Posts Tagged 'irish coffee'

DECEMBER 8, 2012

(This was originally posted as DRUNKEN POST #24, on December 8, 2012.)

The Singletons ate at an Italian place tonight.  Delbert was back (he’d gone home to Oregon for a couple weeks), so it was good to talk to him again.  And even John joined us after dinner to talk a bit.  But Carl wasn’t there.  He died of a heart attack last week.  It was so surreal.  I’d just spoken with him at dinner last Friday.  Now he was gone–just like that.  I couldn’t help but wonder if he would suddenly show up this evening–if his death had just been a dream.  But it wasn’t. This is the first time a member of Singletons has died, since I’ve been a member. And I’m still the youngest member.

Death is a reality.  Of course it is.  But Carl was only in his 60’s (I think).  My parents are almost in their 80’s, and though they’re constantly bothering me with nonsense like, “We’re not going to be around forever, you need to learn to do things for yourself,” I know damned well that I will die before they do.

That Billy Joel song, “Only the Good Die Young”–that’s really true, for the most part.  The bad just keep on living.  My Grandpa Mayo, the greatest grandfather a boy could ever have, died in 1974, when I was only eight–and I still suffer from that early loss.  Then my Grandma Mayo died in 1999, after having Alzheimer’s for two years.  She was good too (though not as good as Grandpa).  Yet my Grandmother Pyle–a prudish woman–lived on into the 21st Century.  And my Granddaddy Pyle–a dry drunk, and cantankerous man–died last–in his 90’s.

It’s not fair.  Granddaddy Pyle should have died in 1974, and Grandpa Mayo should have died last.  But that’s how it goes.  The best people die first–the worst people die last.  I know of only one exception (not a family member).

There’s a song called “Sweet Mystery of Life”–but there’s no song called “Bitter Mystery of Death”.  I wonder why.

Speaking of songs, there was one that played several times at this Italian place tonight (background music).  I’d heard it before.  It’s a jazz piece, probably from the 1930s or ’40s.  But I couldn’t make out the words.  I want that song–I want to order a CD with that song on it.  I love it–at least the melody.  Before leaving, I whistled it to the waiter, but he didn’t recognize it.  Then I whistled it to the owner, but he didn’t recognize it either.  He mentioned that the CD he was playing was new–I really should have pressed him for the name of the CD, yet I didn’t want to seem too pushy.  After I’d got home, after I’d had several servings of Irish coffee, I called the local public radio station, and left a message.  For the message, I hummed the melody, and asked them to give me a call if they recognized the song.  They play a lot of jazz, so they may recognize it.  I hope they do–and return my call if they do.

In the meantime, I finished listening to the filmscore of “The Fly” (1986) again–love that filmscore–then Aziz Mian’s “Tere Ishq Nachaya” again–then the filmscore of “Splice”–and finally the first half of an Ali Jihad Racy CD called “Mystical Legacies”.  Told you I was eclectic!

I blank-out my last name, for now.  Because I’ve probably made a hell of a lot of enemies from this blog!  But borrowing from a country song called “Bakersfield” (I think), “See, you don’t know me if you don’t like me!”

My left nostril bleeds a bit.  It’s more because I’ve recently changed my medication regimen–then had to change it back–than because I’ve consumed both alcohol and caffeine.  But I’m drinking as much water as I can.  And it’s so strange because last Friday evening–after ordering an extra two helpings of rice because (as I explained) I’d read that a lot of carbs helps prevent a hangover–Carl said the best thing is plain water.  And now he’s dead.  It’s just so strange–so surreal.

I haven’t been so personally affected by the death of another since Donald’s (a very kind second-cousin of mine) daughter committed suicide–just down the street from me.  Before that it was the wreck of the Amtrak Sunset Limited near Mobile, where I lived at the time.  I didn’t know those people at all.  But it happened so close–over Bayou Canot–probably not far from where my dad and I had fished.  I really thought about my own mortality the day after that.  Now I really think again about my own mortality.  If I could have one wish fulfilled, it would be for immortality, invincibility.  Nothing could harm me, nothing.  I would live for thousands of years, maybe millions, even billions.  Imagine the power I’d have.  I could fix the world’s problems–make this planet as close to a utopia as possible.  And I’d have more women than I knew what to do with.

