Goodbye, Booze World, Goodbye

Ninety days ago, my good friend (who for reasons of anonymity we shall call Michael) descended from another planet where they do not drink alcohol. He had been living there for nine years.

Like many creatures from his planet, Michael is a bisexual woman caught in a man's body. I mention this because this makes him susceptible to both callous and gushy emotions alike, thus rendering him a perfect candidate for his planet's mission. After seeing earthly movies like Sideways, his Superiors had given him a list of things to accomplish on his visit to that far away Planet Booze. Item number one, master wine. Item numbers two through four: 1 Mojito, 1 Cosmo, 1-3 Sangria, and 1 of that Brazilian thing beginning with C which that planet's population was physiologically incapable of pronouncing. But mostly, he concentrated on wine. And indeed, he was pleased with the many variations that wine had to offer: woodsy, fruity, cherry, oaky, hint of this, hint of that. He tried it all, assuming safety, his Superiors having informed him that you do not get drunk on wine. This, in the end, was not true.



Strange things happened. Strange rumors circulated on this planet, which may have borne the girls and boys surrounding Michael's spacecraft as soon as he arrived. And then there were the rumors about the magical powers of this thing called liquor. It allegedly eased comings and goings, made the mundane fun, filling the earthling mortals' painfully blank time with sex and balloon parties and so on. Certain things were said to be possible and only possible when you were on this planet. All of this, in the end, was not true. To be fair, he did find that it was possible not to remember the balloon parties at all, whether they were fun, and why. What was also possible was that you could lose your Metrocard, your ATM card, your favorite jacket, your monocle and an antique umbrella. Not to mention a friend, a lover, and yourself, all in the same mushroom cloud.

Because one thing I can tell you about my friend Michael: he is already whacky and weird and of a strange dynamism common among folks from his planet, and alcohol does not blend well with his green blood. It has nothing to do with babble, sluttiness or sluggishness (all of which exist in spades on his native planet); the juice is just bad for that dude's spirit.

With what may well have been his last earthly hangover, Michael zipped up his space suit and sighed. He was confused about what to say in his Summary Report. I could see that he was excited to get himself on the right path where he could fly straight and high and, well, like normal. Finally, he turned to me and just shrugged goodbye.

I knew what he was thinking. Zoo animals have a hard time in the wild, and often want nothing more than to run back to the safety of captivity and calm discipline. Being a wild animal is hard on the soul. And as we all know from watching Extraterrestrials in the movies, non-earthlings are much the same as hobbling, starved Pandas. Best send them back to where they came from.

Ninety days was enough for Michael. And while I cannot say with certainty that he won’t visit for a day here, a day there, I sure hope he finds his umbrella and all the spiritual lattes and junk food he needs.

Bon chance, Michael, bon chance!