So it goes.

I should have been arrested.

After spending Christmas Eve through Sunday in L.A., I'm more than convinced that California officers are probably too lenient on drunken white boys. L.A. wasn't the first time I had observed or personally experienced this, but it is probably the first time that I can look back and think, "yea, maybe they should have hauled me off."

I boarded the bus at 9 a.m. on the 24th. We didn't disembark at 7th and Decatur until a little after 6. Suffice to say, that much time on a bus, especially one that won't allow its passengers to turn on their lights for reading, is reason enough to get drunk. I started with my oversized plastic flask while waiting for some sort of public transportation at Wilshire and Hope. The last complete memory I have is trying to shake the hand of some large man that had just beaten my friend at pool, something that was not well-received since my friend and his associate had just told said large man to "fuck off." I'm swiftly walked out of the bar by the chemically enlarged bouncer/bartender wearing a Fear Factory shirt - I'm willing to accept that violations of the Controlled Substances Act occur frequently among members of the bouncer community, but there's no excuse for having shitty taste.

I'm told the next morning that I angrily tried wrestling my friend when we arrived back at his apartment, and that I spent the remainder of the night sobbing in his bedroom. I've cried with increasing frequency since turning 25. On my birthday, the following month in Vegas, two months later in the Fall, and now on Christmas Eve. And not the kind of crying-at-movies that I've always done. We're talking about seemingly irrational and uncontrollable crying, in front of my friends no less, thereby stripping away any dignity there might have been a chance to otherwise salvage. They always ask 'why' the next day, as if there is one particular trauma that can explain away my behavior. But that's not the case. There isn't some huge scar I'm trying to hide and the only thing that all the episodes have in common is that I've been heavily intoxicated every time. "Oh, that's just the booze then, beer tears."

I spend all of Christmas with a headache and a churning stomach. Friday is a mellow affair and by Saturday night, there is a feeling that redemption is in order. I fail, miserably.

Over the course of roughly 4 hours, I get involved in four testosterone-ridden situations of varying intensity. Employing a particularly vulgar guilt-trip about drug abuse (the irony of which doesn't escape me), I verbally accosted a homeless man to the point that I vaguely remember police officers telling me to walk away. I get into a cash-only cab with no cash. By the end, the driver takes my card, refuses to give it back, and threatens to call the police if I "don't get the fuck out" of his cab. We exchange loud obscenities, and I eventually exit, no debit card to speak of. I go back to the bar with the Fear Factory bouncer, get asked to leave again, and nearly get in a fight with another patron both inside and outside of the bar. According to my friend, the only reason I didn't receive a fist in the face was because the other man's girlfriend disapproved of the idea - thank goodness that women are less often prone to see violence as a solution. Finally, I again tried to wrestle my friend. I suspect that this was the culmination of a night's worth of hostile behavior on my part, but probably the safest alternative for expressing that hostility as I wake up with only a bruise on the inside of my wrist and a sore tail-bone.

In the end, I suppose I'm thankful for not getting beat-up and/or arrested. Those outcomes would have certainly driven home a point, but the point isn't entirely lost just because I managed to escape relatively unscathed. I was out of control. I need to curb my drinking - primarily the amount, but the frequency could use a checking as well. I don't know how to explain its origins, but my level of aggression while drunk was unacceptable and dangerous (mostly to me since I seem to always challenge much larger individuals). And to the extent that I use alcohol as a coping/escapist tool, I need to be more mindful of where I'm mentally at, and be willing to soberly consider what exactly is going on in this head of mine. Maybe then I'll come to some thoughtful explanations for cry-sessions other than blaming the talking of the booze.

As a final note, reading Koren Zailckas' Smashed during this holiday bender was not a good idea. But it has helped me to realize certain things about my social habits and alcohol abuse, and hopefully it (and the lessons of my experiences) will help me to be more responsible and healthy if I decide to drink in the future. I recommend reading it if you ever have any concerns about alcohol abuse, yours or someone you care about, or if you are just interested in the issue of young people drinking. It's not earth-shattering, but it certainly helps to put things in perspective and see someone articulate what are unfortunately common feelings and acts.