Ten years ago, or
so, I was at a crossroads in my life, which is like, no big deal—you
come to a crossroads like, every block. Anyway, so I moved into this
house in Kent, Ohio with five other people, some who were my friends,
and some I didn't know too well. By the time I moved a year later, I
considered everyone in the house my friend—but not the
politician/business/California definition of friend—I actually
really liked all these people.
Oh my, because I'm
sitting here at the dark bar of the Singing Lobster Karaoke Lounge
(Grand Cafe) or because of a Laphroaigian slip (phrase I just
invented) I accidentally wrote, in my notebook, that I “licked
all these people.” The text will no doubt be corrected by the time
you read it. This reminds me of something I just saw on the
internet—I actually use the internet at my job now, not
much, but when you're researching something, looking for a phone
number or product information, it's the first place you look. And in
my spare time (I don't take breaks anymore) I sometimes do a little
research for myself—when I was looking up a concept I had
thought up to see if it was original, or based in any heinous current
marketing or entertainment scheme. It's kind of complex—I put out a
sporadic small 'zine of serial fiction called Mickey Rourke
(more on that later)—and one of the continuing stories (the
magazine is all serial fiction) is called The Endless Party,
and one of the concepts I invented for The Endless Party was
the concept of Pyramid Sex. I had and have no idea what that refers
to, I just thought it would be a funny ongoing reference that the
reader can grapple with (it just occurred to me that this sounds a
little too much like that show, Seinfeld—(which, by the way,
I watched like one episode of, but couldn't deal with the
laugh-track, and that stupid bass wanking they have between
each scene. It just said sit-com to me, and I just really hate the
sit-com form—it's like the only bad memory of my childhood—TV
sit-coms—so we'll have to be careful of that). Anyway,
so I was looking on the internet to see if there was anything about
Pyramid Sex—some heinous concept that I never suspected. I didn't
find anything as such, but I did see one of the weirdest
things in recent memory—an oral sex pyramid internet chain letter.
Apparently, it works like this: there's a list of names and
addresses and you put your name and address on the bottom of the
list, and then you go to the top name on the list, or top five or
something and drive to their house, and give them oral sex. It seems
a little impractical to me, as these names are all over the U.S. and
Canada—but, well, I don't know? Maybe it works, but... it doesn't
sound like a real good idea to me. But who knows?
The dude here, the
big guy, owner, whatever, just came in and replaced the lightbulb
above the bar where I'm sitting. That's why it was so dark. I like
sitting at the bar, which faces an incredible array of liquor.
I like looking at the liquor—even though I can't take a
drop—literally not a taste. This year, 1998 (though not this
date) marks, I guess, five years since I quit drinking. Definitely
the hardest five years of my life. I don't really keep track—like
how many days since I quit or anything—like some people do.
I don't think of it as an accomplishment or a record. If I start to
drink again I figure it'll be about the same thing as putting a gun
to my head or jumping off a bridge.
About a year and a
half before I quit drinking, I found out that I had to quit eating
wheat (and all of its insidious forms) which was eroding my small
intestine faster than road salt eats a muffler. No guarantee from
Midas. But instead of having to replace my intestine with a rubber
hose, simple abstinence was enough to cure me. I had been so sick—I
felt like like by simply changing my diet I was able to grab my hat
and turn my back on death, waltz out the door, “see you!” For
now, of course, nothing's simple. Wheat seems to have infiltrated all
strongholds of the American diet. More on that later.
But my point here,
is that here I am on what is starting out to be a very strange day,
staring down a bottle of Laphroaig Scotch while Scotland and Brazil
are tied 1-1 in the first game of World Cup soccer on one of the many
TV screens in this place. The last glass of alcohol I ever drank, I
believe it was on Nietzsche's birthday, was a glass of fine port,
from Portugal. When I found out I could no longer eat wheat, I
decided that I would start the next day, but that night I would taste
my last wheat. I went to a place called The Sanctuary, and with
religious appreciation, consumed a good pizza, a Guinness Stout, and
a glass of Laphroaig Scotch. (Scotch, Bourbon, all whiskey, as well
as gin and most vodka, all distilled from wheat grain, and thus
off-limits.) Kind of a European smorgasbord. I guess I could have
added more countries, but I was too happy to get drunk—I had been
sick for three years—and now I had found out why. I probably had
some Bourbon because it's my favorite, but I don't remember now—what
I really remember is that glass of Laphroaig Scotch which tasted like
nothing I've ever tasted. I won't even try to describe it, and I
can't remember now anyway, but anyway, it was the first time I'd ever
tried it, and the last, and that's for life. It's now entered the
realm of mythology.
