more New Castle

Another sunny day in Ireland.

I'm on day 4 of an Ireland study abroad trip. We have been in New Castle. This is a little bit of a different trip for me since I've been sober for nearly 10 months. The pub culture is pretty big here but I was just happy to see a lot of NA beer options. The students really didn't drink much either which helps. Last night was a camp in the woods including grilling salmon over a campfire.

Atticus Gets His Grin On (And My Tricycle Tour of Boerne)

So, picture this: me, sporting a stylish pink-toenail-accented cast (Achilles, don't ask), cruising around on a tricycle, and my cat, Atticus, on his way to the cat orthodontist. Yes, you read that right. Apparently, in Texas, feline dental hygiene is a serious business, and the only cat orthodontist in the entire state resides in the charming town of Boerne.

It all started with Atticus's, shall we say, enthusiastic tooth growth. We were initially told he might need to become a "gummy bear" (the official term, apparently, in cat-dentistry circles), meaning a full mouth extraction. I was devastated! Visions of Atticus living a mushy-food-only existence danced in my head. But, the vet assured me, sometimes a gummy bear life is a better life, as it alleviates chronic pain cats are masters at masking.

So, off we went to Boerne! I joked about Atticus wanting Invisalign, but truth be told, we were just hoping he wouldn't need a full set of dentures.

Drop-off day meant a day of Boerne exploration for Kristy and me. First stop: a local coffee shop that also happened to be a gun store. Talk about a culture clash! I ordered a drip coffee, while Kristy pondered the merits of a .38 special. Me, on my pink-toenail-enhanced tricycle, observing this scene? Pure comedy gold.

Coffee Shop

Next, a brewery for lunch (water for me, since I'm off the sauce). Boerne is really a beautiful and quirky town. Then, to the local library, where we devoured every magazine in sight. It was a lovely, laid-back day, all while Atticus was having his tiny chompers scrutinized.

The best news? Atticus only needed two extractions and a little filing! No gummy bear life for him! He's been incredibly cuddly and affectionate since, which I'm taking as a big "thank you" for saving his smile.

I'm so glad we took him. Turns out, a trip to the cat orthodontist, a pink-toenail tricycle adventure, and a gun-store coffee run makes for a pretty memorable day. And more importantly, Atticus's smile is safe!

Resting comfortably 

From Drunk Clown to… Sober? A Nebraska Hangover

"You're not going to change him." - Charles

For decades, alcohol was my co-pilot. It wasn't just something I enjoyed; it was practically woven into the fabric of my identity, especially amongst my closest friends. I was the "funny one," the life of the party. Looking back, I realize I was playing a role: the Drunk Clown. And honestly? I was good at it. I reveled in the laughter, the camaraderie, the feeling of being the center of attention. But beneath the surface, a nagging question lingered: was that all I was?

My recent journey toward sobriety—I have been nearly 5 months alcohol free (144 days but whose counting) – not a drop, to be honest—it started with a stark realization, a post-Nebraska reckoning. The trip itself, a long-planned boys' getaway with my best friends—guys I've known for 18 years—was…well, let's just say it wasn't my finest hour but it was pretty typical. These are my drinking buddies. Our shared history is practically marinated in hops and barley.

Think about it: we've done everything together, from all night running races fueled by pre/during/post race beers to the infamous Beer Mile (don't judge – I’m a champion). We even brewed our own concoctions in a club we hilariously named Ridicule Brewing – where we had lots of 4^th placed beers.  Alcohol was the constant, the glue, the punchline. It was us. It was me.

So, Nebraska was…predictable. I slept in my clothes on a couch every night. I missed dinner the first night because I was passed out drunk. I was the Drunk Clown, performing my usual routine. The laughter was there – I’ll always have a thing for Ms. Pacman, but this time, it felt different. I had had enough.

The trip, although it was a fun escape and I wouldn’t change anything, became a glaring reflection of my relationship with alcohol. It was a bigger part of my life than I wanted to admit. And honestly, I was tired. Tired of the hangovers, the blackouts, the feeling of constantly needing to perform / escape.

The biggest takeaway from Nebraska? It wasn't the camaraderie or the laughter. It was the shame. The realization that I was relying on alcohol to be someone I wasn't, to mask insecurities and avoid real connection.

So, two weeks after the Nebraska trip, I woke up (actually, I had been switching to NA beers several weeks prior to the trip – the summer had been filled with mild debauchery) and decided enough was enough. I was done being the Drunk Clown. I was done with the hangovers and the missed dinners and the feeling of being a caricature of myself.

