Bone Dry

Regrettably a few months back I made a passing remark about the concept of beer. More or less an off-handed reference made in such a manner as to give the average reader cause to suspect that I might have at least a nodding acquaintance with the product - if not a certain fondness for what my children used to call "daddy juice," back before they got all smart by watching so much television.

It wasn't one of those jokes that played very well with Mrs. Boneman (not that any of them generally do) but to be fair she had a point - she's never been a drinker and teaches a Sunday School class. I suppose it was a bit reckless of me to just toss the concept out there in a predominantly Mormon community where folks pretty much try to keep information about their beer drinking habits out of the papers.

The following are transcripts of the sobering testimonial taken directly from the civil proceedings resultant of that unfortunate event.

Defendant

If it please the court, your Honor, what are we really talking about here today? A crisp, thirst-quenching beverage as inconsequential as the 3.2 weakness that the fine state of Utah proscribes for it's "Wisdom-Challenged" citizens? I move that this case be dismissed on the basis of insufficient evidence. Your honor these proceedings are causing the defendant to miss the Monday Night Football that has been medically determined as critical to the maintenance of his sanity.

The defendant is willing to concede that, due to recent stressful circumstances, he has been spending more time with his pal Miller than usual. But as he has always maintained he does not have any kind of drinking problem and could easily quit at any time.

The Prosecution

Your honor the prosecution requests permission to enter into records of the court "Exhibit B."

(I'll admit in all my smug, self-assured man-of-moderation defense I was quite unprepared for "Exhibit B." It seems that on the eve of Garbage Night, the prosecution had gone CSI on me and amassed a sizeable and noisy collection of hard evidence that was spilled out before the horrified courtroom like the clatter wheels of hell. It did not look good, and then suddenly it grew dark and the flashing eyes of demonic recyclers danced about the perimeter of the lurid proceedings.)

The Prosecution

If it please the court I'd like to remind the defendant of his eldest daughter's age? "Objection, your Honor," I blurted out in panic, "what possible bearing does this have on the matter at hand?" I snapped back like a savvy barrister. "Objection overruled," came the harsh reply as it occurred to me that the Prosecution indeed had a salient point. You see, years ago I made myself a promise that by the time my daughter was old enough to be baptized - that I'd have myself squared-away with Church in order that I might be more-or-less worthy to wade on into the warm waters of remission wearing my karate jammies with an easy conscience.

Defendant

Alright, Dr. Laura, Judge Judy, Dr. Phil and the rest of you damn killjoys - I'll show you who the master of his domain is. As of right this moment I'm no longer going to drink beer.

Now quitting a bad habit, that's childsplay - years ago I was hanging out with a cousin of mine who was a Copenhagen lipper, but he also happened to be the funniest bastard in the world. I hung out with him a good bit between marriages and he helped me get through it. I'll confess I was foolish enough to adopt that nasty habit for a while (though I was a Skoal man). Since this is a vice that's just patently stupid, giving it up was as easy as dozing-off in church. But drinking beer that's more of a good habit - I liked it. No real downside to it that I could see.

They say old habits die hard - well good habits die after you drive a flaming stake through their heart and drag them behind a truck for 50 miles, then hop out and beat them with a nine iron. Still I'd sworn my oath and I had my pride riding on this one. I figured if Britney Spears can settle down, what the hell, so can the Boneman.

As I stated on the record, I've always maintained that my drinking was just a silly little harmless habit that I could jettison any time I wanted. It's not like I'm a drunk, I just have the odd beer usually around bed time (helps me sleep) or when I'm writing (helps me concentrate.) I really expected it to be no big deal, but let's just say my little self-rehab wasn't exactly what I expected.

I figured all I'd have to do is nothing? As long as I don't go buy any beer - I'll have quit, just like that. How tough can this be? Still I'm not so ignorant that I didn't realize that any time you have to give up something you love, particularly if it carries any sort of addictive baggage, you're gonna go through a few days of PMS (post-Miller syndrome) that's to be expected. And sure enough, away with the beer went my normally warm and genial nature. It was probably about the second morning when I remember my darling daughter asking if I could fix her a bowl of cereal and I swear to God, a voice inside my head actually said "Damn - do you have to eat 'every' day?" Okay - so the Boneman likes the drinkee-poo, a little more than he thinkee doo.

