A Fermenting Question

…in which Uncle Duke examines his own checkered past and his son’s future.

My son Caleb is 14. He’s got hair in places he didn’t use to, and his voice is deeper than mine. It is time for a wise and mature Father to explain the mysteries and treacheries of alcohol. But as in most other areas I have had to try to explain lately, I am not qualified. Or perhaps I am overqualified. In any case, I am still much too embroiled in the mysteries and treacheries myself to clearly lay them out for him. He needs a good male role model here---but unfortunately, I’m going to have to do.

Probably I should start at the beginning---at my very first episode of teenage chugging and liberated silliness. We were 17, and it of course led to marathon hurling as our adolescent bodies tried to reject the poisons we had taken internally. I remember waking up the next morning, amidst the carnage of the previous evening, with that dreadful throbbing headache, library paste for saliva, surrounded by that ghastly, sour smell of human puke. I looked around foggily, and I remember thinking: “That was FUN!” The benefits outweighed the costs. The liberation was greater than the penalties. And alcohol has been a part of my life, to some degree, ever since.

The culture certainly rewards it. Even without the advertising, which is massive and sustained and brilliant, we are still a society which exalts and applauds alcohol use. In particular, there is a cultural bias that says that drinking is a manly sport. For generations males have passed through the portals into adulthood drunk on our butts. It is the way it has always been done. Drinking and sex were the adult indicators, and mostly we combined them. Generally this diminished both exercises, but never mind.

It is said that Eskimo people have dozens of words for the snow which plays such a prominent and essential role in their lives. We have hundreds of words for being drunk. Blasted, wasted, shnockered, bombed, hammered, sloshed, ripped, blotto, crushed, potted, smashed…I could go on. So could you. You will notice that most of these conditions are not ones into which we would normally put ourselves, voluntarily at least. But we do. We happily hit ourselves over the head with very big, blunt hammers without a great deal of embarrassment or self-reflection. We drink with passion, intensity, consistency, and not a little pride.

It is hard to explain to a 14 year old why we do that. What is the appeal of a beer after work? A drink before dinner? I don't really have a good answer. I guess the key word though is liberation. In our work-a-day world, one must hold so tightly to reality. And the voices of reality are not always forgiving. A friend once told me: “I’d do anything to get out of my own head,” as he popped another cold one. We are, many of us anyway, uncomfortable in our own heads. Our own voices are often disparaging. They are the voices of critical parents, demanding teachers or just our own perfectionist yearnings. It is my experience that alcohol mutes those voices. Under that influence, conversations with ourselves become less argumentative, less accusatory, and more amicable. In some cases, with the correct chemical mix, the voices become even complimentary. “You are one witty son-of-a-gun, Guy. You should have your own TV show. What a card!” Flattery just rolls off our tongues.

In addition, our normal reality includes schedules and lists, places to be, people to see. Alcohol induces us into a world of the here and now. Immediate responsibilities can be postponed. We can temporarily move into the world of living in the moment that those self-help gurus all espouse. Many of us just have a hard time getting there without anaesthetizing certain critical parts of our brains.

We are by Nature social beings. But most of us creak along as shy and introverted vertebrates. Our interactions are stiff, rigid and awkward. But when we introduce alcohol into the interaction, our social joints get limber. We become participants in active human discourse. It can be a grand and liberating influence.

Weddings without bars, for example, are rather staid and formal affairs. No one dances much. And if they do, you don’t see much real booty shaking. Jesus himself chose just such an occasion to perform His first miracle. When the wine ran out, He made more. And although the accounts don’t actually mention it, my assumption is that as the celebrants got lubricated in the second half of the reception, they became less self-conscious and very inventive. “Hoo-wee! I’m smoking now,” those Canaanites said, as they bumped, jerked, boogied and bunny-hopped around the room. Alcohol unleashes the hootchie-cootchie in us. It always has.

At least in the early male years, in and around high school and college, alcohol had a lot to do with women. Speaking for myself, girls were mysterious, frightening and very desirable. And I mostly felt dull and awkward around them. Those guys who attracted girls were glib, suave and smooth. My manner was wooden, clunky and overly polite. I found that alcohol unlocked what I perceived as natural charm. I was capable of small talk, large talk, boldness and daring. It may have been shallow success, but (Forgive me, Goddess.) shallow success was mostly what I was after. My feeling is that social awkwardness is the reason many of us began our alcohol careers. I cannot speak to the female side of the equation, but it would not surprise me if there were parallels. We all want to be cool and well liked. And it is easier to be those things, or at least feel like we are those things, when we have a snoot full.

But there is an obvious and unavoidable Dark Side. There is a lot of pain out there. There are many for whom the excessive clarity of sobriety is overwhelming. For them, life is only bearable when they are sedated. Alcohol is a cheap and accessible over-the-counter medication. The only question is frequency and dosage. How much does it take, and how often.

This culture talks a lot about Drugs. And it is absolutely true that there are thousands and thousands of lives lost to illegal, addictive drugs every year. And the health care costs associated with tobacco are staggering. No argument. My assumption though is that those figures pale in comparison to alcohol’s. The prisons and emergency rooms and therapists’ offices in this country are stacked with the effects of alcohol. But the public service announcements consist of refrains to let someone else drive you home when you get shit-faced. There are no TV spots that say: “This is your brain on tequila,” with worms crawling through a mess of scrambled eggs. We pretty much soft-pedal the harmful effects of alcohol in deference to selling the product with hooters and slick humor. There’s too much money on the table. If you want the truth about alcohol, you’ve got to dig it up yourself.

So, back to Caleb. What do I tell him? Do I want him to drink? Or does it matter? Have I already shown him what I think by how and when I drink? I am not proud of all aspects of my relationship with alcohol over the years, but I have told him as much. And I have tried to be specific about the parts I thought were healthy and those that were less so. My hope is that my usage has been measured enough to model. My hope is that moderation counts. And that my honesty will be worth something. My experience has been that it will be, that the Truth is a powerful teacher. Given that, the question then may be, not what do I tell him, but what do I tell myself. For that’s what he’ll hear.