Appalachian Apocalypse

Okay, the first report in a week or so, and I’m glad to be back. Have continued to do well generally on the cutting-down-on-alcohol-intake front, though two pitchers and two glasses of rum on Saturday (along with a vaguely remembered quantity of Jen's vodka) were, perhaps, a bit over the top. Still, in general consumption is way down, to the point that I don’t really think about it anymore when I go out; in fact, recently the problem has been less drinking more than I should than it’s been drinking more than I can afford. And financial troubles never bother me as much as behavioral ones.

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I had been really looking forward to this past weekend. I got a weird mailing a while ago, you see. It was announcing that the circus was coming to town, sort of. When the first thing I saw upon opening this thing was a picture of a partially ruined Earth with what appeared to be a comet streaking toward it (which makes me wonder why the Earth was already ruined; it was perfectly obvious that the comet hadn’t hit yet), I knew I was in for a good time.

Actually, the crazy thing was announcing a convention of people who think that the world is coming to end, and I mean really really soon. “Something BIG is about to happen,” screamed the flyer. “Space is limited. RESERVE YOUR SEAT TODAY!” It was supposed to be a “power-packed seminar that will provide the information you need to understand how major world events relate to the time of the end,” which, you know, I hear that and I’m hooked. On Saturday the talks included “The Genesis Code” and “The Antichrist Revealed” (which, if you think about it, they should have saved for last; having "The Antichrist Revealed" on Saturday is like saying who the murderer is on the first page of a mystery novel). The Sunday talks had less interesting names, but I’m sure they were wonderful, too. And best of all, the big show was being held at the Radisson, conveniently located across the street from Hank’s and only a couple of blocks from my apartment, so transportation wasn’t gonna be a problem. Also, admission was free.

Anyway, I had planned to get up early (for me) on the Saturday, say around ten. I had research work I had to get done at the library, and on Saturday the damn thing closes up at five. So, go to the library, put in about two hours of compiling voting records, and then the day’s my own. I was planning to stop at Husson’s Pizza across the street for a slice to keep my strength up, but I wasn’t gonna eat much, because I had hope of free food at the shindig (there must have been food; no one wants to face Armageddon on an empty stomach), and wanted to keep room available.

As it turns out, I needn’t have worried about whether they’d serve food or not. I stayed up rather too late on the Friday, and ended up sleeping ‘til nearly 1:00 the next day. That, of course, was early enough to catch the craziness, but I still had that work that needed done, so I had to go to the library instead. I was so disappointed. Now, the Apocalypse will catch me unawares.

I’m sure you’re all disappointed, too, because this week’s post was gonna be a review of the performance. I was gonna take a tape recorder and a camera and my notebooks and pretend to be a real-life, honest-to-God reporter. I suppose you’ll all just have to catch these people when they come to your town. I hope for your sake that they hurry.

The whole thing was put together by an organization called “Clear Voice, Inc.” I’ve been to their website now, because I thought I should do at least that much for the benefit of my readers. There isn’t much craziness at the site, which disappointed me a bit. There’s a lot of worry about “secular fundamentalists” who want to “ghetto-ize faith,” which I hope doesn’t mean what it sounds like it means. And of course they’ve got an up-to-date list of various natural disasters taking place across the globe, which is fine. They include quotes from people who think that God is destroying the Earth in response to our wickedness, which if you think about it isn’t really a very original idea. Hurricane Katrina was God’s punishment, as you would expect, but what might surprise you is that it was specifically a rebuke for our encouraging the Jews to vacate Gaza:

At least one New Orleans-area resident believes God created the storm as punishment because of the recent role the United States played in expelling Jews from Gaza. On Sunday evening, Bridgett Magee of Slidell, La., told the Christian website Jerusalem Newswire that she saw the hurricane "as a direct 'coming back on us' [for] what we did to Israel: a home for a home." Stan Goodenough, a website columnist, described Katrina as “the fist of God” in a Monday column. “What America is about to experience is the lifting of God’s hand of protection; the implementation of His judgment on the nation most responsible for endangering the land and people of Israel,” Goodenough writes. “The Bible talks about Him shaking His fist over bodies of water, and striking them.”

So, okay. Anyway, to be fair, the Clear Voice folks didn’t write these things, and they go out of their way to explain that the fact that these things appear on their site doesn’t mean they “favor or disfavor” the views expressed. So that’s something.

My point is, I love New Orleans, but if God was gonna destroy it for wrongdoing He would have done it a long time ago. I mean, there’s every kind of sin you could want in New Orleans, just lying about the place. You can’t step off a curbside in the French Quarter without sinning. So, really, if God was mad about Israel, he should have destroyed a different city, because with New Orleans the message gets a little lost in the telling, you know? Maybe Indianapolis, which isn't doing anyone any good anyway. Plus, if Indianapolis got destroyed by a hurricane, that would be pretty spectacular, wouldn't it? Can hurricanes form over the Great Lakes?

There are a few other interesting bits, like the “Social Issues” section which details various cultural sins, such as efforts towards gay marriage and Pennsylvania allowing Sunday beer sales, for which we’ll be punished. Also, the site claims that the Catholic Church is recruiting more exorcists, presumably due to a sudden rash of folks suffering from demonic possession which has inexplicably not made the news (and you know more folks would watch the news if things like that got on).

My first thought on hearing this was, where do you go to recruit exorcists? Are there certain bars or nightclubs they hang out at? But they aren't actually trying to find exorcists; they need regular-folks (well, probably regular-priest) volunteers, and they’re offering to train you. Among the things you’ll learn is how to pick the devil out of rock music and video games and what, exactly, you’re supposed to say to him, as well as how to tell genuine possession from various false positives like, say, schizophrenia.

A few interesting bits like that. But, on the whole, the website is lamentably short on craziness, which leads me to believe that I would have been disappointed in the seminar as well. The big problem with the site is that there isn’t anything much about the end of the world on it. I was hoping to read some of what I missed hearing this weekend, but no luck. How can you have an organization dedicated to warning people about the end times, and then not talk about the end of the world on your website? If the end is really imminent, isn’t it counter-productive to make people hunt around for important information? Just put it on the homepage, okay?

Also, they’ve got a merchandise page, but no T-shirts. I would have bought one.

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That’s about all that happened this week, really, except that Andi sang at the Union on Saturday night (which is why I drank so much). She had some trouble with the frat boys, which there’s a shock, huh? Anyway, during a break she sat with me and complained about them. She asked, “Why do you come here? You’re too smart for this.”

“I come here when there’s no one else here, Andi,” said I. “The only reason I'm here now is you; I was walking out the door when you showed up, and I stayed to listen to you. This is all your fault.”

Andi didn’t have any fun at all and walked out vowing never to return (in part because of a fight with her guitar player, whose name may or may not have been Sean, which may or may not be spelled correctly), but actually I had a good time. I got a bit drunk, as I mentioned, and Jen was there. I hadn’t seen her since last spring, so that was nice. Also, Charlotte was there. I hadn’t, to the best of my recollection, ever really had a conversation with her before, but we talked a bit on Saturday, and I enjoyed it very much. They’re playing somewhere else on Thursday (St. Mark's, I believe), and since Charlotte is Andi's semi-manager she'll presumably be there. I think I’ll go ‘round and see them.

And my brother finally got my CD burner working, so I’m in a disc-making frenzy. If you’re reading this and I know you personally, be expecting a CD sometime in the near future. Best of all, I’ve been making covers for the jewel cases, which is a low-impact way to exercise my creativity. These cases I’m making look professional, and I’m actually recording CDs that I’ll probably never listen to, just to make more cases. It’s a sad and sorry scene, really, but I’m enjoying it.

And that’s been my life for the last week. If anything further develops, I’ll report back. Sorry about the Rapture thing; I'll try to be a better reporter in the future. Love to all.

...in which the author is doing significantly better than the Government...

So, as I’ve said before, I’m not really cynical, though I sometimes seem to be. Still, sometimes you run across something that kind of makes you think that the people who run the country are every bit as obtuse and self-serving as your worst nightmares make them out to be. Such an item was the recent news that the same companies with ties to the Administration (Dick Cheney’s Halliburton in particular; you know he’s still getting $200K a year from them, right?) that have been gorging themselves on no-bid contracts in Iraq will now get to do the same to New Orleans.

I was going to bitch about this, but The Onion had a piece that I don’t think I could top, so I’m including it, with thanks.

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Halliburton Gets Contract To Pry Gold Fillings From New Orleans Corpses' Teeth
September 14, 2005 Issue 41•37

HOUSTON—On Tuesday, Halliburton received a $110 million no-bid government contract to pry the gold fillings from the mouths of deceased disaster victims in the New Orleans-Gulf Coast area. "We are proud to serve the government in this time of crisis by recovering valuable resources from the wreckage of this deadly storm," said David J. Lesar, Halliburton's president. "The gold we recover from the human rubble of Katrina can be used to make fighter-jet electronics, supercomputer chips, inflation-proof A-grade investments, and luxury yachting watches."

