The Snake Diet

I assassinated my soul with alcohol. Throughout history there have been many successful assassinations. Julius Caesar was stabbed to death by his own senators in front of the Theatre of Pompey. Twenty three stab wounds decorated his dead body, twenty three murderous knife thrusts. Mark David Chapman shot John Lenin four times on the street in front of his hotel. Bobby Kennedy was also shot four times by Sirhan Sirhan. Malcolm X was shot 16 times with a sawed off shotgun, but it only took one bullet for JFK and MLK both. Franz Ferdinand’s open top car stumbled into the nearly completely botched assassinantion attempt but was fatally shot with his wife Sophie thereby acting as catalyst for a world war.

For my soul over this weekend it was a weapon much less menacing but no less deadly. My soul was assassinated with alcohol. It all started Saturday night. I was feeling calm, relaxed, confident. I had spent all of Friday night having a few drinks and playing Halo 3 until late into the night. It was a good, relxed, hang out. Nothing to rock the boat. I slept all the next day until about 12 noon. Feeling rested and healthy I embarked on the journey to Bronco’s place for his birthday booze up with a meditated sense of calm. Like a cow in a trance being led calmly to the slaughter. I don’t remember what all the contributing factors were, the things that were said, the challenges presented, the gauntlets thrown down, but I do remember a few key moments in what would turn out to be a drunken apocalyptic whirlwind of crazy shit.

- Bronco’s g/f poured me an unbelievably strong drink (mostly pure alcohol) and then Summer somehow convinced me to slam it. Sven did the same.

- At the bar I see a slow-motion spray of beer froth fly across the room, my spidey senses were tingling, I grabbed Mikey and went outside to pull Sven away from the brawl he started and finished with the ferocity of a wild beast.

dumb chick “blah blah blah!”

Sven, “Hey, shut your chick up, she’s being an idiot.”

dumb dude “you’re a fag!”

*SMACK*

Sven, had punched the guys face and was instantly led out of the bar.

- I got a phonecall from my sister, she had broken up with her boyfriend.

- I got a text message from an ex-girlfriend “Can you please come up here and rescue me now?”

- It was an emotional hurricane ripping houses clean off their foundations.

We all headed back to Bronco’s place where all the shots and drinks and beers and violence coalesced into an unhealthy combo-pack of a hangout. Some dumb chick had met a bunch of dudes on the street and brought them up to the apartment without even telling us that she did not know them personally. The motherfucking one black dude.. the one fucking black that was there.. ended up stealing Mikey’s phone after Mike let him call a cab with it. Its like I don’t want to perpetuate bullshit stereotypes, but the one fucking black dude at the party was a fucking thief! What the fuck!

Anyway, I ended up getting even more drunk and somehow got into a brawl/dance/make out session with one of the girls there. The best part of this news is that apparently it was so kick-ass that Mikey and everyone else was taking about 1000000000000000 pictures of me at the height of my glory. I’m sure that this blackmail material will be splashed all over myspace by the end of the week, so stay tuned. This is yet another episode that tells me that I could NEVER be a celebrity. I am constantly doing crazy shit that defies all logic or propriety. I am the tool of fate, guided to undertaking the mysterious plans of the universe without any knowledge of how or why. When I get drunk my brain harmonizes with the invisible chords that rule this world and I become a mindless cog in vast and diabolical plans. I am the sword of fate thrusting viciously into the night. And if there were actually peope out there with the desire and motivation to see what my celeb-reality life was all about I would be on the cover of every tabloid mag in the world .. probably on a weekly basis.

I woke up on the couch. I vaguely remember trying to drive home when 32 people tackled me down and said in their most convincing radio voices “NO”. Belinda and I were under a red blanket that to me at that moment more resembled a funeral pall. Or maybe a bloadsoaked cloth covering an eviscerated body in the morgue. I shook free from drunken paralysis when Summer got there. I tried to walk but realized that I was still completely wasted from the night before. Eventually we all got up and went for breakfast at World Famous. It was then that I came face to face with my arch nemesis. It was previously just a rumor, but only now to I fully realize the depth and power of my mortal enemy.

Mimosas are my kryptonite.

I was completely faced. Utterly and completely faced. The best story to emerge from the night before as it turns out had nothing to do with my dance/brawl/make out session or the fight at the bar… it was when Sven left the place to go home.

Apparently he walked out of the apartment, stumbled to the street just a drunken sloppy disaster, and a car pulled over and some dude was like “Hey… You want to go for a ride?” Sven said yes and hopped in with what turned out to be a homo on the prowl.

Sven would tell the tale, as we sat there eating omelettes and champagne, of how the man very seductively asked him if he wanted to go over to his place and “party”. The man also asked Sven if he could come inside Sven’s place, but Sven again declined – now more estranged that ever. Finally Sven had to clarify the situation by telling the dude “hey man… I’m not gay!”

Sven felt triumphant in his final summary quote of “Fuck it… I saved five bucks on a cab ride!”

After breakfast I wandered over to a bar and now went full power into the snake diet. I hit on some more girls, unsuccessfully. I drank a million gallons of Redbull&vodka. I went on a rampage knocking popcorn out of peoples hands. I looked at the boncers as they just rolled their eyes at us regretfully because they were too small to rough-house with a raging pack of teamguys drunk. My bro Tea-bag came down with some of his buddies and we basically stood there laughing full power drunk until my body essentially gave up and started to fall away from the land of the living. I had pushed my body past its breaking point and the only thing to do now was crawl into my bed and die.

I got home around 2am. I left the bar at around 10 but I accidentally passed out in my car for a few hours in the Rite-Aid parking lot. I finally got home feeling ruined, popped an asprin and tried to sleep. It was another failure. The short nap combined with all the Redbulls made sleeping impossible. I put The Royal Tennenbaums into the vhs machine and watched the entire movie before finally giving out.

In all my weekend was a total success and a total failure. I accomplished none of the tasks I set aside for myself and yet succeeded in winning battles I didn’t even know needed fighting. Today, Monday, I am in ruins. My body aches in strange and troubling places, by mind is a swirl with drunken dream and memory, my soul… so thoughtfully prepared a few days previous, was now completely assassinated.

I have been working on a design for a mural on one of the walls in my condo. I wanted to put either a robot or a zombie… one of the designs I was working on for some reason looks exactly how I feel at this moment. I thought that until the photo-session pictures get released into the wild I could put this picture up and maybe it would summarize my current state better than any more words could. Without further bullshit, here it it:

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