Poison Spur

Poison Spur tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008-07-20://2 2008-09-23T22:41:10Z Movable Type Open Source 4.12 Remission: Impossible tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.193 2008-09-23T14:05:05Z 2008-09-23T22:41:10Z

Dave Jennings

Aunt Hazel's funeral was a closed-casket affair. She had wasted away to almost nothing during her last few months and there was no magic that could be expected out of even the best of morticians to change that.

I sat in the front row. I was breaking out in a cold sweat and felt like I was going to throw up at any moment. Grief can do this to a person. That was my story and I was sticking to it.

On a small table to one side of her coffin stood a portrait-sized photograph taken of her a few years back when she was healthy. At that time, she had already buried two husbands and a third was on the way. I believe his name was Gus but I can't remember for sure. I do recall verbatim what was on his suicide note but that's not hard to do. All it said was, "Free at last."

She was showing her teeth in the picture, her hair was immaculately coiffed, and she had one eyebrow raised in disapproval. It was how everyone best remembered her, everyone that is except me.

When Hazel got sick, she had given up on marriage so it fell upon the family to nominate a primary caregiver. I was chosen because I was out of work at the time. I had also borrowed money from most of my relatives and had shown no signs of ever paying it back. That might have caused some resentment on their part.

At first, it didn't seem like such a bad deal. I got free room and board while my aunt battled her cancer. Groceries were delivered and a nurse was hired to look in on her every other day so my duties were pretty much nonexistent. If Hazel decided to projectile vomit or shit all over herself, all I had to do was close the bedroom door to block the smell until the cleanup detail arrived.

Everything was fine until the boredom kicked in. My aunt's house was at least twenty miles from anything and I had no money or car. There was no internet access, no cable TV, and the only things to read were a leatherette-bound bible and a bunch of self-help books inspiring people to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. The only alcohol on the premises was some cooking sherry I polished off in the first two days. As a result, I spent most of my time staring out the living-room window watching her beloved rose garden slowly wither away.

I think I would have lost my mind if she had not gone into hospice care. Hazel was dying; it was official now. The chemo didn't work and keeping her on it would serve no purpose other than to increase her suffering. The plan now was to keep her as comfortable as possible for the time she had left.

That didn't mean my ordeal was over, not by any stretch. Terminal cases can linger for weeks, months, even years. What made things different was the drugs.

Whoever makes the rules about who gets what is real stingy when it comes to opiates. When it looked like Hazel might recover, they gave her synthetic codeine for the pain and Thorazine for the nausea. Yes, Thorazine. I thought nobody prescribed that stuff since the days of Nurse Ratched but apparently I was wrong. There was nothing on her medicine shelf worth stealing.

With her terminal diagnosis came morphine and plenty of it. The nurse showed me how to administer the drug. It wasn't by injection. The device looked like a large hypodermic but instead of a needle, it had a curved plastic needle for its contents to be given orally.

I was a quick study. The nurse watched me to make sure I was administering the morphine properly and commended me for getting it right the first time. After she left, I celebrated by giving myself a dose as well.

Suddenly my predicament wasn't so awful. I sat down on the floor and stared at the wall for a while. Life was good.

There was only one problem. The nurse didn't bring enough morphine for both of us so more often than not, my aunt had to do without.

You'd think a stalwart old battleaxe like Hazel would take it like a trooper. Instead, she wailed like a banshee about the pain for hours on end. It was pretty hard to listen to her carry on like that so I increased my dosage to the point where it didn't bother me so much. This of course left almost zero morphine for her but she really brought that upon herself when you think about it.

During one of her more lucid moments, Hazel caught on that I was using her medication and threatened to tell the nurse about it. I denied it of course but she was unconvinced. I had no choice but to dope her up so she wouldn't be in any condition to tell anybody anything. She struggled a bit but there wasn't much fight left in the old girl. I was able to hold her down with my hand on her forehead while squirting enough morphine into her mouth to knock her unconscious. I didn't administer enough to kill her though. That would be wrong.

It was a good thing I hadn't used the entire morphine supply for myself. From that day on, I made sure to keep enough in supply so my aunt would sleep peacefully through every nurse's visit.

Aunt Hazel passed away about a month later. I'll never forget seeing her go through her death rattle. It was a hell of a thing to watch so I took a hit of morphine to calm my nerves. Just before she expired, her eyes shot open and she stared me right in the face with the hypo nozzle hanging from the corner of my lip. I waved bye-bye. Then she died.

