A Misplaced Thought

Here's another one. I wrote this in August, the start of something much bigger. This is as far as I got.

Good way to catch up, though, huh?


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Often, I am humbled by the actions of humanity. Facing the middle of my life has been a challenge if not a struggle. At it's worst, I am speechless with grief, swimming in a deep sea of regrets, depression and sadness. At it's best are startling moments of clarity, epiphanies of the highest order. For the past five years of my life, I've lived three entire existences, three rivers poured one into another, then another. Despite the colossal curves thrown to me, I have persevered to this day and stand tall. However, I have fallen as of late, finally relenting to the sad state of affairs that surround me. As hope builds, despair washes away.

I was tracking the mess in the Gulf of Mexico for a while, confident that our government could put some fix in place, an enchantment to ward off the oily monster. I gave that up, if anything to clear the mud out of my journal, but mostly to throw away my obsession with disaster. In some respects, that was a pretty smart thing to do. 100 some-odd days in, hundreds of millions of theoretical gallons have risen from the ocean floor, the Gulf Coast economy lies in disarray, and hope has been reduced to a paper cup of the same promises we drank five years ago. That's nothing I really wanted to dwell on anyway. I chose to look inward, try on some introspection. My summer has been a criss-cross of trips to the Farm. The fig crop was terrible this year, by the way. The worst I've seen. We have a sugar thing now, but that's another story. In these visits to my parents, I've spent much time gazing into space. Actually, the space was really acres of country grass rolling under the wheels of my father's Dixie Chopper. Go look it up. Big motored hell-mower with a cup holder.

hmm. when was that?

So where do we continue? Work? Nah. Had my fill of that. You know the drill.

Already bitched about the family.

How about drinking? I'm not talking cranberry sierra mist, which, by the way, is a kickass mixer. This is drinking drinking. I won't lie. I imbibe. I hit the bars. Bars are neighborhood. Bars are mid city. Bars are da french quatah, uptown, downtown, riverbend, jefferson, garden district, and "kennah, brah." Bars are landmarks. "It's three blocks past avenue pub." Bars are big game, pregame, postgame, away game, and I'm game. Bars are live music. Bars are jukebox. Bars are cheese fries.

Bars are New Orleans.

Of course I drink. Don't be silly. Why not? I could kill brain cells in a number of illegal ways. Okay, one illegal way. Look, I'm middle aged, right?  I hate saying that, but there's history.  I've already had my benders, sauced real good-like. Mind-erasers come to mind. Or they don't, actually.

Now there's the thing. That losing a little memory? You know, one tiny little episode of not remembering just how funny you were. Or you were a jackass. You're kinda rolling the dice with me. It's an ugly condition known as blackout. I'm not supposed to have those any more. Did last weekend, though. Kind of spooked me since. Can't get out of my head that i was OUT OF MY HEAD. I'm too old for that shit.

But...if you really want to know...I'll tell you what happened.

Spent Saturday around the corner, watching the Tigers display their unique skills in having talent but not knowing how the hell to use it. Drank a few beers. Had a visit from Mr Green. Game ends, we decide to go to the last night of the last Oktoberfest at Deutches Haus. This place is, or was, a German heritage center located in an early 20th century telephone exchange. It's been there for decades, since before WW2. The place is great. But not great enough to escape the gargantuan footprint of the new VA hospital in lower mid city. It's destined to be a parking lot.

We hit the festivities, and the party was big. Probably a couple of thousand? And some dark ass beers. I had a glass left from the SPCA beer fest a couple of weeks ago. So, five bucks for this big honking schooner of beer. Strong-ass dark motherfucking beer. Somewhere toward midnight, we left. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the last thing I remember.

We rode over to a joint in our hood. I frequent the place. I am known in the place. The hot bartenders LOVE me in this place. I always have friends in this place.

I was a stinking drunk in that place on Saturday night.

Yes. Start imagining the fun. Slurring and drinking and laughing and drinking and...what else? Really? I did that? Tis fuzzy, fuzzy. Fuzzy like an angora sweater in a paper shredder. I remember nada. I found evidence that I snacked at home. Found the empty wrappers at least. Passed out...er...slept till 10:30, which is hella late in my house. Tried to rewind my head and could only get so far. Not good. No, not good at all. Talked with two of my friends, but didn't really get any comments. However someone outside our circle told me a couple of things. Wicked things.

Egads. It was the DRINKING!

So.

Anyway. That's been on my mind this week. Don't know where to stow that. I'm questioning myself on all kinds of levels. Maybe a self-imposed sobriety would be of help? Hard as hell in the turn toward Christmas, starting with Halloween on Sunday. Oof. I'll be questioning my questioning.

Maybe I'll just have a drink and not worry about it.