My Drunk Life

By 

Kimberly

A good number of people I talk to seem to have their wacky stories of the first time they became inebriated. As in most of these story-telling situations, I'm half-listening to the story being told, half-thinking of a similar story of mine to tell and maybe one-up. Then, I find myself zooming through my past to uncover the first moment I felt all woozy and wobbly after a cup of bubbly (or other alcoholic drink.) But once I think I've backtracked to that very moment, I then remind myself of an even EARLIER time I hit the sauce.

And then it actually hits me - I've been drinking since the 3rd grade.

For my fellow Roman-Catholics out there reading this, I'm sure you're thinking, "Psh, BIG DEAL." That's because A. Your first drink was also a sip of Jesus' blood at your First Communion, B. You're also Italian and/or Irish, or C. You were playing in Mommy's liquor cabinet again, weren't you? I happen to be an Italian-American Roman-Catholic, so I'm pretty sure my first alcoholic drink was the one presented to me as the blood of my presumed Lord and savior (which, at the time, explained the "icky, bittery" taste to it.) But transubstantiation aside, I remember feeling  just the tiniest bit of joy in knowing that I was drinking a grown-up drink. 

Then, of course, there's the inevitable cousin's wedding. This is where I learned that appearances - when it comes to figuring out the difference between champagne and sparkling apple cider - can be deceiving, especially when the caterers have already poured the glasses and emptied the bottles. "Gee, this sparkling apple cider tastes kinda funny,"said a naïve, 14-year-old me. I didn't get drunk (or the slightest bit tipsy, for that matter,) but my brother, a college Freshman at the time, totally did. It was an interesting 2-hour car ride from Cincinnati back to Columbus, to say the least.

Let's skip ahead to high school, when I started drinking at family functions and during my school's Europe trip. Now, to give you an idea of the group of people I was traveling with, I'll mention this: I attended the high school that Heathers (1989) was based on. No joke. Needless to say, it was uptight, mostly conservative, and, like all high schools, teeming with assholery. We traveled to Spain, Italy, and Greece, where the respective legal purchasing ages for alcohol are: 16, none (16 in certain public places), and... none. Of course, what do the chaperones so pleasantly and courteously remind us before we go out on the town? That the drinking and purchasing age in all those countries is 18. I mean, I can understand that they didn't want a bunch of obnoxious, idiotic, drunk teenagers on their hands, but to flat out lie? I'm still pissed about that. I was 16 at the time, so I whenever I would order alcohol at a restaurant or bar I was thinking that I was getting away with something, only to discover the truth back in the good ole U. S. of A.

A sneaky 16-year-old me on a boat between Capri and Sorrento.

Two years after my Europe trip (which I took the summer after my Sophomore year,) I studied abroad in Madrid during the final semester of my Senior year. I ended up meeting a lot of great people from all over the world. This was mostly due to the "Copa de bienvenida", a little event my language school provided every Monday evening at a bar located right around the corner from the school for new incoming students to meet and mingle with others. 

Aware of my status as a citizen from (arguably) the most douchey country in the world, I was quite nervous for reasons that today seem pretty silly, because everyone I met was incredibly gracious and excited to meet one another. But I believe it was one of the first instances in which I discovered alcohol as "liquid confidence," as they call it. Thus, I always credit the Copa de bienvenida for both giving me the chance to meet some amazing people and discover the social lubricating powers of sangría and Desperados beer.

That takes us to my college days, those of which I am currently experiencing. Still underage, I've almost developed my alcohol tolerance perhaps to the highest it's ever gonna get. Other than sangría and Desperados beer, I know what my North American "poisons" are (rum and Coke, Stella Artois.) These are the glorious four years of discovery, in which halfway through I will be able to flash my driver's license with confidence. 

But really, there isn't (and shouldn't be) any shame for already having a "drunk history". (At age 20 and a half, I should have a drunk history, despite the U.S.'s rather strict drinking laws.) 

Unless I did something so completely and utterly terrible and unforgivable whilst under the influence or developed an unhealthy, socially damaging habit, then I consider myself a-okay in the drinking department. I'm sure a good number of you have more epic, illustrious stories to tell, but unlike the situation mentioned in the very first paragraph, I'm not looking to win Best Drunk Story or Best Text From Last Night 2010. 