In the end, my aunt had the last laugh. She had gone on to whatever reward awaited her and left me with a morphine addiction. My drug supply had been cut off. The grocery delivery had also stopped and her house was to be sold to pay for her medical expenses, which meant I had to secure a place to live and a way to support myself. Neither of these are easy when you're a junkie.

So here I was, sitting at her funeral hoping my family would interpret my withdrawal symptoms as heartfelt bereavement. I think I pulled it off. I didn't notice anyone giving me suspicious glances between their outpourings of crocodile tears.

After the service, Hazel's brother Bob came over and sat down next to me.

"I want you to know how much the entire family appreciates what you've done," he said. "Please try to take comfort that she has gone on to a better place."

"I'm just so sorry she's gone," I said, shaking in my seat.

"I know, I know you are," he said.

He didn't know the half of it.
]]> Police Story tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.182 2008-09-19T21:18:57Z 2008-09-24T15:41:19Z

Dave Jennings

I grip the wheel of my hybrid and put the pedal to the metal as "Night Ranger" blasts from the car stereo. The trunk is full of contraband worn panties that will net a tidy sum when I sell them at that convention in Reno.

I think I'm home free until I spot a police car behind me with its lights flashing. Not a problem. Surely the cop must realize my vehicle gets excellent highway mileage. I'll just keep on going and we'll see who has to stop for gas first.

The cop wasn't playing that game. The black-and-white's nitrous acceleration unit engaged, propelling the car "Mad Max" style right up my tail. Upon impact, my trunk flies open sending panties everywhere as I spin off the road and into a ditch.

I'm still dazed as I see the cop approach on foot. She is a law-enforcement goddess with deep cleavage, flexed biceps, and camel toe that could sharpen a broom handle like a pencil. She grabs me by the collar pulling me halfway out of the driver-side window, presses her nightstick against my throat, and says, "You've been a very bad boy."

Oh God, if only that were true. Instead, I was sitting in an all-hands meeting at work. The CEO was in front of us playing pocket pool and droning on about quarterly earnings. After about an hour of this, the meeting mercifully ended and it was time to go home.

On the BART ride back to the Mission, I noticed the red light flashing on the ceiling of the train car. I imagined a a transit cop watching from the command center and fingering herself over the prospect of waterboarding me, but quickly put the notion out of my mind. This evening's footage, as always, will go unseen until the end of time.

I got off at the 24th Street station and started walking home. A cop pulled up at the street I was about to cross and I stopped.

"Go ahead, sir," she said, waving me through. I sighed and crossed the street.

I was glad to get home. I had spent the entire day in the real world and found it wanting. It was time to go online.

There is a chatroom called "Policewoman Brutality" made up of the vengeful women of law enforcement and the men who love them. So far, I hadn't had much luck connecting with anyone, despite my rather clever handle "cinderfelon."

My luck was about to change as a private chat window popped up on my screen.

"SGT EVA BRAWN: Don't resist arrest if you know what's good for you."

I whimpered, then replied.

"cinderfelon: I won't. Well, maybe just a little."

"SGT EVA BRAWN: Good. Your profile says you live in San Francisco. Where are you exactly? I can take you into custody within the hour."

I gave her my address, complete with cross street and advice for the best places in the vicinity to park.

The was on her way. I imagined her a spine-snapping Valkyrie, meting out justice with a rubber hose and whatever else she had in her toy bag. I could hardly wait.

About an hour later the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I expected to be greeted by a woman in uniform. And I was, sort of. Unfortunately, the uniform was of the girl-scout variety and the person wearing it was no older than twelve.

"Cookies, sir?" she said.

"This is really not a very good time," I said. "I'll have to ask you to run along. I have a guest arriving at any moment."

"If you're talking about Sgt. Eva Brawn, that would be me," she said.

"You've got to be kidding."

"Not at all. I've heard all these stories about cops pretending to be kids and how it worked great for arresting perverts. I thought I could do the opposite to sell cookies to them. Pretty smart, don't you think?"

"That's the craziest idea I've ever heard."

"Not so crazy. I've done it a lot and it works every time. So mister, how many boxes?"

"Gee, I don't know. How many do you have?"

"That's the spirit. I have five."

"Fine. Please take the money and go. You know, you really should be more careful. There are a lot of dangerous people out there."

