This was originally composed in January of 2002, when Mike Cochran et al were doing the Lord's work on the Cuban fenceline, keeping Naval Base, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba safe from the hordes attempting to swim down the bay to get away from Castro, hoping to get a job cleaning out asbestos on the Naval Base for 50 cents an hour.
It was then re-released, kinda like General Lejeune's Birthday message, on a yearly basis since then. It is an argument that I am quite proud of. Enjoy, and feel free to notify the Vatican...
I was planning to throw some BILE together today. I was also planning on running PT today, cleaning out my office, and catching an early movie. That was before I spent most of yesterday evening in a futile attempt at putting more alcohol in my bloodstream than oxygen. I dare not smoke or walk anywhere close to an open flame for fear of spontaneously combusting. That, and the fact that I have the fine motor skills of an infant, mitigates directly against any protracted bout of typing. So, since more than half of you were not party to last year's Holiday message, I am resending this inspiring message to you in hopes that your hangovers might be eased in the consideration of the below argument.
For those of you that have not seen this, I sent it to Mike Cochran during his stint on the GTMO fenceline. I am as proud of this as I am the "Fear and Loathing" bit I did last March. For those of you who have seen it, I'll try to hydrate and get some true BILE out before my kids return from their yearly jaunt into the Llano Estacado. Happy Fucking New Year.
My eyes feel like they're gonna bleed,
----- Original Message -----
From: Larry Adams
To: Mike Cochran
Sent: Thursday, January 03, 2002 10:28 PM
Subject: Some post-Holiday reflections
St. Michael of the Greater Antilles,
It has only recently occurred to me, and by recent I mean just now, walking through my kitchen, that a possible sign of my growing attachment to the distilled food group is that I look forward to the week after New Years Eve more so than the week after Christmas.
I mean, think about it, Mike. On Christmas, my kids get these obnoxious fucking toys that either giggle like a goddamn hyena, scream like one of my aunts, or piss all over everything like my fuckin’ dog. Plus, everyone in the family over the age of forty is damn near suicidal because they've spent the latter part of December bemoaning the fact that the hope that burned so bright at the age of ten turned out to be nothing but a fire at the land-fill of middle-age. They seem to forget that the lauded "yuletide traditions" of their youth generally consisted of the old man getting drunk enough to cry, and mom covering for him by bawling right along side him. No one truly remembers the fact that older sibs usually spent the whole month stoned out of their minds, that grand-dad, who looked so dignified taking his midday nap in his easy chair, was actually passed out there after drinking half a bottle of scotch, or that grand-ma's smile wasn't beneficent, it was actually stapled to her face during the Hoover administration. No, everything was wonderful then, and don't we all just wish that we could recapture that lost wonder?
No thanks. I've found a paying job. Besides, finding the lost wonder would also entail rediscovering puberty, and I ain't signing on for that fucking trip again. I'm quite comfortable with my current stock of experience and guile gained through fifteen years of getting my teeth kicked in and working my balls blue like a Hebrew in a Heston flick. No, I'll make due with the peace and serenity that is gained by shooting my wife in the forehead with my four year old's dart gun, after drinking a pint of rye whiskey, while she tries to decipher the assembly instructions for a doll house that was written by semi-literate Koreans, thankyouverymuch. I mean, who needs the childlike hope of peace on earth and goodwill towards men when I can send my sane, even-keeled bride right over the fucking edge with the aid of a two-dollar orange dart gun from Target and the better part of a bottle of Wild Turkey? Nah, I like my way better. It entails less effort, less in the way of transcendental fucking meditation on the meaning of the season, and is one hell of a lot more memorable.
Christmas: The past. Tradition. Doing a thing over and over again, "because this is how we've always done it."
New Years: The future. Doing whatever the hell you feel like in nodding recognition of your having made it through another year without landing in jail for dismembering your boss, being secured in the booby hatch for trying to kill yourself with a staple gun, or ending up in divorce-court for living out your nightly fantasy of kicking the family dog into the next dimension after the fucking thing chews up your baseball glove.
Then, the whole first fifteen days of the year, you get to enjoy all the liquor that people you barely knew left at your house after they waddled out the front hatch at 0130. Good booze too. I mean, no passing acquaintance wants to be the one to show up with a fucking plastic jug of Ten High Bourbon, do they? Naw, they bring the good scotch, decent mixing rum, and good shit to mix it with too. Then, (unless they're blue collar or former jarheads) they get drunk on like two daiquiris, are utterly wiped out after you slyly downshift into the "kamikaze hour" at 2300, and end up face down in the back bathroom with their pants around their knees twelve minutes and seventeen seconds after you pop the cork on the champagne. (You buy the champagne, and if you spend more than three bucks a bottle, you should be shot. Something about the law of diminishing returns. By midnight, there ain't no returns. Let 'em drink sparkling frog piss. I challenge you to find one person at any decent party who could tell the difference between iced Don Perignon and the steaming contents of my bladder after 2330 on New Year's Eve.)
The day after Christmas is spent in wistful regret that it's all over for another year, that you've aged another winter, that everything sucks as you get older.
New Year's Day is spent on the couch, watching pre-game with a bloody mary in one hand, the remote in the other, while basking in the dim gratitude that you didn't wake up in either: a) a puddle of your own urine/shit/puke; b) the arms of something that smells like the aforementioned puddle, but with a face that would cause you to rub lye into your eye-sockets; or c) a park, face down, with your pants around your ankles and an asshole the size of a storm drain. Plus, on New Year's Day, you have wisely planned ahead by hiding a half case in the hall closet, and are free to enjoy it with the left over party snacks while watching your favorite Big-Ten team get emasculated by the pre-pubescent products of SEC inbreeding.
I don't know Mike, maybe living on the Llano with a lot of drunken red-necks for twenty-five years made me a little jaded. But, you've gotta admit that the above argument is just as valid as hell.
The aforementioned fruit of my loins are being shipped back to me via commercial air on Saturday. The relative lack of utter fucking chaos around here has left me slightly giddy. I hope I did not offend any of your Episcopalian sensibilities by obliquely deriding the celebration of the birth of the Christchild. That was not my intention in the least. I just love watching these sappy fucks completely miss the point of the entire occasion by constantly worrying about the whole form of it, rather than recognizing that they could get smacked by some engine of public transportation tomorrow and enjoying every day on its own merit. More than that is the Aristotelian concept of Post Coitum Omne Animal Trieste (After Copulation, every animal is sad). Once something enjoyable or thrilling is over, we all get a little melancholy.
I look forward to throwing up on you in the future. Be safe, have fun, sieze the day. I remain,