…2..3..4 – An Xperience Column

“The Wrath of Grapes”

By Chris Busone.

“Here’s to it, all’s to it. Damn the ones who can’t do it. You gotta be roped to it, tied to it, made to do it. If you can’t do it, lead me to it, cause I’m used to it!”

– A toast by Jim Lazzaro, drummer – Chaser Band, circa 1985.

Yes, friends and readers, many was the night on many a stage that I raised many a cup as my friend and bandmate Jimmy Lazz spoke those inspiring words from behind his Ludwigs, thereby setting off a chain reaction which caused bystanders, band standers and band members alike to raise a glass of their favorite potent potable and gleefully gulp in a unified celebratory swallow.

Gloriously intoxicating days were these, when drinking on stage was not only acceptable but encouraged by onlookers and club owners who would send trays of shots filled with strange brews and mixtures up to the bandstand for us to consume, cheered on by the crowd. Numbing nectars with names like Screaming Nazis, Kamikazes, Fuzzy Navels, and Nipples, both Buttery and Slippery. (FYI – if you have either of these nipple-related afflictions, you should seek medical attention immediately. If you have a Fuzzy Navel, just change your sweater, dude.) 

There were Harvey Wallbangers, which were basically a Screwdriver with a shot of Italian liqueur, but if you added Sloe Gin and Southern Comfort, you had yourself a Sloe Comfortable Screw Up Against The Wall. We knocked back things called Zombies, Alabama Slammers, Tequila Mockingbirds, Whiskey Business, Rum Diaries, and Irish Car Bombs. And we drank them without the slightest pause or pretense, without knowing what was in them, and caring even less. “Whatever gets you there!” was our battle cry. 

But alas, my brothers and sisters in intoxicants, nowadays imbibing to excess is looked down upon, and those sodden who are with the devil drink are shunned by polite society. No longer are people enthralled or bemused by the blasted bassist or gassed-up guitar god. Gone are the days of the lubricated lead singer desperately holding onto his mic stand for dear life, as he chortles the wrong lyrics in demolished key signatures. 

And if you’re that member of a friend group that always seems several sheets too many to the wind and “walking on round heels” as my dad used to say, your current cohorts may set you adrift on a sudsy sea without a life raft.

Here’s a good rule of thumb: if your friends are discussing the affordability crisis and pontificating over the possible repercussions of the upcoming mid-term elections while you’re hanging onto the bar doing the swizzle-sway and hunting for bear with a switch, you might be feeling no pain right now, Otis, but you may as well just check yourself into the Mayberry drunk tank cause the townsfolk are tired of your act.

Best you find yourself some ’80s holdovers who are nicely irrigated with horizontal lubricant and off their trolley and in their cups. Home is wherever you lay your hat, and pass out. Nite-Nite. 

Hell, even the TV “Friends” got on Fun Bobby’s case just for wanting to make his coffee Irish. I mean, he was just trying to liven things up a bit, you uptight white people. No wonder you don’t have any Black friends, Monica. Try pulling that stick outta your a$$. Oh, and like you’re all NOT addicted to caffeine? …Could those cups BE any bigger? …Geesh.

That said, if the go-go juice is your thing, you shine on, you crazy glassy-eyed diamond. Let your frothy flag fly! Paint the town maraschino cherry red. Put your best foot forward and trip over the curb. Bet your best friend that you can jump off the balcony into the above-ground pool. You could do it! You could!!

Or, you could dial it back a bit. 

I myself have seriously cut back on my own alcohol consumption these past several months. (That thud you heard was several of my close friends passing out from shock. We’ll give them a moment to recover.)

Yes, after four or five decades of the loudmouth liquid, and “one’s too many and a hundred’s not enough,” I decided it was time for a change. No one told me I should, or talked me into it. I wasn’t getting hate mail from my liver, and I’m a happy drunk, so there were no issues. I just felt like I wanted to.

So what took so long, you ask. Why didn’t I get on the wagon sooner? (Or is it off the wagon? I’m never really sure.) The answer is a simple one: I didn’t want to. And any good Sunday school teacher will tell you, ya have to wanna. It’s like anything else in life. You know it’s right when you hear that voice in the head telling you so.

Now, that is not to say that I won’t have a drink with my wife on a date night/dinner date, or toast a jolly good fellow on his jolly good birthday. I haven’t quite instituted the 18th amendment, but I’m reeling in my intake of the sauce in a significant way. I simply save my self-imposed drink maximum for clinkable occasions. 

Coco Chanel said, “I only drink on two occasions; when I’m in love, and when I’m not.” Send the lady a Cosmo and put it on my tab.

As for me, I have to say that I don’t miss having to do the math in my head as to whether the amount of drinks I’ve had is equal to, or greater than, the coefficient related to the variable of time that I’ve spent between cocktails, multiplied by the glasses of water I drank, in relation to how much I weigh and what I ate, and then solve for “R”. It’s that complex equation we all do that determines whether you can drive home safely without getting caught up in the illegal/immoral money-grab they call DWI checkpoints.

Another plus is waking up without the wrath of grapes, which makes the mornings a little more enjoyable. 

But fear not, my wet friends, we can still raise a glass to Jimmy Lazz’s classic toast, as that is just too amazing to pass up. Just, for me, not too many or too often. 

And for the record, I think it’s OFF the wagon, cause you’re definitely drinking if you’re ON the wagon, because all the booze is ON the wagon cause that’s how it gets delivered, right? I mean, why are we even mentioning the wagon unless it’s carrying booze, huh? Answer me that. So if you’re OFF the wagon, then you’re not drinking, ‘cause now you’re just out on the street, and there’s no booze out there on the street, so you’re NOT drinking cause the wagon with all the booze … oh, that thing … that’s down there somewhere, like blocks away. And also, I’m not sure why the driver kicked me OFF the wagon in the first place, ‘cause I wasn’t half as bad as those other people in the back and … wait, WAIT! I’m OFF track here. But I had this! I did!

Or maybe not. Whatever, let’s just toast. I’ll count it off: 2…3…4 Salute!!