Advice from one who knows

Some controversy erupted on the Todd list about a girl's blog. She said some really nasty stuff-that the fans were creepy and there was PCP on the bus and that she didn't understand why people would try to get close to performers and be vampires or some nasty stuff like that. This was most disturbing when one realized that she was the merch girl for the opening band. You know one of the people who rides around in the van, gets a per diem, whose well being is dependent upon the musicians. The list then jumped to action got on her case pointed out the logical fallacy of her position on bands and fans. Things got a little wild-some people were unnecessarily childish and rude, some were thoughtful with their statements, some people even emailed the band in question and their management. Will saw what was brewing (the list is very well read) and contacted the band personally. The merch girl was told to immediately remove the post and was fired from her role as seller of merchandise.
It's kind of like the internets is a web of interconnected threads. (heh.heh.)
Course, I've experienced blog drama. But I didn't lose a job in the process of my stupid ramblings and I never accused anyone of illegal drug use. Except maybe myself but it's not accusatory if you know it to be true. Mostly, what got me in trouble was that at the time I was miserable, hungry, working a job I despised that made me wonder if it was even worth living and nursing a mental imbalance and excessive drinking. That's a really good time in one's life to do something really effin stupid. And I did and I remedied it by disappearing without explanation. And in doing so I presume I more or less wiped out myself and with any luck I'll re-emerge with few people knowing why I went anywhere. Poor stupid girl, she's paying a lot worse than I did. Losing a job-getting attacted by the list wow, if I have any advice to give her---a bit late I suppose---don't use names. If you do use names-use only first names and if you're talking about someone with a particularly unusual name (say Englebert) then use initials.
You will note-I have never said my name in this blog or the names of any of my family or co-workers. In fact I believe the only names I've mentioned are those of the people referred to earlier in this entry.

