"Some songs just aren't fitted to be sung in certain places," Missy explained to me as we were starting to be on our way home from our friend's house. We were riding on the back of a pickup and were enjoying the cool very early morning breeze; it was about three in the morning. "It must be the walls. Some songs are just too loud to be sung indoors," Kip chimed in on our conversation. The playlist for that night included Tejano, '90s pop, reggae, and '80s metal, among the many genreless others. Missy started to sing some lines of some song, "Hold on tight! You know she's a little bit dangerous . . . " We all laughed. She was referring to us needing to hold on to the sides of the pickup lest we become an on-the-spot circus act. "Yeah, you forgot to sing that," Din tried to make her voice heard over the sound of the cold winds. I nodded at them. The pickup was gaining speed. I reckon it must be because Mardi's dad can't wait to get back to his sleep; he was very kind to offer us kids a ride to the highway after our little party. It was Kip's birthday, and Mardi offered his place because they were located on a more kiat-friendly place. But that was that--there were no more rides that time of night around their area, and the pickup kept us from having to use our last resort, which was to walk. Silence followed; we were all taking in the precious moment, not to mention it would take effort to speak and be heard with the sound of us cutting through the thick morning air and all. "Born to be waaaaa-aaaa-aaaaayld!" I had to cut in through the silence. We all laughed. Din, my current roommate, then went on to tell the guys a story of another one of our weekend getaways. It was on our trip to Tagbilaran, when we had to pass by Tubigon, and Din's boyfriend had to fetch us from there on a motorcycle. That always reminds me of Che Guevara's The Motorcyle Diaries. "She just had to sing that song! Imagine the looks of the people we were passing by. They were quiet villages, so imagine it when she just all of a sudden greets them with that song!" I had to laugh. Blame the silence, I thought. It really just catches up on you, and if you don't sound off, it'll seem to explode inside your eardrums instead, becoming more deafening.
It was our third and last day of insobriety. We slept, of course--our only rest. But I couldn't help but think about the coming tomorrow, when reality hits again. I was feeling lighter though, knowing how Din would be in a bigger trouble than I. She had hooked up with another guy, a friend, over the weekend, and I knew I would then have to hear of her many aaaaaaaah!s and noooooooooo!s the moment we get back to the city and sobered up. I had to hold back a laugh. Things ARE different when we're sober. "Well, for one, you know the feeling would return once you drink again," I tried to comfort her. Jiminy was slowly finding his way back to her head. "I can't believe I did--ahhhhhhhhh!" I was laughing; I had to hold back the sound though. I was just too amused. "You're only feeling weird because it's the alcohol leaving your system. I assure you, once you drink again, you'd be horny again and you will forget this whole regret thing." I couldn't help it. I was already doubling over with laughter. I had to look away from her face because the more I see her misery, the more I can't help myself from laughing. "Lanox ba!" Believe me, a good dose of schadenfreude is healthy; I did feel good laughing at my friend's misery. Seriously though, I knew this would bother her for the coming days. The good friend that I was had warned her, but we must all know how it's like for her. The warm sea, the moon, and just about enough beer . . . it goes zzzziiiiiinnnngggg! then silence, then poof! it's the next day.
To be fair, it would seem as hard for the guy too. You would know the people who has it real hard easily by the way they focus too much on the mundane. The entire night of that last drinking day would find Kip teaching Missy's sister how to play poker. By the looks of him, you wouldn't think anything was up at all. I was seated beside Moi, a guy I just met; he already knew the rest of them, except Din. Mardi and Missy was on my other side, acting the way group couples usually do, with the teasing and little fights and all that almost nauseating cutesy stuff. Once in a while, I would see Din going in and out the door to smoke outside the house. Tsktsk, drama queens are drama queens. I told her I saw it coming, and I would try and stop her when I see she no longer could hold herself. Well, it would seem even I didn't have what it takes to promote a little reservation. By the looks of it anyway, they have been holding it in for years already, and some things are just, well, inevitable. So, maybe, it was not just the beer that did it, not even with the aid of the nebulas in the cosmos and mother nature's seductions. They had it coming, and, boy, are they in biiiiig trouble. I am laughing still. Apart from my irrevocable pact with alcohol, I also take pride in my being a sucker for good stories. And, boy, wouldn't this make one heck of a good story. Din the Hardcore Chic and Kip the Sensitive Pornstar. You didn't even have to know the full story to understand my amusement.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Red, White, and Booze
Disclaimer: The names of the people in this story have been changed to protect their secret identities.
