Do I Want Some More Whiskey?

I’m currently on a three-day bender, woo hoo! Didn’t know it’d go this long. Figured a day or two and I’d be sated. Turns out I was wrong. I don’t see an end in sight, unless it’s tomorrow; that’s likely; it can’t go on forever, can it?

Look at my typing. You tell me, is this making any sense? To my eyes, it’s a chicken scratching on the computer. I’ve got the font blown way up, compensating for the blurriness. And there's hallucinations. I hope that’s what they are. My flat white bedroom walls are an outrageous exaggeration of their normal selves. Settle down! I can’t tell if they’re coming at me or trying to get away. We haven’t discussed it, nothing beyond me telling them yesterday about this time, “You stay on your side of the room and I’ll stay on mine. I don’t want any trouble, and I don’t think you do either. But you tangle with me, I can't be responsible. I will stab the life out of you; I’ve done worse!” I’m fairly sure the walls are OK. We’re at an impasse.

Wow, my head is spinning. But it’s a good spinning, good ha ha, not bad boo hoo. “I’m Loretta Young!” I heard myself screaming like a maniac. Then I toyed with the name Loretta. Try it next time you’re faced. “Loretta!” It’s hard to get it slurred out. It’s a very guttural name when you’re temporarily under the weather. But conversationally still interesting: “So you’re Loretta Young. THE Loretta Young.” “Yes, sir,” I think I heard her say at the usual pauses in any conversation. The Loretta Young who used to be on that old TV out in the garage, back when it worked, our first TV? “Yes, sir.” She elaborates “I was simultaneously on millions of sets, coming out in a lovely dress, spinning for the audience.” I took a drink and exclaimed, “I thought I knew you from somewhere! You’re Loretta Young!” The TV broke again and she was gone.

This is damned good whiskey. And, yes, that's whiskey with an E. I’ve seen it both ways, and there’s some explanation for that, albeit lame, something to keep dictionaries busy. I remember when I was first “turned on” to whiskey; it’s been a while. I was in my 20s and given to massive misbehavior not in keeping with the values the den of wolves raised me with. Mostly blowing off steam, much like I’m doing here. Woo hoo! But, thinking back, it was whiskey, along with all the other stuff they serve, that first loosened my talk tapes. Considerably!

I remember one old boy. This was 45 years ago. He was in his late 60s or mid 70s then, so he’s got to be dead today. Just like 45 years from today, I.... I’ll return to this point later if I think of it. Anyway, the guy was ancient. And what did he happen to have, a baggie of something. Even now I’m reluctant to tell anyone precisely what happened, so let me gloss it over with a sincere, Nothing happened. I said, “No, sir, I’m drinking whiskey! Along with other draws and mixed drinks. Boilermakers, which is whiskey followed by a draw. Back then I was a gulper, get it down fast as possible. Now I’m a sipper. Do I ever pick up steam? Of course. Till Loretta Young shows up. Which, it could be Loretta anybody, I wouldn’t mind. Loretta Lynn. Isn’t there a famous Loretta Luperca? No, it's Luperca Latouche, Finnegans Wake. Another sip of whiskey!

Think I’ll have one for my health! Pour it, pour pour pour, perfect, 1 tablespoon. Here's mud in your eye, slowly sipping it. To my health. I’ve always thought I was in great health. I've never had much wrong. But lately I’ve noticed in the mirror that I look thinner. I usually can't see myself as I am. In the mirror, I’m one thing. In photos, another. But it has come to my attention, somehow, that I look thinner than ever in the mirror. So, like the old boy above, the guy in the bar with the baggie, 45 years from now, I will have crossed over the rainbow bridge, which I’ve learned is what modern dying pets cross over too.

I’ll thin down to the point that I’m like one of those long green stick bugs. Then keep myself from breaking till I get to the destination, where the rainbow bridge is. I’ll stand there, waiting my turn. Kids are off in the bushes watching their pets set foot on the bridge. I’ll wait and wait and wait, thinking, “Good God, why are there so many dying pets?” It’s because there’s an endless population of them. Every dog has 14 puppies. And cats. They have nine lives, which means nine deaths each, so they’re clogging up the bridge worse than anyone. Just when the coast is clear, I try to get up and one of my thin legs snaps. That hurts. But thankfully I have a little whiskey to pour on the wound. Suddenly the bridge is clogged with a nursing home that just happened to burn down 10 minutes ago. Everyone died. Again, I wait my turn, dousing the leg and alternating with a drink.

