It was somewhere around this date in October, 11 years ago, when I stopped drinking, but the exact details of that monumental event are fuzzy, and it continues to frustrate me. What’s most frustrating, though, is that I can’t recall the last hour of fun before I decided (or someone decided) I needed not only to clean up, but to fully tear down my life to become a halfway functional human.

A few years ago, I did my best to retrace those steps, but I never got too far; I only remember one stop at the Alligator Lounge, but in the years since I’ve written about it, someone else who witnessed it has disputed those events, too. (They claimed I didn’t drink at all the night I thought was my last blowout night.)

I wanted to rerun this today to commemorate the anniversary of the end of my sad-ass Fuckhead days, which ended rather unceremoniously, but whose death granted me this beautiful rebirth into my current life.

Speaking of my current life: I returned from Jupiter, Fla., Wednesday evening, after a few days of trying to caretake and reconcile with my mother. More on that on Sunday.

Today: Let’s return to this old essay from 2020, but if you’ve read it already and want to skip to the bottom, be sure to watch our new podcast with comedian Nick Thune, a possibly deranged person whose numerous misadventures would have killed many. It’s a good one.

Thanks for your continued support of TSB. Grab a paid subscription if that is possible for you, but if it’s not, email me, and I’ll hook you up. — AJD

Originally published December 29, 2020

I’m trying to remember the last hard liquor I drank. It was probably vodka. Maybe it was whiskey? I also don't remember when that was exactly. August 2015? October?

I don’t remember when I had my last coke hangover, either, but every time I did cocaine, I swore it would be the last time. I don’t remember the last time I took mushrooms or molly or moonrocks or whatever, but it was probably between the summer and early autumn of 2015. But I do remember the last acid trip.

I was on a late-in-life acid kick where I’d do it a couple of times per week because I thought it would help me “stay open” creatively. Then, on a random sticky Wednesday in July of 2015, I was peaking hard just as it had begun to rain. I went outside on my deck to look up because the raindrops looked like diamonds. It got pretty intense out there, so I hurried back inside because I thought it could also be a giant meteor shower or the end of the world. The next day, it rained again, and I still saw diamonds. In a sparsely filled journal, I wrote down a resolution: “No more acid!”

That was the end of that. Good riddance.

The night before I was supposed to leave for rehab, I had five or six beers at the Alligator Lounge in Williamsburg. I picked up a six-pack of Pacifico at a bodega on the way home, which I assumed would be my last one for a long time. I invited a friend over that night to help me pack if I got too drunk. I didn’t drink at all, though. We watched “Magnolia,” and they helped me clean out my fridge. I was told later by that friend that I didn’t drink much at all that night. Maybe that was the last time? Or maybe it was the next night when I believe I had one cold Bud bottle, but I also don’t remember. Maybe it was nothing. Perhaps I stopped drinking days before. The last time I got drunk, though — the last real good time — I have forgotten.

*****

After I got sober, I was determined to become a million times smarter and more spiritualized. I tried to read all the books writers were supposed to have read to be considered real writers. Faulkner, for example. I thought I should read Faulkner. (It’s been several years and I’ve read exactly one page of “Light in August.”)

As far as my spirituality, I didn’t only want to practice the Twelve Steps — I wanted to chase complete enlightenment. I wanted to have principles and integrity and a value system, whatever that was. I wanted everyone to recognize and acknowledge my astounding transformation: “Have you seen, A.J.? Incredible, isn’t it? He’s a completely different man.” Because what’s the point of sobriety if you can't impress everyone who knew you when you used to shit your pants on the way home from the bar?

I read up on some basic Buddhist principles and poked around some meditation centers to take it to the next level, but that felt too LA. I also dug into Stoicism for a bit, which was helpful, especially in my first year. I’d set up for a few hours in a booth at House of Pies, underlining parts of Marcus Aurelius: “The best revenge is to not be like your enemy.” Then I’d order some lousy pie.

I moved on to the Scandinavian concept of Lykke, convinced that their way was the only way to be happy. I could ride a bike everywhere. Introduce myself to the neighbors and pledge my reliability to them. Forest bathing? Works for me.

I was open to all of it, but nothing stuck.

My next attempt at spiritual perfection was through ikigai, the Japanese concept of developing a “reason for being.” If I found something I loved to do, I could lead a peaceful and meaningful existence. Plus, if I drank green tea and tended my garden every day, maybe I would be able to blow out the fire hazard of candles atop my 106th birthday cake.

Ikigai led me to kintsugi, and I was so relieved to find out that cracked or broken things (like me!) could still be beautiful. I accidentally dropped a small green vase I used as a pen holder onto the floor. Instead of throwing the shards away, I bought a kintsugi kit on Amazon and put it back together, cracks and all, with gold-glittered glue. I centered it on my desk like it was a priceless artifact. I was on my way — but I wanted more.