If you consider this an evil fancy, consider yourself.  No one would turn down a chance at immortality, invincibility.  Everyone has had (or will have) this fantasy. No, it’s not evil.  Just impractical.  Because everyone would prefer a dictatorship–provided he or she would be the dictator!

I’m tempted to end this post in the usual way–with a spread of a gorgeous gal. Yet the following would be more appropriate.

pictures5c278255camtrak20monument

DRUNKEN POST #40

You know it’s been a long time since I’ve had any alcohol when I can remember the last month I had any alcohol–and thereby find out what number this drunken post is to be via my archives!

How’s that for a run-on sentence?

(If you’re viewing this post via a mobile device while driving, walking, or bicycling, please put it down–it can wait.)

While listening to “Baba O’Riley” by The Who, drinking Irish coffee in my living room earlier, I thought of a particular wild-though-harmless drunken escapade at Auburn University (I wasn’t driving–freshman weren’t allowed a car on campus)–and I thought of how I set myself up for a crash, while attending Auburn by having my expectations too high.  And I share this personal information as a warning–especially for teenagers and twenty-somethings.

After graduating from Murphy High School in Mobile, in 1984, I decided to attend Auburn University.  That’s where I had attended my first college football game, where I had danced with a girl for the first time, and where my sister Elaine had met my brother-in-law Jeff.  And I very proudly told everyone in the high-school graduate reception line at my church that I was going to Auburn.  There was no problem with that, at all.

The problem was that I had three unrealistic goals for myself, beginning with my first quarter at Auburn University–summer of 1984.

I expected to be a straight-“A” student, from the beginning.

I expected to join a fraternity in my freshman year.

And I expected to have a girlfriend in my freshman year.

Let’s take a look at these:

The only one of these goals that was in my control at all was to make straight-“A”s from the beginning.  Yet I had never been a straight-“A” student in high school.  And this was college–even more difficult.

So I didn’t make straight-“A”s in my freshman year at Auburn.

Joining a fraternity was not in my control at all–I had to be accepted into a fraternity.  I went to rush events for more than one fraternity, though the most promising was the Farmhouse.  The Farmhouse was a non-alcohol fraternity.  A typical social fraternity with that one difference–no alcohol allowed at social events.  That was cool, I didn’t regularly drink anyway.  And I had a good chance at being accepted–my now-brother-in-law Jeff’s best friend was a member of the Farmhouse.  I attended the rush party, and made a very good impression.  But I wasn’t accepted into the fraternity.  I found out why, later–I was seriously considered, but one of the Farmhouse brothers’ actual brother was rushing, and he was accepted instead of me (they could only accept so many pledges at a time).  Looking back, I’m not really sorry I wasn’t accepted into a fraternity–being the non-conformist that I am.  But I didn’t realize I was such a non-conformist then.

So I didn’t join a fraternity in my freshman year at Auburn.

And having a girlfriend?  That was even less in my control than joining a fraternity.  I didn’t even get a date that year.  I tried to attract girls the best I could, but they simply weren’t interested.  Maybe I tried too hard, maybe not hard enough–but of course there was no way I could control the hearts of young women.  There is no way anyone can control the heart of anyone else–there never has been.

So I didn’t have a girlfriend in my freshman year at Auburn.

Still, the summer of 1985 was the best summer of my life.

In a previous post–an answer to one of Gregory Stock’s questions from “The Book of Questions: Love and Sex”–I described a girl named Melanie.  I didn’t love Melanie, of course (I hadn’t gotten to know her well enough), but I was really in love with Melanie.  And on her last night in Mobile, I ended up in the backseat of my car with Melanie.  And we made-out, big time–but she simply wouldn’t let me have sex with her, despite my verbal expression of desire.  Her reason?  She was too old for me.  It was really ridiculous–she was only five years older than I, but that was her reason.  And I certainly wouldn’t force myself on her–I cared about her.  But I did cry like a baby–and this ruined any future chances with her.

And I returned to Auburn University in the fall of 1985–broken-hearted as hell. And I missed class after class–I couldn’t concentrate.

I did find a following of freshman disciples who looked up to me, a sophomore now–but that wasn’t enough.  I was determined to find a girlfriend right then.  I told my mom, over a payphone at the dorm, that I would leave Auburn if I didn’t find a girlfriend in a week.  She told me that wasn’t realistic, but I wouldn’t listen. And of course I didn’t find a girlfriend in a week.  And I can still see the faces of my freshman friends in a window of the dorm as I left–they would miss me.  Yet it would be over twenty-five years before I would miss them.

