Can you smell it?  The aroma of triarylmethane is in the air, and that can mean only one thing:  Fast Green FCF.  Never mind it's been known to produce tumors in lab animals, or have occasional mutagenic effects on people, Fast Green FCF will soon be flowing through every beer tap in the country... because the negative effects come from ingesting it in an undiluted form.  Cutting Green No. 3 with beer is bound to make it perfectly harmless, the same way alcohol makes every frat boy a cuddlesome kitten.  But enough of the dark side, a holiday is fast approaching.  That means joy; it's time to prepare.

No holiday is complete without tradition.  On Thanksgiving I like to plop down on the couch with a pint of whiskey, and watch Home for the Holidays.  After an epic example of shemomedjao (an actual term from the great country of Georgia meaning to eat well beyond fullness just to keep enjoying the deliciousness) there's nothing better than entering an alcohol induced coma as Charles Durning says, "Lately everything's been changing too damn fast, and all sorts of things that were always the same, even things we hated like shoveling the turkey and stuffing the snow..."   

But I'm not a fool.  I don't just dive head long into this stupor.  I take the time to condition myself.  This is what the holiday drunk does not understand.  While some of us make it look easy there is much that goes into being able to run the marathon that is St. Patrick's Day.  Still, with only two weeks left there's time enough to reach the point you won't be found passed out on the street covered in green vomit wearing a crown of (used) glow in the dark emerald condoms... sorry Sid, but you passed out like an amateur bitch leaving us with little choice.   

Preparations have begun in earnest.  The first thing most people flaw on is assuming tolerance is the only facet worth upgrading.  While it helps to be able to pound with the best even the most ample tolerance can be beaten by drink-sprinting.  Drink-sprinting is when fools chug beers at a suicidal rate, or fire shots to warp towards a blackout at light-speed.  It's better to keep one's own personal pace in mind; and only a cunt makes fun of a person for not slamming a bottle of tequila in an hour -- that way madness lies.   

See, tolerance is often mistaken for the concept of duration.  The goal is to reach a peak then maintain that level for as long as possible.  If that means drinking a glass of wine every hour for sixteen straight, so be it.  I for one would rather hang out with the so-called lightweight sipping beer all evening than an incoherent loose puke cannon.   

The next thing to keep in mind is cash.  Unfortunately, alcohol costs money.  Somebody somewhere is working to fix that problem, but I doubt a solution will arrive before the 17th.  So it's necessary to stockpile a horde of green.  And this isn't just for drinking.  Money is also good for other goods and services.  For instance, at some point alcohol always results in the inhibition of culinary logic.  The diner on the corner where the burgers are probably mad sewer rat under edible plastic masquerading as cheese is the best goddamn dining experience in the history of creation after a six hour bender.  See, people tend to confuse the sensation of thirst for hunger, so at some point the dehydration alcohol produces triggers a response that sends many howling to the first food source they can find.  But said indulgence requires the green.  Nothing leads to smashing open an inconveniently closed convenience store at 3 in the morning like insufficient funds for a burrito made of grease and diseased horse meat.  Plus, let us not forget the other peripheral expenses that pop up over the evening:  gasoline, cigarettes, drinks for the ladies, jukebox, condoms, a frozen turkey to clog a bowling alley ball return, lighter fluid for writing on your ex-girlfriend's front lawn, a lighter, bail, bandages, strippers in Kelly green g-strings, cabs, etc. 

The other preparation is clothing.  There is nothing wrong with wearing everyday wander about clothes.  No squad of secret police is lurking around waiting to beat some sense into a person for not wearing anything green.  That said, if a leprechaun should whisper in your ear to go festive the best advice is to go big.  Be the most obnoxious eyesore the world has ever seen adorned in verdant furs, emerald sunglasses, glittering green bling, chartreuse shirt, mint cologne, lime pants, jade belt buckle, and alligator boots.  Just keep in mind, however, these mirthful accoutrements attract all kinds of attention from less joyful drunks looking for any excuse to punch someone to cops who are pretty much in the same aforementioned category.  So either blend in or be ready to set the world on green fire... and if the latter is chosen don't be too surprised when one of the sloppy drunks complimenting your epic outfit pukes on you.

And that's really all there is to.  The odd thing being this is all a person really needs to be prepared for life.  Go at your own pace, wear what makes you comfortable, and be ready for the unfortunate necessity of paying cash money for everything, while sprinkled in there is the need to be aware other people are sometimes a hazard to one's well being, in addition to the understanding that some decisions in life which can lead to the greatest satisfaction don't involve logic.  Happy St. Patrick's Day!

