drinking

Dream a little dream…

~ John Loraine ~ 2 Comments

( This piece has no literary value. From the late-night beer-infused Saturday night rant series)

The cold beer feels great going down my throat. I actually feel fucking great. I fucking love my beer. I fucking love to just sit back, play some music, drink my beer, knowing that there is nothing else I have to or want to do. There is a vinyl record spinning on the turntable. I realized that I hadn’t used the turntable in a while. What a shame. I have over two hundred records collecting dust, but I am not doing shit about it. I know I have them. I know where they are. I realize what a bunch of great fucking record collections I have, but I’m just too busy dealing with life to enjoy that music. I just keep forgetting to get back to it, to enjoy it a little bit. There are records that I acquired years ago, and I still remember where I bought them and sometimes even how much I paid for them. Certain memories stay with you forever. They might not always be the most important memories, but there is something special about them, so I still have some recollection of the time and space, my life then, my experiences, and my thoughts… Music is one of the greatest things in life. It can be both tangible and intangible. You can just sing the song out loud, and it would make you feel happy. But also, you can have a 180 mg vinyl playing on the turntable, which would bring the greatest joy and satisfaction. I am not a hoarder, but I do love collecting certain things. I love to have them, to see them, to touch them, to smell them. I am a young fella, but I do love the old shit. The old music makes me feel great. The black and white movies make me happy as well. It seems like back in the old days of black and white TV, or when music was pressed on vinyl, life was so much fucking better. It seems like life back then was more fun, it was more real, and authentic, and you could feel and smell things and get a great sense of the past life. I get some sort of weird nostalgia while experiencing the old things, the old school, the old way. I think that even cigarettes were a hundred times better for you back then. Somehow, the more we advance as a civilization, the deeper we get into the nowhere. Somehow the things are so fucking dull and tasteless and surreal that I don’t even what to be part of any of it. Fuck it all. I want to be real. I want the real shit. I want good wine or beer, a good piece of meat, a good cigarette, and fresh morning air filling my lungs. I want the smell of a freshly printed paperback. Nothing smells better than a fresh, brand-new paperback or a cup of great, freshly brewed coffee. I mean, how much do you really need to be happy? If you really think about it, it is not that much. The little things always make the man feel alive, feel like a man, and that life is worth something. These are the nights in white satin, and there is so much about the nights, and satin, and music, and beer, and life, and cigarette burning in your hand while you sit back and let go. Just go on. Let me take a little breather. Let me take a little break from all the fucking madness, for fuck’s sake. Do I have to be present, worried, and responsible for everything? Sometimes, I feel like I can move mountains. But sometimes, the opposite is true. Sometimes, I just want to fuck off. I want to sit on my sofa in my basement, endlessly drinking my beer while listening to music and writing down all my nonsense. One day, I decided I wanted to be a writer. And I became one. I don’t write all that much, but I have written a lot. I am trying to be to stay productive. Before, it felt like a foreign concept. It felt like a dream. And then, some days later, I made that dream come true. I made that dream come to life, giving me something to live for and strive for. It usually takes me a lot of time to come around, but when I do, I am on it. I love watching myself becoming a new me. The old me was a dick, a confused nobody, a lowlife, a useless fuck. Once I overcame that mental roadblock and explored new territories, things started to move, to come about, and things started to happen. Good shit started to happen. And I couldn’t be more happy with that. I couldn’t be more happy with myself. And I couldn’t be happier seeing myself producing the words through poems and the short stories that eventually became books years later. Fuck. I fucking made it. I fucking made it happen. I became a true writer. Something that was just a dream and some sort of delusional obsession had become my new reality. I am a writer with two self-published books, and the third one is in the closing stages. I am doing something. I am being productive, maybe not as productive as I could’ve been, but slowly and surely, shit is happening. And now, looking back, I don’t feel bad at all. I feel satisfied. I feel like I made my dream a reality. I am a writer. Even though no fans are knocking at my door. Even though there are no sales and book lists. Even though there are no book deals, I still outperformed my old self from those early desperate years, and I have some proof to show for it. But mainly, I proved to myself that the dream is possible. A simple dream is possible for anyone, even losers, as I have been for most of my life. Dream your dreams, my friend, and go after them. It will open a new world for you worth something. It is definitely much better than sitting on your ass doing nothing at all, waiting for death to come and take you away, or waiting for the next day, just hopelessly hoping it would bring anything better. I waited a fair amount of time in my life this far. I have no fucking patience no more. I want it all, and I want it now. I have no time to waste. I have no time to lose. The only fucking thing I do have besides my sorry-ass is the time, and I am on that fucker all the time. I hate to waste time. I hate to lose it. I hate somebody else taking and wasting my fucking time. I guess there is a reason why I own ten watches. I do fucking have a deep appreciation for the time and watchmaking, indeed. I cherish every minute that goes by, goes sideways, into infinity as I get older and wiser or dumber, or whatever. Time is a fascinating thing. It comes through you and leaves scars on your soul and face in the form of sadness, anxiety, deep wrinkles, gray hair, and bad eyesight. Time is all we have…

Hungover

~ John Loraine ~ 1 Comment


It was a Sunday, the day of the Lord. I woke up with a major headache and wanted to pee very badly. I’ve been up late last night drinking myself to stupor, and now I am paying for it. I opened my eyes and looked around the room. It was the same room, nothing unusual. The room was still dark, and I wasn’t sure what time it was, but I assumed it was still night. It was hard to keep my eyes open, so I kept them closed as I rolled out of bed. I remember the way from my room to the bathroom by heart. I walked it so many times. We lived in this house for the last two years, and it was our new home. I went to the door and opened it. I was trying to walk through the door passage and hit the frame. Fuck. Why? I knew why exactly. I was still drunk as shit. I moved out of the room and into the hallway to the bathroom. My wife slept with our kid across the room.

