As the title says, I haven't been able to make the quota on alcoholic beverages. However, I have had some time to think sober. I've been struggling to find an apartment lately, so, having a single beer with a friend of mine five days ago,we began discussing what life would be like constantly on the road. This isn't some Kerouac-esque fantasy where the increase in awesome is directly governed by the wine inhaled (although it could be). What I imagine is many days spent shambling from coffee shop to coffee shop, camping out in Wal-Mart parking lots, irritated relationships and a whole lot of back ache.
A bit of me gets stuck up with the idea of drinking and driving (as it should), so that's where it comes in that alcohol consumption would be limited to the times of the day in with movement is made only by foot or by sleep. Here's how I imagine a day to go while living on the road:
I wake up to the sound of a diesel engine callously working its way into my hungover head, the dream I was having of two turtles fighting with samurai swords slowly replaced with that guttural, mechanical growl as the trucker next to me wakes up to start off his day driving for the next fourteen hours. I'm at a state highway rest stop, doors locked tight with clothes dangling from the windows to keep the light out and the potential killers sight from coming in. The seat pops up with little effort on my part, my shifting weight knocking an empty wine bottle onto the level that controls the incline of the seat. Up I go and the blood rush from my head spins me awake into a terrifying reality that constantly falls in on itself.
I toss the bottle to the back and pull my dirty laundry from the windows. Sunlight floods in and I see the exhaust and tail end of the trailer the trucker that woke me is hauling. It'll be a good day, starting at 7 A.M. The suns on the rise, I've just been paid for my freelance work and the rent is as cheap as the gas I can afford. I unlock the doors and head into the rest stop bathroom, pull out some paper towels and begin to wet and wipe the grease from my face. The moment of truth comes that will set my attitude for the next few hours; the mirror.
Oh I'd continue this, but I have beer to brew.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Dream Drunk, Act Sober
It's been a fairly good night so far, unfortunately I've gone from Summit Extra Pale Ale to Moosehead to Smithwick's, which is quite the assortment for myself. I can't say its too far of a stretch though, from last night's Guinness to Mike's Hard to Guinness again.
Now that we've met over beer, we can begin. Another useless drunken quip dream from me. I've been a bit into biking lately (over the past year and a half or so?). I've promised my aunt I'd visit her some 200 miles away, it's a bit off from what I can quite expect of myself so far. I lack the motivation to go through with things, but I keep dreaming of the days that I'd get on my bike and keep going until the sun goes down, pitch a tent on the side of the highway and stake down for the night. I've spoken many times of heading out from home, every which way is always north (it's the only direction in which I know people).
Somehow this is always shattered by the fact that I'm either never motivated (i.e. sitting at my computer) or that when I really, truly wish to head out, it's either late at night or I'm drunk off my melon, or both.
I think a hundred miles is an easy task, I just need to get up off my ass and do it. Take my shit advice and do it, I'm sure you'll love it.
Off to another.
Now that we've met over beer, we can begin. Another useless drunken quip dream from me. I've been a bit into biking lately (over the past year and a half or so?). I've promised my aunt I'd visit her some 200 miles away, it's a bit off from what I can quite expect of myself so far. I lack the motivation to go through with things, but I keep dreaming of the days that I'd get on my bike and keep going until the sun goes down, pitch a tent on the side of the highway and stake down for the night. I've spoken many times of heading out from home, every which way is always north (it's the only direction in which I know people).
Somehow this is always shattered by the fact that I'm either never motivated (i.e. sitting at my computer) or that when I really, truly wish to head out, it's either late at night or I'm drunk off my melon, or both.
I think a hundred miles is an easy task, I just need to get up off my ass and do it. Take my shit advice and do it, I'm sure you'll love it.
Off to another.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
It's Past Five, I can start whenever I want
"Don't drink and dream, you'll wake up sad and hungover."
- Myself, sober.
