I don't drink nearly as much as I used to. There was a time where I'd set foot in a bar around five in the evening for a quick cocktail or two to take the edge off the day and find myself sitting in the very same spot when the bartender announced last call some eight hours later. Then, because I was such good friends with the bartender, I'd be shuffled off into the basement as he kicked out the amateurs and be invited back up to the bar for some after-hours fun that lasted until five in the morning. Twelve hours in a bar, drinking through each and every one of them. And that was a Tuesday.
My days, back then, had one hell of an edge.
Every so often, I'll comment on how I miss those days. In spite of all the offerings to the porcelain goddess, wondering where all my money went and the time spent justifying to myself that not only did I not have a problem, but Febreeze was a fine and justifiable alternative to doing the laundry, I still have fond recollections of my fuzzy past.
So then I try to bring my A-game to the local watering hole to show those college kids who think they're the be-all-end-all of imbibification what a pro is. And by seven o'clock I've demonstrated to them that two bourbons on a full stomach is about all I can handle before I have to head home, pop a couple of aspirin, eat a banana and fall asleep watching QVC before I wake up with a hangover the next morning, yet with more than enough time to take a long shower and iron my shirt before work.
There isn't even Febreeze in the house anymore.
The point is that I've learned to be careful what I wish for. Though I won't deny missing the seemingly endless time I spent in those dark smoky places, the truth is that 98% of the time I spend sober these days makes me realize that I'm not in my twenties anymore and the price I paid back then for my immediate enjoyment (and boy, did I enjoy it) just wasn't worth it in the long run.
It's also I lesson I'd like to share with one Aaron Kreel, who recently claimed that he missed me. As flattered as I am, I can't help but feel sorry for the guy. You see, my semi-retirement has come to an end. While Ask Me Later has just been begging to be put out to pasture (but I have as hard a time letting it go as that pair of flight pants I know I'll get some use out of just
one more time), I don't think I'm quite ready to fade away yet.
Welcome to The Dave Casper Experience. I'm not really sure where I'm going to go with this thing. Hell, I'm still not entirely sold on the name. I considered The Nonsensical Rantings and Ravings of David Casper, but remembered that I will occasionally make sense. I flirted with Qualety Control, with "quality" being snarkily (do we still use that word?) mis-spelled because I actually work in quality control and have found that it's very rare to find either quality or control in the field. For a few moments I even thought of going by Voilà, just so someone would for once and for all get that right, but, y'know. Finally, I figured my name is Dave Casper, and, I guess, in some way, this will be an experience.
Makes sense to me.
And that's really all that matters.