Uncle GoGo

I have spent a lot of effort over the last decade or so deflecting the notion that I am an alcoholic. I can’t count the times I’ve had to explain that modern calculations on alcohol intake MUST be flawed as given my own consumption, I was not an alcoholic, more likely I was dead. In the end I have come to a conclusion that trying to explain your drinking to someone while mostly drunk to someone who is mostly sober is simply a folly.

So, now, I’m not drunk, AND no longer drinking all that much, OR, perhaps, applying current thinking; I AM CURED! - Praise Jesus?

The diseasification of stupid drunkenness by way of the lexicon of alcoholism is really irksome. Really, if I were to classify myself as an alcoholic, a judgment many have laid upon me; then I am by definition diseased and then, am I really responsible? - Doesn’t “disease” inheritently imply that I am not 100% culpable in this condition of mine; that I have some how contracted this condition through some genetic flaw. Even if we were to classify alcoholism as a preventable disease, doesn’t it being a disease render it somewhat, inevitable.

This may have the appearance of yet another preamble to yet another rant on the end of personal responsibility in our culture… and it most certainly could be, but there is another problem in this thinking of alcoholism as a disease. The diseasification of stupid behavior such as drinking too much further skews, not only the idea of personal responsibility; but, also, by allowing us to see drunken idiots as diseased, allows us to classify drunken idiots as victims.

AND here we go again! Our whole notion of victim has been shifted. We’ve already turned over half of our criminals into victims; now we’re adding all of our idiots. Our pool of victims, now already swelled past the breaking point with thieves and vandals from bad neighborhoods; sixteen year old single mothers; fat people and now, alcoholics, no longer has room for the poor unfortunate sod who takes the bullet at the bank robbery gone bad… Absurdly, many of the folks who USED to be victims have been shuttled off to that mind-space reserved for heroes; SADLY those victims that can’t be bent like a pretzel into the hero model have simply been left out in the cold…

I am certainly NO victim, and… I have found it rather easy to stop drinking so much. As a matter of fact, its been quite easy to drink nothing at all. It has been SO easy that I think some people close to me may even be questioning whether I really am an alcoholic at all? - I mean, if little ol’ ME can beat this disease, this affliction that has so tragically taken so many in our society… If this scourge IS this easy to beat; by someone as simple as him; rather than conflict with conclusions, he must not have had the disease at all. [Get your calculators out folks, its time to re-work those figures you measured me against].

Of course, on the other hand… perhaps my swift recovery from this horrible disease places me in the realm of heroes?

…now; truth be told people.

Indeed, by common calculations; I am most certainly, an alcoholic. BUT, as easily as I make that admittance I addimantly REFUSE to classify myself as diseased. My drinking too much to the point were I became habitually drunk was NOT only preventable; it was really just plain old idiotic. Pricking my ass on the spire of the temple of my own stupid mistakes, indeed…

Sorry folks, I hate to disappoint… I have NOT concurred an impossible affliction. I have NOT battled insurmountable odds and defeated my desperate demons. As with all the other bad habits I’ve had over the years and that includes ALL the known bad habits one can easily think of, well, except maybe for, those few known bad habits that require apparatus… like with all my bad habits; I simply found something better to do.

Excuse me if I’ve jumped on your notion that some other friend of yours, suffering a similar affliction has the possibility of an excuse here based on the fact that he is simply suffering a disease. Sorry, in my opinion, its his owned damned fault. AND… quite obviously, at this point…

I need a smoke!

…which of course, is not true.

As far as inner-city baby-gear is concerned, the stroller is item #1 on the list of things to be considered most carefully. I mean, mobility… We don’t have a car; will not own a car in the very near future. This family is on foot; on the subway and in the occasional cab. Eight hundred dollars; amortized over the 4 or 5 years we’ll be carting this kid around is a pittance. We have no problem wiping year old yucky-icky-goo off all the other used, pre-owned, pre-loved baby items we buy for our baby off eBay and Craigslist, but this babies gotta go good…

Sweet ride baby! - Comes with everything shown above, everything you need to convert it from a carriage to a stroller. The big ol’ back wheel make it ideal for tacklin’ the subway stairs. The ‘basket’ detaches in a snap; and weighs about 10lbs. We’ll leave the chassi chained up to the stairs downstairs when we walk up the four flights home; and heck, the kid could probably live in the bassinet and/or seat for the next 4 or 5 years.

