The Boozedemic

Everyday, on Facebook or in the main stream media, I see pictures of empty store shelves and read stories about supply chain disruptions leading to critical shortages in food and basic goods and concerns about inflation.

However, other than occasional shortages of my favorite tipple (Newcastle Brown, where are you?), the shelves of the local liquor store (LCBO) and that uniquely Ontario institution, the Beer Store, are packed to the gunnels. As for inflation, the provincial government has cut or frozen booze prices and, in the USA, the price of wine in 2021 rose by a meagre 1% year-over-year. It’s a great time to be a drunk.

Good thing, too. Just anecdotally, I sense my friends have upped their game, drinking-wise, moderate drinkers becoming heavy ones and occasional sippers finding more occasions to celebrate. I don’t suppose temperance leaders have broken their vows and I hope those who have struggled with alcoholism are getting the support they need, but sales figures for alcohol are up all across the country—and I am not solely responsible for that!

In fact, my own consumption has remained steady (I couldn’t possibly drink more and still get up and be remotely productive in the morning) but I have noticed that the quality of my drinking has improved. More and more I’m treating myself to higher quality bourbon or a better varietal of red wine. And why not? I can’t spend money on travel or go out for dinner, and if I buy another book, my condo might collapse under the weight of my to-read list. At least booze only temporarily remains in the house.

I always found it noteworthy that even in full lockdown mode, grocery stores, pharmacies and liquor (and cannabis) stores remained open. Governments may be stupid but they aren’t so dumb as to cut off the population from one of their few (if unhealthy) consolations. Quite apart from its calming effect (except in large quantities where it fuels riots in places like Montreal or Kingston), for many, alcohol is an important part of the social equation even when society has been reduced to a household bubble.

I know that for people who see alcohol as the root of most evil, this is hard to swallow (sorry!) but that doesn’t stop it from being true. If it’s any consolation, I’ve seldom found my moral approbation (about the excesses of capitalism or the existence of the Proud Boys, for example) has had much effect on reality, either.

Not surprisingly, the increase in consumption has begun to be reflected in news media reports on the link between alcohol and cancer, concerns over alcohol contributing to family violence as well as depression and other mental health issues and the struggle that too many people have with addiction. What we really need are better support mechanisms for families and treatment systems for people who struggle with addictions of all types but that may be too much to ask. Nonetheless, dire warnings do affect behavior sometimes (see, smoking rates, for example) and I suppose I might quit myself if I was convinced it would shorten my life. I might not, too, given that according to life expectancy charts I only have 13.5 years left anyway.

Now that most have us have been vaxxed, at least one province has come up with an innovative approach to alcohol during the pandemic. Quebec recently announced that starting next week, you will need a vaccine passport to buy alcohol or cannabis in retail outlets (all government owned in their case). Anti-vaxxers are fuming and bootleggers are contemplating new Caddies (if they can find one for sale), but thousands of vaccine holdouts have rushed out to get their first or second dose. I wonder if other provinces will soon follow suit.

So, don’t worry, be happy. Have another drink and one after that. Maybe if you have enough, you’ll drunk-shop for my books. Until tomorrow, here’s mud in your eye!

Photo by Kobby Mendez on Unsplash

Savings

There are lots of things going on in the world today but for some reason I didn’t feel like writing about any of them so I thought I might skip 10 Minutes today. But then I started thinking about my next vacation which led me to wonder how I’m going to pay for it.

My wife often says that if we just drank a little less we might have more money to spare. Now I don’t drink $50 bottles of wine or sip from $200 bottles of scotch. No my preference is cheap wine and cheaper beer with only the occasional treat of something special. Still, it adds up and, over the course of the year, might well – if I were to stop altogether – pay for a (modest) week somewhere not too expensive.

But why stop there? If I were to stop eating anything I didn’t prepare myself, I’d certainly be better off – especially if I cut beef out of my diet, which some people seem to think is more healthy (others, thankfully, disagree). Again , we aren’t talking about eating out every night at five star restaurants but I do go out a couple or three times a month, plus the occasional lunch at the cafeteria or pub and the three times a month order of pizza… and a few muffins; again, it adds up. It might not pay for a week in Paris but a long weekend in Montreal? Sure.

Savings abound. For example, I live downtown and, while that means I don’t need to own a car, it is a bit expensive when you add up mortgage, condo fees, taxes and so on. Not penthouse in downtown Toronto expensive but not cheap. I could move to the suburbs and, as long as I was on a bus route, save quite a bit each month. Now that would pay for a week in Paris for sure – maybe two.

But wait, I thought of something else. I read about 35 books a year. I could probably increase that to 45 if I cut out drinking and eating out and spend my time commuting on the bus reading. But, I generally buy 60 to 70 books a year. And not e-books either but usually hard covers and trade paperbacks. Cutting twenty or so of those would pay for a weekend in Toronto for sure.

Look at that – four simple changes in my life and I can have another three or four weeks holiday time paid for without sacrificing anything. Well, other than wining, dining, reading and the comfort of my turn-key condo.

And think of the money I could save if I stopped going on vacations! Why, I’d be as rich as Howard Hughes. And pretty much living his lifestyle, too. Which means I’d be saving on soap, shampoo, haircuts, nail clippers and telephone bills. Hmm.

I guess I’ll have to cash in my RRSPs and pay for my holiday that way.

And that’s ten minutes.

Trains 2

Last night as the train turned the corner at Kingston and started its final run up to Ottawa, we began to hear a series of gongs and twangs. It was unnerving at first but it was soon evident what was going on. Ice covered branches weighed down from the on-going freezing rain had fallen into the path of the train, only to be brushed aside by the passing vehicle. The train itself was oblivious to these minor impediments and none of the staff even seemed to take notice.

