Why I quit drinking

Today’s posting features:

·         Why I quit drinking – including a Buddhist’s perspective, as revealed by a Christian

·         Laughing at Love is in the Air

·         The Genesis of Guinness

Why I quit drinking

I quit drinking on July 17, 2010. What I hope will become remarkable about that? From that date on, I will drink no more – not ever again, for the rest of eternity.

My roommate got me to thinking about this, even though she’s a Christian and I’m a Buddhist. She asked, “If you’re trying to attain enlightenment, then how can you practice Buddhism while you continue to drink?”

That got me to thinking: There was a time when Shakyamuni Buddha sinned; then after a given point in time, he no longer sinned. His last sin was committed untold trillions of years ago. But I came to be intrigued, wondering how he must have felt having just recently committed his last sin.

It must have been quite something to have committed that last sin, but still having it fresh in mind.  Did that, somehow, count as a sin – that is, if he’d fondly keep it in mind though no longer indulging in it physically? One never truly forgets the things one did, so I suppose the important thing is not to indulge in replaying it as a joyful fantasy.

So I thought I’d give it a shot. I want to experience, first-hand, what it’s like to have the memory of a sin grow dimmer over time, proceeding down the road to Buddhahod.

But is it a sin?

I never considered myself a problem drinker, though my best friend and my father both passed away at the age of 48 due to alcohol. I drank for three reasons: As a social lubricant, to stimulate creativity, and as a connoisseur.

Beer...that was my drink of choice. But not just any beer – by the way, Miller Lite is NOT a beer. Micro brews were favorites, as were imports and specialty brews. Pete’s Wicked Ale, Guinness, Bourbon County Stout, Xingu Black Beer, He Brew (with a name like that, how could I resist?), Cane and Ebel (by Two Brothers Brewing), and Chimay Red Ale were among my favorites.

I won’t pass judgment on whether drinking is a sin, but I make due note that the Buddha didn’t drink. And that’s all I need to know. But before that sank in, the cost bothered me. Off and on, it would bother me that I’d spend $30 per week drinking. And then “off and on” started turning into more “on” than “off.” So I made a personal decision to “on” it forever.

But, in honor of my fellow drinkers out there, I don’t condemn the practice. All I can do is recommend that you be mindful about it. There! How’s that for a venerable Buddhist term?

Laughing at love-is-in-the-air

I want to share a drinking anecdote, to share an upside to this universal indulgence.

I was sitting in one of my favorite watering holes on a warm summer night two years ago. It was early in the evening at the Daily Bar and Grill (Chicago, IL, corner of Wilson and Lincoln), so the usual crush of bodies and din of loud music and conversation had yet to materialize. Frankly, I like it this way: eating my jambalaya in relative peace and quiet. But as grating as the crush and din can be, that too has a place in my heart. But only in small doses.

I had just finished the Sudoku puzzle in my daily newspaper (level 2 out of 4), when I heard this lovely tune pouring out of the plasma monitor above the bar - one of several, as is usually the case at even the lowliest of dives these days. Love is in the air by John Paul Young (late 1970's) was playing as part of a commercial showing night clubbers dancing in front of a neon sign flashing (you guessed it): Love is in the air.

That's when I busted out laughing, just after this thought hit me:

"Of course love (quite literally) is in the air, if taken this way: The light forming the word love on that neon sign travelled from the monitor to my eyes, so from the time that light left the monitor till it reached my eyes, you could say ‘love' was in the air, that is, in the intervening space."

Maybe it doesn't take much to tickle my funny bone or maybe having had my second beer of the night (on top of that very spicy jambalaya) sensitized me. That beer, something called Dogfish Head 90,  has the drinkability of paint thinner. That is, until you get used to it - what is called "an acquired taste," I believe. But I know better that to blame such episodes on beer; I mean, other people drink way more than I do and they weren't seeing what I was seeing.

But I suppose that would make us even: For I wasn't seeing what they were seeing.

On the Genesis of Guinness

Before you read the following story, keep in mind that I have nothing against Guinness. In fact, for a few years, it was my brew of choice. Once I enjoyed three pints while killing a few hours watching a ball game. I was about to pay up and leave when the bar maid slid yet a fourth my way.

I said, “I didn’t order that.” She gestured to a nearby table of about four or five twenty-somethings who were staring at me. One guy got up, walked over, and explained, “You looked like you were enjoying those so much, we wanted to bless you with one more.”

What could I say? What could I do?

I was so full – of beer and Shepherd’s Pie – I doubted I could hold any more. Besides, the room was starting to sway. But I didn’t want to be rude. So I thanked the young man, sat down, raised my glass to my benefactors and … sipped. About 15 minutes later, I’d made only a slight dent in the foamy blackness. I thought: “Maybe I could walk to the men’s room and dump it.”  But since I hate wasting anything, I just toughed it out and (eventually) finished it.

To say the least, the walk home was very interesting. Now, on to my story: The Genesis of Guinness:

Once upon a time there was a farmer who owned a small cottage in the Irish countryside. He collected water which drained from his rainspout into a small wooden bucket. The wood was fairly rotten, though, so it made the water taste woody. Then the farmer got an idea – some say he was moved by mischievous spirits to do what he did next. Which was: He picked up a handful of black top soil and threw it into the bucket. He added another handful of peat moss and a few rusty nails. In one more bit of perverse inspiration, he added a handful of manure.

“Then he let this concoction sit for a couple of days in the hot sun – to age as it were. Then he strained this sewage, so as remove all particulate matter. And then, again moved by mischievous spirits - for no sane man would do what he was about to do - he drank this unlikely brew.

What I’ve just described is pretty close to what Guinness actually tastes like. Wouldn’t you say?

Steven Searle for US President in 2012

“It’s true: To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. It’s also true: Seasons end, giving way to other seasons.”