Another Bullshit Night in Suck City

I devoured this memoir while I was taking Nick Flynn's Memoir as Bewilderment course at Omega Institute this week. Another Bullshit Night in Suck City is part poetry, part flash essay, part memoir, all insightful and revealing. This is a talented artist who takes risks. I look forward to reading more of his work.

“It would be easier, I sometimes think, if I could label him mentally ill, and point to that and say, That’s why he was homeless, and we could all sleep easier, knowing he was not like us.”

“Writers, especially poets, are particularly prone to madness. There exists a striking association between creativity and manic depression. Why are more creative people prone to madness? They have more than average amounts of energies and abilities to see things in a fresh and original way — then because they also have depression, I think they’re more in touch with human suffering.”

“I’ve been dating a guy the last couple weeks who thinks a lot like you do — that he is bright and can’t see himself taking a mickey-mouse job. That the world owes him a living. He considers himself a writer, like you, but I sense he’s going to wait until it’s too late before he really gets to work. When he does try, wine and poor living are going to be his weakness, what ate away at his strength. He’ll die in some gutter like all the other poor useless bums.”

“The usual I say. Blood of Christ I say. Essence. Spirit. Medicine. A hint. A taste. A bump. A snort. A sip. A nip. I say another round. I say brace yourself. Lift a few. Hoist a few. Work the elbow. Bottoms up. Belly up. Leg up. What’ll it be. Name your poison. Mud in your eye. A jar. A jug. A pony. I say a glass. I say same again. I say all around. I say my good man. I say my drinking buddy. I say git that in ya. Then an ice-breaker. Then a quick one. Then a couple of pops. Then a nightcap. Then throw one back. Then knock one down. Working on a scotch and soda I say. Fast and furious I say. Could savage a drink I say. Guzzle I say. Chug. Home brew. Everclear. Moonshine. White lightening. Firewater. Antifreeze. Wallbanger. Zombie. Rotgut. Hooch. Relief. Now you’re talking I say. Live a little I say. Drain it I say. Kill it I say. Feeling it I say. Slightly crocked. Wobbly. Another dead sailor I say. Breakfast of champions I say. I say candy is dandy but liquor is quicker. I say the beer that made Milwaukee famous. I say Houston, we have a drinking problem. I say the cause of, and solution to all of life’s problems. I say ain’t no devil only god when he’s drunk. I say god only knows what I’d be without you. I say thirsty. I say parched. I say wet my whistle. I say awful thirst. Dying of thirst. Lap it up. Hook me up. Beam me up. Watering hole. Hole. Knock a few back. Pound a few down. Corner stool. My office. Out with the boys I say. Unwind I say. Nurse one I say. Apply myself I say. Tie one on I say. Make a night of it I say. Dive. Toasted. Glow. A cold one a tall one a frosty one I say. One for the road I say. A drinker I say. Two-fisted I say. Never trust a man who doesn’t drink I say. A good man’s failing I say. Then a binge then a spree then a jag then a bout. Coming home on all fours. Rousted. Roustabout. Could use a drink I say. A shot of confidence I say. Steady my nerves I say. Drown my sorrows. I say kill for a drink. I say keep ‘em coming. I say a stiff one. I say as fast as possible. I say the long haul. Drink deep drink hard hit the bottle. Two sheets to the wind then. Half-coked then. Knackered then. Showing it then. Holding the wall up then. Under the influence then. Half in the bag then. A toot. A tear. A blowout. Out of my skull I say. Liquored up. Rip-roaring. Slammed. Fucking jacked. The booze talking. The room Spinning. Primed. Feeling no pain. Buzzed. Giddy. Silly. Glazed. Impaired. Intoxicated. Lubricated. Stewed. Tight. Tiddly. Juiced. Plotzed. Potted. Pixilated. Pie-eyed. Cock-eyed. Inebriated. Laminated. Stoned. High. Swimming. Elated. Exalted. Debauched. Rock on. Drunk on. Shine on. Bring it on. Pissed. Then bleary. Then bloodshot. Glassy-eyed. Mud-eyed. Red-nosed. Thick-tongued. Addled. Dizzy then. Groggy. On a bender I say. On a spree. On a drunk. I say off the wagon. I say gone out. I say on a slip. I say in my cups. I say riding the night train. I say the drink. I say the bottle. I say the blood bank. I say drinkie-poo. I say a drink drink. A drink a drunk a drunkard. Swill Swig. Faced. Shitfaced. Fucked up. Stupefied. Incapacitated. Raging. Seeing double. Shitty. Take the edge off I say. That’s better I say. Loaded I say. Wasted. Looped. Lit. Off my ass. Befuddled. Reeling. Tanked. Punch-drunk. Mean drunk. Maintenance drunk. Sloppy drunk happy drunk weepy drunk blind drunk dead drunk. Serious drinker. Hard drinker. Lush. Drink like a fish. Boozer. Booze hound. Absorb. Rummy. Alkie. Sponge. Sip. Sot. Sop. Then muddled. Then maudlin. Then woozy. Then clouded. What day is it? Do you know me? Have you seen me? When did I start? Did I everstop? Slurring. Reeling. Staggering. Overserved they say. Drunk as a skunk they say. Falling down drunk. Crawling down drunk. Drunk and disorderly. I say high tolerance. I say high capacity. I say social lubricant. They say protective custody. Sozzled soused sloshed. Polluted. Blitzed. Shattered. Zonked. Ossified. Annihilated. Fossilized. Stinko. Blotto. Legless. Smashed. Soaked. Screwed. Pickled. Bombed. Stiff. Fried. Oiled. Boiled. Frazzled. Blasted. Plastered. Hammered. Tore up. Ripped up. Ripped. Destroyed. Whittled. Plowed. Overcome. Overtaken. Comatose. Dead to the world. Beyond the beyond. The old K.O. The horrors I say. The heebie-jeebies I say. The beast I say. The dt’s. B’jesus and pink elephants. A hummer. A run. A mindbender. Hittin’ it kinda hard they say. Go easy they say. Last call they say. Quitting time they say. They say shut off. They say ruckus. They say dry out. Pass out. Lights out. Blackout. Headlong. The bottom. The walking wounded. Saturday night paralysis. Cross-eyed and painless. Petroleum dark. Gone to the world. Gone. Gonzo. Wrecked. Out. Sleep it off. Wake up on the floor. End up in the gutter. Off the stuff. Dry. Dry heaves. Gag. White knuckle. Lightweight I say. Hair of the dog I say. Eye-opener I say. A drop I say. A slug. A taste. A swallow. A pull. Sadder Budweiser I say. Down the hatch I say. I wouldn’t say no I say. I say whatever he’s having. I say next one’s on me. I say match you. I say bottoms up. Put it on my tab. I say one more. I say same again.”

