"Tobacco and alcohol, delicious fathers of abiding friendships and fertile reveries."
Sunday, February 28, 2010
A Quote From Luis Buñuel
"Tobacco and alcohol, delicious fathers of abiding friendships and fertile reveries."
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Anti Drinking Ads May Increase Alcohol Use
This does not come as a surprise to me at all. It is nice to see, however, that the notion of promoting "controlled" drinking is finally gaining some acceptance. The article is from Medical News Today and was posted this morning. The source is Indiana University.
Public service advertising campaigns that use guilt or shame to warn against alcohol abuse can actually have the reverse effect, spurring increased drinking among target audiences, according to new research from the Indiana University Kelley School of Business.
Instead of the intended outcome, researchers in this first-of-its-kind study showed that the ads triggered an innate coping mechanism that enables viewers to distance themselves from the serious consequences of reckless drinking.
Anti- or "responsible" drinking campaigns have long been a mainstay of health departments, nonprofit organizations and even beverage companies. Yet alcohol abuse remains a persistent and growing problem linked to the deaths of approximately 79,000 people in the United States each year.
"The public health and marketing communities expend considerable effort and capital on these campaigns but have long suspected they were less effective than hoped," said Adam Duhachek, a marketing professor and co-author of the study. "But the situation is worse than wasted money or effort. These ads ultimately may do more harm than good because they have the potential to spur more of the behavior they're trying to prevent."
Duhachek's research specifically explores anti-drinking ads that link to the many possible adverse results of alcohol abuse, such as blackouts and car accidents, while eliciting feelings of shame and guilt. Findings show such messages are too difficult to process among viewers already experiencing these emotions -- for example, those who already have alcohol-related transgressions.
To cope, they adopt a defensive mindset that allows them to underestimate their susceptibility to the consequences highlighted in the ads; that is, that the consequences happen only to "other people." The result is they engage in greater amounts of irresponsible drinking, according to respondents.
"Advertisements are capable of bringing forth feelings so unpleasant that we're compelled to eliminate them by whatever means possible," said Duhachek. "This motivation is sufficiently strong to convince us we're immune to certain risks."
The findings are particularly relevant for U.S. universities, where alcohol abuse threatens the well-being of an entire generation, he said. Each year, drinking among college students contributes to an estimated 1,700 student deaths, 600,000 injuries, 700,000 assaults, 90,000 sexual assaults and 474,000 cases of unprotected sex.
The unintended negative impact of employing shame and guilt in these ads has implications for a wider range of health related messaging, from smoking cessation to preventing sexually transmitted diseases. According to Duhachek, shame- and guilt-inducing campaigns that seek to curb these behaviors can have the same unintentional backfire effects.
Duhachek encourages marketers looking to influence drinking and other behaviors to convey dire consequences along with messages of empowerment. For instance, providing strategies to control one's drinking or recalling instances where one resisted the temptation to engage in risky drinking behavior may provide a pathway to reducing these undesirable behaviors more effectively.
"If you're going to communicate a frightening scenario, temper it with the idea that it's avoidable," he said. "It's best to use the carrot along with the stick."
Duhachek developed the study with Nidhi Agrawal at the Kellogg School of Business at Northwestern University. They interviewed more than 1,200 undergraduate students after showing them shame- and guilt-inducing advertisements, which they specifically created for the research. To ensure no biases on the part of respondents, the team opted not to rely on existing campaigns.
The resulting paper, "Emotional Compatibility and the Effectiveness of Anti-Drinking Messages: A Defensive Processing Perspective on Shame and Guilt" is forthcoming in the Journal of Marketing Research.
Public service advertising campaigns that use guilt or shame to warn against alcohol abuse can actually have the reverse effect, spurring increased drinking among target audiences, according to new research from the Indiana University Kelley School of Business.
Instead of the intended outcome, researchers in this first-of-its-kind study showed that the ads triggered an innate coping mechanism that enables viewers to distance themselves from the serious consequences of reckless drinking.
Anti- or "responsible" drinking campaigns have long been a mainstay of health departments, nonprofit organizations and even beverage companies. Yet alcohol abuse remains a persistent and growing problem linked to the deaths of approximately 79,000 people in the United States each year.
"The public health and marketing communities expend considerable effort and capital on these campaigns but have long suspected they were less effective than hoped," said Adam Duhachek, a marketing professor and co-author of the study. "But the situation is worse than wasted money or effort. These ads ultimately may do more harm than good because they have the potential to spur more of the behavior they're trying to prevent."
Duhachek's research specifically explores anti-drinking ads that link to the many possible adverse results of alcohol abuse, such as blackouts and car accidents, while eliciting feelings of shame and guilt. Findings show such messages are too difficult to process among viewers already experiencing these emotions -- for example, those who already have alcohol-related transgressions.
To cope, they adopt a defensive mindset that allows them to underestimate their susceptibility to the consequences highlighted in the ads; that is, that the consequences happen only to "other people." The result is they engage in greater amounts of irresponsible drinking, according to respondents.
"Advertisements are capable of bringing forth feelings so unpleasant that we're compelled to eliminate them by whatever means possible," said Duhachek. "This motivation is sufficiently strong to convince us we're immune to certain risks."
The findings are particularly relevant for U.S. universities, where alcohol abuse threatens the well-being of an entire generation, he said. Each year, drinking among college students contributes to an estimated 1,700 student deaths, 600,000 injuries, 700,000 assaults, 90,000 sexual assaults and 474,000 cases of unprotected sex.
The unintended negative impact of employing shame and guilt in these ads has implications for a wider range of health related messaging, from smoking cessation to preventing sexually transmitted diseases. According to Duhachek, shame- and guilt-inducing campaigns that seek to curb these behaviors can have the same unintentional backfire effects.
Duhachek encourages marketers looking to influence drinking and other behaviors to convey dire consequences along with messages of empowerment. For instance, providing strategies to control one's drinking or recalling instances where one resisted the temptation to engage in risky drinking behavior may provide a pathway to reducing these undesirable behaviors more effectively.
"If you're going to communicate a frightening scenario, temper it with the idea that it's avoidable," he said. "It's best to use the carrot along with the stick."
Duhachek developed the study with Nidhi Agrawal at the Kellogg School of Business at Northwestern University. They interviewed more than 1,200 undergraduate students after showing them shame- and guilt-inducing advertisements, which they specifically created for the research. To ensure no biases on the part of respondents, the team opted not to rely on existing campaigns.
The resulting paper, "Emotional Compatibility and the Effectiveness of Anti-Drinking Messages: A Defensive Processing Perspective on Shame and Guilt" is forthcoming in the Journal of Marketing Research.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Honest Addict, Chapter Eighteen
18
Peter was somewhere in the middle of Fresno County when the pungent odor of cow shit hit him in the face. Although the Jag was enveloped in an inky darkness on the moonless night, Peter knew he was only a few miles from the Harris Ranch, which is located with its thousands of cows just off Interstate 5. He rued the nighttime, as he had in the past enjoyed seeing the mass of animals as he drove by. On a seemingly endless and very boring road, it had on previous trips been a welcomed distraction.
Just as his olfactory senses had finished grappling with and were becoming even pleased by the scent which was spreading from the ranch, Peter’s mind wandered over a number of anxieties which he had been avoiding since that day which seemed so long ago, when he believed he had severed all ties with the life he was leading. What was awaiting him back in the Bay Area? Would he begin working again? He knew that financial management as an avenue of employment was out of the question, though he would have gotten back in the business in a second if Caroline had desired it. But could he really change fields? What else did he know how to do at this point? A part of him thought he would take a job at Starbucks or Blockbuster Video just to fill the time. What difference did it make, anyway? It wasn’t about the money – at least not in the immediate future – but rather was a question of ethics.
The hum of the road became a focal point in his mind and caused Peter to slip for several minutes into an unplanned meditation. At some point during this time the revelation descended on him. Its power was overwhelming.
It had always been there, since the first day he could remember. A force, a presence, an intelligence, a love: it didn’t matter if you called it God, Creator, Jehovah, Rah or the “Universal Consciousness.” And it didn’t matter if you believed in it or not. It had always been there, inside and outside of him, at every moment, everywhere. It was there now. He could sense it. He could even taste it in the flavor of compost on his tongue.
It had been there when Carol was dying and when Jeanette was passed out drunk; it was there in fancy restaurants, in the flesh of the creatures that had been killed to satiate the insatiable American diner; it was there at four in the morning when the cocaine party was just kicking into high gear; it was in the eyes of the abject gambler who had lost it all again; it was on cold street corners in the heart of the desperate bum; it was at the track; it was in bars and at the bottom of glasses; it was in the chemical residue that coated the inside of Caroline’s beloved pipe; it was inhaled in cigarette smoke; it was present in the gray dust that remains when we die. There was nowhere it was not.
