Look, we all know that I love stories and drinking. This is no secret to anyone who’s ever spoken to me for more than a minute. So naturally, I’ve got another article on the topic that’s now live over at Quirk Books. Think of this as a kind of companion piece to my How To Drink Like Your Favorite Writer and A Guide To Pairing Your Comic Books and Beer posts. You liked those, right? Of course you did.
Tearing through my parents’ basement over Christmas break in search of several missing WARHAMMER pieces (shut up), I stumbled across a few notebooks from college. Still a bit high from the fun and hilarity of my MORTIFIED experience this past Saturday evening in Cambridge, I skimmed through the notebooks, placing certain moments back at specific times in my life. (there’s certainly a lot crap, but a bunch of great lines / idea gems in between the crap that maybe someday I’ll revisit in song)
One thing in particular that stuck out to me — pages I have been dying to rediscover since it happened — was a bit of writing I did in July 2006, my first summer spent living in Boston between my sophomore and junior years. 2006 in general was definitely a very significant transition year for me, and while some of that anxiety might slip through here, that’s not really the point. I remember the evening when I turned to my then-roommate, Layne, and said “Ya know, Layne, you hear about all these artists, songwriters, etc. with horrible, horrible addiction problems, but still somehow creating their best creative while completely obliterated. But I’ve never actually done that.” So naturally Layne, being the kind and considerate soul she was, walked directly into the kitchen and poured me ten shots of vodka in a line. I looked down at the counter and looked back at her, eyes wide with fear. “Go,” she demanded, and, well, I did, because Layne was just that kind of person that you could never down on, even when it was a terrible idea (because you knew that her worst ideas usually made the best stories).
So bam. 10 shots of vodka in a row, right down the hatch. No dinner. A quick chaser of Diet Coke, and I locked myself in the bedroom with a guitar and a notebook and a pen. I didn’t even turn the lights on; it felt more poetic that way (whatever man, I was 20), and there was enough light bleeding in through the window from the construction site next door. And I just went, pouring out my every thought in some strange semblance of verse.