Newsletter -- The Complete Beautiful Miasma of Drunkenness

I am personally not one to get good and royally drunk. As must be clear at least to long-time readers, I'm a guy of strict discipline and resolve. So going overboard on anything -- except maybe doing good -- simply doesn't happen. And I would never encourage anyone else to get inebriated, wasted, or faced. If they came to me and asked, "Should I?" I'd say "No."

Then we have a guy like Stanley "Tipsy" White, staff reporter for my newsletter (soon to be published). He didn't ask, he just showed up with drunk as his default. Drinking's simply his thing, his basic modus operandi in life, the way he copes, gets along, and lives. Yes, of course, when he's at the work release farm (he's a prisoner) he probably doesn't have perfect access to the hard stuff. But he's obviously getting it somehow; when he showed up at my place he was already drunk, and he's been working on something ever since.

I like watching Tipsy, maybe because we're such polar opposites. A few sips now and then of something, going along with spirituality, that's my thing. I've been giving a pretty good effort lately at yoga (not the stretchy kind), working on self-control, transmuting the various energies of the body. The yogis say alcohol isn't good for that, although I have a slightly different feeling on the subject, and so the sips are allowed. But there's no way I'm going to get drunk. But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy and even appreciate the fun habits and accompanying states of mind that Tipsy shows. I consider him a close personal friend at this point, and I can't think of anything that would drive us apart.

You know how most lushes have a pattern in life? They're struggling to get their lives on track, they swear off the booze, then two hours later they show up drunk? That's not Tipsy. Left to his own choices, anything apart from solitary confinement and lack of access, he's going to be boozed up, lubed real good. And spaced out, talking with a slurred voice, the whole bit. It's a lot of fun to imitate him, stumbling over your words, like the old comedian -- one of the funniest guys of his time -- Foster Brooks. I watched Foster on YouTube lately, and had the same feeling for him as in the '70s: I like the drunk voice a lot but still don't like how he bottoms it out so often. Just me.

Tipsy's not extremely verbose. He's mostly in a more enviable condition, the complete, total, beautiful miasma of drunkenness. He's just there, more or less worthless for any and all practical pursuits, but happy and apparently even centered in himself. That's the good drunk, unlike the bad drunk, which involves staggering and personal endangerment. Tipsy usually looks very contented, sitting in a chair, the bottle dangling from one hand near the floor, with his head pushed back, face toward the ceiling, in his own world, his own personal haze.

It'd be interesting to read his mind and know what's going on in his thoughts. Is he tapping into realms up there that would yield new and more wonderful answers? Is he working through visions and dreams that might make a difference to humanity in, perhaps, coming up with an answer to man's troubles? Or is it just what it looks like, a guy so bombed that if even the slightest thinking's taking place, there's still not two coherent thoughts joined together, nothing of cognitive syntax of any form that would make sense in terms of our current prevalent consciousness?

Looking at some of his ideas for articles for the newsletter, most of them aren't what you'd call deep stuff. He's very anti-cop and he doesn't like to be hassled. I can only imagine what it's been like for him, off on these beautiful multiple-week drunks and having to be hassled by the fuzz. Wouldn't you just like to take the fuzz by the lapels sometime and say, "Lay off, copper, my friend's not hurting anyone. Take your officious, self-righteous, crock of crap lawman pretentiousness, and get the hell out of here! He sleeping it off, as you can perfectly well see, because there's a party tonight he doesn't want to miss."

I said I had some spirituality going on, remember? Even the Good Book says drinking is fine. I'm looking it up. 1 Timothy 5:23: "Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities." So water's out and wine's in. Something for your stomach, which is where liquids go. And something to help with infirmities. Let me do some interpretation of the verse. It says "Use a little wine." I like that. Going by that, it's all relative, use what you need. If wine's OK, anything else you need would be OK too. The same principle holds for the phrase "thy stomach's sake." All other body parts might benefit. So, in Tipsy's case, he's got all the bases covered.

Yes, Tipsy's an all right kind of guy. If I wasn't for the whole yoga discipline thing -- and I'm extremely faithful to it -- I wouldn't mind joining him. Tip up and down a bottle of rye, I'd be lubed too! I met this guy one time and we got on the subject of drinking. I asked him, "Do you drink?" He goes, "Nope ... I guzzle."

The Roast for God Bless America

We're gathered tonight to honor God Bless America, and to say, You're one hell of a song. But it wouldn't hurt you to have some humility. You're one of those rare songs that stands up when you hear yourself sung. How patriotic ... but over the top. We'll run you up the flagpole and see who salutes.

Our friend here, as you may know, was written by Irving Berlin. Great guy, huh? You remember Irving? He's the same guy that gives us blizzards every Christmas. Martin Luther King dreams of opportunity and equality for all. This guy dreams of snowstorms.

