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| YOU GET TO A POINT,
I MEAN, where you don’t feel like you’re tempting fate when
you say to yourself that the odds are just very strongly against the
chances that you’ll find yourself looking down at the Willamette
River from the tall window of that double studio apartment, waiting
for your stomach walls to hurry up and get the whiskey into your bloodstream
and waiting for the phone to ring except that the phone’s not
connected, it’s just sitting there on a marble endtable looking
anachronistically sleek. You get to a point where the likelihood of
consciously embarking on a four-day bender that eventually lands you
in the drunk tank alongside people whose dedication to alcohol is
at least as profound as (and considerably costlier to them than) the
dedication of the Pontiff to the Mother Church is quite slight indeed.
On that sad day, when you realize that your own safety is irredeemably
more important to you than the truly vital things in life, like aping
Baudelaire or romanticizing speedy anonymous deaths in the seedier
neighborhoods of towns that border the ocean, then you have come to
the point when you most need Eyehategod to remind you that you could
actually be cool again if you would just let go. |
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