For a moment Peter was outside of himself, raised high above the everyday by the thought’s potency. The answer had been transmitted and was understood. But as is almost always the case with moments of clarity, it slipped like a small pool of water slowly through his fingers, despite the fact his hands were tightly cupped. And in a matter of only a few moments, all was as it had been before.
He turned on the radio and got the Golden State Warriors’ game, distant though the signal was. Basketball had somehow totally slipped his mind. He wished he had the cell phone so he could check out the second half line. There was nothing like driving through the night and listening to a game when you had money riding.
Jeanette’s face entered his thoughts. He would call her soon, maybe tomorrow. Even knowing that some difficulty was waiting for him at the other end of this idea, he was excited, even thrilled about the prospect. And then he knew that he wanted it that way, and this too had always been the case.
But he would have to get his cell. That was clearly the first priority. This meant he would have to go to Violet’s house immediately upon arrival.
And he wanted to get high so badly.
And he knew that the pattern was to be repeated over again and would probably be repeated yet another time and again after that. He wondered if it was all a mistake, or if it was his fault, a crucial flaw in character. He wondered if things would ever change, then told himself that they wouldn’t. And he was both cheered and distressed by this thought. But these musings were interrupted when heard the announcer on the radio call out: “And the buzzer sounds. At the end of a very entertaining half of basketball the score is tied Golden State 55, Washington 55. Stay tuned for the halftime show and a wrap up of all today’s NBA action.”
He pulled the car off the freeway and into the parking lot of a Shell station and ran inside. The attendant gave him quarters in exchange for a five dollar bill, insisting however that his customer purchase a box of Tic-Tacs to consummate the transaction. He went outside and fed change into the pay phone: two dollars and seventy-five cents for a three minute call. The phone rang four times and he almost lost heart. Finally, the voice appeared magically at the other end.
“Who is this?”
“Mark, don’t hang up. It’s Peter.”
“Oh, hey man. Long time since I heard from you. You missed the playoffs, you bastard.”
“I know. I’ve been out of touch for a while.”
“How can I help you, my friend?”
Peter’s heart raced in the split second before he said the words. “I need to get some action on the game.”
THE END
Peter was somewhere in the middle of Fresno County when the pungent odor of cow shit hit him in the face. Although the Jag was enveloped in an inky darkness on the moonless night, Peter knew he was only a few miles from the Harris Ranch, which is located with its thousands of cows just off Interstate 5. He rued the nighttime, as he had in the past enjoyed seeing the mass of animals as he drove by. On a seemingly endless and very boring road, it had on previous trips been a welcomed distraction.
Just as his olfactory senses had finished grappling with and were becoming even pleased by the scent which was spreading from the ranch, Peter’s mind wandered over a number of anxieties which he had been avoiding since that day which seemed so long ago, when he believed he had severed all ties with the life he was leading. What was awaiting him back in the Bay Area? Would he begin working again? He knew that financial management as an avenue of employment was out of the question, though he would have gotten back in the business in a second if Caroline had desired it. But could he really change fields? What else did he know how to do at this point? A part of him thought he would take a job at Starbucks or Blockbuster Video just to fill the time. What difference did it make, anyway? It wasn’t about the money – at least not in the immediate future – but rather was a question of ethics.
The hum of the road became a focal point in his mind and caused Peter to slip for several minutes into an unplanned meditation. At some point during this time the revelation descended on him. Its power was overwhelming.
It had always been there, since the first day he could remember. A force, a presence, an intelligence, a love: it didn’t matter if you called it God, Creator, Jehovah, Rah or the “Universal Consciousness.” And it didn’t matter if you believed in it or not. It had always been there, inside and outside of him, at every moment, everywhere. It was there now. He could sense it. He could even taste it in the flavor of compost on his tongue.
It had been there when Carol was dying and when Jeanette was passed out drunk; it was there in fancy restaurants, in the flesh of the creatures that had been killed to satiate the insatiable American diner; it was there at four in the morning when the cocaine party was just kicking into high gear; it was in the eyes of the abject gambler who had lost it all again; it was on cold street corners in the heart of the desperate bum; it was at the track; it was in bars and at the bottom of glasses; it was in the chemical residue that coated the inside of Caroline’s beloved pipe; it was inhaled in cigarette smoke; it was present in the gray dust that remains when we die. There was nowhere it was not.
For a moment Peter was outside of himself, raised high above the everyday by the thought’s potency. The answer had been transmitted and was understood. But as is almost always the case with moments of clarity, it slipped like a small pool of water slowly through his fingers, despite the fact his hands were tightly cupped. And in a matter of only a few moments, all was as it had been before.
He turned on the radio and got the Golden State Warriors’ game, distant though the signal was. Basketball had somehow totally slipped his mind. He wished he had the cell phone so he could check out the second half line. There was nothing like driving through the night and listening to a game when you had money riding.
Jeanette’s face entered his thoughts. He would call her soon, maybe tomorrow. Even knowing that some difficulty was waiting for him at the other end of this idea, he was excited, even thrilled about the prospect. And then he knew that he wanted it that way, and this too had always been the case.
But he would have to get his cell. That was clearly the first priority. This meant he would have to go to Violet’s house immediately upon arrival.
And he wanted to get high so badly.
And he knew that the pattern was to be repeated over again and would probably be repeated yet another time and again after that. He wondered if it was all a mistake, or if it was his fault, a crucial flaw in character. He wondered if things would ever change, then told himself that they wouldn’t. And he was both cheered and distressed by this thought. But these musings were interrupted when heard the announcer on the radio call out: “And the buzzer sounds. At the end of a very entertaining half of basketball the score is tied Golden State 55, Washington 55. Stay tuned for the halftime show and a wrap up of all today’s NBA action.”
He pulled the car off the freeway and into the parking lot of a Shell station and ran inside. The attendant gave him quarters in exchange for a five dollar bill, insisting however that his customer purchase a box of Tic-Tacs to consummate the transaction. He went outside and fed change into the pay phone: two dollars and seventy-five cents for a three minute call. The phone rang four times and he almost lost heart. Finally, the voice appeared magically at the other end.
“Who is this?”
“Mark, don’t hang up. It’s Peter.”
“Oh, hey man. Long time since I heard from you. You missed the playoffs, you bastard.”
“I know. I’ve been out of touch for a while.”
“How can I help you, my friend?”
Peter’s heart raced in the split second before he said the words. “I need to get some action on the game.”
THE END
Friday, February 19, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Honest Addict, Chapter Seventeen
17
And so the following afternoon he went to the Day’s Inn, checked out, and moved his scant possessions into the home of his new girlfriend. It is hard to describe their lifestyle and initial joy in any other way than to call it “playing house.” Each of them had long been a stranger to the world of cohabitation, and had grown accustomed to their privacy and the many quirks of solitude. But at first they were both so happy to be involved in what was, on the surface anyway, a “typical” relationship, that they fell headlong into a bliss that lasted a good three weeks.
Monday through Friday Caroline would go to work and, instead of going straight to the bar afterwards, would come home, where Peter would be cooking a meal to the best of his limited ability: spaghetti, salad, French bread, for instance. They would open a bottle of wine and talk about her day. For each of them it was an activity, a way of life that reflected their vision of what healthy people did with their evenings. She even talked about hosting a dinner party and inviting some of her coworkers.
On the weekends – and yes, also some of the weekdays – they would of course get trashed at the bar, at restaurants or the Turf club, which she had taken a liking to for its white tablecloths and food which she described as “hotel quality.” But from their shared perspective these outings were only simple indulgence. Everybody was entitled to have a good time now and again. And, because they had curtailed their habitual drinking by at least a third, it felt as if they were living the clean life. For Peter particularly this was so, since he had not touched a drug since his late-night excursion with Pepper. This marked a remarkably long stretch of abstinence for him. Once, he even referred to his new way of life as “going sober.”
To add to this sense of normalcy they went one Sunday to the Getty Museum, which they both admired for its architecture and stunning view of the city, though they agreed that the collection itself was a disappointment. On another evening, they took in a film at the local strip mall cinema multiplex: a Bruckheimeresque action offering with a handsome protagonist fighting the forces of evil in a daring attempt to rescue his beautiful woman. It was horrible drivel, the definition of mediocrity, the kind of movie Peter had always stood firmly against. But for some reason he enjoyed it to no end. Later he realized it was because he knew she had really liked it.
Toward the end of the third week they were at home finishing a dinner of crab cakes, mashed potatoes and broccoli when Caroline fell silent for a long spell. Peter was concerned.
“What is it, babe?”
“There’s something I need to tell you. It’s kind of awkward.”
“There’s nothing you can’t tell me,” he replied with a thoughtless confidence.
“Promise me you won’t find this strange.”
“Okay, I promise.”
“I have a dead guy in my closet.”
A sense of dread came over him as he pondered what she had just said. Then he began laughing as the absurdity of his fears settled in. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She walked out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. When she returned she was holding a large cardboard box. She opened it and began placing the contents on the table one by one: a pair of men’s boxers, a large hunting knife, a comb, a policeman’s billy club and several framed photographs of a determined, rugged looking guy in various poses and locations.
