There is no doubt that the consumption of alcohol and exploring life and it's various adventures under its influence is a fundamental part of what we do here at Blue Ribbon Radio. The show itself was named, not after a kitchy nod to Americana, but in fact after our very favorite beer. In fact, the first show I appeared as a co-host on, Chris and I had consumed something in the neighberhood of a fucking goddamn lot of PBR before we started drinking (the human figure is somewhere in the neighborhood of a case each in about 7 hours, but we can't remember, because this is the night we discovered "Mets-Tits" and that has taken precedence in our spotty conjoined consciousness ever since).
As for myself (and I'm sure I'm speaking for Chris as well), my own experience grew out of the typical high-school partier/drinker phase that most of us go through. I was fortunate enough to have an affinity for academia, and could afford to partake in the destructive behaviour that my brothers engaged in with literally ZERO consequences. I graduated with a full scholarship to the university of my choice and a suspended truancy charge because of my obscene amount of absences thanks to my countless hangovers and ruthless "give-no-fucks" spirit. In short, I left high-school on the verge of what our normative cognitive maps would consider a drinking problem, and had never faced a single consequence for my behaviour. (It of course would be a terrible oversight to not mention, and now's as good a time as any, that I do come from a purely Scotts-Irish family that traces it's heritage back to the Irish exodus from North Caroline to Alabama in the early 18th century... To put it simply, drunk is in my blood).
This background obviously lends itself to a propensity for substance (mostly alcohol, but let's not forget all of the other chemical delights that science has brought us) abuse. College was no different, and really only upped the ante with the introduction of more complex chemical compounds introduced into the whole affair. It was during these times that I learned that life really was okay after all so long as you knew a shady hood-rat named Snowball to sell the okay to you in little baggies.
Unfortunately, along with a penchant for scholarly endeavours comes a collective expectation of success from every member of your white trash family as well as every moderately successful middle-class twat that you ever spent time with growing up. When you happen to be the exception as I was (a dog-dick poor kid with a relatively trashy upbringing but inexplicable academic abilities) it's just understood that you're going to go on and do something slightly more lucrative than giving old-fashioneds in the stairwell of your illegal loft for more pills. This pressure is not without its consequences, which of course manifested itself in the form of further substance abuse, but a critical tipping point was on the horizon. I only gave a fuck about what I was studying because I thought it was interesting. However, as anyone else with a liberal arts degree can attest to, this is no fast track to success. So, after I buried my 25 year Army veteran (and raging alcoholic) grandfather in 2008, I decided that the military was as lucrative a choice as any. The pertinence to the story here is that, while I remained the same chemically dependent asshole on the inside, the outside needed a job, and there was the promise of assault rifles and the sanctioning of shooting people, so I jumped in feet first and started the path toward becoming a respectable US Army officer.
So here I am now. I've followed that path to it's fruition and am now a commissioned officer in the United States Army. I have a combat tour under my belt, and I've been living abroad now for nearly 2 years exploring the opportunities the world has to offer. Unfortunately, the fundamental elements that make up the asshole persona that thinks this is interesting enough to share with people has changed very little. I spent some time exploring why, and came to an undeniable conclusion. This conclusion has slowly evolved into the answer to the question I laid before you at the start of this barely literary excursion. I worked my ass off for two years. I spent countless hours and days devoting myself to becoming an honorable contributing member of society. I became a respected military leader: a man that my family could be proud of, and my judgmental assfuck peers could envy, and it fucking BLOWS.
I got what I wanted. I make a fuckton of money for a 24 year old kid. I'll easily clear 90K this year. This economy has left lawyers, bankers, doctors, and many other sleazy fucks out on the streets, and I am doing great. The only problem is that I fucking loathe it. I hate this life. I hate everything in it. I hate every single thing about what I have to do every single day, and were it not for the overinflated legal ramifications, I would get my ass on an airplane right the fuck now, and leave it behind. But, of course, life doesn't work like that. We can't just turn our backs on our responsibilities, especially when they involve contractual obligations to the Pentagon. So here I am. Depressed, lonely, miserable, and fucking disgusted at the sell-out mentality that led me here. How does one deal with this nonsense? How does one examine the world they have built for themselves and find nothing but disgust and shame reconcile that without tasting 700mph buckshot? It's quite simple, really. He drinks. He drinks until that world dissolves around him and he can sit in a room with a record player and a bottle of whiskey and feel something other than despair.