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It was a pretty good weekend. Katy, Emily, and Brooke all came in to visit this weekend, so I got to spend some time with each of them, though not as much as I would have liked with any of them. Brooke informed me that she has continued to read the blog from Lexington (she’s in school at UK now), but Katy hasn’t been (damn her—and I left that nice goodbye to her, as well). I didn’t get around to asking Emily whether she had or not…we were too busy making fun of the drunks she was sharking at the pool table.

Emily’s boyfriend is in New Orleans right now. He got sent down with the Guard (actually, I think he volunteered, and good for him) for only a two- or three-week hitch, which is up in a day or two. They’re asking Guardsmen to volunteer to stick around and continue to help out, but he isn’t sure he’s going to do that. The operation is so poorly run that, even though there’s so much work to be done and so many people who need help, he spends most of his time sitting around in a makeshift barracks. In the two weeks he’s been there, he’s been on exactly one search-and-rescue mission, with thousands of people in danger. He wants to help, but there just aren’t any missions for him. As Brian Williams wrote last Monday, “There was water, there was food, and there were choppers to drop both. Why no one was able to combine them in an airdrop is a cruel and criminal mystery of this dark chapter in our recent history." I don’t know if I’ve ever seen this level of incompetence before.

When I think of my beautiful city, and the courage and suffering of her people, and the outpouring of sympathy and support from around the country; and then think of the ineptitude of the people whose job is to help them (from the President down to the local officials), I get so angry I can’t think straight, so I’m not gonna talk about this anymore right now. Maybe in a bit.

* * * * * * *

Anyway, as I say, Katy was in town, which was nice. But I got out too late Friday to see much of her and Justin, or of Brooke…everybody went home early, ‘cause there was a Marshall home football game at 10:30 Saturday morning (which is just insane) and it was really a bit too busy in the bar when I got there for anyone to have a good time. It turned out badly for me, because I ordered a pitcher as soon as I got there, and everyone started leaving before I finished the first glass. Timmy stuck around for a while, and eventually Nikki (who had left earlier) came back, but the out-of-towners were all gone.

Which I figured, well, okay, because we’ll all see each other tomorrow night, and we should have a bit more room and peace to carry on conversations. After all, practically the whole town turned out for the game against Kansas State Saturday morning, and the tailgates started at around 6:00. So I figured, okay, everyone starts drinking early, so they’ll wear out early, too. But no such luck. The bar was packed Saturday night. And these people really had been drinking since 6:00 AM, as well; you could tell by how absolutely butt wasted they all were. A bunch of shots taken quickly will get you drunk, but it ain’t the same kind of drunk that drinking all day will get you, and the difference is obvious to folks watching you.

The really sad thing was that no one seemed to be enjoying themselves. Maybe it was the all-day drunk (you really have to train yourself for things like that), or maybe the fact that Marshall lost on a really bad play as time expired, or maybe it was just something in the air, but nobody was having a good time. I don’t understand why you stay in a crowded bar, spending money and getting drunk, if you aren’t enjoying yourself doing it.

There was couple near us, over by the pool table, that argued at top volume for an hour. Even in that crowded place, with music and games and people shouting to be heard over the racket, the voices of this couple just boomed, and they were driving us nuts. It got so bad that Justin was threatening to beat the guy up. I mean, seriously; once you reach that point, it’s time to drag your tired ass home. Folks were acting like my ten-year-old brothers act when they haven’t had their naps.

Anyway, Katy and Justin left early because it was simply too aggravating to be there, but Emily stuck around, along with Tim, and Brooke and her entourage showed up late (she had driven to Morgantown to watch WVU beat up on some I-AA patsy or another), so not a total loss.

And Katy said she might stick around an extra day or so and see us on Monday night, but no such luck. It would have been nice if she'd been able, as it turned out, because the bar was dead on Monday, in spite of the opening MNF game of the season. I guess everybody wore themselves out over the weekend. Anyway, we could all have hung out and talked without being disturbed, an opportunity I hate to have missed. But, she promised to catch up on the blog when she got home, so that’s not a total loss, either.

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Okay, just because I love to pick on Rick (Man-on-Dog) Santorum, I’m gonna include this bit from what I sincerely hope was an impromptu discussion a few days ago (not that he's much less of a moron when uses prepared statements). Talking about the people who were unwilling or unable to get out of New Orleans, he said, “You have people who don't heed those warnings and then put people at risk. ... There may be a need to look at tougher penalties on those who decide to ride it out.” As Will Durst finished the thought for him, “and when I say tough penalties, I mean worse than drowning in your attic.”

Durst doesn’t stop there. He quotes Dennis Hastert, the Speaker of the House, saying that he doesn’t see the point of rebuilding New Orleans (did I mention that this is the SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE?!?!?). He also nails the President’s mother, a tough old bat who I usually like even though I don’t think she’s a particularly good person (I’ve always had a thing for tough old bats; that’s probably my Gramma’s fault). Anyway, she’s an intelligent woman, and she’s usually at least clued-in, so I don’t know what on Earth she could have been thinking when she said, of the people stranded in the Superdome in 100-degree heat without food or water and surrounded by corpses and toxic waste: “So many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them.”

The thing I like best about this Administration (and its assorted hangers-on, like Pat Robertson) is that, no matter how bad things get, you can always lighten the dark days by making fun of their cynical, ham-handed, alternate-universe cluelessness.

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A small victory over electronics: I was listening to Dvořák (specifically the “Serenade for Strings,” opus 22) while typing this. He’s one of my favorite composers, but I hated writing about him because that [ř] symbol doesn’t have a keyboard shortcut, so to spell his name you either have to use “insert” off the menu (I never use the menu if I don’t absolutely have to) or put his name on the clipboard and paste it in every time you use it. But I finally got around to programming my own shortcut for it, and now I can write “Dvořák” as much as I want. Fear me.

Anyway, things are looking up a little bit. It’s been a week since I last wrote to you guys (not counting the piece I cribbed from Sojourner for you), and the resetting is picking up a little bit of steam. Drink totals for the week:

Thursday—Nothing. Straight-up.
Friday—One pitcher of beer.
Saturday—Two bottles of beer with lunch, and a pitcher that night.
Sunday—Nothing. Not a drop
Monday—One beer at lunch, and half a bottle of wine.
Tuesday—A little bit more nothing.

And tonight I’m not drinking anything, at least not yet, though I do still have the other half of that wine at home. There was no day when I drank excessively, and (if I in fact don’t drink tonight) there will have been four completely alcohol-free days! My friends, that’s pretty good. I mean, it isn’t as good as it should be, or as good as I might have expected coming into this, but compared to the kind of creeping hopelessness of the last couple of weeks, it’s pretty damn good. Moreover, I’ve been a good citizen even when I’ve been drunk, which has to be a good sign.

I don’t like to admit the main reason I’ve been able to cut down this past week, but I suppose I will: I’ve been really dedicating myself to my research job. Every moment I’m not working in the library, eating, or sleeping, I’ve tried to spend doing research (well, except for seeing the out-of-towners this weekend and watching Empire Records again last night). I don’t want to be one of those horrible men who depends on his job for his self-worth (usually in a figurative sense, though for me right now it’s literally true, as well), but at the moment my job is a convenient crutch. And it’s a suitable one, anyway, because as I wrote a couple of weeks ago, drinking was beginning to affect my work, so this is a chance to make up for that lack of diligence and responsibility while helping myself. So, good news for Russ and Chip, if I haven’t already screwed this project up too much.

With the resetting going well, I’m not only doing better but also feeling better (though it’s hard to sleep on nights I don’t drink…I didn’t get any sleep last night at all) and am less prone to dark thoughts. And I’ve had my Labor Day shave, a little bit late (had to wait for the head injury I wrote about a couple of weeks ago to heal), which gives me a whole new face; and I’m still fairly new at the Music Library, so it feels a little bit like starting a whole new chapter in my life.

I look so much forward to summer every year, but this one hasn’t been the best, and I’m ready for it to be over now. The coming autumn seems somehow full of promise, as if I was climbing a steep slope in the deep shadow of the early morning, but there’s just a hint of light overhead, signaling that the rising sun is just over the crest of the hill; and I am very eager to see it. Although, as a night person, and someone who prefers the moon to the sun on general principle (aside from the fact that, as the year gets older, there will less and less sun), perhaps I’d better rethink that analogy. Damn. I liked it, too. If I think of anything to take its place, I’ll let you know. Love to all.

Good Movies and Cheap Wine

I read an Op-Ed piece in the Times today, which is the best thing I’ve read about New Orleans yet. Rather than linking to their website (the link would go bad after a week) I’ve reprinted it and put it here, if you’d like to read it.

