I drank alone

(707 words)

It was 1985 when George Thorogood released “I Drink Alone,” his excellent ode to solitary inebriation. I first heard it in a place where drinking alone was a logistical impossibility.

All hail Athens, Ohio!

With nearly 15,000 Ohio University suds guzzlers packed into a small college town with 72 bars within knee-crawling distance the party never ended 

I called it the drinker’s Disneyland

Besides wanton boozin’, the giddy scene included anonymous sex, illicit narcotics, disdain for authority and the pervasive mindset that the moment was all that mattered.

That many who shared these selfish narcissisims have ascended to leadership positions when coronavirus began to wipe out the world is purely coincidental.

But I love the song and the sentiment even as I never dreamed it would apply to me. Sample lyric:

My whole family done give up on and it makes me feel, oh, so bad

The only one who’ll hang out with me is my dear Old Granddad …

And we drink alone

I was then and forever will be a social drinker. I enjoy the company, all the banter and the bitching, that goes along with sitting next to either friend or stranger at the instant their burdens begin to lift and they feel free to cut loose, when all their repressed humanity is allowed to flower.

See, I’m not a solo drinker like, say, Homer Simpson, who when asked if he ever drank alone responded, “Does God count as a person?”

I mention this now because last month at the height of the shutdown I drank alone. Really drank.

Yeah, all by myself.

Well, it felt like Keith Richards was right here swapping shots, but only in spirit, which when you’re drinkin’ alone is better company than many actual folks.

Keith was one circumstantial factor in my decision to get drunk all alone up here in my 3rd floor office.

First of all, we were at the height of Shut Down No. 1. I hadn’t been drinking in 8 weeks, the longest I’d been sober since, gee, 4th grade.

Second, I’d earlier that day been blindsided by a monumental professional disappointment. A local charity had taken steps to purchase 300 copies of my Fred book to to give to area graduates. I was in my car on my way to Pittsburgh to retrieve the books from the printer when the call came informing me, sorry, they’d changed their minds. For God’s sake, they’d already dictated to me what they wanted the thank you inserts to say.

Given what you know about me and my situation, I have one question…

Who wants to buy some books!

Third, I’d been obsessively playing Keith’s 2015 solo album, “Crosseyed Heart.” His solo stuff is fantastic. It must infuriate Mick to know that while he’s one of the five coolest men on the planet, he’s only the third coolest guy in his own band.

Lastly — and this must not be undervalued in the context of this story — I had right there on my desk an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee sippin’ whiskey.

That’s Keith’s favorite!

I’d bought it for a visiting friend who blew me off. My friend may have let me down, but Keith never will.

So given the confluence of circumstances, I did what came natural.

I drank alone.

I figured I was entitled to tie one on, to get sloshed, pie-eyed, skunked, hammered, all tanked up, tipsy, three sheets to the wind.

With Keith as my soulmate, I proceeded to do shot-after-shot straight from the bottle. With the music cranked, I got good and drunk all by myself.

I took the bitter edges off what had been a really bad day. I rosied up my outlook on life and drained about three-quarters of that straight up Jack.

Then I napped on my desk.

So what did I learn?

When the situation calls for it, I can be my very own best drinking buddy. I now understand why for all these years friends, bartenders and total strangers have kept buying me drinks when I tried to leave the bar. Over the years, it probably adds up to a small fortune in free drinks.

And I guess that’s why, given my precarious finances, I’ll always be a social drinker.

When you drink alone, the next round is always on you.

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#MeToo: What happened in '85 in Athens, Ohio, when I grabbed a girl's ass

(795 words)

Like most men in this #MeToo year I’ve done some soul-searching about whether I ever mistreated a woman in pursuit of cheap sex.

Did I ever put my hands on a woman in a unwanted way sure to offend? Did I ever grope or otherwise sexually harass a female?

In fact, I did. I once grabbed an unsuspecting young woman’s ass.

I used her. Just not in the way you might think.

First, I must set the scene.

It was 1985 at the Sigma Nu fraternity house in Athens, Ohio, a place my own grandfather once described as the only dwelling he’d visited where he felt compelled to wipe his feet on the way out. So there are some obvious “Animal House” elements to this story.

