“Where the girls scoot boots ‘n toot.”
Ahhh, sobriety. How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
You’re never any fun. When I want to play, you want to sleep. When I want to sleep, you keep me there, lying on my back, wired, staring at the ceiling. When I’m being serious, everybody laughs. When I’m trying to be funny, I get drinks tossed in my face. You make me think I’m a good dancer. But years ago, you honestly made me a good dancer. You gave me something then took it away. Indian giver.
If tis an angelic sort who chanced upon this lament and knew of a place where old drinkers could go online to kibbitz and brawl, kindly share your insights.
I’ve never been on a community bulletin board where I wasn’t fighting with people. Never. This is a first. But the Irish in me...has a long history of...truculence, shall we say. A certain beguiling abrasiveness which is often deeply, deeply misunderstood.
The bottom line is that I love to argue. Mainly because I’m pretty good at it. Got it from my dad, the Bullrider.
On several occasions, as I child, sitting next to him on a barstool or at somebody’s Saturday afternoon beer bash, I watched him argue to the point where he won the person over. And as soon as he did that, he switched sides and started arguing the other point.
My dad, a confounding study in contrasts. Smart as a lawyer. Handsome as a movie star. Couldn’t stay dry for one freaking day. Came to every high school and college event soused to the gills, my dad. But I loved him. Still do, rest his troubled soul.
I hope I make some friends here, over the course of time. I hope I’m a good friend in return.
Try to be.
I despise literalists. Can’t help it.
Had a Catholic girlfriend with a religious literalist for a brother. He used to stand before the congregation on Sundays, sanctimoniously preaching to the flock about what the Bible really meant. According to him. The goony-goo-goo, bug-eyed, dick with ears.
Never dawned on him that the whole freaking book, with few exceptions, was just a freaking allegory written by people who lived thousands of miles away, four thousand years ago. And they weren’t even Catholic! Nope. He described to the letter what God really wanted, and how we should live.
So I took issue, being the pot-smoking, acid-dropping, beer chugging Buddhist Taoist who kinda liked how the Big J operated. Larry was his name. He was no small reason why I broke up with his sister.
I once told him the story about the “Nag of Naropa” which, paraphrased, was about a pious young prince who only talked to people using the words of the scripture that he’d memorized.
The nag taunted him, saying “You know all the words...but do you know the meaning?”
We can’t live for someone else.
Blondie, still steels my heart.
(edits & post scripts certain to follow)