“This is what you’re worried about?” Peter asked. “You keep a box of memories from some old boyfriend. So what?”
Caroline then removed the last object inside the box: a silver urn. She unlatched the top of the vessel and removed the top, exposing the grey dust inside, the last remnants of the poor sap’s life.
“He was the last person – maybe the only person – I ever loved,” she said, her voice distant and detached. “He fell off a fifteenth storey deck on New Years Eve four years ago. The way it happened was so fucking stupid I can’t even explain it. One minute he was dancing, twirling around, and then… I watched him as he tumbled head over heels toward the traffic below. Maybe I was just high, but the fall seemed to last for several minutes. There’s not a day that has gone by when I don’t think of that moment.”
“Jesus,” Peter replied, dumbstruck. “I really don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me to get rid of him.”
“Excuse me?”
“Demand that I throw all these things away. Make me. I have to let go…” she said, her voice trailing off.
Peter had never seen Caroline behave in this manner, and in a way he didn’t like it. “I don’t know that I can do that,” he replied, not totally sure why he was responding this way.
“Take these things away from me and throw them in some dumpster where I’ll never see them again.” Her words were desperate but her voice did not waver.
“If you are asking me to do this, I will. Say it one more time.”
“No.” Her cold countenance betrayed no inner emotion.
He was visibly frustrated. “What the hell do you want me to do?”
“Fuck it,” she said as she packed the objects back into the box. “It’s not that important anyway.”
But Peter knew that the opposite was true.
***
That marked the beginning of the end of it, even though it took a little while for the reality to become apparent to him. For the first few days she was simply distant and different, though he could not quite put his finger on it. After this introductory period, however, she became openly hostile and mocking of him, doing everything conceivable to sabotage his capacity to love her. Sometimes it was just little things: displays of discomfort by his presence in what was, after all, her home, little naggings he knew were directed solely to harass him, the periodic shrug or exasperated sigh that said more than words.
But she used words as well. One night driving to dinner she pointed out an apartment building in the distance and remarked, “I fucked a guy there not three months ago. He was fantastic.”
Peter tried to let it slide, knowing innately that she was testing him. But it seemed the more patience he displayed the more she disdained him and would ramp up her attempts at driving him out of her life. She boldly and cruelly mocked his sexual technique, once during the act. She ripped into him for his clothes, his gambling, even his lack of immediate family. She openly accused him of stealing money from her purse, even though he had explained in some detail his relative financial comfort.
Finally, a week after Caroline had revealed the presence of her dead guy, she never came home after work. The next day Peter awoke in her bed and surmised what had happened, though he refused to take the final step to corroborate his suspicions. That day he went to the track and dropped three thousand dollars blindly, playing only long shots and hundred dollar trifectas. And he knew all the time that he was punishing himself. He just didn’t know for what.
The next morning she had still not returned. Peter stayed in bed for half an hour after awaking, staring at the dresser next to the bed. Finally he reached over and pulled out the top drawer. He felt guilty doing so, like a snoop. Inside was the ornate wood box she had shown him a month earlier. He opened it up. There was nothing inside; the small glass pipe was gone. He felt no anger, no resentment. But if anybody was going to be the functioning drug addict in this relationship, he thought, it was going to be him. And so he knew that his time in Los Angeles had expired.
And so the following afternoon he went to the Day’s Inn, checked out, and moved his scant possessions into the home of his new girlfriend. It is hard to describe their lifestyle and initial joy in any other way than to call it “playing house.” Each of them had long been a stranger to the world of cohabitation, and had grown accustomed to their privacy and the many quirks of solitude. But at first they were both so happy to be involved in what was, on the surface anyway, a “typical” relationship, that they fell headlong into a bliss that lasted a good three weeks.
Monday through Friday Caroline would go to work and, instead of going straight to the bar afterwards, would come home, where Peter would be cooking a meal to the best of his limited ability: spaghetti, salad, French bread, for instance. They would open a bottle of wine and talk about her day. For each of them it was an activity, a way of life that reflected their vision of what healthy people did with their evenings. She even talked about hosting a dinner party and inviting some of her coworkers.
On the weekends – and yes, also some of the weekdays – they would of course get trashed at the bar, at restaurants or the Turf club, which she had taken a liking to for its white tablecloths and food which she described as “hotel quality.” But from their shared perspective these outings were only simple indulgence. Everybody was entitled to have a good time now and again. And, because they had curtailed their habitual drinking by at least a third, it felt as if they were living the clean life. For Peter particularly this was so, since he had not touched a drug since his late-night excursion with Pepper. This marked a remarkably long stretch of abstinence for him. Once, he even referred to his new way of life as “going sober.”
To add to this sense of normalcy they went one Sunday to the Getty Museum, which they both admired for its architecture and stunning view of the city, though they agreed that the collection itself was a disappointment. On another evening, they took in a film at the local strip mall cinema multiplex: a Bruckheimeresque action offering with a handsome protagonist fighting the forces of evil in a daring attempt to rescue his beautiful woman. It was horrible drivel, the definition of mediocrity, the kind of movie Peter had always stood firmly against. But for some reason he enjoyed it to no end. Later he realized it was because he knew she had really liked it.
Toward the end of the third week they were at home finishing a dinner of crab cakes, mashed potatoes and broccoli when Caroline fell silent for a long spell. Peter was concerned.
“What is it, babe?”
“There’s something I need to tell you. It’s kind of awkward.”
“There’s nothing you can’t tell me,” he replied with a thoughtless confidence.
“Promise me you won’t find this strange.”
“Okay, I promise.”
“I have a dead guy in my closet.”
A sense of dread came over him as he pondered what she had just said. Then he began laughing as the absurdity of his fears settled in. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She walked out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. When she returned she was holding a large cardboard box. She opened it and began placing the contents on the table one by one: a pair of men’s boxers, a large hunting knife, a comb, a policeman’s billy club and several framed photographs of a determined, rugged looking guy in various poses and locations.
“This is what you’re worried about?” Peter asked. “You keep a box of memories from some old boyfriend. So what?”
Caroline then removed the last object inside the box: a silver urn. She unlatched the top of the vessel and removed the top, exposing the grey dust inside, the last remnants of the poor sap’s life.
“He was the last person – maybe the only person – I ever loved,” she said, her voice distant and detached. “He fell off a fifteenth storey deck on New Years Eve four years ago. The way it happened was so fucking stupid I can’t even explain it. One minute he was dancing, twirling around, and then… I watched him as he tumbled head over heels toward the traffic below. Maybe I was just high, but the fall seemed to last for several minutes. There’s not a day that has gone by when I don’t think of that moment.”
“Jesus,” Peter replied, dumbstruck. “I really don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me to get rid of him.”
“Excuse me?”
“Demand that I throw all these things away. Make me. I have to let go…” she said, her voice trailing off.
Peter had never seen Caroline behave in this manner, and in a way he didn’t like it. “I don’t know that I can do that,” he replied, not totally sure why he was responding this way.
“Take these things away from me and throw them in some dumpster where I’ll never see them again.” Her words were desperate but her voice did not waver.
“If you are asking me to do this, I will. Say it one more time.”
“No.” Her cold countenance betrayed no inner emotion.
He was visibly frustrated. “What the hell do you want me to do?”
“Fuck it,” she said as she packed the objects back into the box. “It’s not that important anyway.”
But Peter knew that the opposite was true.
***
That marked the beginning of the end of it, even though it took a little while for the reality to become apparent to him. For the first few days she was simply distant and different, though he could not quite put his finger on it. After this introductory period, however, she became openly hostile and mocking of him, doing everything conceivable to sabotage his capacity to love her. Sometimes it was just little things: displays of discomfort by his presence in what was, after all, her home, little naggings he knew were directed solely to harass him, the periodic shrug or exasperated sigh that said more than words.
But she used words as well. One night driving to dinner she pointed out an apartment building in the distance and remarked, “I fucked a guy there not three months ago. He was fantastic.”
Peter tried to let it slide, knowing innately that she was testing him. But it seemed the more patience he displayed the more she disdained him and would ramp up her attempts at driving him out of her life. She boldly and cruelly mocked his sexual technique, once during the act. She ripped into him for his clothes, his gambling, even his lack of immediate family. She openly accused him of stealing money from her purse, even though he had explained in some detail his relative financial comfort.
Finally, a week after Caroline had revealed the presence of her dead guy, she never came home after work. The next day Peter awoke in her bed and surmised what had happened, though he refused to take the final step to corroborate his suspicions. That day he went to the track and dropped three thousand dollars blindly, playing only long shots and hundred dollar trifectas. And he knew all the time that he was punishing himself. He just didn’t know for what.