"Don't be silly," she said. "They're all just like you."
]]> The Laughter Subsides tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.192 2008-09-16T13:24:59Z 2008-09-16T14:23:40Z

Dave Jennings

There is nothing quite so intoxicating as a giggle fit. It doesn't really matter too much what I'm laughing about, but it's usually something silly, puerile, and vulgar.

The important thing is that, amidst my chortles and guffaws, life's little worries cease to bother me. So what if I'm unable to sustain a meaningful relationship? Who cares that I've reached the age of 46 and have bugger all to show for it? All I need to is conjure up an image of glue-sniffing hillbillies greasing a wheelchair ramp for kicks and I've put my personal demons on hold.

When no jokes come to mind (and even when they do), liquor consumption has gone a long way toward maintaining my peace of mind. So has imprudent behavior. And don't get me started about drugs and porn.

If you can't see the flaw in this approach, you're in even worse shape than I am. We are supposed to face our problems so that we might grow from the experience. I get that. Despite my best efforts to avoid this, I sometimes have no choice.

These unpleasant moments of maturity can occur when I don't expect them. Just yesterday, a wave of ugly truth overcame me as I sat in a 401(k) orientation meeting at work. I've been at my current job for over two years but have yet to sign up for a retirement plan. Fuck it, I reasoned. Cirrhosis or a glorious overdose will take care of everything.

Or maybe not. I drink more than I should but not enough to be killing myself and have given up on other substances. Besides, I may actually want to stick around for my golden years, amusing myself with my bad attitude and wearing my incontinence with pride.

For that, I'll need cash. Whatever pittance I can expect from social security probably won't pay my rent, let alone cover my bar tab.

So I went to the meeting. Better late than never, I thought. It was then that I realized that I was a decade late and a hundred-thousand dollars short.

"Start saving now or you're screwed," said the representative from Fidelity Mutual (OK, I'm paraphrasing here). It was sound advice for most of his target audience, coworkers of mine who are on average ten years younger than me. He went on to illustrate his point with graphs and equations clearly showing how getting into the retirement plan early (them) will put them in a far better financial condition than the poor sap who procrastinated (me).

It was a slap in the face but I was OK. I tuned out and imagined anti-vibrator decency vigilantes with a telescopic mic who kick in the door of a woman who was only playing the didgeridoo.

I felt much better after that.
]]> Paint It Beige tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.191 2008-09-12T22:20:21Z 2008-09-13T00:33:29Z

Dave Jennings

The business-casual secret police are at it again.

According to a recent news article, twenty percent of perspective employers search for a job candidate's online activities before making a hiring decision. Of those who do, a third of them disqualify people applicants if they see something they don't like. Simply put, one in fifteen people you interview with is going to be some nosy fascist you wouldn't want to work for anyway.

To be fair, I can sort of see the boss' point of view. Beyond a sterling resume, you might want some sort of assurance that the newest member of your team isn't going to be strung out on drugs, a kleptomaniac, or itching to go on a killing spree.

These concerns are legitimate. It's the method I object to.

Let's be honest. We all have parts of ourselves that are embarrassing, sordid, or downright disgusting. We keep some of these things secret but not all. However, to maintain a career, we keep them out of the workplace.

My boss' greatest concern is whether I get my work done, as it should be. He doesn't care whom I'm sleeping with, how many drugs I might ingest at Burning Man, or a detailed description of my last bowel movement.

It's my responsibility to keep what I do in my off hours from interfering with my job duties. If I have a MySpace page with pictures of me dirty dancing naked with a Porky Pig piñata, it really should be of no concern to my employers unless I engage in that activity during staff meetings or insist on sharing the photos with easily offended colleagues.

Of course, it's prudent not to volunteer anything when on a job hunt. The person doing the hiring probably doesn't want to see you fly your freak flag. You should respect that. So if you're considering emailing your resume with a return address of TurboRapist@gmail.com, you might want to think again.
]]> The Pleasure Was All Mine tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.190 2008-09-10T14:31:11Z 2008-09-10T17:32:46Z

Dave Jennings

I was running late. The movie was starting in less than an hour and a half and I had to get from my house in the Mission district to the theater way out in the outer Richmond. If I had a car, it's about a fifteen-minute drive. I don't so I was at the mercy of the Muni bus system, which meant it could take as little as forty minutes and as long they damn well please.

Any local resident not on life support knows that our local transit system's schedules are treated as guidelines instead of actual timetables. Yet I still managed to wait until the last minute because I got sidetracked at home. I found a site where I could play Sim City Classic online for free and the hours just flew by.