Sounds like I’m in no hurry to die. I have reasons to live. This blog’s a big one. I haven’t found anyone to take it over. Everyone that comes to me wants to load it up with ads, but I refuse. Online advertising on blogs is one of the sickest sights I've seen. Then you have to be churning out little blurbs. A paragraph, an ad. A paragraph, another clump of ads. So you stick to two paragraph posts because you need to have many posts, so you’ll have lots of ads going all the time, popping up everywhere, “You’ve won this or that bullshit.” Anyway, don’t get me started on that subject. “No, sir!” I cry out. Then I settle back in my chair, have a drink of whiskey, and the rainbow bridge comes again into view.

Back at the rainbow bridge: A turtle I had in the 1980s just died and swam by. How about that? I found a turtle and took it home in the 1980s. I was living in a town. Then it came time to move and I took it back and released it with a word of blessing. And now I catch sight of it after all these years on the rainbow bridge. “Hey, whatever your name was!” And another sip of whiskey.

These little measuring cups you can buy to drink whiskey out of, they have a disclaimer in the store, “This measuring cup is intended for use in cooking, not for the serving of alcoholic beverages.” “Hey, baby,” I say — fingering in the general direction of the measuring cup company — “this IS cooking!"

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."

Sloshing Tankards of Grog, Phones Ruint

1814

At the Boar's Head Public House, Andermatt, Switzerland, peasants from the countryside and the people of the village are joyously sloshing tankards of grog in great celebration. The grog makers are bringing it in as fast as they can put it out. The tankards are being filled and downed, filled and sloshed boisterously.

Certainly everybody there is merrily sloshed, whether out of their own drinking or their being sloshed by a neighbor. What a happy time, "Here's mud in your eyes!"

The keeper of the Boar's Head -- old Jeremias Boarshead -- later cleaning up the dam place, thinks back on the festivities. He pauses with his brooms and mops and recalls even his own brother in the mix there, sloshing with the worst of them, calling out in celebration, "You dirty bastard!" to the merriment of all.

There were no enemies, only the best of friends in those days -- a neutral place -- when the grog was flowing. Even if sober and dry they would've been enemies. But a tankard of grog in your mouth or coming through the air is the great leveler of a people.

2014

The same damned place is going strong, with some updates, some improvements, maybe. The sink's got a new layer of porcelain. The big difference is the drinkers, coming in as they so often do with phones, computers, and all these dam devices. It's technology on them, the delicate, dainty widdle technology, that nobody can get grog in or its delicate mechanism is spoilt, ruint.

So when the spirit gets lively, from whence it comes, and the grog is flowing, and the shouts of "bastard" are at their most fevered pitch, you hear the saddest words known to man, "Oh, dam, you bastard, you only now just ruint my phone!" The man runs quickly to the back room to grab paper towels, getting it out of the plastic case as hurried as possible and getting it dried off. It spritzes and flashes before blinking off black. "Out the door with me!" he declares, going out the back door.

But the spirit's still lively, though, in the main hall. I'm right under the massive head of some massive animal attached to the wall. A boar, its head. There's drippings from its hair, trickling down its forehead, on to the glass eyes and running much quicker, skipping the nose and making it straight to the lips and chin, and running quickly and dripping endlessly, depending on how much grog there was we got flying.

Bastard me! I turn to check my messages just as a tankard crisscrossed the room, unbeknownst to me. Thankfully, mercy heavens, I heard the whiz and was able to get my phone under my pocket liner just in time to celebrate the tankard's explosive arrival at the big boar's head. More spray going everywhere! I give a hardy and hale shout, "Yea!" Doubling down, I crash a tankard into another bastard's tankard and it sloshes us good. A little gal with a tray's down below, beaming up at us. Cute little thing.

But nothing would be the same, would it, for a studious fellow opening his iPad in this frenzy, only to have it doused with the sloshing by six good mates crashing tankards all at once, going in toward one the others in a conjunction that could easily only possibly end in one big mess. He looks down at his iPad on the spritz, splashed now beyond recognition as a working and vital device. The bastard's gone, it's dead, ruint...