I was reminded of a more dramatic event nearly forty years ago. I was taking the jitney down from Amherst to Halifax in Nova Scotia. A jitney was what Maritimers called a self-propelled train car — in this case there were two strung together. The traffic in those days was light and that was plenty for local needs.

We were just leaving Truro when there was a slight shudder in the car and a few seconds later the brakes came on and the train ground to a halt. I went to the vestibule to see what had happened.

A car had tried to beat the train through a level crossing. One suspects the driver might have been drinking. The car had been thrown from the tracks. It had struck a metal power pole and its front end was vee-ed in, smashing the grill and radiator and dislodging the engine block. The back end was bent and twisted so that one wheel now hovered over the roof of the car. By some quirk of opposing forces (or effective engineering) the front seat was largely intact and the driver was trapped though uninjured. (More evidence of the drunk driver theory — loose bodies don’t seem to get hurt.)

The police and fire trucks quickly turned up. The gas tank had ruptured and the smell of gasoline filled the air. A fireman was hosing down the area with fire retardant foam before they brought in the Jaws of Life to free the driver.

He was clearly a little upset by the experience and, with shaking hands, extracted a cigarette and a lighter. Without a word, the firefighter turned the hose on him and doused him with foam. He was left sputtering and everyone else was left alive.

Later when we finally pulled into Halifax, I descended by the front door. There was an iron handrail near the front of the train. It was what had hit the car. You could tell, because it was dented and pushed in a couple of inches. There were no other marks.

Physics is cruel. ‘Mass times velocity‘ always wins. Trains don’t care about cars or buses and cars and buses don’t care about bikes or people. So as the streets get slippery — be careful out there.

And that’s ten minutes.

Drink

I don’t do extreme sports. Or, for the last 15 years, sports of any kind. It’s not that I couldn’t. I could. Though I’d resent every minute I spent training, let alone doing them. I’d almost certainly hurt myself. I would probably kill myself. Sports, especially extreme sports, are not for everyone.

It’s the same way with drinking. I took my first drink when I was seventeen. In fact, I took 9 of them that night – all different. I was at a political convention but I missed most of the debates on the final day because I was too damn sick. You might think I would have learned from that experience. I did. I didn’t take another drink for 10 days. By then I was in university.

I drank a lot in university, usually starting on Thursday. Sunday through Wednesday I seldom took a sip. Well, a beer or two now and then but it hardly counts as drinking. But I never missed a class and I got three degrees. I’d like to tell you that I quit drinking after that but it would be a lie. Not the quitting part but the idea I would have liked to quit. That would be the lying part.

I like drinking. I’ve learned to do it well. Some people might say I have achieved Olympic level competence. But they would be wrong. I never push myself that hard. I don’t get hangovers; I never get sick.

I love the taste of bourbon on my tongue, the bouquet of wine in my nose, the tingle of beer, the sweetness of port. I love the sensation of putting the glass to my lips, letting the flavours and aromas and feelings linger. I like the softness drink gives to my vision, to my thoughts. When I drink I am more myself. I like myself when I drink. I am more jovial, more loquacious, more romantic. I am not a mean drunk.

I am, of course, not an alcoholic – I simply refuse to go to all those meetings.

In all my years, I’ve never missed a day’s work or a deadline. Some might say I could have done more, reached higher. Pshaw! I’ve done everything I wanted. Had a decent career, published four novels and a raft of stories, thought deep thoughts, travelled and loved and made great friends. Drinking was and is a part of that. Soon I’ll lie back and take it easy. Sit on beaches or in palazzos, drink beer and red wine, write more novels, enjoy life and love and friendship.

But it’s not for everyone. Some people hurt themselves with drink. Some are hurt and think drink will make them better. You have to know yourself. You have to know when the mountain is too high or the slope too steep.

Know yourself, control yourself and everything else will take care of itself.

And that’s ten minutes.

 

Dancing

I am not by nature a musical person. I can carry a tune in a bucket but I usually spill a few notes. Rhythm is another issue. When the beat of a song infects me I feel an almost uncontrollable urge to move – not necessarily to the beat but at least to a diffident drummer.

Dancing is sometimes an option. Even dead sober, it doesn’t take a lot of convincing to get me to the floor if I’m in that particular mood. The mood is not a constant thing but it comes over me regularly enough that I’ve been known to do a few steps and turns even when walking alone with only my Walkman to keep me company. Put a drink or two in me and I’m hard pressed to stay in my seat.

I can either dance alone or with a partner willing to follow where I lead. My style is a weird amalgam of jive, two-step, salsa and slide step. I can even work in a few taps. Hard to say what it looks like when I ‘m moving across the floor but people watch, take photos, occasionally even ask where I learned to dance like that. I’m never sure if ‘like that’ is said in italics.

The partner is the key. My wife is the one that ensures that I don’t look the fool or, if I do, I look a happy fool that brings out the best in everyone.

Last night, in Dublin, the mood was on us and we danced our knees and hips off. The young people were amused – until we tried to get them up dancing too. Some of the girls joined us but the lads looked away. One tall fellow begged off, saying he had a sore knee. And me, with the cartilage long gone in both of mine. But the girls had fun – even if they gave all the credit to Liz; a good woman they called her. And they were right about that.

This morning we were a little rocky – from the drink and short night but mostly from the memory of the beat. Still alive after all these years.

And that’s ten minutes.