Passage/Entry II Strobe
Took my nightly drunk out on the town tonight for New Year's Eve. A night when one shouldn't be surrounded by four lousy walls.
Been drinking steadily for a week now, since xmas eve. But starting tomorrow, I'm going to be sober, at least till another unemployment check appears in my mailbox.
The thought of a dry spell is scary. Dry as in no booze, I mean, not as in no money. All it would take is one bout of sobriety...and the...fantasies could return.
Avoiding hallucinations is just an excuse, though. Prefer this state of being really, 'cause drinking is so much fun. It is head-spinning reliable optimism. I've really fallen in love with drinking, and severely tempted into making it a lifestyle, which naturally will require me to display a higher level of commitment.
Translation--drunk by noon.
Even the hangovers are sweet. Excruciation is like a whole new buzz first thing in the morning.
But if I want to not only keep up--but expand--the debauchery, gotta generate some income soon. Not much of a lifestyle if I can only afford booze 15 days a month.
But not going to let it bother me tonight.
Not here at the Labyrinth, a former warehouse turned spacious nightclub in smack dab in the always suitably dark South of Market (SOMA) district
I’m here because I have no woman and I have no friends to spend New Year's with, and it’s a good place to get drunk and also because my favorite band, Anarchistic Puppetry is headlining.
Cost me my last $50 to get in here, but that includes all I can drink, a very good bargain for New Year's. Figured I'd end a shitty year on a high note.
Also able to rationalize it on the basis that the cover is supporting Anarchistic Puppetry.
AP is the very band I was listening to on xmas eve, right before those visions overtook me and dragged me under.
But I've been happily figment-free for a week now, thanks to the aforementioned drink.
Before leaving my crib, finished off a pint of vodka, and am now on my third--or is it my fourth?--screwdriver since I descended into the Labyrinth.
AFTER MAY 2010 LP EDIT
Getting so drunk am no longer self-conscious I’m the only person here that’s alone. Pretty much everyone is with someone else and having fun. Plenty of women of all shapes and sizes here, many appearing to be single—but not alone; either guys are draped all over them or they’re with their other single girlfriends.
Not that a woman being by herself is a bad thing—well, maybe in her mind, but not to a guy. [expletive], the vast majority of guys would prefer it if more women went to bars alone—because there’s nothing that 99.9 percent of all guys like better than an open road in the guise of a desperate single chick in a packed bar.
On the other hand, a guy by himself has loser written all over him.
While men feel a rush of excitement at seeing a lonely desperate woman, women tend to be repelled by single men. Women, especially confident ones that buzz around in bars, generally want what they can’t have; a challenge.
Anyone could have me, ergo, nobody wants me.
That’s why none of the fine females that populate this place tonight cast nary a glance my way.
I’ve come to accept that fact long ago, and any lingering emotional paint associated with such rejection that could trigger latent clinical depression can be easily lobotomized by my fourth--or is it fifth?--screwdriver in hand.
Find myself mostly staring slightly up at the still-empty stage, waiting for it to be filled by the masterful musicians of Anarchistic Puppetry, occasionally allowing my eyes to wander at the ass of a random female passing by.
Got here too early, that's part of the reason I'm standing around like Joey Schmuckola. But didn’t want get here too late and risk the show selling out, since it’s already been established that everyone, even newbs, to out somewhere to party on the night we kill the old year. Didn’t want to take a chance and underestimate how popular Puppetry might be these days, besides the limited floor space capacity at the Labyrinth holding about 500 souls, tops.
Elevating (sinking?) to the level where vision is blurring, and along with a corresponding loss of equilibrium, or impaired balance at the very least, though I doubt it's oncoming taxia. Either way, am forced to consciously hold my balance with the last lingering vestiges of my sobriety.
Reward myself for not falling to the floor with yet another swig of the latest 'driver some passing waitress slipped into my grip, which naturally means it’s now going to be even harder than ever not to fall to the floor.
Close my eyes and cock my head back as the cool liquid pours down my throat, bringing the freedom from everything that only comes with completely inebriated obliteration.
So drunk, not even sure how close it is to midnight and the latest year. And not even sure if I care if I missed it. Doubt it's that late if the band hasn't even come on yet.
A waitress walks by and I flag her for yet another Stoli and OJ.
While waiting, with nothing to imbibe, my sloshed attention span has me drifting across the room, and out of the corner of my eye...
A flash of red.
A unique red I recognize, even this fucked up.
Is that…her?
Is that the Redhead from xmas eve? The one who walked past me before I reached my apartment?
One thing that has me convinced, it's those amazing, blazing tresses, descending down the back like sensual vines.
Crimson strands, reaching down to an ass most delightful, which also seems familiar. That's right, I looked back at her that evening, after she passed me by without a glance.
But still, can't be positive it's her just from the hair and ass. Not to mention my soggy perceptions.
See that she's here with a couple other women—facing them, turned away from me. Can only be sure if she turns her head towards me. No men anywhere near them—could she--by some miracle--possibly be single?
[expletive]! Not going to get the chance to find out—houselights just went down. Meaning it’s time for Puppetry. Will have to wait till after the show to find out if it's Red.
But for now, just going to enjoy the music, which always sounds better when blasted. Hard to put into a coherent thought, but it's something about the way booze relaxes you that makes you more receptive to the music, it breaks down the filters we normally construct up to live life logically, while holding back enjoyment of 'frivolous' elements of life, like music. Booze put the music at the forefront, and pushes reason to the side.
Murmurs of anticipation run through the crowd, as a single light illuminates the center of the stage. One by one each member of AP steps into the light before assuming his position at his respective instrument. Never seen them do something like this before, kind of heavy on the dramatics. Must be a special NYE shtick.