Just found out that Helen Hunt was supposed to get the role of Tully Sorenson in Barfly, but the director wanted a more experienced actress (afraid she’d be overwhelmed by Faye Dunaway and Mickey Rourke), so he went with Alice Krige instead. Which is okay, ‘cause I like Alice Krige, but now I’m kind of interested to see how Helen Hunt would have done in the role.

Also, given that Helen Hunt had been acting since she was a small girl, did Alice Krige really have more experience? I went to IMDb and checked; Krige had done six movies and two TV miniseries before Barfly was produced. Hunt had done eight big-screen movies and something like forty TV movies and shows. More experienced in what sense, exactly?

I mention this out of the blue, of course. Apropos of nothing.

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Still fighting, and losing, the Battle of the Bottle. I’m in a thing now where I don’t drink at all for a day or two, and then go on a binge. That’s not good, really…although most of my drinking lately has consisted of binges, so perhaps it’s good that I’m down to two or three of them a week.

Labor Day was such an occasion, but then, it was Labor Day, and if you read my post from Monday commemorating the only holiday I really like, you probably expected me to do some drinking. Two pitchers and at least four shots (they all started to run together after a bit), plus most of a bottle of wine after the bar closed. That doesn’t sound much like cutting back, does it?

I’m not sure that it could really even be honestly said that I’m fighting a losing battle. Truth be told, I don’t seem to be putting up much of a fight at all. I freely admit that I don’t have a lot of willpower where liquor is concerned, but usually these resetting periods go pretty smoothly, and I’m not sure why it isn’t this time.

Anyway, as Churchill said in exasperation to his commanders at Dunkirk, “Of course if one side fights and the other does not, the war is apt to become somewhat uneven.” I am trying most of the time, but when I give up, I give completely up. I don’t really know what to do about this, except to wait it out and see if this mood goes away, or my drinking resolves itself somehow.

* * * * * * *

So, anyway, yeah, not going that well. I’ve been reading old posts the last couple of days, and I ran across the one where Christy was calling me her “life coach.” Man, that seems like a long time ago.

I had my doubts about the title back then, if you’ll recall. About the only thing I could find to recommend myself was that I was happy, regardless of what was going on in my life. Admittedly, that’s a powerful argument…probably a lot of people with “better” lives than mine wish they could be as happy as I was in April & May.

I don’t suppose I’m necessarily unhappy now, either. I’ve searched myself and can’t really find any sadness. But things come up, things change, and sometimes life gets kind of heavy. That’s where I’m at now. Life gets too heavy, so you just kind of set it aside for a moment. You aren’t so much depressed as worn out and empty.

Which is okay, as far as it goes. But you drink to fill both time and that empty space, and then the drinking makes you further detached from life, which makes you want to drink more. So it builds up. Difficult cycle to break, and right now I haven’t the energy, or even really the desire. There’s just kind of a vague sense that I should put a stop to this and soon, but no vague feeling could be strong enough to motivate me. Deep conviction is needed, and I have none.

So, back to the life coach thing. I can’t swear that it would ever have been an appropriate position for me to fill, but I’m quite sure that I can’t do it now. Christy, to her credit, seems to have reached the same conclusion; I haven’t heard from her in a while.

What it comes down to is that at the moment I’ve got nothing to offer anyone, except maybe sometimes writing something well. And I need to stop writing about this particular subject, because I don’t want this to turn into an AA blog.

* * * * * * *

So I’m writing this at the Union. It’s Trivia Night, so it’s busy and I’m rapidly getting full of whiskey. Unfortunately, none of my friends came ‘round tonight except Timmy, and he’s busy shooting pool. But you can’t leave on Trivia Night, ‘cause you paid your $5.00 for the all-you-drink special and you have to stay long enough to drink your money’s worth. So here I sit, writing. On the plus side, I now know that the longest-running TV show about an animal was Lassie, and that the first network kids’ show was Captain Kangaroo.

I have, as I mentioned, been drinking too much recently, but I haven’t just been sitting around doing nothing and getting wasted, and I suppose there’s something to be said for that. No, I’ve been reading and watching lots of movies. You wouldn’t be interested in what I’m reading, ‘cause it’s been research-related, mostly congressional debates from 30 and 40 years ago.

Some of the movies have been awesome, though. Tuesday was an all-day movie fest, ‘cause I didn’t feel like getting up. I had a serious lineup of films…I had intended to have a “blast from the past” night, but actually I sandwiched three new movies between two old favorites. I started the shindig off with a ‘90’s favorite, Party Girl.

How has this become a forgotten movie? Parker Posey is just brilliant in it. I know she hasn’t done a lot of great movies since, but this was really a shining moment for her. Plus, you get to see Liev Schreiber before anyone knew who he was. I’ll admit that the story can be disjointed at times (what does Rene have against Teddy Rogers, anyway?), and seems to miss a few things here and there, but come on! The main character is junked-out for most of the movie. What do you expect?

Everyone reading this should go out right now and rent Party Girl. Getting Empire Records wouldn’t hurt, either. I actually ended the night with this one, something happy to carry me into sleep, a little “Sugar High” to drift off to. Is anyone but me pissed off that Renée Zellweger’s part isn’t in the soundtrack version of that song? Still, that’s a minor complaint, and this is a straight-up brilliant film.

What a great group of characters. There isn’t really much of a story, and what there is doesn’t make much sense (really, if they could make enough to buy the store with a “save the Empire” show, why didn’t they do it years ago?), but you watch this one for the characters.

Liv Tyler’s character is a little bit dull (and who decided that she had to play a virgin in every movie she did in the nineties?), but everyone else is fantastic. I mean, Lucas’ Zen awakening is kind of the axis the movie turns on, but the movie would still be dull if it wasn’t for everyone else being so awesome. I love to watch the arguments and interactions between Gina and Debra (“No visible tattoos,” “No revealing clothing,” “We’re both screwed…at least you’re used to it.”) and Mark flipping out and AJ gluing money to the floor and Warren trying to act tough and Joe trying to keep everything together while resisting the impulse to strangle Lucas. It’s gotta be just about the best group of characters ever to appear on film.

I also caught Mulholland Drive , which I’ve been wanting to see for a long time. Now, I’m into the stranger films, and I can usually follow pretty convoluted plots. For David Lynch in particular I’ve got an affinity; he and I are frequently on the same wavelength. But I gotta say, this one got me. I was okay ‘til they opened the blue box. I could see things coming together, but as soon as she opened that box, I was done.

I could see what happens after as back-story, if it wasn’t for Naomi Watts changing roles. I mean, is that an artistic device of some kind? There must be a better explanation than that. I mean, there are some genuinely beautiful and gripping scenes (the show at the Club Silencio is really magnificent), but when the movie’s over you’re just kind of staring at the screen going, “What?”

If you’ve seen this movie, and you get it, clue me, okay? And if you haven’t seen it, well, I can’t really recommend it. Except if you want to see a topless Naomi Watts making out with another woman (and I know some of you do). But you can get similar things in most David Lynch films.

Four things typical of David Lynch’s work:

1. Large empty rooms with the actors at the far end;
2. Convoluted plots that may or may not make sense with or without the use of hallucinogenics;
3. Music by Angelo Badalamenti; and
4. Quasi-sex scenes that give my mother nightmares.

Well, okay, and he sometimes intentionally directs actors to turn in over-the-top, high-school-play-type performances, like the scene in the airport early in this one. That’s beside the point. The point is, once Betty becomes Diane Selwyn, I’m lost. So lend a brother a hand if you’re able.

I watched Darkness, as well, because I’ve got a bad thing for Anna Paquin (and have had since she was a ten-year-old doing commercials, which I probably shouldn’t admit in public). Anyhow, I liked it. I thought it was well-shot, and although I’ve never been a Lena Olin fan I thought it was well-casted; in fact, I even liked her in it.

The story was a bit trite, though. I mean, aren’t we done with the ritual sacrifice of children yet? And since it was immediately obvious that Iain Glen’s character was the escapee from the original massacre, the ending was a bit predictable as well. And when they tried to add a twist to his death it just seemed kind of stilted. I’ve got no problem with everyone dying at the end (my favorite movie is Night of the Living Dead, after all), but I thought it could have been done better. In other words, I loved everything but the last half-hour. It was still worth seeing.

And I finally got to see Sin City. I’ve heard so much about how violent this film is, but really, I think that was all exaggeration. I mean, it is violent, but I’ve seen far more violent films in my time. And not just “B” horror films and Tromo efforts; many major pictures are bloodier, like the Kill Bill movies. I mean, yeah, it’s gory in bits, like Elijah Wood getting eaten by dogs, but really…

And the thing is, it was a damn good film, and somehow the violence is all people talk about. That’s just silly. The cinematography was absolutely brilliant, and though I might have cast a few parts differently, no one can say that they couldn’t get the stars to come out for this picture. But, you know, you cut Benecio Del Toro to pieces, and that’s all anybody remembers.