I'm sitting here
at the bar facing the esteemed single malt Scotch shelf, and I'm
admiring the bottle of Laphroaig, which is in the middle. It's green
glass with a simple white label with black print. Nothing overly
fancy or design-y, very traditional, simple, and excellent. If I was
still drinking, and eating wheat, this would be my drink. It
would. Ten years old—there are other Scotch's 12, 15 years old, but
ten years old seems like long enough—it's a hell of a long time.
Which brings me
back, at least I hope, to ten years ago, Kent, Ohio—what was
my point? Oh yeah, crossroads, and all that, my high school class
reunion at which I drank way too much. Now I'm facing my 20th
high school class reunion this summer—without drinking.
Scary. Anyway, when I was living in this improbable living situation
house in Kent with five friends, we got heavily into making
beer—something I had done since high school. We had several five
gallon jugs, vats, going at any given time in the basement, and cases
and cases aging and waiting to be consumed. We experimented with
flavored beer, high alcohol beer, stout so thick it made Guinness
look like Lite, garlic beer, chamomile beer, and just ordinary, good,
robust, real beer that we were able to make—I'm not
kidding—for about $3.00 a case. Beer making is a lot of work, but
it's like cooking or canning—it's satisfying and fun. We felt we
where on to something, making our own beer, and people all over the
country were doing it to an increasing degree. But, not being of the
entrepreneurial bent, we didn't look at it as a future business
opportunity. Actually, at one point, when I opened one of my many
small magazine stores that have failed over the years—places whose
main function was to be an outlet for small magazines like you're
reading now—I considered selling home brewing supplies to the local
collage student population, especially those who are in that twilight
age category between 18 and 21—I could sell the brewing supplies
legally to these people and then let the miracle of fermentation do
the rest. But the thought of going through with the marketing,
advertising, and promotion to make my wares known, and the thought of
my clientele possibly being beer-progressive fraternity brothers,
nauseated me just enough to not have the energy to go ahead with this
endeavor.
It's much later in
the day. I haven't been at the Singing Lobster for quite some
time, actually. I came to work to find one of those FAXs with a
little advertising, human anecdotes, celebrity birthdays, and
milestones on this date. It's Judy Garland's birthday! And this is
the date Ben Franklin's kite was allegedly struck by lightning, being
the popular discovery of electricity. Quite important to most of
today's world. Also, a committee was appointed to write the
Declaration of Independence, and the Girl Scouts were incorporated. I
guess that means that's when they started selling cookies. Also, Bill
and Dr. Bob formed Alcoholics Anonymous! A very big day. Also,
Kennedy signed an equal pay for equal work bill. And the biggest
milestone of all, Subway opened its sandwich business. In
commemoration, the local Subway shops are introducing the Lobster Sub
and Lobster Bisque—for a limited time only. They should have asked
Blimpies how well their lobster sub went over.
The headline news
has nothing about the Mexican military attacking alleged Zapatistas
in the Chiapas region of Mexico. Around the world, I imagine,
governments use the occasion of World Cup Soccer to try to execute
heinous acts, figuring the public will be distracted. Of course, in
this country, soccer hasn't quite taken hold yet. It's waiting for
the next marketing genius to fuck it up. By the way, while I was
watching, Brazil scored a goal, went up 2-1, and that game was all
over.
Back ten years or
so, I drove across the country, then, after we broke up our fine home
in Kent, Ohio. Now the six former residents of that house reside in
six different states—let's see, Ohio, Washington, Oregon, New York,
Maine, and Austria. (I know that Austria is a country and not a
state.) Anyway, I was pleased to see the rise of the brew pub on the
West Coast—in Berkeley, San Francisco, Arcata, and Seattle. I knew
the popularity of good beer would bring the prices up—but at least
good beer was going to be appreciated. But—to get back to what I
had started to say—I never expected to see what I see now, here in
my home of Portland, Maine. There is an actual chain restaurant
here—and a new one is just opening—called Barnacle 'enry's Real
Dublin Beer Haus's (yes, that's plural). Now, if I'm not mistaken,
with that handle they cover nautical (a must here in
Portland), British, Irish, and German. Talk about covering the bases.
They boast “Hand Crafted Beer” and pizza! They look just like a
combination of Arthur Treacher's Fish & Chips and Chuck E.
Cheese's Pizza Time Theatre. And they're popular.
So back to what I
could have just said in one sentence—and I'm sincerely sorry
for the digressions—if you would have told me ten years ago that in
ten years we'd see the perfect marriage of homebrew and fast food, I
would have told you that you were out of your fucking mind. And I
would have meant it.