And in November, 1985, I ended-up in a psychiatric hospital in my Mobile hometown, having torn up my parents’ kitchen while they were at work (never knowing why I did that).  That was my crash, my breakdown–the time when my mental illness surfaced.  And thirty years later, I still haven’t recovered from it.

Yet I know I set myself up for it–with three unrealistic expectations:

To be a straight-“A” student.

To join a fraternity.

To have a girlfriend.

All in my freshman year.

And I would give my life to be back there, at Auburn University, in the fall of 1985–to be able to stay there, with the knowledge of what I’ve learned.  I’d be an “A” & “B”–with an occasional “C”–student.  And I’d have some good friends.  And I’d have a girlfriend before I knew it–might even end up marrying her.  And to hell with a damned fraternity–I’d know I didn’t need one.

It’s good to have goals–but your goals must be realistic.

Please keep that in mind, whatever your age.

DRUNKEN POST #15

And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”  which is, being interpreted, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?

And some of them that stood by, when they heard it, said, Behold, he calleth Elias [Elijah].

“What does that have to do with anything?  And what is a drunken post?”

“I don’t know–let’s ask him.”

It’s something I learned at Mobile Christian School, as a kid.  I was sitting in Chapel, which we had every morning–and when the speaker spoke those Aramaic words, all the other students laughed.  But I didn’t laugh.  I loved learning. 

“But where did you get the idea for these drunken posts?”

Several years ago, I was reading a young woman’s blog, and she discussed drunk blogging–as a sort of rite of passage.  That’s where I got the idea.

“Yeah, but why so many–isn’t fourteen enough?”

Not for me.  As I stated in my first drunken post, the drunken writer is at his/her best.  Because he/she is naked, uninhibited.  Haven’t you heard the saying, the truth is in the wine?  Well it is.  Or–in my case–it’s in the beer and the Irish coffee.

I can write anything I want here, and be unashamed.  I can tap my subconcious mind directly. 

“But aren’t you worried about what your readers might think of you?”

You haven’t been listening.  The few readers whom I’ve met personally will accept me for who I am.  And the majority of my readers whom I’ve never met will also accept me.  In John Gray’s book, Men, Women and Relationships, the author lists the primary needs of the human male and the human female.  The first need, to be loved, is shared by men and women equally.  Then the needs split, in importance.  After love, the human female most needs to be cared for, to be understood, and to be respected.  Likewise, after love, the human male needs to be accepted, to be appreciated, and to be trusted.  Both sexes need all.  But the primary needs of the human female, after love, are the secondary needs of the human male.  And the primary needs of the human male, after love, are the secondary needs of the human female.

Thus, as a man, the need to be accepted is one of my primary needs.

Could Gray be mistaken?  Sure.  But not for the majority of human males and human females.  And of course there are always exceptions.

This is just my opinion.  As the bumper sticker reads: “Everyone is entitled to my own opinion!”

Gotta learn to laugh at yourself! 

“So why another drunken post so soon–don’t you only drink once a week, at most?”

Yes, but this time the Singletons dined at Monterrey’s–which is practically across the street from where I live.  Next Friday they’ll be dining in Milton–that’s almost as far from here as my hometown of Mobile, Alabama!  So I made an exception–since I won’t likely be drinking alcohol again for at least two weeks!

This evening, upon returning home, I listened to the Genesis album, Invisible Touch, on CD–which I’d ordered.  This was one of several albums I purchased on audiocassette in 1986.  I especially like the song, Tonight, Tonight, Tonight–somewhat repetitive of course.  But I remember listening to it on my tape player in my car, over and over again, as a plea to the Creator–especially the lines, You keep telling me I’ve got everything–you say I’ve got everything I want.  You keep telling me you’re gonna help me–you’re gonna help me.  But you don’t. 

Sounds alot like, My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me, doesn’t it?  And I was referring to my mental illness.  My mental illness did not surface until November, 1985.  It’s only natural that I asked the Creator why I’d been stricken with it–why I’d been born with it (most mental illness is hereditary, and certainly mine was).  But the Creator never answered–and still does not answer.  There is no cure for mental illness.  There is only medication with horrible side-effects.  With these horrible side-effects, taking the medication is only slightly better than not taking it at all.

