This is posted by Geezer on Viva as if it was his own work! He changed the name but the article is as printed!
Geezer has again been uncovered as a cheat and a fraud
Dennis Herbert Green 68
Also claims to be dying after having 7 heart surgeries including a bypass. He is a conman and has a criminal record in California for drugs and drug paraphernalia.
The World is better off without this charlatan lets hope he is terminated soon and the devil reclaims his off spring.
Drinks & Debauchery
The San Francisco Sun
By Don Baird
Published: May 10, 2007
Dean Martin played one in the movie “Rio Bravo,” a stinking, fall-down sloppy drunk. He went on to play one on his television show, and you could never be quite sure… Dudley Moore played a happy drunk in “Arthur” and there was lots of sloshing around in Vegas by the Rat Pack. The only time I ever saw Sinatra live, at the Circle Star Theater near the end of his life, he was holding a drink the whole time he was on stage, and commented, “God bless that bartender and his broken arm!”
In chemical dependency treatment circles, they often say, “Drinking is not the problem. Even if the person has one too many. It’s what happens next. If he or she then does something mean, or angry or stupid, THAT’S the problem.”
If you’ve ever been a captive, cringing passenger driven home by someone who is popped and driving like a maniac, taking careless chances with your life and the lives of others, you know what a rolling Death Wish is like. I did that once, driving on the way home from a wild weekend drinking beer at Redway, south of Garberville, on the banks of the South Fork of the Eel River.
I was driving my customized ’52 Ford hardtop, metallic green with bronze “scallops,” like flames, coming off the front, lowered all around, all the chrome scraped off, the header pipes along the bottom of the car doors open and roaring out my disdain. I was driving north on Highway 101 toward Eureka when it was still two-lane blacktop going through the “Avenue of the Giants,” those huge redwoods standing right on the edge of the roadway.
I was driving much too fast, passing other cars on curves and just generally being an idiot. I had three passengers, other boys my age, 18, in the car and when we got to Garberville, the two in the back seat asked to be let out. They were the smart ones. I made it home safely that day, by the grace of God, but when I sobered up, I swore I would never get behind the wheel again unless I could walk the line.
As that satire goes, “I paid the fine/couldn’t walk the line.”
I don’t get drunk anymore, not even close. Not since that time in my twenties when I passed out in a field near the party in Isla Vista, breaking my eyeglasses and tearing my favorite shirt. I’m not a prig about it, just don’t need the hangovers.
A ritual of coming of age in our society seems to be learning how to drink without becoming a problem, how to hold your liquor, knowing that praying at the porcelain altar ain’t no fun, that driving drunk is stupid. Some of us learn by dying. Or snagging that D.U.I.
I remember breaking my vow, leaving a party in Eureka once after drinking a fifth of Canadian Club, crawling across the lawn to my car, and driving home.
And we marveled, at the University, at the Mormon kid who had never had a drink before in his life, and simply lost it, over and over again. And of course, some people never do learn how to hold their booze. According to Hemingway’s “A Movable Feast,” F. Scott Fitzgerald was one of “those.” And Sheila Graham’s story, “Beloved Infidel,” seems to confirm Hem’s diagnosis.
“Friends don’t let friends drive drunk,” or so the saying goes. But we need to have resolve to follow through on that. And we need to be wily in taking away their keys. It’s best, of course, if the person who’s having way too much fun recognizes the fact, and doesn’t even attempt driving, or the bungee cord or sky diving.
Now that would be a spectacular display in poor judgment. Wouldn’t it?
