Y

After Y, another part of the day begins.  I glance at my watch: 5:00 pm.  Y came about quite because a martini or two in the evening proved insupportable.  I am a migraine headache target with any kind of alkool (p. 44), it turns out, even the Reservoral or whatever it is in it.  Unless I absorb an Advil (Pain Free Living!) and a two tall glasses of water, and then . . .

Y offers no panacea, but then there are no panaceas.  On the other hand, you can't be a champion swimmer who drinks, not really; and you can't be a functioning white collar creative pedagogic scholar father husband homeowner if you are depressed or (see above) sleep deprived.  Sadly for me, virtually a nondrinker, they say, yes they do, that up to three drinks per night boosts your memory and wards off Alzheimer's Disease. Or maybe not.

A neurophysics person once told me that it is still not entirely clear how alcohol affects human cells, or exactly what it is doing.  I was surprised.  Isn't it well known if f*cks you up?

No one who treasures the necktie and the right to have people in central Africa killed in the name of commodity imports, is going to be pleased with the anti-bullshit factor in a little Y.  They would much, much rather that the men drank, drank to forget, forget, forget.