Here is the news: I made it 6 months... and no further. Over the past month, I have been feeling a little awkward about not drinking. I would go out with friends, and feel like I was the kid at the table who you had to keep the silverware away from. I started asking myself, "Am I really that bad? Can I not be trusted to drink?" The answer I came to was "No." Here is my "logic:" Sure, I can't just have one drink, but I remembered periods of abstinence in my life where I would let myself drink for a special event, and then go right back into abstinence again. I remembered periods in my life where I would only drink on Saturdays, and remain sober for the rest of the week. Whether or not this thinking was rationality or rationalization remains to be seen, but the fact of the matter is, I am still in control. I chose to drink, I didn't cave. So, to the attendants of the hash in Charlotte, know that you were there for a very special event, you witnessed me step off of the wagon, not fall from it.
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Photo Albums
Non-Alcoholic
I came to a conclusion on Thursday night: I drink non-alcoholic beer for the alcohol. I drank four of them last night at $4 each, and I cannot think of a reason why I wouldn't have opted for something cheaper, LIKE WATER. I fear I am becoming a non-alcoholic. Next thing you know I will contract "Splenda Diabetes."
The deal goes down like this: The beer company calls their product "Non-alcoholic" so that when I ask "May I have a non-alcoholic beer, please?" I FEEL like I am not getting alcohol, even though I and the beer company share a dirty little secret. There is actually a shady transaction going down here. Something unspoken passes between myself and Shamus O'Doul, the breakdancing NA leprechaun mascot, and we each have a little internal laugh. I will let you on the joke: Each bottle contains a whopping 0.5% alcohol. That means that if I ever got the urge to kill 12 of those, I would have consumed a full beer. A FULL BEER. I don't have to tell you that I am playing with fire here. What would happen if I sat down and decided, over the course of an evening, to drink 72 of these bad boys? I could be well over the legal limit... HOW SAFE IS YOUR PRODUCT NOW, ANHEISER?
So anyway, I am sitting at Champp's on Thursday enjoying my NA's and some really bad Karaoke when an old guy starts singing "What a Wonderful World." My friend Marc is totally enamoured with the fact that he can actually do the voice. He says "Man, listen to that voice," about three times, gazing at the stage. "He sounds just like Sasquatch." That's right, Marc thought Louis Armstrong's nickname wasn't Satchmo, but SASQUATCH. To think, the missing link was right in front of us the whole time, hiding in plain sight. CASE CRACKED, thanks to MTD.
The Blind Cashier
As I placed my breakfast on the counter at the newsstand just outside of Federal Triangle Metro, I was going over some ideas in my head, as usual. The clerk broke my spell by asking “What do you have?” I looked up to find that the cashier seated before me was a blind man, and there was a sign behind him that read “On 15 minute break, will return shortly.” I replied “I have a Snickers bar, a Payday, a Baby Ruth, and a 16 oz. Coffee.” He replied “That’s the large right?” To which I said “yes,” spellbound. He punched some buttons on the register and said “$3.69, no wait, yeah $3.69.” I handed him $4 and said “That’s 4 one dollar bills.” He reached into the drawer and grabbed my change, all with one movement, and handed it to me. I watched him as he did this, lifting a quarter with one finger, a nickel with a second, and a penny with a third finger. I walked out in disbelief. So many questions were churning in my mind, I couldn’t put this experience down. After finding out that I was at my job site an hour too early I decided to back and have a conversation with “The blind cashier.” It was obvious to me that this person was worth a second look.
“I publish an on-line journal, and would love if you would answer a few questions for me, I am fascinated by your set-up here,” I said in my best friendly journalist-of-human-interest-story voice. “Well if you have a minute, I would love to tell you about the whole program," Charlie replied. He asked Shirley, a woman seated near him reading a paper to cover the register. “You see it all started in 1936 with a senator from West Virginia named Jennings Randolph. He was responsible for the congressional mandate. It was called the Randolph-Sheppard Act, but Randolph was the main player in the legislation. This mandate set aside jobs in government buildings for the blind. Every state appoints an administrator. It is ironic that these programs are meant to foster independence, yet I have to be administrated all the time!” He laughed. I asked him if Shirley was his administrator, and he replied that she was his assistant.