For once, timing is on my side—waitress shows up with my , my last drink of the year. Hand her my last ten dollars (that will have to cover the tip, too) I’ll spend this year. And if I don’t get an unemployment check soon, not sure when I’ll be spending money in the new year.
But again, that’s practical worries for January 1 and beyond, not tonight. Drink is mixed so strong, it even makes me recoil and shake my head, soused as I am.
What I like best about Anarchistic Puppetry is that they don’t speak to the crowd. Never. There are no song introductions, none of that “How ya doin’, San Francisco!” or "Left side, can you get louder than the right side?" bullshit. Once onstage, PA just dons their instruments and plays.
They kick off the holiday show with a sprawling instrumental that I’m not familiar with—maybe something new? Whatever it is, it’s like a box of crayons come to aural actualization with a strong emphasis on the darker shades.
Take a quick look around and see that the rest of the room’s digging it too. Spend an extra moment to catch a glimpse of the redhead, but it’s still too dark in the audience to tell.
It just occurred to me that if it is indeed her, that she may very well be an Anarchistic Puppetry fan. Meaning, we have something in common--the basis for a relationship.
Hope this last drink gets me drunk enough to get the nerve to speak to her.
In my wildest fantasies, she would walk up to me, then buy me a drink
In reality, I’ll be lucky if I strike up the nerve to walk within three yards of her and don’t puke all over her.
Five or six songs later and I’m at the bottom of my drink, looking down at some very lonely cubes of ice.
Just then I hear someone counting down “10…9…8…”
It’s not until “7” that I realize that it’s the end of the year and that I have to finish my drink before the year ends.
Down it all as the countdown hits “2” and the ice slam against my teeth.
“…1...HAPPY—“
Meh, I’ve heard it before.
And at that explosive moment, while everyone in the crowd is exchanging hugs and kisses and toasts to the changing o’ the calendar, I stand here alone in the middle of all the revelry.
It’s a different kind of alone.
Distracted from all that as the band launches into one of their best songs, “Gray Rainbow” that features a pulsating beat and swirling guitar work. It’s a unique, infectious sound that never strays into pop sloppiness.
Best thing about “Rainbow” is that it accelerates in pace…And as the music speeds up, the light show changes in accompaniment, blinking in pre-determined sequences instead of slowly flowing streams…and when the music is flying fast and furious and nearly out of control, the lights strobe.
[expletive] gets really trippy when the house lights mimic the strobe effect going off on stage.
the crowd, the entire club, is bathed in the strobe lights.
It was bad enough when it was going on stage, now every movement by everyone everywhere seems surreal, animated, deconstructed.
As then they go and do it. The strobes speed up, from one second of light/dark to a half-second of light/dark to finally a quarter-second, something comes over me.
No…it can't be.
That same feeling I had on xmas eve…
Perceptions altering, not seeing things as they are.
But it can’t be, it shouldn’t be. I’m drunk; this isn’t supposed to be happening.
But the numbness that the ethyl alcohol brought has been instantly replaced by a sharp clarity, my mind racing, instead of wading.
Tripping sans drugs, as it were. Sure, booze is a drug, but it’s not a hallucinogen.
Must be the strobes that are bringing it on, perhaps triggering the release of certain neurochemicals in my brain. Like an anxiety attack, or a flashback of some previous mental recreation.
See, it’s not just a typical distortion of motion that a strobe effect brings…
It’s more like the strobe has some inter-dimensional ability to warp time and space on some subatomic plateau…
Transforming me from nowhere to somewhere.
With each alternating moment of strobe “dark,” I see myself on stage, actually fronting this incredible band.
And with each alternating moment of strobe “light,” I’m back standing in the crowd.
It’s like the alternating strobe moments of dark and light are teleporting me between the stage and the floor.
But all the while not feeling myself move in any kind of physical sense.
As weird as this all is, possibly the weirdest thing about all of this is that when it’s dark, I’m observing myself sitting on the floor, and when it’s light I’m observing myself on stage, even though I can’t be in both places at the same time.
Or can I?
Anything’s possible in this alternate reality I obviously have a penchant for visiting—at least on holiday nights.
Another thing about this is that time has slooooowed down soooooooo much for me; each alternating black and white flash of the strobe effect seems to linger for an hour.
It's the singularly strangest thing I've ever experienced in my life--or at least since last week.
Watching myself on stage with Anarchistic Puppetry wailing behind me is weird, but even weirder is the fact I’m not singing.
But rather, I hold a book.
Takes a few more “darks” until I grasp it’s the same book I saw on xmas eve. The book I am supposed to have written.
Bye Bull
I open it and begin reading from it, railing on about the concept of faith (no surprise, given what a bugaboo of mine faith happens to be), with Puppetry’s music serving as more than appropriate accompaniment:
“Faith is the invisible glue of christianity; invisible because it is an abstraction that truly does not exist except in the mind of the faithful. But it is like glue in that it binds the christian to christianity in a way that nothing else does.
“Faith is what the faithful use to “fool god.” Sincerity doesn’t matter, you see—it’s all about pulling one over on god (as if that could be possible, considering their god is allegedly omniscient).
“The primary motivation for any christian to have faith is found in the new testament of the bye bull, john 3:16 to be precise; that belief in christ will ensure that one’s “soul” will gain “everlasting life”--meaning, ascension into heaven--and “shall not perish."--meaning, avoidance of hell."
(One question about this fantasy: Is this supposed to be the final draft? Surely I can come up with some better metaphor for faith than “invisible glue”)
And as my tone grows more dramatic, so does the playing of AP behind me. I shoulda been a musician. A singer, specifically. What a rush, what a sensation of raw power it is.
