The Alpha

Intoxicating

Right now, I’m stuck on true stories. There’s a picture on the internet that shows the evolution of species and each one has a thought balloon. Every critter that came before humans is thinking “Eat, survive, reproduce.” Man is the only one that stops to wonder what it all means. Unfortunately, that’s where I am at the moment. Once I let go of reality again, I’m sure I’ll get back to being creative. For now though, I hope you like hearing about the bar…

I present two stories that are really a thousand stories that are all really just one story. That makes perfect sense to me, but there is a history of insanity in my family. Anyway. Last night, a guy I met a few dozen times came in with his cousin and his girlfriend. They were celebrating the cousin’s birthday. Cool. Last Call rolls around, and they invite me to have a drink with them after I finish my clean-up. Double cool.

I blaze through my closing stuff and head over to the apartment. They are doing shots of wine. You read that right. I am confused but flexible. I join them. The cousin takes a shine to me. She offers me a cigarette. I decline but offer to join her on the balcony. We stand there in the cold, and she smokes. More shots of wine. She offers me a cigarette again. I still don’t smoke. She hands me a cigarette anyway. My thought: if movies have taught me anything, she wants me to light it for her. I do so, and attempt to hand her the lit cigarette. She has an unlit one in her mouth. I sigh. I put mine out. I switch to water. I don’t even want to catch a buzz. She gets trashed. I put the wine away and try to get her to drink water as well. The conversation goes in circles. No, I still don’t smoke. No, we’re done drinking wine. Yeah, I understand that you think no one “gets you.”

She calls for a ride, then heads outside at 5AM. The guy I’m sort of friends with asks that I keep her out of trouble. I follow. We sit outside while the sun creeps over the horizon. I watch people walk dogs in coats and pajama bottoms. She offers me more cigarettes. She asks if I need a ride too. She asks if I live in the building we’re sitting in front of. She keeps knocking my helmet off of my lap and onto the sidewalk. She wonders why I won’t let her touch my phone. Her ride finally comes. Sweet relief. I gear up and rocket off into the early morning mist.

Rewind about four days.

A friend of mine is calling, asking if we can hang out after work. Cool. Except I have concerns about whether she’ll be sober enough to be a passenger on my bike. She assures me that she is stone-sober. Double cool. I politely decline an offer to hang out with some co-workers. I blaze through my closing stuff and head to the house she’s at. She’s been hanging with her friends. They’re nice guys. She introduces us. She grabs her stuff and we head for the door. I mount my bike and get it started. I hold it while she climbs on the back. I tell her to put her feet on the pegs. She tries to wrap them around my waist. She succeeds only in pinning my legs. Yeah, that TOTALLY won’t get us killed… I tell her to hop off. She falls off. Guess it’s a good thing she was wearing my helmet. I turn my bike off and help her up. “Let’s go,” she says. Uh, no. We go back inside. I take my helmet off of her. She introduces me to her friends. Twelve more times. Minimum. She slaps me in the face. The conversation goes in circles. We can’t go because you’re too drunk to ride. No, I’m not staying here. Actually, I’m not drunk in the slightest. We are NOT fucking in the other room. I don’t take advantage of drunk girls. I gear up to leave. She tries to come with. No chance. I rocket off into the early morning mist.

Like I said before, two stories that are one story that is a thousand.

2012: 05/24
CATEGORY: Behavior
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Catch Up

My last post was nearly three months ago. I’ve left Word documents open for weeks on end, but all they do is accumulate phone numbers for people trying to get ahold of people I used to know.

When meeting new people, one of the oft-asked questions is, “What are you into?” My stock answer always includes writing. I actually do love to write. So why is it that I stopped?

I met this girl. I meet a lot of girls. The one in this story is an actress. I suspect I won’t see her again, mostly because she lives in NYC and is touring with a show for the foreseeable future. I met her in the bar, because that is the entirety of my social life now, and we went to lunch. We talked for a couple of hours. We talked about the etymology of words. We made up a couple. We talked about acting and being afraid of bugs and skydiving. She said she had never met anyone who described themselves as a writer before and we talked about my half-book. Her enthusiasm for everything was dazzling. It was a good time.

