midfuckepiphany

Check out the new terrible Europe pix! (cuz Im a shitty photographer)

So I guess this is what they call Shadow Boxing:

Back from my business/leisure trip to Europe. All in all it was kind of a mixed bag traveling, especially in Europe, is always a blast, but the trip was riddled with gross fuck ups and tinged with melancholy.

My first night in London, Thursday, Sept 16, I got together with my mate Ralph. Bob didnt come along because apparently he and Ralph had some sort of falling out. It was a fun time though. But I dont know if it was the jetlag or what, but the alcohol really got on top of me, and by the time we called it a night, I was really staggering. I initially planned to catch a taxi back to my hotel from where we were at Bank Station, but my mind wasnt working, and so kind of on automatic pilot (perhaps from force of habit since its the way I used to take home every day) I staggered into the Tube station and miraculously managed to find my way back to Camden via the Northern Line. It felt kind of good to be back on the Tube. I couldnt get it together mentally enough to pay, so I jumped the turnstile. Sloppiness. A harbinger of things to come.

Friday, Sept 17 this is where things got really bad. By the time I showed up at the London office (late) I was still drunk from the night before. Then we all went to the Bricklayers Pub (in Shoreditch area) and began drinking heavily. My whole purpose for being in London was to make a good impression on my colleagues, but I got way too hammered and failed with flying colours. Think Im kidding? Get this: at one point, we were taking a bunch of photos with my digital camera, and the camera was getting passed around the table, and my Editor and the Ad Manager started flipping through all my older photos that were still saved on the camera [background: about four weeks ago there was this girl that I had been chatting with on the internet, and she had asked me to send her a photo of my penis, which I did, but I totally forgot to erase it] so before I know it the whole table is like passing around a photo of basically ME JERKING OFF! How embarrassing is that?

It all went down hill from there. Again, I dont know if it was the jetlag or what, but the alcohol totally took me over. The editing mechanism from my brain to my mouth went into complete shut-down mode, and over the next several hours, I think I managed to insult just about every sub-grouping of human being under the sun. Then the Ad Manager and I and several other blokes from the office went from there to another bar The Tabernacle. I should have called it a night at that point, but by this time I was so wasted that I couldnt even think that deeply. By the time we got to the Tabernacle, I was staggering and totally blacking out. I couldnt even speak. This is where the disaster gets hazy. At some point, I think someone in our group, who didnt know what to do with me, sat me down at a table with a girl and a guy I didnt know. I was in and out of consciousness, and when I was awake, I think I was babbling to these two incoherently. They were both very pleasant about it though as I recall. Then I thought someone from our group came over and told me that they were all going downstairs. I blacked out again and when I came to, the guy and girl Id been talking with were gone, and in my fucked-up mind, all I could remember were the words downstairs. So I got up and went down some stairs, and I remember feeling like my legs were giving out underneath me. What happened next is a complete mystery. Either I fell down the stairs, or I fell down the stairs into a bunch of people who then proceeded to kick my ass, or I fell down the stairs and attacked a group of people who then began to kick my ass (quite rightfully), and I later became seriously concerned that the group of people I attacked were my co-workers, particularly the Ad Manager.

It wasnt too far-fetched a theory. I have been known, when extremely drunk, to initiate unwinable brawls. I think this is indicative of some deeply rooted desire for self-destruction, which I really should look into at some point. But this is all academic. The point is, that night all I remember is SHADOWS and a series of IMPACTS. Then I remember my legs giving out underneath me, and then floating floor-ward as if in a dream. I smashed my head on a concrete wall and collapsed into a fetal position in a vestibule. That was it lights out.

I dont know how much time had passed, but the next thing I was vaguely aware of was a sensation of being hoisted out of the club. I never fully regained consciousness, never opened my eyes, so I never saw who was picking me up. I assume it was bouncers. My body was completely limp. It felt like one guy had two hands around my upper right arm, and another guy had two hands around my upper left arm, kind of just under the shoulders, and they just hoisted me out of there like some sort of lifeless marionette. Then they set me down on a curb outside the place, and I was so fucked up, that I went to sleep right then and there! I stayed there sleeping for the next few hours. The bouncers were very cool about it though; they kept checking on me every thirty minutes or so: You ok, mate? Id struggle to give a thumbs-up and then pass out again. Eventually I regained enough consciousness to try to make it back to my hotel. I staggered down the street and tried to hail a taxi, but failed. Then I started to feel my legs giving out on me again so I grabbed onto a light post. The next thing I knew, a mini-cab driver came over to me and asked if I needed a ride. Talk about a lucky break. During the ride I was in and out of consciousness. I vaguely remember that the driver was an Islamic fellow, and the whole ride he lectured me on the evils of alcohol.

So anyway, yes, a very bad scene on Friday. Think about it: I went to London to impress my colleagues. Instead, I showed them my dick, insulted everyone, possibly attacked the Ad Manager, got forcibly ejected from a bar, and slept in the gutter! I mean, thats just a bad performance by anyones moral yardstick.

Saturday, Sept 18 still reeling from the night before, I somehow managed to get to the airport in one piece, catch my flight to Amsterdam, check into my hotel, do the obligatory tour of the Red Light District bars and coffee houses, and load up on quality skunk and shrooms. I got high in my room, but I was so paranoid about my terrible performance the night before and the possibility that I attacked the Ad Manager that I couldnt really enjoy it. The weed was really strong, and I kept hearing things voices mocking me, telling me what a horrible person I am another night of bad shadows.