Really feel that power surge through me when I spot the redhead having left her friends behind and looking right up at motherfucking me.
She's staring up at me, hanging on my every word as I continue to recite from the book.
And during the instant of light, she’s back at the table, enjoying the company of her faceless friends.
But when it’s dark, I make sure my eyes meet hers and can see how enthralled by me she is and I don’t ever want this fantasy to end, don’t want the dark to end, even if it is just for quarter-second intervals.
But eventually it does end, as Puppetry shifts into a new tempo, slowing things down considerably and venturing back out into slow, dark space.
And with it, the lights change, and my fantasy dissipates,
I’m just standing here with my empty drink, watching the band.
The redhead is back with her friends, totally into the band, not me.
Though this fantasy was more pleasant than the one on xmas eve, it was still scary losing control like that.
And even drinking didn't serve as any kind of defense for keep the maddening visions away from me.
And I don't want coming back, so I do the unthinkable--I leave in the middle of Anarchistic Puppetry's set, out onto the cold lonely streets in the cold lonely night, back to the mundane security of my four walls.
And to ensure that security, this time, I'm not even going to look out the window.
BEFORE LP EDIT
Getting so drunk am no longer self-conscious I’m the only person here that’s alone. Pretty much everyone is with someone else and having fun. Plenty of women of all shapes and sizes here, many appearing to be single—but not alone; either guys are draped all over them or they’re with their other single girlfriends.
Not that a woman being by herself is a bad thing—well, maybe in her mind, but not to a guy. Shit, the vast majority of guys would prefer it if more women went to bars alone—because there’s nothing that 99.9 percent of all guys like better than an open road in the guise of a desperate single chick in a packed bar.
On the other hand, a guy by himself has loser written all over him.
While men feel a rush of excitement at seeing a lonely desperate woman, women tend to be repelled by single men. Women, especially confident ones that buzz around in bars, generally want what they can’t have; a challenge.
Anyone could have me, ergo, nobody wants me.
That’s why none of the fine females that populate this place tonight cast nary a glance my way.
I’ve come to accept that fact long ago, and any lingering emotional paint associated with such rejection that could trigger latent clinical depression can be easily lobotomized by this screwdriver in my hand.
Find myself mostly staring at the empty stage, waiting for it to be filled by the masterful musicians of Anarchistic Puppetry, occasionally allowing my eyes to wander at the ass of a random piece of pussy crossing my line of sight.
Got here too early, that's part of the reason I'm standing around like Joe Schmuckola. But didn’t want get here too late and risk the show selling out, since it’s already been established that everyone, even newbs, party on the night we kill the old year. Didn’t want to take a chance and underestimate how popular Puppetry might be these days; besides the fact this limited floor space capacity at the Labyrinth, only holding about 500 bodies, tops.
Halfway through my second drink and I’m really starting to feel it.
That’s because while it’s only my second drink at Labyrinth, my buzz was already set in motion much earlier this evening, from the half pint of vodka I absorbed before leaving the homestead.
Vision is blurring, and along with a loss of equilibrium, forces me to consciously hold my balance with the last lingering vestiges of my sobriety.
Reward myself for not falling to the floor with yet another swig of 'Russian water', which naturally means it’s now going to be even harder not to fall to the floor.
Close my eyes and tilt my head back as the cool liquid pours down my throat, bringing the freedom from everything that only comes with further inebriation.
So drunk, not even sure how close it is to midnight and the New Year. And not even sure if I care if I missed it.
A waitress walks by and I flag her for another drink
With nothing to imbibe, my attention drifts across the room, and out of the corner of my eye...
A flash of red.
A unique red I recognize.
Is that…her?
The redhead from xmas eve? The one who walked past me before I went into my apartment?
It's those amazing, blazing tresses, descending down the back like sensual vines.
Crimson strands, reaching down to an ass most delightful, which also seems familiar.
But can't be sure just from the hair and ass that it's her. She’s with a couple other women—facing them, turned away from me. I can only be sure if she turns her head more towards me. No men anywhere near them—could she be single?
Fuck! Not going to get the chance to find out—houselights just went down. Meaning it’s time for Puppetry. Have to wait till after the show to see if it’s her.
But for now, just going to enjoy the music, which sounds even better when blasted.
Murmurs of anticipation run through the crowd, as a single light illuminates the center of the stage. One by one each member of AP steps into the light before assuming his position at his respective instrument. Never seen them do something like this before, kind of heavy on the dramatics. Must be a special NYE shtick.
For once, timing is on my side—waitress shows up with my vodka on the rocks, my last drink of the year. Hand her the last five dollars (that will have to cover the tip, too) I’ll spend this year. And if I don’t get an unemployment check soon, not sure when I’ll be spending money in the new year.
But again, that’s practical worries for January 1 and beyond, not tonight. Drink is mixed so strong, it even makes me recoil and shake my head, soused as I am.
What I like best about Anarchistic Puppetry is that they don’t speak to the crowd. There’s no introductions, none of that “How ya doin’, San Francisco!” bullshit. PA just dons their instruments and plays.
They open with a sprawling instrumental that I’m not familiar with—maybe something new?
Whatever it is, it’s like a box of crayons come to life (with a strong emphasis on the darker shades) and most welcome, completely pleasing to my aural senses.
Take a quick look around and see that the rest of the room’s digging it too. Spend an extra moment to catch a glimpse of the redhead, but it’s still too dark in the audience to tell.
It just occurred to me that if it is indeed her, that she may very well be an Anarchistic Puppetry fan. Meaning, we have something in common--the basis for a relationship.
