Pissing names

All this snow -- still on the ground but the university is open today so later I'll put on my boots and tromp to the bus stop -- had Sketch bewildered for a bit but now he goes out to make yellow holes in the snow with the best of dogs. Watching him this morning, I recalled a pleasant memory from some 45 years ago.

As a young man I'd visit Dick in Idaho when he was going to the university there. Moscow, Idaho. When I did this in winter, we'd eventually chain up if necessary and make the trip to Orofino, his old stomping grounds. There we'd park and bar hop on foot, following paths in the snow from bar to bar. Occasionally we'd step off to virgin snow and have a race: who could piss their name in the snow more accurately? Young male buddies get off on this sort of thing, you know.

Damn, some funny things happened on these trips. I recall one time in a bar called the Jet Club, snow outside, hot toddies inside. We were talking with the bartender when an old fellow down the bar slipped off his stool and passed out on the floor. Without missing a beat of conversation, the bartender grabbed a blanket, walked around the bar, and got the old man comfortable. Folks had to step over him on their way to the can. About an hour later, the old guy snaps out of it, climbs back to the bar, and the bartender met him with, "Jake, I'm cutting you off," and phoned him a cab. Such humane treatment of drunks is something you don't see everywhere even then and surely less in our politically correct culture where such things are too horrid to understand.

Sometimes the bartender would be drunk -- they could drink then in Clearwater county. Once the bartender excused himself for a nap, leaving a jar on the bar for the honor system, which everyone obeyed. In those days, a hot toddy -- bourbon, hot water and a cube of sugar, squeeze of lemon -- cost forty cents if I remember. Maybe sixty. Around half a dollar, at any rate, which meant you could put a nice buzz on for a few dollars. Then get in the car and drive the treacherous roads back to Moscow. I didn't know anyone who didn't drink and drive in those days -- not only in the wilds of Idaho but in L.A.! The culture was different then. More responsible and better now? Well, that's a mighty easy conclusion but I think change always involves a trade off and the summation is pretty much the same. Look at all the friends I've had die during treatment for cancer, the cure worse than the disease. This is progress in medicine? To a man, they would have been better off to say, fuck it, and go have fun for a few months. Instead they were damn miserable for a few months. They still died quickly. What was the point of the treatment? Jim, the most recent victim, even considered the option of going to his favorite Puerto Rico and maxing out his credit card in the time left. Instead, miserable, miserable, miserable -- and sayonara.

Back to more pleasant things. I had more good times drinking with Dick than I can count. Of course, I also had horrid times drinking. I did some really stupid and regrettable things under the influence. At my age, I have regrets but I also have great memories of sheer fun, which I wouldn't trade for anything. These memories, the good and bad, are not mutually exclusive. They make up that shifting mosaic called "life."

Writing, pissing, our names in snow in Orofino is one of those fine memories. On to the next bar. Laughing all the way. I'm for whatever gets people laughing. Shared laughter is one of the major benefits of all good friendships.