The impossibility of medicating with alcohol

It’s normal (for us anyway) to put away more booze than usual during the holiday season. But a realization dawned on us throughout this last week—that our drinking was a bit more debauched than usual. Naturally we pushed this realization back, rationalizing it as a concern about excessive liquor spending. When Nana and Papa offered to keep the kids on the island for an extra week and we went home without them, we had friends over and drank every drop of alcohol in the house, rationalization was no longer possible. We weren’t just drinking. We were medicating.

Why?

It was a stressful year. Work has been demanding, commuting sucks, and there are always expenses. But these are manageable stressors. Even if you can’t predict a client will renege on a contract or your dishwasher will flood the kitchen, you can predict that this sort of shit happens, and you cope with it.

News items like Sandy Hook are another matter. The massacre threw out our equilibrium—the sense that you can rely on unthinkably horrific things not happening. The idea of sending your children to school every day at 8:30 and collecting them safely at 2:30 felt unshakably secure before December 14.

It’s not that we think a similar event will happen in our neighborhood. In almost no sense is our personal sense of safety compromised by what happened in Connecticut.

And it’s not that we expect something that cold-bloodedly horrific to happen in the US again any time soon. The odds are vanishingly small, the event devastatingly random. Who would think of targeting small children?

It’s that it did happen—anywhere, at all. It’s that nothing in this world can make it not have happened. That 26 families have experienced an inconceivable loss. That nothing can make it right. That nothing can explain it.

It’s the unbearable empathy tied up in thinking about the massacre. Just as it’s difficult to hear a child crying in a playground, it’s orders of magnitude harder to think of a little girl or boy being shot to death. It’s unbearable.

As parents there’s so much to fear already. Parents worry that their children will get injured or abducted, that they’ll get leukemia, that they’ll commit suicide in their teens. Just thinking about them being unhappy is excruciating—but to think of them being gone is incomprehensible. There are so many things parents fear—and the Sandy Hook shooting is one that probably didn’t cross a single mind as they dropped their kids off at school that day.

I’m ashamed to have been wallowing in the grief of these families. I’m ashamed of the sick fascination with which I watched CNN’s coverage, then scoured YouTube for information on the shooter, devouring every item including vids from Second Amendment nutjobs positing that the massacre was a “false flag” event staged by the Obama government to put gun control on the agenda, and conspiracy theorists drawing a tangential “Batman” connection. I’m ashamed of having ingested every morbid fact and messed-up theory I could about the shooting. I thought it would help me purge the dreadful and overwhelming sense of empathy with the families—as though I could ever know what they’re going through.

I can’t sleep at night. Not because of fear—I don’t fear this happening to our family. I just can’t sleep knowing that it happened to other people. I can’t stop wondering what they are feeling, and wishing this whole thing could be undone.

I find myself compulsively playing “Would you rather?” with myself. “Would you rather lose something precious—say, the ability to walk—for the chance to reverse what happened?” “Would you give up all your money to make this not have occurred?

To these fucked-up hypothetical questions I would say—from the safe position of knowing no one will demand I fulfill the promise—I would have to say yes. If, through some bizarre magic, I could choose, I would feel morally compelled. Until, late at night, this question occurs:

“Would you rather give up one of your own children to make this not have happened?”

No.

I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. And no one would expect me to. And that’s what makes the massacre so painful to think about.

 ♦

Apologies, friends—this blog is obviously the wrong venue for obsessing about Sandy Hook. This is a site for booze reviews, and I am surrounded by drained bottles to describe in future posts. But—as it occurred to me suddenly and recently—if anything, this site is about the intersection of alcohol and parenting, and it’s not facile to say those subjects have collided for us lately.

What can a Canadian say about Friday?

After a CNN binge, cuddles with kids who have no idea why they’re suddenly being held extra-tight, and a gamut of complicated feelings following the Connecticut shooting, I thought the best thing I could do for my readers yesterday was shut the fuck up and not post anything.

Most of my readership is American. I live 67 blocks from the Canada-US border. I watch American TV, consume American products, and inhale American politics perhaps more voraciously than Canadian politics…

People often ask why Canadians follow American news so closely and are so openly invested in what goes on south of the border. Plenty of writers have addressed this question much more eloquently and with much more intellectual rigor than this blog ever could. Suffice to say that, culturally, we marinate in the same juices. And while plenty of Canadians (and other western nations) are asking “what the fuck?” about American gun laws, American mental health provisions, and the general economic desperation in which America finds itself, it would be sheer hypocrisy for me as a Canadian to say our nation doesn’t incubate its own complement of psychos who, if as easily weaponized as their US counterparts, would easily achieve the same percentage of horror.

So what the fuck, then?

Leaving aside desensitization and disenfranchisement and alienation for discussion by all the douchebag talking-head psychologists rising to their 15 minutes of fame being interviewed by famous lisping reporters who should retire instead of prodding nine-year-old children for interviews about escaping death, what the fuck is there to say to my friends in the country to the south to which I feel so culturally connected?