Hope this last drink gets me drunk enough to get the nerve to speak to her.
In my wildest fantasies, she would walk up to me, then buy me a drink
In reality, I’ll be lucky if I strike up the nerve to walk within three yards of her and don’t puke all over her.
Five or six songs later and I’m at the bottom of my drink, looking down at some very lonely cubes of ice.
Just then I hear someone counting down “10…9…8…”
It’s not until “7” that I realize that it’s the end of the year and that I have to finish my drink before the year ends.
Down it all as the countdown hits “2” and the ice slam against my teeth.
“…1...HAPPY—“
Meh, I’ve heard it before.
And at that explosive moment, while everyone in the crowd is exchanging hugs and kisses and toasts to the changing o’ the calendar, I stand here alone in the middle of all the revelry.
It’s a different kind of alone.
Distracted from all that as the band launches into one of their best songs, “Gray Rainbow” that features a pulsating beat and swirling guitar work. It’s a unique, infectious sound that never strays into pop sloppiness.
Best thing about “Rainbow” is that it accelerates in pace…And as the music speeds up, the light show changes in accompaniment, blinking in pre-determined sequences instead of slowly flowing streams…and when the music is flying fast and furious and nearly out of control, the lights strobe.
Shit gets really trippy when the house lights mimic the strobe effect going off on stage.
the crowd, the entire club, is bathed in the strobe lights.
It was bad enough when it was going on stage, now every movement by everyone everywhere seems surreal, animated, deconstructed.
As then they go and do it. The strobes speed up, from one second of light/dark to a half-second of light/dark to finally a quarter-second, something comes over me.
No…it can't be.
That same feeling I had on xmas eve…
Perceptions altering, not seeing things as they are.
But it can’t be, it shouldn’t be. I’m drunk; this isn’t supposed to be happening.
But the numbness that the ethyl alcohol brought has been instantly replaced by a sharp clarity, my mind racing, instead of wading.
Tripping sans drugs, as it were. Sure, booze is a drug, but it’s not a hallucinogen.
Must be the strobes that are bringing it on, perhaps triggering the release of certain neurochemicals in my brain. Like an anxiety attack, or a flashback of some previous mental recreation.
See, it’s not just a typical distortion of motion that a strobe effect brings…
It’s more like the strobe has some inter-dimensional ability to warp time and space on some subatomic plateau…
Transforming me from nowhere to somewhere.
With each alternating moment of strobe “dark,” I see myself on stage, actually fronting this incredible band.
And with each alternating moment of strobe “light,” I’m back standing in the crowd.
It’s like the alternating strobe moments of dark and light are teleporting me between the stage and the floor.
But all the while not feeling myself move in any kind of physical sense.
As weird as this all is, possibly the weirdest thing about all of this is that when it’s dark, I’m observing myself sitting on the floor, and when it’s light I’m observing myself on stage, even though I can’t be in both places at the same time.
Or can I?
Anything’s possible in this alternate reality I obviously have a penchant for visiting—at least on holiday nights.
Another thing about this is that time has slooooowed down soooooooo much for me; each alternating black and white flash of the strobe effect seems to linger for an hour.
It's the singularly strangest thing I've ever experienced in my life--or at least since last week.
Watching myself on stage with Anarchistic Puppetry wailing behind me is weird, but even weirder is the fact I’m not singing.
But rather, I hold a book.
Takes a few more “darks” until I grasp it’s the same book I saw on xmas eve. The book I am supposed to have written.
Bye Bull
I open it and begin reading from it, railing on about the concept of faith (no surprise, given what a bugaboo of mine faith happens to be), with Puppetry’s music serving as more than appropriate accompaniment:
“Faith is the invisible glue of christianity; invisible because it is an abstraction that truly does not exist except in the mind of the faithful. But it is like glue in that it binds the christian to christianity in a way that nothing else does.
“Faith is what the faithful use to “fool god.” Sincerity doesn’t matter, you see—it’s all about pulling one over on god (as if that could be possible, considering their god is allegedly omniscient).
“The primary motivation for any christian to have faith is found in the new testament of the bye bull, john 3:16 to be precise; that belief in christ will ensure that one’s “soul” will gain “everlasting life”--meaning, ascension into heaven--and “shall not perish."--meaning, avoidance of hell."
(One question about this fantasy: Is this supposed to be the final draft? Surely I can come up with some better metaphor for faith than “invisible glue”)
And as my tone grows more dramatic, so does the playing of AP behind me. I shoulda been a musician. A singer, specifically. What a rush, what a sensation of raw power it is.
Really feel that power surge through me when I spot the redhead having left her friends behind and looking right up at motherfucking me.
She's staring up at me, hanging on my every word as I continue to recite from the book.
And during the instant of light, she’s back at the table, enjoying the company of her faceless friends.
But when it’s dark, I make sure my eyes meet hers and can see how enthralled by me she is and I don’t ever want this fantasy to end, don’t want the dark to end, even if it is just for quarter-second intervals.
But eventually it does end, as Puppetry shifts into a new tempo, slowing things down considerably and venturing back out into slow, dark space.
And with it, the lights change, and my fantasy dissipates,
I’m just standing here with my empty drink, watching the band.
The redhead is back with her friends, totally into the band, not me.
Though this fantasy was more pleasant than the one on xmas eve, it was still scary losing control like that.
And even drinking didn't serve as any kind of defense for keep the maddening visions away from me.
And I don't want coming back, so I do the unthinkable--I leave in the middle of Anarchistic Puppetry's set, out onto the cold lonely streets in the cold lonely night, back to the mundane security of my four walls.