So, I have up and pulled a Keith. I still have questions. What will future gatherings look like? Will the dynamic shift permanently? Will I still be funny (and more importantly, will I still be myself) without the crutch of alcohol?  I don’t have any plans on dancing with the girls on Frenchman Street. I think this is permanent. 

Since quitting alcohol my blood pressure has returned to normal.  My cholesterol has returned to normal.  My baseline happiness has (mostly) returned to normal.  I remember everything, for better or worse.  My weight has…  well, stayed the same – I still need to drop a few pounds. 

I don’t have all the answers. But I do know this: I’m not the Drunk Clown anymore. I’m something…else. Something more authentic, more present.  I have learned that drinking did not make me more interesting, it made others more interesting.  I’m still pretty darn funny but fewer bodily fluids hit the floor now.

 

The Great Mug Catastrophe: A Tale of Ironman Triumph and Ceramic Tragedy

   Note:  most of this is true but I used CHAT-GPT AI to write this post (slightly edited). 

Chapter 1: The Mug That Defied Gravity

Once upon a time, in the mystical land of Caffeineville, there existed a coffee mug unlike any other. It was forged in the fires of determination, glazed with sweat (and maybe a little bit of spilled coffee), and emblazoned with the triumphant emblem of an Ironman triathlon. This mug had seen things—early mornings, late nights, and more coffee spills than a clumsy octopus at a tea party.

Our hero (that’s me) had acquired this mug back in 2009 after completing the Ironman. For those unfamiliar with the Ironman, it’s basically a test of human endurance that involves swimming, cycling, and running distances that would make a marathon look like a leisurely stroll to the mailbox. But hey, I did it! And as a reward, I got this mug—a tangible reminder of my athletic prowess and my questionable life choices.

Well worn coffee mug.  I searched for a replacement to no avail.

Chapter 2: The Tragic Shatter Heard 'Round the Kitchen

Fast forward 15 years. The mug had become an integral part of my daily routine. Every morning, I’d fill it with the elixir of productivity (a.k.a. coffee) and sip from it like a medieval knight savoring victory wine. It had survived countless dishwasher cycles, accidental drops, and even a close encounter with the cat’s tail. But fate, it seems, had other plans.

One fateful morning, as I reached for the mug, tragedy struck. My hand slipped, and the mug plummeted to the floor. Time slowed down. I watched in horror as it somersaulted through the air, its Ironman logo winking mockingly at me. And then—crash!—it shattered into a million ceramic pieces. I fell to my knees, coffee tears streaming down my face. The mug was gone. My heart was broken. My caffeine supply was in jeopardy.

Chapter 3: Kristy to the Rescue

Enter my wife, Kristy. She found me huddled in the kitchen, mourning the loss of my beloved mug. She patted my shoulder sympathetically and said, “Fear not, my dear. I have a solution.” And with that, she produced a shiny new pint glass adorned with—you guessed it—the Ironman logo. Apparently, she’d been planning this surprise for weeks. She knew how much that old mug meant to me.

I stared at the pint glass, torn between gratitude and skepticism. Could this glass ever replace my faithful mug? Would it hold the same magic? Would it make my Coors Banquet taste like victory and electrolytes? Only time would tell.

Chapter 4: The Pint Glass Chronicles

And so, I began my new beer-drinking era with the Ironman pint glass. It felt different—sleeker, taller, and less prone to tipping over. But could it withstand the rigors of daily use? Would it survive the patio, the garage, and my occasional clumsiness? I christened it “Triathlete’s Chalice” and vowed to treat it with the reverence it deserved.

Days turned into weeks, and the pint glass proved its mettle. It held my Coors like a champion, its logo gleaming proudly. I even caught myself whispering motivational quotes to it: “You can do it, little glass! You’re an Ironman too!” Kristy raised an eyebrow but wisely said nothing.

I hope to use it just as much as the coffee mug.

Epilogue: A New Beginning

So here I am, sipping from my Ironman pint glass as I write this blog post. The old mug may be gone, but its spirit lives on. And who knows? Maybe one day, when I’m old and gray (and still caffeinated), I’ll pass down the Triathlete’s Chalice to my sister's kids. They’ll look at it and say, “Wow, Uncle James, you must have been one heck of an athlete.” And I’ll nod sagely and reply, “Nah, kid. I just really liked my Coors.”

And that, my friends, is the story of how a broken mug led to a pint-sized triumph. So raise your cups (or pint glasses) to life’s little victories, and may your Coors always be cold and your mugs unbreakable. Cheers! 🏊‍♂️🚴‍♂️🏃‍♂️🍺