GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #788: ONE YEAR AND 179 DAYS

 It's been one year and 179 days since my last drink. Booze has been on my mind lately. Not just because I had an exceptionally shitty day today. Believe it or not, work was the highlight of my day, and work was fucking miserable. Especially since it's starting to look like I might not get that change in position. They might not need an additional hand over there, after all.

But I also found a jar of apple moonshine last week. I was pretty sure that I'd gotten to all my booze stashes, but I guess one got past me. I couldn't even open the jar because my hands are all fucked up. Not that I wanted to drink the contents. It looked kind of gross.

But I wanted to clean it out and maybe use the jar for something else. Jars are always good to have. I used to be the guy everyone went to for stuff like opening tight jars. Now I have to ask my brother to do it. Getting old sucks. Needing surgery on your hands sucks, too.

But I was mostly thinking about how, back when I was a full-blown boozer, I never got bug bites except for one time. That one time was because I was sleeping in a room that had a lot of bugs in a tank. One got out and bit my belly. But aside from that one time? Never. I never got so much as a mosquito bite.

I remember a time when I went camping with a bunch of friends, and the mosquito problem was so bad they asked the campground to move us to another site. They were all riddled with bites, but not me. The argument could be made that I was drunk out of my mind, so of course I wouldn't have noticed. But I checked the next day. Nothing.

Everyone else was drinking. Why were they not spared? Because I was the only one who showed up drunk already. I had to take a few drinks to make the long drive bearable. Was that the camping trip when I decided I was the Lord of the Flies? Maybe that was it.

At any rate, since I quit drinking I've been getting bug bites. Mosquitos no longer fear alcohol poisoning from feeding off of me, for example. I got a couple of ant bites during the summer. Etc.

It's weird to think about the problems that come with suddenly not having a blood alcohol content at all times. I miss it. Not the Fleischmann's or the Ten High or even that godawful Canadian shit I got for seven bucks a handle. I miss things like the Glenfiddich. Wild Turkey 101. Booker's. I never did get a taste of the Pappy, and I'd always held out hopes that I would. If someone offered me a glass of that, I don't think I'd be able to say no.

Somehow I have yet to have a relapse. Not sure how that happened. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: when I was at detox, I was already planning to drink more when I got out. Weird. Maybe the key to quitting booze, after you go through the physical addiction, is knowing deep within yourself that you're going to drink again. I know I am. It's just a matter of how long. My job is to make sure there are as many days between now and that time as possible.

If I'm ever diagnosed with an incurable disease, for example. Or if I need my foot amputated. Or if I get fired. Or, I guess, if someone offered me a taste of Pappy Van Winkle.

544 days. So far, so good.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #112: A NIGHT AT THE SPRING INN

You might be wondering why there wasn't a GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS last night. A friend I haven't seen in maybe two years came to town, and I hung out with him and his brother at the Spring Inn last night, drinking maybe a bit more than I should have. By the time I got home, I wanted nothing more than to fall into bed. I think it was about 1:30, which would explain why I was so hungover at work today.


I really should drink more often at the Spring Inn. I miss that place. Once upon a time, I used to be in there at least once a week. In fact, back in my early to mid-twenties, I drank in a bar every weeknight. Monday's were spent at Doc Ryan's because they had dollar pints. Tuesdays were Elmhurst Public House nights because they had dollar personal pitchers. Wednesdays were random bar nights, which I sometimes went to, but didn't always make it. Thursdays were spent at what used to be called Lucky Strike. I forget what it is now, though. I think it's Fitz's Seven-Ten, or something. And then Friday nights were spent at Spring Inn, at least until closing, at which point we'd all go over to Brauerhouse back when it was in Berkeley, since it stayed open one hour later. Brauerhouse has since burned down, which sucks because it was a fucking great place to get drunk. They moved out to Lombard, but I hear it's just not the same. One day, I'll give it a shot, but I don't know if I want to make new memories at a place that probably can't hold a candle to the memories I made in the old place.


Holy fuck. I drank heavily every night. Those were the good old days. But my favorite was always Spring Inn. It's a neighborhood bar, not a sports bar or a college bar or any of that shit. It's a small place that doesn't serve food. Back in the old days, if you went there, it was almost a certainty that you wouldn't get laid there. If you were drinking there, you were drinking to get fucked the fuck up. That's important to me. Sometimes, you want to have the possibility of sex, but there was a certain freedom in not having that at the front of your brain.


How did things go last night? Perfectly, I think. It's good to know that the Spring Inn is still the cheapest place to get fucked up in Elmhurst. I drank like a fiend, and I had a thirty dollar bill at the end of the night. Anywhere else in the area, and it would have cost me seventy. It's good to know that the same bartender is still there, and that he remembers me. I don't know if he'd be cool with me mentioning his name, so I won't. Every once in a while, he'll supply us with a free drink, and that is the key to being a great bartender. Hell, in my opinion, he's the best. That's why I always tip him more than any sane man would. (Of course, that could be the Italian in my blood, but I don't think so. If he sucked, I wouldn't kick in quite so much.)


