Back then, all of us drank too much. The more in tune with

I remember being vaguely aware that I drank differently from the way other people did. I can’t remember ever turning down a drink, not even once; it would have been like a puppy turning down a proffered treat. Why not? Sure, I’ll have another. Drinking is fun. It feels good.

We went straight out drinking, and I picked up right where I left off. Always the object was to go out and “get wasted.” Though I sometimes had trouble holding my liquor, I was willing to try harder. I felt the key to successful drinking was the same as it is in musicianship—practice, practice, practice.

“I read a good phrase about the passing of time,” he said, kicking a plastic bottle. “What was it?” “It got late, very early.” I laughed, although I wasn’t old enough to fully understand the deadly accuracy and truth of that short phrase.

For thousands of years we have been demanding more than our share of security, prestige, and romance. When we seemed to be succeeding, we drank to dream still greater dreams. When we were frustrated, even in part, we drank for oblivion. Never was there enough of what we thought we wanted.