When I first heard the idea there’s someone for everyone I initially misunderstood the concept.  I was eight at the time.   As such I believed it meant there is exactly one single person in the world with whom I will fall in love.  Granted, that’s sort of the whole concept of monogamy:  two people, one heart, romance, poetry, and cinnamon sunshine.  However, my eight year old brain started worrying how one goes about meeting this individual.  

The whole notion sounded like Fate.  The universe set aside someone for me, and conversely I for them.  This meant that at some point I would end up in a situation where I met this predestined love of my life.  Such thinking provided a certain sense of relief until I became an altar server.   

Those responsibilities resulted in my attending a lot of funerals, as well as my first realization that some religious ceremonies like wafting incense over a casket might be more to cover the smell of decay than a symbolic act of prayer.  On these occasions I tended to overhear, from time to time, conversations about a variety of elderly people dying alone.  Often such remarks were accompanied by phrases like they never found the right person.   

But wait a minute, I started to wonder, isn’t there supposed to be someone for everyone?  Yet, Catholic corpses kept turning up whose lives involved one grim romantic failure after another.  It seemed the universe didn’t guide soul mates together.  A fellow had to go out in search of the other half of his heart.  This reconceived perspective brought on a crippling terror (though it would relieve me of the previous horror of predestination). 

See, if there is truth to someone for everyone but no invisible hand of Fate bringing said individuals together then the possibility existed that my soul mate may very well be living somewhere I might never find them.  In other words, the love of my life could be a farmer in rural China, whom I have to locate without any indication that’s where I’m supposed to be looking.  This thought did indeed keep me up some nights. 

After all, there is nothing in our society which dictates that being alone isn't a bad thing; happy endings only occur for those able to pair up at the end of the movie.  Being aware of this at a young age can really fuck with your head.  So I found myself trying to solve a mystery without any clues. 

Part of the reason for this dilemma stemmed from the fact I had no conception of a quote, unquote dream girl.  Up until the age of 17 my idea of a fantasy lover was a faceless female form whose proportions and skin color changed with my mood; I wanted to be with everyone.  Most will be quick to point out this difficulty sounds like a complication due to raging hormones; I didn’t want to be with everyone, I wanted to fuck everyone.  And I would be inclined to agree if it were not for the fact I don’t consider the two notions exclusive.  I won’t speak for other people, however, if I end up with one person for the rest of my life, I hope we have sex on a regular basis.  So excuse me if I tend to factor in sexual appeal alongside similar taste in movies.  The real problem was my own unformed self at the time. 

I didn’t grow up in an environment where personal experimentation was encouraged.  My father to this day believes there is a satanic influence in rock ‘n’ roll; that the devil directly produced the music of The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Black Sabbath, Jimi Hendrix, Queen, AC/DC – all the music he’s never liked -- to corrupt the world.  I once came home with black fingernail polish on, and was made to clean my hands in front of him while he lectured me on how I’d embarrassed the entire family, especially my dead mother.  (In my defense, I was, at the time, dating a goth girl, and I have never dated a woman who didn’t want to put makeup on her boyfriend.  Plus, I looked fucking good.)  So growing up it wasn’t easy to try out personality variations.  Most of my conceptions of self tended to be hypothetical.  But like all teenagers I learned the art of leading a double life:  one way for my Pops, the other around my friends.  When I finally did have a firm grasp of the kind of person I wanted to be I started cementing my notion of the perfect woman.  At last, I could start looking for that special someone whom I could call my soul mate.  This would only lead to more problems.   

A fantasy by definition is not real.  I made the mistake of crafting too precise a portrait.  The consequence being I was looking for too specific an individual.  I sometimes punch myself in the dick when I think about how I once passed up a chance to talk to a wonderful young woman because we didn’t like the same music.  She has multiple sclerosis now, yet I feel like I missed out on something special.  The point being that dream person should only be painted with broad strokes.  The odds of finding a woman with violet cat’s eyes, an hour glass figure, pixie cut black hair, tattoos, none of which are fucking flowers, with a love of literature, heavy metal music, and horror movies – it’s not impossible, but holy shit is that specific; I’ve learned to be more flexible… but not about the flowers. 

I don’t worry about romance, love, or meeting someone the way I used to.  Love is like shit.  It happens, whether you want it to or not.  The real trick is to just let it.  Over thinking these things only makes them seem more complicated than they are.  Finding love is just a simple matter of saying hello.

Spread semen on a sleeve. 

Smear it against

a cheerleader

passed in the hall -- 

Better than zero.

Fail to take

the silence as a sign

to kiss

and never look back. 

Be the early bird,

Drink the worm. 

Twist in the wind

thinking

this spinning

Gives a glance

of once before

and where to next. 

There’s always another

Test looming. 

Whisper hello

so no one hears.

In a quiet classroom

Raised hands proclaim

Knowing the answer,

Though the pop quiz

Tends to prove

Otherwise.