And that was Tuesday. Please note, by the way, that I watched five movies and NOT A SINGLE ZOMBIE, so don’t tell me I only watch zombie movies. Anyway, I’m gonna leave you people and get a bit of work done, but I’ll leave you with another trivia question Jimbo asked while I was writing this: What was unusual about the band “Electric Mayhem”? If you don’t know the answer without checking this link, then you obviously completely mis-spent your childhood, and I don’t want you reading my blog anymore. Cheers.

The People's Day

So it’s Labor Day. This is my favorite holiday, though that isn’t saying much, since I don’t really like any of the others particularly. But Labor Day is my day; for the good Socialist it’s like Christmas and Thanksgiving and Easter all rolled into one .

Most people don’t even really think about what Labor Day is all about, because Charlie Brown never had a special with Linus walking on stage to give a speech about the true meaning of Labor Day. Most folks just get drunk and have cookouts and ogle people wearing revealing clothes for just about the last time 'til spring. When I was younger this bothered me a little bit, kinda the way the born-agains get mad over Santa Claus. Veterans complain that no one remembers them on Memorial Day, and I suppose I wanted something similar to bitch about. I mean, why isn’t everyone singing the praises of Eugene Debs and Big Bill Haywood and Mother Jones?

But I’ve evened out on that some as I’ve gotten older. The principal reason for this is that, after years of reflection on the history of organized labor in this country, I’ve come to realize that our Labor Day activities really do honor the day properly. In order to explain why, I’ll have to tell you the story of Labor Day. I promise to keep it short.

* * * * * * *

The struggles of organized labor began in force in the 19th century, and it was (and remains) a long and bloody struggle. Every gain that was made by American workers was the result of a desperate fight, every day, step by step, and gradually the workers started to make progress (things like weekends, pensions, and workplace safety rules) and increase their bargaining power and political protection. Still, they had such a long way to go. They felt that they needed something, not only to recognize the steps forward that the movement had been able to take, but to grab the attention of American workers and rally people to the cause for all the work still undone.

Some clever boy (I don’t know who; actually, it might have been a clever girl) had the brilliant idea of calling a general one-day work stoppage. It seemed a little bit crazy at first, effectively striking without any demands, but the idea spread and had broad appeal among the laboring class. So, the leadership of various organizations got together and decided to go ahead with the idea. They settled on the first Monday in September as the target date.

I don’t think management took all this talk very seriously. But on that first Monday, back in 1882, thousands and thousands of workers just plain didn’t show up at their factories or their shipyards or wherever. The Central Labor Union in New York had arranged a picnic and demonstration. A huge crowd of workers gathered and the meeting turned into an impromptu parade through Manhattan, stopping outside the houses of the great capitalist families, like the Astors. A wonderful time was had by all; I imagine the mood was something like that at the first Thanksgiving.

The whole thing went so well that someone suggested they do it again the following year. And it went well again, and they did it the year after that. It caught on all over the country; by 1885 most of the nation's industrial centers observed the holiday. Every year they did it, and every year the number of workers taking the day off grew and grew, until American industry found itself crippled on the first Monday of each September.

Finally, Congress (which as a body would much rather follow than lead) decided to give official notice to this new tradition, and in 1894 they declared that the first Monday every September would be Labor Day, a Federal holiday (a few states had already recognized the day). Once the holiday was codified, most industries followed suit, and they got to feel very good about themselves, because they were being so nice to the workers, giving them a day off and all.

But nobody gave these workers this holiday. They took it. For the first and only time in American history, the people gave themselves a holiday. And the original proposal for the holiday talked about how it should be observed: a street parade to exhibit to the public "the strength and esprit de corps of the trade and labor organizations" of the community, followed by a festival for the recreation and amusement of the workers and their families. [A big thanks to the Department of Labor for some of this information.]

* * * * * * *

So, that’s where Labor Day came from. And if you want to know how best to celebrate the day, do it by doing whatever you want to do. Go to the beach, go to the movies, get stoned, make love. Hang out with your friends, catch a show, take a long drive through the countryside or a hike in the mountains. Rampage in the park with a bottle of wine and a frisbee. Drink whiskey and eat lots of good food, or just fucking sleep all day. What ever you feel like doing, do it, and make sure you're frivolous and stupid about it. This is your day, the day of the American worker, and the way to honor it and the men and women who fought and suffered and died to give you this day, and the rights you enjoy which are represented by this day, is to enjoy yourself. That was, in fact, their intention.

Me, I’m gonna sleep ‘til about four, and then I’m gonna make myself one of my special shrimp pizzas, and then I’m heading for the bars. And my first drink will be to those who came before and made all my joys and freedoms possible. And then I'll have a whole lot more drinks, and celebrate my day, our day, in the manner that suits me best. And really, I'm pretty sure that's all they'd want in their honor.

A Brave But Hopeless Fight

Oh, goodness, am I pissed off.

I just got done reading today’s New York Times. According to a new poll (I should stop reading polls, ‘cause I always get pissed off about something), 42 percent of Americans are strict creationists. Now, I’m not talking about people who think God created the world and evolution is part of his grand scheme, or anything like that. I’m talking about people who believe that “living beings have existed in their present form since the beginning of time.” People who believe that evolution simply does not exist. Period. Read that statement in quotation marks again, the one they all decided best expressed their opinion. There is no other way to interpret it than to say that these people, nearly half our population, believe evolution is bullshit, a false theory top-to-bottom and beginning-to-end.

I’m an adult. I’m aware that intelligent people can have divergent views, and that the fact that someone disagrees with me does not automatically make that person an idiot. But really, as far as evolution goes, have these people not been paying attention for the last century and a half? Evolution is real, it is really where we come from, and it is the exact reason why life in all its diversity exists on this planet. Get over it.

If this offends your religious beliefs, I'm sorry (well, not really). If you want to believe that some god created all the matter in the universe and crammed it all together really densely so we could have a Big Bang, that’s fine with me. Hell, it might even be true, though I don’t believe it myself. If you want to believe that evolution is part of God’s plan, that in the laws of genetics we’re seeing the divine brushstrokes on life’s canvas, that’s okay too. But make no mistake; whether it’s a simple physical algorithm or the design of some deity, evolution is the real thing. Its reality cannot be denied by any intelligent, honest observer.

If I may, I’ll let Dan Dennett weigh in here:

The fundamental core of contemporary Darwinism, the theory of DNA-based reproduction and evolution, is now beyond dispute among scientists. It demonstrates its power every day, contributing crucially to the explanation of planet-sized facts of geology and meteorology, through middle-sized facts of ecology and agronomy, down to the latest microscopic facts of genetic engineering. It unifies all of biology and the history of our planet into a single grand story. Like Gulliver tied down in Lilliput, it is unbudgeable, not because of some one or two huge chains of argument that might—hope against hope—have weak links in them, but because it is securely tied by hundreds of thousands of threads of evidence anchoring it to virtually every other area of human knowledge. New discoveries may conceivably lead to dramatic, even “revolutionary” shifts in the Darwinian theory, but the hope that it will be “refuted” by some shattering breakthrough is about as reasonable as the hope that we will return to a geocentric vision and discard Copernicus…

The evidence for evolution pours in, not only from geology, paleontology, biogeography, and anatomy (Darwin’s chief sources), but of course from molecular biology and every other branch of the life sciences. To put it bluntly but fairly, anyone today who doubts that the variety of life on this planet was produced by a process of evolution is simply ignorant—inexcusably ignorant, in a world where three out of four people have learned to read and write.[i]

* * * * * * *

There’s been a lot of talk lately about evolution and whether it should be taught in the schools, or whether it should be taught alongside “intelligent design” creationism. The President definitely thinks so, because he says “that part of education is to expose people to different schools of thought." This is true, of course, and I’ll skip over the irony of hearing these words from this supremely incurious and close-minded man.

For the moment we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and pretend he believes what he’s saying. Even so, he’s wrong in this case, because the only thing that should be taught in a science class is actual science. And my friends, intelligent design ain’t it. As Dennett notes in a separate article, “no intelligent design hypothesis has even been ventured as a rival explanation of any biological phenomenon. This might seem surprising to people who think that intelligent design competes directly with the hypothesis of non-intelligent design by natural selection. But saying, as intelligent design proponents do, 'You haven't explained everything yet,' is not a competing hypothesis. Evolutionary biology certainly hasn't explained everything that perplexes biologists. But intelligent design hasn't yet tried to explain anything.”[ii]

If you want to teach children about the “debate” between creationists and evolutionists, teach it where it belongs, in a Political Science or civics class. This argument has nothing at all to do with science. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t think it has very much to do with religion, either.

