bloody marty mix
1992-1993
Thursday, 18 September 2008.
40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]
An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.
For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.
Year 25: 1992-1993
After a year and a half on the job, I began to settle into a comfortable group of social misfits and hammerheads. My favorite of these, by far, was Bob. Bob was a quirky and brilliant guy who'd come out of University of Chicago, which went a long way toward explaining his quirkiness. I don't know what it's like now, but in those days, U of C had a reputation for attracting and enhancing intensely serious and socially awkward people. Almost everyone I ever met out of U of C was a genius, and almost to a one, they either had a hard time looking you straight in the eye, or would look you so unblinkingly straight in the eye, you wanted to slowly back away. Bob was one of the former.
But, despite his odd way of looking just to the side of your head, Bob became one of my favorite people because he kept me on my toes mentally (always one of my favorite qualities in a person). We shared an office with a guy named Scott, and the three of us would keep a running conversation going all day, every day, about whatever social, economic, or political theory Bob was turning over in his head that day. We kept a stereo and a couch in the office, and so often these conversations would take place with one of us jumping around in the imaginary mosh pit in the middle of the room, and another of us catching half a nap on the couch. It was a good time.
On Fridays, we would gather the whole misfit crew and walk over to Dave's Italian Kitchen for lunch. Bob and I, and a trio of equally hazy characters, Charles, Jonathan, and Bryan, would eat Spaghetti Carbonara and get drunk on whatever wine they were serving us that day. Then we'd ooze back into the office and lay around on the couch and shoot the shit for the rest of the afternoon. Nothing ever got done on Friday afternoons. They were just the rest period before Friday night happy hour. Then a group of about 10 - 15 of us would descend upon some local watering hole and drink and smoke and debate neo-Kantian ethics, or whether popular music had fallen irretrievably into the shitter, or whether it necessarily followed that neighborhood gentrification and noodle shops were always preceded by artists and lesbians. When we grew tired of the conversation or the ambiance, a small core group of us would gather ourselves up and move on to the clubs and beergartens of Lakeview and Lincoln Park.
In April, Bob, Charles, Jonathan, and I decided to spend some time bumming around the seedier parts of Europe. We boarded an IcelandAir flight for Luxembourg, then took a train through Brussels to Amsterdam, where we opted for rooms above a small bar in the red light district. As this was the early 90's, we were dressed primarily in flannel and leather. This was a fairly typical look for your average ne'erdowells back in the States, but it hadn't yet made it to Europe. People kept asking us if we were in a band.
Most Americans in Amsterdam spend all their time in either the hash houses or the museums. We spent most of our time drinking beer in the bars, which endeared us to the locals, who were more accustomed to dealing with the paranoid and slow-witted stupidity of Americans high off their asses. We were dubbed honorary Brits instead. As for myself, I wasn't really interested in getting high (never understood the appeal). I was having a revelatory experience with European beer. Up until that point, I had only drunk beer to get drunk. Now I was drinking beer because it tasted good! I went to Amsterdam a beer neophyte, sucking down Miller Lites to get a buzz, and came back a beer snob. I'd rather spend my last $6 on a quality beer than inhale six forgettable hop seltzers.
Who am I?
I am a child of an alcoholic.
I have one unbreakable rule for myself: I never drink alone. I'm a bit of an introvert, generally, so I figure it would be damned hard to develop a drinking problem if I never drank alone. I've gone through periods in my life when I drank fairly regularly, but always with others. It's such a simple rule, but remarkably effective. I've broken it twice -- once just to see what it would be like to be drunk by myself, and once on a particularly lonely birthday -- and neither time proved enjoyable or rewarding in any way.
[ view previous | view next ]
1992-1993
Thursday, 18 September 2008.
40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]
An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.
For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.
Year 25: 1992-1993
After a year and a half on the job, I began to settle into a comfortable group of social misfits and hammerheads. My favorite of these, by far, was Bob. Bob was a quirky and brilliant guy who'd come out of University of Chicago, which went a long way toward explaining his quirkiness. I don't know what it's like now, but in those days, U of C had a reputation for attracting and enhancing intensely serious and socially awkward people. Almost everyone I ever met out of U of C was a genius, and almost to a one, they either had a hard time looking you straight in the eye, or would look you so unblinkingly straight in the eye, you wanted to slowly back away. Bob was one of the former.
But, despite his odd way of looking just to the side of your head, Bob became one of my favorite people because he kept me on my toes mentally (always one of my favorite qualities in a person). We shared an office with a guy named Scott, and the three of us would keep a running conversation going all day, every day, about whatever social, economic, or political theory Bob was turning over in his head that day. We kept a stereo and a couch in the office, and so often these conversations would take place with one of us jumping around in the imaginary mosh pit in the middle of the room, and another of us catching half a nap on the couch. It was a good time.
On Fridays, we would gather the whole misfit crew and walk over to Dave's Italian Kitchen for lunch. Bob and I, and a trio of equally hazy characters, Charles, Jonathan, and Bryan, would eat Spaghetti Carbonara and get drunk on whatever wine they were serving us that day. Then we'd ooze back into the office and lay around on the couch and shoot the shit for the rest of the afternoon. Nothing ever got done on Friday afternoons. They were just the rest period before Friday night happy hour. Then a group of about 10 - 15 of us would descend upon some local watering hole and drink and smoke and debate neo-Kantian ethics, or whether popular music had fallen irretrievably into the shitter, or whether it necessarily followed that neighborhood gentrification and noodle shops were always preceded by artists and lesbians. When we grew tired of the conversation or the ambiance, a small core group of us would gather ourselves up and move on to the clubs and beergartens of Lakeview and Lincoln Park.
In April, Bob, Charles, Jonathan, and I decided to spend some time bumming around the seedier parts of Europe. We boarded an IcelandAir flight for Luxembourg, then took a train through Brussels to Amsterdam, where we opted for rooms above a small bar in the red light district. As this was the early 90's, we were dressed primarily in flannel and leather. This was a fairly typical look for your average ne'erdowells back in the States, but it hadn't yet made it to Europe. People kept asking us if we were in a band.
Most Americans in Amsterdam spend all their time in either the hash houses or the museums. We spent most of our time drinking beer in the bars, which endeared us to the locals, who were more accustomed to dealing with the paranoid and slow-witted stupidity of Americans high off their asses. We were dubbed honorary Brits instead. As for myself, I wasn't really interested in getting high (never understood the appeal). I was having a revelatory experience with European beer. Up until that point, I had only drunk beer to get drunk. Now I was drinking beer because it tasted good! I went to Amsterdam a beer neophyte, sucking down Miller Lites to get a buzz, and came back a beer snob. I'd rather spend my last $6 on a quality beer than inhale six forgettable hop seltzers.
Who am I?
I am a child of an alcoholic.
I have one unbreakable rule for myself: I never drink alone. I'm a bit of an introvert, generally, so I figure it would be damned hard to develop a drinking problem if I never drank alone. I've gone through periods in my life when I drank fairly regularly, but always with others. It's such a simple rule, but remarkably effective. I've broken it twice -- once just to see what it would be like to be drunk by myself, and once on a particularly lonely birthday -- and neither time proved enjoyable or rewarding in any way.
[ view previous | view next ]