Runaround

Once upon a midnight dearie
I woke with something in my head
I couldn't escape the memory
Of a phone call and of what you said
Like a game show contestant with a parting gift
I could not believe my eyes
When I saw through the voice of a trusted friend
Who needs to humor me and tell me lies
Yeah humor me and tell me lies

But you
Why you wanna give me a run-around
Is it a sure-fire way to speed things up
When all it does is slow me down

Gerry's Corner: Today, I'm introducing a section (italicized above!) in which I quote song lyrics that pretty much have nothing to do with me. Sure, I could try to twist them around and try to convince you that they're applicable to what's going on with me, but I won't waste your time. Instead, I'll just pour one out for Blues Traveler, which seems to have died at the exact moment when John Popper had his stomach stapled. Why, John? Why? Just like Samson's hair was the secret to his strength, your manic harmonica solos came directly from your magical belly. I hope your vanity was worth ruining your career over.



I went to Not-Betty's clinic today and saw lots of people packing up to leave. "Where's everyone going, Not-Betty?" I asked.

"It's Thanksgiving," she explained testily. "Lots of patients here use the holidays as a goal - they want to be clean by then so that they can get home to their family and friends."

"The same family and friends who drove them to drink in the first place?!" I asked, more incredulously. In retrospect, I was probably heckling her.

"You know what, honey?" Not-Betty said, now with a sincere veneer of malice in her voice. "If you'd have come to my clinic thirty years ago and pestered me like this, I'd have had you upside-down with a pitchfork up your ass."

That seemed uncalled for, though true - thirty years ago, Not-Betty could bench press me. She was a strong woman. I tried to quell the growing tension by calling her an "effing cracker-ass mother-effer." Apparently, this only enraged her more, and she started yelling and calling me a quitter. "You can talk! You can talk, you can talk! You're brave now, Awesome Dude" - she said 'Awesome Dude' as though I were not, in fact, awesome - "Throw his ass out! He's a quitter! He's a quitter! He's a quitter!" she ranted, before finally walking away and locking herself in the broom closet. I left the clinic feeling pretty discouraged.

Not-Betty came home later and looked kind of ashen. "I'm deeply, deeply sorry, honey. I know you're not a quitter - and I'm not against quitters. That's what's so insane about this." And that's when I realized - I'm not a quitter. I told Not-Betty this. "That's right!" she said, proud of me.

I picked up the middle seat cushion of our sofa. "What are you doing, my sweet?" she asked cautiously.

I searched around with my hand until I felt the bottle of Grey Goose. "I'm showing you I'm not a quitter!" I said to match her pride. Before she could stop me - and she didn't really try, given her remorse about her earlier outburst - I knocked back a few shots, straight from the bottle. "I'm back, baby!" I cried.

Later that day, I sat down and decided I had two options:

1. I could stop drinking now, return to my usual routine, be a good little husband, accept Not-Betty's apology, and then wait around to die. Not that appealing.

2. I could buckle down and kick some alcohol ass. No mistake, it won't be easy getting back off the wagon - I have three weeks or so before my 97th birthday, to catch my liver back up to speed. If I'm going to make my next birthday party a raging kegger, I'll have to devote some serious time to getting my drinking feet back under me, but if I cut back on doing anything remotely useful, I can probably kick a six-pack and a handle each day. Sure, I'll need to keep on watching my shows and writing my blog - can't give those up in the name of fulfilling my new goal - but I'm determined to sacrifice other worthwhile callings for my dream.

Many of you have also underestimated one of my real talents: the ability to multitask. In fact, while I was writing this entry - which has taken me four minutes and thirty-five seconds so far - I also sharpened all our steak knives, read the 'D' volume of my World Book Encyclopedia, and earned my yellow belt in karate. Not bad for an old man, hmmm?



Look, no one said this was going to be easy, but if it's going to make Not-Betty silently fume, I can endure.

By the way, enjoy Thanksgiving, the holiday when we slaughter and devour what Ben Franklin told us should be our national bird. What a weird country America is.

There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe,
Gerry