Follow me on this: I don’t know if the people pushing intelligent design really even believe in it themselves, though certainly the people following them do. I don’t think you could pull off a hoax like this if you weren’t pretty sure what the actual facts were; it would like running a pyramid scheme without knowing about money. I am skeptical about the beliefs of the people behind this “intelligent design” effort. I think this is part of a political agenda rather than a matter of faith for them. The leaders on the right may not actually be religious people, but they all have to use religion to get their agenda in motion.

Personally, I blame Karl Marx (or, more accurately, the frequent misinterpretation of his work) and the Soviets (to a far greater extent) for this. Marx famously called religion the “opiate of the masses.” Now, Marx had no faith himself, but he wasn’t condemning religious belief in and of itself. He was condemning the power of the priesthood. Marx saw the priesthood in the same way he saw the capitalist class, as a group keeping the people powerless. The Bolsheviks took this idea and ran with it, to the point of basically destroying the Russian church after the revolution.

Because the Bolsheviks were radical leftists, conservatives around the world came to identify all leftists with this movement, which makes as much sense as identifying all conservatives with fascists. The idea was that any liberal had necessarily to be Godless and anti-church. This isn’t true; I’ve known many very religious liberals, including most of my family, but due to the constant harping of this theme from conservatives for the last 150 years, it is widely believed. It follows, according to the logic of the Right, that anything that strengthens religion weakens the Left. Therefore, for a lot of the leadership on the right, campaigns like “intelligent design” and the elimination of evolution from school curricula (to say nothing of posting the Ten Commandments in our schools and courthouses and related infringements on the freedom of religion) serve a political purpose that doesn’t actually have anything to do with the religious beliefs being stressed.

In other words, these irresponsible people are keeping our nation’s children stupid for cynical political gain. This is why, although I’m not really mad at my friend Tom (a creationist), I’m severely and perpetually angry at people like Bill Frist and Tom DeLay. If the only way you can cement power is by distortion, at the expense of schoolchildren, you shouldn’t have power at all.

* * * * * * *

So, it’s been a week since I declared my intention to cut back on my drinking for a while. I know you’re all just dying to find out how that’s gone. Has it been a success? Well, that depends on how you define “success.”

Certainly I’ve had less to drink over the last week than I had been drinking immediately prior to the decision. So that’s something, anyway. On the other hand, I’m still drinking more than I should be. I didn’t drink at all on Friday, and on Saturday had just the two beers, as according to plan. But it was all downhill from there:

Sunday—A whole bottle of cheap wine.

Monday—Ditto.

Tuesday—Two beers and three glasses of whiskey

Wednesday—Trivia Night. Lots and lots of whiskey and water at the Union. Dunno how much, but at least seven.

So, a lot more than I’m supposed to be having. Last night (Thursday) I didn’t drink anything at all…a small victory in a war I’m bound to lose. I checked out Leaving Las Vegas last night in hopes of inspiration, but I doubt that will work any better than my frequent rewatching of Barfly does. It definitely doesn't help to see a drunk as a romantic hero. By this time tomorrow I'll see in myself a picture of the doomed struggle of all humanity against an uncaring and deteriorating Universe.

I feel a bit like Bridget Jones, reporting my daily alcohol intake like this. It’s too bad I didn’t count my cigarettes yesterday, or the amount of calories I ingested (as far as calories go, I wouldn’t know how). Incidentally, if Bridget Jones is supposed to be a fairly plain, somewhat dumpy young woman, why in the world did the producers get Renée Zellweger (one of the sexiest women on Earth) to play her?

Anyway, yeah, a losing battle with the booze. I do this resetting thing once or twice a year, but it usually goes much more smoothly than this. I seem to have fallen into a self-destructive pattern; I thought I had outgrown the tendency to do this. Back in my early twenties, when I was devastated by the breakup of my relationship with Bonnie Sioux, I was like this, but I didn’t think it would ever happen again; frankly, I didn’t think anyone else could hurt me that much (if you’ll pardon my being soft for a moment). It’s been a tough summer, and I’ve needed a crutch.

I guess all I can do is try not to drink too much tonight, and then try not to drink too much tomorrow, and not set any particular limits in time or quantity. I wonder if that’s a cliché. I’ve never attended an AA meeting (nor do I ever plan to), so if anyone out there has, please enlighten me on which truisms are current with that crowd.

I don’t want to quit drinking, but I’d like alcohol to be a companion rather than a crutch. I’m having trouble working out the difference, though…the boundary isn’t as clear as I’d like it to be. Whiskey should come with an owner’s manual, although it could be argued that the owner’s manual for drinking is already printed firmly in my head, and I just choose not to refer to it as often as I ought. Certainly no one has more experience than I have in that area.

* * * * * * *

Anyway, all that being said, I’m off to visit Nikki at the Union, prior to getting together with my brother to pirate a few DVDs. Well, pirate is too strong a word, really. What I want to do is put them on videocassettes. See, I’ve got all these eight-hour cassettes, and it’s great for TV shows. I’ve already fit the whole first season of Cheers onto one, and now I’m working on the West Wing and some more Cheers. But those bastards in the DVD industry put that stupid copyguard thing on a lot of the discs (though not the West Wing…I love those people), so before I can tape them I have to rip the DVD with the copyguard removed. It’s very aggravating, ‘cause it takes like two or three hours to do one disc. Still, it’s worth it. And I don’t feel even a little bit guilty, ‘cuase I’m doing this for myself, and not to sell the copies like the Chinese do. I paid for these damn things, and I want every episode on a single tape so I don’t have to constantly change discs or whatever. If the companies don’t like it, they can sue me (as I’m sure they will if they find out). Anyway, got to go. Love to all. Wish me luck in the losing battle, though so far the wishes aren’t doing me much good. I appreciate them anyway.

[i] Dennett, Daniel C., Darwin’s Dangerous Idea, Simon & Schuster, 1995 (pp. 18, 46).
[ii] Dennett, Daniel C., “Show Me The Science,” New York Times, 8/28/5.

Missing New Orleans

I love New Orleans. It's really one of the world's great cities, beautiful and historic and unique. I was on my way to move there when my van broke down in Dayton and due to strange circumstances I ended up living in Ohio for five years, but New Orleans was always on my mind. That city, along with San Francisco and Baltimore, are the only cities I thought I'd be happy settling down in, and I plan to do my graduate work at Tulane, if they'll have me.

Last year, when Hurricane Ivan came through, everyone was afraid that New Orleans would just wash away. The levees weren't in great shape, due mostly to the fact that the current government has slashed funding for the US Army Corps of Reserves, and there was real fear that the city couldn't survive. But it did, and when people gave similar warnings leading up to Katrina's landfall yesterday, I maybe wasn't as worried as I'd been last time. Still, it does leave a sort of sick feeling in your stomach. So, the first thing I did today was check the news to see what had happened to New Orleans. I was afraid I'd wake up today and it would be gone. But it was still there. The prophets of doom had exaggerated again. There was trouble, but the worst was over.

That was before the levees broke today, and now my beautiful city is destroyed. I've heard that in places the water is 20 feet deep, which I can't even imagine. The Red Cross says this will be the biggest relief effort in its history.

I don't even know what to say about all this. I guess I'm beartbroken, like everyone else who loves the town. All hope and love to the residents, and to the people of Mississippi and Alabama as well.

Resetting Myself

Katy’s gone now, having left last Wednesday. I didn’t want to put a long goodbye to her on this post, since I’ve talked so much about her going already, but I did add one to her page as a postscript. If you’d like to read it, it’s here.

* * * * * * *

Discovered something interesting the other day. I’m being trained to do Interlibrary Loans here at the Music Library, and though I’ve ordered things through the service before I’ve never actually used the system itself (in the Drinko Library, Circulation and ILL are two separate departments, but Music isn’t big enough to have special offices). Anyway, the ILL system uses OCLC, which probably doesn’t mean a damn thing to anyone reading this.

The interesting thing, though, is this: back in 1990, when I was working at the Dunbar Library at Wright State University in Dayton, I was on a project called the Union List. Now, this mind-numbing project involved creating an online database of every serial held by every college and university library in this country, along with several in Canada and overseas. And if I remember correctly, that database became OCLC after the project was finished. If I’m right, that would mean that I’m now working on a national system that I helped program 15 years ago. To me, that’s pretty damn cool, although it also makes me feel really old when my co-workers talk about how antiquated the system is.

* * * * * * *

Enough of that, though. As I explained in the last post, I’m perfectly aware that the title of this blog states that it is about bar culture, not library culture, and I need to get back to that.

