Alcohol 101

People with whom I have been acquainted for some time know that I used to tipple.  To be perfectly forthright, I imbibed to a grand degree.  I would proffer that my experience in the discipline of alcohol consumption would qualify me an expert on the subject.  Well, at least it would if I could remember the details more clearly.

I do not wish to leave you with the impression that I am an alcoholic.  I can take the nectar or leave it.  I have never been a daily drinker and the only times I would drink alone were on solo camping trips… and then mostly to ease the pain in my knees resultant from a day’s hiking activity.  I eventually learned that not hiking at all is a more efficient way to deal with that problem.

Though I find the flavor of some alcoholic beverages quite appealing, I never really crave them.  However, when I was younger and sturdier and devil may care, given an atmosphere readily improved by social lubricant, I would make the most of the opportunity and tope until I was the funniest guy in the room; quite possibly the world.  No one else’s opinion was considered or even solicited.

It all started about the time I first went to college.  I was a commuter student living at my parent’s house.  (I did not drink outside of family circles while in high school and then just the occasional beer with the uncles… I guess that’s part of the avuncular job description.)  My first real experience with bacchanalian excess came as the result of a woman.  Who’d have guessed?  I do not recall her name; she was a lightsome, willowy, dark haired beauty that worked at the A&W Root Beer restaurant that I frequented.  Actually, I had worked at that same store the semester before, but now had matriculated to a job on the loading dock at May Co.  (Make a note to remind me to write about some of my adventures in the retail trade.)  But I digress.  Subject objet de amour and I were trading notes on beer consumption one day (Yeah, I was winging it.) and she made the unhappy mistake of uttering the phrase, “If you buy a case, I’ll drink it!”  My personal motto of “let no challenge go unanswered” was never better put to service.  With all the smoothness of eighty-grit sand paper, I maneuvered this lass into a date for the following weekend; my parents, you see, were out of town on vacation leaving me the convenience of an empty house. 

There was a problem, however.  I was a mere child of nineteen.  Where was I to get a case of beer?  There was only one acquaintance I thought mean enough to willingly join a criminal conspiracy aimed at the fraudulent use of his driver’s license to provide a minor with beer.  He was a cook at this very same A&W.  He had been there years before I started, remained years after I left and feel sure would be there still if the restaurant hadn’t been converted into a suite of real estate offices.  I do not recall his name, probably because his ridiculous visage resembled that of an orangutan.  He was no taller that five feet, had the build of a (lightweight) wrestler; always leaning forward at the waist, arms swinging to and fro across the front of his body as he walked. He had copious coarse, wavy, rust-colored hair that he pulled back into a pony tail.  He was a surly know-it-all (as opposed to someone you may know as a friendly know-it-all, just sayin’); I really had no use for him… except that he was twenty-one years old.

So as the much anticipated weekend approached, I ambled into the A&W one evening (knowing monkey boy would be working the closing shift) and in passing conversation circled around to my need of libation; this of course without divulging the details of the plan. I reckoned there would be no reason to implicate someone he might know.  To my delight, perhaps astonishment, he indicated a willingness to abet my debauchery.  So off to a nearby 7-11 we drove.  Although I had an accomplice with valid beer-buying credentials, this particular neighborhood purveyor of convenience had a reputation of being willing to democratize the distribution of government controlled beverages.  They didn’t even ask to see the little primate’s ID!  So I boldly carried my case of ill-gotten Coors (I thought it an appropriate brand, as my parents were visiting family members in Colorado) to my Pontiac and stashed it in the trunk.  The clerks paid no attention that we had arrived in separate cars and I was carrying away the purchase my accomplice had paid for.

Now in all fairness to the employees of the 7-11, they looked as if they were probably selling much more contraband under the counter than over, if you know what I mean.  This was the Seventies and these clowns could have stepped in for Cheech and Chong.

So on the appointed Saturday, at the appointed time, I arrived at the A&W to pick up my “date”.  She was not there.  Rusty was there.  And the way he was grinning as he told me that what’s-her-name had gone home sick several hours ago suggested that he knew the story and was somewhat amused by my misfortune.  Ah well, now I had a case of beer in the fridge on a Saturday night and no one to drink with.

