October 27, 2008

Hanging It Up: Why I Ought to Kill Myself

Those readers who have suffered the gross misfortune of having been with me for a few years now might recall a consummately innocuous article I published in mid 2006 that would later bring me the mild infamy that follows from a high Google ranking for an obscure phrase—say, for the query killing oneself. Needless to say, as my (despicable, necessarily futile) continued presence on this planet suggests, that article was not the proverbial cry for help (as perhaps this one might be considered to be) misleading though its title may be. Today, in light of a very improvident turn of events, I am forced to leave behind theoretical contemplation for very practical consideration.

What catastrophic event might have brought me, already constantly adrift in a turbulent sea of mediocrity, loneliness, and despair, to this woeful condition, the mildly concerned reader might ask? Surely, it could not be anything of little moment. As extensively documented on this site, I have managed to survive a plethora of withering failures and accepted repeated acts of shameful hypocrisy, all without needing to seriously considering ending it all. Why the sudden change of heart?

Simple: last Saturday, October 25, 2008, marked a shameful occasion so shocking, all past acts of hypocrisy and even all occurrences of soul-crushing failure pale in comparison. I found myself at the much-loathed Hangge Uppe for the second night in one weekend.

Those who either do not know Chicago, or perhaps, those who have not yet experienced the grotesque shit-show that is the Hangge Uppe will be forgiven for not understanding why this terrible occurrence should lead any self-respecting person to promptly take their own life. I will attempt to explain below. For those in the know, I beg you to encourage me towards these ends. I clearly am undeserving of the oxygen I breathe.

At the outset, I must announce that hanging it up is an experience that one has to see to believe; no amount of prose will do it justice, no matter how lofty—nor, as in this case, how ill-composed. Basically, the Hangge Uppe is the clean up bar of Chicago. With many bars closing at 2 a.m. or thereabouts, there are inevitably individuals—generally of the dangerously intoxicated, brutally lonely, rabidly horny, grotesquely old, and possibly repulsively fat variety—who cannot muster enough talent or skill to close the deal (if you know what I mean) within such (draconian) constraints such as a 1:30 a.m. last call. In a place like my beloved California, such individuals are forced to retire to their dark, dingy basements to dizzily jerk-off while crying themselves to sleep. Another night elapses, and the world is saved from undesired additions to its already despicable collection of dirty, unwashed, no-value-added individuals, together known as the masses.

In Chicago, however, such woeful individuals are offered respite from their depressing failures—the proverbial second chance—via late night bars such as the Hangge Uppe or Gamekeeper's. Having struck out all night long, these individuals merrily make their way to State and Elm to drink lite beer, and dance awkwardly to 80s classics (downstairs) and contemporary hip-hop (upstairs), with one goal in mind: find someone—anyone—to go home with for an awkward roll in the hay.

The amount of ridiculousness that ensues, I am sure dear readers, you can hardly imagine. Between the forty-five-year-old greasy dirt bags dancing up on mid 20s scantily-clad women and the obscene amount of alcohol-fueled idiocy, debauchery hardly begins to describe the horrors.

Amidst all this awfulness, one might think that the addition of a collection of law students from The University of Chicago, a famously awkward bunch, could hardly make matters worse. Perhaps so. Then again, one is hard-pressed to understand how anyone who has any level of education beyond high school, let alone claims to a highly-regarded legal education, would find themselves at a hellhole like the Hangge Uppe in the first place.

Needless to say, as many things in my life, this despicable addiction began with the never-ending pursuit of irony. And ironic it was—the first time, maybe even the second time. This year, however, when I moved within two blocks of the place, irony was quickly replaced with addiction. Why not encourage everyone to hang it up when it meant a cab ride back to my neighborhood, right? Nothing, of course, required that I actually go inside once the cab deposited me outside its loathsome walls, but enter I did. Week after week, late night after late night, I found myself going back to that repulsive venue like a fiending crackhead, only to wake up in utter ignominy and a general sense of worthlessness (beyond that I normally feel each morning).

Last week, after a law school-sponsored party once again resulted in a trip to the Hangge Uppe, I vowed never to return. Less than twenty-four hours later, I was back. And this, dear readers, is too much for me to handle.

True, each day I live, I bring shame to my family, friends, myself, and all institutions with which I am associated, but such transgressions may be forgiven, if for nothing else than most others likely do as well. The Hangge Uppe twice in one week, though? I do not deserve to live.

I mean it this time: I really ought to end it all.