It was the bulldoze button that kept me from tearing myself away. After adding residential areas in the game, they usually start sprouting house, followed by an apartment building and so on and so forth. Sometimes though, hospitals and churches would pop up for no reason. I had to take action.

"No mercy for the weak," I'd say, bulldozing a hospital.

"Go home and worship the Porn God," I'd add, doing the same to a church.

It was great fun but I should have been more mindful of the time. I only began regretting that when I was on the corner of Van Ness and Geary, waiting for the connecting bus. When one finally did arrive, it was the local service stopping at every corner for the next five miles.

I was beginning to feel upset that I was going to miss the movie. To make matters worse, the bus was packed and there was barely any room to stand, let alone sit.

Just then, my spirits were lifted by an old woman sitting in one of the gimps-and geezers seats near the front door. She wasn't just any old woman but rather the most bitter and cantankerous piece of yesterday's news I had ever laid eyes on.

She reminded me of this scowling crone from one Twilight Zone episode who kept getting calls from her long-dead boyfriend after a storm knocked a phone line down on his grave.

"Mildred," said the voice from beyond. "Why, why did you have to be such a pain in the ass?"

At the end of the show she broke down sobbing, realizing how richer her existence could have been if she had just lightened up a little.

Lacking a paranormal life coach, the woman on the bus had yet to learn this lesson. She looked around at all the common folk trying to get where they needed to go and snarled, "Can't you see the bus is full? You should have waited for the next one."

She then harrumphed and went back to chewing an imaginary mouthful of Denny's senior special.

Thank you ma'am, I thought. Your petty little outburst just made my day.
]]> Into the Maw of the Metroplex tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.189 2008-09-07T19:08:10Z 2008-09-09T23:30:38Z

Dave Jennings

Last Sunday, my friend Janice talked me into seeing "Death Race," a remake of the 1975 classic starring David Carradine and Sylvester Stallone.

Perhaps "classic" is a bit of a stretch. The original was considered cheeseball drive-in fare at the time of its release but has gained a measure of respectability over the years. And why shouldn't it? It glorified violence without apology and never expected moviegoers to take it seriously.

I read reviews of the remake and they were not flattering. The new version is said to strip away the tongue-in-cheek silliness and irony, replacing it with unintentional silliness and Jason Statham.

"It's going to suck," I told Janice.

"Maybe for you," she said. "Car races and violence are like porn to me."

That settled that. A gentleman never denies a lady her porn.

I have to admit that as far as cinematic butt nuggets go, this one was fairly tolerable. Plot was kept to a merciful minimum. The departure from the original putting the race in a prison worked well and included ice-bitch warden as a villain for the audience to direct their misogyny. There was even a "Shawshank Redemption" moment at the end, albeit one with a hot babe in cut offs shaking her butt in slow motion.

For the rest, there was an almost nonstop roaring of engines, twisted metal, and blood spatter. Every so often, Statham would lament his personal demons but in a movie like this, no one can be expected to give a shit.

Janice loved the flick for her own unhealthy reasons. I found it entertaining and walked out of the theater with a smirk on my face. If only I could believe that the filmmakers were in on the joke.
]]> Rabble Dabble tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.188 2008-09-04T22:05:37Z 2008-09-05T00:21:14Z

Dave Jennings

According to the memo, all hell was supposed to break loose. Protesters were scheduled to arrive at noon today in front of our building because our upstairs neighbors at MySpace had managed to piss them off big time. Security was instructed to let no one enter the building. MySpace employees were issued a gag order in case the media showed up.

Contrary to what one might think, the protesters were not irate parents taking the Predator Yellow Pages™ to task nor was there an aesthetic outcry against allowing members with no design sense whatsoever to create their own profile layout.

They were Naderites up in arms because Ralph wasn't getting any MySpace love.

It turns out that MySpace/Fox Interactive Media are in cahoots with the Commission on Presidential Debates, an organization that views third parties as not worth their time.

I'm of two minds on this issue. On the one hand, there is a fundamental flaw in the two-party system that keeps non-mainstream views from being adequately represented. On the other, Ralph Nader is a self-righteous killjoy who desperately needs to get laid. So if riot cops were brought in, I had no idea which side to root for.

I needn't have been concerned. Less than a dozen protesters were in attendance and the closest thing to storming the building was when one guy came in and asked the security guard if he could borrow a pair of scissors. She said no and told him to leave the premises.

