The Dog that Bit Me

“Drunkenness is temporary suicide: the happiness that it brings is merely negative, a momentary cessation of unhappiness.”

Bertrand Russell

“I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day.”

Frank Sinatra

Things I’ve done while drunk:

• Gotten a friend fired. His company was holding an event at the Oyster Bar. All-you-can-eat oysters, all-you-can-drink wine. I tried to leave with my wine glass, and when the maître d' attempted to take it away I pushed him. My friend’s parents were there. I still maintain that the oysters were as much to blame as the booze.

• Made a girl cry. A few male friends and I were sitting at one of the picnic tables behind Sweet and Vicious. A random girl sat down with us, uninvited. We quickly learned that she was from San Francisco by way of the Ukraine, a Georgetown alum, an Upper East Sider, and absolutely horrible. My friends weren’t particularly bothered, but I made no effort to hide my distaste. About an hour into her monologue, she inquired as to why I didn’t like her. I proceeded to answer her query with all of the clarity and honesty I could muster, which, as I see it, is all any inquisitor could hope for. The girl then began sobbing uncontrollably. Ten minutes later she tried to kiss me at the bar. My opinion of her hadn’t changed, but I played along.

• Spent hundreds of dollars, thousands of dollars, perhaps even tens of thousands of dollars on a wide array of fermented beverages.

• Made all manner of unlikely propositions to unsuspecting female acquaintances, often via text message and after 3 am.
  

All of this begs an obvious question, one that invariably arises sometime between the moment I open eyes and acquisition of the Sunday Times: why don’t I just quit? What do I have against my pocketbook, my liver, and my dignity? The short answer is that getting drunk is fun. I cannot deny the pleasures of a bloody mary over brunch at Jones, an afternoon round of tasteless jokes and German brau at Lorely, or tequila shots at Tom and Jerry’s with a high school buddy in town for the weekend. I suppose each of these diversions undertaken alone and in moderation wouldn’t necessarily lead to the unsavory predicaments described above. But as much as I appreciate alcohol’s ability to bring people together or complement a meal, I also just plain enjoy getting drunk. I like throwing an arm around a buddy and talking about how beautiful life is, how lucky we are to be living in the greatest city in world, how much I value our friendship. I like possessing, however fleetingly, the confidence to approach the beautiful women whom, on the other six days of the week, I can only glance at as their express train slowly overtakes my local. Put simply, the world is a happier, more hopeful place when seen through beer goggles.

The trick, I would presume, is training your eyes to see things through a lager-tinged filter without resorting to drink itself. There are people who don’t need to drink when they go out on the weekends. I don’t count any of these people among my close friends, but I know they exist. What’s scary is that I’ve reneged on so many Sunday morning resolutions that I refuse to insult my intelligence by giving it another go. Put simply, I’ve given up. I might as well put two aspirin on my bedside table and draft a desperately witty, self-deprecating mea culpa e-mail before hitting the town. But one of these days I’ll get it together. Just not before Halloween. Maybe after New Year’s. Definitely by the time I turn thirty-five. Or when I get married. Whichever comes later.