The Impossible Dream

DURING MY DAYS as a practicing alcoholic, I had a maudlin habit which I would guess is uniquely feminine. At some point during the evening, I would weave woozily from the kitchen, fresh drink in hand, and stack a pile of mawkish ballads on the record-player. Then I would settle down to wail my off-key accompaniment. Two or three drinks later, I would be supine, a steady stream of tears coursing across my cheekbones and rolling wetly into my ears as I agonized and empathized with the heartbroken vocalist.