Actually, since Katy left I haven’t spent much time in bars. I did go to Remedies on Thursday night, though. Ran into some friends there. Tyler and Jennifer were hanging out, and Stroud was working. I got extremely drunk, but I’m not sure how, ‘cause I didn’t drink any more (or at least, not much more) than I usually would on a night with well specials. Got wasted, though.

Suffered some injuries, and I don’t know how. There’s a heavy black bruise across my upper back and the backs of both arms, and some kind of injury to the wrist that apparently has led to broken blood vessels; when I woke up on Friday there was hardly any bruise at all, but by Saturday night subcutaneous blood had spread completely over my palm and the inside of my wrist and was moving onto the back of my hand via the space between thumb and forefinger.

The main thing is a big, ugly, impressive head wound. I don’t remember that at all. But really, it isn’t unusual with head injuries to forget the circumstances surrounding them, alcohol or no alcohol. In fact, I’m wondering if maybe it wasn’t so much the booze as a slight concussion on Thursday night. I don’t think I was unreasonable at the bar (someone will let me know if I was, I’m sure), but I definitely was trouble later.

I have a very vague impression of walking the streets of Huntington very late, not really sure where I was or what I was doing. I know I sat on someone’s porch and talked for a while, but I don’t know whose. I also know that I nearly got in a fight in front of one of the frat houses on Fifth Avenue, and the only thing I remember about that is some guy telling me that I was the one causing all the trouble, which isn’t like me. I’m not a violent person. In fact, I'm probably one of the least-dangerous people you'll ever meet.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure that there was no fight. If there was, it was a very unusual one, in that I apparently won it without throwing any punches (no injuries to face, ribs, or knuckles). I suppose that’s possible, if I had a stick or something, but you’d think I’d remember that, wouldn’t you? And even with a stick, could I have won a fight while that fucked up? I mean, who would let a staggering, concussive drunk take him out?

The injuries seem to me to be more consistent with a fall. Not a stumble, you understand, but a fall from some minor height, over a porch railing or something, onto my head. But as I say, I don’t know what happened, and I don’t suppose I ever will.

* * * * * * *

Anyway, I need to get my drinking back under control. It’s not only because of this incident on Thursday. My whole life has been getting out of control lately, and the parts of that that haven’t been actually caused by drinking have at least not been helped by it. I should just quit drinking; I know that, like every other alcoholic does, but I don’t want to, and don’t really believe I could if I did want to. So instead, I’m going to hold myself to one or two beers, once or twice a week. I do this occasionally; usually it…I don’t know, resets my system or whatever, and I’m okay again for a while.

I guess that last paragraph sounds kind of pathetic, the whole “don’t wanna, couldn’t if I did wanna” thing. That’s okay. Everyone who knows me, or who reads this post regularly, knows that I’m an alcoholic, and that I’m not ashamed of it. My great fear is that I might become a drunk, though…I can’t have that. (If you’re unaware of the distinction between drunks and alcoholics, but are interested, click here.) The main thing, the point of pride (such as it is) is that I can function as a normal human being in spite of my alcoholism, and lately that hasn’t been true. Outside of stupid, juvenile shit like Thursday night, my drinking has been affecting my work. I’ve never allowed that to happen before, and I’m not going to start now.

So, anyway, that’s part of why I haven’t had much to say on the bar culture front lately; haven’t been in bars much, and haven’t remembered much when I have been. But fear not, dear reader. The fact that I’m not drinking doesn’t mean that I won’t be in bars. Being in bars is what I do, after all; it’s essentially all I’ve ever done. And when I take my little breaks like this, I still go to bars. I just drink soda or orange juice while I’m there.

I was, in fact, in the Union on Saturday to see Mary Beth. I was there from 5:30 or thereabouts until a little after midnight (with a dinner break), and did very well. I had only two glasses of beer, from a communal pitcher. She and I were sitting with her boyfriend Nathan, as well as Mace, Stacy, Eric, Timmy, and someone whose name I believe was Kelly. They were playing a drinking game, and I joined in under protest, drinking Pepsi when I lost. Finally Mary Beth demanded I drink beer, but since I kept a low profile, that amounted to just over one glass, and then I went ahead and finished the second. So, I was reasonably well-behaved.

We’ll see how all this goes. You’ll all have to wish me luck with this, because it is never easy, but I’ve got some hopes, and maybe I can start putting myself back together again.

The Big Sleep

Okay, the long two-week Goodbye Extravaganza is finally over. Larry’s gone, Katy's gone from the Union and is leaving town in a couple of days, and Matt’s gone. He played a kind of farewell show at Giovanni’s last Saturday night, and pretty much everyone was there. Roy, Marvin, and Jason played with him. It was a good time.

For those that don’t live here, Matt used to be the bartender on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday nights at Calamity Café. So, of course, a whole mess of Calamity folks showed up. Nice to see everybody again. Nikki came down with me, and the Baders shared our table (well, more accurately, we shared theirs; they were there first). Petey, Goldie, and Jack spent some time with us as well. And there were many others there…I can’t remember everyone, because I was pretty drunk. I got so drunk that I stormed the stage and sang backup on the band’s rendition of “Sympathy for the Devil.” That was fun.

Anyway, I nearly killed myself afterwards. See, it had been a long day. The filmmakers I work for were shooting an interview with Ken Hechler at the library, and they wanted me there. I left the house around 10:00 that morning, after only an hour or two of sleep. The interview lasted something like eight hours. My plan had been to leave the interview, go home for a nap, and then go to Giovanni’s, but since it was already 6:30 or so when I left the library, I knew that if I went to sleep I wouldn’t wake up in time for the show. So, instead, I went straight to the Union and started pumping liquor into my body, just to keep my energy up. Then I went from there to the show and split a couple of pitchers and some tequila with Nikki. I didn’t get home until about 4:00 the next morning.

By then of course Jeannie was frantic. I’d been gone for 18 hours, and she was dying to get out. And, since it had been daylight when I’d left that morning, I hadn’t left any lights on. So, I walked, drunk and exhausted, into a dark house possessed by a freaked-out cat, who immediately tripped me in her rush to the front door. I fell onto a small oak table that I’ve had for years, and the legs just splintered. One of the sharp leg segments caught me high in the chest on the way down. It lodged right on my collar-bone, with all the weight of my falling, 175-pound body on top of it. For just a fraction of a second (you know how everything slows down when something like this is happening) I was aware that, if the point dropped a bit, it could slip between my ribs and run me through the chest, just above my heart. Conversely, if it slipped up and in a bit, it could go through my throat. Fortunately, it grated on the bone, slipped up and out, and went back over my shoulder. So, I was in pain (still am, in fact), but it was nothing serious.

I just kinda lay there for a minute, reflecting on my good fortune and on how much I was gonna miss that little table (it saw a lot of good chess games in its time) and thinking how depressing it would be to die in that ridiculous way. I mean, I’ll die someday, just like everybody else, but I’d rather do it in such a fashion that I won’t get a Darwin Award.

Also, I would hate to have died on that particular night, because there are too many people who would have been happy to hear about it. I don’t mind if they’re happy I got hurt, though, because I’ll admit it’s pretty funny. If it had happened to you, I’d laugh.

* * * * * * *

Actually, it isn’t my plan to die by accident, anyway. I’ve always maintained the right to commit suicide. This isn’t a cry for help, by the way. I got no immediate plans in that direction. But I want to be the one to decide when my time has come, when I’ve lived long enough. I won’t do it out of despair; I intend for it to be a rational decision. Someday I’ll just say, “Well, that’s about it, then,” and it will be.

The universe is an awful big place, and it kind of keeps all of us on a string. We actually have control over very little in our everyday lives, but the leaving of those lives, at least, should be up to us. I certainly don’t want to leave myself at the mercy of fate or the whims of a capricious god, or whatever nameless force governs the world.

I like to think of my eventual suicide as a scream of defiance against an impersonal universe. Well, except that I’m not usually emotional enough to scream, really. More of a smirk of defiance. That’s more dignified, anyway. And if I'm still doing this blog, I promise to leave a very nice farewell for everyone, so be sure to check back in ten years or so.

In any event, I’ve always held that every man has a right to destroy himself in his own way. For example, I don’t hold junkies in contempt (though I do try to keep them away from my stuff), and even if I wasn’t an alcoholic I wouldn’t look down on those who are. They’ve found their own paths to destruction, and that’s nobody’s business but theirs.

* * * * * * *

Which brings us to my best friend. Actually, there are two people back home in Richmond to whom I usually refer as my “best friends.” One of them is Pancho, who I’ve written a little about. The other I guess will have to be anonymous under the circumstances, so we’ll call him “Ralph,” an inside joke that no one but us will ever get.

Anyway, Ralph’s been my best friend since I was twelve and he was thirteen. He lived with my family for a year when we were in high school, while his mom was having financial trouble. He and I shared apartments together off and on through our young adulthood. He was really a member of our family, and I always called his mom, Nancy, my “other Mama.”

