Part one

One of my favorite bands was in town playing a couple sets at a downtown club. Coby was my roommate and he had to close the kitchen at the rib joint he worked at. In some ways that was just as well, for it was often a chore to take my friends into public with me, especially Coby, a sub-human degenerate that either lost, broke, destroyed, or catastrophically demolished everything he came in contact with. But in other ways it was a shame, because going out with a degenerate buddy is better than going out with no buddy at all. All of my buddies at this time were degenerate miscreants. I fit in well. But none of them would be joining me on this evening, a night where my actions would prove depraved beyond even my peers' reprehensible standards.

The dynamics always change for me when I go out partying by my lonesome. I mindfuck myself to the point where I become uber-conscious of the fact that I am there alone. This is especially true when I see people I am only semi-acquainted with. Do I rush over in attempt to join their party and alleviate the "flying solo" demons? Or do I play it safe and wait to be invited over? Normally, I never know what to do in those situations and those funny feelings can linger like a disease. Not coincidentally, however, this disease is easily treatable with the elixirs dispensed at the bar. See, once I get all boozed up, those kind of decisions just flow right over me and before I know it I feel like I am the center of attention. So when I am by myself I tend to pound the drinks at a level that would make the great alcoholics of the past proud. The faster I can drown out my day-to-day insecurities and go swimming in a altered state, the better.

On this night I was determined that there would be nary a uncomfortable moment from the instant I walked into the club. To this end, I made an early evening trip to the Idaho State Liquor Dispensary. I was but 22 years old at the time and still reveling in my newly acquired freedom to browse amongst such a variety of substances to abuse. After I enjoyed a random and thoughtless selection process, I proudly showed my ID to the clerk and walked out with a fifth of some moderately priced gin. On the way home, I had the bottle open before I hit the first stoplight. If you find that disturbing, you had best cease reading this story immediately, because that is just the tip of the iceberg where horrifically irresponsible driving decisions are concerned.

When I got home, I still had several hours to kill and I thought it best to let the gin chill a little while in the freezer. I sat down and watched some TV. I flipped through the channels. There wasn't much on. I looked at my watch. Hmmm.....several hours to kill. What to do? I managed to hold out for another five minutes while I distracted myself with a cigarette and then I bolted towards the still room temperature booze. I put down a few shots and turned on some music. The music was grooving and was very danceable, but I didn't quite feel like dancing yet. I took some more shots. By golly, I was gonna feel like dancing soon enough!

The next couple of hours are naturally a blur for me to recall, but I have been able to draw some conclusions as to what occurred. Evidence I can clearly remember includes an empty bottle, blaring music, piney scented sweat dripping from my brow and livid downstairs neighbors. From this I concluded that I had spent those two to three hours bolting a fifth to my head and playing a dance-dance-party solitaire style.

(to be continued)