IT'S NOT POSSIBLE FOR A BLOGGER TO WIN VIEWERSHIP OVER A DEATH-DEFYING WIRE-WALKER
BEST OF LUCK TO MR. WALLENDA ON THE NIAGARA FALLS CROSSING
BY THE TIME THIS BLOG IS PUBLISHED, IT WILL BE JUST ABOUT THE TIME NICK WALLENDA COMMENCES HIS WALK ACROSS THE FOAMING CAULDRON OF NIAGARA FALLS. I DON'T KNOW IF THE MAN IS SUPERSTITIOUS AT ALL, BUT I'M WRITING THIS WITH FULL CONFIDENCE HE WILL MAKE THE CROSSING FROM THE UNITED STATES TO CANADA, WITHOUT BEING ATTACKED BY A NESTING FALCON, BLINDED BY THE LIGHT, MESMERIZED BY THE MIST, TRIPPED UP BY HIS HARNESS, OR BLOWN OFF THE HIGH WIRE BY A ROGUE GUST OF WIND. HE'S GOT 200 YEARS OF TRADITION BEHIND HIM, WITH THE AMAZING FLYING WALLENDAS' LEGACY. THERE HAVE BEEN DEATHS AND SERIOUS INJURY WITH THE WALLENDA ACTS, BUT IT'S NOT LIKE THEY HADN'T EXPECTED THE OCCASIONAL WORSE CASE SCENARIO, AS THE BASIC LAW OF AVERAGES. MOST OF US REMEMBER WATCHING AS CARL WALLENDA FELL TO HIS DEATH FROM THE HIGH WIRE, DUE TO HEAVY WIND. THE GREAT WALLENDA PYRAMID ACT, I BELIEVE, SUFFERED A CATASTROPHIC FALL, THAT KILLED TWO AND INJURED ONE OF THE FAMILY'S YOUNG PERMORMERS. BUT THE ACT CONTINUES.
I'VE READ DOZENS OF HISTORIES OF THE DAREDEVILS THAT HAVE TAKEN A SHOT AT GOING OVER THE FALLS AND ACROSS IT, AND THIS IS STILL THE ALLURE OF THE NIAGARA EXPERIENCE, ONCE YOU EMBRACE THE GREATNESS OF NATURE AND ITS FURY. I USED TO VISIT NIAGARA FALLS FREQUENTLY AS A KID, AND I WAS ALWAYS ENAMORED WITH THE DAREDEVILS AND THE WILD DEVICES THEY USED TO CONQUER THE NATURAL WONDER OF THE WORLD. SOME MADE IT. A FEW HAVEN'T. ACTUALLY, AND ONLY RECENTLY, A MAN SURVIVED THE PLUNGE…..EVEN THOUGH HE DIDN'T WANT TO. A FEW OTHERS HAVE LIVED TO TELL ABOUT IT. IT WOULD BE A FRIGHTENING RIDE. HOPEFULLY MR. WALLENDA WON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT THINGS LIKE UNDERTOW, AND ROCKS, AND THE DROWNING THING, BECAUSE HE WILL HAVE PROVEN HIS PROWESS AS A HIGH WIRE ARTIST. A FASCINATING DAREDEVIL TO US!
I DON'T THINK I'M ON NICK'S REGULAR READING LIST, BUT NONE THE LESS, I WISH HIM A SAFE JOURNEY, AND HOPE THE EXPERIENCE IS AS FULFILLING TO HIM, AS IT WILL BE TO THE MILLIONS OF PEOPLE WATCHING THE ADVENTURE UNFOLD, ON SITE, AND TELEVISED AROUND THE WORLD. WE STILL LIKE "THE SPECTACLE" DON'T WE? I'LL BE WATCHING. AND I CERTAINLY WON'T BE UPDATING THIS BLOGSITE, SO I'LL CONGRATULATE HIM IN ADVANCE.
