When I wake up in the morning, the face that reflects back to me in the mirror bears a passing resemblance to a fellow I used to know, young Dave Sheridan. Am I confused by the time space continuum that has partially devoured my life or am I merely experiencing a middle age miasma that causes sudden bouts of, “Where the fuck has my life gone?”

If I’ve had a few drinks the night before, I see a fractured reflection of someone I vaguely knew and liked. The drinks and beers are always fun, but the next morning, they produce a fun house of distorted mirrors that increases the amount of depression borne by my slight hangover. A slight hangover, or an Apocalypse Now post-apocalyptic maelstrom of hurt, have nearly the identical results on this late model chassis and electrical system. The pain hurts more, the dehydration is equal to knuckle-headed, self-proclaimed survivalists who fancy a star turn on Naked and Afraid, and the mental hurdles caused by a night of mirth provide me with the verbal dexterity of a suburban mom’s brain pickled on Vicodin.

I used to find drinking provided me with a glimpse into the wild, untamed part of my soul, but now it represents a lovesick letter to a dear old friend. I no longer party, but I savor a few cocktails at a backyard barbecue. I don’t rage, but I now emote. There is no chugging, but I have been known to take a healthy gulp of chilled rose to wash down a cracker swimming under a creamy dollop of goat cheese. A shot is a four-ounce pour at a local brewery, where I will prattle on in complimentary tones about the brewmaster’s use of serrano chilies and Peruvian pears.

I am an experienced drinker. I don’t slur my words. I can walk a straight line. And there is no C.S.I. evidence of vomit stuck to my shoes or sleeves. I am dignified and proper.

In effect, I am washed-up. I can no longer compete at the highest levels. I view shots as Kryptonite that could disturb the fragile Sheridan ecosystem for days. The world does not need another Superfund site with New Jersey roots, and no one has any interest in a whisky-veined face that advertises the dark side of The Most Interesting Man in the World.

 

So, I hide out in suburbia. How wasted can a person get at Wild Wings or some inauthentic Mexican restaurant that serves margaritas more akin to smoothies than ancient agave temples to atavistic Mexican genius? Oh, I can still strike like the Black Mamba, at a barbecue with craft beers piled high in a plastic kiddie pool and covered in glorious, shimmering ice, but those moments are specks of hope on a suburban landscape denuded of gin and juice.