reduced and recycled

“We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold”
– Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

It was just me and J for the holidays. Our usual partner in crime was off somewhere making his wife (and his extended family) happy. That meant teh-tarik sessions for two, lunches for two and drinks for two. The Saturday before was uneventful. There wasn’t much of a family reunion dinner back home, since ‘back home’ really means being back in KL. It was quiet. I remember standing by the pool of some hotel, watching the few cars inch across the tableau that spread out before me, grateful for the breeze and the silence.

Sunday was a different story altogether. After a short session, we both found ourselves looking for a place to have lunch. It was Chinese New Year’s so there weren’t any shops open – and we wanted Chinese food. There’s a lesson here somewhere; you only crave the things that aren’t available to you - or something like that. There was only one place to go, since we were in town. So we headed down to the Free Trade Zone.

That’s where he met with his accident. It wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t hurt, but everything else was – including the 3′ thick concrete pillar he slammed into. And he wasn’t even drunk. MYSTARY! He needed consolation – or so he claimed. I was just looking for an excuse to imbibe. So we made our way to the Bar. It used to be a favourite hangout, not least because we knew the bartender personally.

We parked ourselves at the bar, and ordered our first beers. And then food was ordered. And then a friend arrived. That’s when the party really got started. She was nice, of course, and so was her friend (very nice – not to put too fine a point to it). We started at 2.30pm, and by 4.00pm, our bartender friend had fed us with enough shots of tequila and some concoction mixed in with Malibu and vodka – I felt the beginnings of a long, long evening ahead. The nice friend – and her friend – decided otherwise.

In an attempt to make my friend forget about the accident, they decided we should buy a right ‘ol bottle of Devil’s Piss ™. I mean vodka, of course. Absolut Raspberry or some such. And the cruel bitches (they’re really nice, btw) started off with shots. I counted 5 that I downed, and another that I downed for J. I lost count of everything else by the sixth shot. In fact, I lost all sense of direction. The spine, when one is inebriated, refuses to cooperate. Your legs – my legs, in fact – felt like little rubber tubes. I didn’t slur, of course.

I remained a complete gentleman – while trying to peddle off the remaining vodka to some poor sod sitting beside us. My arguments and disputations were lost on him. He preferred his cheesy, pasty pasta and his girlfriend gave me the evil eye. I apologized, and then I probably propositioned his girlfriend, because Nice Friend (cute friend, too, did I fail to mention that?) tried to pull me away. I’m sure I listened to her. It’s probably why I walked away without bruises.

Then Nice Friend attempts to feed me oranges. Oranges, especially mandarin oranges (since ’tis the season) should be handled with care. I remember telling her that, because she was spilling quite a bit of freshly-squeezed orange juice on the floor and on my pants. She laughed. I took over with the peeling, and then we ate the orange. I should have a photo of that somewhere, but I can’t remember if I actually took one.

In any case, J was shitfaced. I was shitfaced. Our friends, though late arrivals, had quickly become shitfaced. It rained earlier, but it was still bright. I can’t believe it’s still day out there, I said at one point. Yeah, you fucking drunkard, says my shitfaced friend J to me. I decided telling him it was his fault wouldn’t help. I paid the bill. The ladies had their own arrangements to head home. I dragged J halfway through throngs of shoppers and then told him he needed to, you know, walk.

We left our cars where they were, I’m sure, and we did the responsible thing. By 8.00pm, we were home – early! - and drunk like lords. There’s a lesson here, somewhere.

(Oh, I’ll be heading down to the Rainforest Festival in Sabah (or is it in Sarawak) this year. Anyone wants to meet up? I promise I’ll be completely shitfaced and enjoying myself. Hell, you can share my booze!)

The rest of the holidays felt like a denouement. Once sparkling moment of complete and utter mindlessness and the remaining days spent thinking about said mindlessness. I’m ready for more. You must understand. Sometimes liver abuse is a good thing. Especially if you’ve been weighed down under the pressure of a few hundred people calling and demanding… things. Daily. And I really do mean a few hundred. Well, at least 200. Okay, not all of them. At least 50. That’s still a lot of people.

People say that in the midst of inebriation, you have this moment of clarity. I didn’t, I mean, let’s be real: who the fuck does? The ones that do are deluding themselves (really, think about it) and the ones that don’t are blissfully happy. I was blissfully happy. So, happy Chinese New Year!