Before I get started let me first declare the happy news that on this Sunday, November 22, 2009 I became an Uncle to Luna Elizabeth, and that's pretty sweet. A fond hug and kisses to her and her new parents out in the Pacific Northwest.
But moving on
Even though this subject is hardly "new birth" related or appropriate, since I had a full head of steam to discuss it long before Luna's emergence, I feel as though I have a duty to see things through.
In the fall of 1999, amidst a serious bout of self-importance and over-analysis, I decided it would be a worthwhile endeavor to formally hang up my spurs and quit drinking. What's more, I thought it worthwhile to keep a daily journal of my thoughts and realizations during the sobering process. Suffice it to say, the experiment, however noble and ambitious, failed after 32 days; a reasonable distance by any measure, yet less than the typically expected result in such an undertaking.
Yes, the temperance movement, as far as this writer was concerned, was an exercise in self-indulgence as much as it was an exercise in futility. Not only did I realize that my life lacked a certain luster without the fantasmical fermented glaze of late-night libations, but I also established that my interactions with my contemporaries lost a particular zest, the likes of which I'd become quite accustomed. The ladies had fewer interesting stories to tell me, the pals had less challenging gauntlets to lay down. All in all, my adventures were flat, lifeless, and, frankly, boring.
Now, I think I know what you're all saying or, at the very least, thinking. This sounds distinctly like the rationalization of a drunkard. Well, perhaps you're right. So what? In as much as I have learned to regret by socially lubricating my life so far, I have also learned that those tea-totalling phonies spend as much time judging those of us with no real regrets and little fears of the "outcome" as they as they do coming up with half-baked alternative activities to keep themselves busy while we, the professional drinkers, are toasting the town, the heroes, and full moon as it rises again and again. They haven't, in all their wise years of clear thought and unbridled discussion, figured out why the great drinking minds of our time wouldn't give up the pain, frustration, hangovers, and broken furniture for all the "do-overs" in the world.
There is something infinitely simple and elegant to raising our glasses. There is something infinitely pure. Come rain or come shine, on a good work day or a bad hair day, a well-made cocktail is more reliable than a Toyota or a tax audit. I keep my ice-cube trays fresh and my bar stocked, and there will never come a time when I cannot appropriately deal with the task at hand. The well-made drink has become my partner in success and in crime where all others have fallen short. It is on this one true thing that I can rely. And, as they say, when the chips are down, the vodka is straight up and the bartenders always enjoy my company; even if I'm singing the same old hard luck song.
Which brings me back to the fall of 1999, and my journal, and my quitting of the drink, and my inevitable discovery. It was a rough time in my life, no doubt. But the drink was hardly the culprit. I'm not sure how my friend Sean might phrase it but I think he would probably summarize the situation as something like this: you cannot blame the booze for all your mistakes, so why bother to exile yourself from the one uncompromising pleasure you've come to know in an attempt to rectify everything that has gone wrong? Sean is the only other really smart drinker I know. I certainly mean no offense to my other professional drinking brethren but he's got a fairly tight lock on the free-living attitude necessary to really appreciate a Tuesday afternoon fifth.
You see, the fall of 1999 turned into two things for me; a festival of self-pity and self-inflicted suffering, and a magnificent realization of simplicity. I discovered what really mattered to me, and WHO really mattered to me. I have a great life and she's still around too. So who needs self-serving and self-righteous platitudes about how "free" I felt on day 26? It was 32 days of avoiding the real problems by distracting myself with the inconsequential guilt of one too-strong hangover.
I have read the journal three or four times over and discovered two irrefutable truths in my reaction; I spent far too much time analyzing myself in the fall of 1999 and...
... I need a drink!
I hope you'll all join me in toasting one to good health. And one to true love.
And perhaps one to world peace. And one to wealth.
And one to Luna Elizabeth, who I predicted would arrive at an inconvenient time. Right I was. How perfectly inconvenient a time for a blessing.
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