Adventures of a Highly-Functioning Alcoholic*

[Second in an occassional series.]

I am not drinking alcohol for 30 days, with the only possible exception being this Friday night.

Today is day 2.

I want a fucking drink.

The end.

 

*…You tell me if I’m highly-functioning.

Adventures of a Highly Functioning Alcoholic*

[First in an occasional series, written a couple of weeks ago.]

I didn’t realize how drunk I was until I heard myself slurring in response to the emergency room physician.  That’s not from the split head, I thought.  That’s whiskey diction.

I probably didn’t quite put it that way to myself.  I doubt the word “diction” occurred to me at that precise drunken head-split-open moment.

“Have you been drinking?  You seem confused.”

Yes, I nod to the doctor.  Yes, I have been drinking.  Yes, I am confused.

I slept three hours, woke up to my Saturday morning alarm.  Time to get up, time to continue wending my way through my DUI program.  Time to attend “education” class and “get a life” class.   Education topic: Smile.  Get A Life topic: Thought Is Energy.  Internal topics: Irony.  How I can’t get that desperately-needed hair cut this week, I guess, since I have a split head.  Self-Loathing.  Not necessarily in that order.

There was a little puddle of head blood on the pavement after my slow motion drunk crash.  That’s why I went to the emergency room.  That, and the strange-looking 12-year-old who apparently wasn’t a 12-year-old because he was an Occidental College student (I think, maybe I drunk hallucinated that part), who performed some concussion watch-my-finger test on me, said I might need stitches, or maybe a stitch, which I didn’t, so there’s that.  He looked like a cartoon character, he had that bleached-hair-that-didn’t-really-get-bleached-all-the-way-so-now-it’s-the-color-of-creme-brulee thing.  He really did look 12.  15 tops.  We were in front of El Pollo Loco, across the street from the McDonald’s with the flocks of cannibal pigeons that sit on the electric wires watching the drive-thru waiting to swoop on an errant chicken nugget, that probably all have little pigeon heart disease, and I could hear him behind me conferring with his friends about my health status while I sat there feeling ridiculous and applying pressure on the wound with a red bandana.

The jist of said friend-conferring was “she has a split head.”

I had a great night that night.  Really.  The ride started in front of an art gallery owned by a bike friend.   This particular bike friend (acquaintance, more like) once said that he was 16 and I believed him.  Still believe him.  He’s a “bike punk” too so I don’t know how he owns the art gallery.  The art gallery had bike art in it by bike friends.  When we first got there I hugged people I don’t see enough and smiled at all the “well now, look who’s west of western” comments and swigged whiskey during awkward silences which is what I always do with alcohol and what I always do during awkward silences which there are a lot of because basically I’m awkward.

Swigging aside, I wasn’t drunk when we started riding.  I wasn’t drunk at the first stop while we were hurling rubber duckies at each other or while I was trading Berlin stories with a chick with much better whiskey than the whiskey I had originally been swigging.  Actually she had scotch I’m remembering.  I wasn’t drunk when the kid who was so clearly out of his mind drunk crashed and I wasn’t drunk when the chick who probably wasn’t drunk but was just too hyper and reckless crashed, which I think may have been a bad one.  She got back on her bike for a while, but kept holding her head or drooping her head or kind of sagging her head until she pulled over again and started crying.

She probably had a concussion.  I didn’t get a concussion.  She was really young.  I’m getting old although sometimes I forget and think I’m still really young.

I wasn’t drunk at the second stop when the super square-looking kid crazy-danced to the dance music pulsing out of the sound bike.  I wasn’t drunk when they set the mattress on fire or when I was taking drags off people’s cigarettes which is fucking stupid because I have pretty bad asthma.  Or maybe I was.  Looking back, I probably was.

My head hurts.  My shoulder hurts too, I have a scrape on my shoulder that is still raw and it stings pretty good when my shirt rubs against it.  When I woke up and went to my eduction class (topic: smile) I felt a band aid on my arm so I pulled up my sleeve and stared at it.  I pulled it off and there was nothing under it, no scrape or wound, so why was there a band aid there and not on the raw scrape on my shoulder that did hurt, it made no sense at all.  Finally, later when my arm started feeling really sore, sore to the touch, sore to bend, I remembered that I got a tetanus shot.  For the split head.  Which was split open by some dirty, heavily travelled, El Pollo Loco trafficked Northeast Los Angeles asphalt.  Hence the band aid.  Aha, and hence the sanitary moist towelette in a little wrapper in my purse. I found that while in education (topic: smile) too.