We slept separately since the baby started to move around the bed more, pushing his way through the bed. There was not enough space for us to sleep on one queen-sized bed anymore, so I decided to move out. It was the right decision. I had to wake up early every morning to do some writing and then to start work. Back in the pandemic days, I worked from home like most people. Now, this was in history, and I had to drive to the office three days a week. Also, this was a great decision because I could get drunk or smoke cigarettes before going to bed, and it wasn’t a problem for anyone. Drinking affected my motor skills the most. I could still think well and analyze my surroundings, but my feet would not listen. With the next move, I hit the wall. Shit. I hope I woke nobody up. I was about two steps away from the bathroom. I opened the doors and hit the lights. The fucking fluorescent spotlights hit my eyes like a sucker punch in my face. My headache exploded, and I felt a sudden and sharp pain inside my brain. Damn. This red wine really got me this time. It was going down so smoothly last night. I wasn’t expecting this kind of abuse. The toilet seat looked at me, and I felt relieved. I pulled down my boxers and sat down to pee.

Sitting down to pee wasn’t homo for me. It was more relaxing, and I could really focus on the duty much faster and not miss the bowl. Also, it was more sanitary. We were busy people, and cleaning the piss smell every day was not an option or possibility. I had to work every day, and my wife had to babysit a toddler, which wasn’t an easy task, to say the least. My hard-on from all the drinking barely fit inside the toilet, but I managed to put it inside and relieve myself. The hot, smelly stream hit the toilet bowl, and my headache worsened by the second. I could feel my head pulsing. I could feel my brain on fire. I could feel my insides hurting. I could hear the loud piss stream for almost two minutes before it was over, and then with my eyes closed, I just sat there trying to get myself together and not to think too much because my head was exploding.

I felt great to get all that wine piss out of my system. It felt great to break the endless strick of the never-ending and super annoying dream cycle of the same fucking dream that rolled on and on, over and over for the last few hours of my sleep. I’m glad that my blodder decided to help me out. I glanced at my watch; it was five minutes before four in the morning. I always wore a watch on my wrist, no matter what. I wore a watch during the day, in the shower, and in bed. I am one of those people who should always have a watch on their wrist, even if you don’t actually need it all that much.

Four o’clock felt better. That meant that I could now go back to sleep and have enough sleep to fucking sleep off the wine overdose from last night before the new day began. I knew the kid would be the first to wake up every morning. He wakes up and goes downstairs to his playroom and plates. Sometimes, he gets bored playing alone and goes up to my room, wakes me up, and invites me to play with him. I love the fact that he does it. I love that my son wants me in his life, even if it’s just to play with him. As a first-time father, it is important to have, observe, and feel these things. On the flip side, I never have a chance to get a good amount of much-needed sleep. During the week, I can’t get enough sleep because of work, and on the weekend, I can’t get enough sleep because of my drinking habit.

I did some minimal calculations in my head, and I had about a good four hours of sleep before the new day began. I stood up with my eyes closed and pulled my boxers up. I flushed the dark yellow pee down the drain and walked slowly toward the door. There is a big mirror in the bathroom, and I glanced at it for a second as I was passing by. I didn’t like the look of the person I saw. The hair was all screwed up and messed up on the left side, and the face was all puffed up and swollen. I had huge dark bags under my eyes, and the eyes themselves were red and glassy. The person in the mirror was me. I hated that look more than anything. I hated to be that drunk and in so much pain. I did it to myself. I keep doing it to myself over and over again.

A couple more steps brought me to the doorway with a light switch to my left. I flipped the switch and walked the hell out of there and into the pure darkness of my hall. My room was to my left, and I rushed myself inside like I was about to lose control of my body and I needed something to lean on. Fuck. Why would I have to drink so much? I closed the door as quietly as possible and fell on my bed. I closed my eyes and dozed off in a minute. The booze was taking me over, and I had no control over it. All I could do was to sleep it off. And I slept until the morning.

The best thing about living in the suburbs is the dead quiet at night. It’s even better if your street doesn’t have street lights. Whenever the sun sets down, then the night comes. It is dark and empty outside, and also very peaceful. I love those peaceful evenings in the late Spring, throughout the summer, and early Fall when sitting on the patio outside was a pleasure. I spent a lot of time sitting outside alone in the darkness of the night and in the comfort of my backyard. I had my drinks and cigarettes keeping me company. That was the time to think, to reflect, to drink, and to forget.

I have always so much on my mind that it gets tough to pass through all that mental baggage I’ve accumulated over the past three decades. As an adult, the mental baggage never seems to go away or get even remotely lighter. There are only more shit to take care of and problems to deal with as days go by, as my youth vanes, as I am battling my demons trying to survive. I’ve had it worse. Much worse. Life was never easy on me, and I was never easy on it either. There has always been a gamble, challenge, and the next thing, whatever it was. There were days when I couldn’t fucking move, as I was so depressed and stressed out, constantly overthinking every stupid thing and making a problem out of everything. I made a slave out of myself, chaining myself to some weird, obscure thoughts and fears that paralyzed my brain, my freedom, and my thought process.

