Sitting at a bar recently I blurted out, I’m glad I’m a happy drunk, which brought out a few chuckles. Lots of times I’ll say something on the spur of the moment, only to realize just a bit later that that wasn’t really what I meant. Sometimes I get a chance to clarify, but usually the conversation rolls on and I leave a strange or puzzling impression.
What I meant was I’m glad I’m not the type of drinker who gets tedious, annoying, abrasive, violent, you know, shit like that.
All of us pub frequenters have come across inebriates who we wish would just go home, or at least back off and shut up. They may be fine when they’re sober, you may like them as people, but you wish they would find somewhere else to display their pitying and embarrassing drunkenness.
But first, going back one step, I really don’t consider myself a drunk. That, as far as I’m concerned, refers to people who drink so much they can barely see straight or stand up or find their way home without assistance. I’m fortunate in a sense that my capacity is limited so that long before I’d otherwise get to the state of being in a blind drunken stupor I’ve barfed my guts out and vowed never to do that again. (I’ve also saved a ton of money in my life by not being able to down more than 6 drinks or so in an evening… but that’s another story.)
There are actually quite a few categories of drinkers: before you even get to the drunks, on the top level you have the alcoholics, people who need to wake up with a beer or two just to start their day.
Some years ago in Portland I was in a convenience store at about 7am. Before me in the check out line was a guy buying an 18 pack of beer. After he left I commented to the clerk that it seemed a bit early for beer. He said the guy came in every morning for his 18 cans of beer. The guy, who was about 40 or 50, had a great smile, he was radiant. Yes his face was red and splotchy, but he seemed relatively together and for sure he looked happy. I think we can all accept that he was slowly killing himself, but what if all that alcohol was the only way he could stand living? Who knows what kinds of demons and hang-ups he was carrying around with him? In the end it’s probably a cop-out of some sort, but who am I to judge?
Our adopted country is very conducive to all types of drinking. It also stimulates a lot of people to complain about and rag on all the old (and not so old) geezers here who have nothing better to do than hang around drinking all day… but if they also are sporting big warm grins and being, or at least looking like they’re happy, is there something wrong with that?
Okay, they’re not being productive, but maybe they did lots of producing in the past. Anyway it’s their lives, if they’re happy, smiling, giving off warmth and good vibes and they have the money to pay for that alcohol what’s the difference? Who cares? Sure, it’s a loss to society in some fashion that the only productive thing they do is look happy and presumably spread their good vibes. It’s also a failing of society that so many people are left to flounder, cast adrift in unfriendly seas, left without a purpose in life; though not knowing him, I can’t really say if he’s not producing. I knew a guy once who worked for an NGO in China. He’d wake up at 3am, work his ass off until about 9am and then spend the rest of the day drinking himself into a stupor.
I believe everybody has a right to their own poison. For sure society should try to educate people on the damage they’re doing to themselves. But the idea that society should tax alcohol so stiffly that only the middle and upper classes can afford to drink is totally unfair. It robs the poor of the ability to escape the grind of daily life or causes them to spend so much of their income on booze they’re forced to neglect the other aspects of life. I also feel that way about cannabis and stuff; life is hard enough, why deny people that little bit of relief they might get from those psychic painkillers?
Most people who imbibe, like myself, are social drinkers rather than alcoholics or drunks, but we are all there for the same basic reason: there’s something about it that loosens you up, overwhelms your inhibitions and just lets you relax and be yourself. The ability to enjoy life through alcohol is greatly facilitated by Cambodia’s relaxed attitude towards the stuff, including very low taxes, and the ease of starting businesses where alcohol is served. Beer is so cheap I can go out almost every night on my scanty income and drink to my physical limit, which is about 6 cans. That allows me to be on the town, hanging with friends, laughing, joking, sometimes being a little silly and sloppy but altogether having a great time.
Back in the states I’d be home alone drinking a couple or three lonely beers a night. Here in Cambo on the one or two nights a week that I force myself to stay home, or am forced to stay home because of the hangover from the night before, I generally don’t drink at all, or at most one beer. Of course I’m bored silly but I don’t need the alcohol to escape, only to enjoy.
But many people do use it to escape, though there’s a fine line between drinking to be happy and doing same to escape. A young guy I know said he’d be hiding out at home being all morose and mopey if he wasn’t drinking. So what’s the difference if it makes you happy or simply allows you to survive as a social being? Just about everybody needs a prop, a crutch, a helping hand to negotiate our crazy world. You know what they say, If you’re not crazy in our insane, topsy-turvy world, there must be something wrong with you.
Some people get their boost to carry through life from religion or causes or such like workaholism, but it’s hard to say if they are more content than the typical happy drunk. They’ll probably live longer, all things being equal, but even there there’s a question, since studies have shown that people who drink moderately – 2 drinks a day – generally live longer than abstainers. That begs the question of whether the moderate drinker lives longer from some type of healthy aspect of the drink itself or merely from the relaxation and ease of tension that comes from drinking. In fact it’s probably a bit of both.
The drunk, happy or not, will probably pop off early brought to their end with some type of liver disease, heart attack, stroke. If they’re lucky their demise will come quickly, otherwise it could mean years of partial paralysis or debilitating illness. So even while it’s one of the elixirs of life, which I personally would find it hard to live without, it carries a serious warning and message; the need to be conscious of it’s dangers and the importance of not sloughing that off as inconsequential.
