Drunkalogue Diaries, Section 211, Part 45 Subsection B: The value of drunk-proofing your house
A friend of mine once commented, "Your friends suck." This was solely in reference to my college drinking buddies. Unfortunately, this appears to be a correct assessment — with a few qualifications. Let me explain.
I sent an old drinking buddy an e-mail just the other day, and after a few exchanges, mentioned I'd bought some land and was going to build a place in the Poconos. Here's what he wrote back:
The Pocono's [sic] sounds like a place for you. I can picture you up there writing you [sic] life's story....ether [sic] that or planning you [sic] next murder.
Outside of the fact that my apparently wet-brained friend is keyboard-challenged (though he's actually intelligent and now quite well-off), the thing that offends me is it's just not that funny. Yes, I have a place in the woods. The obvious joke would've been, "So now you have a place to bury the bodies." That's just an OK response on the wit scale, but still obvious. A funnier answer is left as an exercise for the reader.*
My first thought after reading this was, Jebus, what an asshole. I remembered why I had sought out other friends my senior year in college; I was sick of a steady stream of putdowns and, well, disrespect. So I wrote him back, commented politely on his other, more intelligent statements in the e-mail [obviously not included here], and then responded with this line:
Murder? Wanker.
I know, a man of my education, you'd expect a bit more. What can I say?
*****
One drinking story to add a little context. Just about at the end of my drinking career, I was a bit soused in a bar on South Orange Avenue in Vailsburg, talking to a coat check girl who was naturally near the front door, where coat check girls normally reside. I was unsure if I was hitting on her, asking for my coat, or asking for a push toward the exit. Apparently my coat was on. I was on familiar ground as far as the layout of the bar. And I don't recall making any advances. So what exactly I was doing there remains a mystery to this day.
So I'm minding my own business, probably not saying anything but just sort of teetering and enjoying the booze, talking to this coat check girl with my suave, urbane, 40s-retro dipsomaniacal charm, when I'm interrupted by two very serious-looking bouncers.
"You have to leave," one said. The other folded his arms across his chest.
My friends, chests up to the bar and having a view of this scene, deduced that I was about to be tossed from the place, and cringed (they told me later). Was I going to make a big stink? Was there more trouble at hand, trouble that would end in recriminations, arrests, lawyers, judges, and payments?
But instead I turned to the bouncers and, slurring somewhat, said, "Yes ... Perhaps that's best."
Then, weaving, I added, "Could you please point me to the front door?"
My friends told me later that the bouncers were not displeased with my cooperation; I was a little too drunk to remember their reaction except a vague sense that I'd said exactly the right thing.
Unfortunately on the way home I picked up for some reason a mattress on the street that had been thrown out. It was one of those small mattresses that go inside a convertible sofa; this was about twin-size. In my ecologically concerned but unfortunately sodded brain, I figured it was wasteful to throw out such a good mattress and that I myself would sleep on it on the upper floor of my friend's house to demonstrate just how wasteful the environmentally unfriendly mattress-tossing had been. And I did just that. In the morning, however, my perspective changed on the mattress. I recognized exactly why the mattress had been thrown away, and the less said about that, the better. I took it outside and placed it at its proper location, the curb.
Then I went back inside. Several folks were eating breakfast, and playing some cards, at the kitchen table. A picture frame was shattered on the floor. "Who's the asshole who broke the picture frame?" I asked. My friends didn't answer.
What the hell, I'm a helpful guy. Without asking I pitched in and cleaned up the mess. No one said a word ... no one thanked me. And I don't really recall much after that, except I'm pretty sure I was hung over.
A couple of years later, when I recalled this incident, something came back to me. From the booze and the mattress, I lost my balance coming up the stairs that night and crashed into a wall, knocking that picture off the wall. It smashed to the floor. And I kept going up the stairs to sleep on my stinky mattress. So that was why they just stared blankly at me when I mentioned the picture.
*****
There it is. That's no doubt why when I contact friends from way back, I get return e-mails but still get a fair share of chops-busting. Because the night I mentioned above was fairly tame for the time. I don't recall if my keyboard-challenged friend was even there that night (I'm pretty sure he was). But hey, he was there on many similar and worse nights. Perhaps, in that context, I'm getting off fairly lightly if I have to take some shots now. They know I've changed, but they're still gonna have a little fun with it. Maybe they've earned that much for putting up with so much back then. I don't know. I don't remember so much of it.
