H(indie) (alter)native

This is a drunk story.

This is also a story about plaid shirts, over vintage christian heavy metal band t-shirts, skinny skinny jeans and black shoes. Everyone is 21 and the question of what's in the wild is one better left to Krakauer.

I'm neither.

The night starts off like most nights - no plan and no schedule. A vague notion of class tomorrow at 11am is quickly forgotten as the 40s become 80s and then 160s. Into a pub, a bar, a local watering hole and I can feel the shy run away. A quick nod to the bounce who is a wrestling buddy of mine and I'm in. Solid.

The mob is here not in the Colliseum. I'm tall and that helps to catch the bartender's eye who is apparently oblivious to the meat market in front of him. "Keep it open" I yell and ask for the usual and wonder what he'll pour for me. It's a girl's birthday and I've made new friends. Jose Crow is in the house, forget my real name and I pour salt haphazardly around the outstretched, licked hands.

Salud! We toast to good health in my country. Kind of ironic for something served in shots. Shot. Bang.

Make my way to the back, a subtle bob and weave and I'm back on the basketball court using my footwork to go through the crowd. The average age is 21. I'll give you that. But the lower quartile definitely starts at 17 and the upper quartile ends at 23. Thank you PPD.

Some of my best friends are here.

Why is it that the greeks were so often so annoyingly right about both buoyancy and spirits? Veritas in vino. I'm quickly and successively approached by three different people.

1. I have a crush on this and this person but it's complicated for this and this reason and OMG what would they say about this and that???

2. Can we talk about my secret? Can we talk about what's going at home? About the situation? Can you help me?

3. I hooked up with your ex. I'm sorry, it'll probably happen again. I'm like a slutty Miranda.

I wish for the day when all people can openly talk to me. When the imbibing strength of Veuve and Tanq provides us with an inner strength likened only to faith is when we are free. Primal and forgetful -call it a brown(black)out I observe with pleasure how, as a collective, we debase the archetypes built for us and pound on dirty bar counter peanuts and attempt the act of kissing by slobbering over someones neck. I think the french had a version of it with a little more finesse.

My theory/thesis: Psychologists and psychiatrists could help their patients if their patients showed up piss drunk, (sort of) functional, and open. The folds in a human brain fill out with an -OH ending that allows veracity to escape and withholds the illustrating and sometimes allegorical red herrings.

Open up to me in the warmth of an embrace or the calm of an afternoon Argentinian mate tea or sitting in front of a blaring Sports Center. When I can be a conscious executor of my decisions and can quote Romeo and tell you that we are the masters to our own ship. I will be the other end of the phone anytime and put out a fire. To fix the faulty wiring in the whole building I'm going to need a little less than a .22.

Cheers.