Punch Drunk Love
Drunk dialing. C'mon, everyone's done it at least once. And those who say they haven't... well, those people are either full of fiction or hardline teetotalers who view abstinence as a virtue. Even if you do happen to fall into the latter category, chances are better than good that you've been unwittingly subjected to the inebriated ritual at least once in your lifetime. (If not, I'm sure we can arrange something, Flanders. What's your number again?)
For the benefit of those who have never been ripped from peaceful slumber at some ungodly hour by a random jackass with an insatiable need to fire off incomprehensible diatribes, allow me to lay out the scene. Speaking as a former habitual offender, I think I can offer some insight into this seemingly inexplicable phenomenon.
The urge to reach out and touch someone, anyone, usually surfaces somewhere around 1:30 a.m. or so BST (Bar Standard Time) -- that's 1-1:15 a.m. to everyone else -- on any given Friday or Saturday. That's right about the time when the fugly lights come on signaling closing time. This universal gesture is typically followed by an obligatory speech from, more often than not, a particularly rancorous member of the bar staff who bellows the time tested exhortation: "You don't have to go home, but you have to get the hell out of here."
This series of events then prompts the drunk dialer to kick off the first leg of the goodbye tour, which will make its way around the bar several times before a few long-suffering mutual friends intervene and pour his drunk ass into the car. It is at this precise moment, that the drunk dialer feels the need to punch in your digits. My man just wants to holla, yo, and say what's crackin' -- nevermind that he's phoning you at an hour considered by most rational tax-paying citizens to be completely unreasonable unless he's a) bleeding, b) on fire or c) one of your children who is either A or B.
Drunk dialers, take note: I come bearing good news for you and ultimately for your friends/loved ones who have requested (um, make that demanded) to be removed from your phone book. No more Damage Control Mondays. Here's a new string of digits to add to your contact list, a number that will not only take your drunkass phone calls anytime day or night, but exists for that sole purpose. Behold Suburban Home Records Drunk Dial Hotline: 303-800-6DUI.
Be forewarned, though, sport, your unintelligible invectives will be recorded and posted on Suburban Home's website, for posterity -- and, of course, to offer proof to rest of the world of just how much of a doofus you are. Don't worry, though, you'll be in good company. Some recent calls collected and posted by Virgil Dickerson and his crew -- a renowned band of imbibers in their own right -- include one from Bam Margera, who checked in from Vegas, drunkenly raving about the new Love Me Destroyer record, and another dude claiming that he "peed in his own eye the other night." -- Dave Herrera
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