Tag Archives: comedy

Dear Dionysus XVIII: German Hospitality (In The Flesh)

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Dear Dionysus XVIII: German Hospitality (In The Flesh)

Dear Dionysus,

We found the Germans to be rather trusting and accommodating people for the most part. They shared their beer, offered us their couches to sleep on, and (as previously mentioned) flowed us ridiculously large bags of swag weed. They also didn’t seem to question our intentions or credentials too much when we tried to do things that young men of our age and caliber would never be permitted to do stateside. Like, say, rent a Mercedes Benz to drive to Oktoberfest in Munich.

To my knowledge, one must be twenty-five to rent an automobile in the states; the oldest amongst us was Yorick, who clocked in at an ancient twenty-one years old. But this was Deutschland, where they let kids drink at sixteen for Christ’s sake. In spite of some language barriers and concerns as to the validity of Yorick’s California driver’s license, we were able to secure a rental car for the next week that would get us to Munich, which is about 364 miles* from Berlin.

The Benz was a stick shift, which meant that Yorick would be doing all of the driving, as neither Franky nor myself could operate a manual transmission. Yorick swore that was the only car they would let us have, but I was convinced that he picked it on purpose so that he could do all of the driving. Indeed, Yorick was rather fond of speeding, and was certainly excited about the prospects of entirely ignoring all of the speed “suggestions” on the Autobahn.

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No Nostalgia Sundays: Of Pizza Pies & Semen Masks

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No Nostalgia Sundays: Of Pizza Pies & Semen Masks

In 2011, I brought my life crashing down around me. It certainly wasn’t the first time and, unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last. As a result of a few misunderstandings with the local police, I had been placed on felony probation. I had no job, no money, and no prospects. I was twenty-six years old and I was totally drowning.

I had miraculously managed to kick the two-gram-a-day heroin habit I had been operating on for the past two years prior, but I was still in rough shape physically, mentally, and emotionally. Simply put, I was fucking looney toons insane, and I couldn’t pull it together enough to formulate any real long-term plan that would get me out of trouble and get my life back on track. Somewhere along the line, I had lost the ability to think rationally and realistically about anything.

However, I was smart (or stupid) enough to figure out that I should probably seek employment. Aside from heroin hustling and street scams, I hadn’t worked in a year. Not to mention, my employment history was shaky at best and I was a convicted felon. It was irrelevant, or so I thought, that I had two degrees from UC Berkeley. I didn’t even attempt to find employment that would require any kind of skill or focus or talent; no, it would have been far too disappointing when I was surely turned down and, moreover, I knew that I wasn’t mentally capable of hacking it at a real big kid job.

So, at twenty-six years old, fresh off heroin and crazy as a fucking loon, I became a pizza delivery driver.

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Dear Dionysus XXXVI: Bordello Boogie

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Dear Dionysus XXXVI: Bordello Boogie

Dear Dionysus,

I may have been in Berlin, but I had left my heart in Orange County with Isadora. Indeed, I had a ubiquitous Polaroid in my back pocket to remind me of this heart-wrenching fact and, despite all the fun I was having with Yorick and Franky, I still thought about Isadora pretty persistently.

There was no way for me to understand then that I was establishing a romantic pattern that would perpetuate itself through much of my adult life: I was much more infatuated with the idea of a girl than I was with the girl herself. I would worship at the altar of ideal love, and then sneak round back for some unmentionables in the alleyway of impure lust. Because a girl could never possibly play the part I had assigned to her satisfactorily enough in my romantic production, my theater of the absurd. Thus, I would sooner or later become disillusioned with the entire production and ditch out for whichever sultry starlet would allow me to play her gentleman caller for the evening.

Basically, that Polaroid in my back pocket was an inanimate fetish object, representing something that never was and never would be outside of my lofty, idyllic, and very delusional fantasies.

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Dear Dionysus XXXIV: Operation: Bar Bathroom Bingo

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Dear Dionysus XXXIV: Operation: Bar Bathroom Bingo

Dear Dionysus,

I suppose I sort of left you hanging on the Germany rabble-rousing travelogue, didn’t I? Apologies, mate: I was on vacation. So where were we? Oh that’s right–on vacation.

I was no longer Rateval, suburbanite American teenager; I was Ickbin, erudite, worldly, refined European. Therefore, I wanted to do European things, like smoke cigarettes inside dining establishments and püt cööl dötß övër äll my vöwëls and, most especially, discuss sophisticated topics with my sophisticated friends in sophisticated bars over sophisticated drinks. Most especially, I wanted to drink. (Oh, don’t look at me like that, with those accusatory eyes labeling me a lush.)

So I didn’t waste any time at all. Patience has never been my gig, Dionysus– especially when it comes to something I dig. And I certainly dug drinking.

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Dear Dionysus XXXIII: Slamdance Macabre

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Dear Dionysus XXXIII: Slamdance Macabre

Dear Dionysus,

I hope that I can get this letter done by midnight, as I’m being told by very reliable and very educated sources that the world is, in fact, ending at that time. It’s ironic, mate: I used to do nearly everything in my power to try to end the world (or at least my world), but now the very proposition of such a thing bums me out immensely. There is still so much that needs to be said, so much between us that happened that I simply must get out before I check out.

I need more time, Dionysus: Much, much more time.

I used to live on stolen time and before that is was borrowed time and before that it was taken time but I never took the time to take the time to make the time to book the time to earn my time, dig? I was just taking all the time, and I never even had the common courtesy to make it mine. It was lunacy but it all made sense– at the time.

