alcohol

Don’t have a fender bender—just have a bender

My Fellow Inebriates,

It’s snowing here, which happens only once a year or so, and I can hear spinning tires in the distance. Nobody knows how to drive when snow hits Vancouver, or by extension Langley—even when sober, which you should all be if you’re behind the wheel.

I wish we didn’t have to drive at all! Commuting is totally stressing my dad out, and not in a good way—i.e., he’s fed up with traffic, boredom and gas expenses, but not stressed enough to bring home a case of beer every night. My dad seems destined to give himself an ulcer when he should be getting his buzz on instead, and I feel bad thinking of him dodging incompetent drivers on the road…so I thought I’d give him some reasons to give up driving:

cbc.ca

  • It’s bad for breathing.
  • It’s bad financially.
  • It’s bad globally.
  • It’s bad for physical fitness.
  • It’s bad for the psyche.
  • You can’t drink if you’re driving—OMG.

Right? Let’s get out some wine, stow the car keys and pat ourselves on the back for not being behind the wheel.

What, my die-hard driving friends (who I know always get themselves safely home before shaking a martini)—you want reasons?

What’s that smell?

The biggest problem with driving is the contribution it makes to air pollution. Ground-level car exhaust is poisonous. Asthma is on the rise, as is the number of “indoor days” recommended when pollution hangs in the air and threatens those with respiratory vulnerabilities. Despite efforts to limit emissions, the number of cars has increased, as has the average vehicle size. Urban sprawl continues, making cars necessities where they once were optional.

What do we do? It’s pretty hypocritical for a housebound bear to tell you that you shouldn’t be driving. But I’m worried! Worried for my dad driving, and worried for my mum walking around with two kids who are just the right height to huff the most car exhaust possible. By the time they get to wine-tasting age their olfactory receptor cells will have burned off with their lung alveoli.

Traffic is out of hand.

It takes my dad 90 minutes to get to Vancouver from Langley (a suburb of Vancouver) during rush hour IF there aren’t any accidents holding up traffic. That’s three hours a day, 60 hours a month, 720 hours a year. By the time my dad hits retirement age he’ll have spent four YEARS navigating through gridlock. That time could have been spent on a bar stool.

Gas costs a fortune.

Without taking into consideration car insurance, maintenance and initial outlay, it’s crazily expensive to run a car. That commute of my dad’s?—$500 a month in gas alone. Need I say it? Five bottles of kick-ass single malt.

We are getting really soft.

Even if you don’t have a beanbag ass, it’s probably soft from driving. Here in the ‘burbs we drive everywhere, often crossing town several times a day chauffeuring kids. Too tired to play with their kids themselves, parents instead oversubscribe their kids to numerous activities, then rush around like maniacs, when they could sign the kids up for one thing and walk to it. Let’s face it, we sign them up for activities to tire them out, because we don’t want them up with us at 11:00pm. If we made them walk they’d get plenty tired.

Traffic could make us snap.

So we’re physically soft, but there are psychic costs to traffic as well. It’s depressing; it sucks our energy away, and it makes us feel powerless. The power of a car ironically robs us of our own locomotive power, ultimately making our cardiovascular/respiratory systems all the more vulnerable to the pollution the car generates. Moreover, traffic makes people feel freaking desperate. Un-kinking your muscles after you emerge from a cramped traffic odyssey requires a live-in masseuse and more vodka than my parents would ever contemplate buying.

Our climate is f#cked.

Yes, you can find plenty of freaks out there wagging their jaws about the jury being out on climate change. Fact is, there’s pretty much full scientific consensus. If you’re not a complete whackjob and/or fundamentalist conservative you probably have the brain cells to appreciate that climate change is a reality, and that we’ve already committed our grandchildren’s grandchildren to cleaning up our shit. Sadly, we don’t seem to be willing to give them a head start by investing in some solutions.

Okay, so I hate myself for lecturing, and I really apologize because the stern tone is rooted in sobriety—my personal seventh layer of hell and the impetus to rain on everybody’s four-wheeling parade. I know it’s hard to get away from driving. As a society we’re chained to our cars. But here’s the thing:

If you drive, you can’t drink. So driving really messes with your alcoholism, doesn’t it? It’s a good reason to eliminate it (driving). And it’s so much more fun to reel around on the bus with strangers than it is to get arrested in your car.

So what needs to happen to demote the car in society’s esteem?

What do you think?

VALDEPEÑAS ANCIANO TEMPRANILLO GRAN RESERVA (2001)—Aged, just like my mum

Today my mum said, “Stop mooning around liquor cabinet and make yourself useful.”

I have no idea what that means, my fellow inebriates, do you?

Just look at me: I’m a little 7” bear with a severe alcohol addiction. What possible use is my mother thinking of? I’m not meant to be useful; I am strictly decorative.

She tends to get self-righteous when she’s just put in a solid half-hour’s worth of honest work herself. Then it’s time to eat five chocolate bars, turn the heat up so she doesn’t have to move around, and otherwise reward herself for that massive effort.

Younger, fluffier times

Granted she’s a little stressed out. Today’s the big 43, and neither of us is as fluffy as we once were. Aging is tough, and especially tough when you don’t feel you’ve accomplished enough for your years.