But, really, I suppose if you're a composer messing around, this is a fairly good song, a good idea. But you know how he got the idea? He hit his thumb with a hammer and his mother was standing there, and he goes, "GOD! ... bless America..." True story. I could've composed this song, or anyone of us here. That's what they do in composer school, hit their thumb looking for inspiration. But only Irving, and Yoko Ono on a couple albums, cashed in on it.

Speaking of cashing in, I hate to make it sound bad, but our friend here is -- I want to put it mildly -- something of a charity case. Irving turned over God Bless America's rights and royalties to the Boy Scouts. Thanks, Dad! That's why we don't have Boy Scout cookies; they get their money from him working all day. Someone wants to sing him, the Scouts have their hand out for a dollar. Or in the case of a football game, thousands of dollars!

So the more people sing him, the more money they make. Which is weird, in a way, because we sing him mostly when times are bad: World War II, 9/11, or when we hit our own thumb. It's then the Boy Scouts show up with their hand out. They're taught to cash in on everyone else's misery.

Anyway, we really have to feel for him, right? How would you like to spend your life camping out with 10,000 boys? If you see nothing wrong with that, see me later, you need help. They're supposed to be well-behaved but they're really little monsters. You know the part about them always tying knots? Well, guess who they practice on. (Motioning to God Bless America). They've chased him from the mountains to the prairies to the oceans white with foam. But that's not foam, he's frothing at the mouth! God Bless America wishes he could stay home on a nice foam mattress and get some sleep.

But he's here with us tonight, among adults. We're not going to make you gargle tadpoles, which was the real reason I quit the Scouts. My breath was fresh enough. Nothing quite that pleasant! Ve have vays of dealing vith you! All in good fun, of course. We might send you to Russia and let you fight it out with their song. Or North Korea, still working on their song. As the old saying goes, "First prize is a kick in the ass."

You know, I've always thought, as songs go, God Bless America is kind of short. One little verse plus a little intro bit that I haven't heard since Kate Smith died. That's right, the great lady died. Singing one day and just choked and keeled over. They thought that was it for our friend, too, since he was wedged in her throat at the time. Bad place to be. Wrong place, wrong time. He'd always been able to escape before, this time he needed the jaws of life. They were still working to get him out just minutes before the crowd was going to sing him at the funeral. They got him backstage, looking like hell, just in time to honor her one last time.

I was saying he's short. See him peeking over the table there, barely? Somebody said, "Sit him up on an encyclopedia!" I said, "We did!" We're sending out for a dictionary, a brick, Rip Taylor's toupee, anything to prop him up ... You seriously need a second verse!

But that's what we've got, one little verse, a tidy little package, which is why he never gets a date. If it's not stag or the Scouts, he stays home. I know, we're getting personal. But what he's got he got from his daddy, thanks Dad! Enough words to get him started, then it's over! "Hi, I'm God Bless America," and that's it. "OK, God Bless America to you, too!" Seriously, that's bad. He walks up to a girl and says, "I'm God Bless America." Of course she stands up, looks down, and walks out. "I've heard of you: 'From the mountains to the prairies to the oceans...', looking for what you ain't got!"

Then, how about the part about the oceans white with foam? I've talked with foam, he wants you to lay off, OK? Foam's basic complaint: if he didn't happen to rhyme with home you'd be picking on someone else. And just between you and me, most of the foam you see is pollution. Foam isn't any great pride to the ocean. Ocean says, "Hey, I've got enough water to flood the world, and all you see is the foam? That's kind of like complimenting a guy for his dandruff. 'I see you have some flakes on your tux, I love you!'"

Anyway, God Bless America, honestly, we love you, you're a good sport. You're a great song, whether you have one verse or a dozen. One verse is always a great start ... just most songs don't stop there. Kind of leaves you hanging, or, in your case, not so much. The National Anthem's not worried. It's got bombs bursting in air, you've got a prairie and some foamy water.

But whatever your limits, all kidding aside, you've been there for all of us right along. If we've been happy or sad, in trouble or whatever, as a nation, you've always lifted our spirits and brightened our day just a little more. That was certainly true in the war. You'd see our spirits going down in the dumps, and there you'd be. We'd all stand again with pride and fight for another day, until finally we made it all the way to victory. One little song with a great can-do spirit, sometimes that's all it takes!

And of course we want to thank the Boy Scouts for letting you out tonight. You can tell them thanks from all of us, and let them know we're taking up a little collection, and the check's in the mail.

Without The Fear Of Contradiction

It's been a while since I've had a contentious comment or an email from a reader objecting to something.

That could be bad. It might mean that, despite the 14 hits I got from Croatia the other day, they've moved on to other blogs. It's something I've feared, really, but didn't know how to adjust to counter it. I always figured, you know, that since my readership skewed younger, mentally at least, that with maturity they would migrate on. But then that others would find their way in.

