A recent conversation with the esteemed Harlock reminded me of how much a homebody freak I am. The aforementioned Space Pirate was bitching and complaining about a company barbeque that featured cricket bats and shriveled, greasy hot dogs. Our friendly Arcadia skipper made it quite clear that he would rather be running off to the comic book store than "eating burned hamburgers and slipping into a coma as people play cricket," not to mention listening to city-dwelling coworkers prattle on about how cool it is to live in the City, the latest ragin' party, how often they hit the bars, how drunk everyone was, and who passed out where. Obviously, our intrepid Mazone-foe isn't much of a team player. I say "Amen, brutha."
This brings up two topics that I'd like to bitch and complain about:
For some people, their life is their work. Andrettis and Earnhardts were born to race cars. Jack Welch was born to lead a megacorporation. Some people hear God calling them and become priests, nuns, televangelists, or mass murderers. T.T. Boy was born to be a porn star, having been described as "a life-support system for a penis." Some would argue that all males fit that description, but such a discussion is out of scope for this week.
There are even people who consider my work, technical writing, their life's calling. Technical writing is their life. It consumes their daily thoughts and nightly dreams. These three people must be confined and isolated in the interests of national security. I'm lucky enough to find tech writing an engaging and rewarding profession, but the work for which I'm paid is merely a means to an end. I need to provide food and shelter for my wife and child, and I need to support our family habits of reading, travel, home improvement, woodworking, and pooping in diapers.
I don't need to go to after-work company social functions. As it is, I spend way too much time with coworkers. Happy hour drinks with them is not my idea of a good time. Besides, I already have a group of people with whom I really enjoy spending time. They're called friends. There's also this really cool person I married. I'd rather do yard work with her than quaff Midnight Sun Brewery's Full Curl Scotch Ale with my coworkers (and that's really saying something.) I show up, put in my time, do my best, and pull extra hard for the team during a release, but I just can't wait to get home to shim the concrete backer board in our bathroom, play Scrabble with my wife, and help my son brush his teeth.
I know that to some folks, this scenario doesn't exactly sound like Nirvana or even Pearl Jam (ok, maybe a little like Stone Temple Pilots mixed with Mother Love Bone). I realize that I'm taking my place as a tiny cog in the massive U.S. economy machine, but it's my life and so far I'm enjoying it. I don't see any aspect of my life as an excuse to blow my cash, my body, and my brain on nightly, or even weekly, drinking binges.
So I'm a homebody because I'd rather stay in and if I do go out I usually want to do something that doesn't involve alcohol. I'm a freak because the liquor companies tell me that drinking Bacardi Silver, having my eardrums liquefied by loud music, and dancing with a woman who is wearing vinyl pants is fun. I mean, how can you argue with this little gem from the Bacardi Silver Web Experience.
Most of that party impulse was burned out of me in college. It doesn't take long before you learn everything is fun, everyone's your friend, and every member of the opposite sex is attractive after you've had enough alcohol. Reality for some is that sad, boring thing that happens in between getting blasted.
Apart from my own experience, I inherited a genetic dislike of such a lifestyle from my dad. Most of his pals from his wild and wooly days are dead.
It's not that I have anything against getting seriously bent once in a great while. My friends and I had some truly epic times in the California desert. New Year's Eve 1999 offered the perfect excuse to go out onto Puget Sound and drink in the new millennium. I learned that night that I really like scotch. But generally, I met my wife while I was sober, I fell in love with her while I was sober, and we enjoy the heck out of ourselves while sober. My son might be funny to watch while he's blasted, but somehow I don't think it would be responsible of us to get an 18-month-old ripped. I feel bad enough when we spin him in an office chair until he's falling-down dizzy.
Plus, many of my activities I mentioned, like home improvement, don't go well with alcohol. Power tools and alcohol do not mix, unless you have something against people with ten fingers. And then there's the basic indignation I feel when I'm asked to pay $6 for a frickin' gin and tonic.
So I'll leave it to other folks to revitalize downtown San Jose by patronizing the bars and clubs. In the mean time, I'll be sitting here sipping at my scotch and writing my Cant.
Pakeha