Showing posts with label drunken years. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drunken years. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Mamas, don't let your babies grow to be hobos

To the freshmen now flooding the sidewalks and congesting the thoroughfares, welcome to Valdosta! We’re so glad to have you and your money (and your parents’ money). Most of you are coming from communities much smaller than V-town, places we refer to as the Boonies, or BFE. As such you’re going to experience things that you never would at home. For instance, Valdosta doesn’t shut down at nine each night. The bars are open til two, followed by late night trips to the Waffle House. You could actually stay out all night and be thoroughly entertained. And we have two (count them, two!) Wal-Marts. We refer to them as Wal-Mart, and the good Wal-Mart. Valdosta is almost an actual, bona fide metropolis. Our downtown scene is really spectacular– on top of the multitude of bars at which to wile away hours waxing philosophical in an inebriated state, there are beautiful boutiques, superb shops, great galleries and rad restaurants. And the bums are the bomb. Any metropolis worth living in has them. We have a standard assortment– there’s the sweet guy who sleeps on the bench but doesn’t bother anyone, the old, thin one who talks to himself, and the one who isn’t homeless but looks like he is, who chases you around on his Rascal asking you if he can “warsh yer windahs,” which I think means “wash your windows.” My bike has no windows, though, so he usually leaves me alone. The standard urban legend about the homeless is that they’re secretly super rich, with a stash of gold doubloons hidden somewhere in the sewers. Heck, some of you doe-eyed freshmen may some day, if you apply yourselves correctly, join the unwashed masses and become bums yourselves. Yes, a leisurely life of panhandling may be in your future, if you play your cards right. Imagine how at peace you’d be with no school, no job, no family, no cares in the world. Just you, your bindle (that’s the hobo stick with the handkerchief at the end) and perhaps a mangy mutt as your faithful companion.

If you’re now considering a life as a vagrant, you’d better first figure out what type of bum you want to be. There are a few varieties of vagrants. A hobo, for instance, tends to travel more than a standard bum. Hobos wonder from city to city, with no real base of operation. They’re the type who travel in open train cars. If this appeals to you, consider becoming a hobo. If you’re prone to motion sickness, consider a more stationary vagrancy, like being a tramp. They travel by foot. If you see a tramp on a bike, feel free to kick him off. Tramps aren’t allowed to use vehicles of any sort, so by his violating that rule he forfeits his right to the Huffy.

If you, like me, like to drink– a lot– then you’d be most comfortable as a wino. I know what you’re thinking, you don’t like wine. Me neither, but the modern wino doesn’t necessarily have to drink that potent potable. No, winos enjoy all varieties of liquors. Gin and juice is popular for black bums, but white bums prefer whiskey. To each his own.

Unlike success in life, becoming a bum doesn’t require hard work nor discipline, but it does require practice. You can tell the difference between a bum who has been on the street for decades from one who is fresh on the job– there are subtle panhandling techniques that one masters only after years on the job. But don’t worry about that, it’ll come with time. If you really want to free yourself of the burdens of society and start a carefree life as a vagrant, all you have to do is ignore every piece of advice your mother ever gave you. It turns out all that nagging was geared toward preventing you from becoming a bum.

Brush your teeth. Oral hygiene may be the most decisive factor in becoming a street urchin. Regardless of their individual situations, all bums have bad teeth– it’s as if they’re British. I’ve never seen a bum with Da Vinci veneers. According to a statistic I just made up, the average street beggar has six teeth, and when you think about it, you don’t need any more than that. Three teeth on top, three on bottom. Two molars for crushing, two canines for ripping, two bicuspids for cutting. When you live your life on the move, you’ve really got to streamline your body, dumping excess weight that only slows you down. Considering that, losing unnecessary teeth only makes sense. Dumping two ounces of teeth makes you two ounces faster. And while you might not think that small weight would make a difference, it could be the deciding factor in whether you clear the chromed bumper of the rapidly approaching H2 as you jaywalk across the interstate. So if you want to be a bum, stop brushing. Also, consider trying meth, as it’ll help you rid yourself of unwanted teeth.

Don’t do drugs. I don’t mean weed, smoking pot won’t set you on a path to bumdom, contrary to what your parents, priest, guidance counselor and favorite NBC stars may tell you. The more you know, my butt! To become a bum you’ve got to do hard stuff. Start with crack, since you don’t have to inject that (though if you do, you’ll trip your balls off). Drinking heavily helps too. If you can manage to sell off all your possessions for drugs and booze you’ll be a bum before you can say “spare change?”


Always wear clean underwear. And, as an extension of that, always wear clean clothes. This one is pretty obvious in it’s effect– bums are always dirty, usually wearing the same clothes until they (the clothes) fall to pieces. Most often you’ll see bums layered in clothing, kind of like a protective shell of filthy fabric. This serves three main purposes. First, it’s insulation against the elements. Second, it’s padding, helping bums to survive the impact of the chrome H2 bumper that clips them as they jaywalk across the interstate. Third, the dirty layers of laundry act as people repellent. Nothing annoys a bum more than people coming up to them. Ironic, isn’t it? But being a bum usually requires a certain degree of antisocial tendencies. Those seven stinky shirts help bums shun civilians.

