“Santa Claus is proof that children are more important than truth.” – Friend

Someone explained to me recently their theory about how men speak the truth and woman act in their true nature when drunk. In each case, I deducted, there is a repressed self only allowed to escape with a social lubricant.

It has always perplexed me how a few drinks can split the personality of a calm natured Dr. Jekyll into the devious Mr. Hyde. I’ve witnessed the transformation. A woman spoke with controlled elegance moments before shots of tequila and a truck-stop prostitute soon after. Or the time an inebriated priest threw a wine glass into a bonfire. The changes happened quicker than I imagined it took alcohol to enter the blood stream. It was as if the alcohol was only an excuse to carelessly take ones hands off the wheel and press down the gas.

Did Robert Louis Stevenson reveal the truth that in all of us lies a devil and a saint? If this is true, what does it mean when we say someone can “handle” their booze?

The United States attempted to ban alcohol during World War I, but the reasoning was so tied up in a mix of convoluted interests and the enforcement so relaxed that the end result was an increase in violent crime and an eventual repeal. It is said woman were at the front of the movement of prohibition because of the way alcohol affected the household.

Saudi Arabia and other countries with large muslim populations have banned the sale and consumption of alcohol. Mohammed says of alcohol and gambling in the Koran,”In them is a great sin, and (some) benefit for men, but the sin of them is greater than their benefit.” A thriving black markets fill the gaps.

All Knowing Change,
Your knowing hopes to escape the humbling of ignorance. At your grasp are all the unanswered and unanswerable answered. You will soon prove me wrong in my acceptance of the accepted and complacency to change.
You ask me to change as if the history of humanity is insufficient. Thousands of years you deem irrelevant.
Do you ask the birds to change? If indeed a bird is wooed by your whims and convinced to forfeit flight will its wings grow stiff and unsuited for the winds?
These whims of modernity blow in and out of my conscience startling my calm as a loose screen door in a fall breeze. Its unpredictable slam is jarring.
Your dogma of change assumes virtue in the fashionable. An unquestioning flock is shepherded by its own collective unquestioning movement. A shared memory becomes a cooperative amnesia.