I used to be a mess for a very long time. I never had a positive thought all the way through my twenties and into my mid-thirties. Shit just could never align for me. I had to hustle all the time, and once I stopped, I fucking felt like everything stopped. And the next thing I knew, the world crumbled under my feet, and I was falling into yet another deep and dark valley of constant depression and anxiety. Maybe that’s why drinking was an easy way out. It helped me to forget. I helped not to care too much. It helped only temporarily because, on the next day, I always needed more, but the magic wore off, and the hangovers came, and I found myself as miserable as a person can be.

The sun was up and shining through the window into the room as I slept in the same position I had assumed some hours before. I fell on the bed after my midnight bathroom break. I heard the birds chirping outside, and I heard my kid running around the house, making noise, trying to get some attention. I couldn’t open my eyes just yet, but the minute my brain awoke, I felt every cell inside. I felt it through the numbing and still pulsing pain all over. The next thing I noticed was the bad breath from the red wine. Damn, how I hated that smell. I tried to flip onto the other side, and my internal pain flipped as I did that. Shit, why did the morning come so fast? I needed another night to recover from last night’s alcohol overdose. Let me stay here, in my bed, under my blanket, behind the closed door for a while and relax. Let’s just forget about everything. Maybe I could get another hour or so before somebody breaks into my room and wakes me up.

There was no liquid in my head, and my mouth was dry and smelled disgustingly of red wine from last night. I turned towards my nightstand and reached for the bottle of spring water. There always was a bottle of spring water on my nightstand. I still had my eyes closed as I didn’t want to wake up fully. Let me just sip on some water and get back to sleep. Even for another ten to twenty minutes. Fuck how my head hurt. My hand hit the bottle, and it fell out of the nightstand. Now, I had no choice but to open my eyes to pick that fucking bottle back up from the floor. I unscrewed the plastic cap and drank half the bottle right away. Damn. I was so dehydrated I felt like my eyes dried out. I put the bottle back on the nightstand and flipped on my side, closing my eyes and trying to see at least one more dream or no dreams at all. I don’t care for dreams too much. I don’t mind if I only see darkness while sleeping. I just needed another hour to pass out as I checked out in hopes of recovering better.

I don’t know how much time passed before I woke up again. This time, I was up for good. There was no reason to sleep anymore. I was tired of sleeping. I was tired of my hangover. I was tired of feeling sick. I heard sounds coming from downstairs. My wife was up there with our kid. My wife made breakfast, and my kid played as usual, refusing to eat and only asking for sweet treats. It was almost eleven o’clock at that time. I scrolled through my phone, trying to kill some more time. I checked some emails that came in throughout the week. I was so busy I couldn’t barely check them all out. Most of them were bullshit ads, subscription emails, newspaper emails, and some shit I couldn’t remember signing up for. There was nothing there for me. I checked my Instagram and Twitter apps, and twenty minutes later, I realized that I was not getting anything from any of them. What a waste of time and life scrolling through all that useless and short-lived mess of images, texts, and news, and just pretentious, miserable lives of others. What do I have to do with them? I have nothing to do with them. They have nothing to do with me. Why in the fuck were they all in my news feed at all? Life has got to be more meaningful than that. Where is the sense of looking at other people’s lives, never-ending ads, and always-toxic twenty-four-hour news cycles? Fuck all that, I thought. There is a life out there to live. There are things out there to live for. There is my family downstairs, and I am like a mental invalid watching all that bullshit with my sick head, trying to cure my own problems.

I rolled out of bed and walked towards the window. I opened the curtains and lifted the window up to get some fresh late-summer air inside. God knows, there was no air after last night in here. I walked slowly towards the bathroom. My son heard me walk and ran towards me, shouting happily. “Dady, let’s go play with me!” He said that with the most innocent and honest and brightest smile a person could have. Kids certainly have the purest and most honest smiles in the world. Adults all just pretend to be honest most of the time. I smiled back with my stoned, drunk, and still very sleepy face.

“I’ll be right down with you, son,” I said, giving him a little hug. He started to jump from excitement. He always loves to play with his dad. I wish I had that much enthusiasm to always play with him. There is never the right time. There is always something else to think or worry about. There is always the feeling of mental and spiritual exhaustion and a constant desire to be left alone in peace and quiet. Hugging my son felt great. I created that little human. He is my blood and soul. He is a part of me. He is my biggest love in this whole wide crazy fucking world. His small body felt warm and cozy against my bare skin. I felt grateful to have him. It has been my greatest joy to watch him grow, develop, and become a person. Why I was such a fuck up? I don’t know. I have my demons to battle. I am fighting against them all the time. Sometimes, they win, and sometimes I lose.

I took a cold shower, which sobered me up quickly. I wasn’t sleepy anymore; however, my face said the opposite. I washed myself really well, trying to wash out all the dirt inside of me. I believed a great shower would help me clean my consciousness and forget my sins. I brushed my teeth afterward from that annoying wine combined with a nasty morning breath smell. I really felt cleaner. I was getting back to my senses. I knew that I could start this day as a new person. I just wished that new person wouldn’t fuck up towards the end of the day like I tend to do usually. My family needs me. I need them. I have to try my best not to fuck up again. I will try today. I’m sure I can.