Fuck that. Here I am, finished with work early and drinking down the shit and piss of some Sisyphean yeast-being. I'm young, white, and filled to the brim with dreams (and pee). Somewhere in the world opportunity was dropped on me, and here goes:
One of my favorite ideas of life beyond these college years involved (wait for it...) a motorcycle, a case of wine, friends across the country, and a cat. Luckily, I already have the cat. What I wish for myself is to take up a motorcycle, forget about any worldly problems that I may ever have, that death thing, student loans, future careers, forgetting I left the coffee pot on. Fuck it, (five years in college allows my creative writing to include expletives) I want to wake up one morning, strap in a few bottles, take a change of clothes, a few assorted items, hit the road and not look back. That will happen.
I hope that every at some point enjoys the taste of thought of road trips, alone or with your closest friends (or soon to be, as it may come). Hope is that fucked up drug that can keep people going even when they're out on the sidewalk, pushed up against newspapers, dirty diapers and cardboard, scavenging for a new home and a better life, (or even just to end the one they have, you may be suicidal, but you can at least hope for a sharp knife). Road trips are those things of eternal summers, some feel good aspect of life that us youth never wish to get rid of. Reality may say otherwise, but god damnit I'm going to buy a motorcycle and travel at least two-hundred feet.
Moral of the story: Shut up, you're drinking.
- Myself, sober.
Fuck that. Here I am, finished with work early and drinking down the shit and piss of some Sisyphean yeast-being. I'm young, white, and filled to the brim with dreams (and pee). Somewhere in the world opportunity was dropped on me, and here goes:
One of my favorite ideas of life beyond these college years involved (wait for it...) a motorcycle, a case of wine, friends across the country, and a cat. Luckily, I already have the cat. What I wish for myself is to take up a motorcycle, forget about any worldly problems that I may ever have, that death thing, student loans, future careers, forgetting I left the coffee pot on. Fuck it, (five years in college allows my creative writing to include expletives) I want to wake up one morning, strap in a few bottles, take a change of clothes, a few assorted items, hit the road and not look back. That will happen.
I hope that every at some point enjoys the taste of thought of road trips, alone or with your closest friends (or soon to be, as it may come). Hope is that fucked up drug that can keep people going even when they're out on the sidewalk, pushed up against newspapers, dirty diapers and cardboard, scavenging for a new home and a better life, (or even just to end the one they have, you may be suicidal, but you can at least hope for a sharp knife). Road trips are those things of eternal summers, some feel good aspect of life that us youth never wish to get rid of. Reality may say otherwise, but god damnit I'm going to buy a motorcycle and travel at least two-hundred feet.
Moral of the story: Shut up, you're drinking.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Start with a Shot
Here comes the cavalry. For this blog I will be discussing everything about getting drunk and exploring that unseen future that will more than likely never happen, but shit, I can dream can't I? Liver failure will probably become a frequent visitor, as will hopeless hangovers the morning after the unrealities that I wish to explore. Hell, you know what? Just for the literal audience, I'll toss in my fucked up dreams that I have the night after heavy drinking. The brain needs to unwind for all the crap I've funneled into it.
To begin: A shot of Sailor Jerry's.
Where to?: Anywhere.
I was riding the Greyhound the other day, working my way back home on a slow trip heading due south. Something about staring out the window is very conducive to putting someone into a dream-like state. The simplest explanation to my dream-revelation is this - Staring sober up at the clouds, you can almost see their cotton candy shapes and texture. Each piece pulls from another and the sky is filled with vanilla flavored sugar air. It's wonderful to think of how fucked up the sky would actually be if every diabetic had to run for cover the moment a cloud began to form.
Avoid sugar, kids.
To begin: A shot of Sailor Jerry's.
Where to?: Anywhere.
I was riding the Greyhound the other day, working my way back home on a slow trip heading due south. Something about staring out the window is very conducive to putting someone into a dream-like state. The simplest explanation to my dream-revelation is this - Staring sober up at the clouds, you can almost see their cotton candy shapes and texture. Each piece pulls from another and the sky is filled with vanilla flavored sugar air. It's wonderful to think of how fucked up the sky would actually be if every diabetic had to run for cover the moment a cloud began to form.
Avoid sugar, kids.
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