Culture Blues

Carl Alter: Excerpt: Alter Boy: A Life of Drinking (The Blood of Christ)

Culture Blues is proud to present an excerpt from the upcoming memoir by our very own Carl Alter. The book, Alter Boy:  A Life of Drinking (The Blood of Christ), is being published by Random House in January 2010. The following is presented courtesy of the publisher, and with the permission of the author:

10 Reasons Why I Sit Home Alone And Drink On A Friday Night

Economics: Drinking is a lot more expensive once you step out of the comfortable confines of your domicile. I’m currently at home drinking a six-pack of PBR tall boys that cost a mere six dollars at my nearest bodega. If I were lucky I could find a bar that would only rape me for four bucks each. For those of you not too mathematically inclined that’s $28.75. That’s if I’m lucky! Realistically, the bar my douche-bag friends will try and lure me out of my lair to would be more expensive. If I choose to drink a classier beer that has a brewing process that doesn’t include urine it would cost at least $5 a beer, usually $6 or more. So if I drink the necessary minimum of six beers, I’m spending at least $38.99 to $42.50, not including tips (don’t get me started on tips). So If I want to get really drunk that could easily mean I’m dropping $953 in a single night.

Been There Done That: As a thirtysometing aging hipster I find it hard to get excited about hobnobbing and cajoling with my peers and getting painstakingly drunk to ease my obloquies self into the enigmatic and appealing (read: obnoxious) drunk that I have oft times been known to become.

A sensible person would take this as a sign to quit drinking altogether but a sensible person would not be an alcoholic. I used to go out every single night because I felt like if I didn’t I would “miss something.” Well, I certainly haven’t seen it all but I’ve seen about all that can happen at a bar; from fisting fights at a lesbian bar,  to your favorite celebrity insisting none of the strippers “fucking touch me,” to a rabbi, priest and Mexican actually walking into the bar at the same time!

An authentic Carl Alter

I Already Have A Lady Friend: Second to getting drunk, the catalyst for going out was always a piece of tail. I’d go out to the trashiest bar in town, get plastered, and throw up on my favorite pussy magnet shirt because I thought this was a necessary step to find a reasonably attractive member of the opposite sex with judgment as blurred as mine, willing to go back to my parent’s basement and quietly have the dirtiest sex imaginable in the laundry room over my mother’s clean linens. Now that I have a girlfriend all I have to do is occasionally clean up after myself (and the linens), take a shower every once in a while, not make any disparaging comments about her mother, remember important dates like anniversaries and birthdays with a simple heartfelt gift, and then I can get all the ‘tang I want! Which is once a week, with the lights off, no dirty talk and no anal.

Triggers: My vices run deep, long and hard. Drinking, while a favorite pastime, can often be accompanied by other less “legal” activities. Most of which I no longer partake in. But if you want to get me jibber jawing during your next all night coke binge the best way is to catch me in a moment of drunken lapsed judgment... “Hey Carl, do you want to get an 8-ball, or eat this bag of mushrooms, or fuck this sixteen-year old Philippino hooker?” “Hmm, OK,” says I. Ask me those same questions before the night starts and the answer would most assuredly be a resounding, “No!” This is more a result of clouded judgment than a psychological trigger. I mean, I do enjoy all those things and do know that they are sometimes bad, especially on a Tuesday night when you’ve got a nine to fiver, but they are not activities that would normally occupy my thoughts throughout the course of a usual day, except for maybe the sixteen-year old hooker.

Secret Self Loathing: Friday night is probably the perfect night to cuddle up in front of the TV while wearing your favorite/oldest pair of sweatpants, watch a whole season of Friends on DVD, eat a pint or two of Ben & Jerry’s, and later cut your thighs with a razor blade because “you’re not good enough” (repeated over and over until it becomes a whimpered lament barely audible through the tears and mucus).

Paranoia: Fact! Every time you step outside your home you increase your chances of being killed by 98%. My fears always revolve around a few different scenarios:

Being mauled by a malnourished Crown Heights pit bull.

Tripping on the subway platform while my head, hands, feet and/or penis dangle over the edge with an oncoming full-steam-ahead A Train roaring toward me.

Being caught in the crossfire of incidental New York City violence like an extra from the Brave One or Death Wish II.

Man, this shit makes we want to drink.

Alcoholism: While I may not go out on a Friday night I’m certainly not going to not drink on a Friday night. Some would call my insatiable appetite for beer alcoholism. Whatever. Labels are for squares. And while I’m throwing the word alcoholism around so liberally let me state that the whole idea of alcoholism as a disease is utter bullshit. There is no scientific proof for a genetic disposition to drink alcohol. There is a genetic disposition for compulsive behaviors, but that could manifest itself in any number of ways, i.e.: hording, masturbating, hand washing, nail biting, pussy trimming, etc. Alcoholism is a choice.

The disease label got thrown on during prohibition by a couple of Christian douche-bags with no last names to lessen the stigma surrounding the behavior of the town drunk and elicit sympathy instead of reproach, thus enabling the former drunk an easier transition into acceptance by Christian society. The cure for alcoholism of coarse is Jesus; the cosmic band-aid for whatever ails you, from alcoholism to homosexuality. The Jesus cure is in the Twelve-Step program that drunks are so often court ordered to undertake by the American judicial system that somehow forgot to separate church from state. Too bad Jesus can’t cure ignorance or stupidity.  But I’ve gotten off point.

Listening To Bad Music: For some reason the majority of Americans think that everything that was cool when they were at the age of their self perceived “coolest” is still cool. Go figure. This is why you hear 60 year olds drooling about Simon & Garfunkel, 50 year olds blabbering about Seals & Croft, 40 year olds lamenting about Hall & Oats, etc, etc.

As such, you can often walk into a bar and accurately guess what year the bartender graduated from high school. Guns N’ Roses = Class of ’88. Alice In Chains = Class of ’93. Smash Mouth = Class of ’00.

If I ever stroll into my neighborhood bar and see nothing but Motorhead and Tom Waits in the jukebox I might change my stance on staying in on a Friday night. Unfortunately, I have yet to find this bar, so I sit at home alone with the ace of spades and a Burma shave.

Listening To The Opinions Of The Stupid, Drunks Or Stupid Drunks: Man, it’s bad enough having my own idiot thoughts running through my head. If I have to listen to somebody else’s bullshit I might fucking snap and start bleeding from every hole in my face. I don’t need any random dickhead excitedly yelling their drunken rants like what they are saying is important or thought provoking, while only proving they don’t really know what certain words mean. “I tell you what man, Green Day is without a doubt the greatest punk rock ‘n roll band of the last 100 years!” “Uh, huh. No shit?"

Two quick helpers to those readers who think they might be whom I’m speaking of: it’s technically not a conspiracy if the government admits it, and nobody cares what you think!

Laziness: Sometimes just stepping outside of my apartment door is chore enough, let alone trekking to whatever hangout promises the anticipated and expected “fun” of a Friday night. After a long workweek I find it difficult to even get my dick hard in the shower while lathering my penis with shaving cream and imaging how hot my cousin was in 1989. If I don’t have the energy for that how I am I going to get out of the house, really?

*Book jacket reproduced with permission of the designer, Carl Shire, and Random House Inc.