I WAS A GOALIE ONCE UPON A TIME. LIKE THE THESPIAN WHO KNOWS BETTER THAN TO SAY "MACBETH," GOALIES NEVER MENTION SHUTOUT, UNTIL IT IS BECOMES FACT AT THE BUZZER. SAME WITH A BASEBALL "NO HITTER." NO PLAYER IS SUPPOSED TO MENTION THE POTENTIAL OF EITHER. HOPE I HAVEN'T JINXED THE POOR MAN, BY CONGRATULATING HIM BEFORE HE EVEN DOES THE WALK. I THINK I'M FAR MORE SUPERSTITIOUS THAN HE IS.
THE BARGE IS WELL ON ITS WAY TO COMPLETION
JUST A QUICK UPDATE ON THE RESTORATION OF THE BARGE. THE WORK CREW FROM BEAVER CREEK CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION, HAS DONE AN EXCELLENT JOB REPLACING THE ROTTING BOARDS ON THE PLATFORM OF THE BARGE. ONLY A FEW SHORT WEEKS AGO, IT LOOKED LIKE IT HAD BEEN BOMBED. THERE WERE HOLES EVERYWHERE, AND WITH TIME RUNNING OUT BEFORE THE 2012 SEASON, GADS, THE ODDS WERE LOOKING PRETTY ONE SIDED, THAT THE CONCERTS WOULD HAVE TO BE MOVED THIS SEASON. THE TOWN AND BEAVER CREEEK CAME THROUGH FOR BARGE MANAGER FRED SCHULZ, AND HIS CLOSE VOLUNTEERS, ALWAYS HELPING OUT WHERE THEY CAN. SO BEGINNING ON TUESDAY EVENING THIS WEEK, AND CONTINUING UNTIL THE MONDAY AFTER THE FIRST CONCERT, I WILL BE EXAMINING SOME OF THE HISTORY OF THE BARGE, TO GET US READY FOR THE SUMMER SEASON AT GULL LAKE. THE FIRST SUNDAY NIGHT CONCERT, IS COURTESY THE DISTRICT BAND, UNDER THE DIRECTION OF WELL KNOWN CONDUCTOR, NEIL BARLOW. IT MAY BE THE CASE THAT THE BAND DECIDES TO PLAY IN THE ROTARY PAVILION, AS MAY BE THEIR CHOICE, TO ALLOW FOR A FEW MORE UPGRADES TO THE BARGE STAGE. REMEMBER TO BRING AN UMBRELLA AND RAIN COAT, BECAUSE THERE IS NO RAIN-OUT RE-LOCATION THIS YEAR, DUE TO SPACE PROBLEMS AT OTHER VENUES. THE EVENT WILL CONTINUE WITH A MINOR RAIN EVENT. IT WILL BE CANCELLED IF THERE ARE THUNDERSTORMS ASSOCIATED WITH THE INCLEMENT WEATHER. CONCERTS BEING AT 7:30 P.M. ON CONCERT SUNDAYS IN JUNE, JULY AND AUGUST.