It comes with accesories; an undercarriage basket, a couple of different tops and baby coverings… We’ll probably buy the add-on cup holder and travel bag that fits on the handle. I betcha, Robbie, with her years of ’street vending’ experience, will have this puppy customized to the point where a weeks worth of groceries could be strapped, buckled, pinned, glued and/or clipped on in a blink.

So; although we still like the cardboard box solution… Hey, from what we’re told; this COMES in a big ol’ cardboard box. We’ll probably end filling THAT with shredded newspapers and use it as a crib!

NOTE: I’ve been told that this is typical behavior; AND that my interest in the baby strollers will most likely become an obsession. I’ve already found myself contemplating, how I could motorize this machine; make it float, and ultimately, make it fly; in a stable controlled manner, obviously.

The thought struck me the other day; this is a city of magicians. Next time you’re here; simply ask someone for anything; the object of your desire will be in your hands in moments; any object. Every last ‘thing’ known to mankind can be obtained, here in this city; simply by wondering if its available. I have been to other cities; many have their own unique conveniences; many have have a similar treasure trove of all things one could possibly desire… I challenge anyone in a race to obtain, say, a banana, a cup of coffee, a toasted bagel with scallion cream cheese, a pack of smokes, two bottles of wine, a bathroom floor mat and a bottle of beer from your favorite micro brewery. (OK, the bagel’s not fair)

Convenience is definitely a key component to a perfect day.

This morning, a woman got on our train and recited the worn out old story of how she was collecting for her three daughters at home; that she was pregnant and had exhausted all options for assistance. At the next stop, another woman, quite young, and as Robbie pointed out surprising beautiful and relaxed for a woman with two toddlers in tow; another in a stroller and yet another strapped to her chest in a pouch… We all got off at the same stop; I helped her with the stroller and Robbie held the hand of the youngest up the stairs; this city could use a few more escalators.

There is NEVER an open bar stool; our place for Chinese screws up our order somewhere in the one minute and 35 seconds it takes for the delivery guy to get to our door after we hang up the phone… There is nowhere to go pee outdoors anywhere… Every last single radio station in this city appears to be tuned to “All Hip Hop - All the Time”. If you can find a place to eat outdoors; its almost guaranteed your table will be at a 15 degree angle from level. 6 out of 10 people are distracted by their cellphones at any given time, this advances to 9 out of 10 when you reach the checkout counter; 10 out of 10 people working behind the counter are on their cellphones.

…suffering in silence is part of the process; I’ll have a brand new list tomorrow…

The other morning, I walked out of an appointment in a part of the city I don’t normally find myself, I was faced with 6 options to pick up a coffee, banana and the paper to read on the train. I happened into a bodaga and found myself surrounded by a group of Sikhs eating Indian breakfast grub from a huge steam table multicolored with bowls of sweet smellin’ glop… I joined ‘em for a bite; grabbed my banana and coffee; forgot the paper, descended into an empty subway station to the almost cliche sounds of a lone saxophone; found the paper on the train and headed off to the studio with a nice bug smile on my face.

(Hassles/Conveniences) X Surprisingly Wonderful Unexpected Incidents = The Measure of a Perfect Day.

So far…

The one trophy I still just MUST WIN!

I’ve been giving out the 5 second answer to the question of “how much sailing experience do I have” over and over again at the Sailing Club I joined up at, and started sailing at a few weeks back. Somewhat justifiably so, as a new member, my experience, is open to question; and suspicion, as apparently, sailing prowess is something that some people tend to embellish. For the record, and as reference for those new friends at the club who wish to know a bit more about the crew member they may be hosting on this weekends 4:00pm sail; I submit:

The best place one can be is on the plane between the wind and the water. I consider myself to be a proficient if not accomplished sailor. I have been sailing for 35 years now; 35 years ago being the first time I was “officially” tossed the tiller and left to my own devises to “make the boat go” at the age of nine. I was most likely first on a sailboat quite a bit earlier considering that, being on the boat was something my father quite enjoyed.

My father taught himself how to sail when he was around 10 or 11 during the summers he spent at my grandfather’s cottage in Northern Ontario. He caught the bug which subsequently infected his entire family for two generations. This infection will be discussed at greater length later in this submission.

I was enrolled in sailing school at aged 10. I will admit to not really liking it all that much at first; but it did afford me the opportunity to make a few life long friends… The next year I enticed a few non-sailing friends to enroll, which most likely enhanced the likelihood, I’d stick with it. I did stick with it advancing through the CYA Sailing School Program from White Sail, basic to Bronze Sail, advanced and Silver Sail, racing over the next four years. I lived on water from April to October each year; and in the water the months between taking swimming classes in the winter.