every dog must have it's day-every drunk must have his drink

Let me tell you-I am plenty annoyed by a lot of things but must not enough to write about. In general it would appear my annoyance is like the changing phases of the moon-it's to be expected, maybe remarked upon but not thought much of. That being as may be I'm set to rant. There's a rather disturbing trend in non-fiction that I have noted of late-the "memoir of the drunken youth." Upon perusal of my recent readings I can be sure that there are close to half a dozen books on this subject that I have read.
Augusten Burroughs did a decent enough job of it with Running with Scissors and Dry. Caroline Knapp perhaps got it most right with Drinking: a Love story (a tale, that it is worth noting, goes beyond the years of drunken youthful debauchery and stretches into adulthood and the obligatory wisening up somewhere around the 30th birthday. As well as A Drinking Life by Peter Hammill-of which I have only read half. And then there's A Monk Swimming by Malachy McCourth (which, personally, I preferred to his brother Frank's Angela's Ashes-as I found Malachy to be more of a dangerous character and someone I'd want to have round for craic.) These are the good of he lot-there are thousands of trees dead for the sake of the memoir of the drunken youth-such as Smashed-Stories of a Drunken Girlhood by Koren Zailckas a book so obviously full of fabrication and self-absorbed Gen Y self love/hate rhetoric that following a trip to Borders wherein I noted that some correspondent for NPR had written YET ANOTHER memoir of alcoholism I finally was struck into a stage of thought.
these books all begin the same way Our Hero(ine) first encounters alcohol at a particularly young age. Most are raised around it, and there is no mystery as to the effects. Alcohol loosens the inhibitions and allows adults to interact on a level of relaxation and open mindedness that is not present in everyday life. Our Hero sneaks his/her first drink of alchol at a particularly young age-somewhere around the onset of puberty and the love affair begins. Shortly thereafter begins the weekly parties at the house of whosoever's parents aren't around or don't pay enough attention to notice that there are a dozen soused pre-teens lolling about in the basement laughing far too loud at reruns of Full House. This behavior becomes troublesome quickly-usually the parents make an half-assed attempt at an intervention or maybe the star of the story overdoes it and ends up locked up for 28 days-the longest any of them will spend sober for years to come. Usually, sobriety lasts a week or two at best after some cataclysmic event-a stomach pumping, a DUI, a rape or attempted assault--the sort of thing wherein the main character thinks at some point "Oh God, just let me get through this and I swear this is the last time, I'll never drink again." God, and the reader, know this is bullshit. It's only the drunk of the moment that seems to not know this.
The story progresses. Various horribly things happen. If the star of the story is a female sex with be involved regularly-as will men who take advantage of the poor drunk girl who can't help herself. Sex is unpleasant to the alcohol induced memoirist. There are fewer men who write about these things-perhaps because it is harder to say that alcohol ruined a primally enjoyable experience. It's like admitting he had a few too many Coors and missed Kansas making the game winning hoop-it's just too embarassing to own up to. For women, it's a badge of honor: "Men never did it for me during a binge because they couldn't promise an orgasm, whereas booze always provided some sort of alteration of mood. After years (somewhere between 10 and 40) our hero(ine) finally gives up drinking. This leads to wonderful realizations such as: falling to sleep watching Leno is quite pleasant actually, at least as fun as passing out stoned, love comes to those who regularly attend AA meetings and those kids you parented during your Lost Decade are almost old enough to drive, now would be a great time to learn their names.
It's fascinating and boring at once. I devour these books like family packs of Twizzlers. I scan the biographies and the self-help section for new releases dealing with alcoholism and the mid-late 20s. I highlight the really good bits and yell out loud at the bits that piss me off.
