I'm in the middle row, third from right.
I have one response to the recent refrain from the GOP-Kavanaugh defenders who say, “It was 35 years ago; who can remember that far back anyway?" That response is: Even alcoholics can remember things.
To the parents of my high school buddy whose living room easy chair I puked on in 1983, I sincerely apologize. I remember drinking way too much, and tossing my cookies. That chair was probably never the same.
To the family friends whose car I borrowed and (mildly) crashed in 1983, I am sorry for that as well. It took me years to reach back out to you and try and make amends, but I did so about fifteen years ago.
To my prom date, I am sorry about the dress. At least that time it wasn’t vomit. We were both pretty drunk.
To the 7-Eleven owner outside the Ozzy Osbourne concert in 1982, I don’t blame you for selling me the Old English 800, and I am sorry for the mess in the parking lot.
To my college friend whom I got into a shoving match and fist-fight with in 1986, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. It's a good thing we were so drunk I couldn't punch hard and you couldn’t punch back very hard; broken teeth wouldn’t have looked good with my mullet.
To my sibling, I am sorry for getting stinking drunk at your reception and then doing cocaine with one of your childhood friends after the reception.
To the band members of the Pogues, it was nice to meet you in 1988, even if I’d had eight or nine drinks beforehand and don’t remember your names. We had fun shooting pool after that bar closed. And I never got that close to a semi-successful rock band again, except for that Semisonic show ten years later when I was ten feet from Dan Wilson. (Hey, I was sober for that one!)
To my first wife, I am sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. All of it.
To John, I forgive you for peeing on my front lawn, and I am glad you and the other guys didn’t get run over when you crossed the freeway on foot after that party.
To the two girls my friend and I shared beer and cigarettes in the house under construction in 1982, I am sorry we got you in trouble with your parents. Trust me, I remember that night of making out and drinking beer and coughing up cigarette smoke like it was just last year.
To my college roommates, I am sorry I kept you up playing Super Mario Bros. and drinking until the wee hours. I can still remember that hack on the stairs, that gave me all those coins to finally win the game.
And despite all of these misdeeds, mistakes of judgment, and misbehaviors, I am 100% certain that I never held a girl down, covered her mouth, and tried to rape her. Or shoved my penis in a girl’s face. Or stood in line outside a bedroom until it was my turn to rape a barely-conscious girl on the bed. Because considering all of the little crap I do remember, I can tell you that THOSE kinds of things would have haunted me for the rest of my life.
Brett Kavanaugh knows what he did, and he is not even claiming he doesn’t remember. He is simply lying about it. So to all the GOP Trumpster cultists: Stop making excuses for a guy who isn’t asking for them.