It was Ralph that taught me to pitch and to play basketball and tennis. He’s a natural athlete; he was just excellent at every sport he picked up. He was a good enough basketball player when he was twenty that he could have started at shooting guard for all but a handful of the colleges in the country. Like me, though, he dropped out of high school, and the colleges never came calling.

We used to go to the tennis courts near his apartment, back when I was young and healthy. There was a swimming pool next to the courts. Even on the hottest days of the year we’d go down and play. We played all four grand slam events every day. The Australian Open was a one-set warm-up, then we’d play a best-of-three French Open, a best-of-five Wimbledon, and finally a grueling best-of-seven US Open. After every set we’d run and jump into the pool to cool off, then get right back out on the court. And after sundown we’d ditch the rackets, grab a basketball, and play all night. I wish I knew where all that energy came from.

The night my father died, I called Ralph to tell him the news. We’d known each other a long time already, of course, and since he’d never had a dad, my dad was basically his, too. Anyway, he and I share a trait (one of many) that when we’re really upset about something, we don’t usually want to talk about it. We just want to take our minds off it, and try to feel better. So, that night, he told me how sorry he was about Pop, and then we just sat on the phone and talked about basketball for eight hours or so. There’s no one in the world I know better, or who knows me better, or that I love more.

* * * * * * *

He’s had trouble with depression for a long time; it hasn’t been an easy life for him. It’s led him to trouble with drugs, as it does with many sufferers, and he’s spent a lot of time in jail and prison over the last ten years. And all of the trouble combined to ruin his marriage and cost him his two lovely children; his wife left him while he was in jail for trying to steal the kids some Christmas presents (a true story, that, no matter how much it sounds like Charles Dickens or Victor Hugo). To the best of my knowledge, he hasn’t seen them since. And his mother died recently, which left him sort of rudderless.

Anyway, he’s been out of jail since last spring, working hard and trying to stay clean and get his degree. He found God in prison, as they say, and was actually studying to be a minister the last time I talked to him.

He was talking about taking a Greyhound up here to visit when he could get some time off work and get a little money saved. Then I didn’t hear from him for a few days. Finally I called one night, and the phone was disconnected. Now, this is the phone at his grandmother’s house, and that number hasn’t changed since I’ve known him. Without that number, and with Nancy being gone, I had no idea how to get in touch with him. I was a little concerned, mostly because I thought maybe something had happened to his grandmother (she is, after all, something like 95 now). But I wasn’t too worried. I knew he’d get in touch with me eventually.

That was back in April. Now, understand that Ralph and I haven’t gone as much as two weeks without seeing, speaking to, or writing to each other in more than twenty years. No matter where I was living, no matter what hospital or jail he was in, no matter what else was going on in our lives, we always kept in careful contact with each other.

As time passed I got more and more nervous, but there was no way to reach him. I didn’t know any of his friends (he was always jealous of sharing me with other people), and I hadn’t been able to find his brother or grandmother in the phone book or any of the online phone directories. If anything had happened to him while Nancy was alive, she would have called me, but without her I just didn't know the rest of his family that well, didn't have any other numbers to call.

I couldn’t imagine that there was anything short of death that could keep him from calling or writing to me, and as the summer passed I became more and more convinced that he had finally gone over the edge and killed himself. As I say, I think everyone has a right to destroy himself, but that doesn’t make it much easier on those left behind. And I hate to think of someone driven to suicide by despair; I didn’t want that misery to be the last thing he’d ever known.

* * * * * * *

I finally found his brother, after a bit of damn good research (I won’t tell the whole story, but it was the equivalent of Indiana Jones finding the lost Ark of the Covenant), and put up with as many pleasantries as I could before asking how Ralph was doing.

“Well, I was afraid you’d ask that,” he said, as if I’d called for any other reason. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.” I caught my breath, steadied myself, and listened. “Ralph’s back in prison. He started getting back into old habits, and got picked up for something minor, only got a year for that, but he had a gun in the car when he was arrested.” In Virginia, possession of a firearm by a felon comes with an automatic five-year prison term, even if you aren’t using it in a crime, so he’s got six years ahead of him.

Anyway, when I heard that I actually laughed, which I think surprised him, but he understood. And I went to the Union and said to Mary Beth, “I’ve got some good news! My best friend is in prison!” I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I’ve ever said that…hell, it might be the first time anyone’s ever said it. But I mean, although prison isn’t wonderful, at least he’s alive, and I can write him. And I’m gonna, immediately I finish this thing tonight.

It’s easy, when you’re locked up, to believe that world has passed you by, that no one remembers you or cares what you’re thinking or feeling. Maybe for a lot of guys in prison that’s even true; that might be why some of them are there in the first place. But in his case it certainly isn’t. His family loves and misses him, and my family loves and misses him. And I love him, and I do care what he’s thinking and feeling, and I want him to know it. Whatever comfort there can be in that for him, I want him to have. I remember how important it was to me, on the various occasions I’ve been locked up, to hear from folks outside.

So, that’s gonna have to be it for tonight, brothers and sisters; I’ve got other and more important things to write. And if you guys know anyone in trouble whose life would be lightened a little by hearing from you, get to it, okay?

Badgered by the Born-Agains

Okay, I’ve been away awhile. I’ve been a little bit sick, which is extremely unusual for me. I always say that I never get sick, and it’s pretty nearly true. I’ve only been ill twice in my life (I don’t even catch colds). The first time was a particularly nasty bout of the flu back in 1997; I actually missed work because of it, the only time that’s ever happened. My fever was so high that I had hallucinations. The other time was back in December, when I had pneumonia.

Personally, I think the reason I don’t get sick is that I drink and smoke so much. It’s hard for whatever bugs are going around to survive in my system. I remember there was some terrific virus going around Richmond in about ’87 or ’88. My family, and my friend Randy’s family, were laid up for about two weeks. We stayed healthy, and basically had to take care of everyone. Just as they were getting better, he and I started to show some symptoms of the disease. So we figured, if we’re gonna be stuck in bed for two weeks, we should have one last party to celebrate our health while we’ve still got it. We drank several beers and an entire fifth of vodka apiece, got stupid blind drunk, and woke up the next morning with fantastic hangovers, but the virus was dead. We never did get sick.

Anyway, apparently once you’ve had pneumonia it comes back really easily, and mine seems to have done just that. I’m pretty pissed off about it; my chest feels like it’s full of wet concrete, and it’s hard for me to sleep, ‘cause I have to sleep sitting up (when I lie down, I cough too much). Last time I had this stuff, the congestion in my chest lasted four months, and I’m not looking forward to not being able to breathe until Thanksgiving. But, there’s nothing to be done about it, I guess.

So, basically I spend twelve hours in bed to get four or five hours of sleep, and I only get up to go to work. I haven’t done anything for the last two weeks except work and sleep (or try to). And that’s why I haven’t written anything. Sorry.

Also I'm sort of awash in self-loathing. I bet you didn't know that self-loathing is a side effect of pneumonia, but it is, for me anyway. I was raised to believe that spitting is a distinctly low-class activity, and I tend to look at people who spit on the sidewalk in the same way that you might look at someone who masterbates on street corners. But now, of course, I'm coughing up 18 gallons of phlegm a day, and frankly I'm having a lot of trouble living with myself because of it.

Being sick has made me bitchy recently. Well, I mean, I’m usually bitchy anyway, of course. Truth be told, I’ve been in a constant state of aggravation since about 1973 (Jesus goddamn that sumbitch Nixon!), but I’ve been bitchier than usual for the last couple of weeks. I’ll probably bitch a lot here, and if you don’t like it, fuck off. I never liked you, anyway.

* * * * * * *

Katy has set a date for leaving town. She’s gonna work through the 15th, which means I have only two more Mondays with her, and then I think she’s having a going-away party the Monday after that, and then she’s out. Very sad. I’m gonna miss her like crazy. I suppose I’ll get more work done on Mondays after she’s gone, though.

Her birthday was last night (Wednesday), and so we had basically a three-day party for her. We got quite drunk; this is the first time since I left Hank’s that I’ve been out drinking three nights in a row, and to tell you the truth, I’m out of practice. I feel like shit. I also spent way too much money. I think I’m down to like twenty bucks in the bank. It was a good time, though. Worth it, as spending time with Katy always is.

I guess that once she’s gone, I pretty much won’t hang out at all for a while, except for the occasional trip to Remedies for a bit of whiskey on breaks from work, and I’ll probably still do Trivia Night at the Union. It’ll save me money, anyway. But the cutbacks on my social life are starting to get to me.

