I never have a headache, but today I did. Twelfth day without liquor was in every way shitty. I felt pressure within my skull. My eyes grumbled when I changed the item I was looking at. In addition, my feet went dead. Normally our loveable two parson dogs seemed today to be a pair of devilish killer terriers.
I woke up at five in the morning and all day I was tired as hell. After the salmon soup I went out as a bumble whip. Awakening from the couch was painful, but I had to knock myself up and go to another stand up club of mine, East Point in Helsinki.
Argh! I felt like I didn’t exist – I felt like I wouldn’t be in the world, but I would follow human suffering through dirty and hardly transparent sunroof. Goddamn it! I had an outside feeling and I was going to present stand up comic, where one of the most important things is to be present. I was afraid that today booze really will affect my presentation fist time in my life. I mean the lack of it.
Probably I’m suffering from withdrawal symptoms. Also my peculiar sleep pattern is probably due to my condition ”cold turkey” (a new word – I learned it from those harsh alcohol drinking professionals who have encouraged me during my dry days).
However everything in the East Point went well. As always, I was the MC – host, warm up guy, master of ceremonies, motorcycle, mother cocker, whore, anything you want – so my contribution consisted mainly of improvising with the audience. I revealed them about my liquor strike and how my daughter Sandra told some fifteen years ago to my mother that she was late from play school ”because daddy drove drunk and tried to escape the police”. The audience exploded into laughter, and I relaxed. My drowsiness evaporated completely when I also managed to flirt enjoyably with the front-row Heidi and her grandmother who had both wrists in the plaster.
I landed on the ground immediately at home. I paid the property tax 18 days late. Fuck, every fucking cent I earn, some fucking clown steals from me. Now, when I don’t drink, those pigs can snitch even more from my purse. What is my crime? To own a plot and a house, half of those, to be correct.
My last week’s update ”I promise to stay as many days without booze as this Facebook Status will increase in likes” seems to stuck on number 147. Therefore I have to be sober for 147 days. It means more than 20 weeks – almost five months – without sparkling apple wine, Rapids Ear booze, Finnish Lion booze, Noble Wine, Nobelaner beer, Christmas gluhwein, hard Mint Cocoa, very hard tea, super hard coffee and a quickly drunk bottle of salt liquorice liqueur before leaving to bar – and those fucking liqueur candies!
147 days will be the second longest drinking break in my life. Sometimes in the 1990’s I had a six month liquor strike, when I tried to find faith. Jesus, however, did not agree to play with me because I wasn’t enough childlike: a harmless fool who believes everything someone says.
In Yemen, a Finnish couple, Atte and Leila Kaleva, were kidnapped in December 2012. They were imprisoned without spirits for 140 days. And they survived! Maybe I’ll also have a press conference if I survive this drinking brake, and tell everyone like Atte did, that I didn’t get any actual trauma from my affliction even though it had nothing to do with pleasure. And that now I am going to run for the Finnish Parliament!
Surprisingly well this new life has gone. The liquor has not made a tunnel to my mind at all and my nerves have been mostly under control. One time I called my sneaker ”fucking whore” when it refused to suck my foot in, but jumped out of my hands under the table to hide. When the chili vegetables burned in the oven, I dumped that black shit furiously on the stove.
Somehow my nerves are still confused, as if on the alert. I sleep really… not bad, but rather strangely. Last night I fell asleep on the couch at 22 o’clock. I woke up cheery at 2 o’clock. I messed around awake all night and the next day. I fell asleep at 16 o’clock. I woke up at 19 o’clock. I was ready to go again all night, but I fell asleep on the sofa at 24 o’clock. I woke up at 04:30. Since then, I have been awake, tinkering of all kinds.
General Television’s program ”Prism Studio” had a topic about sleeping. The program reported that a man is a diurnal animal who should sleep at night. In addition, the old thing in the program was that drinking alcohol greatly reduced sleep quality.
When I drink, I sleep like lunatic. Although I would drink secretly in my study, Fairy always knows when I have ”popped” at the bottle: in the early hours my drunken mind starts to howl and scream raunchy words (cunt) and sad confessions (my heart is broken).
Those comedians, with whom I have had gig trips and spent nights in the hotel room, are no longer willing to share the room with me. To Mike I am forever a man who sang in my sleep: ”The monster is in the shower”. JP Fabrick scared his pants off, when I got up in the middle of the night, sat up in bed and began to jabber unknown language as if I were possessed. Mr. Birchcape woke up in the hotel room for the fact that I was staring at him murderously and then shouting ”who the fuck are you”.
Don’t you know who the fuck I am? My name is Risto Koo, and I’m an alcoholic.
Except that I have cleaned up my office during the nights and also organized my goods, I also have asked the Finnish Literature Society archives, if they want me to hand over more than ten kilograms of shitty texts that were sent to me, when I founded the Lousy Literature Society and held a writing competition almost twenty years ago. They replied ”yes”.
Playing with booze is extremely self-centered action that makes you shiftless. It took me five years to send that modest e-mail to Literature archives. My granny turned 93 last summer, but I didn’t make a congratulatory call even though It was always my intention. I have not made that call yet, not to mention that I had visited her either.
Now that I have time and a clear mind, I finally called her today.
Granny told me she was going to the doctor tomorrow. ”They will take x-rays of my genius brains – or was it my brilliant genitals”, she said. We laughed our asses out. Grandma was happy that Risto called. So was I.