Tequila Sunset

I feel a cold coming on, one of those nasty bouts that get deep in your chest and makes you cough up chunks of mucus for weeks. I just dropped a DimeTapp cold & allergy pill. It was a chalky yellow color. I’m now drinking, slowly, a shot of Patron tequila. I believe in the mystical and other healing powers of this agave potion. My mouth is burning, frankly, and I can feel a burn and sourness in the pit of my stomach. I’ve made barely a dent in the shot. My son is watching Jimmy Nuetron on Nickelodeon. He should be in the shower and getting ready for bed. It’s Monday.

I’ve got my iPod on and Bob Dylan is singing in my ear. The album is Oh, Mercy, from 1989? or something like that. Old but up until two or three years ago, new to me. I’ve come very late to Bob Dylan. Oh, I heard the name growing up, probably heard a lot of the songs, too, but without attending to them or having them make a big impact. What the hell was I doing when I should have been reading liner notes in classic albums? Where was I?

I have a terrible ear for music. It takes me a long time to recognize a song I’ve heard a hundred times. I have zero rhythm. I took guitar lessons for a few months, practiced as much as I could, and wasn’t much farther ahead than I was when I started. Musically retarded, that’s me.

I’m thinking of the book I’m reading called “An Actor Prepares” by Stanislavsky, the famous Russian acting coach. I don’t pretend to know more about acting than I do music, which is probably why this book caught my eye. I hear actors on TV talking about their craft, how they have to immerse themselves in becoming someone else. They talk a lot about process, like they’re talking about psycho-therapy. But maybe that’s not so far off. An actor has to enter another person’s psyche, not just his epoch and manner of dress and custom. The actor asks, “If I were in this situation, what would I do, how would feel, what would my reaction be?” And so on. Anyway, I’d listen to all these actors and still come away with questions. Another reason to read Stanislavsky.

Drinking water now, cold and healthy. Flush the toxins from the body. Hey, I never claimed to be Charles Bukowski. I can’t drink that much. Four beers is a big night for me. I take prescribed medications and vitamins now. The creep of middle age. I wonder how Hunter S. Thompson managed to survive, even thrive, after 30-odd years of recreational drug use. Man, he must have walked a helluva fine line, up to the edge of addiction, up to the edge of a major life fuck-up, only to back away just in time. Like those fellows on the nature channel that go snake hunting for kicks. Crazy bastards. “Hello kids, this is Jeff Corwin and today I’m standing in this swamp in South Carolina, looking for the venomous and aggressive Eastern Cottonmouth.” Hunter made a big name and rep for himself with the book Hell’s Angels and Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, but it has been a good many years since he produced anything new. His ESPN columns are like watching a man imitate himself. Hunter goes close to the line where his stuff sounds…sounds what? Shit, I totally spaced there, have no idea what I was about to write. The DimeTapp and tequila must be kicking in, mixing and mingling in my bloodstream. I’ve got a dull headache and feel a need to sneeze. I switched from Dylan to Springsteen. Rocking well at this moment. I wish I could say something intelligent about Bruce’s guitar technique, where his songs fall in the Pantheon of Rock & Roll songwriters, but I can only say less than has already been said by those much more astute than I. Remember, I’m a musical idiot, a rocking dunce.

I wish I could write something that would rock my generation, the late baby boomers, but what would I say? By the time you reach middle age, unless you are very lucky, you’ve already dealt with one or more tragedies and/or drastic shifts in direction or fortune. What you find – in most cases I believe – is a sort of bewilderment at what has taken place. Many of the things you intended to do have not been done. You were on your way, maybe, and then, bang, life up and smacked you on the head. By now you either believe in stuff like God and mysticism and psychology or Scientology – or you don’t believe in much. Would you call that a gnawing cynicism? There are a bunch of intelligent words to describe the condition, but at this moment I can’t think of a single one. It’s the headache.

No, fool, it’s the Patron. But I didn’t even drink that much. Hell, I poured half the shot back in the bottle. Can you imagine Bukowski ever doing that? Or HST? They would consider the act of pouring the drink back sacrilege. Christ, I’m having a tough time spelling and it’s slowing me down – I can’t stand the sight of all the red and green lines underlining my mistakes. That’s a personal weakness, I know. Anal retentive to a fault.

Jesus, it sounds like I’m auditioning for Dr. Phil. Self-disclosure is what we called it when I was at Antioch University, almost exclusively the province of the Psychology students, who might begin a personal introduction with something like, “My father began abusing me when I was six. By the way, my name is Nancy Twaddlebury. I’m still processing the fact that my mother disappeared when I was only seven, but I feel some integration beginning to happen. My sister married a Muslim last year and moved to Iran. I have a parakeet named Saul.”

My head is throbbing. It feels about the size of a basketball. Good night.