You have to admit, people can be pretty narcissistic. They could go on bouts and bouts of getting wasted again and again just to try and lose control of themselves only to wake up the next morning and be amazed at themselves. "I did what?" Yeah, there's a shock on their faces, but you know they can't wait to hear the rest of the stories. "I actually forgot I did that!" But the sound of their voice alone tells you, they're proud of what they did . . . and forgot.
"I was talking to a tomato!" I could only give Chay a grin. More often, when I get the "allergies," I remember the entire night's highlights and, well, the lowlights too. That would be because I would then have to stop drinking and dilute the alcohol in my blood lest our drinking session instead turns into an ER episode. I then went on to tell Chay what happened, as I remembered them, the night before.
It started with the "new" drink. It was in a green bottle, not soju, and came in quarter-liter packaging. I think it was gin. I am not allergic to alcohol per se (thank God!), but certain nights just are, well, weird. So yeah, I can remember nights by the kind of drink we had then. Don't ask me dates nor special occasions. "Do you remember Ika's birthday last year?" I only would if I'm pretty close with the person, otherwise it would just be one of those nights to me. Forgive my drunkenness, really. "You remember that night we had ______ (name of drink)?" I would readily say I do. It's a gift; let it go. So it was the green night, as we now call it. "How do we drink that?" We started being concerned on how we drink new products when once we saw some Koreans down by a service station convenient store drinking sangria with bananas for pulutan. It's not that we think they were being weird or anything (we welcome that around here), it's just that we thought maybe that's how it's really done in some other part of the world. Who knows really, right? If we decide to be original and drink beer with banana cue, how are we to know if it must be how they also do it in a town in Liechtenstein? In the case of the green drink, well, it was just gin. We can handle that. We decided on lemon soda for our chaser.
It would seem there had been many bottles of green gin that night. It's like this, like when once you reach that certain level of intoxication, all else either become slower or faster from thereon. I'm rooting on the latter being what transpired that night, only a little faster than usual. There were four of us then. All I remember was one bottle after another then another then Lyla crossing the street as fast she could, pissed it would seem, and hurrying home. A guy friend somehow found himself with the remaining three of us, already drunk, and ended up going home with En-en, leaving her bag behind. The next coming days would, of course, find us interrogating her on what happened, perhaps something worth leaving her bag behind for. She said she was only very drunk. So there remained only Chay and me. "You were crying!" I laughed the moment I remembered what happened. "Whatever were you crying for?" I had to stop when her face started to took on her pikon look. Then, almost in exact synchronicity, "The pictures!" Lyla was our official photographer and kept a site where she posts our pictures. Usually, we would be excited to see our pictures after our nights, but this time it was different. En-en was shaking her head. "Let's blame the drinks." Lyla and I only looked at her, as though to say, Duh, what else? These are not us. Chay said it, "We're ugly in these pictures!" We laughed at that. They were pictures of how the green gin took on various forms using humans, us. Lyla got pissed. En-en got horny. Chay got dramatic. And I turned into a tomato.
You have to admit, people can be pretty narcissistic. They could go on bouts and bouts of getting wasted again and again just to try and lose control of themselves only to wake up the next morning and be amazed at themselves. "I did what?" Yeah, there's a shock on their faces, but you know they can't wait to hear the rest of the stories. "I actually forgot I did that!" But the sound of their voice alone tells you, they're proud of what they did . . . and forgot.
"I was talking to a tomato!" I could only give Chay a grin. More often, when I get the "allergies," I remember the entire night's highlights and, well, the lowlights too. That would be because I would then have to stop drinking and dilute the alcohol in my blood lest our drinking session instead turns into an ER episode. I then went on to tell Chay what happened, as I remembered them, the night before.
It started with the "new" drink. It was in a green bottle, not soju, and came in quarter-liter packaging. I think it was gin. I am not allergic to alcohol per se (thank God!), but certain nights just are, well, weird. So yeah, I can remember nights by the kind of drink we had then. Don't ask me dates nor special occasions. "Do you remember Ika's birthday last year?" I only would if I'm pretty close with the person, otherwise it would just be one of those nights to me. Forgive my drunkenness, really. "You remember that night we had ______ (name of drink)?" I would readily say I do. It's a gift; let it go. So it was the green night, as we now call it. "How do we drink that?" We started being concerned on how we drink new products when once we saw some Koreans down by a service station convenient store drinking sangria with bananas for pulutan. It's not that we think they were being weird or anything (we welcome that around here), it's just that we thought maybe that's how it's really done in some other part of the world. Who knows really, right? If we decide to be original and drink beer with banana cue, how are we to know if it must be how they also do it in a town in Liechtenstein? In the case of the green drink, well, it was just gin. We can handle that. We decided on lemon soda for our chaser.