The next morning she had still not returned. Peter stayed in bed for half an hour after awaking, staring at the dresser next to the bed. Finally he reached over and pulled out the top drawer. He felt guilty doing so, like a snoop. Inside was the ornate wood box she had shown him a month earlier. He opened it up. There was nothing inside; the small glass pipe was gone. He felt no anger, no resentment. But if anybody was going to be the functioning drug addict in this relationship, he thought, it was going to be him. And so he knew that his time in Los Angeles had expired.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Funny Tequilla Ad
This is a good spoof advertisement about drinking tequilla. Pretty damned funny. Click the link below to view.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xN0254u56Mc
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xN0254u56Mc
Addict Recommends: (Restaurant) Bombay Garden, Newark, California
There are a few problems with all you can eat Indian buffets. First, there are never enough items to choose from. Second, the naan station is only refilled every so often, and even when plentiful the bread is often stale. Third, the quality of the food is generally second rate next to plated offerings. And finally, at virtually all restaurants, the buffet is only offered at lunch, not dinner. Despite these many shortcomings, I have still eaten regularly at the Indian buffet line for as long as I’ve been an adult, and for two simple reasons: it’s cheap and I get my fill.
Unlike me, my buddy Rick won’t eat Indian or Pakistani unless it is at a buffet. He finds the portions prohibitively small and the prices ridiculously high. So forget about, for example, Shalimar for dinner when we’re in the City. He simply won’t do it. And we’ve chatted for years – fantasized, in fact – about finding that all you can eat Indian buffet for dinner. But nobody does the buffet at dinner time because, apparently, it’s not cost effective.
Imagine our surprise and elation when, after an afternoon at the Pick n’ Pull searching out parts for our respective vehicles, we encountered Bombay Garden Indian Cuisine at 5995 Mowry Avenue in Newark, California.
Featuring 35 menu items and serving buffet style for lunch and dinner, Bombay Garden is, hands down, the finest Indian buffet I have ever encountered. It defies, in every category I mentioned earlier, the stereotypical Indian buffet. There are so many items, the main problem is not getting sidetracked with all the appetizers and alluring finger foods available for consumption. The naan bread is cooked fresh, and brought to your table in a basket immediately upon sitting down, and is refilled upon request. And the quality of the food stands up in every way to the plated, sit down Indian and Pakistani restaurants I have dined at in the past.
We ordered a large Taj Majal beer to split between the two of us. (But if you are not in the mood for an alcoholic beverage, soda and tea are available on the line for no extra charge.) In our five or six visits to the buffet we enjoyed Chicken Tikka Masala, Chicken Curry, Lamb Vindaloo, Lamb Saag, Yellow Lentils, Mattar Paneer and Tandoori Chicken, among a few other items. All were fresh, hot and clean tasting. The serving area was spotless, giving me feeling of confidence that the cuisine was sanitary. For desert we enjoyed a heaping portion of mango ice cream, which was in every way delicious.
And I haven’t even discussed the impeccable service. Unlike numerous experiences at other sub-continental restaurants in the past, the servers were quick to respond to requests for beverages and bread, and were exceedingly friendly and helpful in every way, bearing wide smiles and positive attitudes.
It is important to note that the Bombay Garden franchise has several locations in the Bay Area. I have personally dined at two of the others. But only the Mowry Avenue location meets the above description and gets my recommendation. The others are, simply put, average at best.
I don’t get down to Newark very often. It’s pretty far from my home base. But I assure you, every time I’m passing through for work or going to an Oakland A’s baseball game I’m making a stop at Bombay Garden.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Honest Addict, Chapter Sixteen
16
That night they slept together at her nearby apartment. Their lovemaking was sloppy, fumbling and unfamiliar. Afterwards, she was mostly quiet; the few times she spoke it was in an offhand manner about abstract topics: work, a pair of shoes she had admired earlier in the day. He had to restrain himself from pouring his heart out on the sheets, knowing well that a misstep at this crucial juncture could lead to disaster. Of course, he consciously realized that the odds against an extended relationship growing out of this situation were long in the extreme. Still, it felt good and he wanted to savor the experience as long as it could conceivably last. When she fell asleep he watched her breathing heavily out of the corner of his eye. Then the snoring began. It kept him up most of the night.
They saw each other every day after that for a week. Mostly they met up at the bar. One night they met at a local sushi boat in Japan town. At the end of the meal they had twenty small plates stacked high in addition to four empty twenty-four ounce Sapporo beers – an impressive display of consumption which she was obviously proud of.
“Dude, you see our trophies? We fucking killed it tonight,” she remarked as the waitress approached to clear the area in front of them.
It was as if he was hearing the words for the first time in his life. Not just the exact order of the words, but their very meaning, pronunciation and significance.
At the close of their eighth night together they were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. It was close to dawn. They had been going at it for several hours on and off. He was trying to catch his breath. It was all he could do to keep up with her when she got going.
“I have something to say,” he whispered.
She was quiet for a moment, as if she knew what was coming. “Well, get on with it.”
“Either I’m staying or I’m going.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I think I’m in love with you.”
She sighed. “Tell me when you’re sure.”
“All right, I’m sure.”
She rolled over away from him, her ass and hip a smooth, rolling hill in some faraway land. “I hardly know you. You’re unemployed. We’re both irresponsible drunk children.”
“I have money.”
She turned back toward him. “How much?”
“Kind of a lot.”
“Enough for us to live on without working?”
“For a while. But ultimately no. Not to the standard with which I’m accustomed, anyway. But I could get another job. I’m considered by others to be very good at what I do.”
She fell silent for a long time, during which the shade of darkness lightened perceptibly. It would soon be morning, he thought. Finally, she spoke. “You don’t understand. There are things about me you don’t know.” She reached into a dresser next to her bed and pulled out an ornate wood box, which she opened. Inside was a tiny glass pipe. She took it out and held it in the air, staring at it reverentially.
“I stopped smoking methamphetamine seven months ago, and it’s all I can do to stay off the shit. I keep this little guy around, though. I’ve tried to get rid of it, wanted to smash it into a thousand pieces. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Obviously, I drink way too much. But that’s nothing compared to what I used to go through.”
“I do understand: better than you know,” he replied. “At least you’ve stopped. That’s more than I can say.”
“You get high?”
“Not on meth. I mean, I tried it a few times but it wasn’t my thing. I never shot up heroin, either. Couldn’t stand the idea of sticking a needle into my veins. But just about everything else has been or is fair game. And really, that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Another reason maybe I should pass on this,” she said, though he knew from her tone she didn’t mean it.
Peter looked her straight in the eye. “I’ll quit. I’ll never get high again, as long as you’re with me. I swear to you, here and now, I’ll walk away from it all if only you’ll have me. I won’t so much as take a single hit of weed.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“The best deal of my life.” And he meant every word.
“What the fuck,” she said, carefully placing the pipe back into the box and the box back into the dresser. “You can move in here if you like. I’ll make room for your things in the hall closet.”
“I don’t really have any things.”
“All the better,” she replied brusquely as she stretched and rubbed her eyes. “I’m going to call in sick to work today. We can sleep for a few hours then go out. What do you want to do?”
He thought for a moment and was trying to be creative, but ultimately could only focus on one idea. “Have you ever been to the track?”
That night they slept together at her nearby apartment. Their lovemaking was sloppy, fumbling and unfamiliar. Afterwards, she was mostly quiet; the few times she spoke it was in an offhand manner about abstract topics: work, a pair of shoes she had admired earlier in the day. He had to restrain himself from pouring his heart out on the sheets, knowing well that a misstep at this crucial juncture could lead to disaster. Of course, he consciously realized that the odds against an extended relationship growing out of this situation were long in the extreme. Still, it felt good and he wanted to savor the experience as long as it could conceivably last. When she fell asleep he watched her breathing heavily out of the corner of his eye. Then the snoring began. It kept him up most of the night.
They saw each other every day after that for a week. Mostly they met up at the bar. One night they met at a local sushi boat in Japan town. At the end of the meal they had twenty small plates stacked high in addition to four empty twenty-four ounce Sapporo beers – an impressive display of consumption which she was obviously proud of.
“Dude, you see our trophies? We fucking killed it tonight,” she remarked as the waitress approached to clear the area in front of them.
It was as if he was hearing the words for the first time in his life. Not just the exact order of the words, but their very meaning, pronunciation and significance.
At the close of their eighth night together they were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. It was close to dawn. They had been going at it for several hours on and off. He was trying to catch his breath. It was all he could do to keep up with her when she got going.
“I have something to say,” he whispered.
She was quiet for a moment, as if she knew what was coming. “Well, get on with it.”
“Either I’m staying or I’m going.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I think I’m in love with you.”
She sighed. “Tell me when you’re sure.”
“All right, I’m sure.”
She rolled over away from him, her ass and hip a smooth, rolling hill in some faraway land. “I hardly know you. You’re unemployed. We’re both irresponsible drunk children.”
“I have money.”
She turned back toward him. “How much?”
“Kind of a lot.”
“Enough for us to live on without working?”