The best thing I can really do for my aging mother is make a yummy wine recommendation: VALDEPEÑAS ANCIANO TEMPRANILLO GRAN RESERVA (2001), barrel-aged for 10 years.

There are plenty of young tempranillos out there, and they can certainly be consumed young, but a tempranillo with ten years’ oak aging under its belt is a spectacular find for $15.99. Whereas it’s difficult to find inexpensive wines of this vintage from most wine-producing countries, Spain is proving itself a trove, with tempranillo enjoying a renaissance among growers with the mettle to coach the finicky black grapes through the growing season.

The grapes are challenging to grow because they require a cool climate to achieve good acidity, but they need heat to reach optimal sugar levels. Like my mother, they are difficult to please, and inclement weather pisses them off. Thus they are used more often as blending grapes than as single varietals.

My parents are basically philistines about wine; that’s why they gravitate to plummy, jammy fruit explosions that satisfy their immature tastes. It’s the reason I’m steering their venerable tastebuds toward the VALDEPEÑAS ANCIANO TEMPRANILLO—they are old enough to handle a more demanding taste experience.

Swirled in the glass, this purply, brick-red Spanish wine gives off a spicy, leathery essence, with vanilla chiming in lightly. Decanting is not a must, but it enhances the wine’s ability to morph its high notes into more subtle, rounded flavors.

If you’re a shiraz or cab fan this tempranillo will surprise your palate, perhaps not positively at first—its opening notes are sharper, pointier—but if you let it linger on your tongue, velvety stone fruits, currants, white pepper and licorice will emerge. This wine is dense with complexity, and if you can manage it, you should drink it undistracted.

So turn off the porn, get out the decanter, and give it a good swirl. And as I told my mum, “You can get away with drinking it slowly—43 isn’t so old that you’ll die before the bottle’s finished.”

And that was when she told me to go and make myself useful.

Kreativ? Don’t you mean strung-out? (Or maybe you mean “creative”)

My Fellow Inebriates,

Malibu can mess you up. It’s totally unpalatable—not only is it an alcoholic last resort; it damages your self-esteem. Go on a Malibu bender and you find yourself asking hard questions:

  • Is this all there is?
  • Am I a loser?
  • Am I going to end up on the street?
  • Where are my genitals?

If you’ve been following, you know how badly the liquor cabinet needs a fresh infusion here at LBHQ. It’s down to the most rejected alcoholic products and mescale-type hallucinogens. The next step is Windex.

And, whilst I wallow in the literal and figurative dregs, along comes a nomination.

It happened a week ago. My first habitual waking thought is WTF? and that day was no exception. If I’d been properly liquored up I would have simply delivered graceful thanks and passed on the nod (to 6 others), then upchucked 10 heretofore unsolicited factoids about yours truly.

Instead my alcohol-ravaged fur-brain cycled around on several cynical thoughts:

  • Is this a real award? Shouldn’t I have to actually win it, not just be nominated? The nomination, you see, entitles me to display it proudly on my blog (which I shall), but the thought nags me that it is an undeserved gift. Which makes me feel like crap.
  • If I nominate 6 bloggers, and they nominate 6, then we have 36, then 216, then 1296, then 7776, then 46,656, then 279,936. In 7 steps we smother all the WordPress bloggers out there with awards. Which makes me feel like crap.
  • What does “kreativ” mean? I spend a lot of time regurgitating pics that make me laugh and jokes that other people thought of. Which makes me feel like crap.
  • Why did I immediately pilfer an idea from the guy who nominated me for the award? He wrote about Facebook, so I wrote about Facebook. Which makes me feel like crap.
  • How long can an alcoholic animal rhapsodize about alcohol? How many “kreativ” posts remain in this fuzzy brain? An award, whether earned or not, creates a lot of pressure! Which makes me feel like crap.

Funny thing—I’m really tickled to be nominated. Flattered, embarrassed, hopeful about securing more alcohol samples and about writing in general. This week has brought wine, art, and encouragement.

As for feeling like crap? I hope it’s the hangover talking.

So here goes…my 6 nominations:

A Bolg 

The Waiting  

Hyperactive Inefficiency 

YoYo-Dyne Propulsion Systems: RenoDivision  

Oh God, My Wife Is German  

Awkward Eldon 

Okay, now 10 pseudofacts, because I’m not sure if you can all handle the truth.

  1. My typist grew up in a household where there was alcoholism.
  2. Neither of my parents qualifies as an alcoholic. They actually don’t drink excessively, which makes it difficult to score booze around here.
  3. If someone offered me psychedelics, I would take them. But nobody’s offering.
  4. Sometimes I feel…I’m not like other bears. I live in a house, I watch TV, I enjoy martinis. So there’s a disconnect.
  5. I don’t think the government and church have any business in people’s bedrooms.
  6. My biggest fears are the washing machine, earthquakes, fires, cancer, and serial killers.

    Borrowed my friend Scarybear's head

  7. I like Star Trek, especially the original series.
  8. I’m not a real astrologer; I just look like one.
  9. Sometimes I get very sad and find it hard to do anything.
  10. I would do anything—anything—for a laugh. If there weren’t funny things in the world, I wouldn’t want to be here.

Check out the blogs above, as well as The Dissemination of Thought, the source of my nomination. I’m going to shake off my hangover with the rum my mum says is just for cooking.