Instead, I'd like to think I have left a beautiful, shining tapestry of empty bottles, cans, and glasses through which I've drunk alcoholic beverages -- one that illustrates the development of my alcohol tolerance and adult self, from my First Communion up untl that last bottle of 312 Urban Wheat Ale I nursed last night.

And, if you drink, hopefully you can imagine your own tapestry as well.

Now Presenting... Avi Buffalo.

By: Valerie

For the musically inclined, finding one or multiple summer soundtracks is key. Something about the summer air not only uplifts your soul, but also your ears. Like plants, we lean towards the sun. UV rays seeping into our pores, outdoor barbeques, watermelon slices and a plethora of smiles- only to be accompanied by the melodies that define your glorious months. You look back upon those moments, those sounds that evoke the slightest sense of warmth as fall’s cold air rushes through rustling leaves above your head. Its is July, so lets us bask on a little bit longer, tap our toes, and lie down in the fresh cut grass.




Avi Buffalo’s self -titled debut (released in April 2010 on Sub Pop), is an album that has been sitting patiently in my iTunes library awaiting its rotation amongst a cluster of brand new music and has slowly but surely made its place in my go-to summer picks. Avi Buffalo, is a quartet hailing from Long Beach, California. Sheridan Riley on drums, Rebecca Coleman on keyboards along with vocals bring the estrogen to the group while Avigdor Zahner-Insberg (where the ‘Avi’ comes from) provides lead vocals and the strum of the guitar complimentary of Arin Fazio on the bass. While their album has had much buzz and success, the majority of the band members are simply recent high school graduates, most of them being between the ages of 18 and 19 with the exception of Riley, age 21. With an album with tracks titled “Summer Cum” and “Five Little Sluts,” how can you not be intrigued? I suppose I am a bit of a pervert, so on I listened.

The album’s first track “Truth Sets In” sets the pace for the breezy forty minutes you have left to hear. A whirlwind of ease flows through the crooning voice of Zahner-Insberg mumbling his awkward woes. Being such young individuals, they write about what they know best- youth, and dealing with it. Free of clichés, there are no tracks about cliques, varsity football games and the cafeteria’s mystery meat. (Well, there is that line “your lips are like tiny pieces of bacon” in their first single “What’s In it For?”) Track after track brings forth that feeling we all once knew, that vulnerability and naivety every teenager felt. The critique of yourself in the mirror for hours, the dread of school dances, and the about face you did at the sight of your crush in the hall, and the longing expectation felt within interactions with members of the opposite sex. The moments we thought meant the world to us then that we can’t help but cherish now.  As J.D. Salinger epitomized the tale of coming of age with “Catcher in the Rye,” Avi Buffalo attempts their stab at it with tales of romance, warped relationships, and questions of existence, death, along with odes to self-discovery and doubt.


Musically, they are talented. Avi Zahner-Insberg’s raspy, child like howls reminisce those of Karen O. in the Where the Wild Things Are soundtrack, simply more understated. The tone of Avi’s voice is also very similar that of The Thrills’ lead singer Conor Deasy. Each world stumbles upon another, only adding to each songs quirky, awkward element. On tracks such as “One Last” where Rebecca Coleman’s vocals truly come forth, both singers bounce of each other’s sounds. Both scratchy voiced singers, Coleman and Insberg achieve a harmony that is a ying and yang. While Insberg coolly instills himself in our presence, Coleman picks up the pace and brings a tinge of life to our mellow. Though frequently compared to The Shins, I being a devout Shins listener, beg to differ. I would consider this band to be what would become the result of a fusion of Rilo Kiley and Woods-if that makes sense to my fellow music heads. Each song on the album has a quality that makes it easy to enter; each track can be hummed along to. Their one flaw is in the endings of their songs, sometimes dragging on when one could have made due without the dramatic winding. But hey, they’re young! They have plenty of time to correct a very promising start. While many other artists in various bands make tracks to jab our brain in an instant, Avi Buffalo simply sinks right in. The melodies are simple and sweet sounding, constantly blended with soft, eerie echoes. Perfect listening for the nights you spend drinking beers for your friends, thinking of your current crush, and even on your adventures walking around in the summer sun.

Key Tracks: “What’s In It For?” “Summer Cum,” “One Last”


Watch their video for "What's In It For?" HERE.

Whit Stillman V. Common People

By: Lani

If you’re my age, you remember certain things about the 90’s. A lot of these things transcend generational lines, like Titanic, the Macarena and owning a pair of Guess jeans (I got my pair at a resale shop). But mainly you remember things marketed towards children, things on Nickelodeon, or if you’re parents were loaded (or like me, your dad worked for the cable company), Cartoon Network.

We don't even like each other!

However, if you’re in your early 20’s, I’m willing to bet, you definitely don’t remember the Whit Stillman movie The Last Days of Disco. Actually, I’m not sure if anyone remembers it. Well, besides the Criterion people, who added it to their DVD collection (supposedly one of the best collections in the world… supposedly) and the programming people on the Style Network, who’ve been playing it in the late night slot for the past month. I’ve caught the movie (from different random points) a few times.

Jarvis is judging you.

The Last Days of Disco is one of those things from the 90’s that I’m just now experiencing, over 10 years after the fact, like the band Pulp. I had heard of Pulp a few times, mainly mentions of the William Shatner version of ‘Common People’ on Vh1, (did you know buying into something for the sake of irony existed before 2003? ME EITHER).  I had to come around to listening to them (and loving them) on my own. Now I can’t stop listening to Pulp. Once I had a revelation while listening to “Common People”, but I don’t remember it now. Unlike my affection for Pulp, The Last Days of Disco did not fill me with second hand nostalgia.

What do you mean you don't remember us?!

The Last Days of Disco is supposed to take place in the “very early 80’s,” but it’s totally 90’s. It stars Chloe Sevigny and Kate Beckinsale for Christ’s sake… and that guy that dated Lorelei in ‘Gilmore Girls’ …and that other guy that was Mandy Moore’s future brother-in-law in How to Deal… you know, people who hold zero social relevance anymore.

Like almost all of Pulp’s songs, The Last Days of Disco tells the [melodramatic, boring] stories of a small group of young people: their trials, their tribulations, their love affairs. And in an attempt to add more subtext, the whole thing is set against New York City in the disco days of Studio 54.

Chloe Sevigny plays Alice, the “narrator” of the story. She says less than the assholes that surround her, but we get to see Stillman torment her the most. Alice and her coworker/roommate Charlotte (Beckinsale), both work at a publishing house and spend their free time going to the discos. They have a third roommate, but she says nothing of value. Because she’s a woman, duh… She just goes on dates with assholes that make Alice and Charlotte ~judge~ her - not that they really have any room to do so.

Can't you see the torment in her eyes?! ... or at least the boredum...

Alice has a one-night-stand with another disco goer, played by Dr. Wilson, I mean Robert Sean Leonard, and Alice contracts herpes and gonorrhea from him. It’s later revealed that Alice was a virgin before this roll in the hay with Dr. Wilson.:

Alice Kinnon: If when making love, the man... *spurts*... outside the woman, does that count as sexual intercourse?

Tom Platt: "Spurts"?

Alice Kinnon: If it... *squirts* outside, without getting in... does that count as losing your virginity?

Tom Platt: No part of the man got in at any time?

Alice Kinnon: I don't think so.

Tom Platt: I think part has to get in to be considered sexual intercourse.

Alice Kinnon: So then I was a virgin.

That’s right, if you surrender your purity, you must suffer! Alice tries to keep her V.D. on the D.L., but Charlotte, the bitch, blows her cover. Right in front of all their “friends” too.

Charlotte, Queen Bitch Face

And that’s the thing that struck me most about this film; Charlotte and Alice pretty much hate each other. They are each other’s foils and they’re companions with each other because they went to [a “prestigious”/expensive] college together and work together, but they don’t really like each other at all.  It’s all about convenience with them. Honestly, I have been in a relationship like that. My best friend growing up and I were exactly like this. We grew to not even like each other, have almost nothing in common, but we couldn’t face school alone. We just needed someone to commiserate with and it didn’t hurt that the other person lived on the same block. Of course our friendship ended in a big blow-out, just like Alice and Charlotte.

Actually it’s hard to believe that anyone in this film likes each other. The characters are just not  likeable. They’re not even endearing in the quirky-amusing way that Juno and every other character is today.  They’re all just assholes and I guess that’s a form of “realism.” They’re all just like the people in Pulp’s songs. Except, because Jarvis Cocker isn’t narrating, it’s hard to feel anything for these hollow shells called people. The dialog is painful, but not because it’s particularly bad (except for Charlotte’s line: “You and Holly are the first female friends I’ve ever had!”), but because it’s hard to watch these people interact so rudely with each other.  

