May 7, 2008
Get drunk tonight
throw up in the car
NO NUMBERS GAME ANY MORE.
History is dead. Time has stopped. It’s the end of the world. Party like it. Balls out. If you have none grab some.
whoa dude spring forward.
EVERY NOW AND THEN
you get an email that justifies the existence of email. One such was my buddy Pete’s, quoted above, Subject: [My] fuckin birthday. H Bday to you, goddamit, he wrote. Get drunk tonight, etc. It’s your birthday–spring forward, dude! My only hesitation is whose balls to grab.
I have entered my late early fifties, per Pete’s and my chart of the ages of man. Had I searched for the chart I’d never have found it—I just ran across it while my life was passing before my eyes as I pack for the change of life (not that one—Aunt Flo still comes to town). Here’s a breakdown of one decade.
0 – early early
1 – early
2 – mid-early
3 – late early
4 – early-mid
5 – mid
6 – late mid
7 – early late
8 – mid-late
9 – late
At age 20, for instance, one is in one’s early early twenties; at 21, in one’s early twenties; at 22, one’s mid-early twenties; at 23, one’s late early twenties; at 24, in one’s early mid-twenties; at 25, one’s mid-twenties; 26, late mid-twenties; at 27, early late twenties; 28, mid-late twenties; 29, late twenties; at 30, one’s in one’s early early thirties.
if the occasion calls for it, but should anyone get in your face, Pete and I say, “Whoa, fall back, dude.” Though it’s May, and I should be springing forward, I’d say I’m in the mid-autumn of my years. I think of my life as vintage wine from fine old kegs. I will, not however, be getting drunk on that wine tonight, or, perhaps, any night; it remains to be seen. You see, I had an alcohol wake-up call the other night; that is, I did something I would not have done had I not kept raising that glass. Now, never you mind what it was. Suffice to say, quite a selection of the human race has no doubt found themselves in the morning thinking “uh oh.” And at one time I wouldn’t have thought much of it—in my twenties or thirties I might have dismissed it as a wild weekend—but not in my fifties. In my fifties it is an alcohol wake-up call. I can’t seem to get it through my head that I can’t keep drinking world without end while taking five prescriptions that warn against using alcohol in conjunction with them.
I’M A WINO.
If I have one, two glasses with dinner, I’ll pick up a bottle on the way home and fill my glass whenever I empty it. If I’m up writing all night, chances are I’m drinking wine all night. I love the feeling of warm fluidity it induces in me.
I’m with Alfredo in “La Traviata,” Libiam ne’ lieti calici che la bellezza infiora…
Nevertheless, it was that red, red wine, my potion of choice, that got me in that pickle the other night.
WHY DON’T I JUST STOP?
I admit I am sometimes guilty of alcoholic drinking, but I still, by my own definition (if only my own), am not an alcoholic. My idea of an alcoholic is someone whose life is defined by alcohol. Someone who is obsessed with alcohol—the last time they drank some, how long it’s been since they last drank some, when they can next drink some, how they’re going to get their hands on some, whether they’ll still have some when the bars close, how long it is till the bars open again, who else is drinking or not drinking it.
Day to day, I do not think of alcohol. I don’t anticipate the next time I’ll be drinking it. At any given time, I can take or leave it—but I asked myself, if that’s true, why do I so often take it and rarely leave it? So I took the month of January off from drinking to see what effect it would have on my weight or my mental health—but I didn’t notice much of a difference either way, I didn’t feel like I was denying myself anything, and, being the indulgent sort, I certainly wanted to check out the new wine bar on Haight St. The rest is sordid history. At the moment, I’ve lost my taste for the fruit of the vine.
RUM, SCOTCH, VODKA ON THE ROCKS
While discussing in Oh, demon alcohol! that by some standards I would no question be considered an alcoholic, I was still flaunting my love of alcohol, but I am well aware it is not a topic to be taken lightly. It has ruined many a life, both drinkers’ and their loved ones’. But despite regrets (I’ve had a few), I just don’t see it ruining mine. Famous last words?What do you think, Pete? Whoa, dude, fall back?
What goes around comes around
Eh, Peterman? Balls out.
copyright Alexandra Jones 2008