Eat your veggies. One of the best kept mom secrets is how exactly veggies are good for you. The truth is that green vegetables promote positive brain chemistry. Little did you know that broccoli fights dementia, brussel spouts prevents paranoia, and spinach cures syphilis. Interesting side note: cucumbers can cause syphilis, if used inappropriately. Eating your greens may be the one thing preventing you from a life of giving zj’s under the overpass for fifteen bucks a pop (if you have to ask what a zj is, you can’t afford one).

A few weeks ago I lost my job waiting tables at a local restaurant. I won’t say which one, but I’ll give you a hint: it has an Australian theme and it’s name rhymes with Goutback. I’m estranged from most of my family, by choice, so I had to depend on my friends to survive until I (luckily) got a job. I realized how close I was to homelessness. Good thing my roommates are so compassionate. Otherwise, I would have been one of those perpetually drunk derelicts asking to “warsh yer windahs.” If you find yourself being excessively harassed by a street person, try this trick: keep a few of those tiny two-for-a-dollar bottles of gin in your purse or pocket, and any time a bum accosts you toss one of those suckers to distract him as you make your getaway.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Drunk Mail Bag

Readers, it once again is time to dive into the drunken mailbag. That’s right, as you know from time to time I like to read your questions and comments. To give them their full weight I read them while dropping my morning deuce. After long rumination I respond to them here in my column. First up, to gratify my gi-normous ego, fan mail.

Dear Drunken Years,
I have been reading your column since the beginning. I like your funny insight into culture. You’re so witty and you remind me of a younger, handsomer Zack Braff. Keep up the good work, beautiful!

Sincerely,
John E. Gay
(via email)

Thanks John for those positive words. It really motivates me to know that someone out there appreciates me for what I am and not how damned sexy I am. Now, any more fan mail? …

No? Okay, on to hate mail then. Any of that? How many bags?! Okay, we can do one or two.

Dear Drunken Years,
You’re an idiot! You can’t write, you can’t fight, and you can’t hold your liquor!

-Angry passerby
(via him yelling it at me)

Sorry if I don’t remember you, sir or madam. People yell that at me all the time so faces tend to just blend together. However, to address your points: first, I am writing right now. Booyah! Two, I’ll give you that. Ouch. Three, however… I concede to you as well. But last Tuesday I successfully avoided becoming blackout drunk. I drank a pitcher through trivia, switched to a liquor drink during happy hour and alternated that with a coke. Twelve dollars later I walked home. My BM the next morning was the rankest liquid I have ever seen. I really gotta stop drinking well liquor. It’s like eighty proof Draino for the gastro-intestinal track.

Dear Drunken Years,
Why do you suck so bad?
Norma_J1963@bellesouth.not

Words like that do nothing but insult. No understanding can be gained. And coming from you mom, that really stings. Enough hate mail. Any questions? Questions about me. Not about me sucking?

Dear Drunken Years,
Did I see you riding your bike down Baytree?
L00ks@Ubik.ing
(via made up email)

Yes, that was me. I’m like a ninja on my bike. Like a bike-ninja cyborg or something. And I have wings. I consider Baytree my home turf since it lies between home an work, which we’ll call The Turf. I know those side walks like the backs of my hands. That’s a new freckle… the city recently upgraded all the sidewalks, installing ramps at every curb. Maybe soon they’ll do the same to the sidewalks around VSU– some blocks near campus don’t even have sidewalks. My common sense says that in a college town there should be sidewalks on every block within a three block radius of the campus. Most buildings there are either student housing or off-campus college services.

Dear Drunken Years,
I see you at the bar and you always wear cool hats.
Top_of_my_head@fedora.net
(via CIA radio signal to my molar)

Well that’s not really a question, more of a comment, but alright, fair enough. Actually I wear the hats for two reasons. One, to be quirky. You cannot understand how important that reason is.
Two, I used to wear bandanas but finally realized what Brett Michaels hasn’t– I’m too old to pull them off. Not only am I old, ancient by bar standards, on the doorstep of thirty, but I am balding. I’m at peace with the male pattern baldness, I just wish I had a say in the pattern. Consider me an angry gardener with a bad sod job. On a lesser note, the grays are coming. No, not the aliens– they won’t arrive until 2012. No, I’m getting gray hairs, have been getting them for a few years now. Those I’m not worried about. If I ever succumb to utter vanity I can always dye away the grays. Then again gray hair looks dignified on a man. On a woman it makes her look old, or like a witch, or like and old witch.

Dear Drunken Years,
Got any good drink recipes?
N_E_bri8ed@yaeger.bmb
(scrawled in Sharpie on urinal)

Yes! There’s the Miley Cyrus– a double shot of Kentucky bourbon on the rocks with Mountain Dew. Or the Courtney Love– gut-rot vodka up with a splash of coke and three cigarette butts. Makes a great frozen drink as well.

Thank you for all you warm emails, letters, ticking packages, boxes of feces and powdery white substances. You can continue you hate and contempt for me on the interweb.
TheDrunkenYears.blogspot.com, twitter name: john.e.gay, or by cruising over to ValdostaToday.com and clicking on the ‘Entertainment’ tab.