I don't know who you are, but you seem very nice.
So, the weekend.
I went to to talk with someone I had only talked to a few times before, but they were having a hard time and insisted he couldn't really talk to his closer friends. I'm a convenient near-stranger. I get down to the bar and he's already about three or four drinks in. I don't know the guy especially well, so I just assume his alcohol tolerance is shit - after all, the people who get good and pissed only when they're good and depressed usually don't drink in the between time. He's at his wit's end because he lost his job. Probably gonna have to move in with his parents. The tenuous relationship he had is gonna go to shit because he's positive no one is going to keep dating a loser of a 30-something. What do I tell this guy? The best I have really is that you shouldn't slam so many different mixed drinks in a row - the laws of physics will probably catch up with you sooner than the alcohol does. Too late. He goes to even out the tension in his stomach and head while I talk to his friend who just happened to call right before he took off to the bathroom. The first one isn't much of a drinker, the second one says. Obvious, I say. I can't really leave him here to end up face down on 6th street, so I agree to drive him over to the friend's, who lives in a little condo near downtown.
The person I barely know goes and makes himself comfortable in the bathroom of the man I don't know at all. I get offered a drink and I tell him there's been about enough of that for the evening and I didn't plan on staying long. At this point I'm only hanging around to make sure no one has to go to the hospital or anything. Friend's friend goes on small talking for about 10 minutes about how his drunken buddy is just staring down at rock bottom that was hidden under a rock-bottom mockup he had already hit. I know the feeling and I get really, really uncomfortable at that point, despite the fact the guy who owns the place I'm not making myself comfortable in seems pretty nice.
I excuse myself and go home. It's pretty rare that I get to see someone else tear themselves up on booze and frustration without me getting drunk right along with it. I still don't know what to make of the whole thing, but I keep trying to pull it apart like a huge ball of knots.
Saturday morning I noticed that my hair was growing in enough that I need to get a cut in the back before I start rockin the mullet, and it's just about time to dye again before the grey gets obnoxious and/or noticeable. I didn't get around to doing the rest of the deck like I had wanted, but I went and biked up and down Shoal Creek, fed some birds, and managed to neither accost nor be accosted by hippies, yuppies, or the homeless. Saturday night - whisky, rum, and guitar hero along with the heart-wrenching revelation that John does not like SRV. Being the merciful and mature man I am, I decide not to end our friendship on the spot.
Sunday, get up, go biking, pass out reading outside again. Burn the shit out of my back. Get the Undying title in WoW, which is something of an accomplishment if you don't know. Do my workout and still fail to get any writing done. Viddy showed up at 11am with a stray dog she found in the lot behind where she works and left it with us for the day. Tiny little thing that just sort've oozed between my legs and hit the floor when I tried to put him in my lap. We'd set him on a blanket or pillow to sleep and he'd just roll with gravity until he was laying there in a heap and was okay with it. I don't think that dog had bones.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Shall I tell you a story?
Shall I tell you a dream?
They think I'm crazy.
I went to to talk with someone I had only talked to a few times before, but they were having a hard time and insisted he couldn't really talk to his closer friends. I'm a convenient near-stranger. I get down to the bar and he's already about three or four drinks in. I don't know the guy especially well, so I just assume his alcohol tolerance is shit - after all, the people who get good and pissed only when they're good and depressed usually don't drink in the between time. He's at his wit's end because he lost his job. Probably gonna have to move in with his parents. The tenuous relationship he had is gonna go to shit because he's positive no one is going to keep dating a loser of a 30-something. What do I tell this guy? The best I have really is that you shouldn't slam so many different mixed drinks in a row - the laws of physics will probably catch up with you sooner than the alcohol does. Too late. He goes to even out the tension in his stomach and head while I talk to his friend who just happened to call right before he took off to the bathroom. The first one isn't much of a drinker, the second one says. Obvious, I say. I can't really leave him here to end up face down on 6th street, so I agree to drive him over to the friend's, who lives in a little condo near downtown.
The person I barely know goes and makes himself comfortable in the bathroom of the man I don't know at all. I get offered a drink and I tell him there's been about enough of that for the evening and I didn't plan on staying long. At this point I'm only hanging around to make sure no one has to go to the hospital or anything. Friend's friend goes on small talking for about 10 minutes about how his drunken buddy is just staring down at rock bottom that was hidden under a rock-bottom mockup he had already hit. I know the feeling and I get really, really uncomfortable at that point, despite the fact the guy who owns the place I'm not making myself comfortable in seems pretty nice.
I excuse myself and go home. It's pretty rare that I get to see someone else tear themselves up on booze and frustration without me getting drunk right along with it. I still don't know what to make of the whole thing, but I keep trying to pull it apart like a huge ball of knots.
Saturday morning I noticed that my hair was growing in enough that I need to get a cut in the back before I start rockin the mullet, and it's just about time to dye again before the grey gets obnoxious and/or noticeable. I didn't get around to doing the rest of the deck like I had wanted, but I went and biked up and down Shoal Creek, fed some birds, and managed to neither accost nor be accosted by hippies, yuppies, or the homeless. Saturday night - whisky, rum, and guitar hero along with the heart-wrenching revelation that John does not like SRV. Being the merciful and mature man I am, I decide not to end our friendship on the spot.
Sunday, get up, go biking, pass out reading outside again. Burn the shit out of my back. Get the Undying title in WoW, which is something of an accomplishment if you don't know. Do my workout and still fail to get any writing done. Viddy showed up at 11am with a stray dog she found in the lot behind where she works and left it with us for the day. Tiny little thing that just sort've oozed between my legs and hit the floor when I tried to put him in my lap. We'd set him on a blanket or pillow to sleep and he'd just roll with gravity until he was laying there in a heap and was okay with it. I don't think that dog had bones.
And that's all I have to say about that.
Shall I tell you a story?
Shall I tell you a dream?
They think I'm crazy.