Your friend, Mr. Lindbergh

I'm a few drinks deep pre-Lindberg Field as I board the gold Maxima. Ten short minutes and countless kisses later, I'm dropped off curbside right along the contemporary awning that reads "Southwest." I pull myself away a short forty-eight minutes from scheduled departure time. Fortunately, and albeit planned, the airport is dead this time of night. It takes me eight minutes flat to walk in, check my lone bag and reach my departure gate.

Thinking I have plenty of time to spare, I plug in to the oracle sensations of Discovery's LP. Sitting intently, I notice a man, quite similar in appearance to my own age, who has numerous tattoos over his hands and arms. Most notable, the letters F-R-E-E cascade across his left hand's knuckles. I spend the next several minutes trying my best to examine the rest of the artwork, hoping quick gazes here and there make me out to be less of a creep and more of an interested viewer.

We both equip ourselves with books. Incidentally, our attention is not directly geared towards the man on the speaker who is now calling for boarding passengers. We both rise at the same moment and make our way towards the "15-20" section of the "A" boarding group. Standing behind him in place like the civilized civilian I've been trained to be, it is then that I notice the permanent ink on the right side of his neck. Perfectly illustrated, I look upon four human figures walking, one before the other. Their pose is unmistakable. Albeit stagnate, the swagger they carry while Abbey Road lies beneath their feet is one of the most iconic images of the previous generation.

Lost in the thoughts of Lennon, the Southwest employee breaks my spell in announcing, "Once again, this is for Flight 603, boarding for Las Vegas at 8:03, not for flight 867, which boards at 8:30." As I realize my mistake, the Free Abbey Road steps out of line right before me. As we resume our seats, he makes brief eye contact with me, smirking slightly as if we both are on the same page.

"Just too keyed to get to Vegas, I suppose," I say to him as we both plop down. He grins as widely as I expect and nods. Both smiling, we go back to our respective literature.

Only a few sentences deep, I decide I've got some time to kill and, most of all, I'm not quite ready for this buzz to fade away just yet. I've got a short hour flight in the immediate future, but a twenty minute wait presently right in front of me. "Might as well make the most of it," I tell myself.

MP3 player on pause, I stand up and circle Terminal 1. Before getting that obligatory pre-flight libation, I decide to make a quick restroom pit stop. It's fairly late in regards to the airport lifestyle, so the bathroom is nearly empty. Still, a boy around the age of ten confronts me right as I turn the corner to the hand wash sinks. His hair is of the naturally "bleach blonde" style I too sported well throughout my pre-pubescent years. For that reason alone, he reminds me of myself at his age.

Bladder capacity defeating blissful memories, I shrug it off and hit the first urinal amongst the row. Emptied and sanitized, I head directly to the Terminal 1 watering hole. There's but one gap at the rail to order a drink. It's between the taps and an unnaturally bleached blonde woman. I belly up, review my draught options and order a Bass.

"Twelve or twenty ounce?" and "Would you like to add a shot to that for three dollars?"

The answer to those questions is so automatic that it's really not a question at all, but rather, a statement of certainty. Still, before I can answer, the blonde to my right prods, saying, "Why not?!"

"Well, I am already en route to Vegas," I retort. My response eggs her on even more, this time using body language in lieu of words to apply peer pressure. Either way, she's wasting her breath and energy.

"Yes," I calmly respond, as if these questions I have previously answered while under oath. I peruse the wall behind the barkeep -- a grandiose display of the last legal drug available to the American public -- attempting to make a somewhat expedite decision. "Shot of Jager," I decided. "After all, I am on my way to Vegas, right?"

The bleach blonde is pleased. Before my credit card is swiped, I'm offered the carefully poured shot of alcoholic herbs, reach out for it and bring it to my side of the bar top. In rising the small glass, I make a quick gesture her way, offer a genuine cheers (which she does not return) and throw it down the hatch. I can't help but notice she grimaces at the sight far more than I do at the actual sensation.

As the clank of the shot glass announces my small but momentous victory, an alpha-male approaches, stares me down as if I'm purposely in his private quarters and sits down in the empty stool to my left. My instant thought is that he is bleach blonde's boyfriend and is unappreciative of my presence. I decided that is fair enough, and upon signing off on my credit transaction, take my Bass and happily retreat to the high tops behind me.

Twenty ounces later and observed behavior that proves my initial reaction false, I head back to my gate, all thirty feet the distance. I regroup with Abbey Road in the same seat in which I previously sat. He looks up briefly, acknowledging my familiar proximity. I nod back, attempting to slyly spy the title of his hardbound pages.

