Day 13. Father: I hate you, I love you

When the outdoor advertising of alcohol at the turn of this year is banned, my father can no longer stand on bus stops. He has been intoxicated for more than 50 years at every turn, but according to his blood tests he is prescribed by a doctor as a young boy. My father is a dangerous example of the fact that alcohol is not really harmful. (In reality, a barrel of home-made wine a week plus the actual booze begins to appear on his bluish face.)

Some school claims that alcoholism is not inherited. I don’t know a shit about the genes, but I know that at least the attitude toward alcohol can be inherited. As a kid I was always having fun while we had guests and everybody was drunk. One time my sister cried when my father was wrestling with mr. Lindholm in the kitchen. I was ashamed of my father only once, when he lost beer drinking competition in some kindergarten party. His drunkenness annoyed me only when he was in so lousy condition that he couldn’t fight me seriously on tennis court.

As a young man I hated and admired my father. I hated his way to eat a hot sausage: his way blow the sausage to make it cooler and his way to gobble it at the same time. (I’m actually guzzling my sausages nowadays exactly by the same method). I admired his use of alcohol. My photo gallery has an image where I am 12-year old boy and I sit in the sauna locker room with my father. We both have big green bottles of beer in our hands. Mun bottle is empty, props. I remember holding the bottle so I could look as cool and strong as my father next to me.

I do not blame you for anything, daddy. The reason for my drinking problem is that the outdoor advertising of alcohol was allowed, when I was a fragile child. LOL, muah, reps! I became drunk, because at the age of five in Helsinki, in the park of Esplanade, I saw two horses advertising beer. What a trauma! Fortunately, all the Finnish beer-horses will be shot dead after the new law on alcohol will be renewed. Future generations, my daughter’s children also, will be saved from the curse of wine. Hallelujah!

Day 12. Cold turkey on the menu

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.

Day 11. Press conference!

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!

Day 10. I sleep like lunatic

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.

DAY 9. My granny’s genitals

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.

Day 8. Daddy drove drunk and tried to escape the police

When you are long time without liquor (a week of dry cake behind), you have to face a variety of things in the clearest way. Today it was my dentist. Well, I’ve never lied drunk on her dental chair, but the two previous root treatments I trembled through in a good hungover. Of course, when I knew that I was going there the next day, I did not sink a bottle of 38 volts liquor Rapids Ear to my gills, but a bottle of Finnish Lion with only 32 volts.

Usually I drink – I used to drink – at least a couple of sparkling apple wines in the evening, but in the last few months when I tried to keep the blood glucose levels down, I tossed of mostly clear liquors. My dentist has repeatedly wondered how in the hell my teeth are crashing in my mouth, but I have not been able to tell her that every night I burst alcoholic sugar soup in my cheeks for hours and then I pass out on the couch without washing my teeth.

I guess I should not publicly admit this, but I’ve driven car hundreds of times in cannon-like hangover. Unsure about my condition I’ve been driving like a snail to the dentist but also to the Arse-market to buy ciggys and even to Melt Town’s sports center to play badminton.

The ”funny” thing happened ten years ago when I was taking Sandra to the daycare center. At the crossroads I saw a police crackdown on the right. I turned to the left, because I wanted to avoid the breath test. I made a forty kilometers run via Melt Towns Motorway and Helsinki back to the day-care center. Thank dog, the cops were gone! I’ve always tried to be honest with my child, so when Sandra asked why we are driving in the wrong direction, I said that dad does not want to face those blues shit caps, because dad might still have a bit of bad beer in the blood. My daughter understood the explanation and survived from that incident without trauma. So I thought until the next day, when I heard Sandra talking about our episode to my mother. This was her version of it: ”Grandma! I was late from my play school yesterday morning, because daddy drove the car drunk and tried to escape the police.”

I really don’t try to show of with my ”funny” booze achievements, but just show how idiotic an alcohol-dependent person can be. When sober, I would never even thought about driving drunk.

Sanna Ukkola, a journalist, wrote today on General Radio’s website about 11-year-old Matleena, who was killed by drunken driver a couple of years ago in Lappland Bay. The District Court gave that woman a two-year and seven-month sentence, which was reduced five months by Court of Appeal. At this moment, that cunt has already returned to freedom.

The right judgment for a child-killer drunk driver would be a death penalty, that the parents of the child could execute in their own way. I’m not kidding, although I know that one day the person kneeling down before the guillotine could be a certain stand-up comedian called Risto Koo Laky. Alcohol makes us so fucking dumb.

DAY 7. Door to hell

Day seven defeated. Strange how easy my life here under the Saints halo has been, when I’ve been tinkering with something all the time. I continued my office cleaning. Tomorrow I will be on the point where I can see the whole floor and vacuum it first time for three years. The flower pot mold on the laminatee that came down last year’s spring will soon be snow of the last summer, if such a brilliant language image is allowed.