"THERE ARE SOCIAL DRINKERS AND THERE ARE CHARMING, WONDERFULLY INSPIRING PLACES TO ENJOY A DRINK OF WINE, A COOL MIXED DRINK, OR A NICE TALL GLASS OF FROSTED ALE. THERE ARE PLACES TO SOCIALIZE, DANCE, LISTEN TO LIVE MUSIC, AND ENJOY ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES. SOMETIMES HOWEVER, EVEN INTERESTING AND HISTORIC PLACES, TAVERNS, BARS, ROADHOUSES AND SPECIAL EVENTS, PLAY HOST, INEVITABLEY, TO THOSE WHO CAN NOT DRINK SENSIBLY, OR WHO DRINK TO ESCAPE OR AVOID SOMETHING UNPLEASANT. FOR MANY YEARS, I WAS IMBEDDED IN THIS CULTURE, FOR WHAT I WHOLE HEARTEDLY BELIEVED, WAS IN THE BEST INTERESTS OF MY JOB, AS A REPORTER ON THE BEAT. IT IS TRUE, MY COLLEAGUES AND I GOT MANY IMPORTANT STORY LEADS, HOLED-UP IN THESE "WATERING-HOLES," WHERE AT LEAST HALF THE PATRONS AT ANY TIME, THOUGHT OF IT AS THEIR HOME AWAY FROM HOME. LIKE THE COP WORKING UNDER COVER TOO LONG, IN A DIFFERENT WAY OF LIFE, GRADUALLY ONE ABSORBS THE LIFESTYLE REGARDLESS OF THE DEFENSES OTHERWISE. WHAT I SAW IN HOTEL BARS WAS A LOT OF CELEBRATION, AND THEN, A LOT OF SUFFERING. WHEN I HEAR YOUNG PEOPLE TODAY, SAY THEY'RE LOOKING FORWARD TO THE WEEKEND, SO THEY CAN GET "WASTED," I'M ALWAYS REMINDED OF MY OWN INTEREST, BACK THEN, TO LOOSEN UP, "AND HAVE A FEW." A FEW MEANT A LOT. I SUFFERED A LOT. I SAW A LOT OF SUFFERING. UNTIL I DECIDED IT WAS NO WAY TO LIVE. THIS ISN'T ANYBODY ELSE'S STORY. IT'S MINE. ALL OUR REPORTERS SURVIVED THOSE YEARS. WENT ON TO HAVE FAMILIES. HOMES. GRADUALLY WE ALL UNDERSTOOD HOW DEEPLY WE HAD IMBEDDED, AND HOW DEEP WE WERE GETTING…..AND HOW SLIPPERY THE SIDES."
"THE LOST WEEKEND" THAT BECAME THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY
THE BOOZE CULTURE THAT INFLUENCED A PROFESSION
I HAVE WATCHED MANY LIVES DESTROYED BY EXCESSIVE DRINKING. CLOSE FRIENDS. NEIGHBORS. FORMER DRINKING BUDDIES.
I HAVE WITNESSED THE MARITAL DISASTERS PLAY-OUT IN FRONT OF ME, AND RELATIONSHIPS I THOUGHT WERE FOR FOREVER, CRUMBLE LIKE THE PETALS OF AN OLD ROSE.
I HAVE KNOWN THE MOST HONEST FOLKS ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH, RESORT TO CRIME TO FUEL THEIR ADDICTION.
I HAVE EXPERIENCED WHAT A RELIANCE ON ALCOHOL CAN DO TO OTHERWISE NORMAL PEOPLE, LEADING GOOD LIVES, WITH EVERYTHING TO LOOK FORWARD TO, AND LOSING IT ALL!
IN MY EARLY YEARS, AS A REPORTER / EDITOR, MY OFFICE WAS EITHER THE ALBION HOTEL, IN BRACEBRIDGE (NOW A PILE OF RUBBLE AT TRACKSIDE), OR THE HOLIDAY HOUSE. IT WAS WHERE US WRITERS HUNG-OUT, TO GET AWAY FROM THE BOREDOM OF THE REAL OFFICE, WHEN WE WORKED FOR THE HERALD-GAZETTE, BACK IN THE 1980'S. IF WE HUNG AROUND THE OFFICE, AFTER THE RIGORS OF MONDAYS AND TUESDAYS GETTING THE WEEKLY PAPER TO BED, WE'D BE RAILROADED INTO ADVERTISING ASSIGNMENTS, OR ATTENDING MEETINGS THAT WERE SO BORING, WE'D EMBARRASS THE PAPER, BY FALLING ASLEEP DURING THE PRESENTATION. SO WE'D GET OUR JOB DONE, PUT OUT A MEATY PAPER, AND THEN HIT THE BAR, WHERE WE GOT A LOT OF OUR BIGGEST STORY TIPS OVER JUGS OF BEER.