*****

Aboard Flight 867, there seem to be more empty seats than urinals in the restroom. One of the few fellow passengers is in the aisle seat across from me, highlighting passages from spiral-bound notebook full of hand-written thoughts while his feet perch atop the headrest in front of him. Upon departure, I notice he has replaced the fluorescent yellow and black winding binding for a hardcover book that is void of its sleeve. I spend some time wondering whether he removed it to keep it from getting creased or ripped, or rather, if he felt no need to advertise his preferred literature to the rest of us. It is when I notice him bookmark his progress with a concert ticket from Hollywood Bowl that my interest peaks.

The first flight attendant offers me peanuts with a sense of apathy that makes me dislike her job almost as much as her. With a slight eyebrow lift in response, she carelessly drops three small packages in the empty seat next to me and moves on.

Flight attendant #2 comes by soon after offering something to drink. I order a vodka tonic. In due time, she returns with a short plastic cup of ice, a fifty milliliter plastic bottle of Finlandia and an unopened twelve ounce can of tonic water. I scribe a few more sentences before cracking open the bottle and can. Over the rocks I pour an amount of vodka that can only be seen as a cruel joke amongst us thriving alcoholics. On top goes half an ounce of tonic into the cup. I curse the perfectly timed jolt of turbulence that just led me to cutting my booze too much.

*****

As soon as I set foot into the LAS terminal everything changes. Long before I can see the them, I hear the echoes of unforgiving slot machines ringing joyously as they have temporarily fooled another loser into thinking he is the next big winner. All the senses are enticed before I can even make it to the baggage claim. Mostly, the change in smell is most overwhelming. I can pinpoint the new odors precisely, just like that arid aroma of dry Fruit Loops in the morning. It is all too familiar. I know it well, probably too well.

I know it simply as Vegas. It smells like gambling. It smells like the only time ever that losing money somehow turns into a five a.m. victory lap. It smells like late nights carried into later mornings, full of lost translations and forgotten redundancies. It smells absolutely glorious.

TP

The onlyest thing

Before me, Wes Anderson's golden tribute to the cinema carries on as dryly as the sand through which the main characters traverse. I'm finishing off the remaining drops of a half bottle of pinot as I upload a few random vintage photos to my Facebook account. Each moment frozen in time tells a tale far beyond the scope of simple explanation, at least to me. I stare at each of them for what seems like an enternity, making sure to milk every last drop of nostalgia before proceeding to the next. I don't necessarily miss those times, but I sure do love remembering them.

Moments after finishing my trip down memory lane, a chat box pops up. It's from a girl I barely knew from high school and, as one might expect, haven't talked to since. She opens by saying she's joining me on the photograph sharing from the days of ole. Oddly, I welcome the dialog, as she's the last person I would have ever expected to interrupt my solo time with the exact same mentality.

We go back and forth a little, making the most of what we can out of our unexpected conversation. She tells me she just found a shoe box full of teenage years photos and is scanning them as we speak. I retort, saying I don't think I could produce a single picture from high school on the spot if my life depended on it. I don't say this necessarily proudly, but simply matter-of-factly. I go on to wax about The Darjeeling Limited and the brilliance of Anderson's story-telling abilities. Whether it be out of politeness or genuine similarity, she lightly concurs. I continue, saying it always takes me a few sessions before truly appreciating any of his movies. After reading what I had just typed, I immediately look over my newly posted pictures once again. I smile a little wider than before.

***

Half bottled diminished, virtual dialog extinguished, I decide to take to the balcony for one more quick bout of pleasure. It's been a long time overdue since I've spent a dedicated moment amongst the still of Mother Nature's darkness. One look at the palm next to me and I'm instantly back in the swing of things. The subtle sway of its limbs blend gently with the crisp air nipping at my exposed toes.

It's not before long that I hear someone's voice nearby. Next door, in the front yard, stands a man talking on his cell phone. While his tone is far from a Sinatra swooner, it's obvious he's ultimately seeing her to sleep with a full heart of loving intention. I note that they're talking about their Easter plans, including attending church, going out for brunch afterwards, and possibly meeting up with the parents. (Mind you, it's 3:42 a.m. on Easter Day.) I've already got a grin on my face when I hear him ask if she's going to dress up for mass. I'm not sure of her answer, but he followed this up with whole-heartily declaring he'd like to spend the whole day with her. Now ear-to-ear, I wonder if and when that will ever be me.

