Common Cure For Lonely, Drunken Nights

It’s four a.m. and I’ve just finished three never-ending episodes of Freaks and Geeks. I wouldn’t have even been awake, nay, I shouldn’t be awake, but the cacophony of noise emitting from the surrounding walls dissolves into a wail or groan that I block out with my own bit of noise. At least in my head, I’m doing the world poetic justice by throwing on some Sly or Harrison to block out synthetic base from contemporary rap songs and cries of “Chug it” and all other manner of college party noises. At least I don’t have the audacity to throw on Sufjan Stevens to feel contemporary.

Yeah, I’ve been drinking. By myself. This is not a relatively normal occurrence for me, but hell, I’ve been feeling awkward and adolescent this evening, so why not indulge in some adolescent-typical behavior? Speaking of, there’s a whiny boy next door strumming the same fucking love songs that he plays on his acoustic guitar every weekend. He’s either overly sentimental or getting a lot of ass. I throw on some Nirvana and then some Sonic Youth at full volume. My roommates are probably pissed. It’s a good thing I terrify them. Oh, Sonic Youth. There really is nothing better to get wildly drunk and dance predatorily along with. When I saw Sonic Youth perform Daydream Nation last summer, I had never yearned to feel so perfectly unsure. It’s fitting now—the intimate pauses between the boy’s breathy vocals and guitar notes are gentle, perfectly placed and my music shits all over this.

Time to tackle wall number two. “What’s behind wall number two?” you ask. Well, there are certainly plenty of people. I’ll draw you the picture. Thirty or so girls with Jungle Juice-stained lips, wearing leggings and UGG boots and probably a North face jacket, since a dusting of snow is the only excuse to not go out in a tank top. Don’t you worry, there are plenty of boys, too, in the polos their Mommies bought them. They’re all dancing the steps to wastedness, blithering on about nonsensical day-to-day activities, ignoring politics and art. Well, kids, I’d love to turn you on… But even the Beatles can’t block out Alicia Key’s pretty little voice belting out a song about, well, how “No One” can get in the way of her feelings. How compelling. Why they play this in the midst of a debauchery-filled wasteland is the deepest mystery of all.

Wall number three is the real winner. The pimp and the prostitute. The lovers melting into one another. Whatever they call it, there is loud, never gentle, always volatile sex, which beats against my wall in a rhythmic motion. It’s its own organic song. These young lovers, just babies making babies, need a little Sly and the Family Stone in their lives. I even own the remastered version of There’s a Riot Goin’ On, so I just know starting out that it’ll be explosive. It doesn’t take long. By the time “Just like a Baby” is emitted from my speakers, it seems like the lovers are rocking in tune with that well-known base line of yore. Or maybe I’ve just drunk more than I noticed. Either way, I’m in a mood more capable of understanding the pimp and his prostitute. We all need a little love, baby.

Wall number four. Not really a wall but a sliding glass door. The door could have been my freedom, if I wasn’t such a pussy in the cold. I look out at the scenery. There’s a smattering of snow covering old beer cans, cigarettes, and the little bit of grass that still struggles to survive. There are Christmas lights strung from apartment to apartment. From a distance, they look a little like paper lanterns, blown around softly as a paltry snow drifts downward. It’s late now, nearly five, and I throw on a little Simon and Garfunkel to finish the evening. As the last bars of “Scarborough Fair” fade out, I can already feel a headache coming on. It’s silent now. Dawn will be here sooner than anyone is ready, I would expect…