drockleberry (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} uminthecoil) wrote,@ 2009-07-01 03:47:00 |
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…I feel like I aught to explain myself a bit after that last entry…
you see, my housemate, “the Duder” is an alcoholic. Also, he’s a dear sweet friend and has more or less fallen five or six stories in the last couple of months. He and I are both recovering shut-ins, pretty much astronauts living as if crash landed on Madison’s Isthmus, so we see a lot of each other and I’m a pretty alert housemate. I explore the Island and now and then I get the Duder to explore it with me, but it seems as though almost nothing I’ve done or said in the last year has really helped him, but of course for the present moments themselves, and those are great…I adore the guy…I even get a kick out of all of his tall tales.
The Duder is not only happy to fatten up an otherwise real account with all manner of extra bullshitery, but often he’ll simply start from bullshit and work his way earnestly towards a state of ’absolute bullshit’. More often than not I’ll just grin and wave them off, already neck deep by then…with the Duder ducking gunfire somewhere on the dark continent, or watching people being shot in South Vietnam, and with his bachelors degree in quantum physics, or writing freelance political articles under a non-deplume and with a typewriter that for the better part of a year has been covered with empty beer cans, with ashtrays, booze-soaked playing cards and a variety of random chunder…most recently, not quite noon yet and into a second, maybe third vodka concoction and let’n me have it with some story about having some deadline to meet with regards to a closing page in the Smithsonian magazine he was hired to write…follows me out on the porch with his laptop, and after less than twenty minutes and three ’bummed’ cigarettes worth of poking around on the keys, he sets the laptop aside and announces, “I hate writing.”
Another funny thing about the Duder is his appetite.
Imagine a ten year old kid who happens to be a heavy drinker…or maybe better yet, just imagine the appetite of a typical fairgrounds rat. I’ve seen him make a dish out of spaghetti noodles with teriyaki sauce and boiled pre-fried eggs, spike it all off with hot sauce and steak seasoning, and following that with subhuman grunts, face glazed in it’s holding pattern just above his plate…heh
Some nights it’ll be getting a bit late, the day spent and gone, and the gaggle of neighbors lift their camp and go celebrate somewhere else…the Duder will shuffle in and sink into the couch, and in no time at all he’ll fall asleep with his thin arms wrapped about his chest and he’ll be hardly there at all.
And this breaks my heart, right? It does. It’s here and gone, but it’s lays me low as hell.
That, and it makes me miss my eldest brother Michael, and I worry after him.
anyhoo...enough of that stuff...I've got comics come'n.
you see, my housemate, “the Duder” is an alcoholic. Also, he’s a dear sweet friend and has more or less fallen five or six stories in the last couple of months. He and I are both recovering shut-ins, pretty much astronauts living as if crash landed on Madison’s Isthmus, so we see a lot of each other and I’m a pretty alert housemate. I explore the Island and now and then I get the Duder to explore it with me, but it seems as though almost nothing I’ve done or said in the last year has really helped him, but of course for the present moments themselves, and those are great…I adore the guy…I even get a kick out of all of his tall tales.
The Duder is not only happy to fatten up an otherwise real account with all manner of extra bullshitery, but often he’ll simply start from bullshit and work his way earnestly towards a state of ’absolute bullshit’. More often than not I’ll just grin and wave them off, already neck deep by then…with the Duder ducking gunfire somewhere on the dark continent, or watching people being shot in South Vietnam, and with his bachelors degree in quantum physics, or writing freelance political articles under a non-deplume and with a typewriter that for the better part of a year has been covered with empty beer cans, with ashtrays, booze-soaked playing cards and a variety of random chunder…most recently, not quite noon yet and into a second, maybe third vodka concoction and let’n me have it with some story about having some deadline to meet with regards to a closing page in the Smithsonian magazine he was hired to write…follows me out on the porch with his laptop, and after less than twenty minutes and three ’bummed’ cigarettes worth of poking around on the keys, he sets the laptop aside and announces, “I hate writing.”
Another funny thing about the Duder is his appetite.
Imagine a ten year old kid who happens to be a heavy drinker…or maybe better yet, just imagine the appetite of a typical fairgrounds rat. I’ve seen him make a dish out of spaghetti noodles with teriyaki sauce and boiled pre-fried eggs, spike it all off with hot sauce and steak seasoning, and following that with subhuman grunts, face glazed in it’s holding pattern just above his plate…heh
Some nights it’ll be getting a bit late, the day spent and gone, and the gaggle of neighbors lift their camp and go celebrate somewhere else…the Duder will shuffle in and sink into the couch, and in no time at all he’ll fall asleep with his thin arms wrapped about his chest and he’ll be hardly there at all.
And this breaks my heart, right? It does. It’s here and gone, but it’s lays me low as hell.
That, and it makes me miss my eldest brother Michael, and I worry after him.
anyhoo...enough of that stuff...I've got comics come'n.