I got dressed and came downstairs to our living room. The kid was there happily, running around and showing me his toys, inviting me to play with him. I kissed my wife and hugged her.
“Are you feeling better? Did you have a good sleep?” She asked.
“Yes, I am much better now. Thanks for taking care of him and getting me a chance to recover a bit.” She knew the minute she saw me. She always knows.
“No problem. We already ate. I have some hard-boiled eggs for you, and a salad is on the table. Want some coffee, honey?” She asked.
“Yes, that would be great. Thank you, babe!” How lucky I was to have a woman like that in my life? One can only wonder.

Today was a new day, after all.

Yet another Beer-infused Saturday night rant

~ John Loraine ~ Leave a comment


The clock struck twelve am six minutes ago, and that’s how you know it is the beginning of another day. It is still very early or late, depending on how you look at it. How do you look at it? I haven’t slept yet, so it is getting late, and somebody might just be waking up. Who the fuck knows? It is five o’clock somewhere in the world. I am up and about my business, sitting around on my couch typing whatever nonsense comes to my head. What else is there to do? I don’t have a job to go to. It is Saturday, to begin with. The kid is asleep, and so is my wife. I am the only weirdo in the family who likes to stay up late and drink and write and ramble about random shit. So, here we go. Another shitstorm begins. I am listening to the greatest heavy metal playlist I have ever created, and it kicks ass. It has everything that I need this night to get me through. And I have plenty of beer to help me along. “I don’t believe in love” comes from the speaker by Queensryche band, which sounds really sad and romantic at the same time. Love is love. Love is us. Love is life. Love is losing your mind. Love is ruthless. Somebody must have had a bad relationship after all. Haven’t we all had at least one? Sometimes the shit goes sideways, and you know you are trapped here unless you make that tough decision. And sometimes you feel like, fuck, I might give it another chance. I just don’t want to act on impulse anymore. This still might work out to the best. And often, it doesn’t. I learned it the hard way. I have nothing to hold back. I have no regrets. Whatever happened, happened, what’s next is up to me. I moved on a long time ago because I wanted something new, fresh, authentic, and something that felt right. Not that same old annoying, soul-killing horseshit that I know would never end. We all should move on. Should you follow your head, or should you follow your heart? That is a question that has no right answer. Sometimes it’s the first. Sometimes, it’s the second. And sometimes it is both. I did both many times. I thought it was right to follow my heart because this is where the truth was. Because following your heart would make you happy. Many times it is just a bunch of bullshit. Many times, you should be wise enough to separate the delusion from reality. We all learn this too late after the fuckup settles down. I am looking at my typewriter, which I received for my 35th birthday. I only used it several times since last year. It is a sad acknowledgment. I still prefer my laptop for writing. It is much quicker and almost noiseless. That fucking machine is too loud, and the time is always wrong for me to use it. I think this machine could wake up my neighbors. I want my neighbors to be happy. I don’t want any shit from anybody. But that is not my point. My point is that I am not fully living the life I aspired to live. I want to be a writer and a great writer with that. I am not. A glass half full. I suck. But I still write. Some minimal improvements are happening along the way. I am just not letting it all go to shit. I still want to be here and to write and, one fucking long-time coming day, become a great American writer. What’s wrong with my wish? Nothing. It is my wish. I can wish for whatever the fuck I want. Not everyone was born with that kind of desire. Many people are asleep now or at the bar somewhere or watching the fucking TV in their beds, but I am here, typing, drinking, smoking, and writing. I want to be here. I have planned this moment for myself to be here and to do this, and l love it. And I do what I love and do not have much else to do. History repeats itself yet again. Nobody learned from history nothing. We all are repeating the same fucking lame mistakes or are falling into the same fucking traps as we all did back in the day. I have been fired from a job for the third time since my professional employment began over ten years ago. I am still young, sharp, and driven, sometimes or most of the time. I don’t give much shit about any corporate agendas. I am just trying to play the game right. And sometimes, you can get by, and sometimes you can’t. And I was just too fucking tired and annoyed with all that playing around and pushing it along with nobody else giving much fuck. At the same time, work consumed me and my life and my mind and my soul, leaving me with misery and stress and depression and bleeding. I knew this would happen to me one day. It always does. But I kept that bullshit going. I was too happy and comfortable to see a steady bi-weekly paycheck in my bank account, and I was all right with selling my soul to the devil. Am I a sellout? To some extent, yes. But why would anybody reject a well-paying job? Let me milk this cow until there is no milk left, until all the well dries off until I am sick and tired of doing it. My biggest problem was that I hadn’t spent enough time on my writing while busy with a fucking job. That’s why my typewriter wasn’t utilized as it should have been. That’s why I haven’t written as much as I had hoped. That’s how the comfortable living made me fucking lazy and made me a slave to the system. I partially gave up on anything near and dear to my heart and followed the dollar signs. Now, I don’t have anything to my name. All I have is just me. All I have are just my proletarian hopes, dreams, and useless inspirations. Why wouldn’t I follow my dreams? Why wouldn’t I bank on my writing career? Why do I always feel guilty when I have to enjoy every little fucking moment of my life because I am only going around once!? No, there’s no one home in my house of pain except me. I am sitting here and meditating on some deep life philosophy, trying to figure out where I did anything wrong, alone on my sad couch. It is really not that painful. It feels just about okay now. Actually, it feels fucking great not to go to work, not to work for a man, not to sacrifice anything of mine for the sake of others. I have my family with me. That is all I need. They make me go. I love them dearly. I don’t give a fuck about anything else at all. I just want to be around them always and be happy with them. I want to be a famous writer. I want to live and be completely independent no matter what I do. That is where the happiness is hiding, in that strange, obscure territory. Every time you tell yourself no or go against your heart, something slowly dies inside you, and the light turns into darkness, and a little piece of your life goes nowhere. I’d rather have my life be more meaningful and enjoyable, no matter how long or short. I want to live however I want, regardless of whether that plays against anybody else’s agenda. Fuck them all. This is my life. This is my beer. This is my writing. This is my soul. Life is great. I love it no matter what. No matter the weather, I am here, and I am alive, and I can always make shit happen. And I should always make shit happen for me. Sometimes, it is good to go away. Sometimes relocation is an option and a great one. Sometimes, you can’t move your brain somewhere else and forget about your existence, always pilling up more problems. Sometimes you just got to live that fucking life you’ve always wanted because there might not be another tomorrow. Or the tomorrow you will see will be full of shit and misery, and there might not be a place for you. Buddhists don’t rely on logic. They believe in enlightenment (nirvana) that comes from within, and no logic or intellect can do the same or explain that phenomenon. And I think this makes total fucking sense in my situation right now. The only way to see your life from a different perspective is to live your life like you never did but always wanted. And that means to go against the rules, against common sense, against logic, intellect, the rationality, against anything traditional or normal, against anything that others say or think, and just be there, enjoy that moment, live it fully, see it from the other side, feel the power of being you, feel the power of being a rouge, feel the power of a unique perspective and thinking and capture that experience forever, and let it remind you that you can do whatever the fuck you want and enjoy it because most of the others can’t. They’re too weak, too scared, too insecure, too normal, and too shallow. When do you think you should be fully living and enjoying this life? When you retire? How fucking sure are you that you will ever retire? How fucking sure that there will be any fucking energy or life or passion left in you when you fucking pushing 70 and you don’t have to go to work every day. But then, what do you do? Travel the world? Why wouldn’t you travel it now? Drink all the drinks, fuck all you can, smoke all you can, travel all you can, and do whatever fuck you want to do now while there is some light and life and energy, passion, and spirit inside of you begging for more and begging for freedom now. Why would you want to suppress that? For a steady paycheck? For job security? For healthcare insurance? For acknowledgment from others? For economy? For fucking what? “Your life is your life, don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission,” these great words by Charles Bukowski from the poem “The Laughing Heart” are so true and inspiring and so spot on. That’s why I love Bukowski. His poems have a lot of wisdom for an average man to understand, especially this poem. This is why I am writing. This is why I am still at it. This is why I often question myself about how to live this fucking life, so I don’t lose or don’t end up in fucking misery. I might not live forever, but my words and my wisdom can. As long as these are true worlds, as long as these words mean something, they will. They resonate with another lost soul and help it move forward, explore, take risks, and get that one experience that will change the life forever. I am one decision away from getting to where I always wanted to be. It is not a logical or not rational decision, but it will lead me to my happy place. Those Buddhists were on to something. I’m sure. Is the longing for something beautiful, truly inspiring, and relaxing worth the risk of hitting rock bottom? Is it worth risking the uncertainty of tomorrow for a few days of happiness? Is money always a major obstacle in getting to where you want to be? They say being scared means you’re about to do something really brave. Don’t let the unknown stop you from progressing. Be fearless in the pursuit of what sets your soul on fire. And that fire should keep you warm and safe all the time, and all other bullshit will go away. Amen!

