Dave's Fiction Warehouse

Look, if A-Rod has the stones to admit using performance-enhancing drugs, I guess it's time for me to step up as well. There were times during the late '60s and early '70s when I used certain substances to enhance my performance on the dance floor. For that, A-Rod and I are on the same page: We are "very sorry and deeply regretful." That's a measure of how sincere we are: a guy blowing smoke would only be "very sorry" or "deeply regretful," but not both. Hell, as long as I'm at it, I'll admit using performance-enhancing substances on a number of other occasions. Most involved large parties or talking to attractive girls. Like A-Rod, "I felt like I needed something, a push, without over-investigating what I was taking, to get me to the next level." And so when friends would pass back a bottle of warm Bali Hai, I was only too happy to bogart the damned thing until someone else demanded a swig. What can I say? I was young,...

The New York Times runs a blog called Proof, wherein various contributors hold forth on the meaning of booze in their lives. As you might guess, a fair number of them are alcoholics or the children of alcoholics. Their posts smolder with the pain of a drunken past and austere pride at having taken a better path. I salute them. That can't be easy. In fact, I propose a toast ... I started drinking at 16. Vodka and 7-Up in a paper cup. It tasted like kerosene; in retrospect, maybe it needed a bit more 7-Up. But it made an impression, the magical way acquaintances became friends, mundane thoughts became profound, sophomoric jests became uproarious. I didn't get sick, didn't black out, didn't even have a hangover the next morning. I was a shy person who'd stumbled on to a reliable way of becoming less shy. Imagine if you had a bad case of acne and you could apply something that would make the zits vanish, if only for an evening. That was how I felt. I've been drinki...