It has finally come, the launch of Drunken Absurdity dot com, my venture to profile my new project Voices from the Underground. In this I take to the streets to seek out the counterculture and underbelly of society and bring a platform for their stories. The site will also serve to profile the work of Revolutionary writers, poets, and artists
Join the Revolution...
Embrace the Absurdity
by adam schirling...
To see us, you may not see anything worth a second glance…we are the middle, the nobody on the corner and in the grocery store. We hail from many different backgrounds and belief systems. But one thing sets us apart. Our thirst. The thirst never dies, no matter how many churches or meetings you go to or pills you swallow in a vain attempt to kill the primal urge that bubbles up from the darkest recesses of the soul. It is what binds us, makes us a powerful voice to be heard, the true blessed beings that strive for perfection through indulgence in liquid suicide. This bitter search for a way to soothe the onslaught of an uncaring universe..
It takes quite a bit of gumption to begin a quest such as ours. Many do it without knowing, they were the amateur boozers at one point, light beers and girly shooters. But as others grew out of this phase to more mature and subdued submission to the all mighty bottle, usually in the form of dinner wine or football game beers, we kept at it, kept striving for transcendence. Many reasons can cause this phenomenon. The clergy driven mindset of the mindless scum that occupy rehab centers would have you believe that this gift is a genetic curse, wrought upon us in the womb, and that we have no power over our desires. This, of course, is wrong. Whether it is sorrow, or naivety, or just good old fashioned American love of good times, we all made a conscientious decision to be as we are.
If there is one thing I have learned as I stumble through this world in a drunken haze, it’s that temperance is a curse. Those that refuse that 3rd drink, citing work in the morning or the watching of calories or not wanting to feel the icy hot fingers of intoxication wrapping around their throat, are not to be trusted. These are the folks that will be the destruction of our society, of our very way of life. We are descended from beasts, wild animals that once ran amok in the jungles and plains of the world, fighting and fucking and succumbing to every whim that crossed their simple minds. Over the long centuries of evolution and so called progress, we have learned to ignore these calls, these instincts. We as humans lost touch with our most human aspects. We became polite and formal and wrapped our minds in the shroud of decency, and the lies of pleasant relations with our friends and neighbors.
But there are some of us who will not adhere to these principles that we have no understanding of. There are some of us who will not sit idly in minivans and pta meetings. There are some of us that will not be kept quiet. We are the drunks, the boozers, the rummies, the beerguts and diseased livers. There is a very simple reason that the pleasant warm kiss of alcohol can kill you if consumed in vast quantities over time. For anyone that has felt the thrill and the immortality of drunken absurdity knows this already. The gods give us this beautiful gift, this enlightenment; for the drinks are a key to the door to understanding everything that ever was or will ever be. But it comes at a cost, and that is our health, and our friends, and the respect of society as a whole.
But we don’t care. We need none of that. We need another drink, for the day is young, and a few dollars remain in the wallet, and we have the need to explore the mystery and intricacies of the human experiment.
And it’s fucking delicious.
its coming. very soon. almost ready. dont touch those fucking dials, join the revolution
Read more...first column for Writing Raw is up today.....check it out
Rome is Burning...
Flight of the Conchords: Some funny fucking New Zealand dudes
The first Voices from the Underground interview is this morning....very excited. For those who don't know, this ongoing project will be the main feature of the new Drunken Absurdity website that should be launching in a week or so.
Our first venture will find us at a strip club called Foxy Lady to talk to a dancer and escort named Shelby Devine....
wish me luck
I like to think of myself as a fairly good faker of normalcy. In fact, I
took much pride in this ability. I could put a wide smile in my face
while making pointless small talk with strangers. Little did my goofy
grin and brigt eyes betray my utter disgust for the platitudes that
spewed from their holes. Weather is weather. It will always be too hot,
too cold, too rainy, too windy, too nice. Sports are sports. Your team
is awesome/horrible/recovering/showing great potential. Politicians are
politicians. They will always lie and cheat and steal while professing
our best interests in mind. They will sexually harass their interns and
abuse drugs while passing condemning legislation against both. Because I
am younger, I am still exposed to so many topics: MMA fighting, social
networking, video games, Jager bombs, dance clubs, current pop hits,
fashion trends, I-phones, celebrity rehab stints, tabloid pics, green
technology, reality TV shows, graduating college, getting a good job,
reading books about wizard children or glittery vampires, spray tanning,
some fascination with people from Jersey, college football scores, and
credit scores.
