Griffin Writes

I studied the airport terminal map for any place serving alcohol. Unfamiliar with most of the chains listed under the restaurants category, I settled on some place in Terminal A that had the word Brewery in its name. I weaved through the other miserable travelers until I found it and took a seat on an empty bar stool. The dinner rush had just ended. The bartender said hello with an exaggerated flamboyant lisp. I scanned the beer taps until I found one I recognized.

“I’ll start with a pint of Blue Moon, and when that’s about three quarters finished, I’d like you to pour me a double gin and seven.”

“Absolutely,” he said before walking off to fill up my beer.

I opened my laptop and hammered away revising a short story. The internet wasn’t free in the terminal, which pissed me off. I sent Lifeat160 (aka Shane) a text saying where I was. Typical in my inability to prepare, I hadn’t recorded when Shane’s flight was touching down. I knew it was within an hour of mine. I was in the process of texting the lone female attending the drinking contest (as our baby-sitter) for Shane’s contact information when a text flashed across the screen.

Shane: I’m in fucking Terminal D.

Griffin: You want to walk over and have a drink or should I head down that way? Doesn’t matter to me. It’s a three minute walk.

Shane: Fucking on my way. Have white hat on.

I pictured an angry Texan in a white cowboy hat stomping his boots in frustration of having to walk four hundred feet. A short time later, a mid-twenties looking guy walked toward the bar wearing a white ball cap. I hesitated for a second until I was sure it was Shane. The self-promoted Lifeat160 Logo on his hat made it obvious.  We shook hands. I was pleased to see he wore a hoodie, which was also my choice of travel attire, and not some eight thousand dollar custom tailored designer suit. Continue reading →

The actual drinking contest commences on Saturday at 1pm. But we’re hanging out the few days before to get to know one another. Lifeat160 said he wanted to ball hard. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant in regards to drinking, so I drank a lot to be safe. Tremblethedevil came out too. I’m not sure but I think, even without trying, I balled hard the first night.

My new family at Subtle Dig has proposed a bonding experience. Put a bunch of writers in a hotel room, add in as much booze as everyone can drink, and see who comes out on top. A drinking contest.

I am known for a few things in life – that time I got a standing ovation singing Show Me How to Live at Karaoke, the time I hit a turn around 3-point shot at the buzzer to win the game – but more than anything else I am known for my drinking ability. Considering the unquantifiable amount of liquor I’ve consumed in my lifetime, some may say the fact I can count on one hand how many times I’ve puked from drinking (and they were ALL epic) and the fact that I’ve blacked out only once makes me a legend.

There are too many awesome drinking stories to recount in this post. Hundreds upon hundreds of stories involving so much badassery that my computer would explode should I attempt to type them all out. But there’s one time in particular that stands out in my mind where the cosmos aligned to reaffirm how truly Rockstar I am. A time so intense that when I think back on it, I need to punch holes in my walls just to calm myself down. Continue reading →

Gary held Karen’s fingers with enough pressure to keep them from falling to her sides. His forehead rested against hers, having just embraced in a kiss that brought color to the airport terminal’s bleak congestion.

“I wish we could stay together just one more day,” Karen whispered. Gary, through doubled vision from being too close, could see her muscles twitch into a smile.

“Me too,” he said, kissing her once more before moving his head back until she came into focus.  “But we’ll see each other again soon. We’ll make a point of it. I haven’ t even left yet and I already miss you.”

Karen squeezed his hand in a fit of unexpected laughter. Her gaze dropped down, “You have my number right?” Continue reading →

It’s 2am. A freshly poured pint of beer ordered at last call sits next to the half full glass that I am about to down. The dim pub lights cast shadows under the features of the few faces sitting around me. To my left, a grizzled veteran comic chokes out a haggard laugh. As he tilts his head back, the light fills the many pock marks scattered across his face. To my right a balding comic in his late thirties smirks down into his beer. His eyes are glazed from the joint he smoked outside a few minutes prior. Neither of these men are successful by any traditional measure, yet I lean forward on edge of my seat hanging onto their every word. They relay old war stories of a combined four decades in the comedy business. Tales about drunken hecklers, bombing sets in small towns, standing ovations in a packed room, waking up in unknown beds with questionable girls from the show the night before – all tiny insights into the human condition. The stories are laced with advice about their profession. Their knowledge is all fresh to me; the new perspective on life is altering my mindset in real time.

Few things frustrate me in life like a boring conversation. Worse yet, having a boring, redundant conversation for the third, fourth or twentieth time. In any quest for knowledge, there is a requirement to understand a set of fundamental facts that serve as the status quo from which to launch further exploration. So, for example, becoming a writer involves dedicating oneself to the technicalities behind the art. Once you have a grasp on the basics, then you can start experimenting with pushing the limits. Same thing goes for the physicist. Years of training are needed to understand the science before one can start to theorize and test unknown principles. During the process, you will hear the same ideas repeated over and over again. All the more reason why it’s important to follow your passions in life if you’re going to dedicate yourself to a specific discipline. If you care about it, you’ll be far more tolerant of the inevitable, often irritating, information overlap. Continue reading →

I first met Bob the bum as he rolled out a foam mat in my office building’s lobby.

I was heading to a local pub for a bite to eat with four coworkers after having Friday post-work beers upstairs. We were all laughing, riding a steady buzz as we rounded the last flight of stairs leading into the lobby.

“Hey, man. You can’t sleep in here. They’re going to kick you out.”

The old man looked up at me. The wrinkles on his face blended to form deep crevices until a smile emerged. “Oh, sorry. I was just going to relax for a minute. I’ll be on my way right now.” He began hurriedly rolling up his mat, looking up every other second with a smile. My coworkers and I stepped out into the crisp February winter. I zipped my jacket right up to my chin, and watched as the condensation from my breath rose toward the street lights. I kept checking back over my shoulder waiting for the homeless man to emerge from the front doors.

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When I was twenty-one, I split my palm open with a box-cutter.

Not on purpose, of course.  I was cutting the straps off a bundle of flyers during my night job at a newspaper plant, and the knife slipped. As soon as it happened, though mostly painless, I knew I was in trouble. I walked over to the boss to tell her before heading to the bathroom to bandage myself up.

A short drive to the hospital and an hour later, I was lying in a bed waiting to get stitched up. A drunken, grubby man was in the bed across from me fighting off the doctors and nurses. I knew he was drunk because I could smell the alcohol. That, and the incoherent slurring. He had a large gash on his forehead, and did not like the medical staff poking and prodding him to see where else he hurt. Four cops were eventually called in, one to pin down each limb. They laughed when he said he had been beaten up for no reason while trying to sleep.

Continue reading →