“For a while. But ultimately no. Not to the standard with which I’m accustomed, anyway. But I could get another job. I’m considered by others to be very good at what I do.”
She fell silent for a long time, during which the shade of darkness lightened perceptibly. It would soon be morning, he thought. Finally, she spoke. “You don’t understand. There are things about me you don’t know.” She reached into a dresser next to her bed and pulled out an ornate wood box, which she opened. Inside was a tiny glass pipe. She took it out and held it in the air, staring at it reverentially.
“I stopped smoking methamphetamine seven months ago, and it’s all I can do to stay off the shit. I keep this little guy around, though. I’ve tried to get rid of it, wanted to smash it into a thousand pieces. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Obviously, I drink way too much. But that’s nothing compared to what I used to go through.”
“I do understand: better than you know,” he replied. “At least you’ve stopped. That’s more than I can say.”
“You get high?”
“Not on meth. I mean, I tried it a few times but it wasn’t my thing. I never shot up heroin, either. Couldn’t stand the idea of sticking a needle into my veins. But just about everything else has been or is fair game. And really, that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Another reason maybe I should pass on this,” she said, though he knew from her tone she didn’t mean it.
Peter looked her straight in the eye. “I’ll quit. I’ll never get high again, as long as you’re with me. I swear to you, here and now, I’ll walk away from it all if only you’ll have me. I won’t so much as take a single hit of weed.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“The best deal of my life.” And he meant every word.
“What the fuck,” she said, carefully placing the pipe back into the box and the box back into the dresser. “You can move in here if you like. I’ll make room for your things in the hall closet.”
“I don’t really have any things.”
“All the better,” she replied brusquely as she stretched and rubbed her eyes. “I’m going to call in sick to work today. We can sleep for a few hours then go out. What do you want to do?”
He thought for a moment and was trying to be creative, but ultimately could only focus on one idea. “Have you ever been to the track?”
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Ketamine Big in Canada
I found this article in the Hamilton (Ontario, Canada) Spectator, dated today. The author is Carmelina Prete.
The animal painkiller ketamine is replacing cocaine as a street drug of choice among teens, according to Hamilton police.
Typically sold as a white powder in small vials of about a gram, the drug, also known as Special K, looks like cocaine but costs a third of the price. At about $10 to $20 a vial or a "bump," it's a cheap alternative to the $50 a gram cocaine costs.
"Kids are taking this but it's certainly not just the kids," said Constable Perry Mason, a school resource officer. "It's an emerging problem in the community and schools are just a reflection of the community."
Hamilton police say the street value of cocaine has nearly doubled from $29,000 a kilogram in 2007 to $57,000 to $59,000 a kilogram today.
At the same time, the cost of designer drugs such as ecstasy and Special K dropped. Club prices were about $20 a pill in 2007. Now they're $5, police said.
Today, an ounce of cocaine costs about $1,500 whereas an ounce of ketamine goes for about $450 to $500.
Cocaine, a stimulant, and ketamine, a fast-acting and powerful anesthetic and painkiller used in veterinary and human surgery, produce different highs.
But Sue Kennedy, executive director with Alternatives For Youth, a local counselling service for youths with addictions, said it could be more about experimentation than finding a similar high.
"(It could be) kids are not even making the distinction between ketamine and cocaine. 'Who cares? I'm just going to use something to feel different to get a buzz or get high,'" she said. "Are kids necessarily making the distinction? Depending who's dealing or sharing or using, do they know what they're ingesting? Maybe, maybe not."
Ketamine, also known as K, kitty or kit-kat, is typically snorted, mixed into drinks or smoked with marijuana or tobacco. Effects are usually felt within one to 10 minutes. It can cause a drunk or dizzy feeling and vivid hallucinations.
Also sold as a clear liquid, it's commonly referred to as a date rape drug because it can be easily slipped into drinks.
Police attention was drawn to local ketamine use about a year ago after they arrested a Hamilton teen near a high school. Then they learned about a couple high school students with ketamine addiction.
"From information that the schools received and information we received, we thought this required attention," said Mason.
A two-week probe involving 12 officers, dubbed Project Garfield, led to the arrest of four teenagers who were charged with possession of marijuana. Two of them, both 17, were also charged with possession of marijuana for the purpose of trafficking.
Although none of the charges related to ketamine, Mason said the investigation led police to learn more about local ketamine use and how it's distributed.
Kennedy said counsellors at Alternatives for Youth are not seeing a marked increase in ketamine use among youths seeking counselling.
According to the 2009 Ontario Student Drug Use and Health, ketamine ranks low in popularity, with only 2.2 per cent of students in Grade 7 to 12 having used it.
The animal painkiller ketamine is replacing cocaine as a street drug of choice among teens, according to Hamilton police.
Typically sold as a white powder in small vials of about a gram, the drug, also known as Special K, looks like cocaine but costs a third of the price. At about $10 to $20 a vial or a "bump," it's a cheap alternative to the $50 a gram cocaine costs.
"Kids are taking this but it's certainly not just the kids," said Constable Perry Mason, a school resource officer. "It's an emerging problem in the community and schools are just a reflection of the community."
Hamilton police say the street value of cocaine has nearly doubled from $29,000 a kilogram in 2007 to $57,000 to $59,000 a kilogram today.
At the same time, the cost of designer drugs such as ecstasy and Special K dropped. Club prices were about $20 a pill in 2007. Now they're $5, police said.
Today, an ounce of cocaine costs about $1,500 whereas an ounce of ketamine goes for about $450 to $500.
Cocaine, a stimulant, and ketamine, a fast-acting and powerful anesthetic and painkiller used in veterinary and human surgery, produce different highs.
But Sue Kennedy, executive director with Alternatives For Youth, a local counselling service for youths with addictions, said it could be more about experimentation than finding a similar high.
"(It could be) kids are not even making the distinction between ketamine and cocaine. 'Who cares? I'm just going to use something to feel different to get a buzz or get high,'" she said. "Are kids necessarily making the distinction? Depending who's dealing or sharing or using, do they know what they're ingesting? Maybe, maybe not."
Ketamine, also known as K, kitty or kit-kat, is typically snorted, mixed into drinks or smoked with marijuana or tobacco. Effects are usually felt within one to 10 minutes. It can cause a drunk or dizzy feeling and vivid hallucinations.
Also sold as a clear liquid, it's commonly referred to as a date rape drug because it can be easily slipped into drinks.
Police attention was drawn to local ketamine use about a year ago after they arrested a Hamilton teen near a high school. Then they learned about a couple high school students with ketamine addiction.
"From information that the schools received and information we received, we thought this required attention," said Mason.
A two-week probe involving 12 officers, dubbed Project Garfield, led to the arrest of four teenagers who were charged with possession of marijuana. Two of them, both 17, were also charged with possession of marijuana for the purpose of trafficking.
Although none of the charges related to ketamine, Mason said the investigation led police to learn more about local ketamine use and how it's distributed.
Kennedy said counsellors at Alternatives for Youth are not seeing a marked increase in ketamine use among youths seeking counselling.
According to the 2009 Ontario Student Drug Use and Health, ketamine ranks low in popularity, with only 2.2 per cent of students in Grade 7 to 12 having used it.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
An Excerpt From “Aristocracy, Technology and the Illusion of Progress.”
In his forthcoming book, artist and author Clarence Doskocil (AKA Diogenes the Cynic) engages in the time-honored writing of aphorisms, following in the footsteps of such luminaries as Nietzsche, Marcus Aurelius and Francois de La Rochefoucauld. Soon to be released by Unovis Press, it is a work anxiously anticipated by The Functioning Addict. Mr. Doskocil has been kind enough to submit an appropriate maxim for our consideration here. He has our thanks.Alcohol and Narcotics as the Double-Edged Sword.
Who hasn’t felt the jolt of some type of substance, and who has not been lifted out of melancholy and depression after a few drinks or other combinations of chemical substances that have been deemed “bad” or “illegal” by the forms of external powers that we concede too much power to those that therefore try to control and attempt to refine the parameters of our lives? My theory is that these substances give us that original “jolt” of existence that we felt when the world was new to us; the unwrapping of a present on Christmas, your first bike ride with friends, or being alone in the woods without any adult supervision. As the Spanish Philosopher Ortega y Gassete said: “As adults, we loose that wondrous ability to see the world through the eyes of a child.” We are simply trying, with various success, to recapture that original hyper-intensive feeling of existence we felt when we were first learning to deal with this universe of tangibles. The flip side may be we are not structured to deal with the “newness” of experiences like we did as children. Our bodies age, yet it seems our minds get more refined, while our bodies simply cannot tolerate the effects of what these substances do to us. Our hangovers become more intense, and we find ourselves looking into the mirror after a long night or binge and find that we recognize our physical exposure to the Universe. We see the literal signs of aging and/or we feel our body craving the withdrawal back to normality and boring sobriety. We pursue the extra drinks when we know we are reaching our limits, and we try to maintain and intensify this feeling of living in the moment like we naturally did in the past when not only the world was new, but we were new.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Best Super Bowl Commercial
The Super Bowl is always good for the commercials. This year, I thought the best was the advertisement for the Kia Sorento wherein a toy robot, sock monkey, teddy bear, red monster and a furry little buddy are involved in a fantasy about what they would do with the Kia if they came to life. The scenes of them raging in Vegas are priceless. Click the link below to see the video.
http://msn.foxsports.com/video/shows/2010_super_bowl_commercials?vid=f044d9fb-692a-46d1-b394-9a23d121ef27&from=foxsports_SuperBowlAds
http://msn.foxsports.com/video/shows/2010_super_bowl_commercials?vid=f044d9fb-692a-46d1-b394-9a23d121ef27&from=foxsports_SuperBowlAds
Honest Addict, Chapter Fifteen
15
For three nights in a row he returned at six o’clock sharp, always staying until closing. It was his sole employment, the rest of his time squandered sleeping twelve hours a day, ordering delivery food and watching bad daytime television in the hotel room. One day he walked five blocks down Hollywood Boulevard to a taqueria and ate a carne asada super burrito. This was his sole departure from the newly established routine.