BEING A REPORTER, AT LEAST THE WAY WE WANTED TO BE…….LOOKING FOR A BRIGHTER FUTURE BEYOND THE COMMUNITY PRESS, WE KNEW THAT NEWS STORIES GARNERED FROM COMMUNITY ASSOCIATION MEETINGS, AND COVERING SERVICE CLUB SHINDIGS, WERE NOT GOING TO GET US WHAT WE NEEDED……..TO SATISFY OURSELVES THAT WE WERE MOVING FORWARD, AND NOT IN THE REVERSE. WE WERE BIG ENOUGH CELEBRITIES BACK THEN, WITH OUT RISQUE COLUMNS, AND INVESTIGATIVE ARTICLES, THAT "SNOUTS" (AS THEY'RE KNOWN IN ENGLAND), AND "SNITCHES" (DEEP THROATS) HERE AT HOME, WOULD FIND US AT OUR TABLE IN THE ALBION. WE HAD A SUBSTANTIAL NETWORK OF DEEP THROATS AT THAT POINT, AND THE MORE BOOZE WE WERE ABLE TO OFFER AS A REWARD, THE BETTER OUR FRONT PAGES BEGAN TO LOOK. IT'S HARD TO EXPLAIN A BAR CULTURE TO SOMEONE WHO WASN'T THERE, TO EXPERIENCE THE UNFORTUNATE AMBIENCE. UNFORTUNATE MORESO, BECAUSE IT WAS OFTEN SEEN, EVEN BY THE WRITERS-IN-RESIDENCE, AS A PLACE OF LOST SOULS. PATRONS SITTING IN THE DARK, AT CORNER TABLES, HAPPY TO BE ALMOST INVISIBLE, EXCEPT TO THE WAITRESS. THERE WAS ONE WELL KNOWN ALCOHOLIC, WHO WOULD VISIT YOUR TABLE, WHEN YOU LEFT, AND CONSUME (AS IF IT HAD BEEN HIS TABLE ALL ALONG) WHAT EVER DREGS WERE LEFT IN A GLASS OR THE PITCHER THAT HELD THE DRAFT. THE HOTEL WAS KEPT WELL, BUT THE PATRONS WERE LEFT TO THEIR OWN DEVICES. ONE SAD STORY OVERLAPPED THE OTHERS. AS A KID, I HATED WHEN MY DAD DRANK HERE. HE DRANK TOO MUCH AS WELL.
I CAN REMEMBER SITTING IN OUR INFORMAL WRITER'S CIRCLE, WATCHING THE TRAFFIC THROUGH THE SIDE DOOR. IT WAS HEART BREAKING TO WATCH THE KIDS COMING TO PULL THEIR FATHER OR MOTHER FROM THE BAR, CRYING ABOUT BEING HUNGRY AND WANTING TO GO HOME. THEY'D BEEN LEFT IN THE CAR IN THE PARKING LOT. IT WAS LIKE WATCHING THE BUDDHIST MONK IN FLAMES, AND BEING STUNNED, NOT KNOWING WHETHER YOU SHOULD EXTINGUISH THE FLAMES AND SAVE THE VICTIM, OR ALLOW THE SCENE TO UNFOLD. WE FELT MORALLY INCLINED, BUT I NEVER REMEMBER A TIME, WHEN WE STOOD UP TO HELP THOSE CHILDREN, OR SPOUSES, WHO HAD COME TO RESCUE A FAMILY MEMBER FROM THOSE DRUNKEN BINGES. WE OBSERVED. OPINED ABOUT IN OUR COLUMNS.