I’m sorry.

My first impulse was to say “what the fuck?” about your gun laws and your mental-health legislation and the dominance of the NRA, but what I really need to say to you is I’M SORRY. I’m sorry this awful thing happened. I’m sorry these things continue to happen. I’m sorry so many of your population do not feel protected without weaponry. I’m sorry that weaponry falls into the wrong hands. I’m sorry the NRA is responding to Friday’s tragedy by proposing handgun laws be relaxed so teachers can pack a weapon in class. I’m sorry you will never be able to feel safe dropping your children off at school again.

I finally turned off the news yesterday when I heard the quote from a little boy who had just learned his sister had been killed. “Who will I play with? I don’t have anybody to play with.”

I felt…I couldn’t function in a world where that was a reality. It can’t be like this. Really, it can’t fucking be like this. There must be something we can do to make it not be like this.

What can people from other nations do?

Treasure our friendships with Americans.

Some of the coolest people I know are from the US. We have family in the US. It’s a pleasure to correspond with smart, funny, interesting Americans knowing that we share values of kindness, fairness, honesty, and humor. We’re all fighting the good fight—raising kids to be decent and striving for a good society, trying to be kind to each other and feel safe. We need to show support for that good fight—because it’s hard to feel strong when your most vulnerable citizens are targeted.

Try to understand the problem.

Watching Obama’s speech following the shooting, I had the overwhelming sense that he, too, was thinking What the fuck? How can this keep happening? It’s not a simple problem to shut down, and powerful interests are involved. Obama gets blocked on just about everything he tries to accomplish. The Second Amendment is sacrosanct despite its archaic origins. Not only that—the Second Amendment aligns with all sorts of other polarizing issues. The whole thing is a fucking hornet’s nest.

Express our wishes, no matter how naïve.

I would like to see Obama, having just won a four-year term, say out loud: “The right to bear arms is untenable.” Maybe he can’t, and probably he won’t, but that’s what people from other nations are saying. Paradigm shifts do happen, but sometimes we have to make them happen.

Pressure the US about gun control.

If the world is a village, it’s our job to make our voices heard, even if they are small. Gun violence represents a national emergency in the US. Just this week two potential mass shootings were averted (Indiana and Colorado). How many more bad ideas are smoldering in the minds of heavily armed, mentally disturbed individuals? What does it take to ignite a bad idea such as shooting up an elementary school? One bad day?

Following the 1996 massacre at Dunblane Primary School in Scotland, handgun ownership was banned in the UK. But the discussion can’t even get onto the US table without people screeching about Second Amendment rights. Sorry, my American friends, the Second Amendment is killing you.

For most of the civilized world, curtailing handgun ownership is a no-brainer. How many more children have to die for it to become a no-brainer in the US?

So I’ll sign petitions, I’ll write letters—I will do whatever it takes to poison the idea that carrying or even owning a handgun is normal.

As a Canadian the number one thing I want to express to the US is compassion. We wept watching the news this week.

The number two thing is outrage. The aphorism that “guns don’t kill people, people kill people” is bullshit. People kill people when they have weapons.

I know this space isn’t the place for a long rant about gun control. This blog is intended to be a humorous space, or at least it tries. But I couldn’t think of anything else except: holy shit, America, I want you to be safe.

Connecticut shooting victim names

Apples vs pears…holding your nose to vote (or adding ice)…a hint of corruption…but you have Absolut power…America votes and this bear gets shitfaced watching the election coverage

OMG, my American inebriate friends, I am so excited about your election. I wish I could vote! (Not that bears can vote in Canada.)

All our favorite alcohol purveyors are shamelessly on board with the election…

Two candidates. Who gets your vote?

Original! Original! Pear is just a grab for sweet-toothed underage drinkers!

 

Let your vote be heard. Neat or on the rocks?

This one’s a toughie. For Jim Beam I’m gonna say with ice. Sort of like holding your nose and voting.

 

Vota por Corona. Siempre la elección correcta.
(Vote for Corona. Always the right choice.)

Corona probably doesn’t have any business talking about elections. This marketplace bully with its light mediocrity is so ubiquitous that everyone can remember a party where there was nothing but Corona—even if they “voted” for something else. Kind of like a Mexican election.

 

The future begins with you.

Just remember, if you fill your head full of vodka before you hit the polling station, try not to spoil your ballot! And if they try to prevent you voting because you’re intoxicated, stand your ground, my fellow inebriates. Voting drunk isn’t illegal—just being publicly intoxicated, and they can arrest you after you cast your ballot. Bring your toothbrush!

 

HAPPY VOTING, MY AMERICAN FRIENDS!

One last image on this important day, not of alcohol but of art…

My belated contribution to the recent Horses and Bayonets post third debate meme; a new addition in my continuing (over the course of the past four years) Obama Unicorn series; a painting of a nude Mitt Romney riding on Rafalca the dancing horse and battling President Barack Obama nude on a unicorn                                                                 —artist Dan Lacey