“You see, if you give a man a chance to do so, he will expand his livelihood," Charlie explained. "That is what happened here. You might notice there is a sign here that says “Newsstand.” That was our main line of business until a newsstand opened up nearby that was more popular, now we sell a lot of different things.” I asked him if he decided which items to sell. “The government puts a limit on what I can sell; the final decision goes through them. That might explain why I have an empty freezer back there. I think the government had originally thought I would sell frozen foods, but they changed their mind.”
I realized as I was talking to Charlie that I kept eye contact with him and used hand gestures. I knew this was a little absurd, but I couldn’t stop.
Charlie was born blind, which he explained was easier for him because “He never had any sight to lose.” I asked Charlie if anyone, in his 30 years as a blind cashier, had ever tried to take advantage of him. He told me that one day someone tried to go into the register and take money, but Charlie got a hold of his hand, took his own money and some of the thief’s. The thief yelled “You took some of my money!” Charlie replied “You go get security, and tell them why I did it, and I will give you your money back.” Another time a man gave Charlie a ten dollar bill and told him it was a twenty. The man escaped with the ten dollars, but made the mistake of trying again a short time later. Somehow Charlie recognized him, and held up the bill to others in line and asked “Is this a twenty?” To which the line replied “No.” The man said “Oh hold on, here it is,” and produced a twenty. Charlie kept the money and didn’t give the man his change. The would-be thief had the nerve to go and get a security guard, explaining that Charlie had taken his twenty. I guess Charlie was the more credible witness, because he ended up winning the argument. That’s character.
Another time, Charlie told me, he was walking down the street and bumped into another man. He apologized, and the man told Charlie that he was blind, and needed help crossing the street. Charlie told him that he was blind too, but he knew how to get across. So Charlie walked the blind man across the street, laughing to himself that “the blind was leading the blind.”
After I explained to him about my journal and told him that I had quit drinking he replied “Quit drinking, you ain’t been around long enough to really START drinking!” We talked a little about his philosophies on life. He commented that “people think God must exist because all of this must have come from somewhere, but when they get to saying that this is the something that came from nothing, that’s a paradox.” When I told him about Frankl’s gorilla metaphor he replied dryly “That’s a psychological boost!”
Charlie is very capable. He has High Speed Internet access at home, and is trying to figure out all of the keyboard shortcuts for programs like RealPlayer and Windows Media Player. He has a lot of old records that he would like to make digital copies of, and thinks he could make some money doing this for others. He is concerned that people in DC don’t know how to dispose of batteries properly, and are harming the environment by throwing them in the trash. Charlie is a very remarkable character, and I was glad that I had the chance to talk with him. Being a cashier allows him to serve people, but being a blind cashier affords him a special opportunity to serve humanity.
Fabric of the Universe
I had a girlfriend of two years up until this summer when we formally broke things off. She is the most mystical person that I have ever met, most certainly that I have ever dated. If I came home from the doctor and had been diagnosed with high blood pressure, she might claim it was because my furniture was out of alignment with the universe, or something similiar. That is just the type of person she was. When we first started dating she gave me three bamboo stalks in a single pot. She said that one represented her, the other me, and the third represented our love. After we broke up this summer we decided to remain friends, which wasn't easy, but I thought it was the lesser of two evils. I still had (and have) very strong feelings for her and her daughter, and my attachment to her daughter made parting completely near impossible. Anyway, we had been hanging on (trying to stay good friends) for the last 8 months, and it was not working, there was just too much emotion. On Thursday we talked, and I had decided that we shouldn't talk for at least three months. I thought the emotional distance would be good for us, give us space to breathe, get some distance from all the pain. When the conversation ended she said "I will talk to you in the spring." Thursday night I came home to this:
You might notice that ONE OF THE STALKS IS YELLOW. This happened OVERNIGHT. I am still in disbelief. I don't know what to think about it. If you take what my ex said literally, it means that either I, her, or our love is dying. Kind of puts me into a catch 22 where I have to hope it is our love that is dying. At first I thought that there was something that I could do to the plant to save our respect and regard for each other. Now I am thinking that I must do something in the relationship to save the plant. Then when I look at that stalk with honest eyes, I don't think anything can save it, it looks like a goner to me.
