Tuesday Evening Thoughts
Last week was a tough one. A really goddamn tough one. I was fresh off another weekend that drained my bank account, shattered my self-worth, and left me in the grips of another case of extended Sunday anxiety.
Author’s note: When your battle stretches into Tuesday and Wednesday, that joke with your friends that you’re only a few moves away from drinking yourself into a coma in a desolate apartment with Pink Floyd’s “Nobody Home” on repeat sure seems like the most reasonable course of action.
Monday seemed to drag on longer than the opening scene from Scream 4. I contemplated ending it all almost every hour on the hour. I got in my car to drive home, as it started raining once again. I was at my wits end. Just as I had made the decision to buy a handle of Gentleman Jack and find the nearest condo to rent for the night to make that “joke” a reality, I suddenly came to my senses: The Philadelphia Phillies are playing much too well to pull a move like that. With a potential World Series run looming, this would be the fool’s way out. So, I smiled to myself, opened a beer and sat on my couch, turning on Comcast and getting ready for Doc, Cliff, or Cole to deal—it really didn’t matter at this point, did it?
Author’s note: When your battle stretches into Tuesday and Wednesday, that joke with your friends that you’re only a few moves away from drinking yourself into a coma in a desolate apartment with Pink Floyd’s “Nobody Home” on repeat sure seems like the most reasonable course of action.
Monday seemed to drag on longer than the opening scene from Scream 4. I contemplated ending it all almost every hour on the hour. I got in my car to drive home, as it started raining once again. I was at my wits end. Just as I had made the decision to buy a handle of Gentleman Jack and find the nearest condo to rent for the night to make that “joke” a reality, I suddenly came to my senses: The Philadelphia Phillies are playing much too well to pull a move like that. With a potential World Series run looming, this would be the fool’s way out. So, I smiled to myself, opened a beer and sat on my couch, turning on Comcast and getting ready for Doc, Cliff, or Cole to deal—it really didn’t matter at this point, did it?
Then tragedy struck. Mary, Mother of Christ…we’re on the West Coast. It’s 7:05 PM, Eastern Standard Time. The bottom line on the screen shows that we’re slated to come on at 10:15 PM. This is bad. I grabbed my keys and my copy of Pink Floyd’s The Wall. This was it. There was no turning back. In the immortal words of Pink, “Goodbye cruel world, it’s over…” But then, as if a sign from the heavens above, I was again presented with a way to avoid certain death at my own hands: AMC’s Mob Week. Yep. What’ll it be tonight? The rise of Michael Corleone? Henry Hill’s involvement in the Lufthansa heist and the subsequent fallout after? Tony Montana’s involvement in the Cuban emigration wave of the 1980s? Whatever it is, it’ll sure curb this nearly untamable urge to off myself in such a cinematically sound way.
But again, it happened and reality crashed over me in a powerful and devastating wave. Mob Week was over. There’s some bullshit Western on. I drop my beer, shattering it into millions of little, indiscernible pieces. What else was there to do? What other choice did I have to make? This world has backed me into a corner and, try as I may, I just don’t think I’m fighting my way out of this one. I get into my 1997 green Monte Carlo, the album sitting on the passenger’s seat. A lone tear rides down my cheek, coming to a point at my chin and drops off into nonexistence. I turn the keys and pull out to drive to the nearest liquor store and check myself into a motel.
As I turn the corner though, Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” comes on 102.9 MGK. I smile, thinking how I enjoyed this song during what was soon to be my former life. Flashes of happy memories dance before my eyes. I laugh and turn the corner, now grasping to what small glimmer of hope that Mr. Fahrenheit himself provided me. I needed something, anything. I’m praying to the Ghost of Natty. Cmon, buddy…And then, almost as if a scene from a Hollywood drama, I turn my head to the right in super slow-motion. There it is.
The Manoa Tavern.
Just enough reason to pick myself up, scratch my beanbag, and change my mind. I park my car, and enter. I’ve avoided what I considered to be the inevitable, a one-way street down death valley. I’m greeted well and warmly. A shot of Jack and a Bud Light draft. It was OK.
Needless to say, I stayed until close, watching the entire Phillies game after all, slept on my basement couch and rolled into work looking like a just went 10 rounds with Tyson. I took 4 dumps throughout the course of that day. I smelled awful. My Sunday anxiety was sure to extend throughout the remainder of the entire week. I dicked around on Gmail for far too long, as emails and phone calls piled up. But I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I dodged a bullet, the likes of which shouldn’t be coming my way for a long, long time.
Well, wrong again. The Phillies were rained out this past Sunday. And that shithead Rex Ryan was the showcase of Monday Night Football. I found myself at a bar once more…and today wasn’t too good either.
--Bunny Stardust
But again, it happened and reality crashed over me in a powerful and devastating wave. Mob Week was over. There’s some bullshit Western on. I drop my beer, shattering it into millions of little, indiscernible pieces. What else was there to do? What other choice did I have to make? This world has backed me into a corner and, try as I may, I just don’t think I’m fighting my way out of this one. I get into my 1997 green Monte Carlo, the album sitting on the passenger’s seat. A lone tear rides down my cheek, coming to a point at my chin and drops off into nonexistence. I turn the keys and pull out to drive to the nearest liquor store and check myself into a motel.
As I turn the corner though, Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” comes on 102.9 MGK. I smile, thinking how I enjoyed this song during what was soon to be my former life. Flashes of happy memories dance before my eyes. I laugh and turn the corner, now grasping to what small glimmer of hope that Mr. Fahrenheit himself provided me. I needed something, anything. I’m praying to the Ghost of Natty. Cmon, buddy…And then, almost as if a scene from a Hollywood drama, I turn my head to the right in super slow-motion. There it is.
The Manoa Tavern.
Just enough reason to pick myself up, scratch my beanbag, and change my mind. I park my car, and enter. I’ve avoided what I considered to be the inevitable, a one-way street down death valley. I’m greeted well and warmly. A shot of Jack and a Bud Light draft. It was OK.
Needless to say, I stayed until close, watching the entire Phillies game after all, slept on my basement couch and rolled into work looking like a just went 10 rounds with Tyson. I took 4 dumps throughout the course of that day. I smelled awful. My Sunday anxiety was sure to extend throughout the remainder of the entire week. I dicked around on Gmail for far too long, as emails and phone calls piled up. But I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I dodged a bullet, the likes of which shouldn’t be coming my way for a long, long time.
Well, wrong again. The Phillies were rained out this past Sunday. And that shithead Rex Ryan was the showcase of Monday Night Football. I found myself at a bar once more…and today wasn’t too good either.
--Bunny Stardust