Crank #3 - Better Living Through Crank

Surviving the Low-Life:
-or- Better Living Through Crank

Lots o' kids dream of living that crazy, downtrodden lifestyle that all the great ones lived. Sure, baby: wake up at noon, slug down a couple pints to settle that stomach, shower, shit, and hit the nearest bar by two. Well, you know what? I've been there, friends, and it ain't that easy. It works well for a few weeks. In fact, it's very refreshing to binge for a month or two when your job has you in a deep rut. But then you find that extra 20 pounds hanging on your pasty, fat face; your boss is walking the line between pity and anger; and one evening you realize that a lot of things in your apartment are broken...things like all the lightbulbs, more than half the dishes, and your intestines. You need a fixin' up, pal. And you SWEAR that next time, you'll be ready for that glass all over the floor that keeps sticking in your feet when you try to walk to the fucking bathroom. But you know what? You won't be ready, because you'll just pluck out the glass, empty your bladder and go back to bed, drunk and happy.

Believe me when I tell you that I've hit lower than most of you. No, no, I've never killed anyone, or beaten up my girl in a drunken rage; none of those bullshit stories. You want a true anecdote from one man's bottoming out? Ok, one Thursday morning, sitting with my boots up on my desk at work, I noticed what looked like splotches of white paint on the tops of my shoes. Huh? I took a closer look and wracked my brain for an explanation. Had I painted recently? Spackled? Walked through cement? Nope. Aaahh, it finally hit me: the last time I'd worn those boots, I'd gotten so drunk I wound up vomiting in the gutter outside my apartment. The white spots were the last of the turkey sandwich I'd eaten earlier that evening. At least it didn't smell--not that I could notice, anyway. That was a turning point--I knew I had to start being a tad more responsible in this ridiculous life I was leading. Even if it only meant washing my boots before I was sober enough to be ashamed.

So, for all you guys and girls stuck in the same sinking, stinking boat, it's time to take the rational approach to this overly-rewarding lifestyle. The MBA phrase-boys call it "Proactivity." I call it "Living Smart."

Here are the things you should own if you plan to live the low-life:

Some are intended for cleaning up the inevitable damage;

Some are intended as diversion against the boredom that inevitably leads to violent, drunken binges;

Some are just meant to make your life seem more respectable, which (if you believe the 12-step programs) is important to keeping your impulses under control.

As with all things Crank, I take no responsibility for YOUR actions, but, please, do send photos of the damage, especially if it involves flesh.

Wet/Dry Shop-Vacuum

Though it's primarily viewed as a masculine toy, a good shop-vac can serve both sexes equally. Much like a pair of ViceGrips, a wet/dry shop-vac can do anything and everything your clumsy little hearts desire.

The vac' that saves our apartment just about every weekend is a SEARS Craftsman, 6.0 gallon, 2.0 horsepower powerhouse. (I would have looked for a Black and Decker, if those motherfuckers had even TRIED to respond to my trepanation letter from Crank #2.) This particular model cost $40, which seems a little steep, but you've got to understand--it was NECESSARY after a bad night of cheap beer and mad dog. The glass was 2 inches deep, no shit, and our new friend chewed it up without choking.

But let's forget the OBVIOUS industrial applications for a moment. We also have a recurring problem with mice. And the runt cat that Tom picked up--much to our surprise--has turned into a formidable mouser. Now, a mouse hunt is fun to watch in your living room, but when that last bit of squealing life is squeezed from Mickey's head, it's your job to dispose of the remains. Should you scoop 'em up in a wad of paper towel? Wrap 'em in the morning paper? Fuck, no. Get your shop-vac out and suck little Jerry straight up to mousy heaven. Come to think of it, I think those three little mice corpses are still rotting in the bottom of the vac. I wouldn't lie to you.

Cheap Binoculars

Just like Zsa Zsa, I love city life.

I'll grant that Philadelphia ain't THAT much of a city, but we've got all the trappings of a major city: hostility, crime, violence, theft, dirt, and plenty of bars. Oh, and I suppose there's a bunch of museums and probably a big library somewhere, too.

Really, though, I love the absolute saturation of people that is unique to city life. When you put too many people too close to each other, crazy things happen. CLOSE PROXIMITY is THE source of crime.

If you live in the city (or anywhere else where a few neighbors' houses are in view), buy a pair of binoculars. They ain't for spying titty, kids, so you don't need a goddamn telescope (and if you can even afford a telescope, you're reading the wrong fucking magazine). No, the binoculars are for watching the people, not their parts.

