I’m telling you, at some point, one of these is gonna stick and when it does, I’ll be sailing around Martha’s Vineyard in my 200 foot yacht with my entourage dancing and partying around as I stroke the snow white Bichon Freise named Captain Bunny Kisses in my lap and sip Dom Perignon …
Oh, wait. Well, the whole fantasy is totally accurate except the part about the dog, who will actually be two dogs, twin Akitas named De Niro and Pacino. And obviously the champagne. I honestly have wondered where all the money I used to blow on booze and pot has gone because I’m really not much better off financially than I was before. Then I remember that I was able to afford a digital piano for myself and I do make purchases at Amazon.com for some pretty bizarre stuff (What? They don’t sell any sugar-free cookies at my grocery stores and I still suffer from the delusion that the bag of Bacon and Cheddar Potato Skins and Reese’s Nutrageous bar I bought at the convenience store doesn’t count if I finish them before I park in front of my house, okay?). Besides, it says right there in the Big Book that fear of economic insecurity will leave us, not the actual economic insecurity itself. And with the new job, I’m movin’ on up faster than George Jefferson (my 30-and-Under readers can ask their moms and dads what that last line means).
I don’t know what has made me notice it recently, but my antennae starts buzzing whenever I hear anyone talk about alcohol. A couple weeks ago, a woman I met at a dating web site suggested we meet for the first time at Happy Hour at a bar she goes to. I routinely see meme’s on Facebook that reference booze. A company picnic scheduled for next month for the new company I work for grants all attendees 2 free beers. But I just don’t think about drinking that much anymore. Sure, I have the occassional revery about how nice it would be to knock back a couple Sam Adams after I mow the lawn on a hot day or how great it would be to raise a glass of wine at dinner or throw back a shot or two when I go out with my two best friends or …
See, that’s how it goes. My booze-raddled brain starts to think of all the great memories I’ve had and could continue to have if I just quit this AA bull honkey. But I know better. And so does He.
But I honestly think that the brain or body or both release more Seratonin or Dopamine or some such hormone or other chemical when you “norms” imbibe that that is the nature of the high for you and you can stop at one or two. And you make me sick and I hate you.
Okay, I don’t hate you and you don’t make me sick. As my friend Bernie always says, “I wish I could drink like a normal person. If I could, I’d drink all the time!” (See what he did there?)
But the fact remains that even the most stalwart recovering alcoholic has times when a drink just sounds so good. For that reason, I know this idea would be a success. When it comes time to take the family out for a big evening, the guy in recovery would have my venue to take his date or his family to when the time comes to really celebrate. You’ve heard of Medeival Times, that big dinner show that kinda looks like a Rennaissance Fair except instead of middle school teachers and advertising executives weekend warrior-ing it up dressed as Othello and Lady Montague, they have blood thirty sword play over mutton and maidens? My idea is similar, but with the recovering alcoholic in mind. See, the anticipation and glee we once got from eating out has been kind of lost because we don’t have an excuse anymore to drink vodka that costs more than $10 per gallon and comes in a plastic jug or wine that you have to uncork rather than unscrew, y’follow? There a lot of entertainment venues and locations I’m still awfully leery about ever going back to. I haven’t gone to Wrigley Field since I got sober and, as much as I want to go to Ireland, the thought of going to the motherland and not having a shot of Jameson in celebration, not to mention a pint of Guinness which I’ve been told is, in Ireland itself, like drinking a pint of rainbow kisses and puppy breath. As opposed to our domestic Guinness hear in the States which,again I have on good authority, tastes like 3-day old coffee mixed with cat urine, just by way of comparison. Not to mention the fact that, after umpteen years sober, I would be the guy, after a one boilermaker, would be streaking down a main jag in Dublin as the American ambassador and nine cops chase me while firing a barrage of rubber bullets. But then there are places I often once frequented where booze is served, like concerts and even bars, where my whistle is not the least bit whetted. So when going out for the special occasion, the recovering alcoholic would need a lot of extra added umph to the dining experience to truly make it a special evening. That’s why I give to you …
Freaks and Leeks!
Okay, I’m still working on the name, but the idea would be to present an evening that combines exquisite dinner fare and tasteful décor with the most insane fuckin’ entertainment you can legally get outside a carnival. It would be like Circe D’Solay if it was the brain child of Charles Manson. I’m still working out the kinks, like how much dinner would cost in order to afford having an entire emergency response unit (ambulance, EMT’s, fire brigade, haz mat suits etc.) on hand if needed and whether people would rethink their choice for their daughter’s 10th birthday dinner if they would be required to sign any kind of insurance waiver beforehand. Plus, for the show I’m planning, you’d need to have a pretty large venue. Not for the guests, but for the sheer scope of the show. I’m thinking one of those small-sized arenas that have sprung up all over the country to boost the local economy and host Ultimate Fighting Championship/Multiple Martial Arts bouts and Great White/Warrant concerts (yes, those bands are still touring. You can catch them at the Ralston Arena on Sept. 11. Or you can put a loaded pistol in your mouth. Either works).
This type of venue would prove absolutely necessary, but I would have to further doctor it up for the evening’s event. I’m thinking mammoth sheets of black burlap draped over the sides of the building with giant forest green cauldrons filled with fire at regular intervals on the ground surrounding the building. And each cauldron would have the tallest women I can find (6’2” minimum) dressed in total dominatrix gear feeding coal into the fires.
Now, I’m not really worried about the people on dates. In fact, the dominatrixes would probably get a lot of people nice and revved up before the night even gets rolling. The moms and dads, however, might have a little trouble convincing little Timmy and Ashley that it’s all part of the show. So at the front of the building would be two huge silver steel doors with black handles like a vault in a bank. And as soon as the family showed up in the two cameras mounted above the entrance a, the doors would swing open as a draw bridge leveled to the ground in front of it and they would be greeted by this guy, dressed in a pink prom dress with poofy shoulder pads and a rhinestone tiarra, who would cry out in a cockney English accent:
“Poppins cakes and paisley haunches! Hope you brought your bibs!”
Stay tuned. I haven’t even gotten to the shrieking eels or flaming trapeze and you haven’t even sat down yet …