High Tor, the cash register guy, moves through the crowd with his raincoat. We all have to laugh, as we look over and see such a massed assembly of raincoats, plastic wraps, umbrellas, and various diversionary heavy tarps looming over the delicate integrated mechanisms of the register. The son of a bitch was made to communicate with the outside world, it was. Foolishly! They could've done better with a wooden drawer. This thing beams its workings to the office, where the accountant, Old Max, dwells, and from there it's a pushed button's job to relay the accounted sum to the local banking establishment. And in a crowd like this, O!, it was so constantly busy!

Yeah, well ... I poke this one crazy bastard in the ribs, who looks at me with stupid happiness all over his face till he sees my grand plan at once. We will soak the cash register with grog, and let it spritz its way across the floor, if its source of energy will allow it! And so we do. And so it's ruint! The old boy knows the other guys more than me, and we assembled all ourselves around the thing -- we're truly too wasted to be held culpable for our actions -- and it was round robin, one by one, dousing it in grog. A roar of celebration went up as it fell to the floor and spritzed and jumped like it was limping for dear life, any possible shelter, the shadow of a table. There it died and a host of connections were utterly lost forever.

No sir, 'twouldn't've been this way back in 1814, the longtime bartender of the Boar's Head, laments. Back then they could've made the cash drawer swim to the ceiling and we'd still have been able to pull out the pieces of silver and make it a decent payday. Now we just have to hope the soaking of the wet hasn't extended as far as the bank. And that all our dealings hitherto have beamed their way all the way there. Do you think that they did? I'm putting you all on the honor system. The place now is closing, check back tomorrow. We'll settle all debts.

Ruint phones, computers, pads. Tomorrow. Time is no healer.

That's Sexy ... We're Not Moving

You really can't help it, the things that go on in swanky restaurants. But you don't have to approve of it. Which might be a good lesson for Ted to think about. On the other hand, who knows, maybe Doris was just too picky.

They were out on the town at The Fireside, a nice place, but a place where anything's liable to happen. The waiter seated them and went away. Doris had never approved of alcohol and a guy at the next table was getting a bit sloshed on whiskey. She called for the waiter, telling him, "We want to move." The new place was pretty good, until another guy pulled out a cigar and finished off his meal with a strong smoke. Doris called again for the waiter, telling him, "We want to move."

Of course Ted went along with her because he also wasn't much of a smoker. He got way too much of it when he was in the Navy, plus it's bad for you. The waiter took them around the corner and found them a better place. The next problem was an artwork of an alluring beauty just behind Doris and right in Ted's line of sight. She was a gorgeous siren of the sea, waiting, it appeared, for sailors to come in on the next ship. Ted's eye lingered approvingly on the picture, and a smile brightened his face, as though he were thinking back on happier times, his own time in the service and good memories.

Doris called for the waiter, but Ted interrupted, raising his hand, "No, Doris, that's sexy ... We're not moving." Suddenly Doris realized ... they weren't on the same page. Ted was a rebel, mulling his own thoughts in private, whatever they were. She saw him smile again, after such a stern frown when he had said, "That's sexy ... We're not moving." What's she got that I haven't got? Doris went right to the nub of the issue: Such allure! Her blouse pulled down, revealing a shoulder and a breast that refused to be hidden. A tight skirt halfway up her thigh. The look on her face that of pure seduction. Her hair pulled back like a goddess. For starters...

And there was Ted, now silent, in his own world, who could not or would not be swayed. But Doris tried, complaining in tones accusatory, "She's down by the docks like she's waiting for sailors!" Ted lit up again, keeping a silent smile. Then Doris tried another tack, "I'm not hungry here, in fact I'm nauseous here. I think we ought to move." But Ted was adamant, "No, that's sexy, we're not moving." Sexy? Is that what he's thinking of? Ted's always been so good!

All of a sudden, Ted got up and went around the corner and returned a minute later. He bought a couple cigars and was lighting up. Next, the waiter came around the corner with a shot-glass of whiskey and the rest of the bottle. Ted had Doris move to the opposite side of the table, so she wouldn't spoil his view of the beautiful woman. He put his focus on her and didn't take it off, except to refill his glass. He didn't eat, only smoked his cigars, drank whiskey, and made visual love, as it were, to the woman in the picture.

Doris, for her part, ordered the most expensive steak on the menu, then sat picking at it. She'd show him! But Ted didn't care, in fact he didn't even notice, lost as he was in overwhelming pleasure and such a wonderful feeling of lust, that feeling you get when everything comes together as nature planned ... and everything is just right.

My Scenic Train Ride - "HIC! HIC!"

