Fermented Moralism (A fragment)

Wherein a conversation is overheard in obscure dive-bar, somewhere outside of Savannah, GA, 2316 hrs. EST. WASP MALE #1 is a young, twenty-something, bookish and needle-faced student wrapped in a tweed sport coat and blue jeans. WASP MALE #2 is a chubby and bearded and 40-something regular; he sits on a precarious black bar-stool while sweating into plaid shirt and a pair of red sweat pants. The air is stained with tobacco smoke and darkness, a howitzer of an air conditioner is booming from the back of the bar. Drinks have been served. Voices are elevated.     

W.M. #1: “What the hell are you talking about?”

W.M. #2: “I don’t know man, [left hand clutching his chest] I just think there are different types of drunks in the world. Some people, when they drink, just want to hump it on over to their brother’s, sister’s house––whatever––and knock on his ‘r her door and kick their face in, bloody––while other people, they get drunk and want to call up their brother ‘r sister and tell ’em how much they love ’em at 3am on a Saturday morning. It’s just some inner thing that alcohol strips away like paint thinner and reveals, you know? I think there’s a continuum between love and hatred that most people fall on and alcohol makes it easier to get a measurement, is what I’m fruckin sayin’––think of drunkenness like a pregnancy test or something for whether or not someone is an asshole––pour some alcohol on ‘em for the plus or minus.  And results differ, obviously. On the one hand, there are some people who just understand…like it’s frucking innate, they just understand what love and beauty and pain are, you know, like, all that shit. They’re just born with it, they can connect with it cause they’re able to really feel something. And when you drink with these types a pure, base level, drunken empathy comes out, I mean, not all the fruckin time, but sometimes these types will express themselves in a silly expression of good-will that is done in a honest-to-goodness way––it’s like real or whatever. Example, this especially drunk and empathic type person might listen to you describe how your mother died of a rare and terrible form of mesothelioma and then they’d relate to your experience and maybe even shed a vodka soaked tear for you––sure, maybe they won’t technically remember every detail of the conversation the next morning, but don’t think for one second that their expression of empathy wasn’t real in that moment, it was, and this little incident says something about who that person chooses to be [closes his eyes and takes a drink]. And you’ll have, on the other end of the spectrum, you’ll have these people that just fruckin can’t connect with this type of stuff, love or empathy or whatever. These are the negatives. These are usually your aggressive, angry types; they’ve been forced into this hateful and scary world and they just can’t help but be scary and hateful right back. And when these negative types walk down the street all they see is a herd of others; people who aren’t like them; strange people who want to steal and fruck over innocent God-fearing people first chance that comes ‘round.  Just pour some alcohol on a frightened and volatile personality like this and you’ll see it––a red stripped misanthropic streak––it’s like some drunken king will emerge that wants to push everybody else off the friggin’ mountain, in other words, this king doesn’t know what else to do but react. All that fear and hated ‘ll ooze right out of ‘em because the alcohol has dissolved away their normal façade of basic human solidarity. Dig me? And sometimes, even, with an especially bad case, shit will go down in a situationally, inappropriate and violent way. You’ll see fruckin sweat and bloodshot eyes and then clenched fists will erupt for little or no reason. Tantrums will explode and a fruckin-malignant-shit-strapped-mouth will turn on you and start to threaten you and yours because of your faggoty-looking pink t-shirt or something. You know the breed I am talking about, don’t you? It’s not a rare-fruckin-bird to say the least. Stay away from these drunken bastards––but then drink around them occasionally so you’ll know who they are.”

W.M. #1: “[Almost yelling] But come on, do you really think it’s necessary to get someone drunk to tell the difference between someone filled with love and someone filled with hate? Between a simpatico and a King Asshole? Sounds suspect to me. You’re building two poles of positive and negative and then diagnosing people accordingly. Two poles that don’t necessarily fit the population you are describing––everyone in the world, presumably? And, I mean, the social utility of alcohol isn’t really in question is it? What I mean is, alcohol has been lowering inhibitions and lubricating, as it were, the grinding realities of social interaction in public spaces since antiquity, and part of what it means to lower one’s inhibitions is to make conspicuous the sorts of personal desires and thoughts that a sober and more timid self would keep hidden or severely edit––nothing new here. So maybe alcohol does make someone more apt to reveal something about who-they-really-are in front of strange…others, so what? Unless you are trying to congratulate yourself for the amounts of fermented juniper you have consumed before me tonight, then by all means…”