I'll blame the fact that the author is a poet that I just couldn't get into this. I had a hard time visualizing the settings and characters due to lack of description, which is odd since I figured a poet would be really good at description. That, and the chapters' going back and forth in time was disorienting. That, and the dissociative feeling throughout.

I don't actually think this book is bad at all, but I put it in this section because I couldn't get through it, despite really, really wanting to. In my opinion, this book has the most brilliant title in recent memory, and the cover art is simply gorgeous. I so badly wanted to like it, at least enough to get through it, so I could at least carry it around with me and enjoy its black, green, and yellow loveliness!

Sadly, I could not. This probably has less to do with the book itself, which I'm sure is fine, and more with having worked in a homeless shelter and thus not being terribly interested in what goes on inside them, nor anything having to do with homeless men, be they drunk, mentally-ill, or somebody's long lost father.... I also have this weird aversion to Boston, so maybe that played into it. I kept coming up with all these weird opinions about the type of guy I imagined the author to be (has sideburns; loves Guinness, crappy bands), and deciding I didn't like him, then realizing these ideas were entirely based on my hateful stereotypes about guys from Boston, and had nothing at all to do with poor Nick Flynn, who I'm sure is a fine fellow with excellent taste in music. Anyway, all these problems sort of combined, and finally I realized that reading this book was causing me more mental anguish than I was willing to put myself through, and I threw up my hands. My unfulfilled yearning for the beautiful cover played a large role in my purchase around that time of _Black Swan Green_, which has some superficially similar elements (it's black and green) but is obviously vastly inferior (I think you might recognize this kind of phenomenon from the world of dating).

But what a great title! If you don't already spend forty hours a week focused on homeless people and the various ways they've ruined your life, maybe you should give this one a shot.

I honestly don't know if I can ever bring myself to rate a memoir above 3 stars...
It isn't even that this was bad. It was fine. Interesting. Somewhat confusing writing style at times.
It was just fine, and "just fine" doesn't get more than 3 stars from me.

Man. This book is beautiful. It reads like a Springsteen song mixed with homelessness and hard drugs. Or maybe a sober of Alan Ginsberg. Maybe a sober Alan Ginsberg is basically a low life Springsteen. Anyways, beautiful prose. The writing flows like a mountain steam, not too much, not too little. Just babbling along.

Nick Flynn’s pathos-packed memoir is part coming-of-age story and part counter-culture-chronicle, part mental-illness menagerie and part generational-reconciliation-project. His poetic past serves him well, manifesting in image shards and lingual leaps that strike chords that vibrate in a reader long after she puts down the book. Like life, there is no tidy resolution to this story, no miraculous recovery for his addled dad—as the narrator ages and matures, he’s just able to manage better and take a legitimate stab at accepting the unacceptable.

One of those books that you read and say "this can't be true, no one's life sucked this bad." But they claim it is true.

It is about a man (addict) who starts working at a homeless shelter and his homeless father (addict) comes in to stay. Awkward!

As a Bostonian it is interesting to read about the city back in the day when the Combat Zone meant something.