THE JO-TEL … illegal blog downfield

There is a moment during a day of drinking when dawn (with her rosey fingers) touches the sun gleaming off the lake speeding by the window of the car and you realize that, yes, this drunkenness with wear off. Yes. That’s exactly what I was thinking when I selected the Yes album (no not The Yes Album) Close to the Edge.

But before that, we enjoyed a rendezvous at Shannon’s place. Shannon’s apartment became a perfect labratory to observe the effects of drunkness, undistracted by cars, beaches, bridges, or party boats. Just five people drunk in a house. I think we were all wrestling or something when Hip E. comes out of the bathroom and says, “So guess how much I weigh naked. ” (It was not until the next day when I pondered, “Is it proper etiquette to weigh yourself naked in the bathroom of someone you just met a week ago?”) Also, we had the fortune of having Shannon’s boom box not actually play about half the CDs that we inserted into it. When you are riding shotgun in the car you get WAY too spoiled with the music, getting to control every musical mood shift. When you are dealing with a broke-ass music player you are forced to hell of appreciate the stuff that works properly. Like Rubber Soul. Because let’s be honest, I would have played Yo La Tengo if I had the chance and then, who knows, I have might forgotten to skip to “Little Honda” after “Sugercube”! As it was, I got this wonderful blast of nostalgia of when I first listened to Rubber Soul on the balcony of a San Diego hotel on vacation with my parents at the age of, maybe, 14? I actually stole my first copy of Revolver from a mathematician. Good. Times. Where was I? Oh, Yes.

Once we were in the car and the prog-rock strains of Yes were stirring, I think we all realized the trip home was going to be a sleepy one. Indeed, I slept most of the time, awaking only to realize that Johnny D was (intentionally?) allowing the album to repeat… Upon getting home, I took some sort of pain killing drug that Hip E. gave me. It was nice and what I needed. I’ve got a problem with drug dependency. Not that I’ve ever been addicted to a drug. Quite the opposite, I am so repulsed by the thought of addiction (physical or mental) that I usually avoid addictive drugs (I’ve never done coke). But my hangover had fully reared its head and the pain killer made me feel warm and fuzzy. Patsy and I watched the end of Robert Altman’s McCabe and Ms. Miller. McCabe dies. Tonight I will watch the end of Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye, starring Courtney Cox’s dad in Friends.

So there we were, Sunday evening, two days later, returning from a large meal of sushi and beer, all doomed to go back to work the next day. None of us have any illusions that we can quit our jobs and live like blog-era beats. After all, Kerouac turned into a cat-loving, conservative, hippie hater. Cats suck. And those type of lifestyles are tough to make work. For more evidence, read Big Sur. Maybe that’s what got me thinking of the Puma. He’s been in Southern California for about two years now. Is the guy who once came to after a day of drinking in Downtown Oakland beating a crate with a stick no longer the same Katon? Will there be a day when these day trips to Drunkville will be replaced by wine-tasting and dinner parties where no one gets naked or wrestles with each other? I can’t guarantee that the answer will be ‘no’. But, for the time being, I can say with assurity that if you come by the jo-tel, our door will be open (literally) and I will probably be in the hall with no pants on. Oh, and we’ll be down for craziness like Hawkeye is down to save white frontier women in 1774. (That one was for the Puma.)

-Shark