The slowest quick death...
Courtesy of a friend and old-time b-town girl, I was invited to plus-1 on the annual Bluebird (a local bar and music venue of venerable age) summer-pontoon boat-on-Lake Monroe event. The opportunity to start drinking at 9 a.m. on a Sunday with professional, card-carrying alcoholics was just too much to turn down, plus I would be a PIRATE all day long.
Arrrrrr! Even NinjaLiz could say, "Ahoy, Matey!" as a perfectly respectable form of address.
I recognized some, couldn't place others, realized I had seen most of them, as J. would say, blitzed, which was why I was having recognition issues. I had dated another Bloomington bar and bartender the preceding summer, so I could approach the situation with the same verve and complete lack of tact that I had previously.
Since I knew the ninja, but not many of the other inked-out pirates it was both an opportunity to people-watch, but also an opportunity (rare ones, that) to be completely a version of myself that many people don't know. This is a Lina that drinks like a fish, talks shop like the service-industry veteran she is, and cuts no corners, hides no scandal, but also mentions none. Fabulous stories? No. Rather half-way hints, asking the invitation to tell the story. This Lina is great at picking your brains, and is curious to force your hand to tell your own story.
After spending a lot of time with vegan-raw foodist-yoga extremists, I have a great eye for energy of the hippie sense, when someone is radiant with life and a sink of well-fueled, high-octane operating body. This also means the reverse is true; the staff, VIPs, and ladies of the Bluebird were in the slow process of acceptable suicide to vanquish their demons.
As a member of this process, but not a particularly dedicated one, I find it easier to see and find fellow folk seeking that slow death. "Smoking is the most acceptable American form of suicide," wrote Kurt Vonnegut in the introduction to his short story collection Welcome to the Monkey House. There's also a certain beauty about dying by emptying the liver of all ability to effectively do its job.
There was ink and black and hangovers; the women were that rail-thin ribs and hips and knees jutting. Stylish sunglasses, no cleavage to be found, these women were embodying the hipster ideal. Bobbed hair and well-matched beach garb, ink both intricate, in process, and multi-colored. Once I had been dying to join them; (un)fortunately I'm still a little too fond of things like breathing, brie, and quintessential bacon eating. I do still have a mad case of beautiful-ink-envy. Nom.
I was lucky to be sufficiently hung-over to be a card-carrying member for the morning; the wine, the not sleeping, and other forms of bodily abuse meant that I had that certain je-ne-sais-crois that partying gives to the dedicated. As with other boat members, I started drinking around 9 a.m. to solve this head-hurts-ow and body-is-achy issue. Why recover from a wine hangover when one can drink one's way through it?
K., it turned out, is a Bluebird VIP -- funny because of how I know him best and remember him and it wouldn't even be fair to trot out his pure dorkster, 'cause it reveals all of my street-cred in a painful, painful fashion. I hadn't seen him in an easy three years, and he had gained that polish and veneer of maturity -- I hear paying bills and living life with its consequences will do that. Somewhere along the way he'd become good looking, or maybe the SCA has just over-developed my preference for tastefully well-groomed facial hair.
It was a relief, though. I know that chivalrous folk often mix drinks at bars, but knowing he was there was effectively my a-ok to be blitzed for a second day running in broad daylight before noon. No matter how much I imbibed or where I passed out, I knew that I would have that curious safety brought by chivalrous gentlemen everywhere. (I refrain from defining, in this case. That's another post.)
In discussing my vices, I learned he was raised SCAdian, so I picked the hell out of his brains. Oddly, when I last knew him, he was chivalrous to a degree that caused him great emotional pain, but at the time I had been unable to place from whence this came, because he was running with a chivalrous crowd of men. I was also an unabashed flirt -- my self confidence was somewhere under the boat, what with all the stickly-thin girls, all of whom came paired with one schluppy guy or another, in spite of, or despite perhaps, all of their hawtness.
