My friends keep telling me I need to go out and cut loose. "Monte, 

come on man... let's go get fucked up, it's going to be great!" But 

sadly for them my response is always the same: "Thanks, but no 

thanks." 

They don't understand I am 'cutting loose' by not going out. 

I'm too old to keep finding myself at two in the morning standing 

sideways in stale beer joints, looking for a joint. Besides, I can't 

stand late night lip service; it's always seasoned with cheap cocaine, 

draft beer and egotism. Not only will bar babble bore the fuck 

out of you, I firmly believe this ceremonial act can give you tumors 

the size of cauliflower. 

The wayward ritual of speaking in tongues and doing key bumps 

in piss-soaked bathrooms night after night, sadly in the name of 

sacrificing reserve notes upon the wooden alter non-believers call 

a bar, is meaningless. There's more to life than digesting hours of 

rotgut and drunken dialogue from a misfit clergy of working class 

stiffs, alcoholics and hustlers, one after the other spilling drinks 

and spewing last minute confessions: "I'm going to stop drinking 

tomorrow"..."I need to get a job"..."Fuck it, let's go back to my house 

and finish this eight ball!" 

I can't help but laugh. I've lost enough mornings face first in strange 

toilet bowls to know I don't want to end up in someone's living room 

after the bar closes, sitting in a mirror passing circle listing to empty 

promises from speed freaks until the booze and drugs run out. The 

problem I have with this 'dumb-thirsty' mentality is, nothing changes. 

No matter what night it is, or in some cases mornings, the smells, 

language and outcome are always the same: semi-grown men and 

women running from a dawn soon coming. 

Have you ever left a closing bar with the intention of going home only 

to find yourself ten minutes later at an after party doing coke with someone 

you barely knew? Or as I use to call it, "last call at the hall of mirrors". 

While there did you ever notice in those amorphous hours how spectacular 

and positive the friendship was, only to find your next encounter with 

the exact same persons or person is awkward or negative. I've even had 

'the next meet' described to me as "dirty". 

Not me. I see it for what it is: a sobering moment of regret and discovery. 

It's fun to go out and get fucked up in the beginning, but it's easy for the 

'beginning' to turn into a lifetime of debauchery and delusion only Charles 

Bukowski could respect. Some of you dumb-thirsty missionaries may think 

I'm over-reacting, but I expect that from animals who have traded reality 

and self-control for fire water and bar-nuts. I know from personal experience 

how easy it is to drown in other people's misery and personal bullshit. Too 

many actors are on the run from reality and warrants in those late night 

rooms of suffering. 

"Monte, come on man... let's go get fucked up, it's going to be great!" 

Yeah, um... thanks, but no thanks!