|Matt:||We should find a place with whiskey. I don't actually know any places around here with whiskey.|
|Me:||I'm sure literally every place around here has whiskey, but I don't really care because I don't like whiskey.|
|Matt:||Well I don't like whiskey either! Why are we looking for whiskey?|
|Me:||I don't know! You brought it up!|
I accidentally a sports bar
Can people smell the sadness on me? What does it smell like?
This started out with me, thinking about my father
as Marvin the Paranoid Android, except racist and
unshowered, and my mother as Tom Cat, from Tom and Jerry,
except instead of chasing Jerry she just chases herself,
and then later, of myself, as George Costanza,
literally just George fucking Costanza, because you all know why.
I had made around 15 martinis thus far and watched about
half of them sit, virtually untouched, because everyone
thinks their tastes are more refined than they actually are
or that vodka doesn’t taste like rubbing alcohol, or that
olives will make a drink good, or something to that effect.
One of my bar regulars was rambling to me
about an article he read, about genetics, and
about nature versus nurture, about lifestyle
choices versus your doctor asking you if you
have a history of dying early from something tragic
in your family. He was rambling to me about
the likelihood of developing addictions, disorders
and about “the studies that are showing otherwise”
despite other, numbered, damning factors.
[This is the part where one might turn to their god,
and say to him, “Thank you for showing me
a sign” and they’d leave reasonably convinced
that the man in front of me was some sort of divine
being, instead of just the overweight man who sucks down
four Ketel and sodas in thirty minutes. They’d have a new
found sense of peace, of reassurance that they’re doing
it all right. That it’s all His plan. That they’re in His plan.
That they’re in anyone’s plan.
Maybe if I knew how to plan anything, this would
be the end of the story. Bear with me here.]
And you know, maybe that’s an answer polarized by it’s origin
surfacing in a way so convenient it makes me question
my own convictions, or maybe it’s a man trying to
impress a woman with quotes that sound more complex
than they actually are, from an article that he skimmed
over breakfast, or maybe it’s just me driving sounds into my skull,
like an axe to a block of wood, until it’s split into
small enough bits to fit into my fireplace.
Maybe I’m just trying to use everything that means nothing
to keep myself warm.
Also as a bartender/restaurant employee, if people who think they come in frequently enough to be considered important could stop asking anyone if they’re “new”, that would be great. It’s really awkward trying to cover up that someone’s unobservant/doesn’t visit enough to be a regular by explaining that you’ve been there 6+ months and that it must be that you usually wear your hair up.
Molly and I went to this bar that I frequent in my neighborhood last week for happy hour and ended up having several pitchers of margaritas. This bar always has smokin hot fucking bartenders, which is one of the many reasons we like it, but also cheap drinks slightly bougie atmosphere, etc. So one bartender is chatting her up, she gets his number, he comps us a bunch of drinks. The other bartender I was kind of into, but the first one said he had a girlfriend, so I didn’t do anything. We’re both p drunk at this point, so I default to taking my laptop out and writing, she defaults to asking the second bartender for his number, for me. She gets both of their numbers, leaves to go to work, I leave to go to the city, we agree to meet up later. Later happens, she doesn’t want to come out to the city, I’m already in the city so I’m not coming back there, both bartenders show up and both of them think they’re there for her because she asked for both of their numbers. The outcome of that night was that I pretended like I was in a spaceship and Molly got fawned over by two sexy men. A number of drinks were consumed.
Anyway the point of that story is that I’m currently at that bar, both bartenders are here, and I’m too stubborn to leave so I’ll probably just get shitty off of margaritas and write weird things.
There’s a man outside who keeps angrily bellowing “DOCTOR WHO” at a tree
It’s gonna get really angsty over here in a bit
You know, one of the best things about being a jerk is that you don’t need an excuse.
Anyway, this is gonna be a long one.
I think, as human beings, we have a sort of genetic or built-in concept that we must immortalize ourselves. A lot of this shows up in that we have kids and perpetuate the species — as long as our genes are out there, and something we had something to do with (most people interact with two generations of themselves, I guess, so you get to doubly influence) we can see it as an involved attempt to both be involved with our species and leave a lasting impression.
However, most people are scum, and even more people are far worse than scum, and they’re the people who are boring. That’s why I think art is the only thing that matters — art in all forms is an attempt to say “I was here and this was what I saw”, which I think takes more effort and courage than fucking somebody and then teaching a half-you when to poop and how to pay taxes and what team you root for or whatever the fuck it is people with kids do.
Art means literally separating an idea from yourself and projecting it for other people to see and interpret, which can be cathartic or catastrophic to process, or the most exhilarating or debilitating rush of your life. I’m sure some people would argue having a kid takes effort and courage and I’m sure it does, but art is more important. The ideas of art can last forever. As human beings, part of what’s built into our stupid little skulls is storytelling, which is how we pass on lessons our ancestors learned but also the imaginations of people long, long dead. We pass on the myths and stories and ideas of those who came before us through art. We process our imaginations and how we perceive the world through art. We heal our wounds and entertain our friends and loved ones with art. Art, as I see it, is the only way to truly validate an existence as a human being.
And one of the greatest things about art is how subjective and personal it can be. You can watch a great tv show and see so many layers in it and your friend will be like “ugh, it’s just fat mobsters cursing at each other”. And then they’ll make you read a dumb book about idiot sad people with cancer falling in love and you’ll be like “was this written for teenagers who have never read a book” and that’s how it is. And that’s great. Different art touches entirely different people in entirely different way. If everyone liked the same art, we wouldn’t have wacky Tarantino movies or gross JG Ballard books or Gilbert & George paintings because it would all be the same mush day in day out. Art is, and always will be, not what makes up civilization, but how a civilization perceives itself, and how a culture wishes it was, with entirely exclusive and internalized ways to analyze or enjoy for everyone. Art is all the dreams that can be.
That’s why I think it’s the most important thing. Because if you can create, on any level, you can not just bring meaning to yourself, but you have a chance to tell a story, through any medium be it cinema literature paintings music whatever, that can bring a small part of that meaning to other people. And in the end, in a micro and macro sense, that’s probably all you can ever have.