It's probably true that most folks like riding the scenic cruise trains you see around the country. I've found it's a good relaxing time for an old guy like me, not given to too much excitement and preferring to take it easy.

We've come a long way since the hobos rode the lines and had to sleep under bridges in hobo jungles, scarfing mulligan stew and fighting for every bite. Now they bring us a lovely three course lunch, starting with the salad and bread, then steak/potatoes/veggies, whatever, then the dessert. All the times I've ridden, I've never been hungry enough to beg from passersby afterwards.

Something they have plenty of now, as well, is alcohol. And some of the folks (not me) get pretty lubed. The last time I was on board there was a party of six, three women and three men, and the men were completely lubed. Bubbling over. And carrying on, too, pawing their wives. One of them even saw me -- a gnarly 61-year-old man -- in the vestibule, the space between cars, and thought I was kind of cute.

Shortly after, my having eluded him and maintained my virtue, we were back at our tables in the dining car. I sipped a Coke and these guys were enjoying spiked coffee, topped with about three inches of alcohol-enriched foam and even a cherry on top soaked in whiskey for six weeks.

The real fun came, then, when the guy who runs the train line came out to narrate the more picturesque sights along the way. These guys, still running up their liquor tab, were generally well-behaved, but with those unfortunately loud, involuntary "HIC!" noises more common in taverns. The train guy was trying his absolute best, but I could see a look of frustration on his face, being so rudely interrupted as he was.

"On the left, you'll notice the Golden Mountains, the single source of our nation's great riches----" "HIC! .... HIC! .... HIC!" Sometimes they hicced in threes like that, one per man. We veered around a corner and the Golden Mountains receded from view, but I'm given to understand everything in Fort Knox came from there.

Going down a steep incline, the train guy started in again: "Ahh, the majestic Valley of the Kings!," he said approvingly, "who mystically appear at the fog line whenever--" "HIC! .... HIC!" That was one guy hiccing twice, and his wife gave him a major league jab in the ribs. That led to laughter from the other guys, which degenerated into their own "HICcing" fit. I'd actually forgotten the Valley of the Kings was anywhere near here. Now I'll have to look it up, what causes the mystic Kings to appear and where precisely. Because the train man didn't get it out.

Soon we went around a beautiful curve, supposedly the biggest curve in the world since Ethel Merman's death, and there was shimmering Lake Diamond, home of splendid magical jewels that are gathered on the beach by true believers, if your heart is certified properly righteous. The train guy started in, saying, "And here is shimmering Lake Diamond," then abruptly gave up mid-sentence, anticipating a loud chorus of "HIC! HIC! HIC! HIC! HIC!", all three men going at it in discordant guttural belches. The train veered around a corner, leaving Lake Diamond out of sight.

It went like that, then it was time for Happy Hour, before pulling into the station an hour later. I watched the wives leave with their husbands staggering toward their cars, and with my hand over my lips, emitted a tiny, silent HIC of my own. One little drink at Happy Hour.

Merry Christmas from White Pool Hall

Probably the first thing you notice is that I'm advertising a pool hall, in fact wishing you Merry Christmas from White Pool Hall. I've only been hanging out here about a month and already Gus heard I had a blog and a good reputation for web design, so he spotted me a few drinks for coming up with this ad.

The extraordinary thing about all this is that I'm even in a pool hall. And that I'm actually getting over the guilt, since a bunch of the guys here have really befriended me. They're very friendly, and of course they get friendlier as the night goes on, not being afraid to put a few away.

But me ... in a pool hall! Which was a dirty word when I was growing up. Anyone -- you, your dad, anyone -- who went to a pool hall was scum of the earth. They were drinking away their paycheck, their kids were dirty and poor, and they didn't belong in polite company. But now here I am! And while all that is absolutely true -- I've never seen such dysfunctional families -- the guys are honestly very friendly ... and generous with their paychecks, buying drinks, treating me to pool games, etc.

I made this big switch in my personal life when my Mom died in August. It's been a hell of a year. The thing is, you see, she was the one who came up with the rule against pool halls. It was "God's will," and all the rest... That would be the same God who took my Mom. Kind of a downer, first giving her cancer, then making it so she was the wrong blood type to get the best radiation, then complicating things with her diet so she'd waste away, and finally ... the bitter end. Right then I vowed what anyone in my skin would say: That's the way you wanna play it, I'm going to pool halls!

