“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the lord shone round about them, and they were so afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not, for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you this day is born in the City of Bethlehem, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good will toward men'”. That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

— Linus van Pelt

I think I dodged a bullet today.

I’ve been sober for so long that I’ve lost track, something like nineteen years now. I can remember my last drink vividly. I was at an El Torito restaurant with my buddy Mike watching an NFL playoff game — Denver against … somebody. I was coming off a series of serious personal fuckups and crises that all revolved around me and my unhealthy love of alcohol, and I had been entertaining the notion that maybe, just maybe, I should quit drinking.

So Mike and I are watching the game and I’m drinking a Corona and Mike says “Let’s go” and gets up to leave. In a situtation like that, halfway through a beer and heading for the door, my standard practice was to guzzle the rest of the beer, kill it. Leave half a beer behind? What, are you nuts?

This time I just put it down, got up, and walked away. I knew in that moment that that was my last drink. I didn’t think about it, but it wasn’t a snap decision. It was just… time. I just didn’t want it any more.

It’s been something like 19 years since I put that beer down, and it really was my last one. I went the first month on my own, then started going to AA after I had 30 days and went nearly daily and was very active in it for a year or so. But then I started slipping away from the meetings and the people, but I never started up drinking again. I had quit and that was it.

But as time has gone by I’ve started to wonder if I really was an alcoholic or if I was just a 24-year old kid with too much time on his hands and not enough to do. I think there’s a little core deep down inside me that thinks I was making a mountain out of a molehill and that now, as an adult with maturity and self control and blah-blah-blah, I could “drink responsibly.” That I could control it.

Those of you readers who are AA or know the principles, you know how fucked up that is, but also how predictable. AA likes to say that alcoholism is sneaky, that it lies in wait, that it’s always waiting to bite you in the ass, that it makes you think exactly the kind of shit I’ve started thinking. And I’ve known that, but dismissed it. Just like AA says we’ll do.

So today I came face-to-face with it. My boss and I are on the road up here in Vancouver, training at a client site. These people we’re training are very laid back, very fun, and very casual. And as we started winding the training down, one of them made a wine run. And I started thinking.

I’ve been tempted over the years, especially with the kind of thinking I’ve been indulging, but I’ve resisted the urge. I’ve figured that even if I’m not an alcoholic, I’ve gone nearly 20 years without booze, so why start back up again now? Doesn’t the fact that I want to suggest that I “need” to and thus that I’m alcoholic? And I’ve agreed with myself on that — sort of — and said “no.”

But today… Suddenly a glass of white wine sounded really good. I was never much of a wine drinker — beer, vodka tonics, 7&7s, and tequila were my flavors — but I did enjoy a jug of white now and then with my old girlfriend Kelli. And now suddenly a glass of white sounded good. Really fucking good.

So I decided I’d leave it up to chance: I decided if they came back with red, then that was a sign and I’d just say no. But if they came back with white, that left it open to interpretation. And so I turned to WAMCO (the Wise And Mighty Coin Of destiny) and flipped a coin — heads for do it, tails for don’t. And it came up heads.

And I felt my decision had been made, sort of. I was a little excited and anticipatory that, wow, I was going to taste wine again! But I was also a little nervous that I was going to be drinking again. But come on, I was a 24-year old kid who was just out of control. I’m an adult now, I can handle it.

But while half my brain had a nervous little party, the other half was running worst-case scenarios about what would happen if it turned out I really was an alcoholic and ended up totally out of control again. And so I sat there listening to this internal cocaphony while my boss continued training and I totally zoned out of everything but the noise in my head and wasn’t even in the room anymore.

And when the wine-runner got back with both red and white and interrupted my reverie to ask which I wanted, habit or instinct or providence or something took over. And I said “No thanks, I don’t drink” without even thinking about it.

Fuck. That was close.

Obviously, I have some issues to work out. And while “Get to a meeting” is the most obvious piece of advice that some of you are muttering to the screen right now, I know myself well enough to know that I won’t. What I will do, I don’t know. But I know that I won’t be drinking. Today scared me.

