The police sedan blisters down the one way street, sirens piercing the once silent night, shattering an already fragile paradigm. This used to be a safe neighbourhood, she said, and now every night there’s a domestic disturbance, a drug deal gone bad, a break-in in progress.

T-Dot’s practically balmy. Half-expecting Missouri-force snowstorms, he’s greeted with relatively tropical weather, so much so that it warrants island dress. Scores of meteorologists, legions of tree huggers and Al Gore may be correct, but it still boggles the mind.

This is the bane of human existence; when presented with a situation so utterly unexpected, something so inane that our 3 pounds of spongy matter does a double take. It may have been Creation’s little trick: in giving us thought, we were also gifted (or cursed) with a hunger to satisfy murderous attitudes towards felines. Whether it lies in religious tomes, scientific pursuits, spiritual meditation or symbolic art, we seek the ultimate answer to the ultimate question: Why?

While many have struggled to provide rational explanations, the late great Douglas Adams once wrote in his five part trilogy:

There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something more bizarrely inexplicable.

There is another theory which states that this has already happened.

Flippant? Perhaps, but within those two sentences lie a kernel of truth that cannot be ignored. If there is anything that is certain and constant in this universe, it is that things change.

Our very lives are dictated by changing states. The smell of a moist roast unleashes a Proustian flood of memories. The price of gasoline drops 12 cents in 2.5 hours. Time is the linear measurement of the difference between Point A to Point B. Civilizations rise and fall, cities prosper and fail, economies boom, bust and echo.

And of course, uncluttered has changed. In my first post, I was advocating evolved thought, confident in my ability to proselytize to the masses. Now, the soapbox has been placed in storage, the lights dimmed. In this post, I’m one vote shy of being charged guilty of meandering. As 2006 draws to a close, and 2007 raises even more questions, my cliché answer to that burning question is simply:

Why not?

Winter is fast approaching, and the most important piece of clothing isn’t something you can find at your regular clothing store, but rather your local pub. Yes, its time to dust off those beer jackets…

You remember the first time you felt invincible against the elements – alcohol does that to the human body. Your first martini never tasted sweeter, and you danced dangerously with your gag reflex at your first keg stand. Sooner or later, copious drinking ensues – whether in celebration or in mourning, with friends or in solitude. We’ve all been there – binging and blacking out, waking up in the puke-stained alley/a stranger’s bed/on an island. We don’t remember how or why, but the first that comes to mind – never again. Until the next time…

Drunken shenanigans on boats, embarrassing episodes revisited by heartless “pals,” passionate arguments with interrupted with blank stares. All sights on this tour towards drinking maturity – been there, done that. And yet, despite this curriculum vitae in beer-ology, I’m occasionally asked to show proof of age.

I’m not mad at the the beer girl at the ball game – she is just doing her job; the button above her left breast can attest to that: “We ID anyone under 30.” Rules are rules, even if they are meant to be broken.

I’m not saying to lower the drinking age – the last thing I need are more prepubescent boys and girls bragging about how drunk they were the night before. They dress horribly as it is – let’s keep the alcohol out of their crazy hands for now. What I am advocating however, is responsible drinking in the only way government can provide: drinking licenses.

That’s right ladies and gents, if you are serious about your alcohol, prove to the powers that be that you can be trusted with a bottle of booze. Hell, we are required to do the same when driving, and to me, maneuvering a ton of metal, while other equally monstrous hunks of metal are hurtling right beside you is scary enough. At least with alcohol, the only real risk is to yourself.

How would you go about obtaining a drinking license? For starters, take a written exam that tests your knowledge on various topics: fermentation, blood alcohol levels, laws, history of booze, statistics. Then the practical. It’s a known fact that alcohol affects every one differently, so it’s only fair that your own physiology be put to the test. In a controlled environment, proctors can assess whether you are more liable to get plastered on beer, hard liquor or wine coolers. They can measure the rate of absorption, or chart your descent from an upstanding citizen into a blubbering shell of your former self.

Would this actually work? Who knows, in a perfect world it might. But one thing is for certain: the online mutterings of a cynical drunken fool can only be tolerated for so long.