Or it could be good. It's long been proverbial that if you can keep the Croatians contented, anyone will be pleased. So I'm banking partly on that. Or it could be good because the readers feel they're getting exactly what they need, their daily recommended serving of rhetorical goodness, with a flourish or a flair here and there.

Believe me, these questions keep me up at night. Just last night, I woke up in a cold sweat, thinking, "Whoa Nelly, what should I do next?" It wasn't till an hour or two of that that I finally came up with my answer, that I shouldn't worry about it. But then, in addition, that I should maybe double down on spouting off my opinions, conjectures, and claims.

To do that, then, let me start by saying: I have no fear of contradiction, no matter what I may say. There, the ball's in your court. If you want me to fear contradiction -- which I don't -- then you need to call me on it. Until then, buzz off! Down with fact-checkers, those who would question my logic, or the disputers of theories. You don't know everything anyway. And since you don't know everything, how can you realistically question me on anything?

OK, I'll pull a few so-called facts out of my ass, and so be it!

Without the fear of contradiction, I claim that Smokey the Bear himself sets fires to forests. Can you prove he doesn't? Isn't it a little suspicious that he hangs out in forests all the time and yet fails to stop fires? If we can't depend on Smokey, going by that, who can we depend on? But going by my contention, that would explain a lot of things. And -- and here we're getting to the nub of the issue -- who would have a greater motive to torch a forest every now and then than the very guy who profits from preventing fires? If there's never a fire, he's out of a job. We would do very well to keep an eye on him. I'm proposing an ankle bracelet monitored by GPS.

Without the fear of contradiction, I submit to you that bugs are invisible. No one can dispute what they can't see. And with this claim, I don't mean they're microscopic, hence visible under a microscope. I claim that they are literally invisible. A visit to the kitchen in the middle of the night proves the point. You walk in, you have a creepy feeling there are bugs, yet you don't see anything. Of course you don't, they're invisible. I've had a problem now for two summers, being bit by invisible bugs. When I was a kid I saw bugs. A mosquito or some other apparently visible bug would land on me. And I'd get bit. But when I grew up, my childhood second sight went away. I'm still getting the same bites, but nothing's there. Freaky.

Without the fear of contradiction, I declare that topical humor sucks. I'd rather have something that's perpetually funny, like a guy with an odd walk or a bicyclist crashing into the back of a garbage truck and being sucked into the gears than a topical joke. I was listening to a Lenny Bruce album -- Live at the Curran Theater -- and he was riffing on a judge who didn't want him saying naughty words. I think Lenny was going to jail for it. This goes way back, when the words were first invented, so they were crazy. But it's topical, meaning we aren't that amused now. Without the fear of contradiction, he would've been a better comedian if he would've simply stuck to regular jokes. Which he could've done.

Without the fear of contradiction, I am never wrong...

You've Been Fantastic

We've all watched comedians on TV telling the audience that they've been fantastic. That's good, because a comedian wants a fantastic audience, folks who are going to appreciate them and laugh. We might say, What's the difference, if they're being paid? You could hire a comedian, send them out to a bunch of stiffs, he could go through his routine, and end it, and it'd be just as good.

Just thinking of it, it looks like it's just a decent way to end the routine. You're going to thank the audience, and since a lot of comedy is just talking anyway, you may as well compliment the audience. Plus, the audience's response is a key part of the whole thing for comedians. It can be different for a musical act, who are just there to run through their songs. Bob Dylan, as an example, might not say a word.

It's nice to hear it, that you're a fantastic audience, or you've been fantastic, even though it doesn't mean that much. Because it's being told to you in the aggregate, so it's not really a compliment you can claim and put on your resume. But it makes you feel better when you leave than it would if he said you were deplorable, like the school principals used to tell us.

I was at a restaurant that was getting a fresh reboot and the owner (or manager) was there in the first days, acting all funky anxious. (As it turned out, he had good reason to act anxious. I went back a few times, getting consistently bad service, so I haven't been back again.) So he's all stressed out, and his inclination was to come to the eaters and let them know they're fantastic for eating there. Of course they're just there to eat, not be told how fantastic they are. They're thinking, "Hey, dude, leave us alone!" But at least he wasn't singing Happy Birthday table to table!

It's good that a place has an owner who's cordial. But I prefer those who stay in the background somewhere, so you don't even know who the owner is. He's just a guy somewhere, counting money and parceling out the tips. With no feedback whatever table to table.

I'm thinking of the great artists, who simply labor alone, with no feedback from anyone. Like Van Gogh, who didn't get fame till he was dead. He didn't have to periodically step out and tell us we've been fantastic, a beautiful audience. "You've really been quite lovely!"