I keep hearing the term “natural disaster,” that Hurricane Katrina was one of the worst “natural disasters” in our nation’s history, that the devastation in New Orleans is a “natural disaster.” Yes, this is a disaster, and yes, it is natural, given that water likes to flow downhill and much of New Orleans is below sea level.

But this is not a natural disaster. It is a federal disaster and the blame for it sits squarely on President Bush’s shoulders.

For ten years, the Southeast Louisiana Urban Flood Control Project has been under way, with the Army Corps of Engineers spending $430 million on shoring up levees and building pumping stations. After 2003, federal SELA spending dropped to a trickle. In 2004, Bush proposed spending less than 20% of what was needed for Lake Pontchartrain. The “war” in Iraq, homeland “security,” federal tax cuts — all these things were more important than protecting New Orleans from a “natural disaster.” And now New Orleans is underwater, a federal disaster.

People are dying there. People are starving there. People are trapped there. People are in desperation there. New Orleans is in anarchy. And where is the government? Where is FEMA? Where is any fucking help for these people at all??? We can “rebuild” a country that doesn’t want us there, but we can’t care for our own citizens, we can’t save our own people, we can’t count on our President to do anything more than mouth empty platitudes about how it’s going to be “hard work.”

I am furious and I am disgusted.

If you’ve ever gotten even a smile out of reading these pages, you can pay me back by donating to the Red Cross. Those people in the South need more help than they’re ever going to get from Bush. They need our help. So let’s help them.

I just got finished having a conversation with a guy with a lazy eye and I have no idea what we talked about. My mouth was on conversational autopilot while all my brain-power went to trying to figure out which eye I should be looking at.

I never did pick one, so I spent the whole conversation switching back and forth from one eye to the other. I felt like a friggin’ nystagmus sufferer. The thing is, the guy had to notice all the nervous eye-switching and know that I was trying to act all casual about his lazy eye, only it wasn’t casual because I couldn’t figure out which eye to look at, which was just calling even more attention to the lazy eye that I was trying not to call attention to, which made me even more uncomfortable and made my nystagmus thing even more frantic. Oy.

At first I felt badly about it, but now I’m just mad. At him. He knows he has a lazy eye and knows it’s an issue for the people talking to him — he has to know, he sees the nervous eye-switching all day long. He should be helping us out, not leave us to figure it out on our own.

I think a big tattoo on his cheek would do nicely, something like “Use This One” in big letters with a huge red arrow pointing at the good eye. Or maybe an eye patch. But come on, give us something!

I bought two CDs the other day, both based on nostalgia: HighLights: The Very Best Of Yes by Yes, and One Take Radio Sessions by Mark Knopfler.

I bought the Yes album because I realized I had absolutely no Yes in my music collection and I liked a few of their songs in the 70’s, like Roundabout, and Long Distance Runaround, and … uh … Roundabout. And some other ones I couldn’t remember but I knew they were out there. So I bought it because I knew it would have the other old songs I couldn’t think of and I’d like them and it was a greatest hits album so the rest was bound to be good stuff too and besides what dino rock music collection is complete without some Yes?

Well.

I’m here to tell you that Yes sucked. There are exactly two songs on this CD that I like (I’ll bet you can guess which ones) and the rest of them are unlistenable rambling arrangements of crap. Listening to it now, I am completely baffled as to why Yes was ever popular. Musta been some goooood acid going around back then…

As for the Mark Knopfler CD… Eh, not bad. It’s “live” studio versions of songs from last year’s Shangri La album. I don’t love it but I do like it — pretty much the way I feel about most of Knopfler’s stuff. I just love his voice, so if he’s singing I probably like it. My favorite track off this one is Boom, Like That, a song about Ray Kroc (“that’s kroc with a ‘k’ like ‘crocodile’ but not spelled that way, yeah”) starting McDonald’s. Go figure.

