O the wonders and joys of drink! The epicurean delight to be had in a precisely-concocted formula of alcohol! The gastronomic pleasure inherent in every chilled sip and swallow! It is a consummation I shall never know. For I, dear friends and enemies, am an Abstainer. A teetotaler. A Man What Does Not Drink The Booze. Why? I’m glad you didn’t ask!
My earliest memory of alcohol is being offered beer by my then-stepfather. I was 12 years old. I looked at it (urine-like). I smelled it (stenchy). I rolled it about the glass (noisome). I took a sip. And… have you ever… eaten rotten, festering cardboard that’s been sitting in the backpack of a wetbrain hobo, alternatingly soaked by DT sweats and dried by the heat of his self-righteous indignation at the state of the world?
Better than that beer. I recommend it for whenever you’re in a terrible hurry to vomit.
So my first experience was formative. My next attempt at alcohol consumption came when I was 16 years of age, at a New Year’s Eve party. I was handed a glass of champagne by a pretty girl, and when that happens to you, you drink. In fact, I was so smitten by her that I failed to realize until it was too late that my hormone-addled brain had decided it was okay to release a swarm of fire ants into my esophagus. I only gradually became aware of this when I registered the look of alarm on the sweet girl’s face, followed by the sound of someone strangling a dyspeptic moose, which turned out to be me. The inability to breathe soon followed, joined by an unpleasant buzzing sensation in my head that sounded and felt like the world’s tiniest jackhammer being wielded by the cutest damned bee you’ve ever seen, cursing at me in Esperanto.
Eventually the whole suite of impressions died down, and I was left with a warmth in my stomach that was jealous of its space, rebuffing my every attempt to put anything else in there that might help with my sudden feelings of confusion and nausea. When I was finally able to speak again, I saw that the girl in front of me looked worried. Still hoping that I could salvage some shred of dignity, and perhaps steal away with her to a less-populated area of the party for muchas smooches, I summoned up my last reserves of suaveitude and looked her in the eyes. “Smooth,” I croaked.
You can see a pattern here, I think. Some of you might be thinking, “Well, drinking, like smoking and perhaps serial killing, is something that you just have to keep doing until you get used to it.” You might be right. That which doesn’t kill you… leaves you debilitated and in a coma. Look, it’s not as though I don’t “get” the drinking thing. It looks like great fun to sample all these different flavors, and reap the relaxation and loss of inhibition that comes with inebriation. I mean, just looking at Drinks After Dark makes me really yearn for a new hobby. And I live in San Francisco, one of the great Foodie meccas of the world! If I can’t do my experimentation here, I can’t do it anywhere!
But sadly, my body just seems to find alcohol – in whatever strength – poisonous. I’ve tried, oh how I’ve tried! There was that one time a “friend” handed to me something that smelled JUST like a vanilla shake, a drink of which I’m enamoured. Of course he neglected to mention that it was alcoholic, which should have been obvious to me by the way that it conducted electricity and glowed with a fierce crimson light. But, you know, vanilla. You know? So I took a hearty swig. For the record, let me just say this:
I love gravity. I think it’s great the way it keeps me and all of my toys from floating into space. However, I’m not such a fan of it when it decides it’s time to force me to make out with the floor. Remember that old game “stop hitting yourself”? It’s like that, only with a lot more swearing. A LOT more.
Now, I’m not sure exactly why alcohol affects me the way it does. I suspect my mother had a run-in with an old Gypsy woman before I was born, causing her offspring to be cursed. Fortunately for me, the Gypsy was a little unclear with the stipulations of the curse when she said “Afflicted by spirits”. But, you know, it’s too late now, no do-overs in the world of Gypsy curses! Could be a lot worse. I could’ve ended up like Haley Joel Osment and see dead folks everywhere. And it wouldn’t be the cool dead dudes, either, like Jimmy Hendrix, or Jim Henson, or… Benjamin Disraeli. No. Instead, it’d be that annoying woman down the street who always yelled at you for walking across her lawn when you were a kid. Or the high school gym teacher who always picked on you with screams of “C’mon, I said HUSTLE!” Oh man, can you imagine a crowd of loud, obnoxious creatures following you around all day making life miserable? It’d be like… being Octomom. Haha! ZING! Who says I can’t be relevant and edgy!
But I digress. The next time you have a drink of your favorite liquor, please think of the children. And by “children”, I mean me. Poor little Akela, standing alone at a party, clutching his glass of Coke to himself, watching with hungry eyes the rest of the room mingle, dance, flirt, and generally have some worry-free fun, fueled by free-flowing libations. Do him favor. Send a cute drunk girl over to him. There’s something to be said for the “contact high”, especially when it leads to a next morning of recriminations and awkward disentanglements. Thank you, alcohol! Awwwwwwww, YEAH.