Looking back, I must have been drunk at the second stop, because I was drunk when we got to the really strange club that was the third and final stop.  I was drunk when I swigged my beer during awkward silences, or any silences, or any not so silent silences because by that point I was drunk, so I was just drinking.  The beers were no longer 99 cents as had been advertised because it was after 11, which ticked me off, but I bought some anyways because why not. I was drunk when I went upstairs and discovered a tranny club, men dressing as women trannies, and I was drunk when chuckled to myself because one of our friends looked like a woman dressing as a man tranny except he’s a guy, really more of a young willowy boy, very pale and delicate, blond hair, who is trying to grow a mustache or something, I’m not sure what’s going on there.  I was drunk when we left.  I was drunk riding home.

At least I didn’t break my collar bone like I did last time.

 

*…You tell me if I’m highly functioning.

Hearts and Farts

Hmmmm…maybe I’ll come up with a submission for this!  Thanks riotgrrrlberlin.

bike bike bike pt.2

It’s been so long since I went on my second bike bike bike trip this year, I practically don’t know what to write.  The boyfriend and I went to Austin for our second SXSW, and it was fucking amazing.  The raddest chick among rad chicks, Mims, hosted us along with a shit ton of other LA bike fucks who showed up on the Angie Lopez bus.  (I designed the Midnight Ridazz boobz shirt that Mims is wearing in that photo, by the way.  It’s my one claim to fame.  Very limited fame.)

What you need to know about SXSW – you don’t need to buy anything official to do it.  The entire city of Austin becomes one giant music venue – barber shops, markets, empty lots, art galleries, rooftops.  Bridges.  Backyards.

And of course, bikes are the only way to do it all.  People with cars at SXSW are either stupid or crazy.  Austin has some hills, none of them big, all of them bigger than expected (isn’t Texas all flat…?), and the city is a little spread out, obviously catering to dudes who drive white trucks.  It’s perfect for some good leg stretching car dodging bike riding – about 5 miles from Mims’s pad to Bleached, 6 miles from Bleached to the Yard Dog Records show, 3 miles from Yard Dog to Built to Spill, 2 miles from Built to Spill to backyard metal show…you get the picure.  Some of the riding was on bike lanes, some splitting stopped traffic, some on big truck roadways, some through ped crowds, all with bike friends.  Perfect.

Highlights (this is difficult, as the whole damn trip was one big highlight):

-  Bleached.  They were fantastic at Urban Outfitters, but they were fucking phenomenal at Longbranch Inn.  FUCKING PHENOMENAL.  Punky poppy drunky dance-o-rama.

-  Waco Brothers.  When punk rockers get old they sometimes play amazing alt country.  Jon Langford rules.

-  Skull by Skull Now.  I don’t want to glorify this too much, because the Skid Marx – a least a good chunk of them – are sociopaths (and would get off on being called that).  However.  Skull by was one hell of a metal show.  And, weirdly, Pangea showed up to watch one of the bands.  MAN, did they look clean, hipster, and uncomfortable!

4 days (…wait…was it 5? …lots of beer…) of bikes, beer, and music, with a floor to sleep on for free and a friend to guide me through underground vegan bike art music beer Austin.  The only thing that could have made the trip better is MOAR GODDAM TREN WAYS.  Oh wait, one more thing that could possibly have made it better: the ability to be in multiple places at once.  I mean, fuck, there’s so much amazing shit going on every hour of every day – like Dirty Beaches playing at the exact same time as Future of the Left playing at the exact same time as the Goner Records show.  That’s pretty rough.

I think I’m going to have to go again next year, but this time I’m dragging THIS GUY and THIS CHICK along.

BIKE BIKE BIKE!

Best Punk Lyrics of All Time

She is me
I am her
She is me
I am her siamese twin connected at the cunt
Heart brain heart brain heart brain lung gutI want to kill her
But I’m afraid it might kill meFeminist
Dyke, whore
I’m so pretty alien

She wants me to go to the mall
She wants me
To put the pretty, pretty red lipstick on

She wants me to be like her
She wants me to be like her

I want to kill her
But I’m afraid it might kill me

Feminist
Dyke, whore
Pretty, pretty
Alien

And all I really wanted to know
Who was me and who is she
I guess I’ll never know

Bikini Kill, Alien She

Entering the Realm of Opprobrium*, A Nightly Devotional

“But now that she had achieved knighthood, and thought and acted as she wanted and decided, for one has to act in this way in order to save this world, she neither noticed nor cared that all the people around her thought she was insane.”

