Last Call For Alcohol

“The tale has no hero.  The culture of drink endures because it offers so many rewards; confidence for the shy, clarity for the uncertain, solace to the wounded and lonely, and above all the elusive promises of friendship and love.  From almost the beginning of awareness, drinking was a part of my life; there is no way that I could tell the story of the drinking without telling the story of my life.  Much of that story was wonderful.  In the snug darkness of saloons, I learned much about being human and mastering a craft.  I had, as they say, a million laughs.  But those grand times also caused great moral, physical or psychological damage to myself and others.  Some of that harm was probably permanent. There is little to be done now, except take responsibility. No man's past can be changed; it's a fact, like red hair." 

-Pete Hamill 1993  A Drinking Life

I’ve had one drink this past year. Alcohol lost its charm after the cancer diagnosis. I was about to undergo 7 weeks of radiation and chemo. Now the cruel effects of cancer treatments on a body are well documented. As Lou Reed said, “To cure you, they must kill you.” But alcohol can kill you as well. A recent government study determined there is no safe limit when it comes to alcohol. So of course the government keeps selling and making money off what their own people now say is poison.

But I’m a bit smarter than government. So at that moment of diagnosis, I made a decision regarding my choice of poisons. I chose cancer, and life, a better life. Hopefully a longer life .

My taste for booze is gone, literally and metaphorically. It is no longer there. The one drink I had in summer, was a chocolatey stout. For as much as I could taste it, it tasted good. But allow me to temper that comment. After radiation and chemo, nothing tastes good. Everything tastes the same. An astringent metal, a hint of vague bitterness.

Normally I would love a glass of red wine with dinner, but no matter what the winery or vintage, all wine tasted like crap. A sip of hard liquor was brutal. It literally tastes like poison. At best, rubbing alcohol with an astringent burning sensation.

I do not miss it. I am enjoying this “not drinking” thing. Sobriety was never my goal, it just came to me, like the cancer. Sobriety was the warm comfy sweater offered on a cold winter night. A simple choice, no steps necessary, not a battle of good and evil.

How important was alcohol to me before cancer?

Alcohol was a friend, a passion, a discerning choice. Alcohol fueled my personal history, gifting me with many bad choices, embarrassments, and years of depression. It was like another kind of cancer. Familiar, yet deadly. Alcohol was a source of jokes, both brilliant and brooding. It was fuel for foolishness, old routines, and anger management.

Was my drinking a problem? Could I be a problem drinker? I was known to binge upon occasions, like for a few decades. It softened my resolve, my brain and my belly.

I asked myself, “Are you an alcoholic if you can stop?” It doesn’t really matter. I could stop and I did stop a few times. But I started back up a few times as well. I enjoyed drinking. It was a big part of who I was, how other people knew me. Alcohol was my personality and defined how I saw myself. It was in my blood. My dna.

So when I stopped, it was a big change. What was different this time? I could meet with friends who were drinking, and I was not filled with anxiety, like the enormous anxiety I felt in former breaks. This time I was clear.

My musical inspiration Louis Jordan sang “What’s the use of getting sober, when you are going to get drunk again.”

The use of getting sober is simple. Sobriety helps with clarity of thought. Hopefully it helps me to live longer and better. So quitting was easy for me this time. Except, I’m not saying that I am quitting. I’m stopping. Time will tell.

For me, not drinking is a simple choice. I choose not to willingly poison myself. When you’ve gone through hell to stay alive, who looks for pleasure in poison?

So is this really my last call? If the taste comes back, will I drink again? I don’t have the answer to that question, not at this time. But the evidence says I am making a good decision. For me. For now. At this time. Other times in my life, this decision was not so clear. Flashback 12 years.

THE SCREAM HIDES THE HOLE

The scream hides the hole. The time it takes to fall from vertical to prone is commensurate with the velocity of vodka enveloping vellum, a velvet balancing act performed by a chimp on a bike on a wire. Not enough stitches to keep them all laughing. It only hurts when they don't laugh.
And now the promise.  A promise that portends disaster that extends the laughter that contends with "after."  After dark, a gradual lightening strikes. The air is electric, waiting for another glass in the neighbourly direction.
Still the violins pluck and nobody fucks, and everything is stuck. The scream covers the slit in the back of his head, now open for all to see. Not much to see, keep it moving, nothing to see here folks. A comic without jokes. A drunk without a drink. An empty glass. A performer on hiatus. Hiatus is code, entertainment code for when nobody calls.
The phone works both ways, inside and outside. Just like a glass ass. Inside and outside, both sides shards now. Jagged, the outside is distended, disfigured, fixtures broken, unspoken, it figures, he is distant, disguise disliked, dizzy with an emptiness that burns. Burns a big hole. Inside and outside.  This buzz is for you.  Buzz me buzz me baby.  Who is it? Who is it? The crowd chants, "Hide the hole.”