The problem with this whole thing is that I am a scientific person. I don't believe that something as abstract as two people's affection for one another could be linked to the life essence of a plant, but the coincidence is so powerful as to demand my attention. The more attention that I give it, the more confused I become about the nature of things. I feel as though I may have to alter my entire worldview to accomodate this event, should I decide that this plant's life essence is linked to the health of our friendship. What is even freakier, is that if her statement is literally true, then if another stalk dies, one of US is the goner. WHAT IS THE LIFE EXPECTANCY OF BAMBOO? GIVE IT TO ME STRAIGHT, HOW MUCH LONGER DO WE HAVE? Obviously, this type of thinking is absurd, so if this type of thinking is absurd, so is the premise that the yellow bamboo represents anything at all, BUT THEN THERE IS THE POWER OF THE COINCIDENCE. I have been going in circles like this all weekend.
One aspect that frustrates me is that if it is a sign, aren't signs supposed to be there to tell you to do something? If I am supposed to do something, what would it be? It is not clear what action this event is calling for, except for me to go over it in my mind and try to figure it out. Isn't it amazing how something as mundane as yellow bamboo can give birth to such high human drama?
UPDATE 2/15/05: I am cool now, I GOT THE METAPHOR. Good gardening demanded that I snip the dead stalk, in order to protect the health of the other two. It means that our attachment was unhealthy, and that letting go of it is going to be better for the both of us. That stalk was the last loose end. Thanks universe!
You can’t make this stuff up: A hasher party weekend
The basic structure of the hasher party was this: Friday night bar crawl (including a Karaoke bar) Karaoke and drinking games at the hotel, hash run on Saturday, dinner, and a 70’s Disco Karaoke jam on Saturday night. Telling you this, however, really tells you nothing. After much contemplation, I now realize that I can sum up my weekend partying with the hashers into one concise statement: “What the fuck just happened?” I hate to use curse words, but honestly, no other word will suffice. In retrospect, I realize that I spent most of the weekend like a deer caught in the headlights, paralyzed in the face of the spectacle of it all. Mind you, I took advantage of every opportunity to relate, but what does a sober person talk about in the face of wild abandon? Here is my advice to any person wanting to attend a party where they don’t know anyone, and where the people are bonding not by conversation, but by clusterfuction: BE THE ONE WITH THE CAMERA, DIGITAL IS BETTER. I would have had a terrible time relating this weekend (being the new guy) had I not had a camera, especially one where I could see the pictures I had taken, and share them with others.
For those of you have seen the photo album, realize that I only took pictures when I understood what was going on. If I had it to do again, I would shoot first and ask questions later. Events that didn’t make the album:
- I went to the sponsored dinner on Saturday night, and a gentleman was sitting across from me on the floor, eating. Another gentleman knocked him over on his side, turned him on his back, lifted his legs up near his head and forcibly began humping him. Then, the humping gentleman pulled the first man’s pants down, while the first man was still resting on his shoulders with his knees on his chest, and humped his bare ass. The humper soon abandoned the humpee, and the humpee calmly pulled his pants up and resumed eating as if nothing happened.
- Just Marc, White Kane and I were talking in our room early on Sunday. Marc and I were packing to leave. Whenever our voices got loud there was a knock on the wall from the room next door. We would quiet down, only to hear the knock again. “Man those walls must be thin.” On our way out, the door to the room next door flew out, and a hasher whose name I don’t know came out. “Were you knocking to get us to quiet down?” I asked. “No, we were jumping on the bed, Look at Dunkin!” The man replied. With that a naked man emerged carrying a LARGE dildo.
- I was in the room in the Hash N Crash called the Hashpitality Suite. I happened to be looking at PW, a hasher whose name is “Pussy Whipped.” The door to my right opened up, a man came charging in (The grey haired guy with the creamy stuff on his face in the photo album). By the time I looked over to my left to see what he was doing, he had already stripped PW of his kilt and his shirt. PW was naked, and the two men danced around each other menacingly, PW still naked.
You don’t have to be in honors English to realize that I am saying that there was a homo-erotic element to the weekend. Here are some non homo-erotic events:
- Girls were dancing topless to Karaoke. At one point I was washing my hands with a topless girl (with a bra, at this time) standing to my left. There were no towels so I was shaking my hands to get the water off. I believed I splashed her so I turned and asked “Am I getting you wet?”
