Alcoholic Monkeys

i think the title says everything.

play this song to death.

and here we are, at it again. like a moth to the flame, an alcoholic to the bottle, a gypsy to the road. the trivial pursuit is the only sojourn i can stomach. i want freedom, justice, compassion. but i don't. because for breakfast i eat the scraps of last nights regrets, the stale anxieties of following minutes. i pursue infinity, like a dog chasing his tail. i become so exhausted barricading selfishly from the people who love me. it's easier to please myself with a drink than it is to please you with my love. i've been here before we met. this selfishness only cultures in solitude. warm climates. then chilled to slightly below room temperature. fermented for a year. my passion has been diluted since we last spoke. what else is new? you're only as satisfying as the comfort you provide.


drink up, baby, stay up all night
the things you could do, you won't but you might
the potential you'll be, that you'll never see
the promises you'll only make

drink up with me now and forget all about the pressure of days
do what I say and I'll make you okay and drive them away
the images stuck in your head

people you've been before that you don't want around anymore
that push and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still

drink up, baby, look at the stars
I'll kiss you again between the bars where I'm seeing you
there with your hands in the air, waiting to finally be caught

drink up one more time and I'll make you mine
keep you apart deep in my heart separate from the rest
where I like you the best and keep the things you forgot

the people you've been before that you don't want around anymore
that push and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still

I’m DYING.

Just kidding, but who isn’t? Okay, September 11^th, 2008…unh? Oh, it’s September 10th, 2009? Look at how times flies when…things…happen. To me? Not really. Things around me. Things that thappen to US. We’ve elected a president who people believe is the new Jesus. People care. People are born. Children think they’re the truth. Commercial markets enable this fantasy. We’ve gone to war with Afghanistan (again). We’ve closed Gitmo (and had a grand opening of Disney torture in Bagraam). Crime does pay, in years on life’s sentences, and in millions of dollars. People die. And not people who are famous. Yes, MJ bit the big one. His dad bit on MJ like a shark. People feign to care. We’ve left Iraq(‘s cities). Nobody seems to care. Comedians are now senators? Makes sense to me. I don’t accept news from anything other than comedians.

Things that happen to me? O! You flatter me for asking. I’ll indulge because I love you. Love. Sleep. Meditation. Static. Yearning. Eating. Darkness. Sunrises. Beauty. Laughter. Desperation. Ignorance. Pleasure. Sloth. Over-analysis. That old chestnut. And if only boring people get bored, then I must accept that I am boring.

The sensationalist in me wants to say that I’ve been on a Bukowski bender. A torn journal page in one hand and a broken bottle scented with my blood in the other, cruelly assessing a bleak alleyway scene and grunting words of encouragement to up-and-coming [insert failing institution brand name] bank CEO’s walking by with the daily news. “I wipe my ass with that paper after you’ve digested the words!” I yell, not even aware I am speaking. No, that’s not me.

“What are our sandwiches today? Let me tell you! Today, we have a turkey panini! A bbq beef panini! An artichoke panini, for all you lovely (gush) vegetarians! And of course, a delicious Let’s Be Frank hot dog!” That’s me. Only with less sincerity and enthusiasm. Little enthusiasm. None Enthusiasm. Don’t ask me what our sandwiches are for the day. But let’s be clear: I love my job.

And I still love lists.

An update(ed) list, since last we spoke:

1: The movie lonesome jim is not even really that great in retrospective. And I regret leaving on such an insincere and impulsive note. I mean, really? “That is all.” Apparently. I remember writing that, drunk, and having just cried about probably one of the most cliché sentimental scene from the movie. I do that. That’s a whole other blog post.

2: I still like beer.

3: Bree is still missed. I had a recent jolt of memory: sharing a tent with Bree on an ACS spring trip in the thousand islands, spending at least a half hour one of the nights discussing the merits of a go-kart race track in the form of a marijuana leaf and how awesome we would make that business.

4: Four women in the past year I have known, loved, taken for granted, and begrudgingly, half-heartedly parted ways with. I have a problem. It’s a recurring tragedy. I should seek therapy. Things start when I’m on vacation. I meet someone. They are amazing. They think I’m amazing. Passion ensues. Then I leave. We keep in touch. Letters, phone calls, emails, text messages. Plans emerge. Plans seem to emerge. Plans are perhaps apparent from the beginning. “You had me at Jello.” Plans are confirmed. Dates are prescribed. Promises are made. Dates arrive. Literally. And no joke, things are awesome. Because pretense like this builds a fucking lot of fucking sexual tension fucking. And fucking ensues. And it’s great. Because endorphins and short term interactions and lots of fucking have one thing in common: Passion. I told you it ensued. But when passion fades (and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t), people realize that even though things are awesome, things are real, and people possess individual realities. All the fantasies built in the long distance communications corrode with a sudden realization of who the other person is. Or who I am. I think it’s generally who I am that turns things sour. I feel I can be eloquent in script, but the words that come out of my mouth off the top of the head, you’d think I was the George W. Bush of relationships.

Am I only attractive at a distance? An image of memory refreshed with letters of humor and affection? A voice to call when the time is right, a comfortable moment in the daily schedule to peruse the universe of another person, this is the game. And the text messages! God condemn me. Technology is Satan. Long distance relationships required long distance at one point. Now people are buzzing in your pocket whenever the fuck. At least some people recognize the beauty of handwritten letters. Those people probably think I should have sent more letters. They’re probably right. But there’s hope! And this is a list…so I should get on with it. What was I talking about?

5: O! Emotionally driven, but by whom? Humor is a poor mask for desperation. Is it any better that I was in desperate need of love? Can you forgive me? Will anyone ever love me again?

6. Oh, you do love me? Well, maybe we should talk. And I can say stupid things (driven, but by whom?). And we can fall up, out of touch, instantly human disconnection. It was my fault. One time. Two times. Can you forgive me? Maybe you have. In which case, scorn me again.

Why so much angerr?

Why so much self loathing?

Why so much sadness?

Why am I such an ass?

But let’s get down to brass tax. Why I’m really back. Is it really this simple? Yes.

Hooray for me.