 ...I'm so ashamed to be seen with you...

The whole thing is set in the Disco Clubs of the late 70’s and early 80’s, but that becomes inconsequential, because the characters never dance on screen (except in the subway), they’re never shown enjoying the fun parts of “clubbing” (assuming that there are fun aspects of it). They usually lounge around languorously, drink and bullshit. They talk about the kind of stuff you’d expect from recent college grads, gossip, drugs, and one particularly “deep” conversation about whether or not people can “really” change and the effects of media.

[Josh describes Lady and the Tramp]

Josh Neff: [referring to Lady and the Tramp] There is something depressing about it, and it's not really about dogs. Except for some superficial bow-wow stuff at the start, the dogs all represent human types, which is where it gets into real trouble. Lady, the ostensible protagonist, is a fluffy blond Cocker Spaniel with absolutely nothing on her brain. She's great-looking, but - let's be honest - incredibly insipid. Tramp, the love interest, is a smarmy braggart of the most obnoxious kind - an oily jailbird out for a piece of tail, or... whatever he can get.

Charlotte Pingress: Oh, come on.

Josh Neff: No, he's a self-confessed chicken thief, and all-around sleazeball. What's the function of a film of this kind? Essentially as a primer on love and marriage directed at very young people, imprinting on their little psyches the idea that smooth-talking delinquents recently escaped from the local pound are a good match for nice girls from sheltered homes. When in ten years the icky human version of Tramp shows up around the house, their hormones will be racing and no one will understand why. Films like this program women to adore jerks.

Well, in that case, films like The Last Days of Disco program young people to adore the sounds of their own bullshit, write it down and make a movie out of it. (That is what mumblecore is right)? Whit Stillman has had an influence on some formally young people, who are now formidable directors. Stillman is said to have influenced Wes Anderson and Noah Baumbach, and I get it, but I feel like this is the best case of Godard’s idea of “It’s not where you take things from—it’s where you take them to.” Sure, both Anderson and Baumbach write about upper-middle/upper class white people with emotional problems, but they take Stillman-esque characters to a different place than Stillman. Anderson takes them to the story-book absurd and Baumbach takes them to a place where they can be emotionally “real” (instead of just assholes spouting opinions).

I only went with him 'cause he looks like you.

It’s not hard to picture any of these characters being taken aside, by JC (no not that one, this one) and told to pretend they don’t have money, pretend they never went to school. And that’s what it boils down to: these people have enough money to live in the city (even if they have a few roommates) and they have jobs and they are upwardly mobile (ie- not common people). They do cocaine and they don’t have to pay for it. They dance and drink and screw, but not because there is nothing left to do, or because their lives have slipped out of view. They do all this because they can afford it and nothing more is expected of them. And because it is Disco.

No matter how much Alice and Charlotte and the gang hate each other, I hope they can resolve their issues enough to meet up at some point in the future, say The Year 2000.

Listen to Whit Stillman talk about the commercial failure of The Last Days of Disco.

 

Finding Catharsis in Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (1988)

By: 
Kimberly

This is just a guesstimate, but I'm certain that about 99.99% of all cinephiles have that go-to movie to watch upon feeling lovesick, unstable, or, as Mexican singer Lola Beltrán warbles in one of her painfully exquisite ballads, infeliz (unhappy.) For most red-blooded American women born after 1968 or so, that movie has been one of the John Hughes variety (Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, blah blah blah.) While I'm unashamedly guilty of eating a bag of popcorn in bed and watching only the scenes that contain Duckie, I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a large part of me that identified with Pepa from Pedro Almodóvar's 1988 comedy Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.

Yes, I know, it's a foreign film. The fact that I'm even writing an entire article on some hot-shot "furn" director in my debut post is enough to get some eyes rolling and some voices muttering, "pretentious." But after watching this film several times over the past four or so years, it still amazes me the lack of recognition and popularity it has gained, despite its inclusion in the Viva Pedro DVD box set and a number of other reasons I will get to - but I musn't get too ahead of myself.