For example-and I am talking to you Augusten and Koren-if you were so drunk how to you remember the events so bloody clearly? If you were too drunk to go to work or school for weeks on end how do you remember what guests were on Springer during that time? I can't remember what I had for dinner yesterday and I was sober at the time---so how, pray tell, can you be so fucked up your friends are calling you threatening to send the police over if you don't respond to their calls in the next 24 hours and still recall in detail what kind of Chinese take away you had on day 8 of your bender? And if you're too messed up to remember if you slept with someone I have one word-bullshit-that's right-bullshit. YOu do so remember-you remember whether or not you washed your hair before passing out in the shower but you don't remember fucking someone? I'd like to show you this map-it's a map of Egypt wherein we see a river called de Nile. So as you can see-it's not just a flimsy excuse for promiscuity-denial is also a river in Egypt.
Yet I read. I read these books and I nod or I scowl or I swear 50 pages in I'm not going to read this tripe, but read it I do and it sticks with me.
There's only one conclusion I can come up with to explain this rash of "I was a teenage beer fiend" tales---people believe their stories to be unique. And yes, each story is unique (I am thinking I should've left Malachy out of this--but no harm done Mac, eh?* You did drink a bit in your day and the memoirs tell plenty of it.) But on the same token, they all end the same-the teller quits drinking, finds love, a fantastic job (or a job of some sort) and everyone is more knowing and aware. It should come as no surprise to anyone that not one of these books ends with the main character still hopeless drunk (alright-exception for Running with Scissors, due to how there was quickly a sequel forthcoming with Dry to tie up some lose hangovers.)
My other thought is this-those who can drink in quiet and not make arses of themselves don't have stories. Good drunks have good stories and good drunks eventually realize they are not much more than their stories. The danger is one can drink for an interminable amount of time-I don't actually believe in the "functioning alcoholic"-if you're funcitoning you're not an alcoholic in my opinion. What is the danger of the drinker is the realization that he/she is tired of being the "drunk" the one around whom all the wildest stories unfold. The drinker decides that she doesn't want to wake up drenched in soggy guilt over the realization she fucked someone she can't stand sober and has no reasonable approximation of where her car was last seen. These are the reason people stop drinking. Not fear of addiction-the people that are truly addicted are not together enough to realize they have a problem. It's the intellectuals-the Kerouacs in training (says me I as sit in the shadow of not 1 but 2 images of the Father of the Beats), the wannabes who know they haven't the guts to burn themselve s out just a wee bit too young that give up the booze and then parade about telling the world about their sobriety.
It's the pitifully lit shadow of the Me Generation that has caused this. Everyone has become so self absorbed that without an addiction or a visible and horrifying scar (physical or psychological) no one registers on the Richter of Cool. It's as if generations are standing in alleyways, thier shirts ripped, sweat dripping off them, channeling Marlon Brando screaming "ADDICTION!!!!! HEY!!!! I HAVE AN ADDICTION!!!!!!" it'd be a great way to stand out from the crowd were it not that the rest of the crowd is standing on the same sidewalk, drenched in the same sweat trying for the same bit of attention.
In a society with few real boundaries, everyone's been trashed out of their minds a time or two or done pot and coke is as common as well, Coke there's no great mystery or aura in chemical dependency. We all have one. Be it nicotine or cigarettes or caffeine or sugar or whatever strange rays are emitted during Law and Order SVU we all have some THING we simply canNOT live without. The trick, the thing that will seperate the good from the bad and the good from the virtuous is abstaining. Do you drink? (no.) Do you smoke? (no.) Do you eat red meat? (no.) Do you stay up late and watch Conan? (no.) Do you work out at least 3 time a week? (yes.) Do you get at least 8 hours of sleep a night? (yes.) Do you drink 8 glasses of water a day? (yes.) Are you in a committed monogamous relationship? (yes) Have you sent in your pledge money to PBS and NPR so you can get the tote bag and coffee mug respectively? (yes)....Good, you've answered properly to all of the posed questions-you may now write your memoirs and profit from the publishing rites. If you answered no-well, you really ought to Google "AA Meetings in my area" and see if you can't meet someone that will help you find your way.


