GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #788: ONE YEAR AND 179 DAYS

 It's been one year and 179 days since my last drink. Booze has been on my mind lately. Not just because I had an exceptionally shitty day today. Believe it or not, work was the highlight of my day, and work was fucking miserable. Especially since it's starting to look like I might not get that change in position. They might not need an additional hand over there, after all.

But I also found a jar of apple moonshine last week. I was pretty sure that I'd gotten to all my booze stashes, but I guess one got past me. I couldn't even open the jar because my hands are all fucked up. Not that I wanted to drink the contents. It looked kind of gross.

But I wanted to clean it out and maybe use the jar for something else. Jars are always good to have. I used to be the guy everyone went to for stuff like opening tight jars. Now I have to ask my brother to do it. Getting old sucks. Needing surgery on your hands sucks, too.

But I was mostly thinking about how, back when I was a full-blown boozer, I never got bug bites except for one time. That one time was because I was sleeping in a room that had a lot of bugs in a tank. One got out and bit my belly. But aside from that one time? Never. I never got so much as a mosquito bite.

I remember a time when I went camping with a bunch of friends, and the mosquito problem was so bad they asked the campground to move us to another site. They were all riddled with bites, but not me. The argument could be made that I was drunk out of my mind, so of course I wouldn't have noticed. But I checked the next day. Nothing.

Everyone else was drinking. Why were they not spared? Because I was the only one who showed up drunk already. I had to take a few drinks to make the long drive bearable. Was that the camping trip when I decided I was the Lord of the Flies? Maybe that was it.

At any rate, since I quit drinking I've been getting bug bites. Mosquitos no longer fear alcohol poisoning from feeding off of me, for example. I got a couple of ant bites during the summer. Etc.

It's weird to think about the problems that come with suddenly not having a blood alcohol content at all times. I miss it. Not the Fleischmann's or the Ten High or even that godawful Canadian shit I got for seven bucks a handle. I miss things like the Glenfiddich. Wild Turkey 101. Booker's. I never did get a taste of the Pappy, and I'd always held out hopes that I would. If someone offered me a glass of that, I don't think I'd be able to say no.

Somehow I have yet to have a relapse. Not sure how that happened. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: when I was at detox, I was already planning to drink more when I got out. Weird. Maybe the key to quitting booze, after you go through the physical addiction, is knowing deep within yourself that you're going to drink again. I know I am. It's just a matter of how long. My job is to make sure there are as many days between now and that time as possible.

If I'm ever diagnosed with an incurable disease, for example. Or if I need my foot amputated. Or if I get fired. Or, I guess, if someone offered me a taste of Pappy Van Winkle.

544 days. So far, so good.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #112: A NIGHT AT THE SPRING INN

You might be wondering why there wasn't a GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS last night. A friend I haven't seen in maybe two years came to town, and I hung out with him and his brother at the Spring Inn last night, drinking maybe a bit more than I should have. By the time I got home, I wanted nothing more than to fall into bed. I think it was about 1:30, which would explain why I was so hungover at work today.


I really should drink more often at the Spring Inn. I miss that place. Once upon a time, I used to be in there at least once a week. In fact, back in my early to mid-twenties, I drank in a bar every weeknight. Monday's were spent at Doc Ryan's because they had dollar pints. Tuesdays were Elmhurst Public House nights because they had dollar personal pitchers. Wednesdays were random bar nights, which I sometimes went to, but didn't always make it. Thursdays were spent at what used to be called Lucky Strike. I forget what it is now, though. I think it's Fitz's Seven-Ten, or something. And then Friday nights were spent at Spring Inn, at least until closing, at which point we'd all go over to Brauerhouse back when it was in Berkeley, since it stayed open one hour later. Brauerhouse has since burned down, which sucks because it was a fucking great place to get drunk. They moved out to Lombard, but I hear it's just not the same. One day, I'll give it a shot, but I don't know if I want to make new memories at a place that probably can't hold a candle to the memories I made in the old place.