So the verdicts are:

Mark Knopfler: Yes.
Yes: No.

Coming over the radio airwaves even as I type: a Tsunami Warning — here, in Los Angeles.

Uh… Wha-fuck?

Apparently there was an offshore earthquake near Eureka (insert obligatory Eureka! joke here), California up north, prompting the tsunami warning down here. Go figure.

We live a good 15 miles inland behind the Santa Monica mountains, so we’re good here at Casa Atkins even if a monster wave hits. But even on the coast down in Malibu I wouldn’t expect to see the kind of destruction here that we saw last year in Phuket — pretty much everyone here either has their own internal dual silicone flotation system or is banging someone who does.

At the movies this weekend, one of the previews was for RENT. I didn’t know they were making it into a movie, but now that I do I’m there.

I’ve seen it onstage twice. The first time was on Broadway with the original cast, and I loved it. When they took it on the road later and came through L.A., Beth and I went to see it again. I loved it again. For all its flaws, I think it’s a powerful, moving musical.

And I’m obviously not the only one who thinks so. The preview was a montage of scenes from the upcoming movie with the song “Seasons of Love” from the play as the soundtrack, and much of the audience — me and Beth included — was singing along quietly. It made me tear up a little bit.

“Seasons of Love”

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure– measure a year?
In daylights– in sunsets
In midnights– in cups of coffee
In inches– in miles
In laughter– in strife
In–
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love
Seasons of love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a woman or a man?

In truths that she learned
Or times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died

It’s time now– to sing out
Tho’ the story never ends
Let’s celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends
Remember the love
Remember the love
Remember the love
Measure in love

Measure, measure your life in love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love

In diapers–reportcards
In spoke wheels–in speeding tickets
In contracts–dollars
In funerals–in births

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you figure our last year on earth

Tonight is Saturday night. Date Night. Being old, fat and married, you tend to forget about Date Night, but Beth and I ventured out tonight and witnessed the mating dance of the Young Los Angeles Hipster. I had forgotten how awkward that dance was. Oy vey. But seeing all the preening and posturing brought back memories, so I thought I’d share one of my few “Player” dating moments with you.

Setting: Los Angeles, circa late 1980’s. I’m 27-ish, out on a blind date with a co-worker’s daughter.

I had been given all the predictable pre-date propaganda: She has a great personality! She’s really intelligent! She’s funny! She’s really nice! Translation: Dog. But the co-worker also said her daughter was “really cute.” Like, surfer-girl cute. So I calculated: Co-worker isn’t too bad looking herself. Has big boobs. Possible potential for a future mother/daughter three-way thing, which would make a great story even if the daughter did turn out to be a hound. All things added up to “Go,” so I went out with the girl. And knock me over with a feather, she turned out to be hotttttt!!!

But.

Being cute — “like, surfer-girl cute” — was the only thing I’d been told about this girl that was true. As for the rest of it… She did not have a great personality. She was not really intelligent. She was not funny. She was not nice. In fact, she was a vapid, dumb, dull, self-involved, unpleasant little bitch. Cute as she was, I disliked her almost before we had made it from her front door to my car, and things only went downhill from there.

I took her to a comedy club, where I don’t think she laughed once. Between sets she would complain about how dumb the comedians were. She was bored. She wanted another drink. Why did I bring her here? I was having such a lousy time with her that one of the comedians onstage made a joke about me looking miserable — and I was. My date with this girl ranks right up there in my Worst Date top 10.

We were seated right up against the stage, and across from us there were two girls seated on the other side. One of them was pretty cute, and she and I started eyeing each other. Aw yeah, she wanted me, boy! Unfortunately, I was on a date with Attend Me Barbie. But then my date went to the ladies room during an intermission between comics. I had my opening! I sauntered over to the girl across the stage and introd–

Wait. Backstory first. I’ve never been a ladies man. Smooth, confident, witty, urbane, etc — none of these are words one would use to describe me where women are concerned. Lame, no game, tongue-tied, shy, nervous, etc — these are the right words. So the fact that I was even thinking of chatting up one girl while on a date with another was so out of character for me that to this day I still wonder if it really happened. And back then, the fact that I was actually doing it… I think I blacked out. Had an out-of-body experience. Was possessed by Rico Suave. Something.

