I’m wee sick of thinking about food so in honor of tomorrow’s nationwide Prop 8 protests, I’m going to shift my attention to a food-like substitute that is near and dear to gay hearts across this great country: Alcohol.
I can’t speak for all gays (although I did help copy-edit the 2005 edition of the Homosexual Agenda while interning at F.A.G.G.–the Federation for the Advancement of Gays and Gayelles), but this particular gay has an ongoing and periodically destructive romance with booze. Dear alcohol and I have made some Real Bad Decisions together. There was, for instance, the not-so-long-ago occasion when I climbed an 11 story crane in the middle of the night with a cute girl and a can of Sparks. Here’s the thing about Sparks: No decision you ever make with Sparks as your guide will end well. None. If Sparks tells you to watch a movie and go to bed, IGNORE IT. You’ll end up watching a movie through your neighbor’s window and then crawling into bed with your landlord’s wife. True story.
There is one recent episode that especially embodies the Dumb Things I Have Done With Alcohol As My Companion. We’ll call this one Whew! That Was Close….
After a friend’s birthday last summer, I, being a responsible young man, was riding my bike home when I took an unfortunate spill. Onto my head. Sans helmet (which, BTDubs, is rare–I always wear a helmet. It’s just that I happened to forget it at the bar on the night in question). Anyway, so I feel off my bike woke up with a beautiful girl holding me in my arms, which was great, until the ambulance and the cops showed up. It’s a long, blurry story, but here’s what I remember: the pigs and the EMTs were trying to get me to lay down on a stretcher in the ambulance and I was trying to convince the pretty girl that I wasn’t drunk, just, um, sleepy?
After trying to convince the po-lice and the EMTs that I should just lock my bike to a sign post and walk home, I submitted to their authority and agreed to go to the hospital. But first I told them that my name was an ex-girlfriend’s name. Why? Because I don’t have health insurance and her’s was the first name that came to mind. What? It’s not like I gave them her address or anything. I think.
So off we went, flashing lights and all. Though I genuinely respect health-care professionals, I was a raging bitch to the poor nurses and doctors in the ER that night (it was the Sparks!). My bad behavior was rewarded with equally bad bedside manner. A nurse friend later told me that they probably didn’t give me an IV as punishment, like, we’ll show that bitch what a real hangover feels like. Also, they told me to stop saying Fuck. Not asked, told.
They eventually gave me a CAT scan, the results of which were fine. I think. By that time, I wanted to be home so badly I was about to try levitating my ass across town, so I did the rational thing: waited until the health-care professionals were distracted by some other asshole and peaced the fuck out.
And then it was five in the morning and I was LOST in the giantist medical complex in this corner of the free world and, being a considerate young man, I didn’t want to wake any of my pals for a ride, so I wandered around for a while and stuck out my thumb every time a car drove by. I don’t know if it was the neck brace or the half-lidded eyes or the sobbing, but not a single car stopped for me. Thanks a lot, Samaritans. After an hour or so of trying get my bearings, I gave up and maybe kind of laid down on the sidewalk and sort of went to sleep. Don’t judge. I was tired.
My hero came in the form of a city bus driver who stopped after I’d been out for a few minutes, helped me on the bus, and DROVE ME TO MY FRONT DOOR.
I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a wrist band with my ex-girlfriend’s name on it.
A note: A lot of you have heard this story already. Next time I’ll try to come up with something novel. Also, both the crane thing and the hospital thing were incredibly stupid and pissed a lot of people off. That was the old me. I’m in therapy now.