Joe vs. the Margarita

I don't have many memories of my father drunk. In fact, I can really only conjure up two of them at this point. The reason my father "catching a buzz" is so rare is due in part to his being the self-appointed designated driver more often than not, in part because he grew up in a family where alcohol was incidental (instead of like mother's family, where it was basically another family member), and in part because he is 6' 5" and pushing 300 pounds.

Anyhow, one of these times was after a trip to Baxter's, a Southern California haunt (akin to Friday's). They had a concoction called a Mucho Margarita. You can see, of course, why this picture reminded me of that night. It was like my father finally found "his" world - a place where drinks were the size of his bear-sized hands and the cup and a half of tequilla actually affected his sobriety. He came home and lay on the floor. His two younger girls crawled all over him and played "floor Daddy" like we did every night after dinner. I looked on. I listened to the adults. I noticed the glazed look on my father's face. I think it was the first time I noticed how alcohol influences people.