Beyond the lights and the disco balls and the tacky DJ taglines was a lounge. A lounge filled with mock-leather couches, dark corners, ambience and a barman who, for all intents and purposes, looked just like James Woods. Now this was a bar. A bar where the drunk, or misplaced, or down-and-out could prop their weary frames and take in a few rounds of scotch. A place where those who could not dance, or couldn't be bothered making the effort with others could relax and take in a few high volume beverages. This was the lounge, a place for loners, a place for shysters, a place for disco misfits. And it was in the lounge that I found myself after this years staff christmas party. E-O-Eleven.
Perhaps it was a players paradise, maybe it was a packers nightmare, but a bar room full of 300 guests, all of whom happened to be women, was no place for me. I tried, man did I try, but once the disco lights came on and I'd spent more than 15 minutes arm-in-arm being led around the dance floor I quit, I retired to the lounge.
The lounge admittedly didn't have much going for it, but it was quiet, the drinks were close and, above all else, it didn't have a dance floor. It was smokey, not usually my scene, but the barman was friendly and the shots came cheap. Dizzying liquor, straight to the head, Jim Beam Black, the solution to problems past and present. I drank, I laughed.
Soon enough the party had ended, the lights were up. On the stage a middle-aged balding fat guy packed away amps and decs and stereo equipment, not half as flash in the full light. A friend talked lesbian sex with a passing acquantance, eager to get a taxi home, not interested in the tonguing antics of a couple far from home.
And suddenly I'm inside my house, feeling merry, needing more alcohol in my vains. Last night the Alcoholics Anonomous website test confirmed that I was an alcoholic and I want to live up to the reputation. Needing to update a blog. Wanting sleep. Knowing tomorrow will be an early morning.
I plan to drift off to the Dandy Warhols 'The Last High'. They know the score...
Perhaps it was a players paradise, maybe it was a packers nightmare, but a bar room full of 300 guests, all of whom happened to be women, was no place for me. I tried, man did I try, but once the disco lights came on and I'd spent more than 15 minutes arm-in-arm being led around the dance floor I quit, I retired to the lounge.
The lounge admittedly didn't have much going for it, but it was quiet, the drinks were close and, above all else, it didn't have a dance floor. It was smokey, not usually my scene, but the barman was friendly and the shots came cheap. Dizzying liquor, straight to the head, Jim Beam Black, the solution to problems past and present. I drank, I laughed.
Soon enough the party had ended, the lights were up. On the stage a middle-aged balding fat guy packed away amps and decs and stereo equipment, not half as flash in the full light. A friend talked lesbian sex with a passing acquantance, eager to get a taxi home, not interested in the tonguing antics of a couple far from home.
And suddenly I'm inside my house, feeling merry, needing more alcohol in my vains. Last night the Alcoholics Anonomous website test confirmed that I was an alcoholic and I want to live up to the reputation. Needing to update a blog. Wanting sleep. Knowing tomorrow will be an early morning.
I plan to drift off to the Dandy Warhols 'The Last High'. They know the score...
posted by Alexander at 1:03 AM
1 Comments:
Being an alcoholic is...not a good thing. heh. It's so weird that I read this right after my own post, which is kind of about drinking.
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