Set amongst the background of a brightly-colored, bustling Madrid, Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (WOTV) tells the story of Pepa, a television actress and voice-dubber desperately trying to contact her estranged (and married) lover  and co-worker Iván before he sets off for Stockholm. Her attempts, however, are continually thwarted by Iván's wife and Pepa's distraught supermodel friend Candela, who seeks help from Pepa after realizing that she has become romantically involved with a wanted Shiite terrorist. Coincidentally, as she is also in the process of hopefully renting out her penthouse apartment, Iván's son and his fiancé visit the place as prospective residents. All of these appear to be distractions and roadblocks preventing Pepa from getting to Iván, but the (supposedly) feminist lawyer whom Pepa seeks to defend Candela happens to be - *gasp* - Iván's new lover!

While Almodóvar is known for cleverly switching the genre of a film without the audience realizing the shift*, WOTV seems to consistently be two genres at once. "It's a comedy, but no one is laughing," quips the narrator in the English-language trailer. It is a comedy, but not so much so that we don't become detached from Pepa, making her a punching bag for which to relieve our romantic fallouts. (That's pretty much Decent Screenwriting 101, but I can appreciate and point out the small accomplishments to make my argument, can't I?)

I don't want to imitate life in movies; I want to represent it. -Pedro Almodóvar (via)

Another thing Almodóvar is known for is his familiarity and understanding of the wild and wonderful World of Women. With a majority of his oeuvre containing films centered around female characters, his insatiable fascination is undeniable. He admits that he doesn't quite know where his interest stems from, but the important part is that it's apparent, and that, as a member of the female sex, I happen to think he's right on the button when it comes to sympathetically and understandably portraying Pepa's distress.


For a large part of the film, Pepa struggles to remain emotionally, mentally, and, at times, physically stable. In order to sleep at night, she takes barbiturates and misses a dubbing session with Iván, who, of course, she's been trying to contact since their break-up. She faints, calls his home and curses out his wife, wanders the city at night searching for him, tosses a telephone out the window, and accidentally sets the bed she and Iván shared on fire, despite her prospects of renting out the apartment as soon as possible. We watch her as she weeps, mopes, and stuffs Iván's remaining possessions and silly gifts into a suitcase. "Soy infeliz", the Lola Beltrán song mentioned above, is the gut-wrenching theme to Pepa's unhappiness, and plays during the opening credits.

But there comes a point in Pepa's hysteric state of being (which comes before the bed fire) when she decides to face her problems head on, whether on the verge of a nervous breakdown or not (and, hell, she has every right to be.) "I'm sick of being good," she proclaims, as she chucks a handful of sleeping pills into a blender of gazpacho. When I'm fed up with something, I often repeat this line to myself in the original Spanish: Estoy harta de ser buena. (It's quite therapeutic - I highly recommend doing it.) 

Like most of you probably reading this, I've been through my fair share of heartbreaks and romantic torments. While I may not have stood outside an ex-lover's apartment at night, hurled a rotary telephone out the window of a swank penthouse apartment I'm hoping to sublet, or felt the need to take sleeping pills in order to get some shut-eye, I wouldn't blame Pepa for doing it. Also, it's just so cathartic to watch Pepa go to the lengths that we only wish we had to guts to go to. In this sense, Almodóvar seems to have tapped into this desire that I, at least, can relate to. As the auteur so insightfully says, "Cinema can fill in the empty spaces of your life and your loneliness." (via) In the case of WOTV, he certainly has done that,  using his understanding and interest of the World of Women to make a film that allows us to cheer on and sympathize with a character who, in any other film, would likely be portrayed as a "crazy ex-girlfriend" - an all-too-common and extremely condescending theme in most movies.

After all, life is both a comedy and a drama - especially when it comes to breaking up with douche bags who most likely don't deserve us anyway. (We can surely agree on that, right?) Almodóvar just chooses to represent it as it is - both, while using that signature bright color palette to accurately depict those burning emotions one gets as s/he suffers a break-up/rejection/any other romantic failure. And it's this representation of life, of desperation and lovesickness, that makes me slip this DVD into the player whenever something major-ly shitty happens in my so-called love life and makes wonder why I feel like the only 20-year-old American college student who has seen this movie and cherishes it like any Sixteen Candles or Pretty in Pink.


SO WHY AREN'T ANY OF YOU PATHETIC, LONELY PEOPLE WATCHING IT?!