- Whoosh. That’s right, she is not a person, but an event. That girl is always in motion, just like the ocean. Saturday night we were partying in a room with a number of small tables. She danced on all of them, very seductively. She danced up against the window and almost got us all in trouble. I was allowed to rescue a dollar from her bra with my mouth, and to place it back where I found it with my mouth(I maybe got a LITTLE carried away.) She switched clothes with at least 4 different people.
Some Hashers:
Hedgehawg: the third person I met. It took him all of two seconds to tell me that he had three testicles. I am not sure why his hash name wasn’t E.T., the Extra-Testicle. Cool Quote: “Mom, someone inside just called you a slut!”
PBR: Puckered Bloody Rimjob. She got her name because she told a story about when she used to work for a public clinic. Someone came in and asked for information on rimming, and whether they could catch diseases through rimming.
PHD: Poor homeless dildo. She actually wasn’t there, PBR told her story. PHD is a lesbian who informed everyone that after breaking up with someone, the dildo that you used on them must be discarded. I think the idea of creating a charity to collect all the poor homeless dildos was mentioned.
Hasher Unknown: (Smoov or Fecal Matter? Anyone out there know?): I can’t remember the name of this hasher, but Whoosh attached a tazer to his balls, and after that he turned vegan. It is generally accepted among this group now that getting your balls shocked will make you not eat meat ever again. I feel for this guy. It’s not bad enough that you get your balls shocked, but then you have to eat tofurkey at Thanksgiving for the rest of your life. My heart goes out to you dude.
Not so silent Bob: This is the gentleman wearing the “Breast Vest” filled with liquour.
PW or Pussy-whipped: This man’s voice sounds more gravelly than Wolfman Jack’s. When he opens his mouth, you always know who is talking, unless it's Dunkin doing an impression.
Cause for blindness: She was named this (aptly) by her group because she is very old and walks around naked at all the parties.
Blinded by Cause: So named because he turned a corner at a hasher party and his eyes fell (without protective eyewear) on Cause for Blindness.
Here is a link to Kane's site with some more pics, those guys you see humping each other on the floor? That's right, they are wearing kilts with nothing underneath.
A story: On Friday night someone talked me into singing “I thought it was me” by Shaggy. Marc kept asking me “Can you sing the Shaggy part?” I told him, “Yeah, I think I can.” I had totally forgot about the Shaggy rap, until I was actually performing it. I didn’t know the words, couldn’t keep up with the screen, so I winged it. It went something like this, in perfect cadence “Ah dee dotty dibby dotty bitty botty booba, doo bitty dobby bibby dobby bobby dibby booba…” I thought I had really made an ass of myself, until the next night when someone performed the same song, and when it came to Shaggy’s part the crowd started chanting nonsensical baby talk in a thick Jamaican accent back at the karaoke performer. I was DEEPLY touched. Sigh. Good times, good times.
I found out today that White Kane has been lobbying a little to get me a hash name, even though I can't hash with the "So Happy It's Tuesday" hashers because I have an IT class. A few members of the group said that they did have one name that I could have without hashing, a name that they have been trying to pin on someone but that no one would take. The name is "Asshole Jackhammer." I think I will pass on that, but thanks anyway guys, good lookin' out.
So... why hash do you ask? I have heard two explanations.
1. The catharsis explanation: People feel like they can't act a certain way in front of friends, coworkers, and family, and the hash gives people an outlet for these untapped energies.
2. The sincerity explanation: When you are at a hash, you don't know anything about the next person except for who they are, right then, in front of you. It is near impossible to bond to people superficially in this environment, where you don't even know the person's real name.
Anyone have anything they would like to add? Anyone can comment below.
How do you know a hasher in everyday life? These people are doctors, lawyers, mortgage brokers, members of their local Jaycees... How do you identify them? They may look like they have a secret, maybe walk around without a sly grin, maybe seem like they have an inside joke, or they might leave these kinds of messages on your voice mail: Download voice-message.wav
Baby's got barback?
I just went to lunch at Kirkpatrick's in Ashburn, and there was a waitress there carrying her baby around. They had on matching outfits. She actually went behind the bar carrying, what I estimated to be, a 14-month-old on her hip. I saw her deliver plates to a table. At one point, she set the baby down in a high chair by the hostess stand. It was a very surreal experience, like one of those things that happen that make you wonder aloud if you are dreaming.