This reminds me of my youth and people’s warnings about tobacco. Many people are under the impression that tobacco’s evils weren’t known or understood until the seventies or later because of the massive effort of the tobacco companies to obfuscate and sow doubt, but we teens in the fifties called them coffin nails, there was no doubt in any of our minds. When warned about smoking back then I would haughtily proclaim that I wanted to enjoy life then and I didn’t care if I died early as long as I lived to the year 2000, which would’ve made me 59. Well it’s been almost 18 years since then and I’m still going strong and it was immature and stupid to think that way. It’s most important not to fool ourselves, pretend it’s no big deal. The effect it has on our bodies is not inconsequential. Sure, we can joke about hangovers and such, but every time we feel weak, washed out and headachy from drinking to excess it’s like we’re torturing our bodies.
While alcohol brings out the best in some people, it evokes the worst in others. Happy drunks inhabit a serene space that kinda hovers in another dimension. There’s never a nasty word or challenging and testy confrontation. They’re just there beaming away in their own seventh heaven.
On the other hand belligerence, violence, tediousness come from alcohol unleashing those inner demons we keep in check when we are sober and fully conscious. The thing about it is, when inebriates get in that mode, that mood, they often can’t give it up. They keep pushing and needling and are incapable of taking a hint. They can’t be reasoned with but continually repeat what you were not very interested in in the first time. One local character when he can barely see or stand up keeps saying he needs to go home, but can’t bring himself to make the move. They are too far gone to be able to communicate, let alone take a hint. You can’t get through to them that it’s time to call it a night, that they’d save themselves from being an embarrassment and all around nuisance, not to mention danger to themselves.
When you do try to hold a conversation, they’ll repeat their favorite inanities until you’re frustratingly blue in the face. They’re incapable of intelligent conversation. Of course it doesn’t take a drunk or even a drinker to be an obnoxious interrupter, but it does make it decidedly worse when their interruptions are inane or incoherent or repetitive. Sometimes they’re stuck on their theme and not only can’t give it up but actually derive pleasure from seeing how freaked out and unglued you become.
A lot of people look on conversation as a competition. They won’t let you get three words out before they have to put their two cents in. My responses to being cut off correspond to the situation and how upset I am. One thing I’ll do after I’ve been interrupted a few times is to clam up. If they’re so intent on holding a conversation with themselves I just let them talk. After a while I may just ignore them. Sometimes I’ll just continue talking right over their heads, especially if it’s more than a two way conversation. My voice is pretty strong so I’ll just get louder and keep at it and pretend they don’t exist. Eventually many will get the message and shut up for a bit. If they don’t I may lose it and start yelling and tell them to stop interrupting and let someone else speak. I’m not especially proud of that since getting angry always indicates your own inadequacies and problems to solve and I often have to apologize. It’s better to end the sorta conversation than get all bent out of shape.
Without Kampot’s bar scene my life would be ho-hum, hum-drum, average to a fault. Sure Kampot’s a beautiful, peaceful, easy place to live with lots of healthy, happy things to do around town and countryside, but the bars make life into a joy. It does get a bit boring at times going out almost every night, but that’s far outweighed by the great and fun times the drinking scene offers. Unfortunately I’m beginning to realize that at my age I can no longer safely, sanely do my 6 beers, because combined with the ever improving weed that I partake of, I’m starting to lose my equilibrium, even staggering sometimes. That’s even with diluting my beer with ice… I drink at the same pace whether it’s straight or watered down and one dollar beers aren’t any great shakes anyway. Watering down my beer means I have to wake up almost every hour at night to pee, but that’s the breaks. I’m going to have to start substituting non-alcoholics because I want to keep up this life as long as I can, it’s the perfect coda to a long, and oftentimes in the past, difficult life.
Moto Mayhem III.
The third annual Daelim and other small bike drag races were held on Saturday December 16. It was supposed to be held in November at Kampot’s Olympic stadium but the authorities kept dragging their feet with the permit. Steve spent $70 in $10 dollar each paperwork fees only to be continually put off. Sure it’s okay, they’d say, we just have to wait on the Bong Tum – big man. This was probably because there were renovations happening on the grandstand.
As an alternative, they were offered Kampot’s other Olympic stadium, which neither I nor anyone I know had ever heard of before… and I’ve been here ten years. (Why do they have to label every large sports facility Olympic? As if, huh?) It was passable as a venue, but nowhere near as good as the one in town. In the first place it’s 5.5 kilometers from town which limited the spectators to half the previous year. And then the track was grass, not preferred for racing, and so participants were also reduced by half. Nonetheless, it was great fun for those who attended, and is sure to be an annual event. As a friend pointed out, winning time was about equal to Usain Bolt’s record for the 100 meter.
Finally, another untimely death has occurred here in Kampot. Patrick, our Belgian baker died suddenly in his sleep… and only 58-years-old. He was liked by all, though a little tiresome as a drinker – see above. I saw him in the bar just a few hours earlier looking fit and strong so it’s a mystery why he popped off. You can never know, can you?
In a final note, it’s high season and the town is hopping. Lots of new venues which I’ll try to cover next time and lots of tourists and returning snow birds are keeping a lot of places busy.
But it’s damn cold as I write this, 20C – 68F – and I’m wearing two shirts, wishing I had a wool cap and almost ready to wear socks! I prefer to sweat, but a few cool days is a small price to pay for an almost endless summer.