Sunday, Sept 19 my plan was to take a train from Amsterdam to Hamburg because I wanted to bring my Amsterdam drugs with me to Germany, and I was paranoid about bringing them on a plane. [I later got over this concern and successfully smuggled my stash both into Paris by plane and later to London by plane.] My plan to take the train required me to wander the Amsterdam train station at 5am Sunday morning. Talk about a recipe for paranoia. Needless to say, the range of humanity present there and then was not exactly the crme de la crme. But I managed to get on the right train and wound up having a long conversation with a Dutch fellow who was a military officer in NATO.

As the kilometers passed, I became more and more convinced that I had attacked the Ad Manager. I must have, I reasoned; he said they were going downstairs. Who else could it have been? The more I thought about it, the more my mind began filling in details, whether fictitious or not. I could almost imagine the Ad Manager seeing me come down the stairs, offering me a friendly greeting, Hey mate, I was just about to come up and get you. When I lunged at him, Fuck you dude!

Jesus Im scum, I thought. I was making myself sick thinking that when my editor heard about it, he would fire me. I began to think of ways I could do some DAMAGE CONTROL.

When I got to my Hamburg hotel, one of the first things I did was get on the hotels computer and send all my colleagues an email of apology, with a particular apology to the Ad Manager, even though I didnt say exactly what I was apologizing for. Then I sent the Ad Manager an email directly saying that I didnt remember the incident, that I was totally blacked out, and asking him if I had been violent. I figured that way I was laying the groundwork for a complete disassociation from my actions, which I thought might be my only hope for professional survival.

Monday, Sept 20 through Friday, Sept 24 all week I worked. About all I saw of either Hamburg or Hannover Germany was from taxi windows as I was going to or from hotels though Im fairly familiar with Hannover already. The hotel in Hamburg the Dorint Sofitel Am Alten Wall was really awesome; brand new and total art deco. Highly recommended. (Check out room pix). The hotel in Hannover was a total shithole by the airport that they charged out the ass for. I was never able to shake my jetlag for the whole trip, so my sleep schedule tended to be: fall asleep at 5pm, wake up at midnight, and pace the room all night. I made the most of my jetlag though, and wound up writing my stories all night, every night, and getting a lot of work done, which was good because my deadline was Friday. My main concern continued to be attacking the Ad Manager. I called him in London first thing Monday morning, but I got a message saying he was away for training. Shit, I thought, another day of paranoia/wondering.

I finally got a hold of him Tuesday, and the situation turned out to be the best of all possible scenarios (that is, if such a bad episode can have a best scenario). He said not only didnt I attack him, but that he didnt even see me getting booted from the place. He said he just lost track of me, and then when he was ready to leave he couldnt find me. THANK THE FUCK CHRIST! I cant even tell you how relieved I was to hear that. So that chilled me out considerably for the rest of my time there. Any worry that I might lose my job decreased significantly. I also found myself better able to enjoy my Amsterdam dank. Now all I had to worry about was my boorish behaviour at the Bricklayers, but the responses to my apology email were all amazingly cool, so eventually even that concern faded. About the only other noteworthy thing that happened that week was my speech before the CEOs. It went ok, and seemed to get a good reaction, even though I was so nervous that my voice was shaking, and so was my hand holding the microphone. It also occurred to me after I was done, that I had been holding the microphone kind of like a rap guy, whereas the other speakers sort of held it from the bottom so you could see their faces. Oh well.

Friday, Sept 24 through Monday, Sept 27 pissing away the weekend in Paris. Yeah, it was good being back in Paris again. My deadline was done, I didnt beat up the Ad Manager, and for the first time I was ready to relax. However, I find again that theres not a lot to do in Paris. Its a really beautiful city, of course, but obviously when I go places, I like to get fucked up and meet people. The environment in the UK is very condusive to that. Even in Germany, theres plenty to do along those lines. But in Paris, people seem much more tempered. They just seem to sort of sit around and BE French. So thats mostly what I did. I stayed in two different hotels, both in Montmartre, which is one of my favourite areas. Both hotels were about a block from Le Moulin Rouge. I checked out some of my old haunts in other parts of the city, but there were too many reminders of lives past. So mostly I kicked it in Montmartre.

At least in Paris I finally had the chance to do the mushrooms I bought in Amsterdam. But even this was tinged with melancholy. My first trip came on super-strong, and I had to get off the street and into my hotel room before I freaked. In an instant after washing the things down, I was transported into loony tune land. Once indoors, objects in the room paintings, desklamps which hours earlier had seemed harmless, now writhed with life, mocking me youre worthless, they chided. It went on for hours. At one point I prayed that someone would kill me. Futility, I reasoned, was lifes only constant, and must therefore be worshipped as my saviour. And then there were the inevitable thoughts of HER. Summoning such rage. Feelings of masochism beyond all comprehension. All night the creatures came and went, bending my consciousness like a macabre day-glo rubber band.

I tripped the next day too, but this time, perhaps because I had just tripped the day before, it was less intense. I just sat in my window, and people-watched, listening to conversations in many languages.

Then it was back to DC.

So yeah, all in all, I cant really say I thought of my latest Euro-jaunt as a GOOD experience. But possibly a valuable experience? I suppose I cant even say that, given that there are so many gaps in memory. I guess the bottom line is that Ill never know what really happened that night at the Tabernacle. Who did I attack? Did I just fall down the stairs? Did I imagine the whole thing? Perhaps some things are best left in the land of shadows.