But now I need more fucking time.

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Dear Dionysus XXXII: Ickbin Einberliner

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Dear Dionysus XXXII: Ickbin Einberliner

Dear Dionysus,

Sorry to keep you waiting, mate. I’ve been feeling a little under the weather. I still am in fact: my head feels like there is a gnome brass section practicing Berlioz melodies with my cranium serving as the music house.

Slide those trombones as low as they’ll go, my little gnome trombonists! Slide, Captain, slide!

I get a little weird when I’m ill, old friend. But you know all about me and being sick, I’m sure. Used to be a time when there was a very specific prescription for my very explicit sickness, but I ain’t that kinda sick anymore, Dionysus.

I digress, however. So where were we? Layovers in Paris, I believe.

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Dear Dionysus XXXI: A Fright & A Clash

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Dear Dionysus XXXI: A Fright & A Clash

Dear Dionysus,

I was on top of the world again. I still had that gnarly statutory rape charge hanging over my head, but I didn’t care: What were the laws of god or man when it came to true love, Dionysus? Isadora and I were meant for each other, and I had a Polaroid in my back pocket to prove it. In my inexperienced teenage mind, the prospect of denying myself my one true love* was far more punishing than any prison sentence. I’d eat baloney sandwiches and drink pruno and play pinochle for all eternity for her, mate.

Our day of departure had finally arrived and I had my girl back and I was leaving for Europe with two of my closest friends and I couldn’t care less about anything else. My mother drove us to the airport in her minivan, and she was full of all sorts of advice for us. She had gone to school in Europe as a teenager, so she was trying to give us an idea of what to expect and how to conduct ourselves. After all, Europeans are much different from Americans, and we wouldn’t want to come across as philistine tourists. But she was also my mother, after all, so she had the standard maternal cautionary instincts going too.

“I wish you boys wouldn’t, but I know that you may find yourself in a situation where you meet a girl you may, uh, hit it off with. If this happens, just make sure that you’re, uh, protected. The dollar to Euro exchange rate is pretty bad right now so you certainly don’t want to end up paying child support for a Germanic love child.”

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Dear Dionysus XXX: Our Young Man, A Broad, And Our Young Man Abroad

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Dear Dionysus XXX: Our Young Man, A Broad, And Our Young Man Abroad

Dear Dionysus,

Let’s jump back to things just post-high school, shall we?

In spite of the fact that I had bailed on high school graduation, I had still technically graduated. And what’s more, I had gotten really solid grades in the process, which apparently was some kind of an accomplishment or something. I don’t know, Dionysus– it was all a joke to me.

Anyways, my parents decided to reward me for what they saw as a job well done. While I didn’t get a new BMW or breast implants like most of my peers, I was to be going to Germany for a month. This was totally unprecedented and unexpected for me, mate: I had never been outside of California in my entire eighteen years, not even to Mexico (which was a whole two hour drive away). Thus, I was fucking thrilled at this prospect to say the least.

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Dear Dionysus XXVII: Young And Wasted And Unchaperoned

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Dear Dionysus XXVII: Young And Wasted And Unchaperoned

Dear Dionysus,

I may have gotten a little ahead of myself yesterday. Or, to be more precise, a little around myself, as the last letter painted broad circles around all different phases of our relationship that I haven’t dealt with in that much detail yet. Let’s take a step back, shall we? Way back, in fact…

I was seventeen and everything was still, for the most part, going swimmingly. I hadn’t yet met Isadora and I was still an awkward, weird young thing, but I had just met you and my eyes were all googly and my heart all fluttery, etc.

I loved my group of friends then, Dionysus. We were inseparable, and the dozen or so of us saw each other every day and did nearly everything together. Thus, when one of us had our parents go out of town, it was typical for all of us to hang out at whichever residence that was. None of us was really cool or popular enough to put on anything like a proper high school party, so it would essentially be the same twelve kids doing the same stuff we usually did at each other’s houses, just without parents around.

Until we discovered drinking.

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Dear Dionysus XXVI: Incoherence, Absurdity, And Rambunctiousness

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Dear Dionysus XXVI: Incoherence, Absurdity, And Rambunctiousness

Dear Dionysus,

It seems like so long since I’ve written you, even though it’s only been a few days. But don’t get me wrong, mate, it isn’t you I miss: in fact, I don’t miss you at all. It’s just that I’ve been finding these letters rather therapeutic in a strange sort of way.

There was a time when I couldn’t go a day without seeing you. Do you remember? At first, the time in between our dates was all excitement and giddy nervousness: I would think about how much fun the last time was and about how much fun the next time would undoubtedly be. Later on, that time in between dalliances would become sheer torture: I needed you that moment, and when I didn’t have you, it was painful. You were the great escape, and I the chronic escapist, for reality was far too grievous, far too real. I needed you every single second of every single day no matter what the consequences because the alternative was much, much too frightening.

And then, even further down the line, towards the end of our association, things changed once again. Those times in between our degenerate dancing became lulls in the storm, so to speak. I was like a sailor adrift at sea coming out of one tempest and trying to pull myself together as much as possible, even though at my core I knew that the next one was inevitably coming and that it would probably be just as bad as (if not worse than) the last one. I’d cling to those brief reprieves and pray to gods I didn’t even believe in (not you because I always believed in you) to spare me my awful fate. But the gods were deaf and fate was cruel and I was a poor, poor sailor, Dionysus.

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