September 13, 2004

bobodey see bobodey am

Well, Chris is drunk again.

I suppose I shouldn’t let it get to me, since many great writers turned to the bottle for comfort. Truman Capote, for one, had a double martini before lunch, another with lunch and a stinger afterward while he wrote In Cold Blood. Edgar Allen Poe, Stephen Crane, Herman Melville, Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, and countless scribblers we never got to know, all frequently got soused.

I should have known it was going to be a bad night when Chris suddenly rose from his computer chair and said to the wall, “I have the craving.”

Anyone who knows Chris as well as I do (and that is to say, nobody) knows that when he says "I have the craving" he doesn't mean he wants some pasta fagoli. It means the demons inside Chris are shrieking for booze again and they threatened to tear his brain to shreds if they don't get a massive amount of it quickly.

There are two beverages that these demons prefer: red wine or Jack Daniels (the latter Chris mixes with root beer to create what he calls a "Jack Rooty"). There wasn't any wine in the apartment, but there was a case of IBC in the fridge. And there's always Jack in the cabinet.

After several Jack Rooties, Chris is now, as they say, tanked. He's dancing around wildly to the African rhythms and preachy lyrics of the once popular and now thankfully defunct band known as Rusted Root.

Oh Chris, if you only knew that a tiny piece of me dies every time I see you do an impromptu trial dance to that gibberish-filled "Send me on my way" song, maybe you'd think twice in doing so.

An indie rocker through and through when he's sober (with bands such as The Flaming Lips, Wilco, David Byrne, Tori Amos, De la soul, Nick Cave, and DJ Dangermouse in high rotation on his iPod), Chris returns to his college years whenever he's under the influence. I just pray to the Lord that he doesn't find all those ska CDs he has tucked away in the closet. I don't know if I can bear to watch a man of his talent and stature put on a pork pie hat and skank around the room to The Pietasters like a pimply teenager at an all-ages show.

Now Chris is pretending that a curtain rod is a spear and that his dirty pile of laundry in the center of the room is a massive bonfire. We've hit rock bottom. The Rusted Root a-hole is screaming something about "bobodey see bobodey am" while Chris dances around the pile, spear in hand, like a cross between Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves and a stoned hippie from Pittsburgh.

Oh sweet Saint Germaine, I think Chris just shouted "Tatonka!" OK, that does it. If you'll excuse me now, I need to go find the Rusted Root website so I can send them copious amounts of bitter hate mail and elaborate death threats.

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