Monday, June 12, 2006
A Little Reality Check!
The Happy Hour Saturday night at Teakwoods was a blast. Lots of good friends, short stories, and long laughs. We even had The Goat tell his "Indian Chasing The Stagecoach" joke again, because it's so much fun. It's an audience participation joke, with everybody banging on the table to do the sound effect of horses running. About the third time the horses ran, some guy (not a club member, and not with our group) at the next table started pounding his table. I looked over there, but dude was decidedly not smiling. Thankfully, that was the last time the horses ran, or the guy probably would have been pissed.
After everybody split from Teakwoods, a bunch of folks came over and hung out at Crime Dog's Margaritaville West Tiki Bar and Cement Pond to help us finish up all the beer that had gathered there during the afternoon. Lots more stories, lots more laughs, lots more beer consumed. Our good friend code named point one one knew he'd had a few too many, and let his fetching wife drive. I happened to know that he had a portable breath analyzer in his car. Hell, that's a big part of how he got the name point one one, after all. During my law enforcement days, I tested countless drunks I had arrested for DUI. A substantial portion of them were wa-a-a-a-y in excess of the presumptive limit, which in those days was .10 (now .08 in most states).Nearly without exception, they were shit faced, all over the road, falling out of their cars, slurring their words, staggering, all the obvious drunk-on-your-ass stuff. I knew I was nowhere near those .16's and .20's I used to roust. My line of thinking was that I felt as though I might be just barely on the edge, perhaps as much as .08, but probably lower. I felt a little buzzed, but that was it. If I had needed to drive, I probably would have jumped in my car and headed out.
So, I blew into the gizmo, waited a couple of seconds, and the verdict flashed up on the display:
.18
"Bullshit! I don't even feel drunk! This machine is seriously screwed!" So TFMCD gave it a run:
.06
OK, so that sounded about right. I decided I'd give it a few minutes and try again. Probably still had some beer in my mouth, or something else causing such an inaccurate reading. I flashed back on DUI school back in the day, when two fellow officers volunteered to drink all evening while the rest of us administered field sobriety tests and breath analysis. One guy got t0 .09 and was stumbling around, all belligerent and trying to kick everybody's ass. You know, a mean drunk. The other guy made .11, but the show was over when he ended up confessing his sins at the porcelain alter with Father Ra-a-a-alph. So, my little buzz couldn't have me anywhere near those dudes.
After a while, I took the test again:
.20
I had no idea.
There's a lesson in this. I was double the legal limit, and was not drunk in the traditional sense. I even tightrope-walked on the brick border around my lawn just to be sure. No problem there, either. But had I driven a car, and gotten stopped or involved in an accident, my happy ass would have been in the slam faster than you can say "bail bondsman." We're talking Extreme DUI per Arizona statutes, which is defined as .15 or over.
So, good ol' point-one-one is a pretty smart guy. I'm buying myself a breath tester, too. If I have more than a couple of beers, I ain't driving until I test myself. Anywhere close to that magical .08 reading, it's time call a friend or a cab, or even start hoofing it. Hell, the exercise will do me good.
And what was point-one-one's BAC that night, you ask? Not a clue. He blew into that thing twice. Both times, all the display said was "HOT." That must be a polite way of saying "shitfaced."
I have to admit something here, though. I might have felt fine that night, but when I rolled out of the rack the next morning to play golf with Wayners, Steve-O, and ZMan, I definitely felt the .20. It took six Advils, a sausage and egg biscuit, a large coffee, and about two gallons of water and Gatorade to get right again.
Live and learn.
|
After everybody split from Teakwoods, a bunch of folks came over and hung out at Crime Dog's Margaritaville West Tiki Bar and Cement Pond to help us finish up all the beer that had gathered there during the afternoon. Lots more stories, lots more laughs, lots more beer consumed. Our good friend code named point one one knew he'd had a few too many, and let his fetching wife drive. I happened to know that he had a portable breath analyzer in his car. Hell, that's a big part of how he got the name point one one, after all. During my law enforcement days, I tested countless drunks I had arrested for DUI. A substantial portion of them were wa-a-a-a-y in excess of the presumptive limit, which in those days was .10 (now .08 in most states).Nearly without exception, they were shit faced, all over the road, falling out of their cars, slurring their words, staggering, all the obvious drunk-on-your-ass stuff. I knew I was nowhere near those .16's and .20's I used to roust. My line of thinking was that I felt as though I might be just barely on the edge, perhaps as much as .08, but probably lower. I felt a little buzzed, but that was it. If I had needed to drive, I probably would have jumped in my car and headed out.
So, I blew into the gizmo, waited a couple of seconds, and the verdict flashed up on the display:
.18
"Bullshit! I don't even feel drunk! This machine is seriously screwed!" So TFMCD gave it a run:
.06
OK, so that sounded about right. I decided I'd give it a few minutes and try again. Probably still had some beer in my mouth, or something else causing such an inaccurate reading. I flashed back on DUI school back in the day, when two fellow officers volunteered to drink all evening while the rest of us administered field sobriety tests and breath analysis. One guy got t0 .09 and was stumbling around, all belligerent and trying to kick everybody's ass. You know, a mean drunk. The other guy made .11, but the show was over when he ended up confessing his sins at the porcelain alter with Father Ra-a-a-alph. So, my little buzz couldn't have me anywhere near those dudes.
After a while, I took the test again:
.20
I had no idea.
There's a lesson in this. I was double the legal limit, and was not drunk in the traditional sense. I even tightrope-walked on the brick border around my lawn just to be sure. No problem there, either. But had I driven a car, and gotten stopped or involved in an accident, my happy ass would have been in the slam faster than you can say "bail bondsman." We're talking Extreme DUI per Arizona statutes, which is defined as .15 or over.
So, good ol' point-one-one is a pretty smart guy. I'm buying myself a breath tester, too. If I have more than a couple of beers, I ain't driving until I test myself. Anywhere close to that magical .08 reading, it's time call a friend or a cab, or even start hoofing it. Hell, the exercise will do me good.
And what was point-one-one's BAC that night, you ask? Not a clue. He blew into that thing twice. Both times, all the display said was "HOT." That must be a polite way of saying "shitfaced."
I have to admit something here, though. I might have felt fine that night, but when I rolled out of the rack the next morning to play golf with Wayners, Steve-O, and ZMan, I definitely felt the .20. It took six Advils, a sausage and egg biscuit, a large coffee, and about two gallons of water and Gatorade to get right again.
Live and learn.
