One of Those Nights
This is, as you might expect from the title, just another of one of those nights out and about in downtown Chicago. As is in the case of most others, I arrived back at my centrally located adobe more or less completely shitfaced and out of money. Nonetheless, the lava lamp is giving off a certain glow conducive to that which I am about to inform you, and I have the cigarettes and Gatorade for the editing and re-reads which will no doubt follow after I click "Publish Post."
Tonight was what it was, and thank God for nights like these, which are forgettable but unique. It's like this: I got fucked up enough to write with acute clarity and fluidity, and that's honestly my favorite state of being. I love writing slightly looped. It's the one form of art that might be improved by chemicals. Thnk about it. Drunk guitar is generally terrible. It'd be tough to paint a lick if you couldn't see straight. You certainly wouldn't want to sing in front of a serious audience in a state of inebriation, nor would you try to design a building while cocked, nor drunkenly organize your sock drawer for that matter. People have been telling stories through the haze of booze for years, and I'm happy to carry the torch.
I'm aware of the fact that I'm often prone to steering you to places and points that are not necessarily components to or necessary for the story at hand. Truth be told, I oftentimes devise these stories so that I can ascertain who amongst you is actually paying attention--whether Father of Jackson, or my favorite employee of the defense industry, or my favorite retirement planner, are actually paying any attention, or if they are even gaining a marginal level of satisfaction from this little pet project of mine. If you guys stopped paying attention, I'd quit too. Things aren't that funny if no one else laughs.
Getting back to my point, I admit to writing in this roundabout style intentionally, in the same way that the people who developed the Tootsie Roll Pop intended their product: Make people go, then go, then go some more, then go even more, then go 'til they can't take it any longer, but then they finally get to that chewy chocolate center, which is nothing short of fantastic. I love hearing that so you seem to stick around 'til the chocolate center that is ultimately my personal catharsis. It's very cheap therapy.
Tonight resulted in one of those nights that wouldn't ever appear to be that much on the surface, apart from the fact that I have nothing at invent-a-job necessarily needs my doing, and that most Wednesdays are typically barely worth bothering in the slightest. Tonight, however, was just different enough to be productive. For on this night, I experienced nothing that made me feel like it was any other night, as though nothing special had happened, but I found that such was the ideally blandest perspective from which to finalize something truly spectacular. For tonight was the night that the stars adjusted, my tolerance to chemical abuse was fortified just so, and the tabs kept closing at just the right time, all in such a sequence that kept me remarkably sober enough to stand and see straight, allowing me to finally finish the remaining bulk of a great storytelling feat. Therefore, I am most pleased to announce the posting of the long-anticipated "Everybody Panic."
You will have to click back to August 1st, which is when I first started working on it. Don't ask me why it took so long to put this post to bed. Sometimes the writer in me just has to step back to appreciate a moment to its fullest, and in spite of the considerable passage of time between the events in question and this posting, what is included is the God's honest truth as far as it is seared into my memory. As always, please do not think any less of me for my behaviors, but congratulate me on being a pioneer into realms not often pondered by most men, or at the very least, by most men my age.
And, if you fail to appreciate these tales, screw you. Odds are, you're kind of person who's incapable of whittling away at the exterior candy of a Tootsie Roll Pop, probably just bites right into it after two minutes, and your lame-ass probably sucks the fun out of most everything.
As I said before, go to "Everybody Panic."
I'll mention it once more:
"Everybody Panic."
Tonight was what it was, and thank God for nights like these, which are forgettable but unique. It's like this: I got fucked up enough to write with acute clarity and fluidity, and that's honestly my favorite state of being. I love writing slightly looped. It's the one form of art that might be improved by chemicals. Thnk about it. Drunk guitar is generally terrible. It'd be tough to paint a lick if you couldn't see straight. You certainly wouldn't want to sing in front of a serious audience in a state of inebriation, nor would you try to design a building while cocked, nor drunkenly organize your sock drawer for that matter. People have been telling stories through the haze of booze for years, and I'm happy to carry the torch.
I'm aware of the fact that I'm often prone to steering you to places and points that are not necessarily components to or necessary for the story at hand. Truth be told, I oftentimes devise these stories so that I can ascertain who amongst you is actually paying attention--whether Father of Jackson, or my favorite employee of the defense industry, or my favorite retirement planner, are actually paying any attention, or if they are even gaining a marginal level of satisfaction from this little pet project of mine. If you guys stopped paying attention, I'd quit too. Things aren't that funny if no one else laughs.
Getting back to my point, I admit to writing in this roundabout style intentionally, in the same way that the people who developed the Tootsie Roll Pop intended their product: Make people go, then go, then go some more, then go even more, then go 'til they can't take it any longer, but then they finally get to that chewy chocolate center, which is nothing short of fantastic. I love hearing that so you seem to stick around 'til the chocolate center that is ultimately my personal catharsis. It's very cheap therapy.
Tonight resulted in one of those nights that wouldn't ever appear to be that much on the surface, apart from the fact that I have nothing at invent-a-job necessarily needs my doing, and that most Wednesdays are typically barely worth bothering in the slightest. Tonight, however, was just different enough to be productive. For on this night, I experienced nothing that made me feel like it was any other night, as though nothing special had happened, but I found that such was the ideally blandest perspective from which to finalize something truly spectacular. For tonight was the night that the stars adjusted, my tolerance to chemical abuse was fortified just so, and the tabs kept closing at just the right time, all in such a sequence that kept me remarkably sober enough to stand and see straight, allowing me to finally finish the remaining bulk of a great storytelling feat. Therefore, I am most pleased to announce the posting of the long-anticipated "Everybody Panic."
You will have to click back to August 1st, which is when I first started working on it. Don't ask me why it took so long to put this post to bed. Sometimes the writer in me just has to step back to appreciate a moment to its fullest, and in spite of the considerable passage of time between the events in question and this posting, what is included is the God's honest truth as far as it is seared into my memory. As always, please do not think any less of me for my behaviors, but congratulate me on being a pioneer into realms not often pondered by most men, or at the very least, by most men my age.
And, if you fail to appreciate these tales, screw you. Odds are, you're kind of person who's incapable of whittling away at the exterior candy of a Tootsie Roll Pop, probably just bites right into it after two minutes, and your lame-ass probably sucks the fun out of most everything.
As I said before, go to "Everybody Panic."
I'll mention it once more:
"Everybody Panic."
posted by Pat at 12:28 AM
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