It's good to know that it's still a great place for conversation. You can hang out, drink, play darts, etc. But it's mostly a place to talk shit about whatever you enjoy. Whatever you hate. Whatever helps you through the night. It's usually dead on weeknights, but last night it was almost empty. It's kind of disappointing, because more people means the higher probability of adventure. But also at the same time, it's encouraging because it's a more intimate setting where you don't have to shout to be heard.


Most importantly: it's good to know that metal still reigns supreme at the Spring Inn. Near the end of the night, Metallica blasted out to us, which brought me back to my hard-drinking days of yore.


Last call came about. I guzzled one more Wild Turkey 101--because the Spring Inn is the only bar in the area that has WT101, the finest whiskey known to humanity--and we went out into the streets, where I hung out with my friend and his brother for a while longer, while they had one more cigarette. (Because my friend has been abroad, he was surprised to discover that you couldn't smoke in bars around here.) And then, I went home, where I stumbled up to bed.


I can't tell you how many nights I've stumbled up to bed after drinking at the Spring Inn. I haven't been there since the last time my friend was in town. I think. Actually, no. Another friend was passing through, and we went to the Spring Inn for a brief hang before heading out to Elgin for some serious boozing. But for a guy who used to go to the Spring Inn every week? Two times in two years is a terrible rate.


I think I shouldn't neglect my favorite bar anymore.


I've been icing my drinks since my pancreas problem. The bartender didn't know about my health issues, so when I asked for whiskey with ice in it, he looked at me kind of weird.


My reputation precedes me . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #14: I'M DRUNK! DRUNK!

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Or something like that.


Seriously, I could never in a million years describe what happened tonight. I'm suddenly reminded of my youth, when any number of crazy things could happen--and then actually did.


This old man's got to rest his bones. I'm going to be 36 next week, and I have all sorts of medical problems. I should probably stop doing all the ridiculous shit I'm doing . . . but . . . well . . . when Charles Bukowski was a younger man, he was told by a doctor that he must stop drinking or he'd die. It depressed him so much he went directly from the doctor's office to a bar, because he needed a drink.


The dude lived for DECADES after that, drinking heavily the whole time. He didn't even die from his habits. Leukemia got him.


But still. I bet you fuckers thought I wouldn't post anything before passing out. Hell, I'm with you. I should have passed out hours ago. I'm not supposed to drink this much. I've had a half-pint of Jameson, a half-pint of Wild Turkey 101, five shots of Bulleit, a Gonzo Imperial (thanks, Katrina!), and maybe--MAYBE--four shots of Fleischmann's (but that was in the afternoon, when I was getting ready for the night).


My doctor is going to murder me. He's going to take one look at me and kill me with his eye lasers. FUCK.

THE RUMORS OF MY DEATH HAVE ONLY BEEN SLIGHTLY EXAGGERATED

[ONCE AGAIN, THIS IS A RERUN FROM THE MYSPACE BLOG. DON'T WORRY, WE'RE ALMOST UP TO THE NEW STUFF. I POST THIS ONE TO HONOR MARK TWAIN, WHOSE AUTOBIOGRAPHY WILL BE PUBLISHED IN A FEW MONTHS, 100 YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH.]




"My body is a road-map of pain." Jeffrey Combs said that in THE FRIGHTENERS, and now I understand how he feels. I have just returned from Vegas, and just about every part of my body aches. My back and shoulders are throbbing because it was the first time I'd gone for a swim in a decade. My face, forearms, and legs (from mid-thigh down to my ankles) are all sunburned. There are three small perforations in the palm of my right hand (and a tiny abrasion on my pinkie) from accidentally scraping my hand against the bottom of the pool. And my upper lip has been cut to ribbons because I tried shaving while drunk.

But it was worth it.

It was actually a lot easier than I thought it would be to get through security at Midway. I'd heard all sorts of horror stories, but the reality was that if you get there early enough, the only annoyance is waiting in the long line to check your luggage. I breezed through everything else, and the plane actually left on time! Shockingly enough, WE ARRIVED EARLY IN VEGAS! It was only by five minutes, but I remember from when I was younger that the planes NEVER ran on time, much less get to your destination early. The flight was even pleasant. It was Southwest, and I was able to get on early enough to find a window seat (because you never, EVER want to miss the show of taking off and landing; I have no idea how most people can ignore such an awesome spectacle), and I managed to get through most of Brian Keene's TERMINAL (yes, I was on a plane reading a book called TERMINAL, and I sadly did not get a single double-take), which is an excellent book, probably his best, and I recommend it to you all.



