11.20.2006

my name is not susan.

Or Luka.

But, I do live on the second floor. . .

For all the naysayers, I am pleased to announce that I have still not had a drop of liquor since my decision to give my liver a one month break. The other thing? Yeah. Well. I tried.
My boss (otherwise known on these Internets as "the hot owner of Gstaad) said to me, "Could you do us a favor and not tell the customers that you're not having sex for a month? We don't sell liquor here. We sell dreams."

Well, I have dreams too. Ain't nothin' wrong with that. Anyway, let's focus on the big picture here. I haven't had a drink in almost three weeks. This is big. I work around liquor. I live a lifestyle fueled by the drink. I am one to be intoxicated. I'm through the Lookingglass! That's what grownups in New York do. We meet over drinks and tell stories. It's primal.

I've still been going out until 7 in the morning, mind you. I just drink a club soda instead and listen more than talk.

However, some would call my victory Pyrrhic. I haven't had a drink, but I haven't been completely sober. One of my favorite barflys commented to me, "There is something so bourgeoisie about abstinence." I agree. Give me muddled perception. The world is too much with us late and soon.

So, in this voluntary dry spell, I have. . .gulp. . .yes. . .started smoking again. If anything, it gets me out of the bar for a bit and away from my drunk friends. Drunk people, by the way, aren't nearly as interesting when you are stone cold sober.

Let's stay focused on the big pic, though. Some good has come of this. I felt as though I should come forth with this info, because I have a new favorite thing to do. One of my lovely windows opens up to a fire escape. At any given moment, you may see me in boxer shorts and a pink rabbit fur coat, sitting in my window and smoking an American Spirit menthol. Thinking.

My apartment is directly above the gaudiest orange and yellow burger joint you can picture in your mind's eye. It's called "Lucky's Famous Burgers" where they claim to have the best burgers in the galaxy. At night, I am underlit by the warm glow of the saffron lights of Lucky's. I gaze at the tops of people heads as the bop along to their individual rhythms. My find is full of poetry.

I hate to admit it, but I secretly hope to be serenaded by someone from below. Maybe even a Lloyd Dobbler boombox homage, but instead of Peter Gabriel, he will play Otis Redding.

Which brings me to the wagon that I didn't stay on.

I told my friend, Drew, that I felt that I was being distracted by artificial satisfaction which is why I am taking a break. He nodded and said, "Yup. Booze and boys."

Booze and boys indeed. I love boys. I love the way the smell. The way they move. The way they are distant and close at the same time. They are maddening and addictive. And I choose all the wrong ones because they destroy me and make me want more.

I disagree politely with Carmen McCrae. My romance does need a dance to a constantly surprising refrain.