write about getting drunk, but I try to be honest and a little bit insightful. I don’t talk shit about the men and women who have fought for, or contributed to, my freedom and I wouldn’t be writing this if you didn’t either. Change it up mama. We don’t want to hear you fighting for Mumia’s freedom or ranting about the most recent Dave Mathews generation jam concert. It’s cool you like to get your smoke on; you can be an advocate of the ganj to your heart’s content without attacking anyone else’s principals. Maybe then we can sympathize with your POV instead of being driven away by the divisive spike you drive between us and your perspective.
Love,
Alex Bender
P.S. Seriously, let’s get drunk together sometime, maybe you can show me some of your tattoos.
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