Poem: My shit’s out of luck again

~ John Loraine ~ 74 Comments


My shit’s out of luck yet again
As I pour down the cold Heineken down my
Poor sorry-ass throat.
The wents are turning right above the yellow light bulbs
At the local bar where I drink.
They don’t give a fuck that I am down on my luck
They don’t give a fuck either way
All they had to do is to keep spinning
Running the alcohol-infused air around.
There are TV sets all around the bar, but they
Show and tell you nothing
They are a distraction from real life.
There is loud music playing in the bar
Making the cold beer go down smoothly.
My shit’s been out of luck
My life’s been out of luck
I guess this is what it is, and everything
Is fucked.
The end of one thing is just the new beginning
The old life ends following a new one
I am down on my luck as there hasn’t been much
And I pour another beer down
I’ve been down this road before
And the present does repeat my past
I will be out of this shit in no time
I think I’ll just have to do my best.
Cheers to all of you poor shmucks
Who feel just like I do today
Remember, there will be sunshine
On our street some day.
As the wind blew the fallen leaves down the street
My six-figure salary was blown away
Just like that.

It’s not dark yet…

~ John Loraine ~ 17 Comments


It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when he hit the local bar. This was not his usual schedule. He rarely drank in bars lately at all. He liked the privacy of drinking at home, and with that, once his kid and wife were asleep. That way, it was more peaceful and private around the house, and he knew that nothing and nobody would disturb his time alone with a drink.

