Bier!
I have a more liberal attitude toward drinking than I did in my younger days, but a pair of recent incidents reminded me of just how much I dislike the well & truly intoxicated. A fortnight hence, one of my hotel roommates became so inebriated that he needed to be taken back to the room & put to bed. I was willing to do it, but another fellow—one staying in our hotel but in a different room—who was ready to end his own evening's revels volunteered in my stead. There were three of us staying in my room, with two keys between us; the third chap had taken off to a house party & rightly taken a key with him; I gave my key card to the kindly fellow who escorted my soused roommate back to our room. Alas, this left me without a key. By the time I got back to our room, having been let into a side door of the hotel by some kindly passersby, my drunken roommate was passed out beyond all recovery (or at least beyond be roused by my loud knocking on our door). I knocked on the door of the fellow who'd helped my roommate back to the hotel & found him still awake. Alas, he'd not had the presence of mind to hold onto the key card to my room, which was locked inside with my passed-out roommate. Drat! I blame myself, because I'd not vocalized my thought that I should tell him to retain the key card & not to lock it inside the room with a passed-out drunkard; when has giving a person's intelligence too much credit not bit my in the arse? So, I took the stairs down to the lobby & explained the situation to the night clerk, who was only too willing to run off a new pair of key cards, which of course deactivated the old key cards. The problem now was how to let the third roommate, the one out & about at a house party, into our room. I discussed the situation with him via text message & eventually left a key card slid halfway under the door; I went to bed & hoped no ne'er-do-well would use the key card to gain entrance to our room. I wasn't quite asleep when the third roommate returned. All's well that ends well, right? I suppose, but it was still blasted annoying having to deal with my inebriated roommate & the key card kerfuffle.

The very next Friday, back in sacred Michigan, I met The Interpreter for after-work drinks. There was talk of meeting "the gang" for said after-work drinks, but 'twas just the two of us. That was to my taste, except for some issues I'll discuss in the next "Project PANDORA" post. I had two pints, a gin & tonic, & an abominable shot—that was meant to taste like the milk leftover after eating a bowl of Fruit Loops cereal—on which The Interpreter was insistent. The Interpreter had at least two beers, three cocktails, & two shots, including the Fruit Loops abomination. In the middle of this I mildly suggested that perhaps she slow down, but my counsel went unheeded; such was her prerogative. We departed Churchill's & repaired to her apartment. There, we danced for awhile to some of the worst music I've ever heard, what sounded to my ears like the unholy spawn of techno & hard rock. Screaming over thumping electronic beats; a nightmare. After the dance party, she insisted on Taco Bell. We motored to the nearest location in Lumi the Snow Queen, motored back The Interpreter's apartment, & ate; thereupon, without preamble, The Interpreter curled up on her couch & fell asleep. She murmured something when I turned out the overhead light; so, I waited 'til she was lightly snoring before I took a blanket off her bed, laid it across her body, put on my sneakers, & exited. The next morning she sent me a text message, "You mad at me?" I was not mad, & so answered to that effect, which didn't entirely reassure her, especially when I gently declined to see her the rest of the weekend, even though I was free. But in truth I was not mad; disappointed, perhaps, but not mad. I gained priceless insight into who she is & how she conducts herself, & for that I am even somewhat grateful.

Both situations were irksome, but 'twas invaluable to be so reminded of the intrinsic irritation inspired inside me by inebriated idiocy. As the brewers, distillers, & vintners urge us in their advertisements, "Please drink responsibly."

The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day: SKApril
Reel Big Fish, "Don't Start a Band" (live) from Our Live Album is Better Than Your Live Album: Disc 2 (Nick Andopolis)

Commentary: Aaron Barrett, front man of the Reel Big Fish, prefaces the live version of "Don't Start a Band" with the words, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the meanest song I ever wrote." Given that R.B.F. has an entire album titled We're Not Happy 'Til You're Not Happy, that's really saying something. The lyrics bear out his claim.

"Don't start a band!
Nobody wants to hear, nobody understands,
Don't start a band!
You will be so disappointed that it was nothing like you planned.
Don't start a band!
Oh yeah, yeah, yeah,

I hate to ruin the magic,
I hate to kill the dream,
But once you've been behind the scenes
Well, you'll know just what I mean.
You might think that it's cool to get up on the stage,
(And play rock and roll with your heart and soul)
But when no one shows up and your songs all suck,
(And there's no applause and no flying bras)
No girls will scream for you,
No one's gonna sing along with you!"

It goes on like that, except that it gets darker. The Reel Big Fish fully embrace the Bard's wisdom, "I must be cruel only to be kind." Ye be fairly warned, all ye fool enough to start a band.