(or why I had to inevitably call off my affair with booze.) This isn’t really meant to brag or be funny, (but it will be to some) but more of a learning experience and release for me. Think of it as a PSA for knowing your limits. I don’t hate booze, matter of fact I loved it, a little too much. But I was never able to find a happy medium, and I have way too many tendencies to "act out" I’ll leave out the dozen or so times I was tossed for silly things like trying to stick my head under the beer tap, urinating in inappropriate places, or verbally assaulting bar maidens. (But I am still sorry ’bout that stuff too.)
The first instance I remember wasn’t a bar at all.(Sorry for the misleading title) But it was a public place, and I was a dick head, so it works. I was 16 at the time, and my friend John got his hands on a bottle of So Co. I was a gas pumper and he picked me up from work. I mention this because I remember the way the gas fumes mixed with the sweet southern whiskey to produce an even more intoxicating aroma. My first shot was more like 5, and we went to play some music at a friend’s house. My buddy Angelo told me that I sang better when I was drunk, so I attacked him. I was doused with ice water and told to leave immediately. At the time John and I had a stolen CD racket. I was quite the little klepto, and wanted to profit from it. (That’s another repentance blog for another time.) But John had the bright idea to go collect a debt from one of our best customers, some guy Dan. Well Dan decided to not pay the quite fair $8 we charged, but $5 instead. Half the bottle of Janis Joplin killer was now gone, so I beat him with a pool stick, and was carried out. Later that evening I was actually "thrown in" a party for trying to pick a fight with an entire apartment building.
I’m not really trying to go in chronological order here, so I’ll be skipping around some. I lived in New Brunswick for a few years, and spent a lot of time in bars. There were so many places that showed me the door. The one that really sticks out was called North Star. I frequented it often as it was right next to the restaurant I cooked for. They had a raw bar right up on the bar, and the more drunk I got the more I told the bartender I was "gonna eat dem scrimps". Needless to say when he turned his back, I grabbed a fist full of jumbo shrimp. The thing I didn’t realize at the time was that they left those things sitting out all day, and even though I was drunk, I could tell those little salty pieces of crustacean shoe leather were no good. I decided to spit them out, and dispose of them in the garbage can that I thought was in front of me. Unfortunately it was a counter top. Some time later as I was trying to convince some girl to do something she would never do, the bartender walked up to me with a plate of half chewed decapoda carideas.
"Eric you’re going to have to pay for these." He said utterly displeased.
"Why the fuck would I pay for those nasty things?"
"Because you ate them."
"No I didn’t, no one ate them. It looks like someone knew that them things were nasty as fuck, and got rid of them before they could get him sick."
"How would you know they were nasty, if you didn’t eat them?"
"Because you’re a douche."
On the way home, my buddy Steve and I came across some meat head frat boy fucks. One of them yelled, "That girls a whore!" In my drunken state, I had no choice but to agree. All four of them puffed their chests out like retarded peacocks, as I urged Steve to light me a cigarette. "Now’s not really the time to relax Eric." Steve’s voice was all kinds of shaky. "Just give me a fucking stoag dude." And I began to get it nice and cherried. One of the guys pushed poor Steve even though he was merely an innocent bystander. It was conveniently recycling night, and I had a bucket of ammo by the waist side. It took me three throws to get it right and nail one in the back of the head making that cool ding noise. It was at this time that Steve looked like the road runner, legs spinning in place before they made contact with the road. He shouted, "Let’s get the fuck outta here man."
"Nah I got this man." I was such a fool I started to bob and weave with my smoke hanging out of my mouth before they even walked up to me. The biggest one walked up to me rubbing his head, and telegraphed his punch so badly that even though I saw two of him I was easily able to dodge it. I then proceeded to flick that cigarette in his face. Good move right? Yeah but instead of following it up with a punch, a kick, or running away…I giggled, and turned to see if Steve saw my ninja like skills. I turned just in time to see one of his boys behind me. He kicked me in the back of the legs, forcing into an execution kneel in front of the guy clearing my burning embers out of his face. Now would have been the time to curl in a ball, or yell for help, anything besides hysterically laughing and trying to give these idiots sneaker wedgies as they kicked my face and body. But of course I went with the latter.
