I’ve been writing daily stories on this blog for the past four months out of the corner of my eye. I’m a busy guy after all: getting drunk, borrowing money from friends to get drunk, writing in the Only,  reading books as big as Einstein’s brain in order to do research for Only articles, writing my own novel which is about God knows what and then – like last night – being forced to get drunk in front of a captive audience that seemed to either want to beat me up or take me home.

   In spite of such a demanding schedule I still find time to write this blog everyday but I do literally write it out of the corner of my eye. My right hand pokes away at the keys while I go about my everyday affairs with my left hand: getting drunk, borrowing money from friends, etc. Every so often my eyes dart right to check my progress. So you see I have no idea what I’m writing most of the time and it’s mostly a stream of consciousness, automatic writing type exercise. I could be recreating some strange incantation that will conjure up demons from septic tanks for all I know. My goal in all this is to test the hypothesis that looking out of the corner of you eyes to the right will trigger greater flourishes of creativity. In a couple days I’m going to switch hands and then write the next four months of stories while occasionally glancing left. We’ll see which stories are funnier. This is going to once and for all prove the whole right-brain, left-brain distinction hypothesis thingy.

  Here’s today’s tale which is simply a retold version of what happened last night at the Anza club.

 

 

Off the Hindle

 

 

   Some nights are not like others. Last night for example I was marched up to the front of a gathering of friends and foes at a local pub and coronated with a paper Burger King hat. Don’t ask why. I was then forced to wear a large robe that resembled the hide of a bear, a hide that might have been used as a door-mat at a weight-watchers clinic, trampled and gnawed upon. Then I was told to sit on a kind of jester’s stool and told to chug beers. The point being that the drunker I got the less likely I was to stay balanced. 

  The lowlight of the evening came early when I was still sober enough for memory to record everything for future smacks of shame. The disaffected mob demanded that I retell an experience getting beat up on Hastings Street. “They want me to entertain them with my suffering? What is this a Mel Gibson movie?” I thought but there was a threatening glint in their eyes and I knew that I had to obey.

   I’ll spare you the details of that story. Suffice it to say that pleasure was extracted from my pain and before I knew it I was chugging another beer while the MC of the evening slowly stuttered his way to five.

   Whatever reason there was to crowning me under such outlandish circumstances has been forgotten. I drank that memory away. I tried to do the same with my student loan in 1998.

    So yeah it was a strange night.

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