“Sometimes I wish I’d went through
those good times stone cold sober so I could remember
everything,” he said, “but then again,
if I had been sober the times probably wouldn’t
have been worth remembering.” —F.
Scott Fitzgerald
Six months after the fact, I am now finally prepared
to talk about the First Annual Modern Drunkard Convention.
Rest assured this delay was not due to any feelings
of guilt or shame, but rather a lack of memories.
Fortunately, photos, press reports and video footage
have more than served to jog my memory, so let’s
dig it all up, shall we?
I remember a great deal of trepidation on the
part of the Stardust Casino’s staff when we
arrived. Would there be looting? Would liquor
stocks be pillaged by rampaging drunks? Would a
whiskey-crazed and quite possibly naked drunkard
army rise up and seize control of the casino and
demand an exclusive audience with Wayne Newton?
I told them not to worry, and I was, for the most
part, correct. Bartenders weren’t savaged,
but they were savagely overtipped. Slot machines
weren’t smashed, but the record for the most
money put through a single cash register in the
history of the Stardust was. Naked hooligans didn’t
tear through the casino, but a burlesque troupe
did get mostly naked on stage. Bar tabs and livers
were molested, certainly, but as far as I know,
Wayne Newton escaped completely unscathed.
One
of the few moments I do sort of remember
was the absinthe-fuelled, semi-crazed, fully-slurred
speech I gave at the convention’s conclusion.
The thrust of the ranting, I believe, was to the
effect that this year we united the tribe and next
year we would rise up.
Rest assured I meant every word. The tribe certainly was united
in spirit (and spirits, as it were), and for a beautiful
three days it seemed like we were winning. Our power
multiplied with each round of drinks, and whatever
differences we walked in dissolved into a sea of
hearty comradeship. Though our numbers were drawn
from every possible segment of society, we managed
to forge a powerful union dedicated to a singular
and noble goal: getting utterly loaded.
Which we accomplished quite handily. But that was
last year. This year, as I portended, we’re
going to, yes, rise up.
I remember mentioning at one point in the speech
(in fact, I believe I mentioned it about fifteen
times, just to drive the idea home) that we drunks
are one of the most oppressed majorities in the
history of mankind. I hold that to be true. If you
don’t believe me, go out on a typical weekend
and see who they have set up roadblocks for. Not
terrorists. Not escaped convicts. Us.
With that fully in mind, you may expect that at
the forthcoming convention we drunks will not only
be getting utterly loaded, but also utterly organized.
Drunkard, get ready.
