I started this blog with the intention of soaking my personal life in gasoline and setting it ablaze. A crybaby soapbox which would allow for my broken heart to find words to climb on in order to extricate myself out of that deep, dark pit of despair known as love.
The original name of this blog was Drowning the Shallows. Dramatic sounding bullshit, really. My first ever post was a brutally ineffectual take on love and romance; the kind of writing best served with a tranquilizer gun. Shortly after posting it, I deleted my manifesto on the fiction of happy endings and that’s when this blog started making itself up as it went along.
Shortly after that, I changed the name of the blog too. It was a bleary eyed morning trip to the fridge, where my eyes happened upon a magnet my sister had bought for me which read Drinks Well With Others. I thought Drinks Well to be a more hopeful sounding way of harping on alcoholic pursuits and wayward thoughts and jukebox day dreams gone Yard Sale.
Once upon a time, not very long ago at all, I was an accidental blogger. I partnered up on a political blog with nary a Holy Cow in the mix. He was an NRA constitutionalist and I was a born again moderate thanks to Bill Clinton. We figured on marrying the ‘twain into a cohesive stretch of abandon.
Our blog was opinionated and blunt as a Colt magnum. And once we figured out what in the hell we were doing, we added topical and relevant to the mix. We had it all, excepting for readers. It was akin to keeping a private log from an outpost on the North Pole. The lack of a following drove my partner to despair. Me? I happened to dig the solitary involvement of writing something just to write something. It was Zen capture and it was where I learned I could write.
Best way to describe us? Imagine the National Review shagged Slate magazine and they had a zombie baby. It was a psychotic blender with editorials, interviews, current events and breaking news.
I was the writer to his networking point man. And then things started happening and the following went big and everything started feeling like it was going a million miles an hour. I wrote crazily while he worked guests and then we went podcast and then we started planting guest writers whose well being met our sick at just the right street corner. We channeled our creative fury into more and more and over the next nine months we wept mercury. It was a heady and miscreant mess of ambitions, alcohol fueled brainstorming sessions, Marlboro marathons, competing egos and round the clock maintenance of a blog that had gotten bigger than our britches.
And then I met the girl.
She was the biggest mistake of my life, but for a stretch of time it was the kind of crazy that tossed the doubts into layaway. I fell in love with the way she wrote the daylights out of every loose thought, and then I fell in love with the rest of her. To this day, I borrow her hopeless sarcasm for the head on collision otherwise known as life.
Our political blog went the way of the Titanic. We all hitched on to our separate ways, trashing the rear view in our dissolution from a big ass thing gone bust. It’s what happens when you go quicksilver without benefit of seat belts. And it was later on and for different reasons altogether that I walked away from the girl. Ask me if I miss them and I’ll tell it like it is. Depends on the day of the week, and sometimes? It’s even more particular than that.
Drinks is my Bonsai twist on the sometimes plain shitty of people, places and painful things. As far as happy endings go, it’s an oxymoron to which I never understood the fascination. I want to be happy in the right now. I’m not gonna bitch and moan about yesterday because I’ve been there and I’ve done that. It’s a non-refundable endeavor whose undertow pays forward, meanly.
From the here of where I’ve been, I’ve learned to go tenderfoot on the promise of now, respecting its sacred loan of a sexy profit by waving on a drink that’s mine to buy.
Happy is always a chance you take.