― Kathy Acker

“Suck on this, fart face.”
― Tank Girl

Don your bloomers and take this city, ladies of the bicycle, for this city is yours.  Seize your steed and charge into the night, ladies of the bicycle, for the night is yours.  Feel the streets and trace them with your tires, touch them an know them, ladies of the bicycle, for the streets are yours.  Flex the power in your legs and propel yourselves where you wish, propel yourselves along your path, propel yourselves forward, backward, in circles, here and there and thither and yon, onward and forever or one block away, ladies of the bicycle, for the power is yours.  Raise your middle fingers high in benediction and recognize one another, ladies of the bicycle, for she and she and she and she and she and she is your protection, she is your guide, your defiant guide, your joyful guide into the realm of opprobruim.**

* Opprobrium. Disgrace arising from exceedingly shameful conduct.  Realm of opprobrium. Where “inappropriate” women have F.U.N.

** My submission to the Gospel of the Church of F.U.N. with Psalms and Proverbs (www.churchoffun.wordpress.com)

bike bike bike bike bike pt. 1

I went on two bike trips recently, which seriously fucking rejuvenated me.  They were like ctrl+alt+delete for my life.  It can be hard to remember who I really am with my fucked up split personality job taking up so much of my psychic (and physical) energy, but put me on a bike with beer in my bag and silly shit to do, and I remember.  Ohhhh yeahhhh, I’m that chick…cool, I kinda like her.

PART 1 – MINI BIKE WINTER

Portland is fucking weird.  It has bike traffic jams.  There is moss on everything.  EVERYTHING.  If it doesn’t have the highest number of strip clubs per capita for a U.S. city, it’s certainly up there.  Everything is so fucking progressive and alterna and artistic, even the aforementioned strip clubs, which boast, for example, stripperoke and fire dancing.

It’s white as hell.

If someone goes on General Relief, they can attend various cultural events – orchestras, etc. – for the deeply discounted rate of $5.  The city provides composting boxes and only picks up non-recyclable non-compostable trash every OTHER week, to force you to not make too much of it.  I guess that’s not too crazy, S.F. is similar there.  Each neighborhood has a tool library, where you can rent jackhammers etc.!  Let’s see, what else.  Did I mention there is moss on EVERYTHING?

And I seriously hate to say it, but – yes, you guessed it – there is nothing truer than THIS.

I went up for Mini Bike Winter 2012.  Highlights:

-  the Dropouts ride Friday night, which was apparently long for Portland ride standards (according to the grumbles I heard at one of the stops), and which wove us in and out and out and around the city and ended with a dance party under a bridge (which itself inspired one of the greatest zine concepts I’ve ever heard, can’t wait for the bf to put it together!);

-  the knuckle tattoo game (POON FLAP being the best result, RAPE BOY! being the worst-but-best-but-worst);

-  riding everywhere with IamGraham whom I miss terribly;

-  learning that Alaska was fucking DDR STATE CHAMPION OF ALASKA???!!! while hanging at a bar arcade downtown;

-  getting to know some ridazz better, one in particular, who is one of the whackiest, sweetest, most awesome chicks around;

-  NOT FALLING IN THE POOP ROOM at the crazy warehouse after-ride party on Saturday night; and

-  being reminded of why I go on these fucking trips with these fucking people: BECAUSE IT’S JUST PLAIN F.U.N.

For more on Mini Bike Winter, see photos here and here, and probably all over facefuck, which I’m not on.  This one makes me happy:  Hello, Reverend.  Also: Krista did a great job writing it up.  Oh, and:  Tren Way North at the Phallus Palace showed me and the bf the warmest hospitality, but really, they had no choice – I would have gotten all bitchy and cranky otherwise.  I miss the Tren Way North fucks, I hope they hurry up and get sick of the shit weather there and come home already.

Theeeeee end.  Part 2 coming shortly.

If You Can’t Take the Heat

It has been revealed that Anonymous associate and LulzSec member Sabu turned snitch after he was secretly arrested by the FBI last summer, and his information has now led to the arrest of some of his associates.

I gotta say, THIS BUMS ME OUT.

Of course, I can’t speak to how I would react if I faced doing time in federal prison.  I know that.  Then again, I understand that one of the more basic requirements of security culture is to look at yourself long and hard before undertaking gray-area or illegal actions, to determine whether you are risk averse enough to face jail time without turning snitch.  In other words:  IF YOU CAN’T TAKE THE HEAT STAY THE FUCK OUT OF THE KITCHEN.

Intro to the Anarchy of Me

…the first in an occasional series of blogs in which I locate, develop, and harness my anarchism.