If I could, I’d take no medication–and simply use alcohol daily to ease my anxiety, ease my fear.  But I would become addicted to alcohol, of course. 

Still, I wish I could simply reduce the dosage of one medication in particular.  This medication is the best for OCD.  But its side-effects prevent me from getting enough exercise, because it causes dehydration and severe heat sensitivity–not a good thing in the hot, humid climate of Northwest Florida.  It also causes cognitive dysfunction–thus I cannot write poetry or prose as well on such a high dosage of the goddamned stuff.

Anyway, speaking of this climate–do you realize what day this is?  This is the Autumnal Equinox–the first day of fall!  And I am so grateful for this!  Soon this relentless heat and humidity will let up!

“Then the dude ends the drunken post with pix of some gorgeous girl he’s hot for–he says it’s a tradition he started.”

Indeed (I love saying that because Spock says it).  This week’s hottie is Betty Lynn.

DRUNKEN POST #10

So many comments on my posts tonight!  I really appreciate your readership and your comments!  If it weren’t for your readership and comments, I wouldn’t keep a blog at all!

Oooh, I’ve got a headache–well, at least I know I’m sufficiently drunk!  I was thinking earlier about DRUNKEN POST #9–how it began with “Another one?  Yes, another one!” In writing that, I was referring to another drunken post–not the shooting in Colorado, though I can certainly understand how it could be interpreted that way (i.e. the frequency of spree killings in the United States, in the last two decades). 

The Singletons ate at a seafood place tonight.  Good food, but slow service.  Still, I knew this–that’s why I served myself as much as possible!  It’s called Hall’s.  Over twenty years ago, I worked at the Mobile location of Hall’s Seafood (now closed down).  I worked as a host.  Boring job, but I got a free meal with every shift, so that was nice!  And there was a ravishingly beautiful woman there who shared the same surname with me–though I never had any luck with her.  There was also a young woman there I’d once gone out with.  She was beautiful too (can’t remember her name, but we’d met in church)–yet now she was steadily dating someone else, and was pregnant.  At that time, I didn’t have a car.  So I had to ride my bicycle to and from work every day.  The funniest thing I remember is this.  The restaurant had a decent manager, somewhat coarse, but decent–and he was constantly hollering at the cooks for eating the food.  He had to, because they did eat (especially shrimp) as they cooked.  Still, it was hilarious!

This evening, I listened to the aforementioned CD, The Kings and Queen of Qawwali, as I drank my Irish coffee.  I especially enjoyed the selection performed by Aziz Mian–man that beats any heavy metal in the world!  He has a different style than Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan–when he chants, all but one of the instruments stop playing (with Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, all the instruments (and background vocals) continue while he sings).  I plan to get an entire album of Aziz’s music soon.  Of course I cannot understand the words–except “Allah” and “Muhammad”–but I prefer it this way.  I find lyrics distracting, when I can understand them (when they’re in English).  I consider the English Language the most beautiful in the world–but I can never truly enjoy it, because I am distracted by meaning.  How often I’ve wished I could temporarily shift my understanding to another language in order to truly appreciate the beauty of English!  Yet I cannot.  Nevertheless, my favorite dialects of English are standard British (as heard on the BBC), and standard Australian (as heard on Radio Australia)–especially when spoken by a woman!  Of course the Southern Dialect of the U.S. is notoriously beautiful (“…And the Southern girls, with the way they talk–they knock me out when I’m down there…”).  But having grown up with the Southern Dialect spoken all around me, it doesn’t charm me.  In fact, I find the Eastern Dialect (especially that of New York) the most charming of the U.S. dialects–especially that of the Radio City Rockettes!  It all goes to show one is usually most drawn to what is foreign (or repelled by it).  There are alot of xenophobes (people who are afraid of foreign things, and especially foreign people)  all over the world.  But I’m definitely the opposite, a xenophile (one who is drawn to foreign things, and especially foreign people).  In fact, all my life I’ve especially gotten along well with people from other regions of the U.S., as well as other countries.  One of my therapists once remarked that I should find a foreign girl to date–because my slightly eccentric personality would not show (she’d think all Americans behaved the way I did).  And he was definitely right!  In fact, the largest concentration of beautiful women, to me, is in Britain and Ireland!  I’d probably be a hit there–if I could ever afford a plane ticket and a passport!

I’m worded-out!  I’m in the mood for Teri Garr, so I’ll end this drunken post with her.


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