I was too used to being in Hank’s every night, I guess, and I still haven’t completely adjusted to being isolated from everyone. You know, if you live a life that isn’t going anywhere in particular (as mine isn’t), you depend on various friendships to give your life meaning. Not having seen Brett and Tackett and the Baders and Christy and, especially, Beth Anne in so long is just killing me. I think, though, that it’s time I went back to Hank’s. I’ll probably go down either Tuesday or Thursday, say hello to Beth Anne, and see if any of my friends come ‘round. I can’t afford to go there like I used to, and I don’t really want to anyway, but it’ll be nice to stop in now and then. So, come out next week and see if I’m around!

* * * * * * *

As I say, we had a big Katy party that took up pretty much the first half of the week. Monday was a typical Monday, of course. Katy and Nikki and I just hung out and talked all night. Katy got a little bit drunk, which is unusual for her when she’s working, but it was two days before her birthday, after all. The new door guy (Travis) stuck around after closing, which is mildly irritating because it cuts into my Katy and Nikki time, but that’s okay, I guess. He was a bit drunk, too… Katy was feeling experimental. She kept inventing shooters and getting us to try them. You can get drunk fast that way.

We spent a big part of the after-last call conversation discussing whether or not there’s a God. Well, actually the three of them discussed it. I carefully avoided the conversation, which is probably just as well, because Katy and Nikki (the pro-God side of the argument) got pretty mad at Travis (anti-God). I just stayed real quiet.

Tuesday the three of us (Nikki, Katy and I) hung out together at the Union, which was pretty nice because they weren’t working, so I didn’t have to share them with anyone. Herbie even bought a round of shots to celebrate the birthday, but he refused to take a shot with us. Herbie doesn’t drink hard liquor very often, but you’d think he’d make an exception for the occasion.

After last call we went over to Nikki’s apartment and got even drunker. They were drinking beer, and I stopped at my place and grabbed a bottle of wine; and we shared a very small quantity of pot, the first I’ve had since Sheila and I got stoned at the Christmas party last year. Nikki played guitar and sang for us, some of her own songs, some Fleetwood Mac and Dave Matthews. I played a little bit, but I was rusty as shit, and with the illness I can’t sing very well anyway. Mostly we were just all goofy as all hell, really. I remember that Katy for some reason insisted that I feel Nikki’s breast. I’m not sure why. It was a very nice breast, by the way. I approve. I wasn’t allowed to fondle Katy, though… I guess she figured Justin would be mad. C’est la vie.

And then of course last night we played Trivia at the Union. Well, Katy and I did; Nikki had to work. We were terrible, by the way. We finished with zero points, because we had to bet it all on the last question and we didn’t know the answer, but even before that we sucked. A very embarrassing performance.

I’m soliciting recommendations for a new team name, by the way. I’ve gotten tired of calling myself “Make yer own goddamned cheese fries,” a reference to the fact that, though I haven’t worked at the Union since the end of January, people still try to order food from me when I go in there. But I haven’t been able to come up with anything.

See, the best team name every week gets a bonus point, and that extra point can come in handy. Now, Jimbo picks the winner of the bonus point, of course, and his taste runs a bit to the obscene. Unfortunately, I don’t really have a talent for coming up with offensive team names. Emily’s good at it, but since I’m playing against her it doesn’t seem right to ask for her help. Last night Katy and I were “I fucked the Olsen Twins before they were famous,” but I can’t use that every week, and it didn't win anyway. So, if you can think of something in really poor taste, let me know. If I use it, I’ll split the free beer with you. Well, if you live in Huntington, anyway. Right now, I’m leaning towards a slogan from a new shirt at T-shirt Hell: “Your sister’s hot, but your mom does that thing with her tongue…” But I don’t know. No hurry…I’ve got six more days to think about it.

* * * * * * *

Went to the cigarette store tonight. It’s at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Twentieth Street, right off campus. Since I smoke between three and four packs of cigarettes a day, I spend a lot of time over there. The problem with going there is that there’s a church across the street, one of those that has a signboard out front that they can put goofy messages on. Today’s message was “You think it’s hot here?—God.” (Well, there weren’t any italics, of course… they don’t know from italics on those signs.) I bet that if I was God, that kinda thing would piss me off. Don’t put words in my mouth, especially stupid ones.

I’m not God, though, obviously. Really, that’s probably for the best. I mean, I’d have a real nice world, of course. The temperature would never drop below sixty degrees, or get above eighty, unless I decided I was in the mood for a good snowstorm. There would be a little rain every day (I like the rain), and there’d be a lot more love and a lot less violence (although horror movies would still be big business), and there’d be enough of everything that no one would have to work very hard. Also, the NBA season would be year-round. Life would have a soundtrack; there’d be music all the time, everywhere, and everybody would hear what they wanted to hear. And there wouldn’t be any organized religion. People wouldn’t have to worship me, though it would be nice if they bought me dinner or a glass of scotch now and then. Maybe once in a while someone would pat me on the back and say, “Groovy world, God.” I’d be a God you could definitely have a personal relationship with.

But, if I was God, although the world would be a nicer place, there would be a lot fewer people in it. You may have gathered that I’m not a big fan of people, and if it was within my power to just bleep people out of existence, I’d do it all the time. I am definitely not the sort of person who should be trusted with life-and-death powers over anyone.

Anyway, this church has been through some pretty stupid signs in the four years I’ve lived here. Most of them are just obnoxious, like the one a few months ago that said “The Bible is the best TV guide.” I’ll tell you what, there’s nothing in the Bible about whether or not I should watch “The Daily Show,” and there sure as hell aren’t any showtimes listed.

Sometimes the signs are neat, though, in an ironic way. My favorite was the one that said, “The Bible is like a compass—it always points you in the right direction.” I had to stop and think about that one for a while. The first thing I thought was, well, that’s not true. A compass doesn’t point you in the right direction. It always points north. So, if north happens to be the right direction, okay then, but you can’t always go north. A compass doesn’t point you in the right direction; it just gives you enough information to be able to infer the right direction.

[Incidentally, does anyone know what a compass does at the poles? At the South Pole every direction is north; does a compass just spin around? And at the North Pole there is no north. That's as far north as you can go. What then?]

But then I thought, actually, that’s a pretty good parallel. The Bible doesn’t point you in the right direction, either. It gives you information, and from that information you infer the right direction (or what seems like the right direction if you happen to be Christian; since I’m not, I’d say taking direction from a two-thousand-year-old-book seems kinda dumb). It’s all a matter of interpretation. So, the sign was true, just not in the sense they meant it. I sent a letter to them about that, but nobody ever answered it.

The point is, the signs irritate the hell out of me, mostly I think because it seems like everyone’s always throwing their religion in my face. I’m kinda tired of people trying to save my soul at this point. If you want to be Christian, that’s your business, but leave me alone about it, okay?

And while I’ve got nothing against Christians in general, I really hate the people I call “born-agains.” You know these people. They sit in judgment of all wrongdoing except their own, and they know exactly who’s going to Hell and why. They generally believe that the Bible is literally true (I know several people who believe that the Earth is only 6,000 years old), which is odd, because most of them don’t know anything about the Bible. It has become clear to me over the years that the people who are most fervent about the Bible seem to be the ones who read it the least. They just believe what their preacher or parents or Sunday School teachers told them.

Born-agains tend to be creepy-conservative politically, of course. I don’t take their politics seriously, though. It’s pretty easy to demolish a member of the Religious Right in a political argument, because the Gospels are so very liberal. If you can quote your Scripture (and thanks to a very religious upbringing, I can) you can send a born-again home with his tail between his legs.

But they are insistent, and they’re bent on explaining to you why you’re going to Hell and how you can save yourself, and I’m sick of hearing it. I mean, at least once or twice a week someone bothers me about this (or they did when I was out more often). I’m over it, alright? I’ve heard it all before, and I’m not interested.

I explain this to them (when I can be bothered to respond at all) like this: My father, when I was young, actually was a preacher. He was a youth minister at a church in Powhatan Country (about an hour from Richmond) and later worked as a minister in the state prison system. Aside from being one of the smartest men I’ve ever met, he had a Masters degree in Philosophy. My mother is even more devoutly religious than my Dad was, and she’s got a Doctorate. My brother is a Doctor of Divinity, I think, or some high degree like that. My sister, who is working on her Masters, is a missionary who spends half of every year in overseas hot spots.

I tell the born-agains about my family, and then I say, “Look, I’ve got people standing in line to save me, and they’re all smarter, more thoughtful, and better-educated than you, and they all mean more to me than you do. In fact, compared to them, you’re actually kind of pathetic. What on Earth makes you think that anything you have to say matters to me?” That usually shuts ‘em up.

* * * * * * *

Okay, I guess that’s gonna have to be it for tonight. I’ve got to be back here in eight hours to catch up on the work I didn’t get done Wednesday, so I’d better get some sleep, or try to, anyway. Now that I’m beginning to recover somewhat, I hope I’ll be back to writing a new piece once or twice a week. Wish me luck.