The Good, The Bad, and The Sober

While I was recently celebrating my birthday at Sodini's in North Beach with 16 of my closest friends, I spied this quote from Frank Sinatra on a wall plaque:

"I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day."

It's one I'd never heard before, and I realize now, one year older and in my relatively sober state, how absolutely true it is. When I was in my 20's, I was looking for romantic compatibility. In my 30's, I sought gastronomic compatibility. Now, firmly in my 40's, I'm searching for someone who’s hepatologically compatible. In other words, I'm looking for a partner with a liver of gold.

While I can and do socialize with people that don't drink, I can't help but think of all the interesting stories they'll never have - all the embarrassing moments, the questionable decisions, the hangovers, the loss of motor control, the inside jokes, the inappropriate behavior and the compromising photos that are stock in trade among drinkers and are as much a part of the bonding experience - if not more - than the drink itself. Teetotalers thank their lucky stars that they haven't had these kind of experiences, while recovering alcoholics thank their higher power that these days are behind them. In both cases, I'm afraid, they are completely missing the point. Whatever their rationale for non-consumption is, they've severely limited their chances to be more than bit players in my reality show. To them, I feel like using the line that Campbell Scott said to Jesse Eisenberg in the woefully under-appreciated Roger Dodger: "You drink that drink! Alcohol has been a social lubricant for thousands of years. What do you think, you're going to sit here tonight and reinvent the wheel?"

Do I drink more now than I did when I was living in New York? Yes - Indubitably. But I like my job and my new roommates and have more friends and more fun here than I do in NYC. Coincidence? Bullshit. Not directly related? Prove it. My first bonding experience with my work colleagues (now friends) was at pub quiz my first week in town, when I somehow singlehandedly delivered a second-place finish (and a free pitcher of Bass) by being the only one in a group of ten who knew that Cracked Rear View was the name of the breakthrough album from Hootie and the Blowfish. Would I have been able to recall that information while sober? Hell no, since listening to Hootie under the influence was the only way that music was even remotely palatable. The same tipsy victory roar emanating from our table in support of our intellectual silver medal would have been met with disdain from sober folk.

I read a quote recently from George Nathan, who wrote: "I drink to make other people interesting." I would say the converse is also true - people are more interesting if they drink. They're generally more unafraid of life, of being judged. Like me for instance. If I wasn’t more interesting under the influence, would sixteen people I hadn’t known three months ago be joining me for dinner and drinks? And from my side, the fear of being viewed askew for the trouble I might get in that night was non-existent. These people already knew my most embarrassing moment, the telling of which is kind of a rite of passage for new employees, and went a little something like this:

About 15 years ago, I was living and working in Central Asia, in a country called Uzbekistan, which is spiritually, culturally, and geographically halfway between Russia and Afghanistan. That is to say, you had the Muslim tradition of hospitality, paradoxically mixed with the Russian ideal of heavy social drinking. As I was the first white businessman to ever step foot in the city, I was constantly being invited to dinner parties, since I was viewed as a kind of cultural curiosity – literally, a party piece. On one particular evening, my head translator had invited me to his friend’s retirement party. My translator sat to my left. The host’s brother – let’s call him Akhmed - a xenophobe as well as a stickler for tradition - sat on my right. Throughout the night, there were a lot of vodka toasts made to this, that, and the other thing. Usually, at similar parties, I could get away with taking a small sip with every toast and put my shot glass down. Akhmed was having none of it, inspecting my glass with every toast and making sure I finished every drop. Nine, ten, eleven toasts and subsequent shots went by. That little bitch Akhmed wouldn’t let up, showing me a spiteful smile full of gold teeth each time he refilled my glass. After the twelfth and final shot I turned to my translator and told him that I could not, would not, possibly drink another drop. Now, instead of one enemy at the table, I had two. My translator explained that if I refused to consume, I would be insulting him, the guests, the host, and the person being toasted. No sooner had he explained this than the host rose to make the thirteenth toast of the night. My head began to swim and my stomach began to flutter, and I realized that I was in dire straits. He finished the toast, and all the glasses at the table went up, save one - mine. Akhmed protested, and the host turned a baleful eye towards me. I asked my translator to help explain my predicament, but he refused. The mood at the table grew dark, or perhaps it was my eyesight. Approximately 23 seconds later, I was on my knees in the bathroom, engaging in reverse peristalsis. As I cleaned up and returned to the table, all eyes were on me, all faces with jaws dropped, shaking their heads, following my every step from the bathroom. What I had failed to take into account was that the proximity of the bathroom and its paper-thin walls to the dining room ensured that every single man at the table had heard every syllable of my conversion with the Porcelain God. I sat down gently but the collective faces of the party were still on me. My translator asked me in a whisper “you know what happened, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I replied softly. “I had too much to drink.”

“You are mistaken, my friend. It was not the vodka. Our host was toasting the memory of his recently passed grandmother. By refusing to drink, you angered her spirit, which entered you and cursed your stomach. THAT is why you ended up in the bathroom,” he lectured.

I could call it one man’s delusion except that every man at the table felt as he did, and that’s Central Asia for you.

Now, here’s the thing: not only do I have a great story, but I have a great drinking story, and a story that I can use to bond with people - the sober ones who are merely amused, and the drinkers like myself, who have, in some shape or form, been there, done that.

And to you I say: Cheers!

Comments

[Stasibo]

Cheers! Let's hope there are fewer angry dead grandmothers in your future drinking escapades.

[Penemue]

thats why i consider myself a dry drinker, not a recovered anything... i will raise my soda to plenty more amusement!

[DMZ]

I asked the bartender for a cigarette at a party on a kibbutz. He grabbed my hand and made me shoot a whole rocks glass full of vodka. It wasn't pretty.

[labuonaforchetta]

An all-you-can-drink brunch needs to happen when we're all back in NY. See who can piss off someone's dead grandmother first.

[José-Ariel Cuevas]

The spirit (vodka) stirred the spirit of the dead grandmother.Rock on with the Old Blue Eyes quote.