Early Into Sunday.
Spent near three hours compiling and uploading a raging comp to 8tracks. It was about to publish and then the little thing came up on the screen where I had to agree that all the music files were “obtained legally” and that none of them were “bootlegged”. So much for three fucking hours of my time.
The weekend was shit. I came close to going and drinking cheap whiskey until I was able to make contact with the spirit world. Didn’t though. I know if I got drunk I’d just sit there and be all “Well, this kind of sucks too…” moments before throwing up on myself midway through listening to the Pigs Last Stand album by Poison Idea. Every time I get the brainiac inspiration to purposely submit myself to borderline, and not so borderline, alcohol poisoning in hopes of feeling somewhat better about my station in life…the soundtrack, invariably, is provided by Poison Idea. This goes back to like 86 when I first heard them, though then my main drinking music was the Dayglo Abortions Feed Us a Fetus album since it was more sing along worthy. I mean, everybody knew the words to classics like Dog Farts, Acting Like Black Sabbath, and I Killed Mommy With My Automatic back in A-Town at that time. I mean, fuck, we used to sit around drinking Black Label and singing Proud To Be A Canadian so much you’d think we were illegal immigrants. Which of course, is impossible. No Canadian in their right mind would leave a nice civilized country like that to sneak over here. Although I did have a girlfriend when I was doing the gutterpunk squatter thing in Seattle who was an illegal from Canada. Like I said, no Canadian in their right mind.
At any rate, it’s been over five months since I quit drinking. This isn’t much in the way of big deals really. I’ve gone years on end before. As far as being proud of shit, I’m more proud of the fact that I didn’t stab K-Dog, the guy who works with me in the kitchen on the weekends, in the neck with a salad fork earlier this week. That’s something I don’t understand-it aint really all that fucking hard to not get wasted for whatever length of time…but if you mention to someone that you used to drink like a pig and haven’t in a month, or a week, or twenty fucking years; motherfuckers act like you singlehandedly invented peanut butter or some awesome shit like that. But if you’re like, man, work was a real motherfucker today. I dug five ditches in the sweltering sun while my boss screamed at me, and I’ve done it for the past five years…aint nobody gonna be all hyper congratulatory. In fact, they’ll treat you like a goddam waterhead for not finding a better job.
It’s just funny the way people are. The way society is. “Recovering” and “overcoming addiction” is just so trendy nowadays, no wonder it’s such a booming industry. Why wouldn’t it be? Every bad habit or maladaptive behavior under the sun is now considered a “disease” and somebody has to make money off of it somehow. Otherwize people who fuck up might just get hipped to the fact that it’s as simple as just not acting like a malignant asshole. And that’s really what keeps me from slapping on some P.I. and cracking a bottle of Windsor: I just don’t want to be a drunk asshole. Thats nothing to be congratulated for. In fact I should be roundly pummeled for all the times I simply refused to not act like a dick over booze or illicit drugs.
Whatever. I just got a copy of the Primitive album by THE BOSTON STRANGLER the other day so I’m going to crank out on that and go crash out. Fucking great band by the way.
Great writing, dude. That from a recovering alcoholic ex-ditch digger. What an honor that must be for you. Hahaha. Not stabbing K-Dog in the neck IS big. It’s hard for me, and I don’t even know him. Onward and upward.
I’m honored that anyone even reads this dreck…so thats pretty rad that you like my writing. Thank you for the compliment.
K-Dog is, well, “slow”. I mean, “mildly developmentally disabled” just sounds too climical, and calling someone “a touch retarded” is rather uncouth in this day and age. So, naw, I would never give him a d.i.y. trach job with a fork. That would be like pushing a cripple or selling heroin to a pregnant teenager, it’s just some shit a motherfucker don’t do. Not that I don’t think about retrofitting that stumpy neck of his with any manner of prong like utensils on occasion. But the poor bastard doesn’t even know how many letters are in the alphabet. So I let him slide on a lot of shit. Whenever in doubt you just gotta rise above.