You ever notice how an agile and disturbed mind can take a compliment and turn it into an insult? My wife is a genius at this. Most wives are. Normally I'm not. Because I'm a man, and we are, as a species, notoriously insensitive.

But I'm talking on the phone to a friend of mine who is a recovering alcoholic. (His terminology, not mine. To me he's a guy who demonstrates more willpower and strength of character every day than I have in the years 1981 to present.) And we're joking about the last time we got together in Hollywood. (Of course the place is irrelevant, but when I said "Hollywood" you paid more attention than if I'd said Glendale, didn't you?)

Anyway, he said, "Reynolds, the thing about you is you never even change demeanor. The difference between sober and five Scotches is: nothing."

Feeling obscurely insulted I said, "Hey, my speech gets slurred."

"Nah, barely. Drunk or sober you're exactly the same."

And it was then that I realized: there is no amount of alcohol that could make me fun at a party. I have no deeper level waiting to be liberated by alcohol or drugs. I'm a unitary creature. Perfectly integrated.

Or shallow. That would be another word for it. Unidimensional.

Absolutely shit-faced I'm still observing, and still judging, and still just as fucking tedious as I am in sober life.

I don't dance. There is no amount of alcohol (or weed) that will make me dance. No amount of alcohol that would induce me to karaoke. Here's how it goes: I take a drink and I'm still me. Another drink, still me. Another, me. Me. Me. Me. Unconscious. There's no transition. I'm me until I pass out and puke all over myself.

It's been bothering me ever since. So I'm going to get really hammered and run naked down the street.

Right.

This entry was posted by Michael Reynolds, on Tuesday, February 17, 2009. You can leave your response.