beer

Friday Firesmith – Dry

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Stephen King says he doesn’t remember writing “Cujo.” It’s a forgettable tale, with the antagonist being a Saint Bernard dog who is bitten by a bat that has rabies. Animals with rabies aren’t usually active enough to trap people in cars and that sort of thing, and the movie was worse than the book.

King freely admits he was drunk most of the time he wrote “Cujo.”

Writers and alcohol. I swear.

Once upon a time, I had enough alcohol in my system to be legally dead. But the Army bred substance abuse and sometimes I wonder if it was intentional.

I was down to a six pack a week, but I was drinking 9.5% IPAs. And I would drink the six pack all in one day, usually in a few hours. The next day I would check social media and my phone to make certain I didn’t day or write anything that would piss anyone off. I never did, of course, but the thing that bothered me is I did write things I didn’t remember sometimes.

None of this had anything to do with a rabid Saint Bernard.

The day after my birthday, I took an empty six pack to the trash can, tossed it in, and stopped drinking. That was the 10th of November. The 10th of December made an entire month.

I started drinking at age 13. By high school I had a serious problem. I would pass out in class or out in the grassy area where we ate lunch, or in my car. The 1970s were a time where hard drinking was a rite of passage, and even though many teachers thought my liquid state was a terrible thing, no one said anything to me about it. Ever.

Part of the reason was they were afraid to fail me out of a grade in school because that meant I would return the next year. I think their plan was to just get me to graduation, and then I would no longer be their problem. The Army put up with drinking by sending soldiers to AA. AA kicked me out because I steadfastly refused to admit I had a problem.

I evolved from drinking every day to drinking only once a week, over the course of the years. But I was still getting so hammered I couldn’t write and sometimes forgot what I had done the night before.

I’ve flirted with this for a while. There isn’t a real reason to drink except I always have, and for most of my life, hard drinking was a sign of manhood and strength.

The younger crowd has it right again. Those people born after Y2K do not feel compelled to pick up a self-destructive habit.

And it’s time for me to step away from a habit that has never really proved anything to anyone, except I am a product of my culture. I’ve never felt like I was that kind of person. Now, finally, maybe, I am not.

Take Care,

Mike

Australia, and the rules for being there

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The following has been written by the late Douglas Adams of “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” fame.

“Australia is a very confusing place, taking up a large amount of the bottom half of the planet. It is recognizable from orbit because of many unusual features, including what at first looks like an enormous bite taken out of its southern edge; a wall of sheer cliffs which plunge into the girting sea.

Geologists assure us that this is simply an accident of geomorphology, but they still call it the “Great Australian Bight”, proving that not only are they covering up a more frightening theory but they can’t spell either.

The first of the confusing things about Australia is the status of the place. Where other landmasses and sovereign lands are classified as continent, island or country, Australia is considered all three.

Typically, it is unique in this.

The second confusing thing about Australia is the animals. They can be divided into three categories: Poisonous, Odd, and Sheep. It is true that of the 10 most poisonous arachnids on the planet, Australia has 9 of them. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that of the 9 most poisonous arachnids, Australia has all of them.

Any visitors should be careful to check inside boots (before putting them on), under toilet seats (before sitting down) and generally everywhere else.

A stick is very useful for this task.

The last confusing thing about Australia is the inhabitants.

A short history: Sometime around 40,000 years ago some people arrived in boats from the north. They ate all the available food, and a lot of them died.

The ones who survived learned respect for the balance of nature, man’s proper place in the scheme of things, and spiders. They settled in and spent a lot of the intervening time making up strange stories. They also discovered a stick that kept coming back.

Then, around 200 years ago, Europeans arrived in boats from the north.

More accurately, European convicts were sent, with a few deranged people in charge. They tried to plant their crops in autumn (failing to take account of the reversal of the seasons), ate all their food, and a lot of them died.

About then the sheep arrived, and have been treasured ever since. It is interesting to note here that the Europeans always consider themselves vastly superior to any other race they encounter, since they can lie, cheat, steal and litigate (marks of a civilized culture they say), whereas all the Aboriginals can do is happily survive being left in the middle of a vast red-hot desert – equipped with a stick.

Eventually, the new lot of people stopped being Europeans on ‘extended holiday’ and became Australians. The changes are subtle, but deep, caused by the mind-stretching expanses of nothingness and eerie quiet, where a person can sit perfectly still and look deep inside themselves to the core of their essence, their reasons for being, and the necessity of checking inside their boots every morning for fatal surprises. They also picked up the most finely tuned sense of irony in the world, and the Aboriginal gift for making up stories. Be warned.

There is also the matter of the beaches. Australian beaches are simply the nicest and best in the world, although anyone actually venturing into the sea will have to contend with sharks, stinging jellyfish, stonefish (a fish which sits on the bottom of the sea, pretends to be a rock and has venomous barbs sticking out of its back that will kill just from the pain) and surf-boarders. However, watching a beach sunset is worth the risk.

As a result of all this hardship, dirt, thirst and wombats, you would expect Australians to be a sour lot. Instead, they are genial, jolly, cheerful and always willing to share a kind word with a stranger. Faced with insurmountable odds and impossible problems, they smile disarmingly and look for a stick. Major engineering feats have been performed with sheets of corrugated iron, string and mud.

Alone of all the races on earth, they seem to be free from the ‘Grass is greener on the other side of the fence’ syndrome, and roundly proclaim that Australia is, in fact, the other side of that fence. They call the land “Oz” or “God-zone” (a verbal contraction of “God’s Own Country”). The irritating thing about this is… they may be right.

TIPS TO SURVIVING AUSTRALIA

Don’t ever put your hand down a hole for any reason – WHATSOEVER.

The beer is stronger than you think, regardless of how strong you think it is.

Always carry a stick.

Air-conditioning is imperative.

Do not attempt to use Australian slang unless you are a trained linguist and extremely good in a fist fight.

Wear thick socks.

Take good maps. Stopping to ask directions only works when there are people nearby.

If you leave the urban areas, carry several liters of water with you at all times, or you will die. And don’t forget a stick.

Even in the most embellished stories told by Australians, there is always a core of truth that it is unwise to ignore.

HOW TO IDENTIFY AUSTRALIANS

They pronounce Melbourne as “Mel-bin”.

They think it makes perfect sense to decorate highways with large fiberglass bananas, prawns and sheep.

They think “Woolloomooloo” is a perfectly reasonable name for a place, that “Wagga Wagga” can be abbreviated to “Wagga”, but “Woy Woy” can’t be called “Woy”.

Their hamburgers will contain beetroot. Apparently it’s a must-have.

How else do you get a stain on your shirt?

They don’t think it’s summer until the steering wheel is too hot to handle.

They believe that all train timetables are works of fiction.

And they all carry a stick

Thanks, Shelly!