The Bottom

It was a lost night in a nameless bar years ago, where my best friend and I finished a third pitcher of Budweiser we didn't need and happily ordered another. Alcoholism being a lobotomy you drink, the both of us became loud, but well-behaved philosophers. Confidently, we solved the world's problems with ridiculous ease, not realizing that the cunning enigma of "two plus two equals four" would have been way beyond our liquefied brains at the time.

But amazingly, in spite of our drunken foolishness, we managed to stumble upon a moment of genuine insight.

"Hey!" my friend shouted at me, "Hey! Y'know what really gets people in serious trouble, huh?"

"Uh--I dunno," I said, wishing my barstool had a seat belt. "What?"

"It's when the stupid bastards don't know the goddamned difference between a good idea and a bad idea, O.K.? F'instance," he said, swallowing a burp (a disgusting sound you don't even want to imagine), "us getting that last pitcher is gonna be a bad idea."

Of course, he was right. My painful, dear-God-I'm-gonna-die headache the next morning was validation of my friend's theory. But then, my friend was right most of the time. I felt lucky to know him. To the outside world, we seemed an odd couple. I was an African-American guy from the South Bronx, he was an Irish ex-Navy officer from New Jersey. Throughout the years we'd helped each other struggling with disasters in our lives like divorce, unemployment, last-minute evictions, and funerals. He took me to my first Grateful Dead concert, I gave him a copy of John Varley's "The Persistent of Vision".

Which meant, being best friends, we trusted each other enough to get drunk together, and that isn't as easy as it sounds. Both of us knew that getting drunk with the wrong people is a bad idea. At the end of an ugly night, you can wind up with more than a hangover. A busted lip, maybe? How about a DWI, vomit on your girlfriend's leather jacket, a tow truck pulling your car out of a ditch, or a night in jail? Not fun.

Because my friend and I weren't rich and famous, when we foolishly staggered into chaos, we were able to stay happily anonymous. But, if you're unlucky and you are rich and famous, that's not a realistic option anymore because there are hordes of hungry paparazzi who look at you, greedily lick their lips, and think "lunch". And the next morning, while the little guys with sledgehammers are loudly pounding inside your head, your agent is yelling at you on the phone because your drunken idiocy has become front page news or a spot on "YouTube".

And there's always a new episode of Boozy, Drugged-Up Celebrities Behaving Badly to watch, isn't there? Hey, there's without any panties looking like hell at 3 o'clock in the morning! Oh, did you hear about Lindsay Lohan showing up late at rehearsal on her latest movie again because she was partying the night before? Wow, Nicole Ritchie got busted for driving on the wrong side of the road while stoned on Vicodin and pot!

O.K., usually I don't cry any tears for phony, empty-headed "superstars" who'll make more money in a day than I'll make for the rest of my life. Mel Gibson, for example, is a grown man who should have known better. Screw him. However, I can't stop wondering if these rich, sad young women have any real friends. Although there were nights in bars when my friend and I enthusiastically played "Dumb and Dumber", I knew that we looked out for each other.

But nobody really seems to give a damn about Britney, Lindsay, and Nicole except as a free ticket to booze, drugs, sex, and parties: "Naw, don't worry 'bout her, she's fine. Hey, gimme another drink--it's on her!"

And "hitting the bottom" as a rehabilitation tool is a bad idea, especially when the bottom is a hole in the ground where the pallbearers are lowering your coffin.

I found out the hard way.

Yeah, I'm still drinking, but I don't drink like it's my job anymore. But my best friend is dead. His bad habits quit him before he quit them. I won't say his drinking killed him, but it didn't help. I miss him.

But at least he got to keep his privacy.

In breaking news, what's next for Britney, Lindsay, and Nicole?

A new song, movie, or television pilot?

Maybe a mug shot?

Or an obituary?