Vegas has changed a lot since I was a kid. A lot of casinos are gone, and a whole hell of a lot more have gone up. I remember when most of the surrounding area was nothing but desert; now, they're building over everything in sight. They're even carving into the mountains so they can build there, too. Very soon, Warren Ellis's TRANSMETROPOLITAN vision of America being one big city will be a reality.

Anyway, I had an excellent time while I was there. I didn't gamble, but I did go to a place called the OG. Strip clubs in Illinois have a variety of rules, first and foremost that you are not to touch the stripper, and she is not supposed to touch you during a lap dance (except in the usual, accepted way, of course). If you break these rules, a bouncer is waiting on hand to break you. Not so at the OG. While the room is waaaay too dark (I was stumbling around, trying to find my way to a table), and you can barely see the stripper on stage, the lap dances are awesome. You can pretty much do everything except fuck the girl on a table. For more details, contact me, and I've got a hell of a story for you.



I staggered drunkenly around Fremont Street, which is kind of like a 24/7 European street festival. The road is closed off, so you can just wander around, get hammered, and watch the show on the huge fucking screen they've built to run along the entire street. The shows I saw weren't all that great, but I have to say, good or not, the fact that you're watching a show on a screen several street blocks long is pretty impressive.

If you're ever out in the area, check out Hogs and Heifers, which is an excellent biker bar with bartenders that do the whole Coyote Ugly thing on the bar. If you're a woman, do yourself a favor and dance with them on the bar, and if they go to steal your bra, let it happen. Look above the drink shelves, and you will see generations of stolen bras dangling down. It's tradition.



Did I mention that every bar has Wild Turkey 101 out there? Here, there is only one bar, the Spring Inn. All the others have the 80 proof slop. Vegas is a Wild Turkey paradise!

I spent the rest of my time just hanging out with my family, either by the TV or by the pool (and my brother, Frankie, introduced me to an excellent video game by the name of DEAD RISING; there's a lot of bothersome exposition, but it's an awesome, if difficult, game and I recommend it to those of you so inclined), and surviving on a diet of Coca-Cola, Wild Turkey 101, and cheeseburgers.

I have the most unhealthy diet of anyone you're likely to meet who actually lives indoors, but not even my body could take that. Don't tell anyone, but the secret to my survival is exercise, vitamins, and Tang. Without these things, I would have died a long time ago from my various excesses. But the thing is, I had a cold last week, and I couldn't exercise, and when I went to Vegas, I didn't bring my usual vitamins. So by the time I was on the plane home, I was in desperate need of vitamin C.

Let me tell you, coming down off a horrible drinking binge and not being able to sleep it off sucks. I tried my absolute best to fall asleep on the plane, but this is an impossible task for me, even when sober. I don't know how people do it. I used to weight 306 lbs., but I'm down to a very manageable 220, and I still couldn't do it. (Incidentally, the bathrooms on airplanes suck for anyone who weighs more than 120 lbs. I had the booze shits on the way back, and I could barely fit on the seat. My knees were pressed together, it was that bad.) There were some people on the plane that had to be 300 lbs. or more, and they were sleeping like babies. How?!



The flight attendant was a guy who looked a lot like my high school art teacher, who in turn looked a bit like Sean Connery with a ponytail. I bothered him throughout the entire flight, begging for more things to drink. There were no juices, and the energy drink sounded like a bad idea, so I asked him for water about every fifteen minutes. I was very well hydrated, but what I really needed was my Tang. I felt scurvy starting to set in.

Another of my current pains: my neck, because I couldn't sleep on the plane, no matter how hard I tried. I couldn't even read, my situation was so bad. I just had to ride it out, much to the displeasure of the poor woman who had to sit next to me.

But I made it home, and as soon as I got there, I drank down a gallon of Tang and Crangrape and whatever else has vitamin C in it that I could get my hands on. I then proceeded to pass out.

When I woke up yesterday afternoon (I'd gotten in during the morning), I unpacked and noticed something that I'd forgotten about. You see, when I arrived on Friday morning, my step-mother had a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 waiting for me, and it wasn't a fifth. No, it was a huge motherfucker. Go to my comments [ON MY MYSPACE PAGE], and you'll see that she posted a picture of me in their pool. Look at the right side of the picture, and you'll see the bottle. I finished a good portion of that sucker, but nobody else drinks Wild Turkey around there, so my step-mother told me to take it back with me.

I remember thinking, "That's probably an airline violation." But what's the worst that would happen to me? They'd take it away? Sure, that's bad enough, but still, I won't be going to Guantanamo Bay for it.



So we packed it, and now I have the remainder in my bedroom, waiting for the weekend.

It took a while to recover from everything, but even so, I still felt good enough to go out and drink with Jay, Stephanie, Cindy, Kari, and Lindsay last night at Doc Ryans. They used to have dollar pints on Mondays, but now it's $1.50. I'm weeping on the inside.

But I'm alive. So stop telling everyone I'm dead.