WE FREQUENTLY USED SOMEONE ELSES MISFORTUNE TO SELL PAPERS. THOUGHT IT WAS DISGUSTING. WE MADE EXCEPTIONS AS IT WAS IN THE LINE OF WORK. BUT AS WE DIDN'T HAVE CHILDREN, OR EVEN SPOUSES AT THAT TIME, WE JUST POURED ANOTHER GLASS, FROM THE JUG OF DRAFT, AND WATCHED IT ALL HAPPEN, AS A PERVERSE ENTERTAINMENT. IT'S WHAT BOOZE DOES TO THE SENSES. MAKES YOU STUPID BEYOND STUPID. WE FOUND THAT CONTRADICTORY "DARK" ENLIGHTENMENT BY IMMERSION, IN THE STALE, DANK ATMOSPHERE, WHERE PROBLEMS WERE SUBTLY, QUIETLY DROWNED, MOMENT BY MOMENT; UNTIL THAT BREAKING POINT, WHEN THE LUSH HAS TO RESORT, LIKE OUR FRIEND, TO SIPPING, WITHOUT ANY DIGNITY, WHAT OTHERS HAVE LEFT BEHIND. IT WAS LIKE SITTING IN BLEACHERS ABOVE A BUSY HIGHWAY, AND WATCHING THE NEXT ACCIDENT UNFOLD. BUT TO GET ONTO THOSE BLEACHERS, FOR A FRONT ROW SEAT, YOU HAD TO BE PART OF THE DRINKING CLUB. THE REASON WE STAYED, AND BECAME PART OF THE WHOLE DAMN BAR SCENE, WAS THAT WE GOT RESULTS. WE GOT STUFF TO WRITE ABOUT, STORIES TO FOLLOW-UP, IMPORTANT LEADS IN CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIONS, AND SAW SPOUSAL ABUSE UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL. I SAW WOMEN HIT MEN, AND MEN HIT WOMEN, AND BOYFRIENDS TOSS DRINKS AT GIRLFRIENDS, AND THEN THE OPPOSITE. WE GOT HIT WITH A LOT OF SPRAY, SITTING IN OUR WRITER'S CIRCLE.
THERE WAS AN AFTERNOON, WHEN THE STRIPPER WAS PERFORMING WITH A BULLWHIP, THAT ALONE, COULD HAVE INSPIRED A NOVEL. I'M SURE F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, MALCOLM LOWRY, JAMES JOYCE, OR ERNEST HEMMINGWAY, WOULD HAVE FOUND SOMETHING INTERESTING ABOUT A NEAR NAKED PERFORMER, A DEFEANING BEAT VIBRATING OUR BEER, WHO WAS SNAPPING A BULLWHIP AROUND A CROWDED BAR-ROOM. SHE TOOK OUT MY FULL GLASS OF ALE, WITH AN ERRANT SNAP, AND WHEN THE WAITRESS REPLACED MY DRINK, THE DANCER ACCIDENTALLY HIT THE SERVER'S TRAY, AND I VERY NEARLY DIED AS A RESULT OF FALLING JUGS OF DRAFT ON MY HEAD. WHAT A WAY TO GO. THE FIGHT THAT CAME NEXT, WAS RIGHT OUT OF A STAGE PLAY, WE HADN'T YET WRITTEN. IT WASN'T THAT THE STRIPPER WAS PURPOSELY TRYING TO INJURE PATRONS AND STAFF. HER HANDLER HAD TOLD HER, THE WHIP WAS GOING TO BE PART OF THE PERFORMANCE. THE MANAGER HAD TO INSIST THE WHIP BE APPLIED TO HERSELF AND NO ONE ELSE. SO SHE DECIDED IT WAS BETTER FOR EVERYONE, TO HIT HER OWN BEHIND WITH THE FOLDED DEVICE, THAN RISK HAVING THE WAITRESS BACK ON STAGE WITH CLENCHED FISTS.