He obeyed.
]]> Poison Spur Funnies tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.187 2008-09-01T18:49:50Z 2008-09-01T18:51:21Z

Dave Jennings

]]> 8/25/62 tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.186 2008-08-25T21:13:58Z 2008-08-25T21:42:45Z

Dave Jennings
At the time, I could have done without the reminder that it was time to start breathing. I would have been perfectly content to let the doctor wait until I stopped gurgling and twitching then hook shot me into the stillborn bin. What did I have to live for? I was too young to drink and the bars were closed at that hour anyway.

Forty-six years on, my appreciation for life has improved. With a little effort and a lot of luck, I've managed to carve out a decent existence for myself. I have food, shelter, and friends, plus enough of a sense of humor to carry me through when things don't go my way.

Thanks for the slap, Doc.
]]> Eye Beam tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.185 2008-08-19T14:44:29Z 2008-08-19T15:28:08Z

Dave Jennings

The year was 1992 and my girlfriend Jen had just just called me a pig. I grinned at her because she was right. She usually was when making a porcine assessment of me. I wonder whatever happened to her.

On this particular occasion, it was because of an idea I told her about that would revolutionize television coverage of the Olympics. We were watching women's gymnastics, which as we all know allows folks with certain (ahem) tastes to check out underage girls bending themselves into unnatural positions without running the risk of ending up on a sex-offender registry.

What I proposed was a "beam cam." Think about it. All those people watching the balance-beam competition were deprived the chance to see a beam's-eye view of the forbidden fruit at the point of impact. With my invention, the event could boast a 100% viewership, at least among those who watch with their hand down their pants.

Looking back, I should have patented the device. The major networks, fearing a killjoy outcry, might not have gone for it but if they had, I would have established my claim to fame. As things stand, "Dave Jennings, he could hold his liquor (sometimes)" is all I can hope for as an epitaph.
]]> Temperance Tantrum tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.184 2008-08-09T00:18:32Z 2008-08-09T00:46:22Z

Dave Jennings

A little over a month ago, my ex-girlfriend Betty gave up the hooch. At least by my besotted standards, I really didn't think she drank that much.

Still, alcohol wasn't doing her any favors and as her friend I respect her decision. I've been down the road to recovery myself (well, the drinking part of the journey anyway) and like to make some gesture of support, even if it's a symbolic one like reciting the Serenity Prayer before downing a shot of Jagermeister.

Tomorrow night won't be so easy. She's having a birthday party at a friend's house, a clean, sober, what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here-during-happy-hour celebration. I promised to attend and I won't even pack a flask.

I don't need to drink, really I don't. So if I end up ducking into the bathroom to take a few swigs from the Listerine bottle, it doesn't mean I have a problem. I don't drink in the morning...while I'm at work...very often, and that's why I'm not an alcoholic.
]]> A Bug's Life tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.181 2008-08-05T19:56:34Z 2008-08-06T15:57:44Z

Dave Jennings

The office crime wave continues unabated. Last week, it was stolen laptops. Today, it's unauthorized surveillance.

I received a company-wide email this morning from our VP of HR and Servility Enforcement. She said that someone had planted an "electronic device" in an employee's cubicle that violated that person's privacy. I was scarcely aware that anyone in human resources gave a rat's butt about privacy rights. I imagine they have a huge file of every profane email I've sent and every sordid website I've visited. Maybe they just don't like the competition. In any event, she was plenty ticked. She said flat out that such activity would not be tolerated, lest anyone operate under the assumption that HR is made up of tolerant people.

She failed to specify what sort of electronic device it was. At first, I thought it might have been an upskirt webcam put under the desk of [name withheld because I'm a gentleman] but realized that not everyone shares my priorities. It was more likely some sort of microphone-transmitter thingy picking up stultifyingly dull yet company-private conversations.

I wonder what malfeasance will be uncovered next. Murder? Arson? Writing snarky things in a blog? I'll keep you posted.
]]> On the Wag tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.178 2008-08-01T19:37:18Z 2008-08-03T17:51:13Z

Dave Jennings

I like dogs, always have. I don't have the time to own one myself but they're nice to have around. Lucky for me, I frequent a bar that is dog-friendly. As I sit and swill my whiskey, there is usually one or more canines dozing under the barstools and sniffing crotches. It's the sort of behavior I only wish I could get away with myself but I'm willing to live vicariously through them.

It is therefore reasonable to assume that if there is some trouble facing one one if these animals, I'm not going to be impartial about it. This past Wednesday, there was. And I'm not.