I used to be so good at faking my normalcy and interest in these things
in the name of politeness and anti-awkwardness in social settings. But
the past couple years I have become very very aware of one simple fact.
I don't fucking care. At all. Not even the least bit. And I don't care
that you know I don't care.
It makes me so sick. All of it. I feel like I am on some sort of fucked
carousel spinning dangeroulsy out of control while the kaliedescope of a
nation so fucking up its own ass with ridiculous shit flys past me in
bright colors and loud noises. The sound of us all on a final death
march to the land of the intelectually fucked. The spinning grows faster
and faster, I feel the hot burning vomit creeping up my throat. What
used to be polite smiles and nods has turned into sneers and utter
contempt etched onto my face. I have no connection with my generation.
We profess to be so forward thinking and radical, while creating an
atmosphere of indulgence and fake rebelliousness. Young law students
get full sleeve tattoos. Your accountant probably has an nose piercing.
I bet your neighbor has a trendy blog that she fills with artsy photos
of sunsets, closeups of food and stupid fucking inanimate objects in
black and white, while filling pages with procclomations of how simple,
artsy, and in touch with their surrondings they are. Watch, I bet she
does. Go knock on her door and ask. I will wait........See, told you.
Things like tattoos, peircings, writing, poetry, and excessive drinking
used to be the signs of the eternally fucked. Outlaws, rebels, social
deviants, agoraphobic nuerotics, and general assholes. They fringed away
from society while advocating social change and acceptance. In here lies
the problem. Instead of sticking to the dream, these sonsofbitches
settled down, bought 3 bedroom houses, and starting popping out kids.
Now these signs of rebelliousness are trendy and hip.
I have decided to make it my personal crusade to be an asshole. I don't
give a fuck about anything. I don't want your stupid phone. I don't want
to watch that asinine show. I don't want to dance with slutty college
chicks to top 40 hits at a bar that sells $9 beers. I want solitude that
is broken only by a few souls I trust. I want to drink at the most
innapropiate times. I want to quikly tell anybody who has the audacity
to bring up UFC that I think it is fucking retarded. I want dark qiuet
bars where they KNOW BETTER than to bother you while you are doing
something as important as drinking. I want my girlfriend who tolerates
my insanity and contributes some of her own. I want to never wear an
article of clothing with a logo on it. I want to drink whiskey and smoke
cigars on an empty porch until I am fall down drunk a.d then crawl to
bed. I don't give a fuck, and I don't care.
Call me a misanthrope. It feels great.
I drink to the death of ideas. I drink to the death of rebelliousness. I
drink to the death of my generation.
cheers
I sat under the spitting head of
The warm shower
I watched the water cascade down
Onto my skin
Staring at it rolling over my tattoos
Without making them run
So odd, I thought
It thinks it is my real skin
Watch it run down the legs
And bead off the tip my cock
Washing away all
The filth of this world
All the hate and shame and fear
That accumulates on my skin as I walk
Through city streets
All the denial and anger
That had stained my being
The lust and perversions
That had clung to my face…
I watch this all run in dirty clear streams
Down my body
Back into the sewer
Back into the world
To start it all over again
I watched it and wept
For I know that my cleanliness
Is an illusion
No shower can clean
Your soul
who the fuck would have known
that I would turn out to be
so fucked up
the writing was
on the wall I suupose
early masturbation and
a young exposure to bukkake
will do that to
a lad these days
punk music came
tattoos and booze
girls with pink hair and girls
with bleeding nipples pierced with
cold steel
blowjobs in church parking lots
but I must ask myself
how could I have not turned out like this
how could I have been normal and obedient
when the rules made no sense
I am what I am because I
love to be
despite the pain and rejection of
society, and the phantom
of true life breathing over my shoulder
fuck you
i am american youth
i am cheap booze
and war at the dawn of manhood
and dirty strip clubs
and loud music
played while driving
down dirt desert roads
screaming and laughing
i am me who is
the future
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