I WAS IN THE SAME HOTEL WHEN DRUNK PATRONS WERE SO SCARED OF BEING OUTED, BY THE COMEDY DUO, THAT THEY JUST PISSED THEIR PANTS. WHEN THE COMEDY PAIRING OF MALTON AND HAMILTON SHOWED UP, THERE WAS A REALLY GOOD CHANCE, THEY WERE GOING TO MAKE FUN OF ANY PATRON WHO WENT TO THE WASHROOM OR GOT UP FOR A BEER…..OR MOVED ABOUT FOR NO REASON IN PARTICULAR. NOW A LOT OF PATRONS, WEREN'T INTERESTED IN SOCIALIZING BEYOND THEIR SMALL GROUP OF CRONIES. SOME WHO HAD JUST LOST THEIR JOBS, THEIR SPOUSES, HOMES AND BUSINESSES, JUST WANTED TO BE LEFT ALONE TO DROWN THEIR SORROWS. WHEN MALTON AND HAMILTON SHOWED UP FOR THE WEEK, THERE WAS NO HIDING. IF YOU DARED TO GET UP DURING THEIR ACT, TO RELIEVE YOURSELF, THEY SET UPON YOU LIKE WOLVES. I BOUGHT A SIGNED COPY OF A MALTON AND HAMILTON RECORD, AT A LOCAL THRIFT SHOP, AND I PLAYED IT FOR ANDREW AND ROBERT. THEY WERE KILLING THEMSELVES LAUGHING AT THEIR GAGS, WHICH WERE RECORDED IN A BAR, PRESUMABLY, VERY MUCH LIKE THE OLD ALBION HOTEL. ROBERT ASKED ME, IF IT WAS EMBARRASSING, TO HAVE THESE TWO JOKERS MAKING FUN OF THE LOCAL DRUNKS. "THEY FORGOT ABOUT IT BY MORNING," I SAID. "THERE WERE A LOT OF COME-BACKS MALTON AND HAMILTON DIDN'T HEAR, AND THREATS I'M GLAD NEVER MANIFESTED." I ALWAYS ENJOYED THEM, BUT THEIR SHOW WAS AIMED AT MAKING FUN OF THE PATRONS. A LOT OF THESE SAME PATRONS FELT LIFE WAS A JOKE, AS THEY WALLOWED IN THE KIND OF SELF-PITY THAT ALWAYS ENDS BADLY. BEING MADE FUN OF, FOR SOME OF THESE UNFORTUNATES, WAS JUST ONE MORE STRAW PILED ON A CAMEL'S ALREADY BROKEN BACK.
WHAT GOOD CAME FROM THIS DEN OF INIQUITY?
The writers' benevolent society, was sitting on a press night, listening to some small musical group playing sad (bad) music, on the hotel's tiny stage, and talking about the week's paper. It hadn't been a particularly exciting paper, and a lot of tips hadn't led to the kind of big scoops that made us anxious for the first copy off the press that morning. Maybe we were a little disappointed in the content of the front page. I don't really remember. Beside us, there were two local real estate agents, playing pool with two burly gents, part of a railway crew, from the CN cluster of rail-residences parked directly across from the hotel. Having been patrons for a number of years, and knowing this to be a rough crew, on a good day, we all started getting a little nervous about the snide comments the real estate agents were making about their competition. We'd seen this kind of stuff unfold before, and for these agents, the night was approaching its peak of excitement. While I wanted to suggest, to one of the agents I knew well, that he should stop making derogatory comments, to the railway crew, I suppose…..like taking a picture of a monk on fire, soon I was going to be writing a story about two real estate agents beaten to a pulp at local tavern. I no sooner thought we should have somehow intervened, if only to save our jug of beer from being knocked-over in a brawl, than I heard the cruel cut of air that a pool cue stirs, when whipped at a hundred miles an hour by a pissed-off railwayman. I will never forget the sound or the way the air hit the back of my ear, and within seconds, tables were knocked over, and we had a tumble of humanity thrust up against us. Whether we wanted to get involved or not, we were in the middle of what could have meant "The Writer's Last Stand at the Albion Hotel." The novel I wanted to write, but never did. Seeing our jug of beer topple over, and being too broke to replace it, we got just mad and involved enough, to stand between the warring parties…..ready to duke it out. There would have been two dead real estate agents, I'll tell you that. But never, ever, take a writer's last drop of beer. The four of us stood like a wall, between the railwaymen and the agents, reasoning that the little bastards weren't worth life imprisonment, these muscle-bound railway lads were likely to get, if we let them break the line. I'm sorry to say this, but we kind of wanted the workers to have a couple of free shots, to these loud-mouths, but we didn't. The game of pool ended, and the railway lads bought us a jug, and so did the agents. We did sort of get involved, I guess, and put out the fire. The rest of the evening was quiet, and we got a buzz from the cheap booze. We didn't get the kind of wild middle and final chapters we'd hoped for. The "good times were had by all" wrap-up, to the near-donnybrook, wouldn't even have made a good "soft feature story" for the newspaper, let alone the verbiage of a complete novel, about hotel blues blood, and spilled booze. But I'm writing about it today. I guess it did serve an observational purpose after all. A sad one.