You see, more than any other recreation in our lives, music is our catharsis. We need it to feel. We hear the words of sorrow, pain, joy, encouragement, determination, and desperation, and we empathize. We know what Leroy Virgil means when he talks about not hitting rock bottom alone, but unfortunately, the words aren't enough anymore. To take a cue from Miller's comedy article, life fucking blows. For all of us. None of us are doing what we want to do. Human being aren't meant to waste their lives the way we waste ours. This disgust at our existences has left us so jaded that even the words that speak directly to us in the deepest ways can't get through. Our insides are scarred ugly callouses, and very few things can get through anymore. Our ointment is drink. It softens the senses. It allows us to push away the anger and hate and desperation at our wasted lives and absorb those feelings from others and know that we aren't alone. We don't drink to numb ourselves from everything. We drink to drown out the background noise so we can feel what we are all looking for: togetherness. We know that it will put us in an early grave eventually, but we recognize that the time we have here is precious and that we'd rather spend it feeling like a part of something than being miserable for 80 years. So, if you don't get it, feel free to look on us with disgust and hatred, but never pity. We don't need it. We're experiencing life in the only way that makes sense or will work for us, and at the end of this run, we'll have far less to regret than most people.
Sláinte. In vino veritas.
Andrew is drunk somewhere.
Unfortunately, along with a penchant for scholarly endeavours comes a collective expectation of success from every member of your white trash family as well as every moderately successful middle-class twat that you ever spent time with growing up. When you happen to be the exception as I was (a dog-dick poor kid with a relatively trashy upbringing but inexplicable academic abilities) it's just understood that you're going to go on and do something slightly more lucrative than giving old-fashioneds in the stairwell of your illegal loft for more pills. This pressure is not without its consequences, which of course manifested itself in the form of further substance abuse, but a critical tipping point was on the horizon. I only gave a fuck about what I was studying because I thought it was interesting. However, as anyone else with a liberal arts degree can attest to, this is no fast track to success. So, after I buried my 25 year Army veteran (and raging alcoholic) grandfather in 2008, I decided that the military was as lucrative a choice as any. The pertinence to the story here is that, while I remained the same chemically dependent asshole on the inside, the outside needed a job, and there was the promise of assault rifles and the sanctioning of shooting people, so I jumped in feet first and started the path toward becoming a respectable US Army officer.
So here I am now. I've followed that path to it's fruition and am now a commissioned officer in the United States Army. I have a combat tour under my belt, and I've been living abroad now for nearly 2 years exploring the opportunities the world has to offer. Unfortunately, the fundamental elements that make up the asshole persona that thinks this is interesting enough to share with people has changed very little. I spent some time exploring why, and came to an undeniable conclusion. This conclusion has slowly evolved into the answer to the question I laid before you at the start of this barely literary excursion. I worked my ass off for two years. I spent countless hours and days devoting myself to becoming an honorable contributing member of society. I became a respected military leader: a man that my family could be proud of, and my judgmental assfuck peers could envy, and it fucking BLOWS.
I got what I wanted. I make a fuckton of money for a 24 year old kid. I'll easily clear 90K this year. This economy has left lawyers, bankers, doctors, and many other sleazy fucks out on the streets, and I am doing great. The only problem is that I fucking loathe it. I hate this life. I hate everything in it. I hate every single thing about what I have to do every single day, and were it not for the overinflated legal ramifications, I would get my ass on an airplane right the fuck now, and leave it behind. But, of course, life doesn't work like that. We can't just turn our backs on our responsibilities, especially when they involve contractual obligations to the Pentagon. So here I am. Depressed, lonely, miserable, and fucking disgusted at the sell-out mentality that led me here. How does one deal with this nonsense? How does one examine the world they have built for themselves and find nothing but disgust and shame reconcile that without tasting 700mph buckshot? It's quite simple, really. He drinks. He drinks until that world dissolves around him and he can sit in a room with a record player and a bottle of whiskey and feel something other than despair.
You see, more than any other recreation in our lives, music is our catharsis. We need it to feel. We hear the words of sorrow, pain, joy, encouragement, determination, and desperation, and we empathize. We know what Leroy Virgil means when he talks about not hitting rock bottom alone, but unfortunately, the words aren't enough anymore. To take a cue from Miller's comedy article, life fucking blows. For all of us. None of us are doing what we want to do. Human being aren't meant to waste their lives the way we waste ours. This disgust at our existences has left us so jaded that even the words that speak directly to us in the deepest ways can't get through. Our insides are scarred ugly callouses, and very few things can get through anymore. Our ointment is drink. It softens the senses. It allows us to push away the anger and hate and desperation at our wasted lives and absorb those feelings from others and know that we aren't alone. We don't drink to numb ourselves from everything. We drink to drown out the background noise so we can feel what we are all looking for: togetherness. We know that it will put us in an early grave eventually, but we recognize that the time we have here is precious and that we'd rather spend it feeling like a part of something than being miserable for 80 years. So, if you don't get it, feel free to look on us with disgust and hatred, but never pity. We don't need it. We're experiencing life in the only way that makes sense or will work for us, and at the end of this run, we'll have far less to regret than most people.
Sláinte. In vino veritas.
Andrew is drunk somewhere.
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