November 21st, 2009 §
Apologies for the website difficulties over the last week. My old hosting was being a tard. Now that we have the technical issues sorted out, check out my new digs.
You’re probably wondering what the shit is going on. The short version is I received an email from the expanding SubtleDig network the Monday before last and… wait, short version? What am I thinking? Hell, let’s get into the details. It all started on Sunday afternoon roughly 24 hours before I received the email.
After dragging my ass out of bed and flipping between the NFL games on TV, I figured it was time I did something productive. I called my lunatic writer friend Aurini who I’m currently working with on a writing project. “Hey, I have to work tomorrow but you want to grab a few beers and discuss the latest edits? Hopefully we can practice some self control and not get shit-faced for once.”
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November 13th, 2009 §
The Knoxville’s show cancellation meant we had two extra days off in Atlanta before heading to Tallahassee. I use the term “days off” loosely because my cell rang at 10am. One thing you’ll learn from sharing a room with Charlie Hoehn is that guy loves his air conditioning. I live in fucking Canada and I still woke up a shivering wreck. I’d rather build a snowman with my balls (national pastime) than sleep blanketless in a hotel room with Charlie – sleeping blanketless being an unintended consequence of passing out drunk on the couch in yesterday’s clothes.
I rolled off the couch, bracing an arm against the floor to prop myself up. The angles of getting to my feet wrought mayhem on my pounding head. I slinked squinty-eyed to the shower and cranked the hot water. My blood began to thaw. My favorite thing about hotels is that the hot water never runs out. I stood in the same position with the water splashing against my shoulder blades for fifteen minutes. Being hungover in the shower is the closest I ever get to meditation. It’s the perfect opportunity to investigate life’s most difficult questions, such as: What the fuck is wrong with me?
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November 6th, 2009 §
My heart raced as I gripped the steering wheel. Every few seconds my arms would jerk to correct the van’s path when the rain and wind pushed it off course. Blurred taillights only came into focus moments before we passed them. If I had veered off the road and driven into a lake, I wouldn’t have noticed the difference. But there was whiskey on the line. And though Ben generously offered to buy me a shot if I got him to the bar before midnight, he didn’t go into details as to what happens if I didn’t. I thought about the knife in his pocket, and decided to take my chances with a rollover. And just like it came, the rain vanished. It was as if we emerged from a giant cube of jello. The dark liquid wall disappeared in my rearview. I took the van up to speed and hauled ass for Atlanta.
We pulled up to the hotel around 11:40pm. Corman hopped out the van before it had stopped. I met him at the bar. “I don’t want to get wasted tonight,” he said. “I just need something to take the edge off.” Then he shoved 4 ounces of whiskey in my face. We clinked glasses and swigged it down. I didn’t even bother trying to be manly and hide the grimace as the coarse alcohol scraped down my throat. I washed it down with beer. My eyes watered from the comforting warmth and I ordered another round. » Read the rest of this entry «