LOST WEEKENDS
Whenever I watch Ray Milan, in "The Lost Weekend," I feel it is a good reminder of the way I was heading, as both a writer, and an over-consumer of booze. In the movie, Milan is a classic alcoholic, doing anything to quench his thirst. Even pawning his typewriter. Instead of writing the great American novel, as he waxes enthusiastically about, at the bar, he becomes so hopelessly intoxicated, that he passes out before he can write the first line. He tries to pawn the typewriter for just one more drink, and promising he'll come back to reclaim it….when his ship comes it. It does eventually, as so many Hollywood movies end. But the parallels for me, were frightening. I have never been able to write under the influence. I used to come up with amazing story-lines sitting with friends at a bar, but when I arrived home, to write through the evening, I'd only have to crumple it up, in the morning, because it was so bad. The booze boosts your confidence. It becomes fashionable to be a writer, in a dark and sadness filled bar. There are so many characters to copy, so many terrible circumstances to exploit, and many times I got touched by the fire within. From voyeur, to one of the inmates of the scene, that I found so pathetically inspiring, was a short fall……and as they say today, it was a very steep and "slippery slope," into the social burdens of alcoholism. Instead of observing them……I was slowly becoming one of them. It was Suzanne, my new bride, who sensed how deeply consumed I was by this murky world of failing mortality. Even at home, I needed whisky in my morning coffee. I showed up to work many days, smelling like a brewery. My writing was awful. I knew it. Others realized that my outsider's opinion, of being a bar patron, was now an insider's glimpse, and my objectivity was very much compromised. I was writing as a drunkard. If Suzanne hadn't been there for my emotional rescue, I dare say I would have replicated Ray Milan's tragic "Lost Weekend," at its most negative connotation.
I have witnessed tragedy most wouldn't believe, except if it was in a novel they were reading. I've been at accident scenes in this region, knowing the chap with his head through the windshield, was one of the drinkers I had known from all my hotel travels. They didn't know enough to give their car or truck keys to someone else. In the stupor of self-medication and self righteousness, they truly believed driving wasn't going to be a problem. I've known people who suffered immeasurable emotional damage, being involved in accidents that killed drunk drivers. One chap, out on a simple countryside drive, killed two gents who had been drinking, who were on the wrong side of the road on the crest of a hill. "What could he have done to avoid something so inevitable?" I remember covering the story of two kids, in Bracebridge, who had been supplied booze by an adult, getting hit by a car…..both young lives being snuffed out quickly in the glow of the autumn moon. I've seen suicides inspired by booze. Drownings related to over consumption. I can remember one night, watching an old friend of mine, pounding on the window of a car, trying to get his son to come out and talk to him. The son was sober. Father was not. The marriage had broken down years earlier, and the chap had taken to drink as a way of numbing the sense of failure. Passersby intervened, and sent the father on his way down Manitoba Street, wavering in the lamplight until he found a park bench to lay down upon. It was the last time I saw him. He fell into a coma several weeks later, and passed away shortly after.
I see it today, just as I witnessed it then. Just not for me. Suzanne saved my life, and encouraged me to seek out inspiration for writing, from a clearer, unobstructed perspective.
When I see someone else stagger out of a bar, having spent all their rent or food money on booze, I do recall a chap, once, who did exactly the same thing. I had a safety net. These folks don't.
Thanks so much for joining today's blog. Please join me again, won't you. More on the 2012 "Music on the Barge" program coming-up this week. Enjoy your weekend.
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