The weird thing about my childhood was: We always had a pool table! I think Mom and Dad were trying to convey to us that good families could still play pool, just not at pool halls. We played Rotation, 8-Ball, and a game I made up called Jackoslovitch, which was kind of like hockey, played with pool cues broadly swiping the table. Now, of course, those days are long gone. Everyone's dying off. We're all getting old.

I think about Mom all the time, too, at the pool hall. Hoping that maybe she's not that ticked off in Heaven, since, after all, I am 60, old enough to veer off the straight and narrow path from time to time, depending on how I choose to live.

Hey, hey! A truck driver kind of guy, a big burly Dutchman -- Jake -- just came in the door. They act like I'm "the Professor," since I know big words and still act a little uptight. I'm also the kindest guy here, but I'm hoping to get coarser as time goes on. But, really, doesn't the world need sweet guys too?

About the advertisement -- Hope you like it. We really do wish that Happy Thoughts Caress You at Christmas. And that Good Old Santa doesn't forget you and yours. Christmas is for the whole family, but I always say it's really all about the kids. And I'm thinking I'll probably try a few interventions with some of the guys here, to get them to not waste their whole paycheck on drinks. A few's nice, yes, but I don't like the idea of kids suffering. Definitely not at Christmas. I'm going to call that my strictest rule.

That's it! Happy Holidays! All the best of the season! And stop in for a game!

Mama don't allow no pool hall goin' 'round here,
Mama don't allow no pool hall goin' 'round here.
Well, we don't care what Mama don't allow,
Rack them balls up anyhow!

Drink With Us On the Bus

I've seen this bus around many times, and probably the less said the better. I've had to stop and think a few times what's going on. I'm still not 100% sure, but right now my best guess is that they shuttle people in, then see that they get home safely after drinking. If that's not it, I'm sorry. I'm not identifying the bar, so as not to misrepresent their policy.

But you might get the impression, since it says, "DRINK WITH US ON THE BUS," that you're going to be literally drinking on the bus with these particular ladies, or others. With all sorts of possibilities that could follow, including parking at some secluded spot out by the lake, with one guy, a burly bartender, standing guard against bushwhackers. Again, I don't know ...

Let's say that not what's going on. I accept that. But what if you had a guy who thought, Hey, ladies that want to drink with me on the bus! We're looking in on this little scenario as the screen goes wavy, then we focus in on a particular guy, whom we'll call Walt. Walt has just entered The Drinking Bus Zone.

Walt approaches. The bus is very dark and obviously no one's there. "I'll have them all to myself!" he says with relish, then jimmies the door and gets in. Now it's just a matter of waiting. So he's sitting there, occasionally looking out the window. They must live around here, since this is their bus. But the night is wearing on and no one's coming by for drinks.

As Walt gets a little groggy, he stands and walks around. He sits in the driver's seat, commandeering the bus in his imagination, and taking the girls out for a spin. Where they're going, no one knows, not even him. But they'll know when they get there. One possibility would be a cool nightclub, where they wouldn't have to drink on a small bus.

Although, it might be a better plan just to drink on the bus; with such a small space there'll be less competition. Maybe just Walt and these six! He takes a long lingering look at the one on the right end. The bar on the window really accentuates things. Everything above her mouth looks like a cowl. Still, that's just a picture, she has a normal head.

Time passes, and Walt's rooting around in some stuff, when he pulls out a cooler, a pretty good-sized cooler. It wouldn't hurt to set out some drinks, just to be ready when they show up. One here, that's his, and six around a small table. He gets thirsty after a while, of course, with the temptation, and drinks his own. Then reasoning that he can always refill their glasses when they get there, he goes around the table drinking each one.

After another round or two, the picture on the windows is starting to come to life, almost. They're certainly doing a halfway seductive dance, which has to be fun to see. Walt puts his arms out for a huggy-bear, then drops them. Playing hard to get, eh? He looks up, bleary-eyed, and makes some suggestive remarks. No bushwhackers are in sight, and it's only natural. But still, they're reticent.

Pretty soon, a cop comes around.

Out Drinking With Death

I'm very shaken up. It's weird, I'm usually so calm, but this is craziness hit crisis proportions. Can you really believe the price of drinks? I'm old -- I remember 25 cent draws and dime pitchers! So to say I'm aghast is an understatement; this goes way beyond that!

