The Drunken Clown Knows No Shame

I love alcohol. No, let me rephrase that, I absolutely and completely adore the happy time elixir known as alcohol in the same way that I would hope to love a puppy one day…or maybe a kid if I got too drunk to take my birth control.

I know that it isn’t popular to embrace this particular vice today especially since television shows like Intervention and Celebrity Rehab portray drug and alcohol abusers as sad saps who sell the family dog for Meth and/or grain alcohol, but damn it, there’s something to be said for substances that make life a bit more interesting and frankly I see nothing wrong with tying a few on at the end of the day and then passing out in a pool of my own vomit.

Now, the question is: Did I start guzzling down that precious liquid out of a pathetic need to numb the emotional pain from some horrific childhood experience that I endured or perhaps to help deaden my soul because I’m a sensitive artiste who cannot deal with the abject poverty and constant rejection of being a writer?



The answer is: No.

The reason that I enjoy funneling a Tall Boy down my gullet so much is because, as an impressionable youth, I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of a drunken English scamp named Dudley Moore and his alcoholic doppelganger called Arthur.




That’s right, because of a 1981 movie starring Mr. Moore and Liza Minnelli, I too have been caught between the moon and New York City many times…I know it’s crazy but it’s true.

Of course, I may not be millionaire with John Gielgud as my personal butler who will wash away the grime on my private parts, but as a drunk I’m lovable and fun just like Arthur…or so I’m told, usually I’m too knackered to remember most of it.

For instance, while some drunkards may get into fist fights with bar stools that got in their way, I merely make-out with strangers and friends while telling off-color jokes about former teen actors circa 1988, or participating in the telling of pornographic lyrics with members of the clergy. Why, there have been times when the inebriated me has gotten on top of a bar and led the entire congregation of Coors appreciators in a rousing rendition of Piano Man at 2 o’clock in the morning during last call.

Oh, the pictorial documentation alone could line the walls of my home like decorative wallpaper. There’s me with a whiskey sour, smiling goofily while friends of mine have looped their arms around my shoulders, me at Club Some in Houston, Texas in 1997 attempting to keep up with the song Around the World by Daft Punk and not spill a drop of my Screwdriver, me getting pulled over by the police and calling the police woman “Sugar Tits”…oh wait, I don’t think that was me.

Regardless, my relationship with booze has always been Arthurian in nature because my impression of liquor has always been influenced by Dudley Moore. Drink and quip, that’s always been my motto.

As a young girl who dreamed of living in a shithole apartment typing out a literary masterpiece filled with witty bon mots while classical music (like Styx and ELO) played in the background, the closest I come to fulfilling that ideal life is when I have had several glasses of wine and are clicking away on a keyboard filling up a blank page with character dialog that I hope is as smart as those from the film.

To this day I begin every new article or writing project with an affirmation taken directly from Arthur: Everyone who drinks is not a poet. Maybe some of us drink because we're not poets. It centers me and reminds me that while I may never be a great writer, I am certainly willing to try. And that my friend is why I drink and embrace my inner Arthur on a thrice weekly basis (at the very least).

Okay so maybe it’s not the healthiest of activities, and maybe, someday, when my liver has given up hope and, out of exasperation, finally committed suicide, I will become sober and annoying like so many of my ilk who have 12-stepped their way to righteousville, but for now I drink and honor Dudley Moore and write and laugh and tell jokes and flirt until I fall into unconsciousness and spend the night blurrily dreaming of Arthur and Liza Minnelli.

These are the lessons I learned from so long ago when a young girl in a flower nightgown sat in a movie theater with her dad and watched the brilliance of a drunk clown infiltrate her little body and made her yearn to be just as funny.

Because being drunk isn’t all that bad really, It’s when the harsh light of sobriety smacks you in the face and you realize that OH MY GOD, Hollywood is remaking your favorite film with Russell Brand as Arthur that you finally understand that the bleary-eyed world that you occupy makes vast more sense than ever.

Now where’s that bottle of Jack?