He looks me up and down, and he looks like the Godfather, even talks like him; low raspy voice, laid back demeanor, olive skin that's dark as could be.
"He has my brother's eyes."
It's the biggest compliment I've ever gotten from anybody, especially my grandfather's brother. It breaks my heart and makes me smile at the same time, because my grandfather is God in my eyes. To hear him say that, though, is tough- his wife later comes up to me and tells me how hard he took it when the old man died... "They were brothers, you know... real close. He took it rough." Fifteen years later, and it's like the shit went down yesterday.
Family parties are tough like that for me. I like'em, because of the standard reasons, but it's also tough to be reminded of the dead man every time. I bear a strong enough resemblance that people make remarks constantly, between my dark eyes, black hair, and natural hairyness. Later on, my great aunt will come up and show me an old picture she found of him, and my eyes tear up nearly immediately. I am in the shadow of a great man, and I miss him like hell.
The DJ eventually plays, "Sweet Caroline", and three family members get worried when I leave the room. I was only taking a piss, but apparently it's very evident that I still don't take his death well, and I have to convince them that that song reminds me more of the Red Sox at this point then of the old man.
Yes, I been drinkin.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Never Say Die
Strange things get to me. The scene in last night's "Rescue Me" where the probies cancer ridden mother is begging him to kill her so she can die with dignity... a commercial that shows a typical hospital monitor beeping, and then shows it flat lining (it was something to do with finances, of course)... the fact that when I was driving to Thatcher's (an Irish bar where I live) I passed an old Dutch Reformed Church, and realized for the first time that it has a massive graveyard in the back.
It is hot and humid in Jersey tonight, and the haze was rising off the road in a form that made it foggy on this one street. Through this fog, I could see the headstones rising up from the ground, and just knowing that there are dead people that lay there, so close to the bar I frequent so often, unnerved me. A chill ran up my back as that knife was dragged down my spine again, I realized that there are so many people that have lived before. It seems that way sometimes, that we are the first ones that have loved so passionately, fought so mercilessly, and held the hope that we will one day be better then we are. The rest of the world's history fades from view, and we only have our little lives, our little microcosms, to deal with. We think that none before could ever feel the way we feel, do the things we do... but it has all happened before. In all liklihood, there is a man buried somewhere that lived nearly the exact same life that I led- the same heartbreaks, the same triumphs. He may be famous, or he may be obscure. Either way, he is there.
During that commercial last night, a thought crossed my mind that I may well one day be in a hospital bed, and watching my own heart monitor beep, the last semblances of my life raging to keep alive. I hope one day that I can be like my buddy's grandfather, an old WWII ranger who watched the blood come out of him, but was able to smile and say, "I'm ready to meet God." My own grandfather will die like this, as do all men with heavy religious convictions. They are more fortunate than those of us who doubt, who realize that we are but a heartbeat away from hell, and that I could well die tomorrow and, if the haggard priests are right, burn in hell for eternity for not believing, starting tomorrow night.
Sometimes I think that this life is but a short one, but then I realize how much I have seen in my 23 years, and decide anything much longer would be murderous. My own best friend, my brother, lies under a headstone that I have never seen, never visited.... he knows all the secrets that I so dearly covet, all the answers to the questions that drive me to the bars every night. I imagine it sometimes... I think it is dark gray, with the words neatly carved in, a testament to my friends existence. Never have I seen a family member's name on headstone- my Irish grandmother seems to refuse to recognize that people die, and so is more than willing to ignore the gravesite altogether, only finding it because she knows that they're "buried between two Italians." Her father used to take her for picnics in the graveyards when she was young girl, walking between the headstones with food for the dead.
Does it seem like I'm obsessed with this? It should. I'm fucked up. The reaper hangs his schythe over me, I see it's shadow everywhere I go. Never wonder why I am as intense as I am- I have learned too quickly, too many times, that there is no tomorrow. God may not love you tomorrow, your parents may be dead tomorrow, the things you love dearest could be gone forever tomorrow.
I could be gone tomorrow. What comes after, what this life means, what it does, why it happens how it does.... these questions are why I drink.