It would seem there had been many bottles of green gin that night. It's like this, like when once you reach that certain level of intoxication, all else either become slower or faster from thereon. I'm rooting on the latter being what transpired that night, only a little faster than usual. There were four of us then. All I remember was one bottle after another then another then Lyla crossing the street as fast she could, pissed it would seem, and hurrying home. A guy friend somehow found himself with the remaining three of us, already drunk, and ended up going home with En-en, leaving her bag behind. The next coming days would, of course, find us interrogating her on what happened, perhaps something worth leaving her bag behind for. She said she was only very drunk. So there remained only Chay and me. "You were crying!" I laughed the moment I remembered what happened. "Whatever were you crying for?" I had to stop when her face started to took on her pikon look. Then, almost in exact synchronicity, "The pictures!" Lyla was our official photographer and kept a site where she posts our pictures. Usually, we would be excited to see our pictures after our nights, but this time it was different. En-en was shaking her head. "Let's blame the drinks." Lyla and I only looked at her, as though to say, Duh, what else? These are not us. Chay said it, "We're ugly in these pictures!" We laughed at that. They were pictures of how the green gin took on various forms using humans, us. Lyla got pissed. En-en got horny. Chay got dramatic. And I turned into a tomato.
In the Blood
Call me sick, or twisted, whatever, but it was the most logical idea I could possibly have at that time. I wasn’t trying to make her become like me, or anywhere close. I was only trying to protect her. From the possible jerks who might fool her into thinking freedom is only in insobriety. Her world is as charmed as mine already. The only difference between us is that she’s in the sober world. I wanted her to see that the grass is just as green here as they are on her side.
We talked about family. I told her, well, yes, my drinking money I used to get from the parents. And yes, I feel guilty sometimes. I think guilty is not actually the word. I’m thinking pride, but that would require of me deeper reasons and more profound ideas and a possible nosebleed. So I decided to stick with guilt. I remember a friend, Adia, she told me she wouldn’t mind if her children become drug addicts in the future as long as they don’t ask the money from her. I was thinking the same thing about alcohol. As long as I have a job to pay my intoxication, I should be all right. And I did get a job. Only, I wasn’t able to foresee that I’m not alcoholic enough to drink down all my earnings. And I am not boasting. You should wonder why there are many alcoholics in the slums. It isn’t so expensive to get drunk. Drinking is the only thing I’m good at. And well, yeah, writing and words, which is my job, but you get the drift. I was earning more than I was drinking. That’s a big problem, to me at least. When I said drinking is my only forte (let’s make writing a given so that we could take it out of the picture), I wasn’t exaggerating. When I have money, I drink. When I don’t, I look for money; and when I do, I drink again. Clear enough, so far?
So there, my first justification. I could tell from the expression on her face that she was starting to feel sad for me, like all along I was a big disappointment in the making. After I told her, well, we still were not that rich to think about doing charities, and we really have everything else provided for, for us, already, she seemed to understand my point. Alcohol was an end. I don’t drink to be anything else, to serve any purpose, whatever; I drink because there is nothing else left for me to do. For me, I repeat. This should not apply to everyone else. Intoxication is customized. She was about to go further into the future; I stopped her. That’s a different story there. Let’s be egoistic for now.
I told her, well, the parents were big drinkers too, in their youths. We laughed. We had to agree on that. Even if they question my alcoholism again and again, they still would have to insert now and then their stories on how once upon a time, they would sneak at the stock area of bars, with a handy bottle opener, one at a time, with an excuse of taking a leak, only to feast on the stacks of cases of beers ready for their taking. The bar owner would wonder how, even with only a set of beer on their table, they would come out of the place ass-drunk. Those kinds of stories make one see the essence of drinking, and those same stories were the ones that made me realize the scolding I get was simply the SOP of parents to their children.
She was starting to burn on the cheeks a little. I had to smile to myself. There is this “zone” in drinking. Once you’re there, it’s where and when you realize why people drink. She must be there already. She was starting to laugh harder and was even telling some stories herself. I knew the guilt would catch up the next day (it always does for me in cases involving my intended manipulations), and so I doubled the toasts and the cheers to lose myself that night and let the next day worry for itself. It wasn’t going to get twice my worry time, that’s for sure. I only reminded myself again and again, this won’t happen again, and I’m doing her good. Ignorance and innocence are two different things. It’s not like the deal with cancer that you harm the good cells while trying to kill the bad ones. I only wanted to kill the curiosity before it gets to the cat.