W.M. #2: “OK, you got me there. Sure, sure my argument is self-serving––hey man look at that young lady right there, soo sexy, yes dear lord [eyes blinking rapidly]––hell yes I am saying that alcohol is a wonderful and socially useful thing right as I am drinking it, of course, and obviously I consider myself to be a positive-slightly-morally-better-than-you-empathic-type, as my current drunkenness clearly reveals [winks]. There simply is no way I will fall into some sort of violent rage this fine evening, or, pretty much any evening before or after this one for that matter. But OK, if you want to poke holes in my typology or argument, sure, go ahead––‘cause I, unlike you, haven’t been nursing this fine pint glass filled with mostly gin and some tonic that I’ve been lubricating this little social gathering with. So maybe I’ve exaggerated a bit. Spoken with shovels full of my own bullshit. Oh Lord, I don’t know [eyes blinking more rapidly than before].”

W.M. #1: “Hey, I’m not saying everything you say is bullshit. I’ll spare you my estimated percentages, but some of the shit you say rings true. And yes, I’m not drinking tonight like there is an impending apocalypse. Anyway, for the sake of argument, how much of the King Asshole is someone really responsible for? Where does one draw the line? You seem to be saying that the Asshole is intrinsic to the Self and is amplified through inebriation, a priori. In Freudian terms, when someone drinks too much their “id” comes out to play like a cement truck rolling through an antique store. But I guess we should leave Freud out of it; you’re just saying that alcohol reveals something true about someone, I guess, in less technical terms. And you realize you’re taking the Cartesian Self for granted here, right? But keep going, I’m amused.”

W.M. #2: “Where did you learn to talk like that? You should probably not do it anymore. It’s anti-social [burps].”

W.M. #1 “Are you saying I'm pretentious or something? [chuckles] Your social instincts are better than mine, I think. You must feel more, being in the world as you are. If my dad were alive he’d like you more than me, I think. You remind me of him. You know one’s relationship to their father, or parents for that matter, is less important than some may have you believe. The perceived importance of your family life as it relates to your mental health is mostly a vestige of Freudian dogma, which stills plagues the empirical psychological research done here in North America, believe it or not. Even though not everything he said was total bullshit, [chuckles, again] I am writing as fast as I can to exorcise that Viennese ghost…”

W.M #2 “[Interrupting] Psychology? Gross. I have no use for Academia, so called. [turns to bartender] Hey man! Beer me. Yeah, I’ll take that green one, yeah that one, thanks man…[Slaps W.M. #1 on the back] You know man…you’re hurting; I can see it in you. Look at yourself. You look like a nerdy, sad puppy gone missing his God; you need to laid, right!? [laughs]. I think I understand you now, see––see!? I can understand you now. See Dylan? It’s the positive and empathic effects of alcohol happening right here before your eyes. I know that what you need from me right now is empathy and understanding, personal verstehen my man. That’s a good German word.

W.M. #1 [interrupting] I know what it means.

W.M. #2 OK, sorry, look, I’m talking about a type of person who seeks a better understanding of others, understanding to the point where then can truthfully, not in any bullshitty-type-way, extend something like love to someone. And if this sad world is ever gonna get any better, this type of love and simple social courtesy of giving someone the-benefit-of-the-doubt needs to happen more often. Jesus, you know, that old Jew would have agreed with me. But there are some pitfalls with extending love to the people that need it. See I think people are mostly scared and alone and lonely, and the most repulsive people are usually the most scared and the most lonely, which can lead to this strange double bind where the people that really need love the most are the ones that are the hardest to reach out to because they’ve morphed into such pricks [squints his eyes at W.M. #1]. What a frucking mess, right? Just a bad situation, but someone has to love these mean fruckers. The ones that want to lash out in the world when they get viscerally intoxicated, somebody has to love them, yeah, even them.  And for me, I have this unavoidable conflict in my head about these negative types that, really, one should avoid because they’re so mean and indignant and hateful, but the problem is they’re the same people who need love the most, all while they don’t deserve it. Don’t ask me to solve that little conundrum here now. Love and understanding, that is, as unoriginal as all this sounds, people, all people, need these two things from other people to be in the world and not collapse from all the inevitable suffering that comes with the whole deal. It’s a question of being, or, better yet, a soul. So what I’m saying is a person’s soul is a intrinsically-social-kind-of-essence; it is living inside of you Dylan, and healthy souls make connections with other souls. Connections between lonely souls are the only way to confront this absurd situation we find ourselves in. Floating around on some rock in an infinite space that is so big you can’t even begin to describe in terms that are even close to any relatable, daily experience. No one should have to confront that kind of thing alone, that abyss––not even assholes. All we have is one another.  