FWIW. YMMV. Pax.
###
* OK, one try: "You know if you dig enough holes with a backhoe, the cops won't search your property because it's too much work."
I sent an old drinking buddy an e-mail just the other day, and after a few exchanges, mentioned I'd bought some land and was going to build a place in the Poconos. Here's what he wrote back:
The Pocono's [sic] sounds like a place for you. I can picture you up there writing you [sic] life's story....ether [sic] that or planning you [sic] next murder.
Outside of the fact that my apparently wet-brained friend is keyboard-challenged (though he's actually intelligent and now quite well-off), the thing that offends me is it's just not that funny. Yes, I have a place in the woods. The obvious joke would've been, "So now you have a place to bury the bodies." That's just an OK response on the wit scale, but still obvious. A funnier answer is left as an exercise for the reader.*
My first thought after reading this was, Jebus, what an asshole. I remembered why I had sought out other friends my senior year in college; I was sick of a steady stream of putdowns and, well, disrespect. So I wrote him back, commented politely on his other, more intelligent statements in the e-mail [obviously not included here], and then responded with this line:
Murder? Wanker.
I know, a man of my education, you'd expect a bit more. What can I say?
*****
One drinking story to add a little context. Just about at the end of my drinking career, I was a bit soused in a bar on South Orange Avenue in Vailsburg, talking to a coat check girl who was naturally near the front door, where coat check girls normally reside. I was unsure if I was hitting on her, asking for my coat, or asking for a push toward the exit. Apparently my coat was on. I was on familiar ground as far as the layout of the bar. And I don't recall making any advances. So what exactly I was doing there remains a mystery to this day.
So I'm minding my own business, probably not saying anything but just sort of teetering and enjoying the booze, talking to this coat check girl with my suave, urbane, 40s-retro dipsomaniacal charm, when I'm interrupted by two very serious-looking bouncers.
"You have to leave," one said. The other folded his arms across his chest.
My friends, chests up to the bar and having a view of this scene, deduced that I was about to be tossed from the place, and cringed (they told me later). Was I going to make a big stink? Was there more trouble at hand, trouble that would end in recriminations, arrests, lawyers, judges, and payments?
But instead I turned to the bouncers and, slurring somewhat, said, "Yes ... Perhaps that's best."
Then, weaving, I added, "Could you please point me to the front door?"
My friends told me later that the bouncers were not displeased with my cooperation; I was a little too drunk to remember their reaction except a vague sense that I'd said exactly the right thing.
Unfortunately on the way home I picked up for some reason a mattress on the street that had been thrown out. It was one of those small mattresses that go inside a convertible sofa; this was about twin-size. In my ecologically concerned but unfortunately sodded brain, I figured it was wasteful to throw out such a good mattress and that I myself would sleep on it on the upper floor of my friend's house to demonstrate just how wasteful the environmentally unfriendly mattress-tossing had been. And I did just that. In the morning, however, my perspective changed on the mattress. I recognized exactly why the mattress had been thrown away, and the less said about that, the better. I took it outside and placed it at its proper location, the curb.
Then I went back inside. Several folks were eating breakfast, and playing some cards, at the kitchen table. A picture frame was shattered on the floor. "Who's the asshole who broke the picture frame?" I asked. My friends didn't answer.
What the hell, I'm a helpful guy. Without asking I pitched in and cleaned up the mess. No one said a word ... no one thanked me. And I don't really recall much after that, except I'm pretty sure I was hung over.
A couple of years later, when I recalled this incident, something came back to me. From the booze and the mattress, I lost my balance coming up the stairs that night and crashed into a wall, knocking that picture off the wall. It smashed to the floor. And I kept going up the stairs to sleep on my stinky mattress. So that was why they just stared blankly at me when I mentioned the picture.
*****
There it is. That's no doubt why when I contact friends from way back, I get return e-mails but still get a fair share of chops-busting. Because the night I mentioned above was fairly tame for the time. I don't recall if my keyboard-challenged friend was even there that night (I'm pretty sure he was). But hey, he was there on many similar and worse nights. Perhaps, in that context, I'm getting off fairly lightly if I have to take some shots now. They know I've changed, but they're still gonna have a little fun with it. Maybe they've earned that much for putting up with so much back then. I don't know. I don't remember so much of it.
FWIW. YMMV. Pax.
###
* OK, one try: "You know if you dig enough holes with a backhoe, the cops won't search your property because it's too much work."