the great opiate

I finally have television again, and I'd forgotten what a marvelously charming time sucker it is. Over the weekend, they cable guy came to hook up our television, which was more of an ordeal than it probably should have been.

I feel for the guy. He had to come out here on a Saturday for one. It was also 108 degrees (or some similarly ridiculous temperature). If that wasn't enough, it's Labor Day weekend, and I'm sure the last thing the cable guy wanted to do was come to my house and fuck around with wires for almost 3 hours, which is what he ended up doing. He was a big tall mountainous man who spoke in a very even voice. I don't know anything about the house I live in--where the wiring is and all that. When he asked me questions, I did my best to answer. I even helped him position some of the cable, but really, I did what I do best...stayed out of his way.

After the saga of setting up the cable, including our swanky cable modem, the 36 or so hours since have been an exercise in dawdling. I've watched about 7 hours of MTV and 8 hours of sports programming on ESPN. I woke up around noon today to hobble out to my couch so I could lay down some more and watch TV. It's just so mystifying. I found myself watching these plastic surgery shows on MTV last night at around 2 in the morning and they were just about the most fascinating things I've ever seen.

Ever.

When I haven't been watching TV this weekend, I've been drinking, which is nothing new, I guess. Friday was a fun night of bar-hopping with friends / coworkers / roommates. I began the evening drinking a 32oz of High Life in someone's front yard and ended the evening drinking cans of Miller Light on someone's porch. On the way home, I hobbled into 7-Eleven to buy a microwave hamburger, which is one of the nastiest things I've ever ingested, but I can't seem to get enough of them. I had another one tonight. I hate myself for it.

On Saturday I kinda took it easy. I went up to this little redneck town north of here (as opposed to the redneck town I live in) and watched roommate D perform with his improv group, which was much better than I thought it was. Much fun was had. Before the show, since we had an hour to kill before he venue opened up, three of us found this bar called Tip's--D had to stay at the venue to prepare for the show--and we saddled up there before the show started. The bartender was an oddly attractive hippie chick, and the place served the most killer Jell-O shots for a dollar. It was the first time I'd ever been to a bar that served Jell-O shots.

Tonight, my TV watching kept me from getting ready to do anything, but I had planned--loosely in my own mind--to hit the town tonight seeing as Labor Day weekend is such a big deal up here. Thousands of young men and women get in their skivvies and float down the river on Labor Day, and people come in from all over the surrounding areas, so downtown is a mob scene. I love spectacles, so I had to go out. Everyone had left with out me because I was a great big slack--or didn't return my phone calls--but I hate relying on others anyway, so I just went out by myself. I wandered over to the local watering hole, where I knew I'd bump into people I'd know, but forgot that it was jazz night.

I'm a big music fan, but jazz usually escapes me...I admire the musicianship but, well, it always sounds too much like jazz. Accordingly, the bar was filled with jazz-minded folk, and I'm a total stranger to this town's jazz scene. I'm more familiar with the whiny indie rock scene, where as a self-centered, vaguely sensitive, disaffected manboy, I feel very much at home.

I sat up at the bar and figured I'd have just one drink and go...it was after midnight when I got there, anyway. Three drinks later, my roommate O showed up drunk as hell...Patience is a virtue.

There was this one oddly cinematic moment, though. I was bellied up to the bar and looking to buy my first drink, but the bar was very busy, so I was expecting to wait. The jazz group had switched from a rollicking jazz to a sadder more pensive jazz, which is what jazz groups do. I jockeyed the barstool and tried to get the bartender's attention--usually I just look at them; they get the hint. The bartender took care of everyone but me. In fact, once as she went down the line of people, she completely skipped over me like I was invisible. The jazz got sadder and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar, and I felt like I was in some old movie where I had gone from likeable average Joe, to down on his luck lonely alcoholic. She passed me over three times, like I didn't exist, and eventually, I called her to get her attention, but refrained from quoting Jimmy Stewart from It's a Wonderful Life.