I can’t remember the sorority or the party theme, but I do remember the girl. Her name was Jenny. She was young, pretty and had really great hair.

So did I!

It was a very long time ago.

I didn’t have any real aspirations of dating her. Many pretty young girls just like Jenny had over the years rejected my advances with reactions ranging from polite indifference to scalding ridicule.

I didn’t mind. It taught me perseverance, a trait I’d need in the next three decades of trying to earn a living as a freelance writer prone to working with editors who’d respond to my literary advances with reactions ranging from polite indifference to scalding ridicule.

So I was just being friendly. 

Up to that point in my young life, I don’t believe I’d ever pawed or groped a girl in any unwanted way. Even then, I knew it was wrong, something Bobcat stalwarts and disgraced serial pigs Roger Ailes and Matt Lauer apparently never learned.

What made me grab Jenny’s ass? The devil didn’t make me do it.

Blame Bob. 

Bob and I had known each other in high school, but didn’t become true buddies until Athens. He’s always been a very funny guy and a world-class prankster. Like so many other friends from those raucous times, I love him very much.

As I was chatting with Jenny, I saw Bob standing near the dance floor about 45-degrees behind Jenny’s blind spot some 20 paces away. Some mix of their positions, my buzz and an eagerness for mischief combined to inspire the restless joker in me.

I motioned for Bob to join us and he began a 3-second stroll across the dance floor.

I said to Jenny, “I’d like you to meet Bob. He’s a great guy, but watch out. He can be a little grabby.”

From that instant, it was like the whole thing had been choreographed. Because, having been warned, Jenny turned to Bob just as he came within arm’s length. As she turned her attention from me, I deftly reached out with my right hand and gave her Bob-side tush a robust toot. 

I’m not saying I would have not grabbed her ass had I been forewarned, but I was totally unprepared for her reaction. It was like she’d been tased. In an infuriated micro-second she turned on Bob.

In my life, I’ve seen Muhammad Ali demolish Joe Frazier, saw Mike Tyson destroy countless forgettable bums and once spent an afternoon watching Sugar Ray Leonard tear a hapless sparring partner to bits. But I’ve never before or since seen a haymaker left delivered to an exposed cheek with such precise fury as the one Jenny landed on Bob.

Had she opted instead to knee poor Bob in the testicles, I’m sure Bob today would be dead and I’d be telling this cautionary tale with just a shade less jocularity. 

For story purposes, it would be great if I could truthfully declare Jenny changed her name to Gloria Allred and on the spot decided to devote her life to championing downtrodden women, but that would be false.

She instead turned on her heels and stormed out the door, taking with her her entire contingent of comely sorority sisters. The party was over, leaving me as the only individual that whole evening to have even a bit of fun.

A few short years after that the Sigma Nus were thrown off campus for poor grades and disreputable behaviors. The charmingly ramshackle Court Street house that holds so many vivid memories for me is now an unassuming university building haunted, perhaps, by the ghosts of ass grabbers past. 

And I’ve never even once since thought of engaging in such despicable behavior against an unsuspecting woman.

Neither has Bob, of course, but that’s something anyone with even a basic appreciation of the powerful consequences of cause-and-effect lessons already knew. 

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Back when drinking ouzo always made my pants disappear

(705 words)

I experienced a momentary bewilderment when I read Poros, a fancy new Pittsburgh seafood restaurant, was featuring a dish described as “Salmon Cured with Ouzo.”

I used to drink an awful lot of ouzo, the powerful Greek liquor, back when I lived in Athens and the only thing I remember it curing me of was the need to wear pants.

Understand, this wasn’t Athens, Greece; it was Athens, Ohio, where I spent four years in a work/study program.

I did all my work and all my study in a bar.

I don’t recall what drew us to try ouzo, but we were probably trying to get as unstable as efficiently possible.

Ouzo allowed us to do this without repeatedly slamming bar stools on one another’s heads.

And as we young scholars noted, “You can’t spell ouzo without O.U.!” (Note: OU comes in handy if you’re trying to spell bourbon, too!)

