Let’s
begin with a bit of self-disclosure; in September of 2009 I was pulled over for
speeding, and it just so happens that I was mildly inebriated also.
The
report read that at 1:35am in Tucson, AZ, by the grace of some sensational
superhuman ability, the officer on the scene made a “Visual estimation” of my
speed as being 55 miles per hour while driving in the opposite direction. Well,
I don’t know how the hell that works, but it must’ve been reason enough to pull
me over behind an Eegee’s sandwich shop catty-corner from my old martial arts
studio (my Sabonim woulda been proud). I had been passing one of the three
taxis that operates in my small city, and I couldn’t help but suspect some sort
of conspiracy when the cab pulled into the gas station across the desolate side
street and waited in anticipation as the scene unfolded. This fucking guy must
have really needed his $7. If nothing else, I am definitely honest, and, in
retrospect, really stupid. The officer asked for all my paperwork and then
inquired as to whether or not I’d indulged in the consumption of alcohol that
evening . . . you want an example of “Honest to a fault?” . . . I said “Yes
Sir, I’ve had a couple, it’s been a rough week.”
Not:
“Fuck no.”, “Eat a dick”, “You’re garbage”, “Listen. . .”,
or
the more sensible: “Nah, I just got off work, trying to get home, I’m
exhausted.”
.
. . but: “Yes Sir, I’ve had a couple, it’s been a rough week.”
Fateful
words that made it necessary for me to learn how to suck-start a GMC Sierra.
I
was traveling down Speedway Boulevard in the opposite direction of the
University of Arizona. I knew better, contrary to its name, the only
intelligent way to navigate that particular thoroughfare is to set cruise
control to 35mph and dodge the idiots who come to complete stops to make right
turns. My friend took 6th Street which I had predicted would be “Infested
with swine” . . . it was not. I was leaving a horrible place known as Champs
located at Sam Hughes Place on the relatively busy south-east corner of campus.
It’s an awful place highly frequented by portentous sorostitutes, entitled
little fraternity imbeciles, Tucson-locals, and pretty much anybody who wants
to drink on a Tuesday night. The place is dimly lit, the DJ generally plays
music enjoyed by said members of the Greek system – garbage that aside from the
catchy beat contains lyrics designed for the sole purpose of making the ears of
the intelligent bleed ceaselessly - and the bar tenders are generally so swamped
that a good buzz is unattainable (for the well-trained social alcoholic) unless
two to three hours are spent in this elbow-to-elbow crowd hovered over a marble
slab counter-top that is always sticky despite the bar-backs’ consistent
attempts at sanitization. Though I had logged many an intoxicated hour in this
place, I had absolutely no idea why I was there. . .
Unless
I consider the following factors:
1.
The vast majority of Sorority chicks, despite being brain dead, viciously inconsiderate,
and incredibly egotistic, are actually unbelievable eye candy – an absolute
necessity if one decides to venture out into any social environment.
2.
I knew one of the bartenders, as well as at least 25% of the people in there (a
fact I’m neither proud nor ashamed of . . . it is what it is), so I got great
service, and as far as I know Champs is still luring in unsuspecting alcohol
enthusiasts with fantastic drink specials. $3 doubles? Why yes, I believe I will.
And
. . . most influentially:
3.
I’m part of the “Anyone” who occasionally wants to drink on a Tuesday.
