Holiday Wishes and Alcohol Will Destroy You: Fuck ‘Em

Before I get to today’s story I want to continue my 12 posting days of Holiday Wishes. So far I’ve sent love to David Lapham, Sam Kieth and Joshua Hale Fialkov. Today I want to send some cheer to a man who’s an integral part of the comic production business.

I can’t deny the fact that indie comics needs a Larry Young. I’ve been to a lot of conventions and talked to a lot of people. I think it’s safe to say I’ve heard every word in the English language applied to Larry Young. Every word of praise, every insult and every declaration of neutrality possible from all walks of the comic community.

In a world were publishers try to run their business by emulating Vince McMahon (owner of the world wrestling federation for those that don’t know), Larry Young opts to be the Bill Gates of comics. The Martha Stewart. The Donald Trump. A business man through and through, with all the positives and negatives that come with it – someone with a public image that’s endearing to the masses but intriguing to the people who like to steal a peak behind the curtain and make conjectures of their own.

Larry Young is a man who views comics as a business and because of that, he keeps the rest of us on our toes. There’s nothing more embarrassing than a Larry Young burn and you can’t fight it, publicly, because more people listen to him than listen to you. So you step on eggshells, double check your steps and no matter what you think of the man you ask yourself “What Would Larry Young Do?”

Whether or not you follow that guidance or do the opposite is a matter of preference.

So Happy Holidays to Larry Young, for introducing new talents, producing entertaining books and constantly remind us comics, at this level, is a business and not a hand-job.

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Alcohol brings out the worst in us, that much is true. Sure, you can have a few cocktails and get a little playful – loosen up a bit and have a good time. Or, you can drink a lot of cocktails, get belligerent, throw fists and, occasionally, become guilty of attempted homicide.

Jackie’s parents had a timeshare in the Poconos. Now, the Poconos was the middle-class vacation destination of choice for New Yorkers. For some reason the thought of spending the weekend in the woods, living in a cabin near a lake, is the definition of fun. This one summer, several of our friends went up to the house in the Poconos for two nights of drunken debauchery.

The first night it was a smaller gathering – I think there were maybe 4 or 5 of us there – playing monopoly and drinking cans of Miller High life. It was an innocent enough night, no-one really got stupid drunk and many a laugh was shared. The second night, on the other hand…

Let me preface this by saying our friend B never drank in high school. He was proud of his ability to turn down the alcohol and we didn’t care too much, he was just the driver every night. He started drinking freshman year in college because it’s impossible not to at that point. So, he wasn’t learned in the ways of booze.

I’m sitting outside with a beer, grilling some burgers, my friend Jimmy and I taking turns spraying each other with a hose to cool off when B pulls up in his car, busts out a bottle of Goldschlager, open it up and chugs about a fifth of it and declares he’s ready to get “fucked up”. This was our first time seeing B drink, mind you.

We should have cut him off then.

As the day goes on B gradually polishes off the entire bottle of Goldschlager while the rest of us were putting down cans of High Life. I took a break from the group to talk to Jackie for a little bit – I might have mentioned this before but I had this huge thing for my friend Mary, it was one of those “Should we be more than friends” things and it’s been bugging me for some time. I was asking Jackie if I should say something to her. Whereas the correct answer was, “No. You’re drunk.” she instead told me I should go ahead. And I was going to, who knows where my story would have went.

But then B threw-up.

Several times. Then he starts dry heaving. Then he starts puking up some chunky red which could have been from the Swedish Fish he was eating but we were likely making excuses for the fact that he might have been throwing up blood. In other words, B wasn’t doing too well.

Four of us made our way to the entrance of the camp-ground-type area we were staying at to use the payphone. We call 911, get the operator, and ask her what we should do if our friend was throwing up blood.

The operator, naturally, says she’ll send us an ambulance.

Now, we’re all under 21 and would likely get in trouble for drinking in the woods. So we tell her that we can’t do that, but we’re just wondering if there’s something we should do to make him feel better. She tells me that she needs to send an ambulance now. I look to my friends and say that the operator wants to send an ambulance.

We all look at each other, one of us waiting for someone else to make a decision. I take “responsibility”, hang up the phone and say, “Fuck ‘em. He’s fine.”

Everyone agrees and says he shouldn’t have drunken so much anyway. We go back to the cabin and B looks horrible. Our friends ask us what’s going on and we told them the operator said he’ll be fine and to give him some water. We’re force feeding water down his throat and B is telling us he wants to go to the hospital. We’re telling him he’ll be fine, just drink the water, and he keeps telling us that we can just drop him off out front of the hospital but to please, PLEASE, take him because he thinks he’s going to die.

He slowly starts to feel a little better so we drop him on a bed and take turns watching him, making sure he stays on his side and doesn’t roll onto his back.

Luckily he didn’t die. But the experience certainly reinforced the fact that Alcohol Will Destroy You. Or, you know, your friends will.

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