A couple of us even looked into transferring to the university’s Zanesville, Ohio, branch so we could cheer for the football team by chanting “O.U.Z.O! O.U.Z.O!”

Binge drinking is a serious problem for many people. I can’t say it ever was for me. We all had a lot of fun.

Many people drink liquor to make their inhibitions disappear.

I don’t know how one always seemed to lead to the other, but whenever I drank ouzo the only thing that disappeared were my pants.

I was back then a notorious streaker, an admission which proves my aversion to logical thinking predates by 30 years my idea of blogging to make money.

Streaking never helped me meet girls, which was the whole point of attending Ohio University. Its magic wasn't confined to my wardrobe. I remember offering ouzo to grown women and watching them disappear!

And it certainly didn’t lead to a groundswell of campus admiration.

But ouzo was to me like stressful situations were to David Banner, only with him it caused him to lose his temper and transform into The Incredible Hulk.

I’d never lose my temper; I'd just lose my pants.

And, boy, I was fast back then, at least when I was buck naked and had campus security on my ass ... literally.

I’m sure I could have set enduring track records, but the coach told me I had to wear a uniform to compete and, no, just socks didn’t count.

Some people hate the black-licorice taste of ouzo. Even some of my friends dry heave at the recollection.

Not me. I always liked it.

So revulsion to taste wasn’t the reason I ignored it for 30 years. Like my pants once did, ouzo just seemed to disappear.

Now it’s coming back. I’m starting to see ouzo references all over.

About a month ago I read a passage in a Churchill history about a ’44 visit to Greece where his private secretary, John Colville, mistook a bottle of ouzo for gulping water. In his diary he later noted, “I have never felt closer to death.”

And he’d fought in the WWI trenches!

Then last week I overheard Buck, the Tin Lizzy owner, tell a bartender a bottle she couldn’t find was “up on the top shelf right by the ouzo.”

So I told Buck my story. I told about the intoxication, the punishing hangovers and all those nekkid sprints across the college green.

I don’t know what part of the story intrigued him most, but he said something to the bartender and — oompa! — there before me was the first shot of ouzo I’d seen since 1986.

Dare I?

I wondered about the possible consequences to my reputation. What if my pants vanished? Would I become the town laughingstock?

Then it dawned on me how town laughingstock is such a gentle drop from town blogger so . . .

Down the hatch!

I felt the once-familiar burn in my belly. My head began to feel like it was filled with Greek helium.

But I remained fully clothed!

I felt like I’d vanquished a dragon.

I didn’t go streaking. I didn’t feel like binge drinking the week away.

I was at peace with one of the world’s most volatile spirits.

Funny, isn’t it?

A weekend where so many others will be celebrating the wearin’ o’ the green and I’m giddy over a mere wearin’ o’ the pants.

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Cecil the Lion & my ever-diminishing regard for dentists

(923 words)

So many questions in the wake of the murder of Cecil the Lion: What’s a fitting punishment? Will the U.S. extradite? Does Walter Palmer have a soul?

Mine is more down-to-earth.

Just how much does a Minnesota filling cost?

It must be exorbitant. How else could Palmer, 55, afford to jet around the world killing endangered beasts that make the rest of us go, “Ahhhh …”

It’s being reported he paid $50,000 to kill Cecil.

Did he consider that a bargain? Did he have to raise his prices? Did he concoct fake diagnoses to gin up profits?

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith. Those molars have to come out. We can take care of that right now. It’ll just cost you $2,500. Will that be Visa or MasterCard? Or do you happen to have a rare bongo antelope grazing in your backyard?”

I wonder just how understanding of a wife do you have to have to put a stuffed King of the Jungle’s head up above the fireplace.

My wife won’t even let me put a picture of me and the only King more regal than Cecil.

I’m talking about Arnold Palmer (no relation).

It’s dicey for me to be discuss dental fees because I have no idea.

The only time a dentist sees my teeth is when I sink a putt on a golf course.

I don’t trust dentists. I think they’re just podiatrists with better marketing.