All too soon, reality intruded. She had errands to run. Denver’s beautiful weather had swung back to intermittent rain. We hugged goodbye in the hotel lobby, and I hoofed it back to the parking garage. Rather than wait for the weather to clear, I fired up my bike and shot out into the soggy day. I listened to the roar of the wind and watched the road with a thousand-yard-stare that cut through the water droplets splattering on my visor. I thought about writing, not out of any overt need to woo a female, but out of a desire to start again. I don’t even remember at this point whether I came up with any interesting thoughts. It doesn’t matter because I sure as hell didn’t transcribe them.

Maybe it’s too meta, but I paused at the end of the last paragraph to read my last post. The last one ended with me pondering a return to the old way – drinking until words spilled from my fingertips. I’m sober right now. I seldom have time or a safe harbor in which I can afford to get all “wastey-faced.”

There is light on the horizon though, and I am no longer a fan of pronouncing all things doomy and gloomy. Yeah, I know “doomy” isn’t a word. Neither is “wastey-faced.” Did you still understand my meaning? Communication accomplished, then. Moving on. I finally made it to an SCA event after a year-long hiatus. My fighting authorization was still in good standing, but my entry to the event and the tournament involved showing a PDF of my new Society membership. I did my best to catch up with all the people I used to know. I did a poor job of it, as usual, but let that go for now. There had been discussion at one of the fighter practices about a diminished level of “magic” in the air at events, so I took care to use every proper title I knew and bow to everyone in a coronet or crown. Something still felt different, but that may have just been in my head.

I suppose I should wrap this up before it gets too unruly. I do have more on my mind, which is a good sign. I’m getting set to hit up more SCA events this summer, starting with Crossroads. The actress brought to light that I’ve actually accomplished two of my three New Year’s resolutions, which beats most people I know. Even better, I just squeezed out 600 words without being drunk!

2012: 05/19
CATEGORY: Past
Self Image
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Etiquette

Last night was fun. I was at work, as per usual. We were short-handed on Security staff, but I was working as a bar-back. This meant that I got to be both. Unfortunately, that meant wearing my security shirt over my regular clothes, and I heat up very quickly. That part sucked.

The bar-backing went as usual. I wash glasses as fast as I safely can, then grab drinks for the wait-staff, then stock the coolers, then circle the bar looking for more glasses. People stand at the bar, eyeing me expectantly. I smile and tell them a real bartender will be with them in a second. I’ve decided that it’s kinder to talk to people and then give them the bad news that I won’t be getting them drinks than to ignore them. Occasionally this makes me new friends.

A couple of my friends came in after the show across the street let out. Iced Earth played at the Summit, and I have more than a few friends into that sort of thing. I didn’t get to talk to anyone much, but such is the price of being busy. At one point, they found me behind the bar. “People are smoking on the patio again, Justin.” I told them to tell one of the other Security staff. I looked around, but couldn’t point one out. Fuck it. I decided to handle it myself. I could collect glasses on the way. I slipped, slid, and plowed through the crowd. I got out to the patio. The wall opposite the patio entrance has a three by five foot sign painted on it that says “No Smoking.” It’s a violation of city ordinance and the valve for our gas heater is on this patio. These things, on top of how busy the bar was, evaporated my well of patience before I even spotted the cigarette.

A woman had left it burning on the chair while she and her friends messed with the decrepit Jenga blocks on the nearby table. Every time that I asked someone not to smoke out there, they always responded with, “really?” Like I was trying to be funny. Then they asked why. Then they asked where they could go. Then they would say sorry. Most of the time, the cigarette would still be burning in their hand. Then they asked for one more drag. Then they asked where they could put it out. There are no ashtrays, because THERE’S NO SMOKING. Alcohol makes people so dumb. I didn’t really have time for the whole ridiculous process, so I didn’t bother.

I flipped my mental switch from ‘nice guy’ to ‘asshole.’ I walked over without saying a word. I picked up the cigarette in my still wet hand, and I ground it out on the metal patio chair. I carefully set it down again. The woman was watching me, and said, “That was mine!”

“I know,” I replied. I pointed to the enormous sign, then turned and strode back inside.

“You could have asked,” she said to the back of my head. I was pretty sure she was pissed. I was absolutely positive that I didn’t care.

“I know,” I replied. I vanished into the crowded bar.

