Column: Four Drinks Later
by Lesley Bargar | 00.00.0000

[editor's note: see that whole "column" thing up above? That means that the following opinions may or may not belong to the writer, but that should they belong to anybody, they're hers. In other words, this is not the collective voice of Filter, but the desperate cry of one angry woman who Filter supports in her quest for abusing the First Amendment. Read on...]



Feel the Music

There are certain things that should never be combined with alcohol. Horse Tranquilizers, small children, the trapeze, semi-automatic weapons and fire are some of the more obvious. (We all remember the tragic accident with the little Flying Ferrini brothers and their heavily sedated ring of fire... [shudder].) But somehow, it is almost always these verboten activities that naturally result in a big glass of something in one hand, or two. And maybe another one on a coaster.

Well, I’m here to tell you that this weekend I found another one. The hard way.

Music.

Music and alcohol should NOT, ever, ever be allowed in the same room. Like the great heroes of our time once said, don’t cross the streams. Now, I know you’re thinking “Lesley, without that combo everything about you would be completely irrelevant!” Yes, I’ve thought of this, and I’ll just let you know now that I have no problem switching to hard drugs.

“But a party isn’t a party without music!” I know, and a party DEFINITELY isn’t a party without alcohol. Seriously, my little cousin’s 8th Chuck E. Cheese shindig was WAY better her 7th, thanks to a little help from “uncle” Jack and “aunt” Coke. So was my dancing.

“And what about doin’ it?” Yup, how are we supposed to close our eyes and feel like we’re in a cinematic sex scene with Jude Law (or like, I don’t know, who do guys like these days? …Your mom?) without the help of Portishead? And more than half our world (alright me) would never get laid without a little liquid courage and some thick ole’ beer goggles, am I right? Of course I am. Always remember that.

Dozens of things--road trips, extreme sports, marathon running and computer programming--will all suffer without the popular liquor/music combo. I’m not trying to say this will be easy, but trust me; stop it. You’ll thank me.

So why? That’s what you’re all asking right? Why? God you guys are demanding! I’m getting there. But you all already know why without any of my lecturing. You’ve been there, and you’ve either been that guy or hated that guy, but you know what I’m talking about.

Does this ring a bell? – “Oh my God, seriously man, like, seriously, have you really listened to Pet Sounds though? Man, it’s like, magical. It sounds cheesy [p.s. always stop right there], but those bass lines are so fucking simple, but at the same time…. [“sniff”] no one can do that today! No one. Seriously though…”

Or how about this? – “The thing with Conor though is like, he’s just such a poet. Oh man, listen to this part here—hey you guys, shut the fuck up for a second! — awe, did you hear that? It’s like, when his voice goes up right there, that’s amazing right? That shit makes me cry.”

And don’t forget the unfortunate emo sing-alongs. The ones that often ensue with enough red wine and any album about lost love that you know the words to. At the time you think you’re having a “moment.” You’re gazing blankly into your friend’s lava lamp (or else squinching your eyes shut so you can really “feel” the music), singing the words you’ve heard four hundred times before (and four hundred times better), and noting that the song never really made sense until this very moment. For some reason this song speaks to you on such a deep level right now. You know what they’re talking about, exactly. And it’s beautiful. And you wonder why you never felt how amazing this was before.

You want to know why? Because you’re wasted, that’s why. Weird Al would make you question your life’s purpose right now, because the six gin and tonics tell him to (his “Yoda” version of “Lola” chokes me up every time).

Yes, it seems like this is the greatest thing you’ve ever heard, but alcohol also makes it “seem” a lot of things:

Like you can drive home just fine even though you just threw up on the lawn. It makes it seem that the story about that dude doing that thing at that place is really funny (which it isn’t), and it makes it seem that hooking up with tubby over there couldn’t be that bad. It seems like you could probably kick that guy’s ass, and it seems that you can dance, and it seems that driving to New Mexico at 4 in the morning is a great idea when you’re drunk.

But the big catch: it just seems that way. And usually it only seems that way to you. To everyone else, you’re the drunken rambling guy (or gal) telling everyone at the party to shut up so they too can experience the real genius of The Walkmen (totally hypothetical by the way). You’re the person that awkwardly clutches the bartender’s arm for three minutes while telling him that the Dylan verse playing on the jukebox is one of the greatest lyrics ever written. Or you’re the dude who everyone glares at, wishing you would just stop singing and go to the damn Dashboard concert where you belong.

I only know this now after committing each and every possible music/liquor infraction over the past four days, and I try hard to live my life in such a way that waking up doesn’t make me say, “Awe, fuck….” (“try” being the key word there). There was rambling and lecturing and singing galore. It was not pretty, and I am sure more than a few people were annoyed/frightened/nauseated by my actions.

So I’m taking this time to not only apologize (for both the music thing and the whole pudding incident--that’s never happened before), but to also prevent this from ever happening again to anyone. Call it my mission. So with all my journalistic power (don’t laugh guys, that’s not nice) I raise my clenched fist high in the air and shout to the public:

Don’t mix alcohol and music. It is not a victimless crime. And besides, everyone knows that’s what pot is for.

Thank you for your time.

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[Lesley has spoken. Send your complaints, rants, and hate/fan mail to online editor Chris Martins.. He’ll make sure she gets the message. He also swears wholeheartedly that he was not "that dude doing that thing at that place." But if he had been, it would have been damn hilarious.]