Why haven't I been out binge drinking in decades? you ask. I've never been that great at making friends. But now -- it's bizarre -- I got to know Death himself, and it's like we're inseparable. I hadn't seen him since the other day, when he guest-blogged on my site. Then he was suddenly gone, just vanished. Then this past Saturday, early afternoon, during breakfast, I noticed a black mist -- kind of dark in color -- taking shape at my table. There he was again.

Of course I asked, "What's up?" and he shrugged his shoulders. I had an immediate suspicion that he'd been out on his unique business, so I just said it, "Spill the beans." He put his hands up in mock surrender, as if to say, "You got me." In enumerating his deeds over the past couple days, he went on and on. For him it was a typical day, nursing homes, hospitals, alleys, schools, prison showers. He yawned, then perked up when he told me about an elephant sitting on a guy in the circus up in Minneapolis. I said, "How'd that happen?," genuinely curious, and he just smiled, "Must've slipped ... or something."

Anyway, now that we're friends, I suggested that we go out to one of the local watering holes and tip back a few. Even though I don't drink much, usually, it's proverbial that a few stiff drinks can wash your troubles away. Death looked at me like he was stunned, and then smiled, saying, "You know something? No one's ever asked me to go out like that, I appreciate it..." It's true, I'm an extremely nice guy.

We got to the bar and settled in with a couple beers. Then I had another beer and a whiskey chaser. He said, "Ah, a boilermaker." I said proudly, "Yup, that's the ticket." At least I thought it was the ticket till the barkeep told me the price of admission, very high; I was stunned.

Pretty soon, I was brought moderately back to reality when Death killed a guy for wasting seltzer water and hogging the bottle. The guy was out with his buddies, and apparently hadn't gotten the memo that such a thing was a mortal sin. I thought, "What? You just killed a guy?" but really what can you say when everything you say might be used against you? I chalked it up to "Better him than me," and proceeded to have another drink, and at these prices, it was shocking!

Well, you know me, drinks go right through me; the alcohol settles in my liver and I'm immediately drunk, but the remainder heads straight for the exit -- I had to pee. I was in the can, trying not to make eye contact, but still looking very interested at the graffiti. How do people have enough privacy to write such filthy things? "For a good time, call...blah blah blah." Shocking. And of course disgusting drawings of anatomically correct figures in flagrante delicto. It's all revolting, my senses were shocked. Just then I heard a scream.

I rushed out to see quite the row, screaming, shouting, some pushing their way to the doors, only to be pushed back by police on their way in. I thought, Just what I need, to be made a public spectacle in the company of these losers. But the spotlight wasn't so much on me as on two fresh corpses draped over the pool table, and Seltzer Guy. I glanced over at the bar and Death was still sitting there like nothing happened, nursing an overpriced drink. The police swarmed the place looking for the lowdown.

I said I'd been in the can when it all went down. I glanced over at Death to vouch for me but he had vanished. The police thought I looked shifty, I guess, so I answered a few questions. Did I have any idea what happened? I tried my best to beg off, till at long last, I blurted out, "It looks like Death got them!" I wasn't smarting off, but that's how they took it. I only managed to get them back on my side by complaining vociferously about the cost of drinks these days. One of the officers was about my age, and he also remembered with fondness the cheap drinks of yesteryear.

The guys from the County Morgue came and emptied the trash, at long last freeing up the pool table and seltzer bottle. I went home -- don't worry, Death drove -- but even being lubed as I was, I still couldn't stifle my loud disgust at today's prices. Yes, three guys were dead, but I bet those beers were three fifty a draw! It was a complete shock to my system.

Hunting Groundhog -- A Lotta Fun With Men

I don't want anyone to think I wasted my Groundhog Day holiday. I certainly didn't...

The night before, somehow I fell in with an interesting crowd, all men. I guess I had a little too much to drink. I woke up about 6 o'clock in the morning on Groundhog Day. I was in a strange place, which turned out to be a hunting lodge in parts unknown. I looked around the room and saw a bunch of guys sleeping, most of them in red flannel shirts and in various stages of undress. It was like either a nightmare or a dream come true, depending on how you swing.

Then it started coming back to me. I'd been at one of the local watering holes, playing darts and touching a few too many 25 cent draws. I hit a few lucky bulls-eyes and next thing I knew I was drafted by an all-men's darts team. Sitting later in a booth, one of them got breathy on me, real up close, about some "action" they were going out for. He looked around the room and asked me if I wanted in. I was reluctant, but then with a few more drinks, I was like, "Sure!" I was up for anything. All I remember next is a bunch of guys -- all men -- headed for the country, and I fell asleep.