Let me say-as I write this, I am probably drunk. I was not drunk last night or the night before. I drink daily but I don't consider myself an alcoholic. I drink but it does not have an effect on my work or my school or any such things. It's a bad habit-like chewing ones fingernails (next year's horrible habit to admit and write long memoirs about the years of self abuse wrought by nail biting) I have at times gotten into really bad situations because of my drinking-and I regret some of the things that I have done under the influcence of alcohol but I don't think I am worthy of a memoir just yet. And I would be terribly pleased if more people with similar attractions to booze would think in a similar manner.

and you're going nowhere fast....from East Nashville...yours....little old me

Oh. Lovely. Just Dee-fuckin-lightful

The continued saga of my car. Wherein I get rear ended-but not enough to total the car but enough to really leave my fuckin knee hurting.
Actually, to be honest. I don't want to go into it. My leg hurts a lot and it's starting to look kind of like I can't go a frickin' day without some damn thing happening to my car (and I'm getting pretty much over being injured too)-and thus fan none of these things seem to be my fault. This was certainly not my fault. The guy who hit me took full responsibility from the start-course, I was sitting still. But I continually find myself put out by such events.
I'm kinda tired of it.

Reasons to Shop at Target

So, being the semi-observant car owner that I am I noted that it's been approx 9,000 miles (or 9 months) since my last oil change. And I figured I oughta change that oil once a year whether it needs it or not. And thus, I went to Super Wal-Mart. Dropped the car off-told it would be about 1 1/2 hours. I needed to buy lip gloss and steaks so I figured that would fill most of my time. I shopped and had a cart full of stuff that while I may not need I was ready and willing to purchase when I went back to Tire and Lube. My keys were quite visible on the counter-the gun pocket knife and bright orange light gave it away. I said to the confused and meek woman behind the counter "There's my keys, I'd like to pick up my car."
"Which keys?" said she.
"Those, right there. With the gun." Surprisingly, this actually narrowed down my keys to my actual keys. And these people call themselves Tennesseans.
A "technician" (quotes making sense in a moment) came in and was talking to a guy in a shirt proclaiming the power of prayer (not specific as to specifics). Prayer Guy-heretoafter referred to as Flanders- was somewhat frustrated because he'd been waiting close to 2 hours for his car and he'd been quoted and hour at the outside for whatever repair he was waiting for.
Guy who wishes he knew how to change the oil on a moped said "Well, maybe he's the guy that owns the car we cain't find the keys fer." Alright, I'm kind of making him a little stupider than he actually sounded-but it's representative of how he acted so there. Wait, can't find the keys? You have a car that you've lost the keys and you don't seem the least worried about this---hey! those are my keys! Mine! Where are you going with my keys?! Then the boneheads wondered around and kept trying to start random cars with my car keys, whilst I'm standing behind the gate to the bay hollering "Those keys are mine! They go to the white Corolla over there! Geez! Toyota! That's a Toyota Key!"
"So they've lost your car too, huh?" said Flanders. "Hey! Just give me my car, will you?"
"Sir, we think we'll have your car in the bay in 30-45 minutes if you could just wait," said the poor cashier woman.
"I will not wait, I have to pick my daughter up," said Flanders. "I'll take my care somewhere else."
"Yeh, gimme my keys too. You know my keys don't you? The ones y'all have been carrying around for the last 5 minutes."
The oldest of the lot of the halfwits got real huffy with me then. "Give her her keys back then," he said.
I took my keys. "There ain't any charge on it, just take it."
"What do you mean there 'ain't no charge?' It's been moved, so obviously somebody messed with it. What's going on."
"I dunno cuz I gone to lunch then. So don't ask me."
"You work here. You must know something."
"Look, lady, I told you. I don't know what happened. I gone to lunch you wanna wait round and talk to Paul you can. But he gone to lunch now so it'll be awhile."
"No, I don't want to wait, I want to know why you couldn't figure out how to change the oil on my car!!"
"Lady! I don't have time with this. I told you-I'd.Gone.To.Lunch. So I don't know. Sez, the oil pan leaks so guess they didn't wanna mess with it," he turned to look leave.
"That's not an answer. I gone to lunch is not an answer. What do you mean my oil pan is leaking, it wasn't leaking when I left the house today. Explain that."
He got up in my face, all toothless bright red semi-literate white trash 50 odd years of him, "Lady, I don't know and I don't care it ain't my problem!" Then he turned, "BUZZ ME OUT!"
"What's your name?"
"It's Randall Moore, what are you going to file a complaint?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact I am." And I did. And it felt good.

Course I had to call the Daddy to ask what to do about the car. He asked the logical question: "How much oil does your car burn?"
"About a quart a month."
"Is there a big oil stain in yr driveway?"
"No."
"Then they're bullshit and just didn't want to fuck with your car. 'Sides, why bother changing the oil in your car anyway? If it burns a quart a month then in three months you have new oil anyway. Not worth the money to get it changed when it's changing itself."
"You're telling me to not change my oil? Isn't that bad for the car?"
"With a car like yours it really doesn't matter."


Oh. And I talked to the sister today.
I left Wally World without my steaks or lip gloss.

