Insignificant and occasionally interesting contributions to the cognition of reality…

Illustration by Andreas Hykade. Courtesy of Chris J. Robinson.

So such is life that it writes itself
Trying to right itself
But there's nothing wrong with it
There's nothing wrong

It’s a lovely irony. I stopped drinking in February 2001, yet since then I’ve received more reader comments suggesting that I must be intoxicated while I write this stuff (and, of course, only a month ago did I notice that little subtitle “Drunken ramblings from the North” under the Pimp heading) than ever before.

Quitting
Anyway if you’re like me, you’re a recovering alcoholic; one who did not follow the AA route. I went a few times over the years (from 18-34) and each time I found it depressing as hell. Sobriety, for me, should be a celebration of sorts (sometimes), and the last thing I want to do is hang out in a gymnasium with a bunch of somber, chain smoking, coffee guzzling people as they take turns reciting horror stories from their drinking years before holding hands and thanking God. I always left feeling thoroughly depressed and even sort of freakish, like an outcast from society. I didn’t want to feel that way. Drinking already gave me that feeling. Drinking already made me feel like physical and mental excrement most days. Being sober was supposed to be a good thing, a happy occasion. Anyway I stubbornly refused (and still refuse) to attend AA. It works for some people. Great. Groovy. Dandy. But hey…I got myself into this mess (although there are some who argue that it is an illness or a disease) and I’m sure as hell not gonna sit on my ass and let God or some other higher power take the responsibility of sorting my own shit out for me.

I won’t go into what motivated me to quit. Let’s just say it was an incredibly sappy nostalgic moment. Real cheese quality. It was anti-climactic really…even a mysterious broken ankle the year before failed to prevent me from returning to the cause. After I quit, I went to a few more AA meetings but then decided to find a counselor to help me one on one; someone who could give me tangible tools to deal with going to a festival, for example, (where I had really become a brilliant drinker), and not drinking. Those weekly one-hour meetings did the trick. I didn’t buy into all the spiel I was given, but I got what I needed to get through my days and nights without booze. Granted…the first festival (in Finland of all places!) was a nightmare. I was moody, depressed and lost. I didn’t miss the booze…but I found that now I had added almost 12 hours to my day…and I didn’t know how to fill them. I also realized that festivals had become little more than sitting around bars to talk, eat, and mostly to drink, between screenings (when I actually made it to a screening). Anyway…Finland was hell. I remember screaming at my travel agent on a payphone in Turku begging for him to find me a flight home. I remember that during a panel on festival organization, I spoke from a horizontal position atop a bunch of metal chairs. I was also rude to the Quay Brothers, but that’s okay, I would be today too.