Monday, August 01, 2005

Aaron vs. Belligerent Drunks

Well, goodness: this is a blog I never thought I'd be writing. I'm a recreational drinker, the bastard child of the social stigma stating we can only hang out if we're getting something done. That something has swung drastically from the physical of something like dancing to the obesity-inspired culture of American drinkers. Now, before we go any further, let me stress that this is not vindictive against bars, bar denizens, bar inhabitants, &c. While that may have at one time been my stance during the confusing time of my life when I was trying to find
a column's (raspy) voice, I now appreciate the effects of some good libations.

However, and this being the point, I'm terrified of what might happen to me when I get perhaps a little too happy. I've seen the effects firsthand, and while some people, like my good pal Artie, might be gentle old men obsessed with buying people jukebox requests, others, like a certain drunken "film" critic run a little long on bullshit and a little short on patience. And what kind of drunk am I? It'd be hard to tell, considering that the few times I've been drunk enough to lose control of my body, I've also lost control of my memory - and that's a frightening thing for a writer, since memory is all I've got.

But let's get back to me, in a bar, specifically the Blarney Cove (which I have cleverly disguised linguistically in order to preserve it for myself). I'm drinking Killians, and I am having a blast, mainly because I'm with the girl that I like, on a date, and it would take very little to make me happy at that moment. And yet, there are I am, filled with intoxicating chemicals anyway. If you're looking for embarassing blackmail stuff, apologies, I didn't do anything I'm ashamed of at this point. But it's around this moment that my mind starts going blank: the return trip from Union Square (by which point, I am probably filled with not only the warm fuzzies but the fuzzies that are complementary to six beers).

Apparently, arriving home, I was coherent, somewhat sober and carrying on conversation. And after sleeping for about an hour, I transformed into a bellicose Riccio, rambling on about something or other to my poor father. Now, one of my oldest friends, Colin, has assured me that had any of you been there, it would've been hilarious, so I'm going to take this as proof that I am a gentle giant, a non-belligerent drunk, one who would not so much as even politely suggest a film review, let alone foist them upon you.

In summary, drinking good, even if the side-effects can be wildly unpredictable for some. It's a social skill we can't really afford to be without, and there's much to be said for the lack of inhibitions it brings about. You find me a game of
beer pong (beirut) and I'll be there. Until then, I guess I'll just have to increase my tolerance to be absolutely sure. Cheers!

Having already tried to advertise "The 'Bu" and "Kicked in the Nuts," I now draw your attention to the fantastic
Channel 102. This is the NY branch of Channel 101, and what it does is gives amateur filmmakers the opportunity to cast me (and people like me) in comedic five-minute pilots that will be viewed and voted on at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater. Those that make it are turned into "series" - by which I mean those directors can keep producing monthly episodes until their audience share gets them cancelled. You really have to check it out, and not just so that you can cast me in something.

boo-yeah to:
Artie. He's one of the random people Jeanette and I ran into, and since she hasn't sung praises to him yet, I will. This is a man with a fine taste in old music and a fine sense for hitting on large groups of lesbians, or at least fine choice in friends with slightly more libido (though just as little chance).

Scent Of A Robot," by Pete Miser

MY LIFE (an update):
Considering how totally this blog was about me, you really shouldn't need any update to put two and two together. Otherwise, fall back on your basic calculus: "you+me = us." Now, cryptically, at best I could only assemble the word "ume," but I'm not really going to let that bother me. K? Umek? On an unrelated acronymical route: PCRN (politely chortling right now), the word that's practically porn is here to take the world by storm. Use it in all your abbreviated conversations from now on and u wil b 2 kul.

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