The staff of the Bluebird were more than entertained by my lavishing of attention on K. -- I didn't have the energy or sobriety to be discrete, nor any actual reason to be. He wryly noted that it was likely being photographed, at which I shrugged. I was pretending that I believed I was sufficiently beautiful to be on that boat, which meant I must have been fine. Fine-looking. Good enough. Also, he was enjoying it and he may have asked me out years ago; I think I turned him down? [wince]
I rocked the staff with my empowered vegan-refined-sugar-free smoothies (until cut with a bit of lemon-lime generic soda, because the thickness was off -- I had been blending without the rum at 7h45, sorry Elodie!) that were oh, only 1/3 to 1/2 rum. Coconut milk, fresh mango, frozen peaches, a bit of H20 so that the blender doesn't die. They needed raspberries, also maybe a bit more fizz or some honey. Over-all once mixed though, even the head bartend wanted one. *cracks knuckles*
I swam and drank and didn't really bother with eating (hotdogs, squICK) until I passed out in the sun on the top-deck of the pontoon boat for the most deliciously dream-free mid-day nap in the high sun. I have a rockstar sunburn in spite of careful spf 30 application from the combination of swimsuit ties, hair, and towel-about-the-waist. I was so amazing that now, well over 16 hours later, my electrolyte balance is still off. Pretty decadent to be nursing the morning-after hangover at 6h30 p.m.
Too many new people? A bit of wounded self-esteem? A boat full of bartenders and a chivalrous guarantee of certain safety? Yep. Drunk as a skunk, if by skunk you mean pirate. There was a bit too much rum, and in spite of our best efforts, it was not all gone (meaning there could be no quoting of Johnny Dep... I mean Captain Sparrow). Even better? Barkeeps can't be arsed to judge you, take care of you, or criticize your liquor intake. No judgement, no criticism. Just unabashed drinking. A recipe for certain disaster of liver-rending proportion. I am so. ill. egads. Also, I would do it again, once I convince my liver to continue processing and my stomach to start digesting.
I think K. is coming out with us all to Chapel Perilous though, or at least dropping by after work. I insisted, in that way that girls who pretend to be pretty do, that it was essential that he attend and that no other answer than, "I will see you there" would do. K. is also wary wary wary of me; not that I blame him. I am a classic case of single-Lina, which means I am becoming my worst nightmare.
I wanted this less to be an analysis of my path to my state or lack therein this a.m. and I do want to write about these women with whom I drank; perhaps I'm not ready, or too sober, or just have honestly killed too many brain cells this weekend. Until I regenerate the lost I suppose I will save that post and instead offer the debauchery up to the family-members who can now find me here. Hi B.! I promise I don't do this often, okay? Also, my liver is FINE and also Irish and also Eastern European. FINE.
J: What made it a pirate ship?
L: Hmmm. The quantity of booze on board? The amount of that booze that was rum? The number of hangovers and the quantity of amazing ink? Maybe it was the black or the ennui?
J: Okay, okay. So it was a pirate ship in spite of being a party pontoon.
L: Yes.
Arrrrrr! Even NinjaLiz could say, "Ahoy, Matey!" as a perfectly respectable form of address.
I recognized some, couldn't place others, realized I had seen most of them, as J. would say, blitzed, which was why I was having recognition issues. I had dated another Bloomington bar and bartender the preceding summer, so I could approach the situation with the same verve and complete lack of tact that I had previously.
Since I knew the ninja, but not many of the other inked-out pirates it was both an opportunity to people-watch, but also an opportunity (rare ones, that) to be completely a version of myself that many people don't know. This is a Lina that drinks like a fish, talks shop like the service-industry veteran she is, and cuts no corners, hides no scandal, but also mentions none. Fabulous stories? No. Rather half-way hints, asking the invitation to tell the story. This Lina is great at picking your brains, and is curious to force your hand to tell your own story.
After spending a lot of time with vegan-raw foodist-yoga extremists, I have a great eye for energy of the hippie sense, when someone is radiant with life and a sink of well-fueled, high-octane operating body. This also means the reverse is true; the staff, VIPs, and ladies of the Bluebird were in the slow process of acceptable suicide to vanquish their demons.
As a member of this process, but not a particularly dedicated one, I find it easier to see and find fellow folk seeking that slow death. "Smoking is the most acceptable American form of suicide," wrote Kurt Vonnegut in the introduction to his short story collection Welcome to the Monkey House. There's also a certain beauty about dying by emptying the liver of all ability to effectively do its job.
There was ink and black and hangovers; the women were that rail-thin ribs and hips and knees jutting. Stylish sunglasses, no cleavage to be found, these women were embodying the hipster ideal. Bobbed hair and well-matched beach garb, ink both intricate, in process, and multi-colored. Once I had been dying to join them; (un)fortunately I'm still a little too fond of things like breathing, brie, and quintessential bacon eating. I do still have a mad case of beautiful-ink-envy. Nom.
I was lucky to be sufficiently hung-over to be a card-carrying member for the morning; the wine, the not sleeping, and other forms of bodily abuse meant that I had that certain je-ne-sais-crois that partying gives to the dedicated. As with other boat members, I started drinking around 9 a.m. to solve this head-hurts-ow and body-is-achy issue. Why recover from a wine hangover when one can drink one's way through it?