…so I sauntered over to the girl across the stage and introduced myself. I told her I was on the worst date of my life and the only thing keeping me from stabbing myself in the temple with a broken beer bottle was seeing her smile at me from across the stage. I told her I thought I might be able to make it through the night if I knew I’d be taking her out next week. I told her we didn’t have much time because my date would be back any minute– “Next weekend,” I said. “How about it?”

Holy shit. She went for it.

I made it back to my seat with the new girl’s phone number before my Barbie date got back from the ladies room, and I spent the rest of the night locking eyes with my future date across the stage. I felt like a stud.

Still riding that stud vibe, when I took the Barbie date home I decided to fuck with her. She really was a very, very pretty girl. Blonde, surfer-girl cute fer sure-fer sure, nice tight little body — she was a hottie, no question. And because she was a hottie she was used to being an object of desire. I could tell she was expecting me to make a move when I pulled into her driveway. Why she was expecting that, considering how we had had zero chemistry on the date, I don’t know, but it was clear that she did. So I didn’t. And as the minutes ticked by with me making mindless small talk while I waited for her to get the hell out of my car, it started to be clear that she wanted me to make a move.

So I didn’t. Pointedly. I smiled and laughed and made small talk and watched her get more and more uncomfortable that Oh my God, why isn’t this guy trying to kiss me??? I finally cut it off with, “Well, it’s really late, I should get going…” and smiled as she stammered “Yeah, we’ll have to do it again sometime” and looked puzzled that I was just sitting there waiting for her to get out. I was probably the first guy in this girl’s whole life who didn’t try to kiss her goodnight. She was completely flummoxed by it.

A week later I had my date with the across-the-stage girl. I looked forward to it all week long, remembering her smile and her laugh and how cute she was and what a player I was for getting her number while on a date with another girl. I couldn’t wait to see her again.

But here’s the thing about girls you meet in nightclubs: Nightclubs are dark. Really dark. And women you’ve only caught surreptitious glances of from across smokey stages in poorly-lit nightclubs and only talked to in person for a few hurried minutes while casting nervous glances over your shoulder at the ladies room door, well those women don’t tend to hold up well in the harsh, unflattering glare of a well-lighted room. In fact, they sometimes turn out to be, well, pretty damn fugly.

I’m a shallow guy, I’ll admit it. A girl could have a heart of gold, deep down inside might be the perfect girl for me, might be my soulmate if I look deep into her soul — but if I have to look past a chinful of whiskers that makes her look like a fucking billy goat to see it, well, I’m sorry ladies but I just can’t see that far. I don’t have it in me.

So, yeah, I’m shallow: I got hung up on her goatee. It was silky and blonde and glinted prettily in the afternoon sun and looked downy smooth and well-groomed — but there were hairs! On her chin! All over her chin!

That was it for me. I was out, game over, goodnight Irene. I can’t remember anything about the date except those long, long, long billy goat whiskers on her chinny-chin-chin, but I know it was our one and only date. Our romance was over before it began. Looking back, I’m a little ashamed of myself for being so shallow — but only a little. I mean, come on. Hairs? On your chin? Two words, Goat Girl: Twee. Zers.

Sadly, she’s not the only girl I threw over George Costanza-style for an imagined physical deformity. Ask me sometime about the chick with the Aquaman toes that I only noticed after sleeping with her.

GraceDavis is the rockin’est worst nightmare Dr. Laura ever woke up from screaming. In honor of her birthday today — and in thanks for her major pimpage of Beth’s Avon Breast Cancer Walk — I offer the following haiku:

It’s GraceD’s birthday
Fifty years young today-ay
Blow out the candle!

(Fucking seven syllable line haiku bullshit…)