Friday, February 14, 1997
CELEBRATING:
Say ‘I love you’ not with tacky cards but with the gift of
booze
Once again, Valentine’s Day has descended upon our fair city
like some bloodthirsty demon, sucking my will to live. All of
Westwood is seething with the cloying scent of chocolate and roses;
a sea of saccharin pastel cardboard cutouts of cartoon Cupids,
insipid stuffed animals in red bow ties, and boxes upon boxes of
chalky conversation hearts stretches out as far as the eye can see.
Oh, never mind me, that’s just the liquor talking. Whenever
Valentine’s Day rolls around, I head straight for the bottle. If
you are a lush like myself, I hereby give you full permission to
skip ahead to the second half of this article, where I discuss my
perennial alcoholism. I promise you won’t be missing anything.
Like Chaucer’s "Canterbury Tales" (or, for you non-English
majors, like a "Choose your Own Adventure" book), this article
allows you, the reader, to make your own choice, "Blameth net me if
ye chese amis." (or, "Too bad, you have died. Go back to Page One
to start a new adventure.") So, to recap, first half equals
Valentine’s Day, second half equals alcohol. Read one alone or both
together; either way, now would be a good time to get a drink.
If you didn’t skip ahead, this is your last chance. Do it quick,
before my bitter ruminations on Valentine’s Day drive you to imbibe
assorted alcoholic beverages in vast quantities. Okay, too late,
here I go: Is it just me, or is there something inherently wrong
with a society that takes the beautiful concept of "true, romantic
love" and cheapens it with crass commercialization and mass
marketing? Have we completely ceased to see ourselves as unique
individuals? Love is an intensely personal, intimate experience.
So, once a year, as a celebration of this experience, we choose to
express our deepest feelings to our loved ones by buying them
cheap, tacky greeting cards with really bad "poetry" inside Â
"poetry" (if that word can actually be applied to the
cliche-riddled, sentimental schlock that passes for poetry at
Hallmark), "poetry" that someone else wrote, "poetry" that
thousands of other people are receiving on the exact same day all
across the United States.
Accompanying the card, you will find the inevitable flowers and
candy  expensive and impersonal. Look, far be it from me to
give you advice on gift-giving, unless of course you happen to be
buying gifts for me, in which case, please let me offer you advice,
guidance and a detailed list. Just remember: Flowers eventually
wilt and die, but nothing says "I love you" like a jug of
Jagermeister; it’s the gift that keeps on giving.
So, now we come to the topic that really interests me: drinking.
That Valentine’s Day intro was just a sad attempt at being current.
Even as I write this, I can anticipate my editors’ comments:
"Drinking, again? Already? You know, Katherine, maybe if you
developed some outside interests, you would be a more interesting
person, and people might actually read your column." But when I’m
drunk, I think I’m being interesting, and that’s good enough for
me.
Drinking is a sensitive issue, and I want to make it clear that
I understand that. After my first article on alcoholic beverages
came out, some Student Health Advocates wrote a letter to the Bruin
implying that I don’t appreciate the seriousness of drinking. Trust
me, no one is more appreciative of serious drinking than I am.
Sometimes my friends tell me they’re concerned about my "drinking
problem." All I have to say is: It’s not a problem if you don’t
admit it. But even I have limits. ("No, that’s just not possible!"
you exclaim, aghast. "You’re invincible! You have super powers.
You’re a ninja!") Yes, gentle reader, despite the fact that I have
achieved the status of a veritable demigod in the bars around
Westwood, I, Katherine Tom, resident alcoholic of the Daily Bruin,
have been known to cross the line. Every once in a while, I wake up
feeling like hell, and after piecing together the sketchy memories
of a likely embarrassing evening, I realize it’s time for a break.
So I recently took a two-week pledge of sobriety, and I got to see
Westwood from a whole new perspective. For instance, did you know
that Westwood is located right next to a college campus?
On the first night of my pledge, I went to the bars with my
friends Jess and Phung. They refused to believe that I was actually
prepared to spend the evening completely sober. Their utter lack of
faith in my ability to survive even one night without the chemical
aid of alcohol was encouraging. We went to Maloney’s, where I
ordered a Coke. The waitress looked at me incredulously and said,
"Don’t tell me you’re on the wagon!" Friends and strangers alike
were united in their collective disbelief.
During the course of the evening, I was able to witness
firsthand the idiotic behavior of drunken revelers. And let me
assure you: It is not a pretty sight. Instead of making me lose
respect for my drunken self, my brush with sobriety caused me to
lose respect for any people who are actually willing to be seen in
public with a drunk Katherine. I looked around the bar at the
blissful, shiny, inebriated faces and they all seemed to emit a
sort of alcoholic glow  a patented blend of sleazy, easy and
dazed.
There is a special intensity about drinking in college that
makes it hard to determine if one’s behavior can be seen as true
alcoholism. In college, you’ll drink anything to get wasted; you’re
licking glue, chugging bottles of Robutussin … this is considered
normal behavior. College students are drinking on limited budgets,
so no fine wines and casual drinking for us. Alcohol is an
investment, and we’re interested in seeing a large return. Watch
some old people drink; it’s a whole different story. (Incidentally,
being 22, my definition of "old people" is "anyone over 22"). Old
people pace themselves; young people chug. Old people drink in the
afternoons and early evening; young people drink until dawn. And at
the end of the night, guess who’s dancing on the tables? By the
way, don’t you think it would be unfair if someone (hypothetically)
got kicked out of a bar for dancing suggestively? I mean, it’s a
free country, am I right? Don’t you think that person should
receive an official apology from the offending party, and maybe a
couple of free drinks or something?
Anyway, enough about that hypothetical person, let’s talk about
me. See, lately, I’ve noticed that I’ve been bending the rules.
I’ve been freely interpreting those "top 10 signs that you’re an
alcoholic." For instance, I was talking to my friend Kate on the
phone, and I told her to pour herself a drink, so that we could
drink together. Because if you’re talking to your friend on the
phone, and you’re both drinking, you’re not really drinking alone.
I’ll know I have a real problem when I find myself in my apartment
on a Wednesday afternoon, surrounding myself with photographs of
loved ones, drinking a fifth of vodka and talking to myself.
Because it doesn’t really count as drinking alone, as long as you
talk out loud.
After the two weeks passed, I "fell off the wagon and got run
over by the wheel," as my friend Jess would say. I never did figure
out if I had a problem or not, but I hope to spend the next several
years completely trashed so that I’m never again sober enough to
even consider being sober. Like Adam and Eve before the fall, I
want to remain blissfully ignorant of all other states of
consciousness, because I am a drunkard, and alcohol is my Eden. The
truth of the matter is, as much as my friends meant to be
supportive of my decision to spend two weeks in hell, they were
happy to welcome me back to the world of alcohol. And I’m happy to
be back.