Thursday, November 19, 2009
By Joseph Lupoli
After spending yet another weekend day getting drunk at the local watering hole, I stood up from my wobbly stool and grabbed my cold, dripping 12-pack of Heineken off the ancient mahogany bar to finish the job at home.
"You have a good day, Joe," stoically waved George the bartender. "And watch out, there's ice everywhere...and merry Christmas."
Well I'll be damned, I forgot it was the 25th; but who in their right mind forgets when it's Christmas Day?
Well I do...because when I was a little kid, my parents and even my grandparents on my father's side couldn't resist killing each other or somebody else, separating me from them and my and siblings forever. So why should I give up my weekend "job" just to celebrate Christmas with people who don't breathe anymore?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A True Story Told in Six Sentences (6S)
By Joseph Lupoli
They say that back in the day, aged American Indians hobbled off alone to a sacred hill or valley and they sat and waited until their bodies mercifully expired and their souls shot up into the heavens. We alcoholic fuck-ups who crossed the invisible line of no return lumbered off to revered places too; mangy morgue-like holding tanks called bars for big-league drinkers who needed a no-frills sanctuary secluded from milk-sops, gossipy fancy-drink dabblers, yarn spinning weekend warriors, the "I have to be home by six or my will kill me" types, and anyone else who still had hope; whose dreams tomorrow outweighed the regrets of yesteryear.
Well, I selected my sacred spot and I waited--and waited, but to me, Death said 'No' and I wondered why. Maybe there was no answer; just a bunch of crazy questions like those asked by intake doctors during my three separate stays locked up a detox ward, slow-dancing the Librium shuffle with the other bloated red-faced alkies, tract-marked stick-armed heroin addicts, and wide-eyed, coke-slamming, emaciated Charles Manson look-alikes.
It took my drunken soul 25-plus-years of involuntary self-induced pain, guilt, and shame of living the rum-hound lifestyle until somebody finally whispered these life-saving words in my ear: "If you really want out, find somebody you can trust and tell them the worst things you've ever done because you're only as sick as your secrets. Then hit AA meetings as often as you used to hit the bars, and make sure you don't drink today because you may be strong, but booze is stronger. Do these things and before you know it, you'll run out of reasons to drink because, after all, there'll be nothing left to escape from."