Dramamine, Zealotry, and the American Dream

Sometimes when I'm alone I think about things really hard and then I get a headache and throw up on my shirt and subsequently the rest of my self. But then I eat a bunch of Dramamine and feel better. Recently though this hasn't been working nearly as well as the movies and the media and Modest Mouse in that one song said that it would. So I've come to a crossroads: either I can find more powerful drugs, which probably won't be available over the counter and will demand shady ventures out into the pit of Harvard Square where all the winos and dirty kids with bad haircuts hang out, or to stop thinking so hard. I've decided to stop thinking so hard, at least until my Dramamine tolerance drops back down to a healthy nil.

By the way, is it still all right to use the term "wino" to describe one of those alcoholic bums on the street? Or has that too fallen under the sword of those euphemism-touting politicos of this do-nothing generation of American academics? I think "wino" is a perfectly acceptable term. Is it mean? Absolutely. Is it meaner than gently calling the people "unemployed urban campers with alcohol abuse issues"? I don't think so; most winos probably wouldn't even understand that name, because they're too fucking drunk. Maybe my moral compass isn't as fine as your average specimen of the New England intelligentsia, but then again I break that mold in a lot of ways, most notably in that I don't like modern art and never jerk off to The New Yorker.

While I'm still free associating, I'd like to add that I'm really don't have anything against The New Yorker. I mean, sure, it's smug, pretentious, opaque to the point of being outright vapid, and home to short stories so bad they make me lose hope in the future of American literature--if not literacy itself--but I'm still deeply grateful that it's still around. Just imagine what those editors would be doing otherwise. Can you say 'most obnoxious winos ever'?

Now let me tell you a little story which is actually true:

A few weeks ago I was riding the T from Boston to Cambridge with two of my Harvard buddies. The cart was crowded and we were standing up. Across the isle from us was sitting a dirty, hairy man who was clearly drunk. This was about 8:30 on a Friday night. I saw him tap a well-dressed man on the shoulder and ask if he would spare some change. The man told him he couldn't, and after harassing him for a minute longer, the dirty man eventually gave up and looked down at the ground. Then I saw him reach into his pocket and pull out a wad of cash. He rifled through the bills, counting them, and from the corner of my eye I could see that he had at least twenty bucks. I tapped my friends' shoulders and gestured to the man. After a moment he put the cash away and looked again at the ground.

Then this fellow decided to ask us if we could spare any change.

"What do you need change for, man?" I said. "You've got more money that I do."
"What are you talking about?" he said.
"I just saw you holding a huge wad of cash."
"No you didn't."
"Yeah," I say, "You're probably right." And I proceeded to ignore him. But one of my friends, who is, incidentally, from Alaska, pressed on:
"Why should we give you money, anyway, if you're just going to use it to get booze?"
"Hey, you don't know that," said the man.
"Well are you?" asked my friend.
"Yeah, well, maybe I am, but so what?"
"You don't need that. You clearly don't need booze. Why should I give you money for booze?"
The guy was quiet for a minute, as if he couldn't process the question. And it turned out, he couldn't, because he responded like this:
"So what, are you some rich punk ass kid? Is that it?"
"No," said my friend, "You've got more money that I do."
"What the fuck do you know? You're just a punk ass kid. You just got everything given to you."
"No I haven't."
"Oh yeah?"
"I'm proud of what I've accomplished."
"So your mommy and daddy gave you all the money you need? Yeah? I bet if you asked them for a hundred dollars they'd just give it to you."
"Yeah, that's right," my friend finally resigned. "I'm just a rich punk ass kid."
"Punk ass kid," said the guy.

Then he went silent again and looked at the floor. A few people on the train were staring at us and the rest were trying to stare at anything else. Right before our stop came the man pulled out his wad of cash and counted it again.

The doors opened and we quickly got off and climbed up into Harvard Square. Before going back to our dorm my friend went to a liquor store and bought us some vodka. It cost eighteen dollars and eighty-nine cents.