Holy fuck. I drank heavily every night. Those were the good old days. But my favorite was always Spring Inn. It's a neighborhood bar, not a sports bar or a college bar or any of that shit. It's a small place that doesn't serve food. Back in the old days, if you went there, it was almost a certainty that you wouldn't get laid there. If you were drinking there, you were drinking to get fucked the fuck up. That's important to me. Sometimes, you want to have the possibility of sex, but there was a certain freedom in not having that at the front of your brain.


How did things go last night? Perfectly, I think. It's good to know that the Spring Inn is still the cheapest place to get fucked up in Elmhurst. I drank like a fiend, and I had a thirty dollar bill at the end of the night. Anywhere else in the area, and it would have cost me seventy. It's good to know that the same bartender is still there, and that he remembers me. I don't know if he'd be cool with me mentioning his name, so I won't. Every once in a while, he'll supply us with a free drink, and that is the key to being a great bartender. Hell, in my opinion, he's the best. That's why I always tip him more than any sane man would. (Of course, that could be the Italian in my blood, but I don't think so. If he sucked, I wouldn't kick in quite so much.)


It's good to know that it's still a great place for conversation. You can hang out, drink, play darts, etc. But it's mostly a place to talk shit about whatever you enjoy. Whatever you hate. Whatever helps you through the night. It's usually dead on weeknights, but last night it was almost empty. It's kind of disappointing, because more people means the higher probability of adventure. But also at the same time, it's encouraging because it's a more intimate setting where you don't have to shout to be heard.


Most importantly: it's good to know that metal still reigns supreme at the Spring Inn. Near the end of the night, Metallica blasted out to us, which brought me back to my hard-drinking days of yore.


Last call came about. I guzzled one more Wild Turkey 101--because the Spring Inn is the only bar in the area that has WT101, the finest whiskey known to humanity--and we went out into the streets, where I hung out with my friend and his brother for a while longer, while they had one more cigarette. (Because my friend has been abroad, he was surprised to discover that you couldn't smoke in bars around here.) And then, I went home, where I stumbled up to bed.


I can't tell you how many nights I've stumbled up to bed after drinking at the Spring Inn. I haven't been there since the last time my friend was in town. I think. Actually, no. Another friend was passing through, and we went to the Spring Inn for a brief hang before heading out to Elgin for some serious boozing. But for a guy who used to go to the Spring Inn every week? Two times in two years is a terrible rate.


I think I shouldn't neglect my favorite bar anymore.


I've been icing my drinks since my pancreas problem. The bartender didn't know about my health issues, so when I asked for whiskey with ice in it, he looked at me kind of weird.


My reputation precedes me . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #14: I'M DRUNK! DRUNK!

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Or something like that.


Seriously, I could never in a million years describe what happened tonight. I'm suddenly reminded of my youth, when any number of crazy things could happen--and then actually did.


This old man's got to rest his bones. I'm going to be 36 next week, and I have all sorts of medical problems. I should probably stop doing all the ridiculous shit I'm doing . . . but . . . well . . . when Charles Bukowski was a younger man, he was told by a doctor that he must stop drinking or he'd die. It depressed him so much he went directly from the doctor's office to a bar, because he needed a drink.


The dude lived for DECADES after that, drinking heavily the whole time. He didn't even die from his habits. Leukemia got him.


But still. I bet you fuckers thought I wouldn't post anything before passing out. Hell, I'm with you. I should have passed out hours ago. I'm not supposed to drink this much. I've had a half-pint of Jameson, a half-pint of Wild Turkey 101, five shots of Bulleit, a Gonzo Imperial (thanks, Katrina!), and maybe--MAYBE--four shots of Fleischmann's (but that was in the afternoon, when I was getting ready for the night).


My doctor is going to murder me. He's going to take one look at me and kill me with his eye lasers. FUCK.