I shouldn’t call it an assignment, because it’s more like a Highly Pleasurable Experience With the Written Word. One of my favorite columnists is Mark Morford at the SF Chronicle. He’s sharp and catty and a little bit mean, but only to people who deserve it, and I always finish his column feeling a little hopeful, even if he’s written about one of the many ways our nation and our planet are screwed, just because I figure if he’s smart enough to figure it all out, there must be other sane people out there as well. Maybe not in office or any place they can do any good, but it’s something to start with.
Another reason to like him: a search of his archive for the word “vibrator” comes up with 86 matches. My favorite is the one about vibrators being outlawed in Alabama. Oh, ‘Bama, why do we put up with you?
In today’s column, Mark Morford reveals:
I have never been, not one time in my entire life, so uncontrollably drunk that I couldn’t walk. Or stand. Or speak. Or see. Or remember what the hell I did last night. Or who. Or how I got home. Oh, I’ve come close a few times, but the instant I do my body recoils and my spirit regrets it and I reach for the water, fast.
Again, I am filled with hope, and a little bit of relief. If this guy, who was probably was cooler in the 3rd grade than I will ever be, has never been that drunk, then I don’t feel so bad about saying the same. For years I thought maybe I had missed out on some rite of passage. Turns out, I’m just not a moron. That’s refreshing.
But mostly I like how Morford can always tie something into the big picture, our national state of being, our collective flashforward to what happens after we all get off the island. Do we freak out and decide we never should have left, or do we just move on with our lives? Wait, no, that has nothing to do with anything. I just can’t get the freaking season finale of Lost out of my head. Hurley and the bus! “I told you dude, I saved everyone.” If only he’d done a little “Yatta!” then all my television obsessions would tie neatly togther.
Maybe I should just let Mark talk about public drunkenness some more:
Of course, you could also easily argue that regular, near-comatose wastedness also reflects a rather obvious sense of sadness and self-loathing, a feeling where you are, deep down, so afraid that you don’t really have much going on deep down that you cling to this cheap drug’s ability to remove you from the responsibility of trying to figure out who you really are. You know, just like organized religion.
Which is why the Mrazonistas – spiritual backup singers for Jason Mraz – will always stay a disorganized non-religion, although I wouldn’t mind if we started meeting up for ice cream once in a while. Any excuse to get ice cream is good by me.