SmartReMarxcom

You will be happy to hear that after a week of binge drinking and trying to convince my couch that “I’m a sure thing,” I went on a no-beer policy this week. Except for a couple of brews on Wednesday night, my alcohol-free week was a disaster from beginning to end. Blame the beer. Blame my own piss-poor attitude. Maybe it was male-PMS or the cycle of the moon. Whatever, it got me to thinking, am I a better man after 3 beers?

It started on Sunday night, at the glamorous and filthy TD Banknorth Garden. We went for food and drinks beforehand at a bar called Hurricane O’Reilly’s (artfully described as Irish Pub in the French Quarter.) The food, though, is halfway decent and unlike Beer Works, there is never an hour wait for a table. I was working my way through my second beer when the waitress comes by and plops down another Stella at our table. “This one is on the house. We poured an extra,” she tells me. As I’m the only one drinking beer, it’s clearly on me. And since it’s time to go, it’s clearly on me to pound it.

I stumbled my way into the arena, worried that there wouldn’t be enough time for me to pee twice before the show. Oh, but the worry was unnecessary. We sat sweltering in the arena for 90 minutes before the show started, by which time, I had enough time to piss away all three beers and a string of pearls. The heat, the beers, it all left me feeling a bit queasy…

…which carried over to Monday, which I was full blown sick to my stomach, standing in my kitchen with that dull sheen in my eyes while the world spun me like a top. Thus, I swore myself to a beer-free week and everything promptly went to hell.

Monday, I was sickly. Tuesday, I was pissy. It got to the point that by Wednesday night, beer was mandatory or my friends wouldn’t hang out with me after work. But if I had to pinpoint a particular reason for any of it, I couldn’t do it. I don’t remember Thursday and today, I’m feeling better.

So who is better really, me or 3-beer Andy? And I guess more to the point, would you tell me if the answer was 3-beer Andy?

In my favor:

Can speak intelligently on any number of topics
Can do your taxes
Always prepared with a quip during Project Runway
Safe driver

In his favor:

Will laugh at your jokes
Will laugh at his own jokes
Always prepared with a dirty quip during Project Runway
After about an hour, guaranteed to be slumped across the floor in a state of semi-conscious…

…which is the perfect time to ask for favors, get his opinion on a wide variety of topics of which he knows nothing about and will likely not admit it, or simply poke at him in the elbow until he rolls over.

If I am a overthinker, than assuredly 3-beer Andy is underthinker. One time, I caught him prognosticating the future. Of course, he was excited to realize he had precognitive abilities, as one is delighted to discover a mirror where one appears thinner than one is. Another time, okay it was last week, he was horrified to find a boob resting on the crook of his arm like it had the keys to his apartment and was moving in. Later, I even caught him trying to hump a stanchion.

Believe or not, I know what you’re thinking (yes, I can read minds now too.) Maybe there is room in the world for both of us. Maybe instead of thinking of it like a competition, I should see my life with 3-beer Andy as a peaceful coexistence. Instead of trying to banish him to the outskirts of the kingdom (look how it worked out for Khâlid ibn Ahmad adh-Dhuhlî) I should embrace 3-beer Andy as a brother in arms, a sidekick, a wing man, and take him out on the town more often. Who knows what I might learn from him?

Just remember when you call to specify who you’re calling for.

Click on the stars above to rate this article