I picked up this book called “A Little Book of Japanese Contentments.” I discovered the phrase “mono no aware,” which is sometimes translated as the “pathos of things” or — my favorite — “the ahhh-ness of things.” Here’s what the book says:

“Mono means ‘thing,’ and aware (pronounced ah-wah-reh) translates to the sensitivity or gentle sadness about the transitory, ephemeral nature of life. It can also mean sensitivity toward things and the nature of life — something that is consciously recognized and accepted with a hint of melancholy or wistfulness.”

Then it got more specific:

“This is another way the Japanese language manages to capture the feelings of nostalgia we all experience. I recently had a conversation with a friend at a dinner party who pointed out that at one point in your childhood, your parent would have picked you up or lifted you onto their shoulders for the last time —and mono no aware perfectly encapsulates the feeling that thought evokes.”

When my children came home that night, I hugged them all so tightly, like we were all trapped inside a cellar waiting for a tornado to pass.

*****

After mono no aware came into my life, I obsessed about all the little things that disappeared each day without me noticing, which seemed like everything.

Our oldest child used to have a very consistent morning routine from the time he was about nine months old until he was almost two. I would get up with him and carry him playfully downstairs into the pre-dawn dark of the family room to watch a classic “Sesame Street” episode. I’d listen to the same playful chatter between puppets and humans, songs about bikes and dump trucks, letters and numbers, and lessons about up and down and loud and soft every morning as I made my coffee. I was sure that we’d share this routine for several more years. He watched it every day, and then ... he just stopped.

We had a “Sesame Street” routine with our second child as well, but she was into the more recent episodes, especially one of their celeb-filled “Alphabet Songs” compilations. She loved it when the (still) Dixie Chicks sang “No Letter Better,” all about the letter B. When I heard the familiar trill of the “Bee ... bee ... beeeeee” harmony, that was my cue to put down my coffee and pick her up. She wanted to get close enough to the TV to point at Natalie Maines’s mouth. Every morning we did that up until the one morning when we did not.

Now, our third child has grown out of diapers. I remember when he barely fit into size N, then he swelled into a size three seemingly overnight, but now he’s fully potty-trained, and we never watch “Sesame Street” at our house anymore. I missed so much even when I was paying close attention.

The bedtime routine changed, too. It was once bath, books, and then bed. For almost an entire year, the book order was “Little Blue Truck Leads the Way,” then “Little Fur Family,” and then a big finish with “My Heart Is Like a Zoo.”

Our oldest memorized most of them, and then one night, it happened—he asked for a new book. I looked at Julieanne, and she looked back at me forlornly. I held the Fur Family book in my hands, waiting for it to disintegrate into ash like all the superheroes did at the end of “Infinity War.”

I think about mono no aware when I rewatch TV shows. I’ll spend some days wondering if I should rewatch the episode of “The Office” where Kevin drops the chili, just in case I never get a chance to do it again. Or should I rewatch the first season of “Friday Night Lights” once more? I need to do it soon, though, before I forget. Before it’s never-again time again.

Sometimes, I’ll be reminded of an album I would constantly listen to as a teenager, and then I'll quickly pull it up on Spotify to give it one final spin to commemorate its service to my life. I recently did this with the White Lion song “Wait.” I listened to it loudly in the kitchen, all while boring Julieanne with how underrated the classically inspired playing of guitarist Vito Bratta was. I didn’t realize until five minutes had passed that she’d left the room.

I Googled Vito Bratta to see if he was dead. He is not, but according to a 2007 interview, he stopped playing with White Lion in 1992 and wanted it to stay that way. “It was time,” he said.

*****

I bring all this mono-no-aware stuff up because I’ll admit I’m wistful that I didn’t give drugs and alcohol the big send-off they deserved. They gave me so many amazing nights — strange adventures in cavernous, damp places with creative weirdos who were successful and exciting enough to make me believe that my life was borderline interesting. Heavy drinking, along with cocaine, gave me sky-high confidence and made me feel less ugly around those people.

Maybe I should have had a formal going-away party for My Old Life and stayed up all night drinking Johnnie Walker Blue and doing lines the size of alligator tails. I’d gather all my late-night S-O-S friends in one place, and we’d jabber about everything and nothing with our dry mouths right up in each other’s sweaty, crazy-eyed faces. Then we’d hug each other like assholes. “I love you, friend!” I’d squeeze tighter and lift them off the ground until we fell on each other. I’d throw an empty bottle off a Lower East Side apartment roof just to hear it smash on the sidewalk.

There was a little fur family

warm as toast

smaller than most

in little fur coats

and they lived in a warm wooden tree.

Sometimes, the most cherished parts of your life need to end before you’re ready to let them go. That’s just how it is.

************************************

TSB PODCAST THIS WEEK: W/ COMEDIAN/ACTOR NICK THUNE

We don’t do many decadent, rock-bottom recaps on the pod but it was unavoidable when we had Nick on the show. I mean, there were new levels of alcoholism I’d never known could actually exist—we’re talking true, lycanthropic depravity. I mean—the man regularly ate and swallowed chewing tobacco.

Like and subscribe, por favor.

ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN