2002-11-29 9:52 a.m.
winter thoughts

I've been spending a fair bit of time in bars with Tabi lately, and though it's not my usual choice � given that I don't like stinking of cigarettes or getting drunk all that often � it's been nice, and it makes me wonder why I'm usually so reluctant to hang out in them (besides the obvious cash drain of regular and excessive drinking). The fine art of plunking your ass down, having a pint and getting lost in conversation is one of those lessons never imparted to me as a kid. I grew up (and came into my own) with a burning desire to achieve, to make something of myself, even if that's just getting my own voice out into the wilderness. Writing with D, acting, being a grandmaster at karaoke, whatever.

This morning on the train I reread one of Garth Ennis' stories from "Hellblazer," and I remembered why I've loved reading his work in the past: he brings that magic of drunkenness and good friends and an all-night piss-up together with Irish politics, magic, and whatever else floats his boat to tell a good goddamn story.

Brendan (a ghost) talking to John (a magus):

"BRENDAN: An' this is fine, anyway.

Yeh know...a wise man once said, 'magic?

I'll show yeh magic in the clink of glasses in a toast, in the settling of a pint from silt to black, in the voice that rises as it tells its tale...in a hundred smiles that bubble into laughter, and shut the golden door against the cold.'

JOHN: What wise man said that?

BRENDAN: Me. Not bad, eh?"

The two of them wander out into the street where a couple is fucking in the alleyway and John has a piss...and for most of a page, Brendan, thinking to himself, debates the Irish question.

Garth picked up a book about John, a bad person � meaning a magician/occult detective who more often than not survives by using his friends as shields and uses people up like toilet paper � with a good heart buried very, very deep inside...and he infused it with all of the flavors of his own life � straight-up pint-view pub life, a strangely accepting view of different peoples' perspectives (e.g. heroin and the Bible both serving as a drug), the inherent grayness of morality in both Europe and America, corruption, and still found redeeming qualities under every rock. Like me, he's a big believer in the possibility of redemption.

I used to be annoyed by his constant insertion of Ireland into books that didn't seem to welcome it; but with Hellblazer (and later, Preacher), this sweet, melancholy sentimentality was a wash of relief, something often missing from my everyday life.

The warm heart, warmer still from drinks and friendship...it's a nice image, if sentimental (and potentially alcoholic).

I'm babbling. I want to be outside, rosy-cheeked, shopping for cheese and Japanese food, the cold winter air biting my lungs.

I might grow my beard again. This is how it would look (hypothetically speaking):