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Friday March 16th 2007, 7:37 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To an alcoholic haze,

Outside and across the street are socialites standing around smoking cigarettes and chatting about the atrocities of their Wednesday night plight. Through the bedroom window lies a portal to the outside, social and elite world that is hipster Los Angeles. The bar across the way is called the Little Joy, or the LJ for short. Beyond the smoky haze from cigarettes and musk is a beaten down dive joint that most Echo Park or Silver Lake hipsters can’t resist to experience. The outside of the LJ is guarded by an Asian man in his mid-thirties, drunk from his earlier imbibing of libations from the Short Stop, a bar two blocks East on Sunset Boulevard. It’s not proper for a bouncer to drink at the bar in which he is working. Beyond the bouncer is the cramped entryway to an alcoholic’s haven. The LJ isn’t much different from other dive bars, architecturally speaking, however, what makes the LJ special within the hipster scene, is that it has Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap, for three dollars a pint. Now, to you and I, this doesn’t seem to be anything spectacular, however, to your average Hipster, who swears PBR is the essence of a hip drink, PBR on tap is a fantastic phenomena worth every cent spent on this (in my opinion) white trash drink. The jukebox is always playing some eccentric, esoteric melody that I usually find to be just bad taste in music. But, what do I know about good taste in music anyway? You always hated my music, or at least would wait until I left to change the music to what you enjoyed � i.e.: the Cure, Skinny Puppy, Nick Cave, etc. The hipsters flock to the LJ dispensing dollars into the bar’s money hungry mouth, feeding the demons that occupy the sticky bar stools of the LJ counter. The pool tables are swimming with sharks, feeding from the fresh scent of beginner’s blood. I never play pool at bars. The pride and ego of pool players tends to be more than I can take. The range of beautiful persons at the LJ vacillates between attractive and fucking sexy, which complicates drinking alone because no man needs to be teased with a beautiful woman while drinking by one’s self. Yet those are matters out of the loner’s control. I find myself in this peculiar position most every night. I drink by myself, smiling at the randomness of my life, smiling into the air, thinking about you, and comparing the unfamiliar faces of Los Angeles to the unfamiliar faces of San Francisco. Not much changes except for the weather, but even the weather has patterns. Mindy, the point of this is that I’ve developed a dependency on alcohol. I have a drinking problem. And even though I can admit this dilemma, I’ve not an answer as to how I will conquer this devilish mountain. Our separation has pushed me into an ocean of booze, and I’m drowning in the sauce of demons. My mind feels mushy, and my thoughts escape verbalization. Alcohol is slowing down my brain, and I am scared of turning into my father. Fuck, I need a drink.

– The boozer

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