Since the incident might still be a police matter and I'd prefer to plead ignorance if questioned, I shall change the names of both the people and dog involved.

I'm friends with a married couple, whom I'll call Mr. and Mrs. Lockhorn, who frequent the bar and make it a habit of bringing their yellow lab, whom I'll call Cujo. Cujo is a playful scamp who has a friendly disposition toward both man and beast. She does however bark at small children, which is OK because they shouldn't even be in a bar unless they have a real good fake ID.

So Mr. and Mrs. Lockhorn went outside to smoke and Cujo went with them (for the record, Cujo is a non-smoker). There is a church a few doors down from the bar, one of those evangelical houses of worship where poor people can go and thank Jesus for being poor. Anyway, a service was letting out and Cujo, off leash, started barking at one of the children on the sidewalk.

The kid's father was livid. Rather than doing the gracious thing and accepting Mr. Lockhorn's halfhearted apology as sincere, he started in on city leash laws and proceeded to call the cops on his cell phone.

He was similarly unreceptive to Mr. Lockhorn's suggestion that he go fuck himself.

When a police car pulled up in front of the bar, the Lockhorns and Cujo had already left for the evening. The father was still there, waving his arms and complaining to a couple of cops who certainly had better things to do.

I hope this little incident blows over and there is no bad blood between the churchgoers and bar patrons. After all, we're really not so different. I've been known to speak in tongues after my eighth Jameson's. Christians do that when full of the Holy Spirit. I do it when full of a whole lot of spirits. Whatever works.
]]> Who Fought the Law? tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.177 2008-07-30T16:04:00Z 2008-07-30T16:49:23Z

Dave Jennings

Being a solid citizen has its advantages. A bunch of cops came walking through the office yesterday and I remained calm. There were no drugs to be swallowed in haste, no felonies to be categorically denied. The only stress I felt was the usual work stuff like deadlines about to lapse and a boss who thinks I'm a mental defective. An unexpected visit by law enforcement was a welcome diversion.

As one might imagine, this generated quite a buzz among us cubicle folk. There had been some incidents of stolen laptops in the past and I was wondering if a thief had struck again.

According to that most reliable source of information, the office rumor mill, there was not only another theft but the culprit just got busted. He was a new contract-to-hire guy in IT, no doubt high on meth. There was video footage of him carrying goods out the door. He was toast.

I didn't know him. A co-worker gave me a brief physical description and I still drew a blank. Whoever he was, he made a very idiotic decision that's going to put his life in the shitter, if it weren't heading in that direction already.

I certainly didn't envy the man, though I might have if the arresting officers were all hot policewomen. I wouldn't stoop to thievery, mind you, but I might walk around with a dongle hanging out of the back of my pants in the hope one of them might snap on a rubber glove and give my body cavity a look see.
]]> Three Cheers for the Sad Cases tag:www.poisonspur.com,2008://2.176 2008-07-28T13:39:13Z 2008-07-28T14:17:04Z

Dave Jennings

It's all about perspective. When I get down on myself for not doing enough with my life, all I have to is look around to find someone who, by comparison, makes me appear to be at the top of my game. Since I spend a fair amount of time in a bar, such people are not hard to come by.

Saturday evening did not disappoint. I got to the Argus around seven, having spent most of the day either napping or puttering around the apartment. I didn't need a drink. I didn't even especially want one, but boredom and cabin fever sent me on my way.

I've seen the man before. He usually orders well bourbon neat and never leaves a tip. Nor does he engage the bartender or any of the other customers in conversation. He just drinks until he's either had enough or run out of money, then heads off to wherever it is he goes.

At first, I made it a point not to stare. I had noticed irregularities in the man's complexion that under the dim bar lighting, I had mistaken scribed to burn scars. When I referred to him as "Mister Crispy" to one of the bartenders, she set the record straight saying, "No, that's the result of booze. Lots and lots of booze."

She was right. Allowing myself to gawk, what I saw was not scar tissue but an assortment of blemishes and broken capillaries. The damage was long term and self inflicted.

Well, I thought, that's that then. The poor bastard clearly can't handle his hooch. I put on my glasses and looked at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar just to make sure what stared back at me didn't resemble that guy.

Not bad, a little rough around the edges but my boyish good looks were more or less intact for a man in his forties. I had nothing to worry about.

It's funny. When given a wakeup call, it's so easy to turn it into a snooze button. Life is indeed what you make of it.

]]>