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November 29, 2007Oh, demon alcohol!Sad memories I can’t recall, who thought I would fallA SLAVE TO DEMON ALCOHOL.It’s quarter to three. Ain’t no one in the place, ‘cept my cat, my other cat, and me. SO SET ‘EM UP JOEAlcohol has always been known for bringing out the best in people. I’m an expansive drunk. I love everyone, everything, and it always seems like a good idea to go on in this vein loving it up ‘til I find myself wondering who put me to bed. SIGNS OF ALCOHOLISM“Don’t tell anyone how much wine I drink,” I tell Muhammad the Elder at O’Looney’s, my corner liquor store, where I regularly show up for my René Junot. The .75 liter bottle looks like a toy, like some kind of mutant midget bottle for a doll’s house. I always buy the 1.5 liter because, well, I’m a smart shopper. Buy in quantity, I always say. That way you don’t run out at a quarter to three. I also bought some cereal and cat litter. Just the basics. Actually it’s 5:25 a.m. I’ve been up all night working on The Project than which there is nothing more important, and now I get to relax. I exhibit some of the classic criteria for alcoholism, I write, taking a sip. According to the State of Michigan 12th Judicial District Court, “a service oriented [sic (no hyphen)] court” dedicated to dispensing equal justice in all matters under the court’s jurisdiction, providing the highest quality of professional services in a prompt and efficient manner, and
recognizing and respecting the individual dignity
of all people served by the court, any “yes” answer on this 25-question DIY alky quiz “indicates that you may be a greater [than those who answered “no” to all – Ed.] risk for alcoholism. Well, nearly everyfuckin’body I know is an alcoholic, then, to one varying degree or another. “More than one ‘yes’ answer may indicate the presence of an alcohol-related problem or alcoholism, and the need for consultation with a [sic] alcoholism professional.” What about a dozen yes answers? I drink when I’m alone (shrink’s eyes widened over this), but after all I live alone; I sometimes drink too much when I’m alone; I’ve missed work over hangovers; I’ve blacked out; my friend Todd once fixed me up with so many shots of tequila (my personal poison) that I hung out of his van retching into the street; friends and doctors have cautioned me to lay off the stuff; I have awakened uncountable times not remembering how I got to bed, etc. and so forth. And there was the time I woke up and found a pile of money on the floor in front of my front door, which I imagined I had had in my hand upon exiting a taxi from Club Cocomo after turning down several offers of rides home (having too much fun) and entering my flat, throwing my stuff on the floor before collapsing. That’s my theory anyway. All I can say is, SHOW ME THE WAY TO THE NEXT WHISKEY BARbecause I like my wine, I like my whiskey sours, I like my champagne cocktails, I like a Brandy Alexander now and again. I’ll drink an infused vodka martini if someone hands me one. I delight in the amazing variety of spirits and the drinks made from them. PSYCH!I wrote all that to alarm JB in Plainview, Nebraska, who wrote me on Jimi Hendrix’s birthday to caution me against becoming him. He would have been 65. He doesn’t want to see another “major American author” (that would be me) burn out like many another talented, troubled soul. I am far from being in Jimi’s league. But I’m not making fun of you, JB, I thank you sincerely for your concern—but I myself am not that concerned. Although my shrink did say, “This stuff sneaks up on you.” DENIAL AIN’T JUST A RIVER IN EGYPTOh yes someone (a recovered overdrinker) once told me I am in denial. Oh Lord, I hope I don’t drown in my toilet. ARE YOU IN TOUCH WITH YOUR STUPIDITY?was a label someone pasted on my forehead at a St. Stupid’s April Fool’s Day parade. I didn’t know what it said but I left it there. Then I pasted it on my refrigerator along with the oft-encountered warning label “DO NOT DRINK ALCOHOL WHEN USING THIS MEDICATION.” Cheers! Little Zazu sniffs at my discarded rubber elf’s shoes for quite a spell. They smell like balloons. I wonder if Zazu, a lifetime indoor cat, dreams of chasing mice. Because she has never seen a mouse. NOTHING!The shoes made it onto the news. Having borrowed an elf outfit from friend “Sparky,” I participated in a Black Friday “Elves on Strike” “Buy Nothing” action at the Market and Powell cable car turnaround. “What do we want?” “NOTHING!” “When do we want it?” “NOW!” “What are we buying today at The Disney Store?” “NOTHING!” “What are we buying today at Macy’s?” “NOTHING!” “What are we buying today at Victoria’s Secret?” “NOTHING!” “What do we want?” “NOTHING!” You get the idea. And the carols: Profits here, profits there, Christmas time is funny, we smell money in the air, and so on. I conked out at the Union Square Christmas tree. As a result I got a free pass to the Reverend Billy (of the Church of Stop Shopping) documentary, “What Would Jesus Buy?” (See it!) Plus the Rev was there in all his great-head-of-hair glory. He was, no less, canonized by the Sisters of Perpetual Mercy as “Saint Holy Moly Put That Credit Card Down!” Delightfully over-the-top as usual, Sisters, but wouldn’t “Saint Billy” have sufficed? Or “Saint Stop the Shopocalypse”? LATER THAT NIGHTsome of us caught up with Billy at Chicken John’s house. The Rev has a face that would fit right in on Mount Rushmore. I told him my favorite line in the movie was “Everyone’s in an automobile on their way to a television.” I met some great people and drank a lot of wine, surprise, surprise. Friend Hmoob and his woman made fun of me and my new tradition of kissing someone on the night of the full moon “whether they see it coming or not.” I was glad to see her at the theatre door and laid one on her right then and there, because she was the first person last month to hear of my new newly minted mission, and I was worried I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. Later I told her that, oh, I could have kissed the Reverend if I hadn’t seen her. She told me, a little miffed, there was nothing stopping me from kissing as many people as I want. She took it the wrong way I think. Not that I would have preferred to kiss someone