And to ensure that security, this time, I'm not even going to look out the window.
Been drinking steadily for a week now, since xmas eve. But starting tomorrow, I'm going to be sober, at least till another unemployment check appears in my mailbox.
The thought of a dry spell is scary. Dry as in no booze, I mean, not as in no money. All it would take is one bout of sobriety...and the...fantasies could return.
Avoiding hallucinations is just an excuse, though. Prefer this state of being really, 'cause drinking is so much fun. It is head-spinning reliable optimism. I've really fallen in love with drinking, and severely tempted into making it a lifestyle, which naturally will require me to display a higher level of commitment.
Translation--drunk by noon.
Even the hangovers are sweet. Excruciation is like a whole new buzz first thing in the morning.
But if I want to not only keep up--but expand--the debauchery, gotta generate some income soon. Not much of a lifestyle if I can only afford booze 15 days a month.
But not going to let it bother me tonight.
Not here at the Labyrinth, a former warehouse turned spacious nightclub in smack dab in the always suitably dark South of Market (SOMA) district
I’m here because I have no woman and I have no friends to spend New Year's with, and it’s a good place to get drunk and also because my favorite band, Anarchistic Puppetry is headlining.
Cost me my last $50 to get in here, but that includes all I can drink, a very good bargain for New Year's. Figured I'd end a shitty year on a high note.
Also able to rationalize it on the basis that the cover is supporting Anarchistic Puppetry.
AP is the very band I was listening to on xmas eve, right before those visions overtook me and dragged me under.
But I've been happily figment-free for a week now, thanks to the aforementioned drink.
Before leaving my crib, finished off a pint of vodka, and am now on my third--or is it my fourth?--screwdriver since I descended into the Labyrinth.
AFTER MAY 2010 LP EDIT
Getting so drunk am no longer self-conscious I’m the only person here that’s alone. Pretty much everyone is with someone else and having fun. Plenty of women of all shapes and sizes here, many appearing to be single—but not alone; either guys are draped all over them or they’re with their other single girlfriends.
Not that a woman being by herself is a bad thing—well, maybe in her mind, but not to a guy. [expletive], the vast majority of guys would prefer it if more women went to bars alone—because there’s nothing that 99.9 percent of all guys like better than an open road in the guise of a desperate single chick in a packed bar.
On the other hand, a guy by himself has loser written all over him.
While men feel a rush of excitement at seeing a lonely desperate woman, women tend to be repelled by single men. Women, especially confident ones that buzz around in bars, generally want what they can’t have; a challenge.
Anyone could have me, ergo, nobody wants me.
That’s why none of the fine females that populate this place tonight cast nary a glance my way.
I’ve come to accept that fact long ago, and any lingering emotional paint associated with such rejection that could trigger latent clinical depression can be easily lobotomized by my fourth--or is it fifth?--screwdriver in hand.
Find myself mostly staring slightly up at the still-empty stage, waiting for it to be filled by the masterful musicians of Anarchistic Puppetry, occasionally allowing my eyes to wander at the ass of a random female passing by.
Got here too early, that's part of the reason I'm standing around like Joey Schmuckola. But didn’t want get here too late and risk the show selling out, since it’s already been established that everyone, even newbs, to out somewhere to party on the night we kill the old year. Didn’t want to take a chance and underestimate how popular Puppetry might be these days, besides the limited floor space capacity at the Labyrinth holding about 500 souls, tops.
Elevating (sinking?) to the level where vision is blurring, and along with a corresponding loss of equilibrium, or impaired balance at the very least, though I doubt it's oncoming taxia. Either way, am forced to consciously hold my balance with the last lingering vestiges of my sobriety.
Reward myself for not falling to the floor with yet another swig of the latest 'driver some passing waitress slipped into my grip, which naturally means it’s now going to be even harder than ever not to fall to the floor.
Close my eyes and cock my head back as the cool liquid pours down my throat, bringing the freedom from everything that only comes with completely inebriated obliteration.
So drunk, not even sure how close it is to midnight and the latest year. And not even sure if I care if I missed it. Doubt it's that late if the band hasn't even come on yet.
A waitress walks by and I flag her for yet another Stoli and OJ.
While waiting, with nothing to imbibe, my sloshed attention span has me drifting across the room, and out of the corner of my eye...
A flash of red.
A unique red I recognize, even this fucked up.
Is that…her?
Is that the Redhead from xmas eve? The one who walked past me before I reached my apartment?
One thing that has me convinced, it's those amazing, blazing tresses, descending down the back like sensual vines.
Crimson strands, reaching down to an ass most delightful, which also seems familiar. That's right, I looked back at her that evening, after she passed me by without a glance.
But still, can't be positive it's her just from the hair and ass. Not to mention my soggy perceptions.
See that she's here with a couple other women—facing them, turned away from me. Can only be sure if she turns her head towards me. No men anywhere near them—could she--by some miracle--possibly be single?
[expletive]! Not going to get the chance to find out—houselights just went down. Meaning it’s time for Puppetry. Will have to wait till after the show to find out if it's Red.
But for now, just going to enjoy the music, which always sounds better when blasted. Hard to put into a coherent thought, but it's something about the way booze relaxes you that makes you more receptive to the music, it breaks down the filters we normally construct up to live life logically, while holding back enjoyment of 'frivolous' elements of life, like music. Booze put the music at the forefront, and pushes reason to the side.
Murmurs of anticipation run through the crowd, as a single light illuminates the center of the stage. One by one each member of AP steps into the light before assuming his position at his respective instrument. Never seen them do something like this before, kind of heavy on the dramatics. Must be a special NYE shtick.