So far, with my trusty 8X glasses stolen from a church thrift store for $5, I have seen the woman in the apartment across the back alley beat her 7-year-old daughter on five different occasions with a wooden spoon. I have seen a drunk man pull a steak knife on another drunk man (no bloodshed, though--the other guy bolted out). I have seen countless arguments between presumed husband-and-wives. And yes, indeed, I have even seen two people fuck, but it was over before I finished my drink.

It might sound...pathetic? Is that the word? Yeh, I think that's the word. But it's not pathetic--it's diversion. When I sit in front of the TV, I am liable to go through a fifth of gin in a night. If I sit in my room and read or write, I'll only drink a couple beers. If I don't feel like reading or writing, I'll get out the binoculars and do my liver a favor.

And it is better than TV. Hands-down.

Electric Heater
Microwave
Toaster Oven
A TV w/Antenna

Months ago, in one of the local newspapers, I read an excerpt from the latest "GenX" handbook. The excerpt concerned the multi-colored envelopes from utility companies stamped URGENT that pile up on the author's coffee table; a relentless stream of unpaid bills marking her Generation X lifestyle. It angered me to near-violence.

What an obnoxious load of self-glorifying bullshit. What a stupid fuck that author must be. Who the fuck glorifies unpaid bills? Who the fuck wants unpaid bills? Unpaid bills have left my credit rating so bad that I can't get a fucking gas card. I can only DREAM of a Sears charge card. I'd probably have to get a fucking co-signer to borrow 10 bucks from a friend.

I do have trouble paying my bills on time. But I can only speak for myself: I never have enough money to cover all my bills every month. So, every month, I pay one bill's balance from the previous month. Maybe when that NEA grant comes through with a few grand, I'll pay everyone off. In the meantime, I DON'T LIKE HAVING MY FUCKING UTILITIES SHUT OFF BECAUSE OF UNPAID BILLS. And I'm sure as fuck not going to use my unpaid bills as a badge of honor for induction into the Generation X Club.

Right now, there is no heat and no cooking gas in the apartment. Surprisingly, this time it's not our fault--it's our cocksucker landlords, who accrued a $6000 bill with the gas company and then stopped paying the mortgage on the property. So the bank foreclosed and doesn't want to pay the $6000 to get everything turned back on. THIS IS TRUE. And it's decidedly NOT hip and GenX. It's cold, just plain fucking cold.

I cook everything in the microwave now that the stove and oven are useless; I WISH I had a toaster oven--if the gas isn't turned on yet, then I'm looking for a used one this weekend; I have a space heater next to my bed for the 4:00 a.m. chill that tears through the paper-thin window panes; the cable is still on, because I consider that bill a priority. (I can't seem to live without the Food Network, which is odd, considering I didn't cook that much even when the gas was on.) Still, the TV antenna is in easy reach.

Get these items if you're planning to fuck up your bills because you're either too much of an asshole to pay them on time and/or you're too broke. You'll be happy you own them, believe me.

Good Bottle of Red
Good Bottle of White

It doesn't matter which you prefer. Just go out and blow 20 bucks on a couple decent bottles of wine. Oh, just shut the fuck up--I know that $10 ain't gonna buy you something you can serve the President, but we're down at my standards, ok? Don't know shit about wine? Neither do I, so do what I do--Mondavi. It looks nice on a cheap wine rack, and makes a great gift if you get roped into a dinner or something at the last minute.

Most importantly, though, it's always nice to have another bottle of something to come home to when the bars are closed, your fridge is empty, and you've got another few hours to go. (Ok, so maybe this entry shouldn't have been accompanied with the icon for "respectability," but I had to use that graphic somewhere.)

Spackle

And a spackling knife, trough and wall-repair patches (for small jobs, they work wonders).

So, yes, we've put some holes in our walls. (Fuck you, it's better than picking barfights. Boys will be boys, right?) We found that you should also know the location of the nearest hardware store, naturally, for those things you never think you'll need, like tile grout.

Ice Pops

My secret for surviving particularly nasty mornings. Better than drinking water, because they've got some sugar to get your belly into shape. They're not too solid, so that you can still keep them down (or IN, if your bowels are the problem).

Ice pops are also fine treats to give to neighborhood kids (so long as you don't look the type to stick razors in apples). They, in turn, will put in a good word with the folks who, in turn, will give you one last chance to turn down that Big Black before calling in the law at 3 am.

A Good Sense of Humor

Because you're either going to laugh at your shitty life, or do yourself in as soon as one bad month comes to a spirit-crushing end. If you choose the latter, I'm sure there are at least 3 dozen little zines out there with kooky advice for potential suicides. Go consult them.