bottle 11 or i hate bottle eleven

restraint, even when attempted, doesn’t seem to play out. best intentions are fine and all until the rubber hits the road and your 8 shots deep,  confused and bumbling. with the sweet taste of whiskey caught in your throat you thrust deeper into the bottle. this even after you tried to tell yourself that it wouldn’t go down this way. it’s all smiles and loud talking.

you make an error that makes you appear drunker than you are and get disappointed. worried even. most people are cops. or freemasons. or both. then something or another happens and you apparently go to bed. you wake up and your mouth tastes like an ashtray that someone poured fighting cock in to. and a new day begins.

the lesson is that going up against social anxiety with a fifth of liquor is one method. but it will not afford the restraint you want, if that’s your kind of deal.

bottles 9 & 10 or yet another milestone

if the title doesn’t spell it all for you dear reader, last night was another first. we drank  two bottles instead of one. we had guest drinkers along at points of course but that should not detract from the fact. i had this really elaborate plan for the tenth bottle and it’s impact on the journey but it apparently had other plans.

while i feel as though i’ve done very well in taking the craziness and putting it out as narrative and lessons, after drinking two bottles of fighting cock today i find myself with a lack of words (surprise!).

i sort of remember things. conversations about the carter family, conversations about hating each other, a certain kiss riff (although i think maybe we talked about that day before yesterday, things are kind of a blur).

i don’t remember vomiting but supposedly i did. apparently in mid sentence i sprinted for the front porch and came back i would imagine, paler and drunker.

so i don’t have a lesson. listen to the descendents-liveage and the carter family in texas volume 7.

did we switch gears somewhere?

bottle 8 or drunk in public

finally it happened. we emerged from our hibernation and left the confines of our home to risk arrest and awkward interactions in the real world. the awkward interactions actually wasn’t a risk, but more an inevitable fact. fighting cock and legs are a strange combination, each providing the ideas and means for movement.

its like your own little world. in public no one understands you. sometimes they get your jokes and sometimes they don’t. since beginning the fighting cock summer i’ve seen the number of playful death threats i usually make towards friends and strangers alike slowly decline. you just never know how someone is going to take a death threat and while it should be obvious that i’m joking, you just never can tell in this type of political climate.

it’s apparent that some motherfuckers need to grow a sense of humor. i mean my god, what is life? a 24/7 snooze fest of a funeral for a corpse that we shouldn’t give a shit about anyways? no sir. not for me. there’s the lesson.

also of note: in the real world last night i saw my friend flick in the midst of the haze and he mentioned that he was a follower of this report and i told him i would fit him in somehow. i swear to god that i had this really clever fucking way that i was going to do it but lost the idea or drank it away rather. actually all i remember is that he was covered in coal dust and that i kept coaching him as he approached the bar to order saying “remember three words flick, wild turkey 101″. it should be noted that the bar doesn’t carry fighting cock or my suggestion (and night for that matter) would have been very different.

another point is that at bottle 7 i called myself out on being full of shit in thinking that i shouldn’t and wouldn’t drink fighting cock during the week and i would just like to tell myself that i was completely right. that didn’t take long at all.

of separate note or this idea i had whilst not drunk on fighting cock

i watched teen wolf today and let me tell you, we need not buy in to the lies.

a) if you were at a basketball game and some guy turned in to a werewolf you would not stick around, little on cheer his werewolf ass on. you would be like “holy shit, that guy is a werewolf, run like you have  never run before you dumb motherfucker.”

b) werewolves aren’t really our friends. don’t let hollywood teach you otherwise.

c) styles, as played by jerry levine, wears more sunglasses than one could carry on them at any given moment and if not for the werewolf running around, one would think that this movie is based on fact, instead of randy newman (sp? or even the right guy) songs and sunglasses fucking up your time.

d)werewolves can never be around us, no matter how good a free throw shooter, no matter how decent a citizen. they want us to think they’re fine. they’re not. werewolves should be watched closely. they won’t be killed by fourth of july fireworks. stephen king wants you to think that because he’s a freemason.

i stare at bottles 8-10 and know we’ll be in touch. silver bullets for real, for america.

bottle 7 or it’s three o’ clock somewhere

god. a good mental note that i surely will not follow is to try not to drink fighting cock during the week. actually i know i won’t follow that because right now in my head i’m saying fuck that. what a ridiculous and absurd mental note. fuck myself.

the morning after fighting cock is an interesting morning, always. it’s sort of like waking up from a coma almost. you remember very little from the end of your night if not a good portion. then you see the signs and scars that jog your memory. sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s not, but all are equal in the reaction of “man i don’t even fucking remember that at all.” sometimes it’s “aw man, i forgot about that.” it’s the mixed reactions that are a variant. that and the hazy memories of what actually happened.

sometimes when you live for the sake of a good story it works out and sometimes it doesn’t. given fighting cock’s powerful ways we all accepted the fact that over the next couple of months we are going to end up having a bad night or experience. yet that didn’t stop us at all. the promise of a bad time doesn’t really mean much when you know there are going to be good times. and i guess that’s the lesson for today.

get busy living or get busy dying. that’s goddamn right.

bottle 6 or who’s the boss

read from the beginning if you aint hip.

i’m wearing sunglasses at 1 in the morning. a secret part of myself hopes that you are too.

so the producer during the first season of “who’s the boss”, his name was bud wiser. if he wasn’t an alcoholic i bet he hated the fuck out of his name. especially when budweiser had that commercial with the frogs. god, i bet that sucked for him. in a major way.  if you don’t remember it’s three frogs each in tandem going “bud……wise……er.”

today’s lesson should probably be about something way more significant than getting stuck with a shitty name. unfortunately in the haze of fighting cock i don’t know what that lesson is. that seems a foreshadowing moment of a significant amount of days. but i’ll let it pass.

“just like darts” by the real kids is a lo-fi statement that we should all become acquainted with..or at least it seems that way. it made me smile.

today’s fighting cock lesson is that even though it’s referred to as “the devil’s piss”, it’s all relative my man(or woman respectively).

whip that whirl.

bottles 1-5 or what is fighting cock summer?

fighting cock summer is an experiment. it’s a test of will. a big fuck you to cirrhosis of the liver. a celebration of humility and self loathing, of good times and bad. it is all these things and more, but ultimately it is pact between friends.

between now until the end of summer (around september 22nd) several of us have agreed to enter in to the fighting cock summer. the rules are simple. any time any of us buy liquor to drink we will buy fighting cock whiskey. we are allowed to continue to buy beer of our choice as an alternative but if it’s liquor it has to be fighting cock (the beer clause is for personal health and finance reasons only).

the only other exceptions are:
a) if the bar we are at does not serve fighting cock
b) if traveling and it can not be found at any local package stores or
c) if someone else brings a bottle of whiskey around that is not fighting cock.

sadly bottles one through five are gone without any documentation. a tragic loss in the progress of mankind indeed. each was pretty hazy. i’m sure there were lessons but we’re hard pressed to remember them. one had to do with putting cigarettes out on your arm. it is better to learn in hindsight that we need to keep track of this for scientific and social purposes than to not realize it at all.

let’s all see where this is heading.