For once, timing is on my side—waitress shows up with my , my last drink of the year. Hand her my last ten dollars (that will have to cover the tip, too) I’ll spend this year. And if I don’t get an unemployment check soon, not sure when I’ll be spending money in the new year.
But again, that’s practical worries for January 1 and beyond, not tonight. Drink is mixed so strong, it even makes me recoil and shake my head, soused as I am.
What I like best about Anarchistic Puppetry is that they don’t speak to the crowd. Never. There are no song introductions, none of that “How ya doin’, San Francisco!” or "Left side, can you get louder than the right side?" bullshit. Once onstage, PA just dons their instruments and plays.
They kick off the holiday show with a sprawling instrumental that I’m not familiar with—maybe something new? Whatever it is, it’s like a box of crayons come to aural actualization with a strong emphasis on the darker shades.
Take a quick look around and see that the rest of the room’s digging it too. Spend an extra moment to catch a glimpse of the redhead, but it’s still too dark in the audience to tell.
It just occurred to me that if it is indeed her, that she may very well be an Anarchistic Puppetry fan. Meaning, we have something in common--the basis for a relationship.
Hope this last drink gets me drunk enough to get the nerve to speak to her.
In my wildest fantasies, she would walk up to me, then buy me a drink
In reality, I’ll be lucky if I strike up the nerve to walk within three yards of her and don’t puke all over her.
Five or six songs later and I’m at the bottom of my drink, looking down at some very lonely cubes of ice.
Just then I hear someone counting down “10…9…8…”
It’s not until “7” that I realize that it’s the end of the year and that I have to finish my drink before the year ends.
Down it all as the countdown hits “2” and the ice slam against my teeth.
“…1...HAPPY—“
Meh, I’ve heard it before.
And at that explosive moment, while everyone in the crowd is exchanging hugs and kisses and toasts to the changing o’ the calendar, I stand here alone in the middle of all the revelry.
It’s a different kind of alone.
Distracted from all that as the band launches into one of their best songs, “Gray Rainbow” that features a pulsating beat and swirling guitar work. It’s a unique, infectious sound that never strays into pop sloppiness.
Best thing about “Rainbow” is that it accelerates in pace…And as the music speeds up, the light show changes in accompaniment, blinking in pre-determined sequences instead of slowly flowing streams…and when the music is flying fast and furious and nearly out of control, the lights strobe.
[expletive] gets really trippy when the house lights mimic the strobe effect going off on stage.
the crowd, the entire club, is bathed in the strobe lights.
It was bad enough when it was going on stage, now every movement by everyone everywhere seems surreal, animated, deconstructed.
As then they go and do it. The strobes speed up, from one second of light/dark to a half-second of light/dark to finally a quarter-second, something comes over me.
No…it can't be.
That same feeling I had on xmas eve…
Perceptions altering, not seeing things as they are.
But it can’t be, it shouldn’t be. I’m drunk; this isn’t supposed to be happening.
But the numbness that the ethyl alcohol brought has been instantly replaced by a sharp clarity, my mind racing, instead of wading.
Tripping sans drugs, as it were. Sure, booze is a drug, but it’s not a hallucinogen.
Must be the strobes that are bringing it on, perhaps triggering the release of certain neurochemicals in my brain. Like an anxiety attack, or a flashback of some previous mental recreation.
See, it’s not just a typical distortion of motion that a strobe effect brings…
It’s more like the strobe has some inter-dimensional ability to warp time and space on some subatomic plateau…
Transforming me from nowhere to somewhere.
With each alternating moment of strobe “dark,” I see myself on stage, actually fronting this incredible band.
And with each alternating moment of strobe “light,” I’m back standing in the crowd.
It’s like the alternating strobe moments of dark and light are teleporting me between the stage and the floor.
But all the while not feeling myself move in any kind of physical sense.
As weird as this all is, possibly the weirdest thing about all of this is that when it’s dark, I’m observing myself sitting on the floor, and when it’s light I’m observing myself on stage, even though I can’t be in both places at the same time.
Or can I?
Anything’s possible in this alternate reality I obviously have a penchant for visiting—at least on holiday nights.
Another thing about this is that time has slooooowed down soooooooo much for me; each alternating black and white flash of the strobe effect seems to linger for an hour.
It's the singularly strangest thing I've ever experienced in my life--or at least since last week.
Watching myself on stage with Anarchistic Puppetry wailing behind me is weird, but even weirder is the fact I’m not singing.
But rather, I hold a book.
Takes a few more “darks” until I grasp it’s the same book I saw on xmas eve. The book I am supposed to have written.
Bye Bull
I open it and begin reading from it, railing on about the concept of faith (no surprise, given what a bugaboo of mine faith happens to be), with Puppetry’s music serving as more than appropriate accompaniment:
“Faith is the invisible glue of christianity; invisible because it is an abstraction that truly does not exist except in the mind of the faithful. But it is like glue in that it binds the christian to christianity in a way that nothing else does.
“Faith is what the faithful use to “fool god.” Sincerity doesn’t matter, you see—it’s all about pulling one over on god (as if that could be possible, considering their god is allegedly omniscient).
“The primary motivation for any christian to have faith is found in the new testament of the bye bull, john 3:16 to be precise; that belief in christ will ensure that one’s “soul” will gain “everlasting life”--meaning, ascension into heaven--and “shall not perish."--meaning, avoidance of hell."
(One question about this fantasy: Is this supposed to be the final draft? Surely I can come up with some better metaphor for faith than “invisible glue”)
And as my tone grows more dramatic, so does the playing of AP behind me. I shoulda been a musician. A singer, specifically. What a rush, what a sensation of raw power it is.
