Truesday: And Then The Lights Go Out.

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*The views expressed in Truesday are those of the author and do not represent Austinist as a whole. Thank heavens.* -The Editors

Haven’t been in Austin much these last few weeks (not at home as I type this). Makes me miss things. The lake. The trails. My sanity.

Traveling always dredges up weird nostalgia for Austin. A long list of pointless comparisons between my vacation spot and my city of residence. “Oh, look! They have mosquitoes and sunburn here too, just like back in Austin!” But I’d have to say that what I currently miss the most is the relative safety afforded the average over-imbiber who has inadvertently made their way into the shadowy world of the blackout.

In Austin, if you get sweaty, drooly, crying drunk and don’t remember what the hell happened for a two hour period, chances are that you got carried back to you and your six roommates’ rental and got drawn on, or you passed out in a urinal. And probably got drawn on.

All very tame, and amazingly safe. Not much to fear in the Austin environment. But in other cities, or other countries for that matter, things aren’t so predictably kind.

The careful crafting of a blackout is a lost art these days. Almost as if it’s only something to be ashamed of. Something only to fear, or avoid. And I get that. I understand. Because the blackout is, above all things, scary and potentially embarrassing. Like cliff diving with loose shorts. One cannot expect that letting the Id off the chain will be an entirely pleasant experience. Hanging out with our untempered selves can be most traumatizing. The things we end up saying and doing while beastishly unbridled, scare the average person. This makes sense, since the control of such brutish impulses is the true measure of a person’s character. Their salt, as it were. Because without restraint, discipline, and decorum (the hallmarks of civilization), we are essentially animals.

Most people prefer to hold on to various levels of faith which wholeheartedly deny our more animalistic tendencies. Tendencies released in spades during a blackout. And I believe it requires a very specific personality to be able to get ANYTHING beneficial from it. Not just anyone can find some redeeming purpose amongst the juvenile mayhem of the thing. The third-person voyeurism involved. That brief handshake with our lizard brained alternate: all awkward, inappropriate, self-serving and hedonistic. Pretty much an unpredictable dick hole.

How can a person not only admit the existence of this subconscious entity, but court its expression? WHY would one do this, and HOW will they deal with the irreversible consequences? What about safety, for god’s sake?

Why? Easy to understand, hard to explain.

There’s something quasi-liberating about swimming in such a profound blackout stupor that all consciousness becomes just as fleeting and smokey as dreams. Nothing feels anchored or tethered in any way, and every second is simultaneously obvious and confusing. Constantly. Any associated “memories” of those moments are so splintered that they’re absolutely useless for narrative purposes. On top of that, when I cross over to dark side, I tend to go a bit apeshit. Jumping around, shouting, pumping my fists without good reason. My Id, once released, will rage with erratic fury for as long as my physical body will allow. I tell rude jokes, bust in on strangers’ conversations, sing boy-band tunes, indiscriminately break shit, and appear to do whatever else I can to entertain myself. Your garden-variety insufferable asshole who some more delicate people believe “ruins EVERYTHING!”

And it is deep within this degraded and partially impaired state that I always choose to get nomadic. I wander off to collect data, experiences, conversations and deposit them in my subconscious memory, for posterity, I suppose. I suddenly have other, terribly pressing places to be. Errands to run. Appointments to meet. So I take off without warning, and quickly become as physically lost as I am mentally vacant. Invariably, I will stagger great distances to find other pockets of social activity. I believe this is a product of my inherent curiosity toward all things beyond me. There’s always something else going on somewhere else, and damnit, I’d like to know all about it.

The aftermath? It’s a mixed bag.

So those little shards of memory, almost like photos of some grotesque carnival, usually involve lots of emotive looks on strangers’ faces, and running. Blurred pitches of landscape as I run past. Running from what? I have no idea. Probably something I did that necessitates some fancy footwork for proper escape. Mixed-company humor. Misdemeanor offenses. Trespassing…

But therein lies the problem. In Austin, one can get fall-down Swahili-speaking drunk and have little fear of their physical environment. You’re pretty safe, relatively speaking. But in a city like New York, shit ain’t so safe. You can’t reasonably expect to survive a thirty minute blurry-eyed stagger through Brooklyn alleyways, alternating with supreme mania between ferocious anger and ferocious friendship. Befriending and alienating the indigenous and potentially thuggish residents of the borough with rudderless disregard. It’s simply not practical.

I have the bruises and cuts to prove it.

As for any potential fallout between those who actually know me and witnessed the disaster that is: blackout Truecraig, well, I have to leave that decision to them. People have been hung for doing less than some of the shit I’ve pulled when I was perfectly lucid. I have no words for the shenanigans I draw from my magic blackout hat. I’ll leave that judgment alone.

Safety? Well, in short, there is none. It’s a realm of being which provides a person no real shelter and only the most basic of survival instincts to work with. Nothing can be guaranteed. Nothing.

Blackouts are inherently dangerous. Your Id is inherently dangerous. Getting a firmer grip on who you are is a messy process. And everyone has their own method. Painting, theatrics, dance, poetry, computer virus formulation, these are all viable (if not partially illegal or difficult to look at) means of expression and self-discovery. I firmly offer up the blackout as a comparable (if not completely stupid and fantastically hazardous) method to inch down the road toward the town of: Yousburg.

Yes, that's the town of you. City. Whatever. I'm out of allegory over here.

