Entry VI--Flat Tuesday

(For the first 5 entries to the novel "Darwin Blinks" scroll down)


Try as I might, can’t seem to dirty the screen. It remains blank, snowy white, still a “new document” with nary a word to be found.

Slept a good 12 hours after the call from Ms. Cabal, wanted to approach this day fully rested, and more importantly, completely sober. Ate a good lunch, and the sleep and food completely dissipated any trace remnants of the hangover.

So I really have no excuse for not being able to come up with anything.

And that’s really bad news.

Means I have nothing to write when it comes to critiquing christianity.

I mean, that must be it, right?

What else could it be?

Here am I, given the proverbial “opportunity of a lifetime” and I can’t come up with a single fucking idea to capitalize on that opportunity.

And I don’t even mean “capitalize” in the capitalistic sense, though I probably should, since rent’s been due for a good 10 days.

Hate falling too far behind ‘cause it just makes it that much harder to pay next month which always comes up too quick.

Look back at the blank screen and wonder if maybe I’m putting too much pressure on myself, trying to come up with ideas.

Maybe I need to loosen myself up a tad….

Eyes drift from the screen to the fridge.

Got so fucking plastered the other night, don’t even remember what’s left in there.

Only one way to find out…

Started off with beer—albeit very good beer. India Pale Ale (IPA), bottled by a local brewery called Tremendous Tube, to be precise.

IPA’s are generally tasty and these suds are no exception; like nectar o’ the gods (er, the pagan ones).

Erase that last thought. Made a promise to myself that I wasn’t going to think about religion anymore.

My alleged battle with christianity is pointless. Can’t beat ‘em…

Join ‘em? Certainly not.

But not going to waste any more brain cells worrying about christians and their undue influence on the culture.

I don’t care what Ms. Cabal thinks, or what she wants.

(Man, I must be drunk to be thinking that way).

Besides, am not going to pick up on any pussy by sitting here and philosophizing.

Not that I honestly thought I had any chance in hell of picking up a broad here tonight—at least when I walked into the place. Couple of mixed drinks tends to boost the confidence

Gotta lot better way to waste my brain cells and I emphasize the point by downing the last of my second screwdriver since I arrived at this dive bar on Bush St. frequented by Snob Hill yuppies and downtown hipsters.

Only reason I came here is that it’s right up the street from my place and stumbling like I was, neither cared to nor was capable of making it to any other establishment.

Felt like being spontaneous, do something, go somewhere I never ventured previously—do the last thing I’d expect myself to do.

So I grabbed my last $20 and am planning to drink it tonight and am not going to worry about tomorrow.

I used to be more spontaneous like this, in my early 20’s, and those were the only times I ever picked up women for the proverbial, clichéd yet somehow satisfying one-night stands.

Maybe I was hoping to recapture some of the ol' magic by coming here tonight in this state of mind.

And despite the aforementioned formula for disaster, I don’t feel the least bit queasy; beer then liquor, liquor then beer, neither combo seems to matter to my alcohol-scarred gut.

But even those screwdrivers were merely prelude. See, the goal is total obliteration, and that can only be achieved via 151-proof rum, which will serve as proof of just how far I've gone down this booze soaked path.

It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even fear the hangover. Hell, I even welcome them. Either way, it’s an altered state of consciousness--that's the goal.

Order my first 151 and water and treat it as if I'm dipping my toes in chilly waters; even a very modest sip sends me reeling a bit; maybe I'm not ready for this strong a drink.

But fuck it, it's like anything else, stick it out and get used to it, eventually.

And the old adage rings true, a couple more drinks and I'm really too numb to care how much the room spins.

Or maybe it's that the bar was spinning clockwise and the 151 now has me spinning counter-clockwise, and somehow it all balances out.

Place is getting more and more crowded, which seems peculiar for a Tuesday night.

Then a candy-girl saunters by selling Mardi Gras beads and then it finally registers in my dampened noodle that it's Fat Tuesday, the last day of partying before the season of lent.

Ha. Normally, just the thought of lent would work me up into a lather about the upcoming easter season (or perhaps I'd lamely call it the leaster season) and all that it represents in terms of how irrational the culture has become.

Or I'd go off on just how fucking pagan easter really is, how the date is always on the first Sunday after the first full moon of Spring.

But tonight, I'm just gonna admire the pretty beads and hope to get to see one dangling from a woman's supple neck, over her exposed cleavage.

Rather enjoying the new me, and I toast myself by gulping down the last of the 151.

And though my eyes water for a moment, it barely fazes me. I'm as drunk as I ever have been, feeling no pain, feeling no nausea, and ready for more.

Also realize that once again, I'm the only person alone in this bar, a fact I intend to change. One more 151 and I'm going to work up the courage to talk to a woman.

Order my second 151 and hand over my last $5--so much for buying the potential damsel a drink. I'll have to win her over with my charm and sharp tongue.

Now that I'm suitably warmed up, consume this 151 much faster than the first as I size up the room in search of a woman horny enough--or desperate enough--to approach.

While some do seem horny and more than a few seem desperate, none seem truly approachable.

