When I fall, it's usually hard.

[Firstly, thanks for all those kind compliments regarding my new userpic. Secondly, I'm warning you now, this might the first of several posts today. I'm feeling pretty damn verbose.]

This weekend I consumed more alcohol than usual. Which is to say, still very little. Even in the days when I was drinking socially more often, I still didn't drink much, or at least my tolerance was pretty high so I felt about the same after one drink as I did after five drinks and I didn't like to press my luck by going to the next level. There are certainly recent exceptions to this rule, including not only my holiday cocktail party last December but also the post-xmas party at wearemany's in San Fran. This incident was particularly stupid since my drunkeness induced a relapse in my influenza that escalated to large infections and general unwellness.

But Friday night I found myself at Red Rooster underneath the Argyle stop and this bar dabbled dangerously close to perfection in the category of bars. And despite having just consumed a large meal at Angel's (home of my all-time favorite bleucheesebrugers), I was pretty toasty after two rounds of OldStyle cups of jack&coke. I almost forgot what it felt like. Foreign and not uncomfortable. Luckily I could keep my mind on other things like the pleasure of vimandvigor's company. Then I sobered up at some point during the two-hour phone conversation with Shana that ended at 3 am. Though I was still doing that drunk-acting thing where I'm tired and know I should stop talking but I keep introducing new topics of conversation.

I mix a mean cocktail. I make drinks that taste delicious and knock your ass on the floor. Luckily no serious consequences have come of this when I do this at parties for friends and families and co-workers. So when Damon came over on Saturday after a rough week that culminated in an even rougher day, he requested something spicy to go with our dinner of cheesesteaks. I happily obliged. He had two, I had one and a half. Between his stress and my cigarettes, then a 45-minute-long-train-and-bus-ride combo to get to the Chicago Kings show, we weren't feeling any effect of the alcohol. We were also both a little cranky, though managed to loosen up after meeting and greeting fabulous friends and new acquaintances. Or at least I was. I don't think he was miserable, though he did leave early in part because he was helping a friend move in the morning.

Once again, long after the alcohol had been metabolized by my body, my brain was in a strangely relaxed and lucid state as if I was influenced. I felt slightly horny, chatty, dancey, mellow, and several times in the evening I found myself thinking "man, normally ___(whatever was happening at that moment____ would bug the hell out of me, but I seem to be enjoying myself greatly."

The next morning I work up with ridiculous low blood sugar, a headache, and being super dehydrated. All symptoms as if I had been tossing back highballers all night, though the only thing I was hitting was the big orange cooler of ice water. I did smoke a couple Marlboro reds begged off gmd15 after running out of my Camel Special Lights, so perhaps I can blame that.

I'm fixated on this because I'm generally fascinated by psychosomatic phenomenon, particularly my own. Like when you want to cancel plans but feel guilty about it, then your throat starts hurting and you feel tired, so you call and make the decision to cancel, and as soon as you hang up your throat is better. Except you know what? I do the exact opposite. I call in to work and say "sorry I have a migraine, can't come in" when in reality I just need a mental health day. But then after I hang up the phone I'll feel ill. My guilt of the lie manifests in such a way to make it NOT a lie.

My perception of drinking in clubs has also changed since DJing. I don't and can't and won't drink while spinning. I used to sometimes treat is like designated driving and I've had maybe one beverage in the beginning, but now I just keep the water and the vitamin-infused water type products close to my lighter and ashtray. My stamina is better when I'm just riding adrenaline, and there are too many potential accidents that can happen in an evening, I really don't want to feel drunk and out of control when the mixer comes unplugged or ungrounded.

Besides, the music itself is often intoxicating enough for me. Though maybe I'm just biased towards my own sets, since it's not usually the case at other places. Which just adds to my desire that if I could go dancing at a club where I'm spinning, and I would be a person that went out all the time. I'm narcissistic that way.

But now you've disappeared somewhere like outer space

miss
v. missed, miss·ing, miss·es
v. tr.

( My drag name will be Miss Miriam Webster )

Believed he was lucky.

He doesn't usually jaywalk, not because of some sort of internal safety code or sense of propriety, but more because he's lazy. Dodging cars requires a certain amount of attention he can't spare early in the morning or late at night or in the afternoon when preoccupied with getting to lunch in a timely fashion.

He always looks both ways before stepping onto the asphalt, but looking is sometimes a misnomer because while his head may turn and his eyes are pointed in the direction, no visual input seems to make it into his brain. It only took once incident of him stepping out in front of a speeding car while looking at it to break his reliance on a childhood habit that no longer served him.

Today he noticed the person next to him look, then step out, so he took the extra spot of effort to pay attention. Sure enough all the cars were a block away and stopped at that light, leaving plenty of time to walk across with no rushing. He turn his head to the right as well, because even though it was one-way street, there was a traffic cop on that side who might yell at him. She didn't.

He noticed that the bank in front of him had no time/temperature sign out front so he began circling his gaze around to find the hour elsewhere. He glanced nervously again to make sure no cars were speeding towards him in the crosswalk, anxious to make the yellow light, even at the expense of his legs staying intact. Still no threat.

Something cold brushed against his thigh and then a trickling sensation creeped down his leg. He was so startled he didn't dare look down for fear of what was causing the sensation. Suddenly he heard tinkling and more objects slid down his leg -- he finally looked down to see glints of light roll off his boot and get kicked across the street. Apparently he had a hole in the front pocket of his pants that caused no problems for the first 9/10 of his commute, but in this moment he lost an entire pocketful of change, sans quarters which were carefully removed and stacked on the dresser the night before for future laundry loads. It couldn't have been more than two dollars and strangely he made no attempts to bend down and catch even a dime. Instead he just continued walking, as if nothing was happening to in his pants or to his recently freed money. If anyone figured out the cause of the minute forture in the crosswalk, they didn't learn it from his face.

Hours later at lunch he bought a sandwich that cost $4.16 and had to pay all in bills. He regretted not grabbing at least a few small coins.