Surprisingly, it has been simple to stay out of the wine barrel, but there has been some trials too. When I bought some candy from Arse-market, I realized that I did a horrible mistake: I bought liqueur confections! I have not eaten those for years, but today my subconscious mind made a trick. At first I was like fuck, of course I can eat liqueur candies while liquor strike – but then I googled about it. There was a warning that the indulge could start from a small mistake: a liqueur fondant, a sip of sacramental wine or even from using hand disinfectant.

One of those Google-fundamentalists was afraid of moments when he fills his cars ”pee boy” with a pound of ethanol. He wondered that what if, just when the fluid container is only a half a second away from his face, he will be striked by a sudden mental disorder, and he must knock down all the liquids to his jaw.

It is these kinds of stories that are puzzling me in my temperance. I want to be a free and wild artist now and forever, not a nasty, distressed ex-drunkard who stares at an liqueur confections bag and wonders whether the mouth of the bag is a door to hell.

I did not open that door, however. Not yet.

DAY 6. I almost killed my guinea pig

I was awake the whole last night. In my office upstairs I filed press cuttings of my career, arranged shelves and removed my ”agile ponyniquation” writings from Facebook, which I had written last week drunk as persimmon. I also put my life in an external order. I was clear and for once I had extra time! In addition, my nerves insisted on any activity.

I fell asleep at seven o’clock in the morning and woke up at three in the afternoon. I did not have a ”cannon head”, I mean hangover! Yet my first thought was: ”What the fuck did I write to internet at night? Run and destroy it all!”

All weird things happen at nights, when I drink. I still do not know where I lost the all the Chinese cabbage from my refrigerator last week. I probably did eat it with ketchup. God knows how many times I’ve been totally smashed and devoured Sandras Jelly Beans and Fairys protein quarks, waking in the morning when chicks’ rage.

Once in the condition ”zigzag roof” I watched the movie ”The Wall”, where Bob Geldof cuts his chesthair and eyebrows to hell with a razor blade. How to be, I also became inspired to cut all of my hair off: head, beard, eyebrows, pubic. My head and beard grew hair soon back. But I’ll never have a furry thing above my eyes again not to mention my ”angel eater”.

In one of the autumn nights I once released our guinea pig to freedom, because I got enough of it’s eternal whine. In the morning I woke up to Fairy’s scream and Sandra’s tears. Fortunately, the ”runaway” was found solidified by the forest border and I managed to revive her in the sauna’s heat.

I got so much power from those memories, that I can easily continue my fucking long odyssey towards the absolute zero per mill of my drunkards life.

Day 5. Best explanation ever

Finnish national artists, painter Akseli Gallen-Kallela and composers Oskar Merikanto, Robert Kajanus and Jean Sibelius, hang out in the hotel Kämp drunk as skunks in the Gallen-Kallela’s famous painting ”Probleemi” from 1894. This is how the situation may seem to be in the eye of an ordinary fucker, but art historian Salme Sarajas-Korte says there is no liquor party going on in the painting, but a pictorial representation of the symbols and mysteries that the artists often discussed until dawn.

”The painting is all about the transition of human life in it’s millennial development from the decadence period to the new flourishing renaissance.”

LOL. Reps. Muah. Why didn’t I ever find such a brilliant explanation for my wife Fairy, when I faltered home from Corsica’s night Club ”Top Hat” in the early hours of morning?

DAY 4. Kill yourself!

Stand-up gig in my Melt Town’s club ”Headquarters” went as well as possible. Even though I am drunkard, I always take care of the ropes: I go sober to work and come sober back. On the way home my mind nevertheless turned out how stupid it is to return to my room when there are no bottles of sparkling apple wine waiting for me this time.

The gang at the ”Headquarters” were pouring hops, I mean the audience were so smashed that I did not want to suck hard soup with them at all. Some basic gnome was trying to offer me a beer. When I told him that I am in a state of booze strike, the man mourned: ”Kill yourself!” We laughed like drunkards laugh, hoarsely and manfully, and slap our sweaty upper legs together five times.

My drinking colleague Gary called the following day and suggested meeting. I said that I can drink next time only in January. ”See you next year”, Kari replied and hunged up ruthlessly.

I have also received some encouraging feedback. The most useful is an e-mail ”Flop Down Prevention Handbook”, published by the Lakehead Social Hospital. It has a lot of practical tips for bad times. Possible risk situations, according to that publication, should be anticipated in advance. Light exercise is also an important means of survival. There are even some instruction on daily meditation, my ancient hobby.

The number of sadists has risen to 135, so the ”teddy-bearer” drip-free January is about to be completely fullfilled. If at some point I screw up and screw open a cap of a wine bottle, my penalty is to change my status ”I promise to stay as many days without booze as this Facebook Status will increase in likes” public so that the whole world can like it and give me more sober, painful days.

I’m a hermit character, but I really do appreciate all you readers of my blog somewhere there. Everyone of you belongs to my silent support team – even that nasty technodent who gave a minus voice to this mystery temperance project of mine.