Reckon I could just obnoxiously stumble into a couple of random females and gauge their reactions, but I'm just not feeling it from any of the dames in the joint.

Wait, who's that near the front of the bar? Think she just walked in...

She seems vaguely familiar, but I'm so plastered, could be imagining that.

Hard to get a clear look at her, so many fucks in this bar, it's hard to see through the clusters of couples and friends in between her and me.

Even with roughly a third of my last drink left, decide that I am drunk enough to muster the courage to walk across the bar and approach her.

Pass by the candy girl and regret not having any more money--would love to buy her some beads. Women love getting presents, no matter how crappy they are.

Pushing my way through person after person, (some of them large jock yup dudes or transplanted Amazonia yup chicks) moving to the door, till I get close enough to see that she's got red hair. And while she's with at least a couple people, she doesn't appear to be attached to any guy.

Again, am so snoggered at this point, that doesn't seem to register...

Only a couple more folks to get past till I get close enough to tap her on the shoulder.

She turns around from the friends she was laughing with to look me right in the eye.

god damn. It's her.

I thought it was just going to be some reasonably random hot single chick who just walked in.

Not her.

Not the redhead from xmas even, New Year's Eve, the movie set. She's always been so close, yet so out of reach.

And yet here she is, looking at me...

"Yes, can I help you?" she asks with a half-smile and an expression that's half-bothered, half-confused.

Talking to me...

Even if I was stone sober, wouldn't know what to say...

But I'm being spontaneous, so does it really matter what I say?

I think not...

"Uh, didn't I see you on a movie set...?" I slur half-assed.

She seems intrigued: "Which one?"

About to tell her about seeing her on the set of Shepherd...but do I really want her to know I'm some loser extra?

"No, that wasn't me" I say sloppily, and it doesn't make a lick of sense.

She turns back to her friends and they all laugh at how drunk and stupid I am.

Hold up my finger as if telling her to"wait a minute" and then down the rest of my drink, the last third of it.

And then I find how just how shitfaced I am as the room goes topsy-turvy, and any semblance of reason on my part is out the door.

Begin to wonder if she is as big as alcoholic as I've become. I mean, she seems to frequent every bar I do.

That's right! New Year's Day--I mean New Year's Eve. She was there, too. That's what I should fucking ask her about, if she's into that band I like. Can't remember their name right now, which I guess I need to do if I'm going to ask her about them, don't I?

Damn, it's right on the tip of my numb tongue...

Distracted by that when I catch sight of the candy-girl again, and know what I have to do...

Stagger towards her and snatch one of the bead necklaces out of her tray, and sorta half-whisper, half-shout to her over the din of the pulsating music, "I'll have to borrow--uh, owe you for dese, 'mkay?"

"Either pay for those or put them back!" she shouts at me, but I'm trashed enough to ignore her...

And turn to the redhead to present my gift...

Which she wants no part of, waving her hands, refusing the gift and motioning that I should really give the beads back.

Now this is the point where backroad logic would kick in and I'd give the candy-girl back her necklace and apologize to her, the redhead and anyone else in the bar not yet drunk enough to be offended by my heinous actions.

But that road was washed out when I downed the second 151 and I choose to put the necklace around the redhead's head, but in attempting to do so, I pull the necklace apart, snapping the string and beads fly everywhere.

Inexplicably, I bend over to retrieve some of the beads bouncing every which way, in a vain attempt to somehow reconstruct the necklace the redhead obviously didn't want in the first place.

But lowering my head only makes me that much more dizzy and I can can hear the redhead and her friends all laughing their asses off at me and the candygirl is screaming that a drunken asshole stole one of her necklaces and now broke the fucking thing.

Sweating profusely as I drop to my knees, scooping up any beads I can find rolling next to this high heel or that patent leather shoe...

Until I feel myself being scooped up, literally pulled up by the collar of my jacket right into the face of one big motherfucking Somoan type dude with slicked-back hair and a nasty disposition.

Must be the bouncer, cause he drags me behind him and promptly bounces me off the pavement.

I'm out the door along with my previously departed reason.

And all I can think of is that I never got to say goodbye to the redhead.

And the pathetic thing is, that I am so fucked up at this point, the whole incident has me laughing uproariously, leaving the few bar patrons who were out on the sidewalk having a smoke to switch from snickering at me to scowling their faces at me for being such a loser drunk.

See, it's no fun if I'm enjoying my misfortune as much as they are...

Eventually manage to pick myself up off the pigeon shit stained sidewalk and regain my footing and balance, but I couldn't tell how long it took to accomplish that feat.

Part of me was hoping the redhead would take pity on me and rush outside and help me up and give me a chance to explain...

But I'd just fuck that up too.

How pitiful am I, relying on pity as the basis for meeting a woman?

Even though I'm still drunk as a skunk, the faintest glimmer of sobriety must be ruminating, because it dawns on me that none of what just went down was really very funny, that I embarrassed the hell out of myself and have hit a new low tonight...

If it was possible to get lower than earthworm droppings.

Lucky my apartment's just down the hill, maybe I can slip inside before anyone sees me or where I live...

No, scratch that. I do not live.

I just exist.

And quite poorly at that.