My New Surroudnings [A place in GA to remain unamed]

The people here are huge. In this town I've moved to, that is, they're big. And I'm not trying to pick on them, it's just true. They're also mostly white, religious and camo-clad. These are facts I have learned from surveying my surroundings while taking trips to the grocery store. Their religiosity is normally displayed in unequivocal-bumper-sticker-form. One, seemingly ubiquitous, sticker I see here takes an unusually antagonistic stance towards its readers, next to a picture of a cross it reads: "If this offends you, we'll see what you think when you stand in front of Him on judgement day." The cars that the stickers are attached to are also huge. Most of the population here, or at least their children, participate vigorously in organized sports. This fact is evidenced by bumper stickers as well, and also by sliding mini-van doors that open to reveal small groups of uniform adorned teenagers.

My new port side neighbors are a couple––much younger than they look I imagine––and they have a small child, a boy, between three and five years old. The boy likes to play by himself in the front yard with yellow toy dump trucks. He is usually naked. Sometimes he is wearing a diaper. I have often wondered if the naked boy in my neighbors' front yard is part of some sort of elaborate government scheme to lure and capture pedophiles. I am becoming more accustomed to seeing baby penis on my way to and from the house. Baby toys dot my neighbors' backyard like white plastic stars on a grass canvas.

My girlfriend has met the aforementioned couple next door. To date, I have not. The little boy's mother came over to ask my girlfriend, Amanda, about her cat. The mother was inquiring about the cat because, according to her, an unidentified cat had been sneaking into her house and "fucking" her cat in her bedroom, on her bed; and she suspected that Amanda's cat was the guilty cat fucker. Quite the conundrum, obviously. Amanda, however, told the mother that this unwanted and invasive feline coitus could not be attributed to her strictly indoor cat, Ruby. After Ruby's innocence was thus established, Amanda and the mother exchanged personal details and pleasantries. As Amanda recounted, the mother was extremely open to her––to put it mildly––as she, the mother, moved the conversation from simple introductions to her struggles with pill addiction with DeLorean-like speed. The mother's oversharing made Amanda not a little bit uncomfortable, but she listened with characteristic empathy. I concluded from Amanda's encounter that should we wish to know anything––anything––about the personal lives of the young family next door, we need only hurdle over a couple of baby toys and ask.

The other neighbors to my starboard are a much older couple with an unknown amount of children that have, presumably, left the nest. On Sundays I see a young adult pull perfunctorily into the driveway, with a small child in tow, and then leave again shortly thereafter. During the week the husband and wife can usually be seen on their front doorsteps smoking cigarettes. On the weekends, I usually see the husband obsessively mowing his lawn––he mows over and over the same spots of grass with Sisyphean-esque repetition for hours on end. The man has a zen-like determination to prevent his grass from rising due either to an intense inner hatred of graminoids, or explicit love of them, I can't tell which. I have spoken to this grass-worrier only once, and upon learning of my then status as a graduate student, he told me that I "[looked] like a college man." I took this to mean "unemployed." He then invited me to church, and I, shamefully, lied and told him I was leaving town to visit my mother and could not join him in worship. When I step outside, he waves at me and says, "hello neighbor!" I can't help but appreciate the greeting. I usually wave back and say, softly but firmly, "what's up man."

My new surroundings are very familiar, extremely so. I am not alien to the cultural norms of the southern U.S., and I have a complicated relationship to them akin to the relationship between a disagreeable son and narrow-minded father. It's a strange mix of frustration and anger, mixed with a sort of obligatory love and commitment. I am indeed a native son. So if you feel that I have been unkind to those I've written of, know that I speak of them as a part of the community and not as an indignant outsider.

As for now, I should be looking for a job instead of blogging––so wish me luck in finding a corporation to rent myself to. I'm looking forward to maybe making some of you a cup of coffee while working at Starbucks, that is, if I'm lucky enough to get a job there.