else, but that had she not been there, Billy might have saved the night. LATERHmoob came up and told us there would be no more kissing that night, as if I could kiss only one person and that’s it. I said, what kind of stance is that—no more kissing? This time I’d taken it wrong. He was good naturedly ribbing me for dissing his woman. Somewhere along the way he again mentioned to my companion that he loves me. I like that. I think I’ve been told I love you more times by friends than lovers. To flaunt his dictum, I kissed friend Kathy’s conveniently nearby cheek, and finally, later, sneaking up behind him, kissed Hmoob himself, cackling HA HA HA HA HA as if I’d foiled him. “I LOVE YOU”I too had said those dangerous words again the other night. To young violinist phenom Sergey Khachatryan at Davies Hall as he signed my program, laying my hand on his, the hand that performs miracles with a bow. Thank God when I still had money I had had the foresight to secure second row seats to both the Friday and Saturday night performances, knowing that on Friday I’d need to go back the next night. His command of that instrument, at age 22, is astonishing—the nuance and sublety and control. And his beautiful expressive face—I have never seen anyone love anything like he loves that violin—passion and pain and sublime delight passing quickly over his features. I was struck dumb last year by his Khatchaturian Concerto with the London Philharmonic, and had planned to go to New York to see his Carnegie Hall debut, but the date was changed and I missed it. If I had the money, my great indulgence would be to follow his career around the world from venue to venue, always up front overflowing with bravos. I would hire him to play in my parlor for a discriminating few. I’d ask for the Brahms or the Bruch or the Prokofiev. Or the Sibelius, of course, or the Beethoven, why not? Or anyone else who’s written a damn violin concerto. Nothing could make me more sublimely happy. Joshua Kosman, Chronicle music critic who’s entitled to his stupid opinion, said of Friday’s performance, “But his Mendelssohn, for all its tonal beauty and technical panache, sounded bizarrely devoid of impulse or energy. Every phrase meandered, and even the sweetly song-like melody of the slow movement almost collapsed of its own lassitude. Up until the zippy finale, this sounded like the work of a slacker determined to get through the piece without breaking a sweat. Dude, whatever.” He must have taken a valium before the show and projected his own torpor onto Sergey. I’ve never heard anything so disrespectful of one so blatantly a prodigy. I wrote him a “Whatever Dude?” email that I’d sat in front of the guy for two nights and he did for his information break a sweat. “If this young master is a slacker,” I told him, “you, sir, are a quack(er).” On Saturday night I sat next to a beautiful young woman and asked her, wasn’t she there last night too? Indeed, she had flown in from New York to see all four of his performances, and it turns out she was a friend of his, a fellow violinist who graduated from the same Armenian conservatory. I made note that there was a bevy of lovely young women seated all around us. “But I feel like telling them,” I said, “ladies, he will never give to you what he gives to that violin.” And she said, “It’s true, believe me I know.” Whoo-hoo! I asked her, does he have anything left for anything else? She said he likes cars, and likes to dance solo. Why, so do I! Perhaps someday we will dance solo together. As long as we stay away from each other. The guy has the worst violin hickey I’ve ever seen, nearly cancerous. AND THEN, MIRABILE DICTU,after the performance (the Mendelssohn), the sweetheart took me down to his dressing room to meet him! I was certainly glad I’d come back. So I got to see the wonderful hallway where MTT’s office is, and autographed pictures of all the greats who have played with the Symphony line the walls. The principal cellist and the Concertmaster, who’ve no doubt seen me many times in the front orchestra, both seemed to wonder what I was doing there. I was wearing my penguin coat in Sergey’s honor so I blended right in with the musicians passing up and down the hall. But he had a drove of family and visitors in there and when he and his friend were about to leave, I just introduced myself again as I had the night before, not wanting to steal time away from her. Sigh. Just another fabulous San Francisco night. IS IT HOLIDAY DOOMdescending, this heavy, hollow, dull feeling intermittently plaguing me? I got off the bus from the gym, and on the walk home, it came down on me. The sensation of winding down like a clock, which stops altogether once safely inside. That happened to the pre-drug me a lot, but rarely now. So I was kind of surprised when I suddenly lost energy, like an elevator car floor fell out beneath me. The family Christmas ordeal looms near. As Paula Dean’s son told her, “I love you, I’m not above you, but I’ve had enough of you.” Oy. SHE’S A MANIAC, MANIAC ON THE FLOORI see that my bipolar medication has made into onto the air. Now all you uncontrolled maniacs can ask your doctor about prescription Abilify. I neglectfully went off this drug for several days by forgetting to pick up my refills, and, just as I was wondering if I really needed it, I flew into four days of utter spaced-out hyperactivity. Not sleeping for nights, writing like a—well, a maniac—thinking I had the Big Plan to save the soul of San Francisco, etc., when all I had was 30 pages of garbage. DURING THIS PERIODat a TGIF party at his HQ, I interrupted mayoral candidate Quintin Mecke’s speech about the failings of Newsom by yelling “FUCK HIM!” (Newsom). I wrote a dozen people a dozen incomprehensible emails, then I slapped myself upside the haid and snapped out of it. But it was fun while it lasted. It always is, till the crash. Have I written every single word of this somewhere before? Well dears, it’s 7 a.m., I think I should indeed crash.
------------------------------------------------------------ "Ode to the Other 11 Candidates"
May your neighbors respect you, trouble neglect you, the angels protect you, and heaven accept you. Slàinte! copyright Alexandra Jones 2007 |
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