After briefly considering traveling to the Slabs, to hear some bands play at the Range*, the BF and I chose bikes and anarchy for our Saturday (…duh, right?).  We rode to the Southern California Library of Social Studies for the Anarcho Cafe 2012 – and although we missed Occupy LA’s update on the General Strike planning, and although the security culture conversation was unfocused and extremely basic, I’m glad we went.  I’m glad we went because I need regular reminders that there are thoughtful energetic idealists in Los Angeles, fighting against the dominant narratives and social structures that are just so goddam difficult to fight against.

The truth is, I’m a tourist in the anarchist activist world, but I’m not going to give myself too much of a hard time about it – because if I do, I’ll go crazy.  I’m learning, seeking out perspectives, trying to understand how I can fit in and participate, looking for strategies to support myself and the people I love long term and to be engaged.  Baby steps.  I’m taking them.

Keith McHenry, one of the co-founders of Food Not Bombs, has seemingly taken no baby steps in his life, just giant leaps.  Of course I know that’s not true and that everything starts with baby steps, but shit on a shingle, that guy has been involved in a lot.  Food Not Bombs, Indy Media, a couple of San Francisco pirate radio stations, etc.  Really good stuff.  I should have asked him HOW.  How the fuck do you do that and have money for a roof over your head, medical care, etc.?  HOW.  Anyways, he seemed like a very nice guy, almost childlike, who has had and continues to have really great ideas that he acts on with great success and with positive impact on other people.

Actually, despite my comment about baby steps, it has been a pretty long trip getting to where I am in my belief system.  In my early 20s I still parroted my father’s conservative views, because they were all I knew.  I read Oil! by Upton Sinclair at age 22 or so and made my English professor’s eyes twinkle with mirth when I expressed slightly shocked confusion at the communist (I think I used the word “extreme”) wordview expressed in the pages.  I mean, the book is pro-IWW!  My brain didn’t know how to handle it.  Now, 15-16-ish years later, I credit that English class with helping me move away from the me created by my father and toward the me created by me.  Incidentally, a lot of activists, not only anarchists, deride higher education as part of the problem not the solution – as constructing cookie-cutter neoliberals (in the sense Chomsky uses it in Profit Over People: Neoliberalism and the Global Order) to carry the current world order into future.  And although I completely understand the argument, and I do agree to a large extent, I can’t agree completely – I have to credit my university education as helping me find my voice outside of the upper middle class “comfort” in which I was raised, and in which I always felt distrust even though I couldn’t explain why when I was younger.  Well done, UC system.

So.  Despite not walking away from Anarcho Cafe 2012 learning anything earth-shatteringly new and different yesterday, I was reminded of the simple important fact that there are others out there.  Community is so important.  It is waaaay too easy to get sucked into the daily grind, where it gets a little lonely and I forget that there are others out there.  So in that respect, yesterday was glorious.  AND I rode my bike with my BF and good friend, which always feels good, and which I have not been doing often enough.  I plan to remedy that sharpish.  And really, riding a bike in Los Angeles is just pure fucking existential anarchy, so. There’s that.

One thing I did come away with yesterday was a flyer about the FOOD IS A RIGHT day of action on April 1, 2012.  I remember when that terrible witch Jan Perry (watch) introduced an ordinance (that later passed) of the type being protested by the Food is a Right Day of action – my mind reeled.  To base an ordinance that forbids groups from feeding the homeless on the rationale that doing so is bad for the homeless people’s health is pretty goddam disingenuous.

My Intro End Notes:

-  I’m currently reading the aforementioned Profit Over People, and I’m about to read the new CrimethInc. book, Work.  (I’m also reading a fiction book so pulp that it barely requires brain energy to read, but what the fuck.  It’s necessary sometimes.)

-  Stimulator is one of my favorite resources, with his serious conversations always liberally spiced with levity…the levity often being at cops’ expense.  Ha.

-  Now that I’m back to writing (yay), I will get into the meat of anarchism more, in upcoming posts.  Don’t you worry.

 

 

*Something like twelve cop cars showed up to the show at the Range.  A friend whose band played said that the cops read about the bands playing there online so they thought it was a music festival…but that doesn’t really explain why the cops felt they needed to be there.  Goddammit, I hate cops.  More about that in another post.

I Can Hear Her Breathing

I love Arundhati Roy.  Her book The God of Small Things is on my list of top 5 favorite books of all time ever in the history of everything.  I came across this quote of hers on the Your Anon News Tumblr:  She’s just so fantastic.