I return once again to the sacred wooden altar of drink. The officiant blesses me with the usual sacrament. An industrial beer and no-name tequila are my communion. The blood and bile of Christ. On the juke box Patti Smith sings the holiest of the holy punk prayers. Around me the other pilgrims are lost in their own meditations. Weary wanderers like me. After three rounds of communion I am feeling the spirit move within me. The beautiful woman next to me is speaking in tongues. I arrive at the angelic spot between sobriety and unconsciousness. Still, epiphany eludes me.
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