Snapping out of my quick dream, I take note to the song currently playing on the playlist inside. Sure enough, the line "She's always on my mind" penetrates my mind in such a precise way that I am fully capable of overlooking its generic sentiment and focus strictly on how I connect with it.

It's then that I decide to truly make a night of it. With a new imperfect black circle now gracing the stucco exterior, I make a deliberate move to the kitchen and grab the already opened Burgundy that must already be toast. The brittle, broken cork floats atop the fermented grape juice within the darkly tinted bottle, but I don't care. It's been sealed off with another cork that came from something that cost less to produce than bottled water, but I still don't care. It's been open for well over a week, its quality was questionable long before that, and still I don't care.

I crack it. I pour it. I smell it, and I drink it. Its musty scent confirms my expectations, but still I drink away. Its soothing texture can only last so long, as eventually I am forced to breath and swallow. It's definitely past its prime, but all be damned if I'm not going to still enjoy it. It's a little bitter and carries a flavor profile that I imagine is much different than originally intended. Nonetheless, I drink and I enjoy.

***

I take the to upper level outdoors once over, this time doubling up on the bittersweet, lonesome friends. A few drags and sips in, the two begin flirting with one another, twisting and swirling along with me. I feel complete tranquility for a few moments. Too soon, though, it's interrupted by the distant passing of a taxi cab. Cursing its presence, I take another gulp. The cabby is now replaced with an unrehearsed dance of the next damn fool stumbling down the boulevard. I study him for as long as possible, focused on every last step until he is out of sight. Kalai has now given way to my old friend Ray, so I decide it's time to finally call it a night.

One more charred mark and two more hefty sips and I'm back inside. I rethink the last hour or so and am reminded of a short dialog from earlier in the night:

"Yeah, but you romanticize a lot of things," someone said. Without a moment's pause for them to elaborate or possibly soften the blow, I immediately shot back, "No, I romanticize everything."

Now if only I could get her off my mind.

Drunks McGee

When you're a "life in the fast lane" type of guy living in a fraternity, you tend to gravitate towards one simple form of lifestyle. Such a way of life usually entails going to class when necessary, hanging out with your fellow brothers and friends, and drinking yourself stupid as much as humanly possible.

Nonetheless, when you spend one of those mind-splattering semesters rooming with someone who doesn't drink and is quite the devout Christian, every once in awhile you fight through the jungle mess of hedonistic inebriation just enough to have some genuine conversations and gain a different perspective on life as you see it. Sure enough, I found myself in this position for half of my junior year of college. While most found my situation as unfortunate or boring, I took it upon myself as an open learning experience.

In the end, Jesus's cowboy may not have swayed me into the light of the Holy Ghost (I never understood the trinity involved in Christianity's monotheistic foundation, but whatever), but to ignore the simple dialog between us at the time I saw as shameful as passing on your own personal pocket Ghandi. For the sake of this topic, though, I'll set aside YHWH and focus on another matter.

Being the soberist of us all, Mark had a vision on life that the rest of us were too drunk to see. I remember the late weeknight talks we'd have while flipping through the channels on TV. We never really connected, but I still always recall naturally finding a way to connect with what he had to say. Despite his religious lifestyle, Mark still seemed to find a way to speak the truth of the matter without bringing any Biblical literature into it. It's obvious to say, in both regards, that this is what kept me so intrigued throughout those sixteen weeks.

Specifically, whether I be intoxicated or not, we would talk about his everlong sobriety. Much in the same way that people have questioned my lack of ever having smoked weed, I inquired as to why he had never had a sip of alcohol. While, to this day, I'm still not really sure what his answer was -- he may have told me the most legitimate answer ever while I was wasted and I simply forgot -- but I'll never forget what we discussed along the way.

We spoke about people's personalities, their true intentions, and their most honest emotions that lie deep beneath the surface of the skin. Having two different mindsets between us, we ultimately made our way to discussed the discernible difference between the sober side of a specific person versus their straight shit-faced side.

I remember us tackling several of our own fraternity brothers on an individual basis. Some were easy topics. Others, we took a little more care in prescribing. Either way, it eventually became clear that a rather fundamental pattern occurred. Ultimately, it wasn't even that surprising. Honestly, it wasn't even remotely ground-breaking. By the end of this week-long late night debate, we had both agreed we had done nothing more than verbalize what was already before everyone eyes.

