At a very remote gas station, relatively in the middle of nowhere, I found Dexter beer, Presidente. Although I would have preferred a six-pack, beggars can’t be choosers, and so I gladly took a 22-oz tall boy for my indulgence. Typically, this stuff isn’t really sold outside of Florida, although you never know where else one might stumble upon it. Ironically, this Dominican pilsner isn’t really that great, but because it’s simply known as the Dexter beer, do I still find it so appealing.
One of the more amusing aspects of the downward spiral I’ve headed down, having become a very merry social drinker, is the occasional revelation of forgotten, as a result of excessive alcoholic consumption photographs on the phone. They’re sort of like fucked up Christmas gifts in a way, because there’s an element of mystery behind an unfamiliar thumbnail, followed by the inevitable equivalent of opening the wrapping by zooming in.
Looking at my discovery, I sort of remember the scenario, slurring fake dialogue from the horndog douchebag boyfriend in the picture, drinking himself into oblivion while thinking he’s being all slick, subtle, adventurous and exhibitionist all at the same time by repeatedly groping his girlfriend’s ass in public. Granted, I passed out later in the evening, leading me to forget all about this, but upon discovery, it’s becoming clear again. Gropey McGroperton’s hand all over his poor girl’s ass, her, probably too tipsy to bother to do anything about it, and me, the people I’m with, sniggering about it from afar. And from what I can remember, and evidenced by a poor, albeit 8.0MP camera phone shot, it’s not even that nice of an ass to be proud to be groping in public.
This photo really does say it all – chicks pretending it’s actually St. Patrick’s Day, brahs photobombing, my brother, myself, and even my camera itself, unsettled, wobbly, and drunk, for the third annual Grapevine Beertopia, down in South Carolina.
Lots of different brews sampled and enjoyed, and without failed, pretty much everyone got hammered in the process. In other words, it was a lot of fun.
Empty threat valid until the next time the opportunity presents itself: I’m never going to drink liquor again.
An evening of artsy-fartsy art-off between talented artists, to see who is the best artist under fire, with spontaneous criteria. Many of us go to support Jen’s pursuit to be that best artist, and she advances past the first round fairly soundly. As for the rest of us not participating, gratuitous drinking. I’ll be the first to admit that as I got drunker, the more spontaneous the photos, the blurrier they became, and the funnier my own jokes became, and eventually it devolved into pointing out the King of Hipsters, and Justin Bieber, among other spontaneous shit I may or may not have said or remembered saying throughout the course of the evening.
Despite a tiny hangover to bring in 2011, I’m ecstatic to see the passing of year 2010, and have a little blind faith, hoping that this year will be better than the last.
So far, it’s started off pretty satisfactory, with a fun New Year’s Eve party at Stu and Allison’s, where I underwent the Four Loko experiment (conclusion: they taste like shit, but hammer you fast), and we all played arguably the greatest party game in the entire planet, Telestrations. I tracked down a new wheel for my car, and it’s on the way already, and I’ve just found a potential good deal for new tires and installation. My current work assignment is one that I’m familiar with and it does pay very well. So despite my week of rage and anxiety to end out the previous year, here’s to hoping that this one is much better.
Just a few months ago, I had no idea what Four Loko was. All I really knew is that it was seemingly the choice drink of college kids, and apparently somewhere down the line, some college student died from alcohol poisoning from shotgunning, or funneling Four Loko. Needless to say, it developed a cult-following in a short amount of time.
Naturally, anything that’s this much of a craze has gotten to be illegal, or made illegal eventually, and from what I understand, this drink is already banned in a few states, and there’s conflicting news and stories about how Four Loko is going to be banned nationwide, the company that makes Four Loko, promising to remove caffeine from the formula in order to keep it legal, and other rather unconfirmed reports about its inevitable demise.
So, without genuine understanding, and having never actually tried this stuff before, I’m still a sucker for novelties, and mostly just curious, as well as just wanting to have a few cans as a keepsake. I stopped by three different liquor stores while running errands today, and the first one was completely dry of Four Loko; the shopkeeper telling me that the FDA banned it outright. The second store I went to had only Watermelon flavored ones, so I bought a couple cans, one to keep, the others to try/share, and had a spirited conversation with the girl behind the counter about the Four Loko craze, and how it had been selling fairly well as of recently, likely for the same reasons that I was buying mine. And then the last liquor store I swung by, happened to have a better variety, and I got two cans each of berry and orange, and the last can of fruit punch.
For all I know, this stuff might not go extinct, or it just might. Demand, and the subsequent profits that could be had from meeting it are a hard thing to ignore in this capitalist world, so it’s hard to believe that Four Loko will truly go extinct. But in the event that it does, I’m glad to say that I have my souvenirs of the ride, and I don’t know when, but I’ll look forward to when I can sample these drinks of supposed death.
The sky is crisp and clear, and the stars are scattered throughout up above. I crane my head up to the night sky, keeping in my line of sight the tops of the trees, with diminishing leaves, along with the sky. Slowly and deeply, I inhale and exhale, watching the visibility of my own breaths. It is quiet outside, except for the light sounds of dog feet grazing in the grass as they sniff about, doing their business. It’s chilly outside, but I do not feel cold, being sufficiently clothed, dressed in layers, wearing gloves. Breath, after breath, I watch my breaths take shape, and vanish into thin air. And then I realize that the dogs are done, and I should probably go inside, and curious to why I feel so compelled to write about it.
Maybe because it’s because I’m not doing Nanowrimo this year, or maybe it’s that I’ve got a lot of jumbled thoughts swirling around in my own head that even I can’t comprehend just yet that is seeking some sort of expressive outlet. Or maybe it’s the three pints of Guinness talking. Who the fuck knows, but it still feels really solitary out there, sometimes.