Over the next week, as I was ruminating on what to do with a case of beer, I decided to throw a party for my co-workers at May Co.  But the numbers didn’t quite work out so I determined to secure another case of brew.  Remembering the ease with which the 7-11 staff had surrendered the Coors, I figured I could pull this off without conspiratorial assistance.  After all, they were willing to vend to a higher ape.  I was a six-foot tall, two-hundred pound Neanderthal.  And upon reflection, I believe they would have sold anything to anyone with the arm strength to carry it through the door.  The transaction went smoothly.  And to add a bit of class to the soiree, I mixed it up a bit by selecting Budweiser.  When entertaining the masses, one must equip for a variety of tastes.

No, this is not one of those stories with a calamitous outcome.  The party went smoothly.  I was able to get everyone out of my parents’ house without material damage.  I do not recall how many twelve ounce beers I consumed.  But I do remember the puking.  And so, the ogre and the fairy lived happily ever after… and beer was crossed off the menu.

Coming soon!  “How I Learned to Love Tequila”

Sweet Sounds

One of the advantages of living alone is that it affords one the opportunity to enjoy listening to music.  I’m not talking about background noise from the television or radio.  I’m alluding to just sitting in a dimly lit room, engaged in no activity other than enjoying sound.  My tastes are rather eclectic. Tonight I have been listening to classical; no one specific, just some compilation albums I have.  The reader should not think this is a snob play.  I am no aficionado. I know very little about classical music.  I have identified a few composers whose works have inspired me to learn their names and recognize their styles.  I know that Mozart was crazy and the Beethoven was deaf and crazy but I am no real student of the genre.  To me music evokes serenity; an emotional response based solely on feeling.  It’s very rare for me to not be thinking about something.  But with the lights low and my ears bathed in the sounds, my mind can wander anywhere without purpose; no apologies necessary. Earlier in the week, I was listening to rock and roll; The Eagles, Brian Setzer. Def Leppard provided the sound track for last night’s cerebral wanderings.

I have always been a loner.  I’m not a social basket case. I have (a few) friends that I consider very close.  Outside of that I do not really belong to a wider circle.  As you knew me in my professional career this revelation might seem a bit counter intuitive.  But leadership requires a bit of glad handing and showmanship. The problem with acting a role is that one may not have been as successful as one thought, and the minions won’t tell. But in spite of the bombastic rhetoric and the concern shown for others, it was all a performance. Afterward I would retreat to my office, or better yet my car, to be alone and recharge my batteries.

I know that many people are uncomfortable being alone.  There seems to be a common trait among people that prefers company. They must be in touch. You can see this everywhere you look since the introduction of digital connectivity into our society.  People are now so tuned in to their social media that they are totally oblivious to the persons around them. They walk down the street with their ears dammed by sound buds and their visual focus confined to the screen of their smart phone or iPad. I am so thankful that I was born to a generation that walked with their heads up and attention focused on the immediate environs.  It just scares me to think how many beautiful women I would have missed glimpsing had I not been paying attention to where I, and they, were going.

So where did my need for solitude originate?  Is it genetic or learned?  Since I am an only child and was always able to retreat to my room and leave the outside world behind, I have an inkling it was more environmental that congenital.  But it is certainly a keystone feature of my personality.

When I was a young man, say ten or twelve years old, it was not uncommon for me to go on solo walks around the Casa de Oro area that lasted for two hours or more.  I was probably more familiar with the street layout than the local fire fighters.  I particularly enjoyed these excursions in summer when there was plenty of light remaining in the late afternoon and early evening and the temperature had begun to drop. As I remember these walks, I am mystified by the scarcity of other strollers or even families enjoying the evenings in their yards.  But on street after street, in house after house, you would see the same flicker of the television on the ceiling through the living room window; cocooned away with electronic heroin. And in those days, there was nothing but reruns in summer.  Do you remember having only three or four channels to watch? 

When I achieved driving age the pattern was the same; the car adding only to the distance that could be covered in the allotted time.  And the real freedom came with the purchase of my own car; no more, “Dad, can I have the keys to the Buick?”  Yes, dad was still a Buick man, used of course. And to make a connection (tenuous as it is amid these ramblings) now I had music. First there was the AM radio Pontiac so generously provided as standard equipment. Then, after a few paychecks granted in exchange for labor at the A&W, I was able to add an eight-track tape player.  A 1966 Le Mans with a Pioneer stereo; I was king of the road.