OK, to make a long story short, as the old saying goes, it turned out the "action" was an all-male groundhog hunt. The best kind, I'd say. I woke up, found the bathroom and did my business -- No. 1 -- and a couple more guys came in. I zipped up quick, but one of them caught my eye. I guess I blushed. Whatever it was, he patted me on the bottom and proceeded to relieve himself, boldly, which he was still doing as I went out the door.

Over breakfast, the rest of them, most of whom I barely knew from the night before, were celebrating my dart playing, saying I put them over the top against the other team. They were all like, "You definitely know where the bulls-eye is!" and "You're no stranger to putting it where it goes!" and the like. I put my hands up, a little abashed, as if to say, "I got lucky..." I guess I was lucky, because here I was, feted by a cabin full of men!

One guy -- these guys were nothing if not bold -- came out of the shower with a towel around his waist and nothing else on. Everyone laughed, it was funny. I expected him to go back in a make himself decent, but instead he proceeded to the stove and started cooking breakfast. I watched as he separated each strip of bacon from three pounds and carefully laid them in hot skillets. He licked his fingers and leered over at us, still being funny. As the strips sizzled, he tossed his head back with a satisfied look.

The morning, then, was topped off by the actual groundhog hunt. Again, this was nothing but men, men with big long guns, shooting all over the place, at whatever moved. I saw a four-legged deer die. But the highlight had to be the group gathering around groundhog holes, sticking our guns down the holes, and blowing the crap out of them.

I skinned a groundhog and made a Davy Crockett hat. I was so excited, the tail hanging down my neck twitched and flipped up whenever one of the guys came up behind me. There's something about the nerves in groundhog tails. It's like a corpse's fingernails growing, their tails twitch even when they're dead!

Criminals Drink Freely On My Dime

There's a lot to learn when you enter the world of the criminal, as I have. You think normal society is tough, paying your bills, taking care of yourself, telling phone salespeople you're not interested and don't call back, letting the dog out all the time, and staying happy. The life of the criminal isn't that much better, except of course it's much more thrilling being on the run with the constant threat of being killed.

Already, in just a few days, I've had to learn how to cope with being severely beaten without calling an ambulance, and to have the confidence to hold a switchblade up to the throat of a professional wrestler who's served both as my lover and abuser. And it wasn't just the switchblade [chuckling], I guess I also ground his face in the gravel in the alley. :) One other thing, I'm getting down the pecking order, and I'm seeing how I might be able to rise in the organization. Some of these guys aren't that smart, which is what you get when you're hopped up and crazed on drugs and booze.

So booze has its advantages and its disadvantages. If it helps me gain greater power as a criminal, that's good. I'm myself not much of a drinker, having the discipline to severely limit myself. But these other birds, crazy and stupid like I said, I could easily get them drunk, kill a few, and establish myself as Mr. Big in, I don't know, a few days. Give or take. But right now I'm still the new guy.

One thing about being the new guy is "they say" the new guy has to buy for everyone. And wouldn't you know I'd have to be the new guy on Super Bowl Sunday! So we were over at the bar -- Youngsie's -- and I learned that Johnny, the boss of this particular gang, a subset of a larger organization, had already opened a tab in my name. Whether Youngsie liked that, who knows? He probably didn't have a choice. Just like he didn't have a choice when I stopped in for a pickle and Beer Nuts today and couldn't pay.

So yesterday, all the Guys and Dolls came out of the woodwork and were at Youngsie's. My tab was open and they were helping themselves freely. It was literally a free-for-all, with Youngsie looking at me and giving me a thumbs-up every once in a while, really a kind of question. I kept flashing him a thumbs-up. They started in about noon, then the game was about 5, and it went a few hours, then the post-game BS was on, etc. All around, guys were paying up on bets, blah blah blah, but no one offered a cent of moolah for the drinky-poos.

Today, then, I went in -- me, Big Brute, and a couple other guys. Youngsie looked pained. Everyone had drunk so much and ate so much yesterday he was about out of everything. I thought, WTF do I care about your business? Then I realized the connection. He wasn't going to give me the damned pickle (and he was out of Beer Nuts) till I settled up! He needed the cash to pay his supplier, which about drove me crazy. I felt my face go flush. I reached up and clicked my fingers. I'm no boss but all this happened on instinct.