Really feel that power surge through me when I spot the redhead having left her friends behind and looking right up at motherfucking me.
She's staring up at me, hanging on my every word as I continue to recite from the book.
And during the instant of light, she’s back at the table, enjoying the company of her faceless friends.
But when it’s dark, I make sure my eyes meet hers and can see how enthralled by me she is and I don’t ever want this fantasy to end, don’t want the dark to end, even if it is just for quarter-second intervals.
But eventually it does end, as Puppetry shifts into a new tempo, slowing things down considerably and venturing back out into slow, dark space.
And with it, the lights change, and my fantasy dissipates,
I’m just standing here with my empty drink, watching the band.
The redhead is back with her friends, totally into the band, not me.
Though this fantasy was more pleasant than the one on xmas eve, it was still scary losing control like that.
And even drinking didn't serve as any kind of defense for keep the maddening visions away from me.
And I don't want coming back, so I do the unthinkable--I leave in the middle of Anarchistic Puppetry's set, out onto the cold lonely streets in the cold lonely night, back to the mundane security of my four walls.
And to ensure that security, this time, I'm not even going to look out the window.
BEFORE LP EDIT
Getting so drunk am no longer self-conscious I’m the only person here that’s alone. Pretty much everyone is with someone else and having fun. Plenty of women of all shapes and sizes here, many appearing to be single—but not alone; either guys are draped all over them or they’re with their other single girlfriends.
Not that a woman being by herself is a bad thing—well, maybe in her mind, but not to a guy. Shit, the vast majority of guys would prefer it if more women went to bars alone—because there’s nothing that 99.9 percent of all guys like better than an open road in the guise of a desperate single chick in a packed bar.
On the other hand, a guy by himself has loser written all over him.
While men feel a rush of excitement at seeing a lonely desperate woman, women tend to be repelled by single men. Women, especially confident ones that buzz around in bars, generally want what they can’t have; a challenge.
Anyone could have me, ergo, nobody wants me.
That’s why none of the fine females that populate this place tonight cast nary a glance my way.
I’ve come to accept that fact long ago, and any lingering emotional paint associated with such rejection that could trigger latent clinical depression can be easily lobotomized by this screwdriver in my hand.
Find myself mostly staring at the empty stage, waiting for it to be filled by the masterful musicians of Anarchistic Puppetry, occasionally allowing my eyes to wander at the ass of a random piece of pussy crossing my line of sight.
Got here too early, that's part of the reason I'm standing around like Joe Schmuckola. But didn’t want get here too late and risk the show selling out, since it’s already been established that everyone, even newbs, party on the night we kill the old year. Didn’t want to take a chance and underestimate how popular Puppetry might be these days; besides the fact this limited floor space capacity at the Labyrinth, only holding about 500 bodies, tops.
Halfway through my second drink and I’m really starting to feel it.
That’s because while it’s only my second drink at Labyrinth, my buzz was already set in motion much earlier this evening, from the half pint of vodka I absorbed before leaving the homestead.
Vision is blurring, and along with a loss of equilibrium, forces me to consciously hold my balance with the last lingering vestiges of my sobriety.
Reward myself for not falling to the floor with yet another swig of 'Russian water', which naturally means it’s now going to be even harder not to fall to the floor.
Close my eyes and tilt my head back as the cool liquid pours down my throat, bringing the freedom from everything that only comes with further inebriation.
So drunk, not even sure how close it is to midnight and the New Year. And not even sure if I care if I missed it.
A waitress walks by and I flag her for another drink
With nothing to imbibe, my attention drifts across the room, and out of the corner of my eye...
A flash of red.
A unique red I recognize.
Is that…her?
The redhead from xmas eve? The one who walked past me before I went into my apartment?
It's those amazing, blazing tresses, descending down the back like sensual vines.
Crimson strands, reaching down to an ass most delightful, which also seems familiar.
But can't be sure just from the hair and ass that it's her. She’s with a couple other women—facing them, turned away from me. I can only be sure if she turns her head more towards me. No men anywhere near them—could she be single?
Fuck! Not going to get the chance to find out—houselights just went down. Meaning it’s time for Puppetry. Have to wait till after the show to see if it’s her.
But for now, just going to enjoy the music, which sounds even better when blasted.
Murmurs of anticipation run through the crowd, as a single light illuminates the center of the stage. One by one each member of AP steps into the light before assuming his position at his respective instrument. Never seen them do something like this before, kind of heavy on the dramatics. Must be a special NYE shtick.
For once, timing is on my side—waitress shows up with my vodka on the rocks, my last drink of the year. Hand her the last five dollars (that will have to cover the tip, too) I’ll spend this year. And if I don’t get an unemployment check soon, not sure when I’ll be spending money in the new year.
But again, that’s practical worries for January 1 and beyond, not tonight. Drink is mixed so strong, it even makes me recoil and shake my head, soused as I am.
What I like best about Anarchistic Puppetry is that they don’t speak to the crowd. There’s no introductions, none of that “How ya doin’, San Francisco!” bullshit. PA just dons their instruments and plays.
They open with a sprawling instrumental that I’m not familiar with—maybe something new?
Whatever it is, it’s like a box of crayons come to life (with a strong emphasis on the darker shades) and most welcome, completely pleasing to my aural senses.
Take a quick look around and see that the rest of the room’s digging it too. Spend an extra moment to catch a glimpse of the redhead, but it’s still too dark in the audience to tell.
It just occurred to me that if it is indeed her, that she may very well be an Anarchistic Puppetry fan. Meaning, we have something in common--the basis for a relationship.
Hope this last drink gets me drunk enough to get the nerve to speak to her.