From September 2012 www.densemilt.com

Last call. What the hell was that about? Poetry. It’s another late night in a smoky bar, waiting to get paid, waiting for the last girl to say yes, waiting. Nursing that last drink.

I was a regular Florence Nightingale when it came to nursing drinks. Is there any way I could get one more? I could be charming. I can’t tell you how many times I was successful in my begging for a drink that I really didn’t need.

Do I remember the times when I went black?

I don’t. I recall the times I couldn’t remember what I had said or done. It was all a big blur. Once, I was given a bottle of whiskey for my birthday. I was on stage at the Commodore. Single malt whiskey. One of the Glens. Many of our songs were about drinking. Let’s Drink was not just a song that we played, but the title of our first cassette. An anthem, a way of life. Bragging rites. The back of our t-shirt read The Hardest Drinking Band in Show Business. Hardly. Still, we tried to live up to that t-shirt.

The first set was a dim memory. We had set up a card table onstage so the horn section could play cards and drink when they weren’t playing. Schtick. The second set….how did that go? I’m the wrong guy to ask. I don’t remember what happened next. That is what they mean when they say going black.

I think back on all those shows I thought were “great”.

Just how great were they?

How bad was I?

How drunk was I? The Scream Hides The Hole was written September 2012, after the first of two nights that year, a few months apart, when my beautiful face kissed the pavement hard. I went from the vertical to prone in a matter of seconds. I heard that dull thud, where skin and cheekbones meet asphalt. Kinda like being hit in the face with a hammer.

Blood was streaming down my cheek. Head wounds always look bad. I greeted my horrified wife at the door to our apartment. What she said. What she didn’t say. Disgust and concern, her anger at my selfishness, at my stupidy, not even able to pronounce stupidity, but stupidy.

Then sleeping it off.

Thinking back now, just how many years did I sleep off? How many times did I say the wrong thing at a party, or do the wrong thing. How later I would regret what an ass I had been, what I had become. The shame.

Now I see those bottles of single malts and bourbon collecting dust. Dust is my new friend.

Webb Pierce says it best,” There stands the glass that will ease all my pain
That will settle my brain, it's my first one today.”

That sweet brown liquor goes down like a refreshing beverage. Another round.

Fill my glass, bartender.

“Order up a round for the band”, I would call from the stage. “And if you’re buying a round for the band, don’t forget to buy one for yourself.” How thoughtful.

Can we get a B52 in a beer mug? A round of Chi-Chis in a beer jug.

Do I feel like a sidecar? Why, do I look like a sidecar?

I tried them all. My favourite was the King of cocktails- the Sazerac.

How many cherries go in a Manhattan? About 3-5. One cherry is for losers. Like brown shoes. Saloon songs.

I remember hiding all my good liquor when I threw a party, so that my friends would not drink all the good stuff at the end of the night.

Aah, the end of the party- when anything in glass is fair game. The party is over when the last guest leaves….or stays for breakfast. Or when I put on Lou Reed’s Berlin. They’re taking her children away, because hey said she was not a good mother. Bob Ezrin’s kids crying in the background. The party’s not over until someone cries. It’s Judy’s turn to cry.

The party’s over when they start asking if it’s OK to mix Curaçao with crème de menthe. I guess it’s possible. Any bottle is fair game for a drunk at the end of the night, because that was all that was left except for those little bottles from Germany. Bitters. What kind of person mixes herbs with alcohol?

I remember trying Jäegermeister for the first time. Shots. Many shots. A kid who worked for me drove me home, poured me out of his car. I fell face down on the kitchen floor. Passed out for a few hours. I should really pick myself up from the floor.

Did you ever crap your pants because you were so drunk? Only because this is ancient drunk history can I tell the story.

I roused myself to stumble down the stairs, and missing a step, I proceed to land in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. At least I was close to the shower.

Ancient Drunk history. This was maybe 20 years ago.

I wasn’t like that a lot. I had many great times and memories with drinks. I say I could take it or leave it, but for many years, I didn’t leave it. Even before I stopped, before the cancer, my years of alcohol abuse were long over.

But what about when alcohol is second nature? Like the times coming home after a hard day at work when I said, “ Christ, I could use a drink”.

Alcohol is everywhere. Most people drink. I started as a teenager, stealing the little airplane bottles of Johnny Walker Red from my Dad’s liquor cabinet.

Alcohol and religion. Drink, this is my blood.

I went to the doctor and he found some blood in my alcohol stream.

So many times, I look back and wonder how did I even get home? Divine provenance I am thinking. I am thankful. I am a very lucky guy. Stupid and lucky. I was under the watching eyes of God.

I jokingly called myself a professional drinker, not a problem drinker.

I had no problem drinking. My only problem with drinking was stopping.

Cancer solved that problem.