Hey Jack Kerouac, I think of Your Mother

I'm sure ones, maybe even twos of people have been wondering where I've been this past week. The Mommy came to visit and I was busy entertaining---and being entertained---by same. She got here mid-Monday afternoon and left early this AM. We really didn't do anything but we did a lot of stuff. I assume that makes sense. We went to the Opry Plaza show of the Derailers. Ma didn't dig them much-I thought that they were quite good, tho I miss Tony of course, Brian has good presence and all. Mom's comment was "he just sounds so much like Chuck. Do they all sound the same?" Now I have to think about that----DO they all sound the same? If this is the case I own many many CDs claiming to be by many different artists that are in fact by the same person. So of course I am confused. Then again, it could just be that some people don't like country music. I know---that seems impossible-and yet, I have heard that it is true.
What else? I have a new couch. Or, I have a very old couch-but it is new to me. It's a lovely couch-assuming you like brown flowers. This couch has GOT to be 35 years old, but I suspect it's got the most use of it's life in the last week. Ahhh, tag sales. How awesome thou art. And I have a lovely rug-very costly-bought on remainder and then given to me but it is a real quality rug and it "really ties the room together" and more Jack Kerouac imagery-an awesome poster purchased at the Old Time Hobby Lobby for what I presume to be less than the tag price. A terribly awesome poster and it compliments the On the Road poster and all the pin up girls. I'm so bohemian it's painful. Really-or not.
Meanwhile for anyone visiting Nashvegas, avoid I-40. Just trust me unless yr into suffering. If you like being miserable and full of woe then spend lots of time on I-40 I guess, East. I could be wrong. Toward Nashville from Charlotte Pike. Bring refreshments. And maybe drugs. Not maybe, actually, bring drugs. It'll make the trip MUCH more pleasant. When I made the trip I had no drugs. Luckily, I had snacks. So at least I only went sorta crazy.
And mostly that's it...Oh-the shitty day---Flat tire. No hazard coverage. No logical reason for a flat tire. So woulda cost at least $40 or more for a new tire (the same one I replaced not a month ago---let me stress THE SAME TIRE a brand new tire blew out for no logical reason---it was 11am so shut out that thought will ya). Then stupid head of my Dept at Gradual School told me all the $$ for assistantships was gone already for next year even tho the deadline for apps is two weeks hence still. And she treated me like persona non grata so I was feeling very horrid and like it wasn't worth continuing to exist.
I got over it. Thank you Saturday night at the Bluegrass with all my peeps from the mid-West and around the corner. Thanks Hermitage diner and lots of alcohol and pickin' and grinnin'. And even in his own strange way-thanks strange drunk dude who showed up from nowhere cuz, well, what's a weird night without an univited guest?

oh.my.god.what a shitty shitty day.fucking hell.

That Was Me

I was reading this and nodding in agreement at some of the points. I mean-I honestly believe this is me pretty much to the T as it were-but then I read this stereotyped and repetitive motor mannerisms (e.g., hand or finger flapping or twisting, or complex whole-body movements) and I literally stopped dead and said "Oh my God." Just. Oh. My. God.
And if you're not into reading boring stuff-here's some highlights failure to develop peer relationships appropriate to developmental level a lack of spontaneous seeking to share enjoyment, interests, or achievements with other people (e.g. by a lack of showing, bringing, or pointing out objects of interest to other people)
# lack of social or emotional reciprocity and maybe this sounds like someone you know encompassing preoccupation with one or more stereotyped and restricted patterns of interest that is abnormal either in intensity or focus

I'm just really sure that this is me. I know it's all bloody hip now to have Asperger's but when it was hip to be bi-polar I spent a great deal of time acting like I had no idea what such a tendency might be. I'm not trying to be hip and in with the cool dysfunctionals here-I think this is me. Course, there's no treatment-other than learned behavior. I'm getting better. I feel hap-PY! I FEEL HAPPY!!
No you don't. You'll be stone dead in a moment.

Crazy Lady

It's like a virus eating my madness and danger and leaving a stack of freshly clipped coupons. What the hell ever happened to that mad beast drinking and staying up all night fire lipping from the ends of my hair? Never know where I might turn up or with whom. God, I was so blissfully broke and aimless there was no future. When you're planning to burn out in a few months time there's no need to save or plan. Oh, but I had to straighten up. The best of us find out we can't be? Yeh, if the best of us are the ones that manage to stay alive year from year. Debatable I suppose, if you subscribe to the good dying young theory. Then there's that pesky truism that I am still young by most accounts.
What brings on my sadness and ennui sure it must be a question we're all asking one paragraph into this. Well, you see. There's the major appliance. Adults own major appliances. Then there's the bed. It's bothered me long as I've had it. Settled people own beds-mattresses on the floor-that's more my speed. And the garden, it ain't a grand garden but it is one, nevertheless and it is sprouting and gets weeded on a semi regular basis. But that isn't the worst of it, not by a long shot. The worst is that this weekend. With 2 full days off to myself to do as I want, I decided to steam clean the carpets and rearrange the furniture.
Oh God save me, something terrible has happened to me and the only thing left is to take up knitting (which I've been thinking of doing, in order to keep my hands busy and give me an accomplishment to show off) and wearing my hair in a matronly bun. I'm doomed.
How did this happen. And anyone who says I grew up I swear I'll scream and threaten you with the jagged end of a broken beer bottle.