Should I Preemptively Strike and Off Myself Now?

Decent chance of early grave this weekend. Dusting off the old outdoor jam flip flops, out in the sun, gettin’ weird brah. When I bought the tickets, 6 months ago, I had this vision of behaving like a mature, 35 year old father, dancing through my head. But now here I sit 96 hours out and we all know how this story ends. Going to be with a couple of no bueno bandejos from waaaayyyy back, and when the group-think switch gets flipped at the 00:01:14 mark of our journey things will go pear-shaped in a hurry. I’ve been down this lonely road before. I also held out hope for some pre-fall concert weather, maybe a little 70 and sunny by day, dip down into the low 50′s by night, necessitating a sweatshirt add-in to the hip concert-going backpack I’ll be sporting to let the youngsters know I’m not a pig. Nope, 150 degrees, 101% humidity, right up the ass. Will have to pound beer just to keep from getting thirsty. I have a long, storied, violent history of claiming that I’ll be “taking it easy at _________ social drinking soiree”. More often than not the following morning gives way to dry, fiery, winged wraiths assailing my psyche from all angles demanding their pound of flesh. In current times these wraiths are often directed from the bully pulpit of a 2-year-old. She’ll demand “Daddy get me some cold water” (powerless at this point I dutifully do as I’m told since it provides me with 30 seconds of something to focus on), followed by a screamed out crowd-pleaser “No!!! Mommy has to hand it to me!!!” Being that Mommy is likely in the same boat as Daddy she knows all too well that appeasement is the order of the day and thus water is handed back to me who then hands it to my wife who, filled with much fear, then hands it back to the toddler. And so on and so forth until bedtime provides sweet release. I can pay lip service all week to concepts such as “restraint”, “take it easy”, “stay even-keeled to really appreciate the music”, and the always enjoyed “I’ll just switch early to water”. But deep in the recesses of my subconscious the demon lurks, and scoffs at my forecasts of relative sobriety. He knows that when dawn breaks on Sunday morning there will be an orgiastic feast of the wicked as they dance the jig of my demise.

This begs the question: Knowing full well how this timeless tale ends, would the wise man kill the host before the bacchanal, thus depriving the demon his blood lust? I think it prudent strategy. A friend I grew up with always took an alternate route in these situations. His M.O. in scenarios where a grand drunkening was imminent was to get bombed out of his fucking tree the night before. His theory was that by so doing, he would be massively hungover at the main event and thus not feel up to getting as hammered that night. He did not like going into big drinking playoff games feeling “too fresh”, which was as he put it “dangerous”. As an unbiased observer in dozens of such instances I can confer beyond a reasonable doubt that A) This is fucking stupid logic and B) Always resulted in him getting just as hammered, if not more so, than the preemptive strike and thus having to recover from two consecutive days of self-poisoning rather than just one. Which as we all know the pain and suffering, not to mention the time-to-positive-thought-again, equation of two consecutive days of insanity is not linear, but rather exponential. When days are stacked upon one another we leave the realm of calculator math and must call in Will Hunting to proof it out for us. But a preemptive strike resulting in the death of the host seems perfectly logical to me. This is where I wish I was technologically inclined as I would fade this blog out to the theme song from M.A.S.H.

I’ll see you all again, on this side or the other.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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