Anyway, it's probably as good a time as any to start being a nicer custodian of my body. I'm kind of a binge drinker kind of guy. Writing my ass off and reading depressing British authors. I can do about three or four days straight, mostly beer and then I start feeling like shit and I know what kind of misery is coming next. The most-of-two-days-hangover. Zero fun. The "Smart Money" is probably: "all things in moderation." I may/will still enjoy drinking some (red wine or some Poofter shit) but, it needs to have the reigns pulled in on it.
I don't subscribe to the "Addiction" or "Disease-Models." That shit was written in the 30's and there are newer ways of thinking about it. Rather, I tend to think of the thing as a set of learned behaviors, sanctioned by various lifestyles, the times I and my friends grew up in and the feeling of becoming Comfortably Numb in a World Gone Mad. A way of escaping the craziness of Society At Large rather than "doing" anything about it. Yea, it's The Easy Way Out. Ultimately, it'll cost ya' y'er health though and you'll probably die a whole lot sooner than later. Or blow your brains out and have somebody else clean up the mess and launch your ashes out of a cannon or some such horse shit. That's what Hunter S. Thompson did. Not that my own abuse to my body has been anything like his was. The guy was a walking Pharmacy. His ashes were probably "high" when they shot him out into the sky.
The "Good News" is that the Liver, like some Brain Cells, regenerate. It's true. Unless the organ(s) are shot full of holes and have fallen into dry rot and such. Mine's nowhere near that and my nose doesn't look like a pickle or anything. I remember the Old Guys that would show up at the bar I managed back East @ 06:00 for their shot(s) of bad whiskey and a short beer chaser. Usually with their Buddy holding onto their hand to steady it enough that they wouldn't miss their mouth with the first choked down whiskey. After that one, it's all Buddy-Buddy and "Gimme' another, Lad." I'm sure all those Fuckers are dead by now.
Had an interesting "Scam Call" the other day. My own phone number came up on the Caller I.D.. I looked at it, laughed and let it hit the machine, as I will everytime it happens, forever. No message, of course. Every so often, I think about changing my phone number but, they'd just find that one too. I used to work on the phone, raising funds for conservation and social/political action organizations and pretty much know all the tricks. My work was legitimate, these hacks that call me now probably learned English from watching Gilligan's Island re-runs or something. They're actually kind of funny when you turn the tables on them, assuming you even answer the phone. I'll usually come up with something like asking them to pop by and pick up their Mother's Smelly Knickers when they get done with their little spiel about the millions of dollars I could get if I send them $2,000.00 to help them recover their Sudanese inheritance or some similar shit. Like I said though, I just don't answer the calls to begin with. No live bodies here, Pal.
So. My shit's a bit fucked up but, nothing that can't be fixed with some Super Glue, eating better and Duct Tape.
Another good one:
Both published posthumously. It wasn't really the booze and dope that killed Warren though. It was Mesothelioma. His Dad worked in an automobile plant when he wasn't whacking guys on the side. Detroit was chock full of Asbestos.
Love and Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner's Liver,
-Doc
No comments:
Post a Comment