Detox Day 1

I have no discipline. This is apparent to anyone who knows me for two days. At heart, I am just excessively hedonistic and can't rationalize missing out on something even if it's bad for me. That's why I find this whole transcontinental detox promise with Quinne laughable. Not drinking for four days is a feat, much less 14. But why not, I'm prime for a wallowing session and this time I don't want that crutch.

Sadly, there is not one facet of my life that doesn't regularly include alcohol, so this should be quite the challenge. Especially because I seem to only associate with enablers of various kinds of substance abuse. I didn't go to kickball tonight. Baby Steps.

During my beat generation kick, I watched this really terrible b-rate recording of an interview with Jack Kerouac, sloppy and bloated at 45, no charm, slouchy and looking on the brink of death, and that is all I am going to think about every time I get close to falling off the wagon. More specifically, the state of his chin/jowls.

And, in an abrupt subject change, I've been published. Since I quit tutoring I haven't had anywhere close to a sufficient amount of opportunities to viciously judge and correct people's writing or talk about writing, or, well, write. This bastard of my love affair with punctuation included. So I joined the editorial staff of a small literary mag an old creative non fiction classmate hooked me up with a few months back.

"Hurricane 151." It will be in the next issue. The reading/release party will be in two months. It's about how I helped rebuild America after Katrina. Ok, I just wrote that on the offchance that maybe Ashley will wind up reading this at some point. It's really about our 2 hour countdown on Bourbon Street the week I helped rebuild America. It features trannys, a 40 person "Strip" chant, cages, swiss army knives, fiberglass inflamed pores, dancing in the rain, Dietzler's boobs and an underlying message of hope.