But she had yet to revisit the bar and it was driving him crazy. Each night her physical absence was replaced by hazy dreams in which she played a part but were always forgotten within seconds of awaking. For the first hour of every day he would lie in bed and try to recall the details of his sleeping mind, the memories always tantalizingly near yet irretrievable. It was like nothing he had ever experienced.
On the fourth day he considered looking up every Honda dealership in the greater Los Angeles area and hunting her down, but decided that was not the best course. However, a case of cabin fever had set in and he had to get out of the hotel. He pondered returning to the track, but remembered his recent failure. The thought of going to a movie crossed his mind, but he had spent too much time watching television for the cinema to provide a change in pace. He considered taking a drive, but remembered he was in Los Angeles, where driving was rarely a pleasure.
Finally he just left the room and went back to Hollywood Boulevard. Standing on the corner, staring into space, not knowing what to do, a bus pulled up on the corner and passengers began filing on and off. It seemed about as good an option as anything else, so he boarded, happy to obtain a single seat with no neighbor.
The interior was filled with the kind of beleaguered folks one would expect on a metropolitan bus line, especially in Southern California, where riding public transit is an especial symbol of poverty and social diminution. The majority of the patrons were people of color: Hispanics and a fair number of blacks. They mostly stared forward, avoiding eye contact with one another. It was a courtesy, and unspoken agreement, which the regulars knew and generally adhered to. Peter found it polite and charming.
After a while an elderly white man in a motorized chair boarded the bus with the assistance of the driver. Peter couldn’t recall what these chairs were called, but he remembered a television advertisement that he had viewed recently naming a similar brand of chair the “Jazzy.” The name and all it implied had made him sick to his stomach. There was, he believed, no jazz in spending the last days of your life rotting away in such a contraption.
“Here we go, Don,” the driver said as he strapped the chair into the appropriate area of the bus across the aisle from Peter. “You’re getting around in that thing pretty good now.”
“I drove long haul for forty years,” the elderly man replied. “It was only a matter of time before I figured this goddamned thing out.”
“Good for you,” the driver replied.
The bus continued on its journey. Peter, knowing with some trepidation that he was committing himself to a protracted interaction, engaged the man.
“So Don, you used to drive long haul, did you?”
His eyes alighted. “That’s right, young man. I covered every bit of territory in the lower forty-eight and made the run up to Alaska dozens of times.”
“I bet you’ve seen some things.”
The old-timer laughed. “I fucked more pussy on the road than you’ll ever see in your lifetime.”
Peter burst into laughter. “Did I just hear you right?”
“You did, mister. Why, once I lived in a whorehouse in Nevada for a whole month. Fucked three girls a day. Those were some wonderful times,” he added with a sigh.
Peter tried desperately to add something to the conversation. “I used to daydream about driving long haul. If my life had turned out different, I bet I would have been good at it.”
“It takes a certain kind of man. Not everybody can do it.”
“I heard that when truckers come home from the road they go crazy with a type of withdrawal. They call it road fever, if I remember correctly. You know anything about that?”
“Yes sir. That’s exactly right. When I used to come home to my wife I would only last a few days before I’d be itchin’ to get back on the road. But I’m not sure if it was road fever, cause when she started bringing her girlfriends home to me I never wanted to leave.”
“Excuse me? I didn’t get that last part.”
“After many years of marriage she realized I was getting bored, so my wife would recruit her girlfriends to come home with her and they’d both fuck me. My lord, my wife brought home so many different bitches you’d never believe it.”
“No shit.”
“I’m completely serious. I lost her to Alzheimer’s five years ago.” His voice trembled with emotion. “She was a good woman. I loved her so much.”
“How old are you now, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Seventy-eight years,” Don replied. As Peter looked over his liver-spotted face it seemed about right.
“Where you off to now?”
“I’m going to pick up a lady at her retirement home and bring her back to my place.”
“Really?”
“Yup. I still get the bitches. She came up to me the other day at a restaurant and just wouldn’t stop talking. I couldn’t even finish my meal before I promised her I’d take her on a date. Fucked her the first night – she wasn’t bad for seventy-five.”
“You are my hero,” Peter said, chuckling. “When I come back in my next life, I want to be like you.”
“Nobody like me,” he replied, shaking his head. “Nobody.”
At the next stop the driver came back and happily unleashed his passenger from captivity. Don rolled toward the hydraulic lift at the entrance of the bus with a bitter determination. Outside on the corner, there was a well dressed elderly lady clutching a purse between two white gloved hands. Her face bore an expression of hopeful anticipation.
***
It was almost nine o’clock when Peter returned to the bar. The bus ride was unexpectedly lengthy and took hours before eventually returning to the same location where he had boarded, which had made him tired and put him behind schedule. His mind too was fatigued with the events of the past several days, and he swore that this would be his last visit to the unnamed bar before leaving Los Angeles. Where would he venture to next, he wondered? It was impossible to say.
As is often the case in moments such as these, all his thoughts and plans were shattered when he saw her standing on the other side of the room. His heart rate doubled; his mouth went instantaneously dry. She was to him a shimmering vision. The last time he had encountered her he had not noticed the size of her breasts, which were heaving under a white “wife beater” that was covered with a very delicate, transparent blue shirt. Still exhorting loudly, still cackling inappropriately with her male companions, Peter realized as if for the first time the enormity of her presence. She was a goddamned Amazon.
Caroline noticed him from across the room. She excused herself from her companions and marched over to him just as he had taken his seat at the bar and was about to order a drink.
“I heard you been stalking me, dude,” she said seriously.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Tommy told me you’ve been in here every night since I met you. Is that right?”
“That is correct, yes.”
“So, you have been stalking me.”
“Hey, you told me there was nothing stopping me from coming in here,” he replied confidently. “And anyway, stalking requires my following you around surreptitiously. Now, if you had caught me slinking around the Honda dealership certainly you could accuse me of such a thing. But coming in here five nights in a row: well, that just makes me a drunk and nothing else. Which reminds me, may I buy you a drink?”
His logic being unassailable, she relented and ordered a gin and tonic from the bartender, a man Peter had never seen before.
“I would like to know: how did Tommy tell you about my comings and goings? He’s not here now and you haven’t been in since I first saw you.”
“He called me last night. We’re old friends and he looks out for me.”
“That’s good. Old friends are nice.”
“He says I should steer clear of you.”
“Why is that?”
“He says you’re strange, even for around here.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
While pulling booze from off the bottom of the glass through her straw she gave him a look that he had never seen before, appearing either intrigued or confused. Perhaps they were one and the same. Either way, Peter knew that somehow the dynamic between them had changed. And he believed he had Tommy to thank for it.
For three nights in a row he returned at six o’clock sharp, always staying until closing. It was his sole employment, the rest of his time squandered sleeping twelve hours a day, ordering delivery food and watching bad daytime television in the hotel room. One day he walked five blocks down Hollywood Boulevard to a taqueria and ate a carne asada super burrito. This was his sole departure from the newly established routine.
But she had yet to revisit the bar and it was driving him crazy. Each night her physical absence was replaced by hazy dreams in which she played a part but were always forgotten within seconds of awaking. For the first hour of every day he would lie in bed and try to recall the details of his sleeping mind, the memories always tantalizingly near yet irretrievable. It was like nothing he had ever experienced.
On the fourth day he considered looking up every Honda dealership in the greater Los Angeles area and hunting her down, but decided that was not the best course. However, a case of cabin fever had set in and he had to get out of the hotel. He pondered returning to the track, but remembered his recent failure. The thought of going to a movie crossed his mind, but he had spent too much time watching television for the cinema to provide a change in pace. He considered taking a drive, but remembered he was in Los Angeles, where driving was rarely a pleasure.