Dentists have convinced generations of Americans we need to see them every six months. During those examinations, they hammer at the teeth and, I believe, degrade their essential integrity.

Thus, the people I know who see the dentists most often are the people who need to see dentists most often. My mother has been a fanatic her whole life. At 83, she has three sad teeth left (mingled among some nifty dentures).

I sometimes think those three teeth mean more to her than her grandchildren, more certainly than her worthless sons.

I know a woman who told me she was very happy with her new dentist.

“Oh, he has a great practice,” she said. “He said things are going so well he’s planning on retiring at 55.”

I advised her to immediately find a less leisure-minded DDS. 

“He’s going to find things wrong with your teeth, your gums, no other dentist would ever detect,” I said. “All under the shady guise of premium dental care.”

It happened exactly as I’d predicted. She was soon so swamped with dental appointments she began to suspect he was going to name his yacht after her.

My regular dental visits ended in 1984 shortly after I saw a tooth of mine go skittering across the bar room floor at the old Nickelodeon in Athens, Ohio. I’d been on the unfortunate end of some drunken horseplay, two words which, incidentally, describe my entire time at Ohio University.

The resulting root canal was so painful I vowed I’d not see another dentist until symptoms warranted. Instead, I would take fanatical care of my teeth.

And I did. Still do.

Nothing goes in my mouth that doesn’t result in me brushing and flossing within 30 minutes — and that includes things like ear lobes and other dainty parts of my darling wife.

And guess what?

It’s worked.

My mother was so alarmed at my unconventional dental plan, she badgered me into seeing a dentist in about 2000. I submitted to a full dental examination.

He poked, he prodded. I spit, I slobbered.

After about 20 minutes, he said, “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. Your teeth are perfect. That’ll be $125. Pay the lady on your way out.”

I haven’t been back since. Really, I should go back soon, but I’m fearful the result will be similar to the unseemly gloating from last November when I wrote about going for my first physical in 18 years and hearing the doctor pronounce me in perfect health.

“You’re a miracle,” were her exact words.

I’m hesitant to share this advice because what works for me might not work for you.

But it’s one example that must be shared.

Sure, one day I might have a whopper of a comeuppance, but I’ll accept that knowing over the past 30 years I’ve saved a fortune and never had to worry about spending so much time in the loathsome company of someone like Dr. Palmer, now to me the world’s most famous dentist.

Third most famous is the guy from the gripping 1976 thriller “Marathon Man,” an overlooked classic (see first link).

In it, Sir Lawrence Olivier plays a wanted Nazi. But being a Nazi wasn’t evil enough for the producers so they assigned him the only title that could make it worse.

Yes, he played a Nazi dentist!

It says something about our current regard for endangered species that most folks today would prefer him to Palmer.

Second most famous is Hermey the Elf from the classic “Rudolph” Christmas special.

As we all know, all the poor guy wants is to be a dentist. Apparently the elf retirement plans just weren’t swanky enough.

Everybody remembers and loves Hermey, but what most forget is that he is seen committing a grave but all too common ethical infraction: he removes the healthy teeth of The Bumble for no clear medical reason.

It’s barbaric. What did the poor Bumble ever do to deserve that?

The only thing that makes him No. 2 behind Palmer on my list is at least Hermey didn’t sever The Bumble’s head and hang it on a workshop wall in Santa’s castle.

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Regular bar patrons need personal seat licenses

(1,020 words)

I’m hoping today’s Happy Hour will go better than last Friday’s and it will if Dave implements an idea I’ve been hounding him over for months.

Yes, it’s time for The Pond to issue personal seat licenses so regulars can be assured of our favorite stools.

I don’t bar hop. Never have.

I find a place I like with lively people whose company I enjoy and settle in for laughter, conversation and all sorts of sudsy poignancy until they throw me out.

And they never throw me out.

They may turn the music up so they don’t have to hear me talk so much, but they never throw me out.

My life has been enlivened with great drinking buddies, guys who, like me, enjoy a convivial stretch in a warm tavern with a friendly bartender.

It’s been that way ever since I was 12.