But with every rule comes corollaries: every method or cure will work in every environment. First, tequila never be used as the chosen potion for the job, as it is definitely the urine of satan. I bet this could be proven through DNA testing. Second, the blackout is not the most effective means of self-discovery (but it is the most counter-intuitive, which entertains me immensely) and should probably be a last resort for even the most curious philosophizing booze dabbler.

And should never be attempted in Brooklyn. Ever. Again.

Contact the author of this article or email tips@austinist.com with further questions, comments or tips.

By truecraig in Other on July 4, 2006 11:28 AM 0 Comments

Comments [rss]

Eddie

I think I got one of those "T is a Mystery" texts and I remember thinking somebody must be getting loaded. I will heed your warning while I'm in Chi-town.

Ray Chul

Hate you

odam

after reading this, i am either very sad or eternally grateful i gave up drinking. i am not sure which. and not sure i want to know.

sun dae

So fug-larious. And boy am I glad I came back to see if there was an answer. Ask and you shall receive. That,s what someone used to say.

truecraig

I was being vague about the details simply because they weren't the point of what I wanted to say. Plus, the details are gallactically vague, period. It was a blackout. Per the definition, I am not wholly sure what the hell happened. However, since you ask, I will attempt to indulge.

While attending several Manhattan-to-Brooklyn parties with friends that started with watching the world cup around noon, I ended up mixing several shots of several different liquors over several hours mixed in with several other intoxicating liquids, none of which were healthy or necessary. This sickening cocktail mixture eventually led me to raucous jump-dancing, slobbered tasteless jokes, countless anecdotes to strangers regarding my affinity for foul toilet humor, and a constant, crippling need to urinate.

Sometime around 2am, approximately 12 hours into the thing, I started wandering through the abandoned, storeroom portion of one of the Brooklyn parties, on a staggered search for somewhere to relieve myself. I don’t remember if the lines for the restrooms were too long, whether there were any restrooms available, or if I simply felt like being a raving asshole. The reasoning is illusive. I have not a clue.

Eventually, I was found by either security, or perhaps some other dudes who wanted me to bleed, and then some sort of chase occurred through and over various tarped equipment and boxes in the dusty dark. There were people interspersed in the storage rooms, making out and/or partaking in various relaxation agents. We ran over and through them with little regard, like a bad Scooby Doo chase scene. No one appeared too appreciative of my presence, and I might have knocked some important shit over.

I went out a fire escape and into an alleyway, closely chased by two bouncer-types. My guess is that they caught up to me, and we apparently exchanged unpleasantries, which apparently ended with me making unfriendly acquaintance with the pavement. No internal bleeding or face-shots though, so that’s nice. I still have all my teeth.

I am piecing this together from bits of rather disturbing memory, combined with the eyewitness accounts of those who were there. Neither of which is entirely trustable, or easily reconciled together. Just so you know. After all, it was a black out.

Then, some sort of voodoo magic went down. In a blanked-out two-hour period, I managed to get from whatever downtown Brooklyn alleyway, all the way to the Grey’s Papaya near Washington Square in Manhattan. When I “came to”, I was having an animated discussion about soccer, of which I understand very little, with a freshly-homeless man from Ireland and his chipped-tooth meth’d-out girlfriend, who was obviously a bit paranoid of me and whatever raving I was doing. It was just hitting 5:30am, and I had no idea where I was. I remember giving the dude $10, which was the moment where I noted that I still had my wallet, all my cash (did I pay for a cab? With what money?), my credit cards, and my phone. There were several text messages asking me where the hell I disappeared to, none of which I was capable of reading/answering properly. I deleted some out of frustration, and answered others with nonsensical statements like “T is a mystery” or “I am so lost. But, shata”.

As I walked back to my friends’ place nearby, the sun was coming up, and every random person I ran across kept asking me about my t-shirt, which read: Austinist. I had extended conversations with every one of them, and they were all overwhelmingly friendly. Everyone loves Austin, but no one likes Texas anymore, apparently. That’s what I gathered from my sample.

And I am a less than suitable ambassador for our great city, let alone this city blog, but I do what I can. Oh, and the next day, the doorman for my friends’ building half-jokingly asked me to warn him next time I intend to visit so he can call the police beforehand. Good times for that guy. Good times.

That’s all I really sorta-know about that night (most was told to me, so really, it’s all hearsay cobbled together in an attempt to sound coherent). Hello blackout.

Brenner

Yes, truecraig, what did happen to you in Brooklyn? Your article here seemed more of a tease for the Actual Account text yet to come ...

Aside from that (Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?), there's something about having entered my mid-forties that makes me roll my eyes every time I hear yet another kid go on about "Dude, I got so fucking 'faced the other night, whoa, lemme tell you ..." because I've heard it a million times by now and I'm pretty much over that whole scene myself, good god yes, pontificate, pontificate ... and yet, if anyone's going to write about that sort of thing, at least you'll do it in a way that's entertaining and possibly insightful. So, out with it, please. C'mon, now: As if it were a half-digested mass of corned beef in a sudden gut-flood of tequila.

But: ".. the control of such brutish impulses is the true measure of a person’s character"? I would suggest that the release of control over those "brutish impulses," when performed as an act of will unabetted by ingestion of mood-altering substances, may also be something worthy of admiration. That depends on the context, of course, yeah.

Also: "rudderless disregard."

My applause, sir.

I Googled that phrase and came up blank. And now I think that whatever hell you may have gone through in pie-eyed Brooklyn, it was worth it (to your readers, anyway) to bring forth such a useful, evocative term.

Good luck with your continued recovery,

BRNNR