Skip to content

Archives: Dec 2007

New Year’s remorse

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.

Don’t you hate this time of year? December 31 rolls around and you get all excited to have a fun, sober New Year’s Eve – free of alcohol or drugs – and then you find a little slip of paper with last year’s resolutions written on it. And you read it. And you decide that maybe a little alcohol and drugs wouldn’t be a bad way to forget all the things you didn’t accomplish.

Then you wake up the next morning, check the “Missed connections” ads on Craigslist, and find one about you titled, “New Year’s Eve, streaker in the grocery store (m4m – N 12th Ave.)” Those two little capsules of Advil never really cover everything the next morning, do they?

I just found my resolutions from last year. Apparently, I pledged to write a book, get a real job with health benefits, and save a newborn child from a burning car. If I accomplished any of those things, it was only in the period when I blacked out during last year’s New Year’s party. With the way my head was hurting, it was more likely that someone saved me from the backseat of a burning car.

Big cities make it hard to drink

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.

I always get homesick for the Twin Ports on New Year’s Eve. It’s not the ugly people, the brown snow, or the rancid stink of your river (and Superior residents!) that I miss. It’s the convenience. You lucky jerks live in a town where every bar is within walking distance of 12 other bars, all of them filled with filthy, filthy bastards.

God, I miss hanging out with filthy bastards.

Los Angeles isn’t quite so accommodating. The filthy bastards here are more spread out. Instead of being 87 square miles of land like Duluth or 115 square miles like the Twin Cities, the city of Los Angeles spreads itself across 500 square miles. Each bar is roughly 10 miles from the next one. A cab ride for that distance will take 30 minutes and cost $40, and you’ll be as sober as Ringo Starr by the time you get there.

I’ve only been here for one New Year’s Eve, but it involved four hours of driving around and only one hour of actual drinking. Nobody threw up, nobody groped anyone else, and nobody fell over a railing and died in a creek. Lame. I can’t even roam the streets here while drinking, like I used to in Duluth. There’s no snowbanks to hide behind when the cops drive past.

Don’t ask no questions, and I won’t tell you to go to hell

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.

The airport people are staring at me again. I grip my glass, condensation dripping down my fingers as I take another sip. My ears pop from my recent flight, feeling fuzzy for a moment before blocking up again. My stomach slowly untwists, adjusting to steady ground. Other travelers stare at my beer disapprovingly, but never make eye contact with me.

What’s wrong with drinking a Leinie’s at the Minneapolis airport at 11am? What’s wrong with drinking six Leinie’s here at 11am? A lot, according to the passing faces. It’s the week of Christmas, after all. It’s a time for joy, happiness, and spending time with your family. I’m terrified of each of those things, so Mr. Leinenkugel is treating my anxiety the old-fashioned way.

Get me another Honey Weiss, bartender. No wait, get me a red. After the first six, feed me Schlitz in a paper cup. There’s no use wasting a good beer if I won’t remember it, or a clean glass if it’s Schlitz. What do you mean the airport doesn’t serve Schlitz?

Happy birthday Santa Claus!

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.

December 25 marks a special day for Christians. It’s the day Santa Claus was born. Two thousand and seven years ago, God created the sun, the earth, and chocolate pudding. A number of years later, God’s son Santa slid out of a magical frozen vagina in the North Pole and began giving people presents.

God bequeathed Santa unto us from the thick of His loins because God likes people, and He believes we deserve to have widescreen TVs and Xbox 360s. “Let my son giveth unto them George Foreman Lean Mean Fat-Reducing Grilling Machines and golf balls with their names printed upon them,” God belched from upon a mountaintop deep in the wilds of heaven. “Let my only son, whom I have named Santa Claus, stuff their stockings with TJ Maxx gift cards and holiday-themed boxes of Lifesavers that will be banished to a drawer and never consumed.”

Santa Claus has upheld this duty for over 2,000 of His birthdays, using the power of The Lord to deliver gifts to everyone except really poor people (Santa wisely understands that someone has to remain poor in order for this economy to work). Even though all the presents are from God, Santa puts His own name on the gift tags, because God is modest and “doesn’t want to make a big deal out of things.” (Leviticus 18:407)

You may have heard that I’m a fatty

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.

Don’t believe the rumors you’ve heard. I haven’t turned into a fatty. Your favorite columnist – whom you’ve always loved not because of his humor, but because of his rugged good looks and thin, girlish profile – is as sexy as ever. Perhaps even too sexy.

I may be 28 years old, the exact age when most people’s metabolism comes to a screeching halt, but that doesn’t mean anything. I may also eat grotesquely unhealthy food nearly every meal of the day, and may have a fridge full of frozen burritos, frozen corn dogs, frozen pizza, and frozen lard loosely shaped into hamburger patties right now, but that doesn’t mean anything either. I may also drink enough beer each day to send average men into diabetic comas, but that doesn’t mean I’ve become a fatty either.

However, I have gained 11 pounds in the past year, so that’s probably why people think I’m a fatty. But they fail to note that I used to weigh 158 lbs, so instead of looking like Brad Pitt, I now just look like Brad Pitt with a slight beer belly. Sounds pretty sexy when I put it that way, doesn’t it? A Brad Pitt you can drink with?

I went to the doctor for my annual checkup, and he informed me that I weigh 169 lbs. It’s probably a good thing that I gained some weight. I no longer fall down when children sneeze. But gaining 11 pounds in one year opened my eyes to the fact that I’m getting older and I’m not very healthy. I don’t work out, I eat garbage three meals per day, I drink more beer than water, and I haven’t eaten lettuce since 1986. Up to this point, my body has consumed and processed all 16,000 calories I’ve force-fed myself each day without any weight gain. Sadly, I think those days are over.