Finally he just left the room and went back to Hollywood Boulevard. Standing on the corner, staring into space, not knowing what to do, a bus pulled up on the corner and passengers began filing on and off. It seemed about as good an option as anything else, so he boarded, happy to obtain a single seat with no neighbor.
The interior was filled with the kind of beleaguered folks one would expect on a metropolitan bus line, especially in Southern California, where riding public transit is an especial symbol of poverty and social diminution. The majority of the patrons were people of color: Hispanics and a fair number of blacks. They mostly stared forward, avoiding eye contact with one another. It was a courtesy, and unspoken agreement, which the regulars knew and generally adhered to. Peter found it polite and charming.
After a while an elderly white man in a motorized chair boarded the bus with the assistance of the driver. Peter couldn’t recall what these chairs were called, but he remembered a television advertisement that he had viewed recently naming a similar brand of chair the “Jazzy.” The name and all it implied had made him sick to his stomach. There was, he believed, no jazz in spending the last days of your life rotting away in such a contraption.
“Here we go, Don,” the driver said as he strapped the chair into the appropriate area of the bus across the aisle from Peter. “You’re getting around in that thing pretty good now.”
“I drove long haul for forty years,” the elderly man replied. “It was only a matter of time before I figured this goddamned thing out.”
“Good for you,” the driver replied.
The bus continued on its journey. Peter, knowing with some trepidation that he was committing himself to a protracted interaction, engaged the man.
“So Don, you used to drive long haul, did you?”
His eyes alighted. “That’s right, young man. I covered every bit of territory in the lower forty-eight and made the run up to Alaska dozens of times.”
“I bet you’ve seen some things.”
The old-timer laughed. “I fucked more pussy on the road than you’ll ever see in your lifetime.”
Peter burst into laughter. “Did I just hear you right?”
“You did, mister. Why, once I lived in a whorehouse in Nevada for a whole month. Fucked three girls a day. Those were some wonderful times,” he added with a sigh.
Peter tried desperately to add something to the conversation. “I used to daydream about driving long haul. If my life had turned out different, I bet I would have been good at it.”
“It takes a certain kind of man. Not everybody can do it.”
“I heard that when truckers come home from the road they go crazy with a type of withdrawal. They call it road fever, if I remember correctly. You know anything about that?”
“Yes sir. That’s exactly right. When I used to come home to my wife I would only last a few days before I’d be itchin’ to get back on the road. But I’m not sure if it was road fever, cause when she started bringing her girlfriends home to me I never wanted to leave.”
“Excuse me? I didn’t get that last part.”
“After many years of marriage she realized I was getting bored, so my wife would recruit her girlfriends to come home with her and they’d both fuck me. My lord, my wife brought home so many different bitches you’d never believe it.”
“No shit.”
“I’m completely serious. I lost her to Alzheimer’s five years ago.” His voice trembled with emotion. “She was a good woman. I loved her so much.”
“How old are you now, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Seventy-eight years,” Don replied. As Peter looked over his liver-spotted face it seemed about right.
“Where you off to now?”
“I’m going to pick up a lady at her retirement home and bring her back to my place.”
“Really?”
“Yup. I still get the bitches. She came up to me the other day at a restaurant and just wouldn’t stop talking. I couldn’t even finish my meal before I promised her I’d take her on a date. Fucked her the first night – she wasn’t bad for seventy-five.”
“You are my hero,” Peter said, chuckling. “When I come back in my next life, I want to be like you.”
“Nobody like me,” he replied, shaking his head. “Nobody.”
At the next stop the driver came back and happily unleashed his passenger from captivity. Don rolled toward the hydraulic lift at the entrance of the bus with a bitter determination. Outside on the corner, there was a well dressed elderly lady clutching a purse between two white gloved hands. Her face bore an expression of hopeful anticipation.
***
It was almost nine o’clock when Peter returned to the bar. The bus ride was unexpectedly lengthy and took hours before eventually returning to the same location where he had boarded, which had made him tired and put him behind schedule. His mind too was fatigued with the events of the past several days, and he swore that this would be his last visit to the unnamed bar before leaving Los Angeles. Where would he venture to next, he wondered? It was impossible to say.
As is often the case in moments such as these, all his thoughts and plans were shattered when he saw her standing on the other side of the room. His heart rate doubled; his mouth went instantaneously dry. She was to him a shimmering vision. The last time he had encountered her he had not noticed the size of her breasts, which were heaving under a white “wife beater” that was covered with a very delicate, transparent blue shirt. Still exhorting loudly, still cackling inappropriately with her male companions, Peter realized as if for the first time the enormity of her presence. She was a goddamned Amazon.
Caroline noticed him from across the room. She excused herself from her companions and marched over to him just as he had taken his seat at the bar and was about to order a drink.
“I heard you been stalking me, dude,” she said seriously.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Tommy told me you’ve been in here every night since I met you. Is that right?”
“That is correct, yes.”
“So, you have been stalking me.”
“Hey, you told me there was nothing stopping me from coming in here,” he replied confidently. “And anyway, stalking requires my following you around surreptitiously. Now, if you had caught me slinking around the Honda dealership certainly you could accuse me of such a thing. But coming in here five nights in a row: well, that just makes me a drunk and nothing else. Which reminds me, may I buy you a drink?”
His logic being unassailable, she relented and ordered a gin and tonic from the bartender, a man Peter had never seen before.
“I would like to know: how did Tommy tell you about my comings and goings? He’s not here now and you haven’t been in since I first saw you.”
“He called me last night. We’re old friends and he looks out for me.”
“That’s good. Old friends are nice.”
“He says I should steer clear of you.”
“Why is that?”
“He says you’re strange, even for around here.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
While pulling booze from off the bottom of the glass through her straw she gave him a look that he had never seen before, appearing either intrigued or confused. Perhaps they were one and the same. Either way, Peter knew that somehow the dynamic between them had changed. And he believed he had Tommy to thank for it.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
A Quote From Franz Rosenthal
"The subject of gambling is all encompassing. It combines man's natural play instinct with his desire to know about his fate and his future."
- Gambling in Islam
- Gambling in Islam
Monday, February 1, 2010
Honest Addict, Chapter Fourteen
14
It was a bottomless sickness that brought him from the depths of a dreamless sleep. A sharp, stabbing pain emanated from his stomach. The bed was drenched with a cold, clammy sweat that also covered his face and body. He dashed to the bathroom and vomited so ferociously that much of it came back out of the toilet and splashed on the floor. Here he remained positioned – prostrate over the porcelain bowl – for much of the next hour, retching into the cloudy soup, still able to taste the acrid smoke from the night before.
After a spell he felt secure in returning to bed. Chills ran up and down his body as he shook uncontrollably under the covers. This was a sign, he thought to himself, an omen. It was time to make a change. This day would mark the beginning of a new life, free from the shackles of his myriad vices. Sure, he had made this same promise a thousand times before, but this instance was different. This time he had hit rock bottom. That was all he had needed, after all. As he fell back asleep he was comforted by the notion that when he awoke he would be a new man.
When he opened his eyes again it was nighttime. His stomach was still in pain, but now it ached with hunger. What he needed was sustenance and a strong drink. The thoughts that had so reassured him as he fell asleep hours before were now curiously dislodged from his memory. Somehow it was always this way. The minutes spent in the shower and clothing himself were almost unbearable, his physical need for food screaming every moment for satiation.
The blue neon martini glass across the street from the hotel beckoned to Peter as he emerged into the cool night. He entered the apparently nameless dive, a dank, depressing place filled with patrons who matched perfectly the environs. The bartender approached and spoke laconically.
“Whatcha like, sir.”
“You serve food in this place?”
The bartender pointed to a dirty sign that advertised the faire:
Pizza: $3.50 (Cheese or Pepperoni)
Hamburger: $2.50
Hot Dog: $2.00
Pickle: $1.00
Hard-Boiled Egg: $.75
Chips: $.75
Nuts: $.75
Peter considered his options, which appeared surprisingly appetizing in his weakened condition. “I’ll have a pepperoni pizza, a hamburger, some potato chips and a couple of hard boiled eggs to start out. And get me a shot of Jack Daniels and a Budweiser. Please.”
The bartender returned with the shot, beer, chips and eggs, as well as a couple packets of salt. Peter unpeeled and consumed a well salted egg first, then downed his shot. After his second egg he started in on the Budweiser, which was quickly consumed. Simultaneous with the arrival of the second beer was the presentation of the pizza which was followed shortly by the hamburger, steaming hot from the microwave. He squeezed packaged ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise on the burger and then topped it with a handful of crushed chips. His food thus properly prepared, he descended on the feast with complete abandon, blind to everything in the universe outside of his own satisfaction.
Upon finishing he was panting slightly from the physical exertion of the meal and the roof of his mouth was burned from the molten cheese of the pizza. Nevertheless, he felt very good. A pleasurable chill went down his spine as his body digested the food. All the best meals happened this way, he thought.