We decided, silly drunk hedonist and omni-sober child of God alike, that the easiest and surest way to truly discover the inner personality -- one's id, if you will -- is to observe how they act when intoxicated. It sounds mindless enough, as we both originally thought, but the more we applied it to those around us, the more it became evidently irreplaceable as fact.

There's Troy, the fun-loving always smiling type pretty boy. Get him drunk and he's flashing that grin cheek-to-cheek to all his co-eds. He might stumble upon the way, but he's never meant any real harm. And there goes Jason, that guy I thought was nothing more than a dick. Sure he might present himself a "cool guy," but a few shots later and you're bound to see him physically destroying part of the house with a cigarette comfortably resting between his lips. Or perhaps Matt struck one as just a nerd whose actual friendship was undoubtedly impossible. Fair enough, but if I ever found myself nice and toasted in his similar company, I would never doubt both his words and actions came from a well-mannered heart that only sought the good in others.

The college years list, while it goes on and on for both the better and the worse, is that of the past. Still, I've never let go of the absolute truth I find in our theory. To this day, I see it all around me and can do nothing more than wonder. Even amongst our most elaborate stupors, I always tried to derive truth in the moment or two of clarity I have and notice who's who of the genuinely shining personalities. And really, I've been quite long-winded about it, but it is extremely easy, obvious, and embarrassing to witness.

So I often wonder about those people who go off on hatred-fueled rampages when wasted, but appear more like the sunshine of everyone's day otherwise. I don't trust them one bit. I've gone against my gut before in regards to them and I've only ended up regretting it. It may sound like a silly lesson -- one that I don't see many parents every teaching their teenage kids -- but you can surely learn a lot about someone by the way that they act when their inhibitions have been tossed aside compliments of our old friend alcohol. As far as I've seen, portrayed alongside that intoxicated body is the true mind and heart within.

With that said, I suppose that only leaves one last piece of thought: Am I a loving drunk or not?

Miss Daniels...Miss Beam?

As I sit, slouching into the chase portion of my living room couch, I specifically pinpoint my chronological rise of wine-enabled enlightenment down to a science. The way I see it, such experience is a sign of both the good times and the bad.

I am no exception to the male chromosomes and DNA, so it's no surprise that with all alcohol-related interactions, my mind eventually wanders down the path of women and sex. I've known several different types of women throughout my life and can only wish I knew just as many types of intoxication that I felt comfortable enjoying. Albeit somewhat a limited list, my Final Four have logged some serious hours, and they just love dragging sex into the equation.

Presently, there's no exception. I take another pull as somewhere amongst the alcohol-by-volume within my temporary friend on the table tells the tale...

Beer buzz
She's the type you know from the second that you meet her that she's always down to simply "hang out." She may never be your significant other, but it doesn't matter; she'll always be there to let the good times roll in a steady, feel-good atmosphere that makes even the highest strung of us sit back, relax, and enjoy the few moments of life's simplicity. She's the one who can sit next to you on the couch, TV or no, and be satisfied with nothing but. She's your friend through and through, but you'll never hook up with her. Though, you'll never really have much of an urge to, either.

Cigarette buzz
Some of us indulge in the occasional nicotine intake, and hence have little tolerance for its effect. If that's the case, this is the hottest girl you've ever personally known. She's always slightly tempting, damn near impossible to resist when drunk, and clearly of no use to your stability or health. Usually, you sit there battling your internal gods as to whether it's worth pursuing or not. If you decide to take the plunge and go for it, it's inevitable that one of two conclusions will manifest. If you cave, she'll be everything you ever imagined the second you see her naked. It's a quick tease though, as she's bound to be horrible in bed -- her intoxicating effect kicking in full throttle only to dissipate in matter of seconds. If you resist, she's still not going anywhere, and you'll spend the rest of the night staring at her lustfully.

Wine buzz
White or red, you'll wonder what the hell just happened to that hard shell of masculinity you've worked so hard to build up and want nothing more than to cuddle up to that special someone next to you. She's the one who slows down your heartbeat while simultaneously warming you up with her touch. You want to pour more, you want to wrap your arms around her more. There's little-to-no chance of negative feelings coming on. In fact, the closer she rests to your heart, the more of her you want. If you know what's good for you, you're bound to eventually put on some Ray LaMontagne and carry her up to bed before it's too late.