2012: 02/26
CATEGORY: Work
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Perfect Drug

“Justin, why haven’t you been writing?” I’m standing in Jenna and Aaron’s living room, and we’ve been talking about cocks for at least an hour. I get that way – the later at night, the more foul my language and thought. Not that it was ever particularly clean or wholesome. Anyway. I could give them no good reasons.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve just been busy with work and booze and girls.” I feel like an asshole for saying it, and I will feel like an asshole all over again for writing it. The visit wraps up shortly after that. I make things painfully awkward one more time and Nick drops me off at home.
Now, it’s story time. I’m picking a true story, because it’s one to which I already know the words.
I was recently promoted to a bar-backing position at work. The details of my new schedule were still in the process of being hammered out. I got a call from the bar manager; he wanted me to come in last Wednesday to work from open to close. Even if I had wanted to decline, I wouldn’t have. I felt that I should show that I appreciated my new position. So, Wednesday morning (that’s 1PM for me), I started getting ready for work. As I emerged from the shower, I saw that I had a text from my kindred spirit. “I’m going to be in Denver in a little over an hour.” Damn it. This girl and I share a love of violence and Rockstar and a few other things. She’s generally an awesome chick. The problem is that my car is a heap of shit and she lives 70 miles south of me. So when she comes to town, I try to be free. It wasn’t going to happen this time.
I sent her a message. “You should swing by the [bar]. I’m on in 10 minutes.” Yeah, I’m aware that you could probably figure out which bar I work at, but I’m going to make you do the work. I fought my way through the snarl of traffic, and ran straight to work. I didn’t have time to stop for my customary Rockstar, but I’d have to survive. The boss got me going working on the opening checklist and everything that wasn’t part of my job was forgotten. I filled wells with ice. I stocked coolers. I made a list of bottles for the shelves, and was on my knees in the liquor closet when she came around the corner. You know that moment when you see someone, but you aren’t looking at the mental image that you have created around them? It was one of those. I was just getting to my feet, looking into her brown eyes like I’d never seen her before. She smiled, and it hit me like a lightning bolt. I recognized her again. I like to think I didn’t stagger to my feet or do any of the other clumsy things I’m liable to do when put in such positions, but I couldn’t tell you for certain. The next thing I could clearly remember was hugging her tight, exchanging hellos and good-to-see-yous.
I confessed that I hadn’t picked up my supply of Rockstar for the day, and she promptly disappeared. She was back maybe ten minutes later with the soon-to-be-extinct green one. My favorite. Talk about knowing the way to my heart! She sat down at the bar and ordered food while I kept working on cleaning the cooler. The bar manager walked by, and I asked him to put her on my tab. “Yeah, I figured. I put her in as ‘Justin’s Girl.’” I had forgotten that he’d already met her before. I laughed, and told her what the boss had told me. She got a good laugh out of it too.
We got to talk despite my being occupied with work duties, but time flies when you’re having fun. She had to leave to meet her brother. We hugged our goodbyes. I don’t know what made that hug special, but it was. We held each other, close and tightly, for a sweet moment. Then she was gone and I was busy working again. Maybe an hour went by before I was stocking the coolers again, and I spotted the glimmering green of another dose of my perfect drug. She had bought two. Talk about warming my frozen little heart.

2012: 02/22
CATEGORY: Behavior
Work
TAGS: Rockstar
Work
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Muse

I am currently getting smashed.

No, wait.

I am getting hammered.

Yeah, there is a difference. Let me explain.

“Smashed” is used as slang by a co-worker of mine in a novel, yet crass, way. An example: “Yeah, I smashed that chick.” A definition: Smash – verb – to fuck.

He’s an interesting guy. I like him. He has definitely altered my speech though. I no longer get smashed.

Back to my point. I am getting hammered. A few days ago, I made this resolution to renew my efforts to write. As some may know, I have what is essentially half a book written. I did all this and then went crazy. I have been fighting ever since to get back to a healthy mental state so that Asher’s story may continue. The problem has mostly been a lack of a muse.

