Last Call is about the nature of becoming an alcoholic. Atop the pedestal there are two objets; First is a photograph of me at the age of sixteen, high out of my mind and drunk, quite literally, off my ass. I do not remember this photo being taken — my memory of that evening starts to become fuzzy many hours this moment was captured. And I have only the vaguest recollections of being driven home and carried inside to a very irate and concerned mother. I do remember this was one of my very first high school parties and as evidenced by the photograph of my red-faced grin, I am reasonably sure I enjoyed myself (until the next day, that is). The second, setting on the photograph, is an empty bottle of my favorite beer, which was meant to be the last drink I would ever drink. Over the course of of the many years which separated my sixteen-year-old self from my thirty-two-year-old self many things changed, but one that did not was the manner in which I drink. When I drank in those first few golden teenage years, it was magic and so much of my adult experience has simply been a vast energy expenditure to try and recapture what it was to feel that buzz. Yet when I drink, I inevitably end up in the same position as I did in this photo — on my back. I don’t know when the shift happened exactly, but I do know now, after many years and an oceans worth of sorrow and pain, that if I pick up a drink, any given night will end exactly the same way it did in this photo… minus the grin and the arms raised in gleeful, victorious defiance.