Liquor buzz
Suddenly she's a lot hotter than you last remember. And from what you last remember, ten seconds ago when you were still feeling totally sober, she wasn't all that good looking. But now, now you've got something to work with. Maybe you just haven't gotten to know her well enough, you wonder. Maybe she's got a great personality that makes her all that much more attractive. Most likely, you inadvertently caught a glimpse of laughter that you mistook as being directed towards you in a flirtatious fashion. Whatever it is, she's got your attention from here on out.

Beer drunk
She's the girl that hasn't left the party yet, but definitely won't be the last to depart. It's late, but she doesn't care. You'll tell yourself she's forever the woman you've been thinking of, and you'll swear she blushes when you tell her just that. You and her can take on the world, you tell her. If you can walk a straight line, which you'll undoubtedly have endless confidence you can, there's nothing that can slow you down. It's up to the two of you to take on the world and never stop, Bonnie and Clyde style.

Cigarette drunk
She's your favorite porn star or even your favorite supermodel -- she doesn't actually exist.

Wine drunk
Even if you end up passing out before anything actually happens, you presently picture a blissful next morning of the two of you slowly awaking in full-on spoon mode eager to make one another breakfast. Most likely, all your subconscious can really handle is the thought of sexual relations, but for whatever reason the romantic in you demands to deliver a more memorable moment. Hence, you think she loves you and much as you do her.

Liquor drunk
Her and Jager seem to go together like peanut butter and jelly; the more of it you have, the more of her you think you are sure you're entitled to. The fact of the matter is that she's already far beyond your grasp, due to nothing more than your own actions. Even if you convince yourself she told you she loves you, you won't remember it in the morning. Instead, you'll awake with one hell of a headache, her seemingly endless beauty long gone, and nothing to show for it but a god-awful taste in the back of your mouth. With any luck, you'll taste the sweet kiss of Bacardi 151 again...only this time on the way up.

Of course, with all this said, I have overlooked the sober mindset involved when regarding women. I will admittedly say I've done this on purpose, for I simply don't have enough time (nor keystrokes) to accurately depict that epic world at this time. And come to think of it, nor may I ever. Cheers.

Notes from a recovering sobrietic

It's the day after Valentine's Day and I'm struggling to fend off the sun's rays beating down on my unprotected eyes. The fool in me couldn't find my sunglasses this morning. Whether it be due to birthday binge drinking or participating in the busiest day of work ever, my body is worn down more so than usual. I wish I could add an all-night romp-fest in between the sheets to that list, but alas, I received no birthday nor Valentine's loving.

I make what only fellow Californians would call a complete stop and hang a quick right. The quantity of street walkers suddenly skyrockets, strolling along in tasteful sun dresses, khakis and polos. Men and women, walking together hand in hand, filtering into the Catholic church before them. I can't help but notice most are in their twenties and don't appear of the married kind -- a staple of the Pacific Beach dating scene.

Here I am, hungover, overworked and completely sexless. Meanwhile, walking before me I see unwed sinners filing into mass, casually overlooking their maker's simple request of chastity in order to fulfill more modern day traditions of the almighty Hallmark.

***

Being single is great, that is, until you find the one girl I can't stop thinking about. It's nothing new, but it always finds a way to change the way I see things. Even though it's been like this for some time, it's only now that I notice all my friends are in relationships. Some are married, some are engaged, and even still some have been living together for awhile.

I imagine when I'm busy at work, missing out on this gathering or that get-together, that the number of the group is always even. When I am rounding out the odd field, all I can think about is her there to make it even again. A simple Tuesday night birthday gathering at the pizza shop is more than enough evidence for me. I see the way they interact with one another and ache for such mindless fulfillment. I catch the subtle touches of the hand and lower back hidden amongst the slices and pitchers of beer.

I go way overboard and pay special attention to the older, married couples escorting young children around the picnic tables. I wonder if and when I'll ever "settle down" and find myself in their shoes. I wonder if nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles, and grandparents will ever become an integral part of my everyday vocabulary.

Being single has its benefits, but it's no secret why finding that significant other is generally considered an upgrade. And as for me, I think I finally feel legitimately ready for a genuine relationship, for someone with whom I can share it all.

Simply put, I don't want to be single anymore. Besides, it throws off the pizza math.

***

"So what do you do?"

Stop.

I cringe anytime I hear this question, especially within the first five minutes of meeting someone new. I don't ask it of anyone and I hope they never do of me. It's not that I'm ashamed of my occupation, it's just that I refuse to base my thoughts of another simply off what they do to pay the bills. I barely know what most of my friends do for a living and am perfectly happy keeping it that way.

And no, I don't apologize if this comes across as too harsh or cynical.