Call me Ishmael

Sometimes the only thing for it is get blind drunk and hope things are a little better if or when you eventually come-to.

That's my theory, anyhow.

Fishing would be healthier. Paddling much healthier. A good dinner and long talk with friends probably more efficacious.

Putting nose to grindstone and working, working, working would certainly be more constructive in the long run.

But there's something darkly attractive about just abandoning oneself to grief, to that profound sadness, even if just for a while. Sometimes it's good not to be able to think all that clearly.

I've been browsing the Merchant Marine Web sites again. And the used sailboat listings.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship.

You can call me Ishmael. But, of course, I'm not. I'm just me.