I always thought I would sober up before one of my organs cried “No Mas!” In the very core of my being I knew…I fucking KNEW…that my body was tougher than that cream-puff Roberto Duran when he was getting the embarrassing beat-down of his life at the hands of Sugar Ray Leonard. I mean no disrespect to either Mssr’s Leonard or Duran, but come on, how can you not answer the bell? My body had always answered the bell, apparently, until I had one martini too many (and I mean one…I had one martini) and my gall bladder tapped out. So two weeks ago I head to the ER with uncontrollable vomiting and eight hours later I’m waking up with five small incisions and no gall bladder. I barely knew my gall bladder. One day it was storing bile, the next it had so many stones in it that I expected to see the visage of Keith Richards ripping through my torso like John Hurt in Alien (cf. Spaceballs if you are younger than 35). So I’m recovering now (too many complications to list) and have come to two inalienable conclusions:
1) There is nothing more important in the world than my daughter
2) I have absolutely no desire to drink.
I can’t explain it. Tomorrow I will be dry 3 weeks and I haven’t had the least desire to even sniff a cork. I tried to watch Barfly the other day (I am introducing a friend of mine to the films of Mickey Rourke–the finest actor of our generation) and for the first time in my life that film made absolutely no sense to me. I used to aspire to that role…I few years back I could have devoted my life to playing the role of Henry Chinaski on the dinner-theater circuit. But I just don’t get it any more. I can’t explain it.
So maybe I’m just depressed and rather than drinking I’m doing the anti-drinking thing. Maybe I realized that, fuck, I am mortal. No, I always knew that.