It was the second day of March, and it felt that way. There was nobody at the bar when he came in. Four tall windows showed the small town’s street with people walking and cars driving by. He was at the local hipster bar on the opposite side of that street. Bar made more sense than anything else.

The bar was lit mainly by the daylight coming from the multiple windows. About six fans were mounted to the top of the toll ceiling, spinning mid-tempo, running the air in the old English-style building. Underneath the spinners were plain mid-size lamps with yellow lights. They did not add much to the bar’s overall situation, as it was still bright daylight outside. These lamps with fans would give somebody a spinning head once drunk and staring at them for too long. Several small private tables were scattered around the bar near the entrance and some against the walls. In case somebody did not want to sit around the square-shaped bar with a bunch of strangers and their looks and possibly get into unwanted conversations with them, these tables were the place. Bar is where if you drink for too long, you might acquire a few new friends, want it or not.

He was on his second Heineken now, looking around, his face serious with his thoughts. The bartender was a young hipster girl with short spiked hair, piercing on her face, and tattoos on both arms, one with a full sleeve. She was of unidentifiable age, but her face looked young, especially when she smiled. Kids, these days, looked so strange and confusing, he thought. She might have been anywhere near twenty-one and up to thirty-five. Who knows? She wore a bar uniform of black pants and a black short-sleeved shirt. She never introduced herself to him, and he didn’t bother to find out her name either, as long as beers kept coming without much wait.

“Want another Heineken?” the bartender asked.
“Sure, thanks.” He would answer. That was the entire conversation he had at the bar all day.

He had a lot to process. A lot of things were on his mind these days. Once in a while, life brings these fucking problems, and there is no better place to go but a local bar to clear your head. He expected the bad news, but the timing was wrong. He knew everything would eventually come down to this but not this kind of suddenly. Not today?! Well, it was in the past now, and the future was still cloudy and obscure with anger, frustration, and general misery. I mean, he tried his best. He had to. There was a house, a child, and his family to care for. Want it or not, somebody had to hustle. It wasn’t always this bad, but somehow with time, things worsened, and he knew for a while that this day would eventually come. He was trying to keep his livelihood going for as long as possible. He loved to live a worryless life and not worry about the next paycheck or bill coming or how much groceries cost these days.

It was still daylight, and some new visitors entered the bar. A middle-aged lady was drinking her white wine and addictively scrolling through her phone screen. A hipster guy was sitting in the opposite corner, drinking who knew what. He couldn’t see him well because of the bar stand in the middle, but he could hear him well. He was having a friendly chat with the bartending girl. They seemed to know each other. Maybe he was a regular? They may have grown up in this neighborhood. Maybe he was there to make some moves on that girl with tattooed arms and face piercing with spiked hair?

He felt like smoking a cigarette. There was no smoking inside the bar. Not in this bar. Not in this neighborhood. There were almost no bars left where you could still smoke inside. You had to take it outdoors. He put on his leather jacket and strolled towards the entrance. He hasn’t paid for the beers yet, but that seems not to be a problem for anybody here. Each bar has its own rules. It wasn’t necessary here. If the bartender stopped him, he would tell her he would be back after smoking. The bartender girl was mainly involved in a conversation with a hipster guy most of the time. Nobody even noticed that he had walked out.

The air outside was fresh, and the street was tiny. The sidewalk was narrow. There was barely a place for two people to walk by one another on those tiny sidewalks. He lit his cigarette and exhaled the smoke in the suburban air. The cars lined up on the street at the red traffic light. He was trying to ignore everything and everyone around him. He knew these people were staring, and he caught a few of those looking at him as he smoked, then turning their heads around back to the street traffic once their eyes met. Did they all know what happened? Why did he get this feeling as they did? Are these their mocking looks? Or are those more sympathetic looks people in the cars gave him? Don’t worry about these cars and these people and the traffic. Don’t worry about the beer you are drinking today. You needed that beer for a long time. You deserved it. You didn’t deserve what happened to you today, for sure. Very few people deserve that. Not you. You did well. You were working hard every time and every day. You are a good man. You are a good man. You are the last good man on the planet Earth. You are a better man than anybody in these cars staring at you right now. You are better than anybody at this bar. Hell, you are even better than that Heineken you are drinking. The whole thing was just unfair. Life is always unfair. Somehow, after the highs always comes to the lows. Life has its balance.

Other pedestrians were walking around randomly on this and the other side of the street. They had their own business to do and places to go. They all looked like they had a plan. I don’t have any plans. I don’t even want any plans for the next few days. I am just a bit overwhelmed with life at the moment. Beer is helping, and so does the cigarette. But hell, it takes time to heal. There will be tonight, and then there will be tomorrow, and then there will be the next week and the next month, and the next year. Things will be much different a year from now. Life will be much different a year from now. It all could be so much better a year from now. There are certainly some great mysteries in the future for all of us.

People walking around did not look specifically weird except for a guy wearing a cowboy head and some cowboy outfit and the teenage girl with purple hair. In a hipster neighborhood like that, there are usually more strange people per capita, and they all somehow had to be on the street doing nothing but walking around, going about their business. There were no more blondes and brunettes, as most of the kids these days had their hair in a color of a rainbow. All had some weird piercings and hairstyles and lots of fucking tattoos. They were just some random strangers who he would never see again in his life. So, why bother? Please don’t stare at them. It’s their own thing. Why does it bother you? Don’t you have more important things to worry about? Yes, you do, yes you do. I don’t mind anybody. I don’t care. I am trying to distract my thoughts with something else and just trying to refresh my mind by looking around, smoking a cigarette, and wondering. I like to wonder. Nothing specific. I mean, sometimes you have to live. There is no need to overthink anything. There is no need to worry about anything until something terrible happens. And even if something terrible happened, you can still think of something good. You can still change your mindset. You have to try it sometimes. You can always change your life.