Why can’t we not be sober?
I just want to start this over
Why can’t we sleep forever?
I just want to start this over
-- "Sober", Tool
According to lore -- and by "lore", of course, I mean "Wikipedia" -- there really is no supportable reason behind the fact that traditionally, Friday the 13th is considered a day of bad luck. Mostly, it's a concatenation of the belief that Fridays are unlucky, and that the number Thirteen is similarly unlucky. But you have to admit: it's been pretty unlucky for Jason Voorhees' victims. And as a side note: Jason, look, I get the whole "iconic" thing, okay? But c'mon, that hockey mask is SO 80's! Kick it to the curb, man! Update your look. I'm thinking... Michael Jackson mask. Now THAT dude is scary! Wha -- no, I'm not taking a dig at the guy's music -- hell no! I love Off the Wall! ... WHAT? "Man In the Mirror"? Man, Michael would FREAK OUT if he ever saw a man in HIS mirror!
Hold up, hold up. I gotta audiocast to do. I'll talk to you later, Jason. Mm-kay. Give my love to your sister. Bye.
Anyway: Friday the 13th. Like so much of what passes for culture these days, this phenomenon seems to exist simply because people expect it to exist. It's like not wearing green on St. Patrick's day -- suddenly, everyone's Irish, and out to pinch the holy hell outta you. It's assumed behavior, based on nothing more than hearsay, and a ton of media behind it. Take your favorite sitcom, for example. Writers stuck for ideas? Base an episode around Friday the 13th, have one of your characters take it so seriously that they refuse to go outside for fear of something awful happening, and boom! HILARITY AND HIJINKS!
But I'm here to tell you: Friday the 13th is, in fact, the luckiest day of the year. Why? Because of Newton's Third Law of Motion that states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Lemme 'splain, Loosy.
There is something insidious and powerful to the adage "Opposites attract". People who are allergic to cats find themselves constantly at the center of feline attention.
Allergic human: Crap, you didn't tell me you have a cat -- I'm totally allergic!
Cat owner: Oh, don't worry about Mr. Squinkles, he's afraid of people. He'll never even come near you. He just runs away when -- oh, wow, look at that, he's coming right for you!
Cat: I LOVE YOU!
Allergic Human: *explodes*
That guy you've had a crush on for months now, who you just know is absolutely perfect for you, is going to end up getting together with that unbelievably skanky cougar the next cubicle over, even though they have absolutely nothing in common except MAYBE biology based on the carbon atom. It's like rain on your wedding day, Alanis.
This kind of thing happens all the time, and we just write it off to silly bad luck. However, it applies in spades during Friday the 13th, because of everyone running around in dread of some form of bad luck that's going to strike them like a greasy lightning bolt from the sky, Danny Zuko-style. By fearing it, these people attract bad luck! But you, O fortunate one, can take advantage of this fact by observing the Third Law.
It's all about energy. Positive energy and negative energy are constantly swirling around you in flux. Push some positivity this way, and negativity rushes in to fill the void. The universe maintains balance. So, it should naturally follow that while everyone's out there drawing in all this negative Friday the 13th energy, you're in a position to reap the benefits of the concomitant positive energy flow rushing in to fill the void! Don't know how? Here's what you do:
Although this might go against everything you've come to expect from life, go ahead and expect the best to happen. Make reservations for that restaurant you've always wanted to visit, yet is always booked solid. On Friday the 13th, you can get in. Drive downtown for a packed event: you'll find parking. Take that extra-long lunch: your boss will be too busy to notice. On Friday the 13th, pay close attention to your life. Happy accidents will occur, but you need to be in a receptive state to observe them! Take it from me. I was once an oblivious consumer, joylessly wandering through life, unaware that the entire time the universe was simply itching to give me gifts if only I'd been aware enough to recognize them. And now look at me! I have an amazing son who is already a Nathan Fillion times smarter than I'll ever be. I have this audiocast with which I'm free to express my pent-up ideas, and I have a thriving network of friends via Twitter!
It's all about expectations, kids. If you expect today to be horrible, then congratulations -- lemme know how that works out for you. But if you let yourself soak up the positive energy carelessly pushed away be so many people on a daily basis, then the world will roll in ecstasy at your feet.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make a call to the Fab Five. We're planning a Very Special Episode of Queer Eye: Friday the 13th Part VIII.2: Jason Takes Manhattan... BY STORM. Freak Chic, baby! The new Voorhees line? It'll MURDER you.
I don't know why I feel this way
I don't know if it's right or wrong to laugh at misfortune
Darkness can never last too long
When you laugh in its face
-- "Only Makes Me Laugh", Oingo Boingo