It is hot and humid in Jersey tonight, and the haze was rising off the road in a form that made it foggy on this one street. Through this fog, I could see the headstones rising up from the ground, and just knowing that there are dead people that lay there, so close to the bar I frequent so often, unnerved me. A chill ran up my back as that knife was dragged down my spine again, I realized that there are so many people that have lived before. It seems that way sometimes, that we are the first ones that have loved so passionately, fought so mercilessly, and held the hope that we will one day be better then we are. The rest of the world's history fades from view, and we only have our little lives, our little microcosms, to deal with. We think that none before could ever feel the way we feel, do the things we do... but it has all happened before. In all liklihood, there is a man buried somewhere that lived nearly the exact same life that I led- the same heartbreaks, the same triumphs. He may be famous, or he may be obscure. Either way, he is there.
During that commercial last night, a thought crossed my mind that I may well one day be in a hospital bed, and watching my own heart monitor beep, the last semblances of my life raging to keep alive. I hope one day that I can be like my buddy's grandfather, an old WWII ranger who watched the blood come out of him, but was able to smile and say, "I'm ready to meet God." My own grandfather will die like this, as do all men with heavy religious convictions. They are more fortunate than those of us who doubt, who realize that we are but a heartbeat away from hell, and that I could well die tomorrow and, if the haggard priests are right, burn in hell for eternity for not believing, starting tomorrow night.
Sometimes I think that this life is but a short one, but then I realize how much I have seen in my 23 years, and decide anything much longer would be murderous. My own best friend, my brother, lies under a headstone that I have never seen, never visited.... he knows all the secrets that I so dearly covet, all the answers to the questions that drive me to the bars every night. I imagine it sometimes... I think it is dark gray, with the words neatly carved in, a testament to my friends existence. Never have I seen a family member's name on headstone- my Irish grandmother seems to refuse to recognize that people die, and so is more than willing to ignore the gravesite altogether, only finding it because she knows that they're "buried between two Italians." Her father used to take her for picnics in the graveyards when she was young girl, walking between the headstones with food for the dead.
Does it seem like I'm obsessed with this? It should. I'm fucked up. The reaper hangs his schythe over me, I see it's shadow everywhere I go. Never wonder why I am as intense as I am- I have learned too quickly, too many times, that there is no tomorrow. God may not love you tomorrow, your parents may be dead tomorrow, the things you love dearest could be gone forever tomorrow.
I could be gone tomorrow. What comes after, what this life means, what it does, why it happens how it does.... these questions are why I drink.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Fuckers
When they say "camera" they mean "pipe" and when they say, "numbing agent" they mean "hahahahah."
I already knew to never trust a hooker... now I'm never trusting a urologist either.
I already knew to never trust a hooker... now I'm never trusting a urologist either.
Drunk Ramblings in the Early morning
That fucking Rocky song was right: some feelings never die. And that makes life tough.
On a related note, I really can't imagine how anyone past my age sleeps at night, given all the bullshit that life throws at you all the time. I think this is why man invented beer so quickly after he came around- a thinking mind is an unhappy one, and beer makes it happy. It also makes fat girls look thinner and your driving ability go through the roof. Although I do wonder how well chariots handled as opposed to cars... and I doubt DUIs were as prevalant in the old days.
"Where'd you get pulled over dude?"
"Right next to that pyramid their building. Who'd have thought they'd have a check right there?"
"Yea man, if you have a cat with you they don't bother you though."
On a related note, I really can't imagine how anyone past my age sleeps at night, given all the bullshit that life throws at you all the time. I think this is why man invented beer so quickly after he came around- a thinking mind is an unhappy one, and beer makes it happy. It also makes fat girls look thinner and your driving ability go through the roof. Although I do wonder how well chariots handled as opposed to cars... and I doubt DUIs were as prevalant in the old days.
"Where'd you get pulled over dude?"
"Right next to that pyramid their building. Who'd have thought they'd have a check right there?"
"Yea man, if you have a cat with you they don't bother you though."
Monday, June 18, 2007
I'm Dying. Seriously, this time.
I have cancer.
Alright, maybe not. But I think I do. I think this because that fucking urologist has no idea that I am a hypochondriac of the severest sort, and every time something is mildly wrong with me I become obsessed with it and swear it will kill me. The fact is, I've been pissing blood on and off, and after investigating it halfway a couple years ago, I had pretty much decided that it was just one of those things my body does. Some people smell terrible, some sweat a lot, I bleed on the inside and piss it out. Whatever.
A month ago, though, I pissed black, and that scared the ever living shit out of me. So I headed to the nearest urologists office and tried to figure out why I'm dying. There is something a bit off about people who make a living playing with dicks... the only other ones I know that do that are prostitutes, and I don't think that bodes well for the reputations of urologists.
"Have you taken any shots to the kidney area?"
"Not that I know of."