My music preferences were a bit less eclectic in those days, restricted more by lack of experience and exposure than refinement of taste.  I had all the Beach Boys albums.  My country collection included guys like Waylon Jennings (before he and Willey Nelson became outlaws) and Tom T. Hall, Dave Dudley singing about bringing the big rig home and of course, Johnny Cash lamenting being named Sue.

I feel at this juncture it is appropriate to explain my affinity for Country Music.  It is my opinion, therefore very true, that much of the Pop and Rock music of the 1960s sucked. Iron Butterfly’s Ina-Gadda Da Vida; Tony Joe White’s Poke Salad Annie; The Beatles; everything after Help!: This is what passed for music? I just could not get into the scene, man!

So I retreated to what I had heard my parents listening to as a kid.  I’m not going to defend its artistic brilliance, but at least I could sing along with the lyrics without compromising my intellectual integrity.  So you could find me, cruising around greater San Diego, windows down (while the AM radio was a standard feature, air conditioning was not) belting out Ahab the Arab with Ray Stevens, “He’s the Sheik of the Burnin’ Sands!”

At long last, the 1970s arrived and Rock music was again musical.  We got great groups like The Eagles singing about Lyin’ Eyes. There was the soul movement with the Temptations and The Four Tops. The south rose again powered by Lynyrd Skynyrd and Molly Hatchet.  Aerosmith looked like a lady.  ELO introduced sophistication by adding cellos to the mix. And Boston gave us More than a Feeling.  Maybe it was because the music was now being served with alcohol but it sure seemed to offer more than the acid laced crap of the previous decade!

Then MTV took us a whole different direction in the 1980s.  The show was just as important as the music.  We replaced our cassette decks with CD players and our muscle cars with sports cars.  And the music got more lyrical: Robert Palmer was Addicted to Love; Peter Gabriel hit us with a Sledge Hammer; The Cars had us Shake It Up.  Van Halen dumped that troglodyte David Lee Roth and picked up the soulful vocals of Sammy Haggar. And Def Leppard poured some sugar on us.  The eighties were a party time and it’s a wonder I can remember anything about it.  But it sure was fun!

As I’ve aged, my tastes have broadened a bit.  I found the Blues and Swing; Big Joe Turner and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy.  My collection is comprised mostly of what you would call Oldies.  And I do have a lot of early Rock and Roll from the fifties and sixties, stuff I consider oldies.  But it’s all just background noise if you don’t take time to sit and listen to it.  And thankfully, I have remembered that lesson.

Burning Desire ...well, Maybe Simmering

Let me take you back in time; to an idyll where needs were simple and desires so passionately held.  Now honesty begs me clarify that this is not a time you can find on a calendar.  For each of us the parameters will differ.  My halcyon days most probably concluded before the parents of many of you were born.  But then the era is unimportant as the emotions run true for each generation in turn.

I write, of course, of childhood.  That time when fervor will be ignited so easily by the imagination, sparked by overwhelming desire of objects: Trinkets, baubles, gewgaws whose value is amplified by cultural approbation as the treasure of the age; in a word; the toy.

It does not matter in which epoch one’s life is lived.  For each, there is that one point of yearning that is so readily twisted into desperate need.  When fancy becomes obsession and reason deserts the beholder.  The phrase, “I need it!” is the unnatural mantra of the spell bound coveter.  There is no antidote for this psychological venom but possession.  Without it, the world is empty space, ennui without end.  But for those endowed with luck, empowered by the gods to secure the golden fleece of their dreams, there is fulfillment, joy, Nirvana!

And as the days of bliss flow ever forward into the eternity, our soul is calmed by the knowledge that we possess the one thing, the locus of our universe, the reward for all our efforts.  Until, of course, a new enchantment overtakes our reason.  Our attention is turned away from what we knew in our heart of hearts was to be our true love forever and ever.  And the erstwhile objet de Coeur, once such a bright star, fades into the darkness of unremembered elation.

I don't want to grow up, I'm a Toys' R Us kid 

There's a million toys at Toys 'R Us that I can play with! 

From bikes, to trains, to video games, 

It's the biggest toy store there is! Gee whiz! 

I don't want to grow, cuz baby if I did, 

I wouldn't be a Toys 'R Us kid.

 

A Pastoral Parable

Oh, serenity of an elm shaded lea,

At once so calm and so inspiring

Until a bird doth shit on thee,

And nature shows her whimsy!