I remember many times in college in Athens, Ohio, when me and one of my drinking buddies were in a bar from 1 o’clock to 2 o’clock -- and I’m not talking one hour.

One particular time it was a Sunday and we were deathly hungover from the typical Saturday raucousness. 

I remember the next day some friends couldn’t believe we’d persevered under our conditions when fellow sufferers wasted an entire day in bed with blankets pulled up over their heads.

One asked later if it was a challenge to our constitutions.

“Well, the first eight hours were a little difficult,” George said.

Fast forward to about 1992. I was working at a small two-person newspaper office that was strategically located right next door to a really great bar. My co-worker was also my drinking buddy, bookie and fellow Pirate season ticket holder.

He was like the Swiss Army Knife of drinking buddies.

We’d become friendly with some other guys who’d visit the bar to watch the games with us.

During one of the commercials, one of them asked if Paul and I ever went anywhere else.

Paul pointed about four stools away and said, “Sometimes we sit over there.”

So you understand my history. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to my drinking establishments.

That’s why Fridays at The Pond have become such a challenge. I fear the place is becoming too popular. 

Dave, the third generation owner, feels this, too. In that way, he’s becoming like his old man, Dick, one of the sweetest and most kind men I’ve ever known.

Dave tells the story from about 15 years ago when he wanted to introduce his Dad -- his co-worker -- to some fresh faced young patrons who’d found the bar and felt right at home.

His Dad cringed in dismay and said, “Oh, please, I can’t take another generation!”

Now Dave and I are alarmed about the encroach of yet another generation. It’s ruining the Friday Happy Hour. I’ll let Dave tell it.

“Around 5 p.m., I look around and everything’s great. All my guys are right here where they all belong and I think it’s going to be all right. Then at 6 o’clock it starts. All these strangers start coming in and I begin to realize what Dad meant.”

I wish I could do something to help my friend. Maybe me and the rest of the regulars could consume so much alcohol he wouldn’t need any other customers, but that would likely lead to encounters with DUI checkpoints and angry spouses and pretty soon we’d be doing all our drinking home alone with electronic monitoring devices strapped to our ankles.

It helps if you consider The Pond like it’s a more rectangular version of the Monopoly board and instead of tokens like silver shoes, jalopies, thimbles and choo-choos, the board is populated by paunchy middle aged white dudes with beer farts and receding hairlines.

Boardwalk and Park Place are right there as soon as you get in the door. Those seven or eight stools are where the regulars sit. No one sits directly opposite near Baltic because you’re usually all alone and it’s like staring down a really ugly firing squad. 

So last Friday I walked in around 4:30 expecting one of the prime seats to be available only to be startled to see a nice young couple inhabiting Park Place.

It threw everything off. Gary and Chud were at St. James Place, Chuck was parked at Atlantic, and Teacher Dave was at Marvin Gardens. Worst of all the Joes were scattered to all four corners.

One of things I love about The Pond is there are eight Regulars Joes and all them are conveniently named Joe. Sit next to any Joe and you’re in good company.

Me? I felt like I was in jail with a Do Not Pass Go card for a beer coaster.

So this nice young couple out for a good meal and some chat at a friendly tavern had ruined the night for everyone else.

The nerve.

I ended up going home sober and crashing my family’s girly movie night, so the couple’s inconsideration had a ripple effect far beyond The Pond, and that just never happens with the hootch-free ponds found in nature.

“Don’t blame me,” I said, explaining what happened. My wife shook her head in routine exasperation, but my elementary-age kids understood instinctively.

You don’t take another kid’s seat.

Personal seat licenses would prevent this from happening again.

If lieu of that, I’m going to recommend Dave put up a “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign so he could steer people to where they belong.

I’ve seen him excel in this role. I remember one time when two young rowdies were misbehaving over around Ventnor Avenue. They weren’t bad guys. They just needed a little seasoning.

They did know enough to realize their behavior was out of place. One of them asked Dave if he’d recommend a place where the two loud friends could sit and not bother his regular customers.

Dave’s answer was brilliant.

“Racers.”

Racers isn’t some obscure Monopoly property.

Racers is the bar about a quarter mile down the street.

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