"Are you a smoker?"
"Yea."
"OK, so- oh wait, you are a smoker?"
"Yea." There's a lot of us, asshole. Don't sound so surprised.
"Ooohhh. Well, in that case we have to do a (insert fancy medical term) and make sure there's no tumors or cancer anywhere."
"What's that mean?"
"Well, it's pretty much the worst fucking thing you could, as a male, ever imagine." OK, he didn't say that. But that's more or less the gist... Yup. He's got to shove a camera up my cock. I am not nearly comfortable enough with this guy to let him do this, and the first thought that comes to mind is if the... whatever... is long enough that I can strangle him with it Syl-style if something goes wrong.
I can see it now, the scene straight out of Braveheart. I will be sitting there, shirt half open, eyes bleary and bloodshot from whiskey, and the room will be filled with four or five Jewish men. One will walk forward with the camera, see the look of absolute rage in my eyes, and turn to the nearest compatriot and yell, "Chutzpah! I will hold him down. You do it!" This man will walk forward, and then stop, and turn to the next guy. "Shalom! I'll hold him down! You do it!
I don't know any more Jewish words, so I don't know what the third guy will say, but whoever actually goes through with it is going to catch a wicked haymaker as soon they all let me go.
Now, I know that the odds are that I don't have cancer. If nothing else, the fact that I've been doing it for two years and am in exactly the same shape as I was then speaks to me- if I was really rotting on the inside, I'd probably have seen some side effects by now. Hopefully this goes the same as that time that I had a lump on my neck and was convinced that it was neck cancer (I don't know if that exists either) and it just turned out to be nothing, or the time that I pinched a nerve in my neck and became convinced that everytime my hands went numb I was having a heart attack (which, if I did, I survived about 3,245 of them). Yes, I have a history of overreacting.
But let me tell you... just in case... that doctor better have a cement jaw, because if I have cancer he better be quicker than Mayweather in getting the hell out of there.
Alright, maybe not. But I think I do. I think this because that fucking urologist has no idea that I am a hypochondriac of the severest sort, and every time something is mildly wrong with me I become obsessed with it and swear it will kill me. The fact is, I've been pissing blood on and off, and after investigating it halfway a couple years ago, I had pretty much decided that it was just one of those things my body does. Some people smell terrible, some sweat a lot, I bleed on the inside and piss it out. Whatever.
A month ago, though, I pissed black, and that scared the ever living shit out of me. So I headed to the nearest urologists office and tried to figure out why I'm dying. There is something a bit off about people who make a living playing with dicks... the only other ones I know that do that are prostitutes, and I don't think that bodes well for the reputations of urologists.
"Have you taken any shots to the kidney area?"
"Not that I know of."
"Are you a smoker?"
"Yea."
"OK, so- oh wait, you are a smoker?"
"Yea." There's a lot of us, asshole. Don't sound so surprised.
"Ooohhh. Well, in that case we have to do a (insert fancy medical term) and make sure there's no tumors or cancer anywhere."
"What's that mean?"
"Well, it's pretty much the worst fucking thing you could, as a male, ever imagine." OK, he didn't say that. But that's more or less the gist... Yup. He's got to shove a camera up my cock. I am not nearly comfortable enough with this guy to let him do this, and the first thought that comes to mind is if the... whatever... is long enough that I can strangle him with it Syl-style if something goes wrong.
I can see it now, the scene straight out of Braveheart. I will be sitting there, shirt half open, eyes bleary and bloodshot from whiskey, and the room will be filled with four or five Jewish men. One will walk forward with the camera, see the look of absolute rage in my eyes, and turn to the nearest compatriot and yell, "Chutzpah! I will hold him down. You do it!" This man will walk forward, and then stop, and turn to the next guy. "Shalom! I'll hold him down! You do it!
I don't know any more Jewish words, so I don't know what the third guy will say, but whoever actually goes through with it is going to catch a wicked haymaker as soon they all let me go.
Now, I know that the odds are that I don't have cancer. If nothing else, the fact that I've been doing it for two years and am in exactly the same shape as I was then speaks to me- if I was really rotting on the inside, I'd probably have seen some side effects by now. Hopefully this goes the same as that time that I had a lump on my neck and was convinced that it was neck cancer (I don't know if that exists either) and it just turned out to be nothing, or the time that I pinched a nerve in my neck and became convinced that everytime my hands went numb I was having a heart attack (which, if I did, I survived about 3,245 of them). Yes, I have a history of overreacting.