The cigarette was burning to the end, and he threw it out with his last long drag. He turned around, exhaling the cloud of smoke into the air, and grasping the entrance door handle, he walked back into the bar. Something changed inside of him. He felt better inside. He felt like he belonged there. He felt like he had returned home. A home, that only place where we all, no matter how fucked up, feel safe, warm, wanted, and all the troubles go away at home.

He ordered another beer and a shot of whiskey. Let’s speed up the recovery, he thought. The whiskey shot went down smoothly. It felt liberating. Sometimes people must fill themselves up with rough shit to feel better later. It helped. Beer chased it all down well, and the feeling of easiness overcame him. His problems didn’t seem to bother him anymore. The lamps with spinning fans on the ceiling looked good. The random pedestrians walking by looked better. It is what it is, he thought. It’s true what they say; the end of one thing is the beginning of something new. New life was about to start. It’s not dark yet. It’s too soon to feel that way. Life always comes at you in waves. Things change with time. Time changes who you are, and sometimes even you have to change at the end.

“You want another one?” The bartender asked.
“Sure, thank you.”

She brought a new beer in about a few seconds, perfect service. He smiled and thanked her again after seeing the new cold beer on the bar top. There was this beer, and there were a few more. Then it was time to go home. It was getting late. He was getting lit. He had to drive home regardless. He had to be careful. Who needs more trouble in one day?

He paid his tab and put on his leather jacket. He went to the bathroom. The bathroom was a narrow room with a high ceiling and black and red walls. He washed his hands and looked at himself in the mirror. He was still there. He looked more serious and sad than usual, but it was him in that mirror. The man who just parted with his past and will be moving into his new life right after he leaves this bar. It’s going to be ok, he thought. You’ve had enough for one day. You did what you could. It was time to move on anyway. He knew it. He knew it all along.

He walked out of the bar and onto the tiny street. It was getting darker now and felt a bit colder too. He pulled out a new cigarette and lit it. He strolled towards his car, smoking his cigarette, not thinking about anything anymore. The wind blew a bit harder as he turned the corner of the street. Trees moved their naked branches, and the dead leaves from the last Fall along with his six-figure salary, were blown away just like that. He didn’t pay much attention to the wind, leaves, or anything. He just wanted to go home to his wife and son. Tomorrow will be another day. Tomorrow will be a new future – the future which we all always anticipate so much but also are so afraid of at the same time. He started his car. The twenty-year-old engine roared cold and tired. The white exhaust clouds came out of the muffler polluting the cold suburban evening air. He pulled out of the parking space, onto the street, and into his new life.

Lost in New York City: Part I

~ John Loraine ~ 11 Comments

I arrived in New York City on early Monday morning. I’ve recently got a new job. It was the best thing that happened to me in a long time, getting a new job. After eight months of nothingness, misery, and unemployment, I was a decent human being again. I was back to normal. I could even write again. There was no need to hustle and no need to live on my last dollar anymore. I began to work for a major and well-known financial institution. I was a contract employee, and even though contractors are never even remotely close to employees in terms of general compensation and benefits and all that good shit that we all are thriving for, I was happy at last. I felt like I’ve made it. I, who came from nothing, who came to this country with nothing more than two bags of bullshit and high hopes for a brighter future, have finally made it. I was able to graduate from one of the top business schools in Philly. I worked for various companies, from real estate to medical devices to fucking financing. And here I was, the major player has offered me a new gig. This Company’s name I could proudly put on my resume as one that will open so many opportunities and doors for me in this country where both idiots and dreamers have an equal chance. 

I have booked a hotel right by Times Square, on 47th Avenue, in the “tourist’s heart” of New York, the Big Apple, the City of all the Cities, the power, the money, the big shot, the big shit. I never knew before that my Company had three different buildings in the Manhattan area. Two were across the street from each other in midtown, which reminded me of the Twin Towers. The third one was 15 miles away, downtown. Of course, I booked my hotel closer to the two across the street from one another since I thought that was where I was going to. I was wrong. The lady at the front desk has told me that the building I was looking for is on the other side of Manhattan, downtown. Fuck. I took another cap for another $20 to go to the other side of Town. I paid and walked out with my laptop bag and the mid-size travel luggage bag, and the fucking umbrella which I had to purchase first coming out of the train station. It has been raining in New York since the early morning, and the forecast wasn’t any better for the next few days.

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My Iggy Pop Experience

~ John Loraine ~ Leave a comment

That morning I was driving to work happy. There indeed was a smile on my face, and some weird naïve internal happiness was coming from the deep down of my poor little soul. I felt like life was good, even when it really wasn’t, and I was just fucking happy like a child is happy. This wasn’t an average morning, and my mood on an ordinary morning while driving to work is rather pissed. Iggy Pop played in my car, “I am a passenger, and I ride, and I ride…” blasted from my speakers as I’ve was driving into the morning madness of work and school traffic and all those poor schmucks who were out there just like me, early in the morning trying to make it happen for them. I didn’t care for them, I barely cared for myself. But I was trying to make it. 

