Photo by Dennis Steinauer Darrin and I bantered about alcohol, as people often do. We joked about sneaking a flask into an inappropriate venue—not sure I can remember which one, maybe the book sale we’re both working in July. Sarcasm, not seriousness. Guy talk. Tribe talk. Then I fessed up. “I’m nine years sober.” Nine … Continue reading What I Told to Al-Anon
Alcohol
Van Winkle’s Fate
Hudson’s crew played bowls in the dell. Friend, they were wasted. They pounded their keg, ale after ale, a spent barrel slept in a ditch next to the live one. Somehow Van Winkle was there too. He lay passed out cold under an elm with daisies strewn about his head and body haphazardly like they … Continue reading Van Winkle’s Fate
Numb
A forty-year memory is a dicey thing. You remember the stories you’ve told yourself rather than the actual events. Things get embellished, things get blocked depending on your needs. In my case, I think, blocked. I've banished memories, painful and embarrassing. Alcohol adds an extra curtain, a sheer one, not quite opaque. Another layer to … Continue reading Numb
Ask Amy
Do you read advice columns? I do every day. The Washington Post runs a daily column by Carolyn Hax that I read while eating breakfast. As I crunch away on my Special K Chocolaty Delight cereal, the game I play is to compare my off-the-cuff response with Carolyn’s. Mine: a knee-jerk reaction to a seemingly … Continue reading Ask Amy
Malted
God, how did I wind up at the Jefferson Diner. After our twenty-five-minute sidewalk wait, they crammed the six of us into a booth for four. Me, pinned to the wall with my shoulders angled to take less space. A wall-mounted mini jukebox sat above the table, face-height, eight inches from my nose. A wire … Continue reading Malted
The Date
All alcoholics have a date. The recovering ones. When was your last drink? I’ve talked with people twenty years sober, they can pin it down to the hour. I can’t. I’ve never had a date, or never known one. It was a Sunday in January. The tenth or the seventeenth. Today or next week. It … Continue reading The Date
Six Years “Sober”
Six years sober. Strong word, sober. It implies not drunk. Drunk wasn’t my problem, not six years ago. Twenty-six years ago, drunk fit well. Six years ago, sometimes buzzed, tipsy. But usually, just relaxed... every night. Relaxed or buzzed every night. Until I quit. New Year’s Day seems like a good sobriety anniversary. Easy to … Continue reading Six Years “Sober”
When I was a D!ck
Years ago, when I joined The Writers' Brigade, Gettysburg's only public writers' group, long-time member Keith Johnson put a name to the steady stream of intensely personal prose I churned out. He called it confessional nonfiction. The name fit. Much of what I produced seemed to spring from an uncontrollable desire to come clean. To … Continue reading When I was a D!ck
Post-Thanksgiving, Hungover
I just wrote a piece called Depression in Two Parts. I stuck it in the Vault. That’s what I call the buried folder on my hard drive where revealing essays go to die. The ones I don’t want to post. The ones that aren’t about me. DITP is about family. And friends (ex-friends) and emotions. … Continue reading Post-Thanksgiving, Hungover
My Hungover Weekend
Once upon a time, I spent my weekends sick. Sick during the days, but not at night. The nights I spent drunk. My mornings started early. Saturday and Sunday, eight o’clock, nine o’clock. Maybe not early by today’s standards—I’m up at five each day during the week—but eight A.M. is early when you get to … Continue reading My Hungover Weekend
WordPress, Facebook, Twitter
I’ve got this routine. WordPress, Facebook, Twitter. I do this slowly, wanting to savor the alerts. The WordPress red dot, the numbers in the Facebook and Twitter bells. These are my social media. No Instagram, that’s where my kids hang out. I don’t want to crash their party. I do it again. WordPress, Facebook, Twitter. … Continue reading WordPress, Facebook, Twitter
Dry. Part 2.
Dry. It really sucks. Dry, meaning alcohol free, it’s miserable. At least it is for me. Lots of us (dry people) use the euphemism sober. It sounds adult, more mature. I don’t call myself sober because of what it implies, which is: not drunk. It’s not that I’m not not drunk, it’s just that before, … Continue reading Dry. Part 2.
Teresa Gunn
Reprint: A story that pre-dates this blog: “Hey Teresa, can I buy you a beer?” This was a safe question in the mid-eighties. Beer was cheap. Miller or Bud, maybe a Heineken for an extra fifty cents. No getting blind-sided with a Dogfish Head IPA or a Troegs Mad Elf at eight bucks a bottle. … Continue reading Teresa Gunn
I miss…
Intellectual bathroom graffiti: I F*@KED YOUR MOTHER! Directly beneath this gem, in a different pen, a different hand: GO HOME DAD, YOU”RE DRUNK! I’d like to stop right there. A flash-post. Call it done. Flash what? Not fiction. This one is real. On the bathroom wall of the Tune Inn, circa 1986. Every time I … Continue reading I miss…
Pornography
Published one year ago this week in my memoir Fragments. My mother's birthday was last week. I totally forgot. Percussive. Dark, haunting, haunted. Repetitive, chromatic – evoking angst, possibly fear. Lyrics shouted from a distance, from the bottom of a ravine. Echoing, urgent. Chanting, mumbling, confusion. Chest tight, stomach in knots. Eight complex songs, each … Continue reading Pornography
The Hard Days
I had my last drink almost eleven months ago; I quit somewhere in the middle of last January. But I’m not sure exactly when. And yes, it’s ridiculous that I don’t know the date. I thought I did, but two or three weeks after I quit, I couldn’t remember if it was two or three … Continue reading The Hard Days
The Other Stuff 