One Flew Into The Cuckoo's Mess

Before you ask, nope: I ain't tried it. Ain't gonna, neither.

Another blogging friend of mine recently recounted a time she got drunk across the 'Pond', and in her very eloquent, gifted way, made it a teachable moment, about how friends took care of her then, and how friends are there when one needs a steady arm and the support of caring friends, whatever the difficulties encountered in life.

I responded in part to her that I haven't found myself in that situation since after a Christmas party, which I thought was in 1989, but actually have been in 1990.

Not that it matters: barley hops and barlighting made for a lethal combination that night, so far as my seeing all twelve rings* of Saturn spinning at once...in different directions. Then there was the next morning, waking up with a serious hangover and with someone else who had me thinking..."O...MG...I didn't...did I??? DOH...I did!".

She wasn't much amused that I didn't remember it, but I digress for the mo'.

Yep, that was my last time I drank to the point of intoxication. I didn't grow up a big party animal; my first sips of beer resulted "ack...phooey!". So-called "hard liquor" was worse. But I managed to down enough beers during our senior class high school "sneak" day, that I, at one point, was mouthing off to one of my fellow seniors -- all 6' 6" of him -- through the benefit of "liquid courage". Lucky for me, he thought it was funny, and I didn't get my 6' 2" frame reduced a couple more inches.

I wasn't the kind to go home and crack open a brew after work: I was more of the "social drinker". Playing golf, I'd have a few; bowling nights, I'd have a few. My undoing came at things like the golf and bowling banquets: there, I'd drink beer or worse (for a while, shots of scotch) like water, so by the time the dinner salad was brought, I was as likely to be face-first in it.

After one epic bowling banquet -- and a weekend to recover from it -- that Monday, one of my coworkers brought me $9 in crumpled one dollar bills:

"What's this for?" I asked.

"It's yours, from Friday night" he responded with a smirk.

"Okay..what'd I do dumb this time?"

He went on to tell me how I somewhat revived after eating some of my salad and wearing the rest, and sat at a table next to a railing above the dance floor; and when one 'hottie' from the league was down dancing, I was making paper airplanes out of one dollar bills, and lofting them down to the dance floor, all the time with this silly look on my face of happily unaware bliss.

My friends and teammates thought it was funny; she thought I was a dweeb.

After another epic outing, I was literally carried to my car, driven home, and escorted to the top of my stairs (I had a basement apartment at the time); I apparently assured my escorts that I could make it from there, and accepting that, they left me to finish what they'd started.

I fell down the stairs, and got tangled in my golf bag, strewing clubs all over the stairwell.

Fortunately, having been properly anestesiated (I know it's not a properly-spelled or real word, but it's my blog and I was drunk back then, so there), I suffered no serious improvement in my golf game or damage to the clubs.

I worked with some real characters in those days: one, my corporate 'mentor', was a gifted rogue, who liked to play roles when he travelled. At a bar in Los Angeles, only he and his LA homicide detective buddy, knew that he was NOT a corporate pilot; but that's the role he played there, and it got him lots of female attention. So on the first occasion that I accompanied him to his LA hangout, I had to take a 'role', too: I was to be introduced as the airline owner's "nephew". My buddy figured that would make me popular with whatever females might be present at the time.

What I knew of flying was (a) my arms wouldn't flap hard enough to generate lift and (b) I knew a cute stewardess from an ugly one. And that was the extent of my flight knowledge. So he gave me a crash course, which seemed fitting. And which, after my third screwdriver, didn't really matter. The one female there, closest to my age, thought I was cute and rich. It was lucky for me that I never saw her again, so I wasn't bound by the promise I made to give her a "mile high club experience in my uncle's jet", which came after screwdriver number 7 or 8, I think.

My buddy told me about it, 'cuz I don't remember it.

I also didn't remember reverently and very politely complimenting the "chef" of a Japanese buffet, after I'd gotten hammered on sake. My coworkers were in hysterics, as I was apparently complimenting a coat rack at the front door.

Again, they told me about it, 'cuz I didn't remember it.

Or the time at a bar in DC's Georgetown (J. Pauls, I think it was, back in February of '91), where we went after a day of investigative snooping in Virginia on a possible Workman's Comp fraud case; dressed up in suits, we sat at a table across from the bar. The place was perfect for a guy like me (early 30s, single, and a 5-1 women-to-men ratio present)...except I again began drinking my shots of scotch like water. So by #7, I was as suave as a door knob. Too bad, too: my buddy told me I was quite entertaining to two dynamite-looking lasses, as I bowed low to them, almost falling over, and pronounced them "doubtless fine female stock of the drop-dead-gorgeous variety", with a bit of a slur to my delivery. He wasn't sure if he or they laughed harder.

Again, he told me about it, 'cuz I didn't remember it.

There were other episodes, including a couple of two-day-raging-hangovers-afterward ones. The last such, was the aforementioned Christmas party.

I haven't been drunk since, even at times it seemed like the thing to do.

Which is probably just as well, or not: now, I remember each and every time when I do something stupid. It might have been better when someone had to tell me what I'd done. At least then, I could use the excuse of plausible deniability or something, or just claimed that they'd made it up...

DOH! They didn't!

* don't know if there ARE twelve rings of Saturn, but there were THAT night