July 8th, 2006
So, like, I'm not much of a drinker. I've had moments when, for whatever reason, I decided to cast a few sheets to the wind (as they say). There's that time at the airport, and I seem to remember one night that my wife and I demolished a bottle of Irish Cream (and some really disgusting root beer schnapps that was nevertheless curiously compelling and ... um ... more drinkable the more it got drunk).
Well, whatever.
My wife is out of town (like, reeaaallly out of town) and my motorcycle is in the shop. What to do? Play computer games? Write a song? Laundry? No way, Jose. Let's have a drinkie-poo.
So I polished off a bottle of wine tonight. I'm definitely feeling the effects still, even though it's been an hour since I drank the last drop. I drank it while watching the TV show "Most Haunted" which is a total crap show full of people going out of their way to create a nice freaky green-lighted environment, and they convince themselves that things are scarier by the night than they would be by day. Every little click and clunk (remember, there are camera crews and sound people standing around, including a director, probably, all of whom could make a clacking, pinging, clunking, cracking noise--even inadvertently) is a potential source of ghostly activity. But, sheez, these folks are good at that. When they want to scare themselves and others, well, they just know how to do it, don't they?
So, I now sit here late at night with too much CH3-CH2-OH buzzing through my bloodstream, and ... um ...
Okay, I admit it: That show has me scared silly. I am too scared to go to bed. I mean, there were noises and the cameras caught balls of light moving around the haunted house where dead people were walking up stairs and opening and closing doors. It has me freaked right out, okay? I know, I'm a big mature grown-up who has seen the worst this world can offer, and firmly believes that anything which is ghostly and pale is as harmless as the stare from a cat or the light of the moon. But I'm scared, all right? Anyone who thinks I'm a sissy can meet me in the parking lot after the game.
So what do I do? Well, I write my Rant-o-rama, that's what ... what else am I supposed to do when it's only me, the cat, too much damned un-metaboloized ethanol, a severe case of the willies from a fake ghost-hunters TV show, and a wife 9000 KM away?
I mean, sheesh ...
Rate my blog - Sign my guestbook - Email me - Go back to index