The other day at a local bar while I was having a single Absolut on the rocks with a twist (some days I have two), a friend told me about his annual physical.
This is a moderately expensive procedure for a man of sixty, so he thought, Why not be honest?
When the doctor, pro forma, asked him how many drinks he had a week, my friend said, “About one hundred.”
This is not an acceptable answer, needless to say. “You know, some days just a few pops,” he said, “but then a couple of days a week I’ll have thirty or so, then taper off to fifteen.” This is a remarkably sturdy fellow, of middle-European descent with a biggish body, no liver or kidney damage.
I don’t know about his brain, though I did considerable study in brain physiology for a novel.
In conversation he functions mentally at least as well as, maybe better than, our president.