Somewhere around my 14th/15th Birthday, I became a CYA certified sailing instructor and did a two year stint as the Junior Instructor at my club. By my 16th Birthday I became the Head Instructor; teaching both kids during the day, and adults in the evenings that weren’t spent racing…

My 16th birthday also allowed that I get a driver’s license; which expanded the schedule from club racing and the odd “parent chaperoned” out of town regattas to a full blown schedule of racing every danged weekend there was a regatta within 300 miles. I had bought a Laser with my previous years earnings; me and my cousin John [who factors in continuously from this point forward] and who was now MY junior instructor would load the Lasers onto the trailer each weekend; sail, drink buckets of under-aged beers, camp out and chase young female sailing schooler gals from club to clubs dotting the Great Lakes, St. Lawrence Waterways from Hamilton to Brockville and on up the Rideu Canal into Ottawa. We spent two glorious summers as notorious sailing bums…

And, we certainly were bums. No fancy get up or gear. We’d arrive in a broken down old Nissan pickup truck, two Lasers on the trailer, one on the roof… A box full of rapidly thawing meat; some cereal and a couple of cases of beer I’d managed to buy primarily as I had already grown to a gangly 6 ft 2 in height; AND the guy at the beer store was friends with my dad… We’d essentially, puke our gear, tent, boats, sweats, wets into a makeshift trailer park-like campsite onto the lawn of some of the toniest Yachting Clubs in Ontario. These days, I’m not proud to say that on the occasion we needed to do a little ‘between’ races driving on Saturday nights… the first year I’d hand off the keys to John, who being 15 the first year round; we figured wasn’t subject to DWI prosecution. It got even better the second year, as although John had gotten his drivers license that fall, he’d had it revoked for, indeed, DWI prior arriving to teach that next year; our logic became, that he couldn’t suffer two DWI prosecutions simultaneously… We weren’t that bright when it came to certain behavior; but eh, it worked out just fine AND we didn’t, thank goodness KILL anyone; we did almost kill ourselves a few times, but eh, what kid didn’t?

Those summers sadly came to a close after the second year; John went off to become Head Instructor at his club; I went off to Toronto. I came back in the summer to teach the first two years, but eventually… I slowly sank into to horrors of the “lean” sailing years. Oh, I’d head home for a Soling Regatta on a borrowed Soling here; a club race on my dads boat there… Its horrible to say this, but I made a point of sailing at least once ONCE!?! each year… [I usually got more than that in, and those Soling regattas where a frikin’ blast; sailing by the seat of my pants, with my father!].

On about 14 years ago; the infection I mentioned earlier surfaced after years of dormancy on the occasion of my father’s 60th Birthday. Over the years at family gatherings, usually spurred on by semi-druken chest pounding by John and I trying to relive our competitive past; we’d challenge each other to a match race… Of course, every one of each of our 12 brothers and sisters, having had been in sailing school; wanted in… And on a hazy hot and muggy hungover drunken Sunday morning, the day after we celebrated my dad’s 60th. The six of us, keen enough to drag ourselves the ten miles to the club, got out sailed three rabbit start races… John, won, my wife at the time built a trophy which we handed out that Thanksgiving, thus starting a family tradition that has seen continuous action since that hot and muggy hungover GREAT day of sailing… There are 50+ names on the trophy; my Dad’s brother’s boys from England, who have the bug are on there as are the various lovers, wives and husbands; and most importantly the names of 10 grandchildren of John and mines fathers and mothers.

Have I mentioned that enjoy sailing; and that this enjoyment comes quite naturally?

Although, racing is a passion. I’d have to admit that anytime spent afloat is: ‘good time spent’. During the lean years; my idea of the perfect vacation was to ’steal’ my dads boat for a week or two, after Labor Day, after all the pleasure boaters finished their summer sailing and left the entire Lake Ontario and St Lawrence to me and my wife, or whatever friend might want to sail these great waters, eat great food in the chilly night air; kick the ice off the hatches in the morning; perk a pot of coffee and head off for another early-fall blustery fresh aired out sail!

Last year I was afforded the opportunity to race ferociously with that fella who factors into my sailing history quite consistently. John has bought himself a Shark, is helping to build out the fleet at his club, which is now home to 10 Sharks; he campaigns the boat from Hamilton to Brockville and on up the Rideu Canal to Ottawa. He chases the hottie-deck-chicks and cougars [in his mind