I was a poor fucking immigrant who somehow ended up working for a company that I despised for everything they did, everything they stood for, and I hated all those fuckers I had to face every day in the office. The reason I was happy that morning was that Iggy Pop was in town, and I was going to see his concert later that day in downtown Philly. The one and only, the mean and cool, the Godfather of Punk, Iggy fucking Pop, was on tour with his new band, new music “Post Pop Depression,” and I would never miss the chance to see that show. It was a great fucking day for me at once, and I still recall that great feeling four years later. 

I’ve listened to Iggy Pop’s music all day long, at the gym in the morning, and at work in the office while working. Even listening to his music made me feel different, made me feel like I don’t give a fuck, made me feel like all the lost souls feel than they find themselves desperate and misunderstood. It was a Friday, the fucking long-time coming Friday of April 15, 2016. I usually didn’t have too much work to do on Fridays, but that one was pretty fucking occupied. I didn’t mind. I had plans for the night, I had a concert to go to and needed the time to pass by as fast as possible. 

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Uber Story: Saint Patrick’s Day

~ John Loraine ~ 19 Comments

I woke up with a little bit of a headache on St. Patrick’s Day morning. I’ve had some wine last night. I was tired of driving 16 hours for Uber and when I came home, I decided to take it easy. My life was not easy then and everything seemed to be working against me. I’ve lost two nice corporate jobs last year and now I’ve been full-time employed, or self-employed, or whatever the fuck you call this, driving for Uber. I’ve become just “a driver who drove random people around the town for a living.” I was also an inspired writer who never fucking had any time to sit down and write anything because all I could think about was how in the fuck am I going to pay my bills this month. Seven years of college and ten years of professional business career experience went to shit and all of a sudden, I was not needed anywhere and starving for money. My shit was out of luck and so was my life.

March 17th, 2017 was a nice, warm, and sunny day. Perfect weather to get shit-faced for a holiday like that. I woke up feeling sick and tired but I had no time or opportunity to recover from the constant sleep deprivation, habitual frustration, anxiety, light obesity, anger management issues, light form of alcoholism, and impulsive smoking. A complete package. Little that I knew what this day will bring to me later on.

The cold water was running down from my faucet into my hands as I was trying to wash away my tired, puffed-up, swollen face. It felt great, very refreshing. I don’t think it was helping my bad life situation and overall sadness but it was something. I brushed my teeth, took a shower, and made my breakfast. The usual routine. Nothing special. I thought about a bottle of cold beer in the fridge but then I thought about the smell of it in the car and the passengers possibly complaining and Uber locking down my account. Fuck that, I thought. That wasn’t an option. But it was a Saturday, a St. Patrick’s Day for fuck’s sake, who would ever complain about the alcohol smell? I couldn’t take any risks. I needed the money. The bills were handing over my head like a ton of bricks waiting until I wasn’t ready and then fall down on my head squashing me and my misery creating just a puddle of shit on the pavement. All I needed was to survive another fucking working day.

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The first night of 2020

~ John Loraine ~ Leave a comment

As this decade fades and a new one begins, I am up since 3:30 in the morning not sleeping. The first night of the new decade in the new 2020 year and I am already experiencing insomnia. Why in the fuck I cannot sleep tonight? I don’t know. Maybe that Starbucks coffee in the late afternoon was unnecessary? Maybe I am too excited to be here? Maybe I am just a lunatic? This did happen to me before. It always happens around the same time too, 3 fucking 30 A.M. I am turning and twisting, getting uncomfortable, getting up to pee, my brain is getting all fired up and here I am, not fucking sleeping. Instead, I am laying in my bed and having a heavy fucking riff with myself, debating on some random topic. Here I am, 3:30 in the morning, not able to sleep, having an imaginary conversation with my friend, lying in bed all tired and out of my fucking mind. Why? 

The new decade has just begun and I would like to welcome you ‘all to it. How was your New Year celebration? Did you feel a bit hungover afterward? Did you overindulge this last night celebrating and getting all cheered up about the New Year? People always do get all happy and excited about the New Years’ coming. They are ever hopeful and they wish everyone a great year and all that good shit they wish around themselves and others. And then they fucking drink themselves to death trying to make sure that all those stupid fucking wishes come true ASAP in the new year.  

Well, let me tell you something. They might come true and they might not. I guess, somebody has to do some work in order to make these wishes come true. Somebody has to make the magic work. Who that might be, right? Bragging about myself, I haven’t gotten drunk this New Year at all. In fact, one of my new year’s resolution for this year is to quit drinking alcohol at all. So, I only had one bottle of $20 French wine and I’ve been drinking it from 7 pm to about 3 in the morning. And I wasn’t drunk at all. I wasn’t even trying to get drunk for one last time. Fuck all that, I thought. I am going to be in charge of my life and I am going to make the right decisions for myself and my family. I don’t just hope that the New Year will bring me luck, money, success, and health, etc. New year or old year, this decade, that decade, it doesn’t matter to me. I am going to be in charge and work hard to make things happen. Only that way, I think, your fucking empty wishes will actually monetize and have a chance to come true. Only by hard work and a proper agenda the magic will actually happen. 

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