A couple of the other boys took my signal and charged over to beat the crap out of Youngsie and a couple of his boys. Then I took up a bottle and smashed it randomly against some of the bottles he had behind the bar. What a mess! The guys held Youngsie and I delivered a solid fist to his gut. "That's a down payment on what I owe you," I spat, feeling quite impertinent, lacking a pickle but very full of piss and vinegar.

We went triumphantly to the pickle jar and I proclaimed, "Pickles for everyone, my treat!" My last word to Youngsie as we left was, "Put it on my tab!" I laughed. Big Brute slammed the door and broke the plate glass window. I looked in at the still hunched over Youngsie and said, "That goes on his tab!," referring of course to Brute.

The Pink Professor -- The Importance Of Shaking Hands

Things at the Roadhog Roadhouse have been going as usual. Guys show up, guys drink, guys get in fights. It can be so bad, I hate to think of it, what ruffians do.

I just hear of it, since I don't go out there much, and I shake my head and inwardly wonder: Why is the heart of man so against his fellow man, especially when he's got a belly full of beer?

But I have to smile, since I know I have a man on the scene to handle these matters, the eruptions of one man against another. Of course that's the Pink Professor, who can't be there all the time, but when he is, things get straightened out real fast. He doesn't take any crap from any of them.

Gotta love him! And of course I do! Our relationship, you will recall, goes back now more than a year! And what a year! We met a year ago in September. And now September has come and gone again, October, too, and we're already into November. We've quit celebrating monthly anniversaries, which is usually the way it goes. Of course we weren't an item right away, but still once we became one we started looking back on those months as counting. Certainly they counted for the one year anniversary, because it wouldn't make a bit of sense to postdate something other than our first get-together of any kind.

Anyway, the P.P. is still on the job at the Roadhouse, bringing a softening influence to the otherwise coarse atmosphere of the place. Coarse is really the word I'd use, which is why most bikers' bars in recent years have taken the positive step of bringing a Pink Professor figure on board. Sometimes they're paid, sometimes they're just goodhearted volunteers, like my guy is. He likes to make a difference, that's one thing. And another, it makes his life more interesting than just teaching classes and grading essays all night.

He was telling me of the most recent craziness out there. Remember the 14-piece pool cue the one guy had? Well, now everyone has one. Which has an interesting benefit on the side: If someone gets in a fight before getting the damned thing assembled, it delays things enough so no real damage is done. Cross your fingers!

That happened the other night. Two guys got into it over something, something to do with one of the waitresses winking at them. They were at loggerheads, staring at each other with evil looks as they hastily assembled their cues. Then one hit on a brainchild, to take a whack at the other guy with his only half assembled, seven easy pieces. He took a swat, knocking a glass of beer across the room, and the other guy backed up.

They both saw the futility of fighting with just half a cue, so back they went, feverishly assembling them, but having a harder time, because the narrowest part of the cue is the trickiest to assemble, with the smaller threads. Now the other guy got ¾ the way done and came up swinging. The other guy dodged, because one of the pieces, not screwed in fully, flew across the room and broke a mirror, meaning seven years bad luck for someone.

He went running for it, slipped on the beer that had spilled, and fell on his butt. To make a long story short, he feigned injury while unscrewing a chair leg. He came up like a pack of bears spilling out of their den, with the biggest gaping maw anyone remembered seeing, chair leg in hand, right when the Pink Professor entered the room. Then both men stood there ... silent ... ashamed ... immediately convicted of the error of their ways.

This is the power of one great man! The guy with the chair leg tried to hand it to the Pink Professor, who just shook his head. "I don't need to take it from you. You know where it goes," was all he had to say, and the guy picked up the chair and reattached it. The other guy had stopped in mid-assembly of his cue. The Pink Professor, instead of disarming him, went over and helped him get it together. "You have to baby the last few pieces," he said cheerfully. He knew they guy wouldn't fight now. And that's what happened.

He brought the two combatants together and had them shake hands, which is always an important gesture in putting past grievances behind us. Once you've shaken hands with a man, you can't bear a grudge. It's a physical and mental impossibility. You're immediately one in heart and mind. Their hands joined, the P.P. put both his hands on top, as if to bless their sacred union, then withdrew. Each man looked eye to eye at the other, their big grins confessing they should've been friends all along. Then with gentleness they broke their grip, and went on to grip, each one, another beer, each treating the other and splitting the cost of the Pink Professor's next drink.

To me, that's beautiful. That they would treat each other to a beer and split the cost of the Pink Professor's next drink.