Quitting cold-turkey is a pretty accurate metaphor, because I was every bit as fun to be around as nasty, cold carcass, stinking up the house with my foul moods and quick temper. It was going to be anything but easy, as it turned out. About 3 days in I just announced that if anyone needed me I'd be up in the bedroom curled up in the fetal position rocking with my cheek to my knees like a little girl whose puppy was run over by a cement truck. The Boneman likes the drinkee-poo, a little more than he thinkee doo.

Although I'd turned into a total horses ass, the wife tried to be helpful by suggesting that I try drinking O'Douls. Sure babe that oughtta work, go buy me some of that and while your at it get yourself some Ice Cream and then dump it all out in the sink and just look at the picture on it while you gnaw on the carton. Home rehab requires a certain amount of patience from every member of the household. It's pretty much the equivalent of renting out a room in your home to a rabid badger for a week - you learn to keep your distance. Still my youngest, Zoe, fears nothing and she would just climb on top of me and squeeze until the beast could be reminded exactly why he was putting himself through this trifling little period of suffering that he so clearly deserves.

During the worst of it I even considered renting The Passion of the Christ just so I could watch a video about someone who was having an even worse day than I was. But I thought better of it, I figured it would only backfire. I knew that during the scourging scene I would just wonder which savage blow was the one that might make it possible for my sorry soul to make it back to heaven - if indeed that's really where I came from. I'd probably realize that if it weren't for me, the Savior might have just been offered a donkey ride up the hill, suffering only the torment of a handful of juveniles with pea-shooters. Your mind is not your friend during this sort of experience.

And then there's the dreams. Lordy the dreams. It seems that the part of your subconscious that is very much opposed to this new development holds sway when slumber finally puts you out of your misery. Waterfalls of icy cold brew tumble into paradisiacal pools of effervescent barley-pop. And from the verdant, misty grottos emerge nubile mermaids bearing frosty mugs tipping with the golden elixir. "We love you so much," they entreat, "please do not leave us, what ever will we do without you to partake of the fruits of our love." Jeez, the dreams are no help. I'm sure many of you have had dreams where you win the lottery or stumble upon a duffel bag crammed with great stacks of cash and then you wake up and for a fleeting moment all your problems are over, until the alarm clock insists on reminding you that you're still poor. This happens every night. Beermaids offering themselves to you unconditionally.

Then there's the hospital dream. I think you'll like this one. I'm on my way to the fridge when I keel over like sack of dung. I come-to in the ambulance where a dizzying stir of medics poke and prod in a frenzied attempt to stoke my flagging vital signs. "Look at those carbohydrate levels!" one of them gasps and then a doctor parts the crowd like Moses, takes my wrist for pulse and immediately proclaims, "Outta my way, this man is not getting enough beer! I want 6 units - stat!"

Before you know it I'm laying comfortably in my adjustable bed, a beer IV in both arms and a cupful with a bendy straw to be administered orally. Monday Night Football is just getting under way and the Boneman is on the mend. It goes on, actually - I'm in a Pharmacy where I now get my monthly prescription of beer loaded into my truck on a forklift - with only a 5 dollar co-pay to leave the wallet. Even now I get misty thinking about it.

The dreams are rough, but equally disheartening and unfair are the damn beer commercials you have to endure. Years ago they took cigarette commercials off the air, and right now I'd be all for some tough legislation to get those infernal beer spots banned from the airwaves. It's an uphill battle, drying out.

Anyway, in case you care, I've pretty much made it out of the woods, but I'd be kidding myself to believe that I'm not an alcoholic of one sort or another. I suppose it's always going to be a challenge. But so far so good, so keep a good thought and I'll do my bit by not buying any beer. And as for you my beloved 24 ounce cans of Miller Lite so long - you know I loved ya.