Peter ordered a brandy and drank half of it in one gulp, heating his upper chest. It was at this point that he heard her from across the room.
Her laughter was really more a cackle, an almost offensive sound coming from a woman. She was tall, practically six feet in high heels, with straight black hair that hung around her shoulders. She wore a skirt and light blue blouse with high sheen, a professional-looking outfit, totally out of synch with the general attire of the room. Her face was more intriguing than beautiful, but striking, especially on someone so tall. In between bursts of loud conversation she took long, deep pulls off the straw that descended to the bottom of a clear cocktail contained in a pint glass customarily reserved for draft beer.
He felt compelled to approach her but was also strangely afraid to do so, not so much because of her two roughneck companions, but rather because of her flaming aura, which was palpable from anywhere in the room. And though he procrastinated and might have missed his opportunity, she made it easy by coming to the bar and taking the seat next to his.
“Gimme another double, Tommy,” she said, slamming the heavy glass down on the bar.
“May I please pay for your drink?” Peter inquired.
She looked at him, confused by the formality of his offer. “Sure dude, anybody can by me a drink. Put it on his tab, Tommy.”
“You got it, babe,” the bartender replied.
“My name is Peter,” he said, extending his hand.
“Caroline,” she replied brusquely.
“I know this is going to sound stupid, but do you come here often?”
She started laughing and Tommy joined in.
“The reason I ask is, I’m not from around here.” The moment he spoke, a feeling of absolute humiliation filled his heart and his face turned a deep red.
“Oh, that’s okay honey,” she said, noticing his embarrassment. “We’re not laughing at you. We’re more laughing at me.”
“All right.”
She turned in her stool toward him and genuinely engaged. It might have been pity at first, recompense for his blushing, he didn’t know. But after a little while and many drinks the conversation flowed nicely. Peter learned that she worked for a local Honda dealership and was the top salesperson for the last three quarters. She aspired to “climb the ladder” and secure employment at Mercedes or BMW.
“I harass each of them once a month for a gig,” she said assertively.
As they continued talking Peter was overcome by strong feelings. She was unlike anyone he had ever met: brash, impolite, loud and nasty, yet brimming with life and vitality. Her capacity for alcohol was immense. She outpaced him four drinks to three, despite the fact that she was imbibing from a much bigger glass. With each passing moment his affection for her grew, until he was at last enamored. There was no turning back. Closing time came; it seemed too quick but they had been talking for over two hours. As Peter paid the tab she got up to leave.
“Wait,” he said, grabbing her by the arm. “Don’t leave just yet.”
“I’ve got to be at work early. It’s fucking two a.m.”
“I have to see you again. Can I have your number or something?”
“To tell you the truth dude, you’re not really my type.”
He was undeterred. “How can it hurt? Worst case scenario, you drink for free.”
“You’re a nice guy. So I’m going to cut you a break and say no.”
“I can’t accept that.”
She sighed. “I’m not giving you my number. But I can’t stop you from coming in here if you insist. And like I said, anybody can buy me a drink anytime they want to.”
She walked out of the bar, her ample hips and rear swinging in metronomic harmony with his imagination.
It was a bottomless sickness that brought him from the depths of a dreamless sleep. A sharp, stabbing pain emanated from his stomach. The bed was drenched with a cold, clammy sweat that also covered his face and body. He dashed to the bathroom and vomited so ferociously that much of it came back out of the toilet and splashed on the floor. Here he remained positioned – prostrate over the porcelain bowl – for much of the next hour, retching into the cloudy soup, still able to taste the acrid smoke from the night before.
After a spell he felt secure in returning to bed. Chills ran up and down his body as he shook uncontrollably under the covers. This was a sign, he thought to himself, an omen. It was time to make a change. This day would mark the beginning of a new life, free from the shackles of his myriad vices. Sure, he had made this same promise a thousand times before, but this instance was different. This time he had hit rock bottom. That was all he had needed, after all. As he fell back asleep he was comforted by the notion that when he awoke he would be a new man.
When he opened his eyes again it was nighttime. His stomach was still in pain, but now it ached with hunger. What he needed was sustenance and a strong drink. The thoughts that had so reassured him as he fell asleep hours before were now curiously dislodged from his memory. Somehow it was always this way. The minutes spent in the shower and clothing himself were almost unbearable, his physical need for food screaming every moment for satiation.
The blue neon martini glass across the street from the hotel beckoned to Peter as he emerged into the cool night. He entered the apparently nameless dive, a dank, depressing place filled with patrons who matched perfectly the environs. The bartender approached and spoke laconically.
“Whatcha like, sir.”
“You serve food in this place?”
The bartender pointed to a dirty sign that advertised the faire:
Pizza: $3.50 (Cheese or Pepperoni)
Hamburger: $2.50
Hot Dog: $2.00
Pickle: $1.00
Hard-Boiled Egg: $.75
Chips: $.75
Nuts: $.75
Peter considered his options, which appeared surprisingly appetizing in his weakened condition. “I’ll have a pepperoni pizza, a hamburger, some potato chips and a couple of hard boiled eggs to start out. And get me a shot of Jack Daniels and a Budweiser. Please.”
The bartender returned with the shot, beer, chips and eggs, as well as a couple packets of salt. Peter unpeeled and consumed a well salted egg first, then downed his shot. After his second egg he started in on the Budweiser, which was quickly consumed. Simultaneous with the arrival of the second beer was the presentation of the pizza which was followed shortly by the hamburger, steaming hot from the microwave. He squeezed packaged ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise on the burger and then topped it with a handful of crushed chips. His food thus properly prepared, he descended on the feast with complete abandon, blind to everything in the universe outside of his own satisfaction.
Upon finishing he was panting slightly from the physical exertion of the meal and the roof of his mouth was burned from the molten cheese of the pizza. Nevertheless, he felt very good. A pleasurable chill went down his spine as his body digested the food. All the best meals happened this way, he thought.
Peter ordered a brandy and drank half of it in one gulp, heating his upper chest. It was at this point that he heard her from across the room.
Her laughter was really more a cackle, an almost offensive sound coming from a woman. She was tall, practically six feet in high heels, with straight black hair that hung around her shoulders. She wore a skirt and light blue blouse with high sheen, a professional-looking outfit, totally out of synch with the general attire of the room. Her face was more intriguing than beautiful, but striking, especially on someone so tall. In between bursts of loud conversation she took long, deep pulls off the straw that descended to the bottom of a clear cocktail contained in a pint glass customarily reserved for draft beer.
He felt compelled to approach her but was also strangely afraid to do so, not so much because of her two roughneck companions, but rather because of her flaming aura, which was palpable from anywhere in the room. And though he procrastinated and might have missed his opportunity, she made it easy by coming to the bar and taking the seat next to his.
“Gimme another double, Tommy,” she said, slamming the heavy glass down on the bar.
“May I please pay for your drink?” Peter inquired.
She looked at him, confused by the formality of his offer. “Sure dude, anybody can by me a drink. Put it on his tab, Tommy.”
“You got it, babe,” the bartender replied.
“My name is Peter,” he said, extending his hand.
“Caroline,” she replied brusquely.
“I know this is going to sound stupid, but do you come here often?”
She started laughing and Tommy joined in.
“The reason I ask is, I’m not from around here.” The moment he spoke, a feeling of absolute humiliation filled his heart and his face turned a deep red.
“Oh, that’s okay honey,” she said, noticing his embarrassment. “We’re not laughing at you. We’re more laughing at me.”
“All right.”
She turned in her stool toward him and genuinely engaged. It might have been pity at first, recompense for his blushing, he didn’t know. But after a little while and many drinks the conversation flowed nicely. Peter learned that she worked for a local Honda dealership and was the top salesperson for the last three quarters. She aspired to “climb the ladder” and secure employment at Mercedes or BMW.
“I harass each of them once a month for a gig,” she said assertively.
As they continued talking Peter was overcome by strong feelings. She was unlike anyone he had ever met: brash, impolite, loud and nasty, yet brimming with life and vitality. Her capacity for alcohol was immense. She outpaced him four drinks to three, despite the fact that she was imbibing from a much bigger glass. With each passing moment his affection for her grew, until he was at last enamored. There was no turning back. Closing time came; it seemed too quick but they had been talking for over two hours. As Peter paid the tab she got up to leave.
“Wait,” he said, grabbing her by the arm. “Don’t leave just yet.”
“I’ve got to be at work early. It’s fucking two a.m.”
“I have to see you again. Can I have your number or something?”
“To tell you the truth dude, you’re not really my type.”
He was undeterred. “How can it hurt? Worst case scenario, you drink for free.”
“You’re a nice guy. So I’m going to cut you a break and say no.”
“I can’t accept that.”
She sighed. “I’m not giving you my number. But I can’t stop you from coming in here if you insist. And like I said, anybody can buy me a drink anytime they want to.”
She walked out of the bar, her ample hips and rear swinging in metronomic harmony with his imagination.
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