K., it turned out, is a Bluebird VIP -- funny because of how I know him best and remember him and it wouldn't even be fair to trot out his pure dorkster, 'cause it reveals all of my street-cred in a painful, painful fashion. I hadn't seen him in an easy three years, and he had gained that polish and veneer of maturity -- I hear paying bills and living life with its consequences will do that. Somewhere along the way he'd become good looking, or maybe the SCA has just over-developed my preference for tastefully well-groomed facial hair.
It was a relief, though. I know that chivalrous folk often mix drinks at bars, but knowing he was there was effectively my a-ok to be blitzed for a second day running in broad daylight before noon. No matter how much I imbibed or where I passed out, I knew that I would have that curious safety brought by chivalrous gentlemen everywhere. (I refrain from defining, in this case. That's another post.)
In discussing my vices, I learned he was raised SCAdian, so I picked the hell out of his brains. Oddly, when I last knew him, he was chivalrous to a degree that caused him great emotional pain, but at the time I had been unable to place from whence this came, because he was running with a chivalrous crowd of men. I was also an unabashed flirt -- my self confidence was somewhere under the boat, what with all the stickly-thin girls, all of whom came paired with one schluppy guy or another, in spite of, or despite perhaps, all of their hawtness.
The staff of the Bluebird were more than entertained by my lavishing of attention on K. -- I didn't have the energy or sobriety to be discrete, nor any actual reason to be. He wryly noted that it was likely being photographed, at which I shrugged. I was pretending that I believed I was sufficiently beautiful to be on that boat, which meant I must have been fine. Fine-looking. Good enough. Also, he was enjoying it and he may have asked me out years ago; I think I turned him down? [wince]
I rocked the staff with my empowered vegan-refined-sugar-free smoothies (until cut with a bit of lemon-lime generic soda, because the thickness was off -- I had been blending without the rum at 7h45, sorry Elodie!) that were oh, only 1/3 to 1/2 rum. Coconut milk, fresh mango, frozen peaches, a bit of H20 so that the blender doesn't die. They needed raspberries, also maybe a bit more fizz or some honey. Over-all once mixed though, even the head bartend wanted one. *cracks knuckles*
I swam and drank and didn't really bother with eating (hotdogs, squICK) until I passed out in the sun on the top-deck of the pontoon boat for the most deliciously dream-free mid-day nap in the high sun. I have a rockstar sunburn in spite of careful spf 30 application from the combination of swimsuit ties, hair, and towel-about-the-waist. I was so amazing that now, well over 16 hours later, my electrolyte balance is still off. Pretty decadent to be nursing the morning-after hangover at 6h30 p.m.
Too many new people? A bit of wounded self-esteem? A boat full of bartenders and a chivalrous guarantee of certain safety? Yep. Drunk as a skunk, if by skunk you mean pirate. There was a bit too much rum, and in spite of our best efforts, it was not all gone (meaning there could be no quoting of Johnny Dep... I mean Captain Sparrow). Even better? Barkeeps can't be arsed to judge you, take care of you, or criticize your liquor intake. No judgement, no criticism. Just unabashed drinking. A recipe for certain disaster of liver-rending proportion. I am so. ill. egads. Also, I would do it again, once I convince my liver to continue processing and my stomach to start digesting.
I think K. is coming out with us all to Chapel Perilous though, or at least dropping by after work. I insisted, in that way that girls who pretend to be pretty do, that it was essential that he attend and that no other answer than, "I will see you there" would do. K. is also wary wary wary of me; not that I blame him. I am a classic case of single-Lina, which means I am becoming my worst nightmare.
I wanted this less to be an analysis of my path to my state or lack therein this a.m. and I do want to write about these women with whom I drank; perhaps I'm not ready, or too sober, or just have honestly killed too many brain cells this weekend. Until I regenerate the lost I suppose I will save that post and instead offer the debauchery up to the family-members who can now find me here. Hi B.! I promise I don't do this often, okay? Also, my liver is FINE and also Irish and also Eastern European. FINE.
J: What made it a pirate ship?
L: Hmmm. The quantity of booze on board? The amount of that booze that was rum? The number of hangovers and the quantity of amazing ink? Maybe it was the black or the ennui?
J: Okay, okay. So it was a pirate ship in spite of being a party pontoon.
L: Yes.
posted by Kari Stevenson @ 2:07 AM
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