The thing about drinking is that it’s done sitting down. Thus, one can’t really tell if he’s had enough not until the time when he tries to stand up and walk and go home. And a drunk mind has way more strength than the body actually has. It’s kinda like, mathematically speaking, the inverse proportionality relationship. The more alcohol one takes in, the stronger his mind thinks it is, while the otherwise is true for the rest of him. In other words, I, again, had too much to drink that night. I made a temporary enemy of a friend, who, for some reasons, shared our table that night, the details have escaped me I’m afraid. I was to wake up the next morning with a nasty bruise on my left elbow (much as I had wanted to take all the blame, I had to be honest and give credit to the alcohol as well). Then my sister woke up. She laughed a bit before saying she wouldn’t go through one of those ever again. I succeeded.
We talked about family. I told her, well, yes, my drinking money I used to get from the parents. And yes, I feel guilty sometimes. I think guilty is not actually the word. I’m thinking pride, but that would require of me deeper reasons and more profound ideas and a possible nosebleed. So I decided to stick with guilt. I remember a friend, Adia, she told me she wouldn’t mind if her children become drug addicts in the future as long as they don’t ask the money from her. I was thinking the same thing about alcohol. As long as I have a job to pay my intoxication, I should be all right. And I did get a job. Only, I wasn’t able to foresee that I’m not alcoholic enough to drink down all my earnings. And I am not boasting. You should wonder why there are many alcoholics in the slums. It isn’t so expensive to get drunk. Drinking is the only thing I’m good at. And well, yeah, writing and words, which is my job, but you get the drift. I was earning more than I was drinking. That’s a big problem, to me at least. When I said drinking is my only forte (let’s make writing a given so that we could take it out of the picture), I wasn’t exaggerating. When I have money, I drink. When I don’t, I look for money; and when I do, I drink again. Clear enough, so far?
So there, my first justification. I could tell from the expression on her face that she was starting to feel sad for me, like all along I was a big disappointment in the making. After I told her, well, we still were not that rich to think about doing charities, and we really have everything else provided for, for us, already, she seemed to understand my point. Alcohol was an end. I don’t drink to be anything else, to serve any purpose, whatever; I drink because there is nothing else left for me to do. For me, I repeat. This should not apply to everyone else. Intoxication is customized. She was about to go further into the future; I stopped her. That’s a different story there. Let’s be egoistic for now.
I told her, well, the parents were big drinkers too, in their youths. We laughed. We had to agree on that. Even if they question my alcoholism again and again, they still would have to insert now and then their stories on how once upon a time, they would sneak at the stock area of bars, with a handy bottle opener, one at a time, with an excuse of taking a leak, only to feast on the stacks of cases of beers ready for their taking. The bar owner would wonder how, even with only a set of beer on their table, they would come out of the place ass-drunk. Those kinds of stories make one see the essence of drinking, and those same stories were the ones that made me realize the scolding I get was simply the SOP of parents to their children.
She was starting to burn on the cheeks a little. I had to smile to myself. There is this “zone” in drinking. Once you’re there, it’s where and when you realize why people drink. She must be there already. She was starting to laugh harder and was even telling some stories herself. I knew the guilt would catch up the next day (it always does for me in cases involving my intended manipulations), and so I doubled the toasts and the cheers to lose myself that night and let the next day worry for itself. It wasn’t going to get twice my worry time, that’s for sure. I only reminded myself again and again, this won’t happen again, and I’m doing her good. Ignorance and innocence are two different things. It’s not like the deal with cancer that you harm the good cells while trying to kill the bad ones. I only wanted to kill the curiosity before it gets to the cat.
The thing about drinking is that it’s done sitting down. Thus, one can’t really tell if he’s had enough not until the time when he tries to stand up and walk and go home. And a drunk mind has way more strength than the body actually has. It’s kinda like, mathematically speaking, the inverse proportionality relationship. The more alcohol one takes in, the stronger his mind thinks it is, while the otherwise is true for the rest of him. In other words, I, again, had too much to drink that night. I made a temporary enemy of a friend, who, for some reasons, shared our table that night, the details have escaped me I’m afraid. I was to wake up the next morning with a nasty bruise on my left elbow (much as I had wanted to take all the blame, I had to be honest and give credit to the alcohol as well). Then my sister woke up. She laughed a bit before saying she wouldn’t go through one of those ever again. I succeeded.
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