A Waste of Good Drugs

Last night, Ryan and I set about to lead a few hours of interesting café life. I was in a grumpy mood, despite a 2 hour bike ride and Ryan seemed, at moments, equally discontent.

Man problems.

We managed to carve out a few hours of fun, eating fresh salads, laughing, smoking, talking, drinking coffee as we delved into the ambiguity and frustration of man-dating. By the end of the night, we had the wait staff sitting at our table whenever they could take a break, telling us stories about their lives in Spain, Austin, Chicago and the like.

Brandt’s chef is also, quite possibly, the prettiest man ever to flip my skillet. He’s also a model, pictured above.

While Ryan and I sat there, ogling the chef as he broke down the outside serving station (Yes! He doesn’t just fuss in the kitchen. He does manual labor. In tank tops. For free, with purchase.), I noticed, as the evening progressed, a steady stream of fucked up messes parading by our table.

I can spot a fucked-up mess from 200 yards. As a card-carrying member of the fucked up mess club, I know me and mines.

Ryan and I started playing a game, “What is that mess on?” as we tried deciphering what substance (or combination thereof) would render folks in such a state. Here’s just a few examples:

1. What is Miss Mess on if she would stagger down the street, wearing that outfit, bumming cigarettes and pulling out chunks of hair?
2. What is Mister Mess on if he would stagger down the street wearing an embroidered Chinese top coat, bumming a light, while randomly screaming or giving a peace-out sign?
3. What is Miss Mess on if she would stagger down the street wearing the most ill-fitting pair of white stretch pants imaginable while mumbling incoherently into a cell phone, feet slipping and falling out of her mules every couple of yards?

Readers not from St. Louis might think that Ryan and I were in a questionable part of town. No, sir! We were in the University City Loop at a mid-level priced bistro that offers fine wines, international cheeses of the world, French-Pressed coffee and hot-as-hell chefs in tank tops!

Well, seeing the cavalcade of messes and legions of hot university fellas put us in a mood. We paid our bill and were off to visit a few gay bars, which are well known epicenters of hot fellas who are also messes.

We should have just gone home.

While I will defend this city for it’s extraordinary number of independently owned restaurants, interesting events and legions of hot straight boys -- as a gay man, I am often uninspired by the gay bars here. The music is usually lousy and folks aren’t always the friendliest. I include myself in that category since I have a tendency to not play well with others. But I don’t glare or give the St. Louis stink-eye. I just smoke my cigarettes, sip my soda, smile and engage those folks that I now.

Ryan made the mistake of actually talking to someone, which resulted in us fleeing as quickly as possible, when Mister “Really Drunk & Stoned” returned to our table two-fisting it. He ruined the game by telling us up-front what his damage was.

We were headed home and Ryan suggested that we go somewhere else. I didn’t eagerly reply which resulted in him saying,

“Oh, my God! I’m so sorry...You’re off the hooch…I’m so sorry...”

It was sweet, his concern that my big thirty days of sobriety would be compromised by one trip to a bear bar.

Let me take a moment to explain something to folks, who like me, know most of what they know about the world from television, but who, unlike me, aren’t alcoholics. My relapses, in truth, waiver quite a bit from what is fictionally depicted, which I am sad to admit as a pop culture junkie.

For instance, soap operas and Lifetime, Television for Women, have a tendency to set the scene for alcoholic relapse in a variety of ways.

Take Young and the Restless. You always know that Miss Katherine is about to hit the scotch again when she and Jill would have some knock-out drag out fight and the scene was framed behind some bottles of booze. When decanters are the first thing you see when a scene begins, you know there’s drama coming.

Jill and Katherine would verbally lash out at each other over several segments before Jill would leave in a huff. The music would swell as Katherine’s eyes would dart to the crystal decanters. There could even be a flashback scene of Katherine all hopped up, slurring words, breaking glasses if you were really lucky. That afforded the viewer with a few extra minutes of saying, “Don’t do it, Miss Katherine! Remember what happened last time???”

The flashback would end and she would approach the devil’s juice and, very dramatically (of course), pour herself a drink. She would knock it back, thus advancing the storyline. This usually happened on a Friday. During sweeps.

In reality, or at least in mine, deciding to drink again was never quite that dramatic. Now, I will admit that there certainly times when I was just one highball away from having a Hollywood moment, but the music swelling part – not so much. In one moment I would decide that I was getting fucked up and then off I’d go. Simple as can be. The decision itself wasn’t so dramatic, although the outcome usually always resulted in melodrama. Regular readers can cite numerous examples of that, so I’ll just get back to last night’s tale.

I assured Ryan that he didn’t need to worry about me going all Neely O’Hara on him.

Something told me that I’d be up for another hour of “What is that mess on?” ahead of me, especially given the number of coffees I consumed at Brandt’s and considering we were going to another gay bar.