Another New Brunswick evening was strange for me, as I’m not sure if I was kicked out or not. Angelo and I went to some "club" night at a bar that had $1 red death shots. I usually don’t black out, but I sure did that night. The end result was me waking up to the girlfriend I was staying with screaming at me to go get my clothes. I followed a trail of discarded garments down the stairs, and out her front door. What was really strange was that my shoes, socks, and pants up to the knees were soaking wet. Really sopping, as if I had wondered to the river and played drunken John the Baptist to a bunch of crack heads and bums.
Then there was Colorado. I was banned from more establishments here, then any other state. I’ll try to give just the highlights as no one is probably reading this anymore out of disgust.
I was quite fond of exposing myself for some reason, and did it on multiple occasions. Once thinking that it would actually turn on the haggard middle aged woman that I had somehow convinced to make out with me… It didn’t, and neither did it turn on the bartender who promptly ejected me from the premises.
I was then banned from a blues jam open mic night for making fun of some lady’s dated sweater vest so badly that she cried, and her boyfriend tried to fight me.
"Hey you dirty hippy with the pullover,
You’re alright with me.
Hey you yuppy with the sports coat,
You’re alright with me.
But you bitch with the sweater vest,
Looks like 1983."
Even though I was banned from that blues jam, they were stupid enough to actually let me back in the bar. One night I managed to get booted twice. Once for putting my cigarette out on my tongue after being told I was in the non smoking section. I proceeded to run home, change, put a hat on, got back in, and got thrown out again for trying to light some rocker dudes torn jeans as he obliviously tried to get some poor college girl to brush his hair or listen to his poetry/demo or some shit.
Back in New Jersey things were no better. I ended my tenure at one of my favorite establishments because of some prick named Jonah. He pissed me off one to many times, by being an arrogant jerk off. Consistently a loud mouth, poor tipper, the poor lad came face to face with the demon. A little fella named Jamison encouraged me to take the top off a salt shaker, fill my mouth with the contents, pull Jonah’s head back via his nostrils, and release the mixture all about his face and mouth. No one was pleased about that idea.
I went to go watch a co-worker loose a bartending competition by taking his shirt off like a stripper and lighting the bar on fire. Some poor schlep wanted to compliment me on my hat or some shit, and my response was to take a bite out of a 32 oz. beer glass. "Holy shit man…that was amazing. You gotta show my friend that. Stay here I’ll be right back." Well I’m no dancing monkey, and that wasn’t really the response I was looking for. So I decided to make a few small cuts in my arm just to get the blood flowing. When they returned, I clapped my hands together just hard enough to cover them. The friend puked, and I was carried out the door.
I had met a couple that was interested in doing some recording, and we decided to stop at a sports bar for a few drinks before going to their studio. Poor people had no idea who they were with. As we were leaving I said, "Hold on I have to do something real fast." I nonchalantly walked up to this poor big fat guy, climbed up on his stool, and began to vigorously hump the shit out of him. It took a good ten seconds for any of his friends to react, and there wasn’t really much they could do without an exorcist, but some poor sap in a pink shirt managed to get my attention. I decided to teach him to wear pink, and dove on top of him. By the time the bouncers pried me off the Miami Vice reject, the couple was gone, never to be seen again. (Sorry guys.)
The whole loosing inhibitions under the influence really rings true for me. I was working many hours in a kitchen, and finally had a night off. Before going to a girlfriend’s dorm, I decided to go to an overpriced bar, and pay way too much for some scotch. About 6 drinks in I realized how late it was getting, and I was hungry. I grabbed a sandwich from the grease trucks, and started walking to the girls place. During my hike I watched some people walk out of their apartment and drop the key in mailbox. I guess I was tired of walking, and eating, so I let myself in. I watched Ace Ventura as I ate my chicken sandwich, washed my plate and was about to leave when I noticed a cd rack. I saw some ridiculous cd like whale sounds or something, and was appalled. I went through the collection and removed any disks that I deemed unfit for human ears, and wrapped them in news paper. I then wrote a note: "I took the liberty of liberating your cd collection from embarrassing selections. No thanks necessary, E" I then had the bright Idea to give the package to the girl I was going to see. Pretty sure I got kicked outta there too…Guess she didn’t like "The songs from the rain forest."
I think I need to end part 1 here, as I’m thoroughly disgusted with myself, as I’m sure anyone reading this is as well. It feels good to put it all behind me, and keep my feet out of the gutter. Next time I’m feeling bad about it, I’ll write part 2: in which Eric gets kicked out of a party, and exacts revenge with a pair of fire extinguishers.