But let me tell you... just in case... that doctor better have a cement jaw, because if I have cancer he better be quicker than Mayweather in getting the hell out of there.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Whoops
Me and Frank are walking back from the pisser, both a bit drunk... alright, fucking tanked. In front of us is a short guy wearing jeans and a black t-shirt with the words, "When in doubt, knock'em out" on the back. He has gray slicked back hair, and a graying mustache that gives him a slight hillbilly look.
"Hey man, where'd you get that fucking shirt? That's badass! You work at that bar in Lincoln Park? I think I saw them wearing those shits when I was there," Frank says.
The guy turns around, looks him up and down, and stone dead soberly says, "There's only one way to get this shirt." He's leaning on the bar, and does not want to talk to us. There are a couple of bikers that he's hanging with, but you can never tell in Jersey whether they're actually bikers or doctors and lawyers who like to play dress up in leather and act tough on a Saturday night.
I glance at the front of this shirt, and there is a gray skull on fire along with a banner that says, "Support Local 81". Fucking christ, I know how you get that shirt.
"Ha, I know what that is," I say to him. "Frank, let's get movin', this guy just wants to be left alone." He always gets a bit intense when he's been drinking, and I really want to get him away from this guy before he gets any more pissed off.
Why, you ask, was I so wary of this stranger? Well, if you look at the alphabet, H is the 8th letter, and A is the first, and when you see something that says, "Support Local 81," it means that the guy supports the Hell's Angels. I don't what this guy did to get it... but whatever it was, it was fucking bad, and he would put a beer bottle through our throats in a heartbeat.
I am still extremely drunk, and it's 1 o'clock on a Sunday. Yippee kay yay motherfucker.
"Hey man, where'd you get that fucking shirt? That's badass! You work at that bar in Lincoln Park? I think I saw them wearing those shits when I was there," Frank says.
The guy turns around, looks him up and down, and stone dead soberly says, "There's only one way to get this shirt." He's leaning on the bar, and does not want to talk to us. There are a couple of bikers that he's hanging with, but you can never tell in Jersey whether they're actually bikers or doctors and lawyers who like to play dress up in leather and act tough on a Saturday night.
I glance at the front of this shirt, and there is a gray skull on fire along with a banner that says, "Support Local 81". Fucking christ, I know how you get that shirt.
"Ha, I know what that is," I say to him. "Frank, let's get movin', this guy just wants to be left alone." He always gets a bit intense when he's been drinking, and I really want to get him away from this guy before he gets any more pissed off.
Why, you ask, was I so wary of this stranger? Well, if you look at the alphabet, H is the 8th letter, and A is the first, and when you see something that says, "Support Local 81," it means that the guy supports the Hell's Angels. I don't what this guy did to get it... but whatever it was, it was fucking bad, and he would put a beer bottle through our throats in a heartbeat.
I am still extremely drunk, and it's 1 o'clock on a Sunday. Yippee kay yay motherfucker.
Monday, June 04, 2007
How many times did I leer at that globe
With tearful eyes, and held laid low.
The same that Achilles beheld,
ere the day Patrocles was felled.
Oh, that I knew the course of time!
If God spoke to us all, through your shine.
If the white that spears the night,
Could illuminate the path of right,
How much simpler of a life I'd have,
Not having to hear that devil's laugh
Every time that I fucked up,
And left in the dust ones I loved.
With tearful eyes, and held laid low.
The same that Achilles beheld,
ere the day Patrocles was felled.
Oh, that I knew the course of time!
If God spoke to us all, through your shine.
If the white that spears the night,
Could illuminate the path of right,
How much simpler of a life I'd have,
Not having to hear that devil's laugh
Every time that I fucked up,
And left in the dust ones I loved.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Happy Birthday to me
Wasted youth and mad as hell
My friends keep asking me
Are you ok, man, you're eyes are blazing
I can't get over it
This shit is killing me
My body's achin, hands are shakin
I'm cutting down you heard the line
Whiskey in the morning one more time
Hit that cigarette, Colt 45
Whiskey in the morning
Can't stop drinkin gonna die.
I can't stop thinkin of
Where I was before the drugs
A young daydreamer, fixed on screaming
Still really love the life
Drinking, snorting, smoking eyes
Super jaded, loaded, hated
I go out every night
Helpless secrets, lifeless eyes
Tore up, faded, no give taken
Still really love the life
Drinking, snorting, smoking eyes
Sweet leaf space case, hands are shakin'
Can't stop drinkin, gonna die
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