In my wildest fantasies, she would walk up to me, then buy me a drink
In reality, I’ll be lucky if I strike up the nerve to walk within three yards of her and don’t puke all over her.
Five or six songs later and I’m at the bottom of my drink, looking down at some very lonely cubes of ice.
Just then I hear someone counting down “10…9…8…”
It’s not until “7” that I realize that it’s the end of the year and that I have to finish my drink before the year ends.
Down it all as the countdown hits “2” and the ice slam against my teeth.
“…1...HAPPY—“
Meh, I’ve heard it before.
And at that explosive moment, while everyone in the crowd is exchanging hugs and kisses and toasts to the changing o’ the calendar, I stand here alone in the middle of all the revelry.
It’s a different kind of alone.
Distracted from all that as the band launches into one of their best songs, “Gray Rainbow” that features a pulsating beat and swirling guitar work. It’s a unique, infectious sound that never strays into pop sloppiness.
Best thing about “Rainbow” is that it accelerates in pace…And as the music speeds up, the light show changes in accompaniment, blinking in pre-determined sequences instead of slowly flowing streams…and when the music is flying fast and furious and nearly out of control, the lights strobe.
Shit gets really trippy when the house lights mimic the strobe effect going off on stage.
the crowd, the entire club, is bathed in the strobe lights.
It was bad enough when it was going on stage, now every movement by everyone everywhere seems surreal, animated, deconstructed.
As then they go and do it. The strobes speed up, from one second of light/dark to a half-second of light/dark to finally a quarter-second, something comes over me.
No…it can't be.
That same feeling I had on xmas eve…
Perceptions altering, not seeing things as they are.
But it can’t be, it shouldn’t be. I’m drunk; this isn’t supposed to be happening.
But the numbness that the ethyl alcohol brought has been instantly replaced by a sharp clarity, my mind racing, instead of wading.
Tripping sans drugs, as it were. Sure, booze is a drug, but it’s not a hallucinogen.
Must be the strobes that are bringing it on, perhaps triggering the release of certain neurochemicals in my brain. Like an anxiety attack, or a flashback of some previous mental recreation.
See, it’s not just a typical distortion of motion that a strobe effect brings…
It’s more like the strobe has some inter-dimensional ability to warp time and space on some subatomic plateau…
Transforming me from nowhere to somewhere.
With each alternating moment of strobe “dark,” I see myself on stage, actually fronting this incredible band.
And with each alternating moment of strobe “light,” I’m back standing in the crowd.
It’s like the alternating strobe moments of dark and light are teleporting me between the stage and the floor.
But all the while not feeling myself move in any kind of physical sense.
As weird as this all is, possibly the weirdest thing about all of this is that when it’s dark, I’m observing myself sitting on the floor, and when it’s light I’m observing myself on stage, even though I can’t be in both places at the same time.
Or can I?
Anything’s possible in this alternate reality I obviously have a penchant for visiting—at least on holiday nights.
Another thing about this is that time has slooooowed down soooooooo much for me; each alternating black and white flash of the strobe effect seems to linger for an hour.
It's the singularly strangest thing I've ever experienced in my life--or at least since last week.
Watching myself on stage with Anarchistic Puppetry wailing behind me is weird, but even weirder is the fact I’m not singing.
But rather, I hold a book.
Takes a few more “darks” until I grasp it’s the same book I saw on xmas eve. The book I am supposed to have written.
Bye Bull
I open it and begin reading from it, railing on about the concept of faith (no surprise, given what a bugaboo of mine faith happens to be), with Puppetry’s music serving as more than appropriate accompaniment:
“Faith is the invisible glue of christianity; invisible because it is an abstraction that truly does not exist except in the mind of the faithful. But it is like glue in that it binds the christian to christianity in a way that nothing else does.
“Faith is what the faithful use to “fool god.” Sincerity doesn’t matter, you see—it’s all about pulling one over on god (as if that could be possible, considering their god is allegedly omniscient).
“The primary motivation for any christian to have faith is found in the new testament of the bye bull, john 3:16 to be precise; that belief in christ will ensure that one’s “soul” will gain “everlasting life”--meaning, ascension into heaven--and “shall not perish."--meaning, avoidance of hell."
(One question about this fantasy: Is this supposed to be the final draft? Surely I can come up with some better metaphor for faith than “invisible glue”)
And as my tone grows more dramatic, so does the playing of AP behind me. I shoulda been a musician. A singer, specifically. What a rush, what a sensation of raw power it is.
Really feel that power surge through me when I spot the redhead having left her friends behind and looking right up at motherfucking me.
She's staring up at me, hanging on my every word as I continue to recite from the book.
And during the instant of light, she’s back at the table, enjoying the company of her faceless friends.
But when it’s dark, I make sure my eyes meet hers and can see how enthralled by me she is and I don’t ever want this fantasy to end, don’t want the dark to end, even if it is just for quarter-second intervals.
But eventually it does end, as Puppetry shifts into a new tempo, slowing things down considerably and venturing back out into slow, dark space.
And with it, the lights change, and my fantasy dissipates,
I’m just standing here with my empty drink, watching the band.
The redhead is back with her friends, totally into the band, not me.
Though this fantasy was more pleasant than the one on xmas eve, it was still scary losing control like that.
And even drinking didn't serve as any kind of defense for keep the maddening visions away from me.
And I don't want coming back, so I do the unthinkable--I leave in the middle of Anarchistic Puppetry's set, out onto the cold lonely streets in the cold lonely night, back to the mundane security of my four walls.
And to ensure that security, this time, I'm not even going to look out the window.
posted by Darwin Grimm at 11:04 PM
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