Not for lack of trying.

To an outside observer it would seem that my brothers son (my godson) is actively trying to kill himself. It also seems that if it weren't for bad luck this kid would have no luck at all. His father describes him as, well, an accident waiting to happen.

Most people can look back and recount one traumatic, possibly life-threatening experience from their youth, this kid is on number three.

He is attending college in the capital city, about two hours from home. One night he is making his way home. He is attacked and ends up beaten within an inch of his life. I am sure they said baseball bats were involved.

I believe the very next year, he is out in BC at a party. There is an altercation and somehow he ends up being sliced open by a guy with a machete. I know, you're saying, 'who has a machete in the city'? This kid managed to find the one person who did, and proceeded to piss him off.

Fast forward to the present, he is out partying and falls out of ... wait for it ... a tree and breaks his back. I kid you not, seventh vertebrae. By some miracle he can still move his limbs. (no he is not 12, he is 23)

These are just the incidents that we know of. The ones requiring hospitalization. I am sure there are more that only his friends know about. I would put money on it.

Common denominator? Alcohol. Not a substance that our family tree has a particularly good relationship with. My father was an alcoholic and I would say two of my brothers, if they are not careful, are primed to follow in his footsteps.

They say when you have alcoholism in your family you have to be careful, that it is hereditary. This boy has been very lucky so far, but I worry that his luck will run out.

I am hoping, for his parents sake, that this experience will snap him out of it. That he will realize that maybe, just maybe, he can't handle his liquor. Maybe its time to knock off the booze before he succeeds in actually killing himself.

I spoke to his mother a couple days after all this, he was home. Turns out just a hair line fracture. He will be fine but he has to take it very easy. (ya, I can see that happening)

"He is in pain but on meds, he just has to take it easy for a while."

"Ok, well, tell him I said... (and I pause, feel better? get well soon? what do you say?) tell him I said...KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF!"

Bump? Possibly, but definately not grind.

You know you are old when you start identifying where you are based on what used to be there 10 years ago.

"I'm just passing where the Pink Panther used to be."

or

"Take a right at the old Canadian Tire building."

I don't know why, but I am feeling my age more now. Thirty wasn't such a big deal, neither was 40 really. But that might all just be because I wasn't really around a lot of people younger than me before I started at the Undisclosed Customer Service Center™.

The last few weekends I have been invited out drinking. In my mind I think for a second, 'hey, it might be fun.' Then I really give it some thought, reality hits me and I realize that I am really not interested. The thought of watching a bunch of 20-somethings bump and grind, drinking themselves stupid makes my skin crawl. I would sooner gouge my eyes out with a melon baller.

I am, however, of the age where I could totally get behind a house party. maybe not an 'entire' house party, but what we call in the Maritimes a kitchen party. The difference? I guess a house party implies enough people to fill your house. Whereas a 'kitchen' party is much more intimate. Let me look that up in Wikipedia...Looks like there is nothing on the web, that is curious.

Ok, for those not from around here, a kitchen party is the traditional Atlantic Canadian social gathering. It usually involves someone playing a musical instrument. Definitely guitar and sometimes fiddles, harmonicas or spoons if you are lucky. These types of gatherings are always a blast. There is no bumping and definately no grinding. Unless you count Uncle Bob who has about as much rhythm as a bag of hammers.

I miss the days of the kitchen party. There were no plans, people just showed up (usually at the same kitchen every weekend) and you would sit around, drink and shoot the shit. There was food, so no one got too shit faced. You can still find them, I suppose, if you look hard enough but they are few and far between.

I think I will have to try and look a little harder since I am definately long past my bumping and grinding expiry date.

I just don't have the bone structure for it anymore.

When you get old, there are some things you just have to come to terms with. Gone are the days when you could drink all night and wake up in a chair, grab the nearest beer and start all over. Sooner or later, pot ceases to send you flying and just kicks you in the ass, rendering you unconscious within minutes.

I went to a friends staggette Satruday night. I was not planning on drinking. Mainly because I hate leaving my car anywhere and going through all the bullshit of getting it back the next morning. Anyway, the bride's mother convinced me to have a few. At first I said no but she presented me with a Chocolate Russian. Ok, I was committed.

As long as we were at the house, shootin' the shit on the back deck, it was fun. I had made my decision and I was prepared to get shit-faced. I did not, however, manage to get shit-faced before they decided to take the party on the road and visit the local 'Pick-a-Pig'.

I don't do crowds very well and a crowd of drunken 20-somethings is not something I look forward to.

I made it to just outside the pub. I am sitting in the car watching the patrons pour out of the pub. A group crosses the street, one girl yells back some obscenity to the bouncer and falls flat on her ass. There she was, in all her glory with her skirt jacked up around her waste revealing a very unfortunate choice in undergarments.

At that moment my decision was made. Reality slapped me in the face. "I am definately not drunk enough to go in there."

Guess I will just quietly rage against the dying of the light. Ok, maybe not rage, more like whimper pitifully.