It’s a terrible weakness to give something or someone outside oneself the power to inspire. Once upon a time, I was a college student. I had a talent for writing, and I have always had a love of beer. So it was that I would sit down to write a research paper and crack open a Killian’s Irish Red. No big deal, right? Actually, it kind of was. I could not write without one. And then two. And then three. Basically, I would get a six-pack and kill it in the name of writing. The scores on these papers were good. Like, 99 of a possible 100 good. The results spoke for themselves. My ability to play Xbox would suffer on account of alcohol, but my ability to write would be honed like a laser.

I’m not stupid though. I knew this was a bad direction to go. I stopped writing as much, mostly because I was working very hard to stop drinking as much. I cut the amount that I drank dramatically. It was, by most accounts, a win. Except, I wasn’t writing much. Every once in a while, someone or something would inspire me, but it wasn’t like it used to be. Ever hear of state dependent memory? That’s what we had here.

Then, finally, I found a legitimate muse. It was a person. I loved this person. She made me want to be so much more than I was. She blew away all the shitty little things I ever worried about. My mind was free to roam. When my mind roamed, it would create the scenery. All I had to do was describe it. It went quite well, for a while. Even when times were bad, I could write. I like to pretend that I was pretty damn good at it. As you might have guessed, it didn’t last. When she left, my mind fell apart. I could come up with things, but only in fits and starts.

So it is that we find ourselves at the birth of a new year, and I am trying every trick I know to drag a single word out of my brain. I know it is weakness, but it would be worse to do nothing. I am doing my best to write. I will not burden anyone with the responsibility of inspiring me. I will be responsible with my chemical inspiration. If I lack real inspiration, I will not write and drive.

2012: 01/05
CATEGORY: Behavior
Health
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Twenty Twelve

Anyone remember the resolutions they made last year? Lord, I hope not. I know my own track record is abysmal. Remember that time I promised to work out every day? Or how about the time I decided I would finally properly manage my budget? Haha, good times. The only things I’ve ever successfully made stick were my cessation of drinking pop and smoking marijuana.

This year’s resolution list is going to seem like a rerun, but I’m doing it anyway. I am going to at least pretend to have goals.

It’s time to start taking better care of myself. Okay, the time to do that was back when I was 18, but I didn’t. I’m going to do better. I’ve already been to the dentist twice at the ass end of 2011, and my smile is one thing worth saving. Additionally, literally EVERY other bouncer is magnitudes stronger than me. I am not going to try to match them in strength, but I want to be stronger and faster than I am right now.
It’s time to find my muse again. I managed to write half a freaking book last year. The only thing that could top that is to write the other half and finally take my shot at getting published. I love writing, and it’s a travesty that I do as little of it as I do. To my credit, I didn’t go back to trying to fuel my creativity with booze, but I do need to fuel it again. People say I’m good. I like to say that power not used is not power.
It’s time to get a damned motorcycle. I’ve always wanted one. Every one of my friends knows I’ve always wanted one. I’ll bet they are sick of hearing about it by now. So I’m going to do it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a shitty one. I will have a bike.

I have plans for some of this stuff. I need plans for others. I hate asking for help, but I think I’m going to need it and I am FUCKING SICK of failing.

2011: 12/30
CATEGORY: Behavior
Health
Holidays
Self Image
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Scrooge

I’ve already put away my Xmas tree for the year. Yeah, Xmas. I am not what you’d call the spiritual type. I don’t know very many people who are actually celebrating the birth of Jesus and so I feel that “Christmas” is an inappropriate label for the holiday. Xmas feels more honest. We spend and eat to excess, thus “Xmas.” But I digress.

Typically, the tree and decorations would stay out until after the turn of the New Year. Not this time. My heart was never in it. In twenty-ten, there was no lack of people with whom to share the holiday. Friends and family and significant others were all excited about the red and green dog-and-pony show. I was working in a mall, and it was impossible not to be swept up in a tidal wave of gift-giving and gorging. I had a red shirt that said “Seasons Greedy” on it, for heaven’s sake.

Twenty ‘leven never manifested that feel for me. Now more than ever, I feel like the lone wolf that all of my fictional characters tend to be. I didn’t do the tour of neighborhood light displays. I wasn’t ordered to tempt and bewitch with retail goods. Those magical two days in December were dispelled.

For a while, it bothered me that I didn’t manifest the sugarplum cheer of yesteryear. I checked to see that my shoes weren’t too tight. I checked to see whether my heart was several sizes too small. Nothing. For a second, I worried that having my odometer roll over to thirty was to blame. Fortunately, I spend a lot of time thinking about thinking so I’m pretty good at it. I believe I’ve figured it out.

I’ve always loved Xmas, but I never realized why. I don’t love it for its own sake. I love it because it’s an excuse to give things to people and make them smile. It’s the time of year when no one eyes you suspiciously when you attempt a good deed. Good will toward men is the rule instead of the exception. Yeah, I liked getting stuff too, but having possessions is akin to someone “liking” your Facebook status: neither makes you feel less lonely when you’re sitting by yourself. Making people smile for whatever reason is what warms my frozen heart, and since I really didn’t have people, that spirit stayed packed away with the majority of the decorations.

The next post will be about my New Year’s Resolutions. I have felt for a while that I need to change things, and NYE is as good a time as any to launch reformative efforts. Also, for whatever it’s worth, I hope you did have a merry holiday of your choosing.

2011: 12/28
CATEGORY: Holidays
TAGS: good will toward men
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Nostalgia

Tonight was a powerful reminder for me. A ton of people from the last place I worked came in. They were all super friendly and mostly well-behaved. I was glad to see them. For a split second, I almost missed my last job. Fortunately, my brain was working.

I sat at the bar, enjoying my shift drink (even though I generally have more than just one). I thought. When was the last time anyone from that shard of my life talked to me? I knew one, maybe two, times that it happened.

Fuck that shit. Let go of your past. It isn’t hanging on to you.

2011: 12/11
CATEGORY: Past
Work
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Bulletproof

Some of the more scholarly types call it “Hyperreal.” The term refers our perceptions completely obscuring the realness of something. It’s akin to eating at Taco Bell and claiming to have had Mexican food for dinner. Or something like that. It happens with people too. When you meet someone, your brain starts with whatever schema it can come up with to quickly categorize that person. When anyone asks, you say you know them. Ever meet someone you instantly disliked? They probably did one thing or another that immediately reminded you of someone or something you already didn’t like. At least, that’s how it works for me.

Near as I can tell, it works in reverse too. We judge from the instant we come in contact, but we also try to project the ideal version of ourselves. There’s a whole industry devoted to that sort of thing, after all. We get up in the morning (or evening, in my case) and shower and style our hair and shave and don makeup as appropriate. We get dressed in clothes that were presumably picked because they send the message we want to project. Some put more thought into it than others. Behaviorally, our projection requires less preparation. Have you ever had someone do an impression of you? Near as I can tell, the performer is just reenacting your public default actions and doing their best to echo your voice.

I know this whole post is kind of a mess, but stay with me. Here’s where it gets personal. No one has done an impression of me. I’m a copycat, so my default actions have been drawn from the massive amounts of fiction I’ve consumed over the years. If one were to quote me, one might be quoting the movie I watched last week. It’s one of my many flaws. It’s also part of the image I try to project. I also try to seem like a good guy, even when I never feel like one inside. I do my best to seem like I care, although I spend all my time feeling bad for not caring as much as I think I should. I basically walk around holding a photoshopped picture of me between me and the world. Or maybe I’m just constantly acting out a commercial for myself like I’m a product to be sold. Either way, they are seeing the candy coating of attractive ideas in which I cover myself.

Yeah, I’m basically claiming that even people are hyperreal, and that since all I am is the ‘idea of Justin,’ V for Vendetta supports my claim that I’m bulletproof.

Or maybe I’m just screwier than the hardware department at Home Depot.

2011: 12/10
CATEGORY: Behavior
Self Image
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Poor

Money don’t grow on trees…

My car is falling apart. It is no surprise to anyone. Even as things were blowing up in my face last summer, I started socking away money with the intention of getting new wheels. The hope was that I could upgrade my ride this coming spring.

My face is falling apart. I haven’t had reliable access to dental care in a very, very long time. I have a broken tooth. I have done my best to keep my mouth clean, but I’m starting to get the occasional twinge. I probably need a root canal. I probably need more work on my whole mouth.

The conundrum: I need working wheels to get to work. I need to not be in constant pain so that I can work.

I guess I’m getting a second job again. Oh, and Christmas? Cancelled.

2011: 12/05
CATEGORY: Health
Work
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Under the hood of the Machine… With sexy results!