In every compelling story, there are themes that repeat–shared not only from page to page, but from book to book as well. Think of the last great novel you finished. There was likely conflict, where characters struggled with themselves, each other, against forces beyond their control, and perhaps they triumphed in adversity. Or maybe they failed, only to find redemption. Maybe the narrative touched on some lofty idea, like sacrifice, or something as inevitable as growing up: how a generation loses its innocence, then makes peace with a changed reality.
One theme you probably didn’t find, however, was comfort, at least in any appreciable quantity. After all, how wretched would it be to slog through a few hundred pages about someone who’s largely content? It would make a terrible tale. A tale like my own, truthfully, because “comfort” aptly describes where I find myself. There’s a roof over my head, too much food, relatively good health, employment–so on and so forth, and certainly I am grateful.
But at the same time, it’s not enough. It’s an existence on loop, bookended by ringing alarm clocks. Obviously I’m not wishing for conflict or an opportunity to sacrifice. I’m not intent on divesting myself of all my worldly goods or, let’s be honest here, even sharing them, and it’s not like volunteering more frequently is particularly appealing to me.
No, I suspect the answer lies in learning. Yes, learning. It simply strikes me as one possible way to break the loop. Engage myself. Get some dormant axons firing. And since formal schooling is entirely out of the question, it appears books are my main recourse. Books! Those ancient devices powered by paper-based technology. I was recently inspired to read, and that’s basically the plan right there. Read more. Fill my head with succulent pieces of knowledge, let them marinate, and possibly even act on them. It’s a terrifying thought.
Last year, right around this time, I stood before my front door, arms very likely crossed, puzzling over how precisely to prepare it for Halloween. Intrepid candyseekers would come knocking in a matter of days, and already neighbors were decorating their exteriors in a slow arms race to deploy as much demonic paraphernalia as possible. Escalation happened on a smaller scale, of course, because townhouses simply offer less surface area for the gauche, and should your plastic Grim Reaper or animatronic Hannah Montana encroach on your elderly neighbor’s yard, well, prepare for real hellfire.
But decorating wasn’t my concern. It’s not exactly my wheelhouse, you could say. Foreclosed on that house years ago, in fact. Instead, I was trying to decide whether it was worth the effort to sweep all the cobwebs off my porch. Usually I enter through the garage door, you see, which leaves the front stoop largely unused, with naught but the occasional pizza coupon distributor or religious pamphleteer ambling over it. The cobwebs weren’t the issue, though. Heck, people purchase synthetic webbing, so why pass on the authentic stuff? No, the problem was the wicked-looking spider that had set up shop right next to the doorbell.
In another time, another place, the homeowner’s association would have marveled at the startling attention to detail, perhaps awarded me duly for my festive, naturalistic Halloween sensibilities. This reality dictated, however, that a lawsuit would be the only reward awaiting me, were the spider to poison some hapless trick-or-treater. I quickly cleaned things up, driven by the threat of liability. And then, when Halloween day arrived, I disappeared, like a ghost who hates Halloween.
Don’t get me wrong. I love candy. I just don’t love buying bags and bags of it. To feed to strangers. Who ring the doorbell regularly, jarringly, throughout the day. So they may be served candy! It’s the kind of logic that could only be engineered by Satan or the Hershey Company. I decided I wasn’t going to invest in this holiday, so I disengaged. Drove off. Left a house devoid of individually wrapped chocolates.
I may appear to be a dick here. I wish to disabuse you of this notion. What I just described might sound like a Halloween celebrated by objectivists, where the day could only be improved with candles and Ayn Rand’s finest works splayed all over the couch. I don’t think I’m being selfish here. If I knew you, and you wanted candy, I would buy you a fucking kilo of Sweet Tarts. Halloween simply strikes me as an odd social contract, an unhealthy one to boot. Why not choose a day in November instead, when I can freely knock on your door, brush past you to your kitchen, and help myself to, like, chicken or something?
A secret revealed, if I may: whenever the post stamp reads 11:59 PM, it’s a sure sign I’m logging into Blogger at a wholly unreasonable hour, fiddling with the very time-space continuum itself to ensure our discussion falls on a Tuesday, such is the need for posterity. It’s actually 1:27 in the morning on the fourteenth of October, in the year of our Lord two-thousand-nine, and I’m at the tail end of an evening flush with alcoholic enrichment. It feels like I just finished a seminar on drinking, in fact, and were I to grade myself, I’d dole out a solid “C.” An effort was made, but there remains much room for improvement.
Alcohol, along with all its odd little customs, is still foreign to me, and at times it feels like I’m a pilgrim in an unholy land. First, let’s talk about taste. Certainly it’s a subjective matter, but the buck has to stop somewhere, right? Even though our tastebuds differ in sensitivity, they’re still tastebuds in the end, and it simply boggles the mind how anybody can honestly claim something like scotch is delicious. It’s an acquired taste, you might say. Acquired from where, though? An unmarked van behind the Red Lobster with a driver in a trench coat? I’ve heard it’s an old people drink, and after sampling some tonight, I’ve got to believe the elderly are actually mixed into this horrific concoction.
Taste aside, there are a few other reasons for imbibing. There’s the social aspect. Here, the ritual of shots is a qualified spectacle, where groups of people partake in feats of synchronized swallowing. I mean, shit. Do you see this pattern occurring anywhere else in the known world? Let’s say you were dining at a tapas joint. The party next to you orders a round of cheese plates. The food arrives, it’s shared evenly, and then– And then faces are buried directly into plates in a mad rush to eat as quickly as possible. It’d be grotesque! Similarly, I don’t believe monkeys congregate around a puddle of rainwater and then pound back the stuff in concert. Nor would the pythons who wish to eat said monkeys wait for even distribution, then gather in a circle for simultaneous digestion.
And finally there’s the potency of alcohol. This is the primary reason for imbibing, obviously, and it’s here I’ve made the most progress. For me, it’s an exploration of my limits. Let’s be clear: I’ve yet to wander anywhere near hangover country. I’m dealing solely with buzzes at this point, which, since I’m usually so high-strung, primarily serve to normalize me. After a drink or two, driving seems manageable enough, though serious curves require just a bit more focus. I’ve also discovered I’m largely immune to the Asian flush, possibly because I think I’m white. And tonight, here, a mojito, two-thirds of a Long Island iced tea, and a half-dozen exploratory sips later, I’ve managed to avoid chaining, like, three nouns in a row, followed by a string of Bs. Truly it is a miracle, and there shall be rejoicing unto the ringing of my alarm clock.