As we approached the bear bar, a foursome of baby gays were lingering outside.

“I am so Tina’ed out,” one exclaimed lurching forward and grabbing one of his cohorts by the crotch. I was neither surprised or appalled by his statement. I was, frankly, put at ease. Meth-heads are a crazy group of fuckers and I, for one, appreciated the advanced notification. It’s always easier to know whom to avoid.

We walked into the bar and headed straight to my favorite bartender who started pouring our Diet Cokes.

At the same moment Ryan said, “The crowd is different here tonight” while I said, “There’s a lot of drugs here tonight…”

Ryan looked shocked for a moment. While his heart can be as dark as midnight, his experience with the dark side itself is pretty narrow. I like that quality in him. It’s refreshing to meet someone equally bitter who got there through different means.

I made a few cursory motions. There. There. There.

It’s strange to explain how one knows where trouble lurks in a dimly lit bar with a moderate to decent size crowd. It’s somewhere between having the sense to skip the scallop special at Shoney’s and a telepathic tingle.

One’s need to tinkle, though, is much more easy to explain, especially after forty-two thousand cups of coffee. I may be off the hooch, but I still drink compulsively.

I approached the bathroom and the door opened and a man in a blazer walked out.

Here we go, I thought.

Trouble.

You see, back in the late 80’s and early 90’s there was a bumper crop of coke-dealing, Miami-Vice styled dealers out at the clubs, and while I go out far less frequently than I used to, I’ve noticed a return of the blazer. The 80’s are back, they say.

I walked into the stall and began my business of peeing and I heard, coming from the stall next to me the oh-so-familiar sounds of plastic crinkling and feet shuffling, which is a different kind of business all together. Business transacted, no doubt, with Mister Blazer.

“Fuck! It’s all rocked up…”

I should mention that Queen’s “Somebody to Love” was playing in the jukebox, accompanied to the sound of nose’s snorting, as if on cue. I’ll say something for my next-door neighbors, they had rhythm.

Got no feel, I got no rhythm
I just keep losing my beat (You just keep losing and losing)

*****snort********

I'm OK, I'm alright (he's alright - he's alright)
I ain't gonna face no defeat (yeah yeah

*****snort********

just gotta get out of this prison cell
One day (someday) I'm gonna be free, Lord!

*****snort********

Find me somebody to love
Find me somebody to love

*****snort********

Find me somebody to love
Find me somebody to love

*****snort********

Find me somebody to love

*****snort********

Find me somebody to love somebody somebody somebody somebody
Somebody find me
Somebody find me somebody to love
Can anybody find me somebody to love?

*****snort********

Okay.

So by this point, I was starting to feel that I needed to get the hell out of that bathroom. The two fellas in the next stall were clearly gonna come flying outta there sky high.

Find me somebody to love somebody somebody somebody somebody
Somebody find me
Somebody find me somebody to love
Can anybody find me somebody to love?

I made my way back to Ryan and said,” Watch who comes outta the bathroom. They were up to something.”

And I got the biggest disappointment of my life.

I have never in my life seen two more unattractive, overweight, poorly dressed gay men in my life.

It was bad enough that I had to overhear them snort up a pound of whatever, it was bad enough that they’re out at a bear bar on a Thursday night getting that fucked up, it’s bad enough that they’re doing that many drugs in one stretch while Queen played in the background, but couldn’t they at least have the decency to be cute about it?

What a waste of good drugs.

And then I realized that I was being very judgmental and very hypocritical.

I guess I am, in my own way, decidedly old school. When I think about doing a bump or getting fucked up, I am prone to glamorize substance abuse. Think Andy. Bianca. Liz. Think Mrs. Katherine Chancellor. Think kick-ass house music. Think platform shoes. Glitter. Sparkle, Neely, Sparkle.

Today’s pop culture icons of substance abuse and excess (think Lindsay Lohan) don’t trip my trigger and neither do some unattractive sky-high bears in tacky outfits. Neither does a crazy, fucked up mess, pulling out hair, yelling at strangers and sliding out of mules. Mister Mess’ Chinese Embroidered top coat was cute, but come to think of it – it was kind of blazer-like.

I started thinking on the drive home last night, all 30+ days sober, that either I’m starting to grown up or grown out of what I used to think is acceptable substance abuse. I guess that’s healthier thinking, in a way.

So with the weekend looming, I’m looking forward to a night of soul food with an Angry Black Bitch, a night with some folks at the Sugar Water Festival, a couple of bike rides and plenty of coffee and cigarettes.

I may be living my life a smidge healthier, but I’ve certainly never claimed to be well.

Have a good weekend and stay out of trouble, y’all.

And if you do get yourself into some trouble, do us all a favor and do it with some style!

Posted July 29, 2005 01:17 PM