Bibulous

It's no secret journalists — generally — like to imbibe.

It was the Bard of Baltimore, H.L. Mencken, who coined the term "bibulous" to describe himself.

    Here's H.L. Mencken in a Baltimore bar shortly after the repeal of Prohibition.

Webster's has since defined the word as "addicted to or fond of alcohol." (That's actually the No. 2 definition. The first is "highly absorbent." Same difference.)

Anyhow, I've spent a few moments of my life perched on a barstool. It tends to fit the lifestyle: Long, odd hours filled with depressing news and jerks who don't want you to know things because, well, it might make them look bad/cost them a job/put them in jail. The fact the industry is going through dramatic, at times painful, changes doesn't help. 

It's not just the alcohol. I've never been to a bar without a friend. I've gotten reasonably good at darts and fooseball. And I've had pleasant, interesting and fun conversation. 

As I've aged, I've calmed my tendency toward vice. I owe some of that to Jen, who while helping rein me in, is not a Puritan herself. 

It's Sophie, though, who's put the biggest damper on my journalism lifestyle. A 2-month-old will do that. 

This is not a bad thing, mind you. 

I just find it strange that I've gone from throwing darts and sampling the microbrews of Blue Point Brewing Co. of Long Island, New York, to watching the Muppet Show on DVD while drinking water (filtered by our knockoff Brita, thankyouverymuch).

Sophie is very much worth it all. I just have to see her smile at me to know that.

   Sophie during a recent trip to the changing table.

But I wonder how other journalist types have dealt with this. What would Mencken do?

Then I remember: Mencken didn't have any children. 

Hi-tech

When I was a toddler, my mother used a tape recorder to record me saying, "Hi, Daddy!" for my father who was working long hours to put food on our table and clothes on my back. 

He'd listen to my babbling when he got home on that same tape recorder they bought from Montgomery Ward. You know the one; it had one large speaker, sheethed in metal mesh, and switch-like buttons that required force to press. 

I still have those tapes stashed away, though I'm scared to play them because they're more than three decades old now. The technology might not have held up. I do still have a tape player, though if I didn't, I could get one on eBay next to the 8-track player and Commodore 64.

I mention this glimpse of 1981 high technology because it struck me earlier today how things evolve. 

My wife used her cellphone to send me videos and photos of our daughter, Sophie, while I was at work putting food on our table and clothes on Sophie's back. 

Jen sent the pics and vids via text message, though she could easily have posted them to Facebook or Twitter. Or, if she wanted to be old school, she could have emailed them to me. 

No matter the transmission, I view them on my iPhone I bought at the mall. You know the one; a smooth touch screen that uses electro-static technology that gives the user more computing power than the Apollo 11 astronauts had when they landed on the moon. 

Looking at my 8-week-old child, I cannot begin to fathom what she might use to record her children's antics so loved ones can see what they missed. 

A Father Looks At Bedtime

I admit that I've not really been a big fan of Jimmy Buffett. 

"Margaritaville" was pretty much the only song of his I heard growing up, and it sounded rather depressing. 

Still does. 

Of course, there were a few other songs of his I heard later in life. "Cheesburger in Paradise" and "Fins" were popular covers done by my friends' band. "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" also was popular with some in college. Aside from music, I've written a story or two about local Parrothead Socities.

But, really, it wasn't until I met my wife that I heard all of "Songs You Know By Heart," let alone learned Jimmy had written several books. 

Jen has been to a few concerts and told me I'd enjoy them, mostly because of the large amount of drinking and the groovy atmosphere thereby created.

Perhaps. 

We also swung into Margaritaville in Key West on our honeymoon. While the margaritas were a bit overpriced to my liking, they were strong.

But all of that isn't why I'm now a fan of Mr. Buffett. 

You see, I discovered a few nights ago that my seven-week-old daughter Sophie calms down and falls asleep right quick to the likes of "Pencil-thin Mustache" and "Juicy Fruit" and "Son of a Son of a Sailor."

Admittedly, I feel awkward when "Drunk and Screw" comes on, but by that point, Sophie is usually asleep. 

One downside, though: I start to crave cheeseburgers and margaritas after awhile. 

Maybe Sophie and I will enjoy both some day, when she's old enough. 

OPA!

As a kid, I lived next door to a Greek immigrant couple. 

Mr. Nick and Mrs. Kula were like a doting aunt and uncle. They'd bring over Greek treats, like rice pudding with raisins. In summer, I'd swing past their patio for some loukoumades - dough balls soaked in a honey-cinnamon syrup and sprinkled with powdered sugar. At Christmas, we'd benefit from Greek pastries. 

It was more than food, though. Any time Mr. Nick would see Dad come home with a bag from the hardware store, the phone would ring. 

"David, what you doing?" Mr. Nick would ask, his accent as thick as a cup of coffee served across from the Acropolis. 

Once Dad would explain the project - installing a new vanity, repairing the kitchen sink drain - he'd say, "I be over." 

He'd examine the situation, muttering, "What the matter be…" And when a part or tool didn't work right, inevitably you'd hear, "DAMN SHIT!"

He taught Dad a lot about homeownership. And me, too. I've been known to yell, "DAMN SHIT!" at a piece of malfunctioning plumbing. 

Mr. Nick died around my birthday when I was in fourth grade. Mrs. Kula died earlier this year. 

But often, my family would attend the Greek festival in the Baltimore area. And Dad would get a shot of ouzo - like Greek sambuca - and toast Mr. Nick, yelling the traditional "OPA!" afterward.

When I became of age, I'd join Dad. And we'd tell stories about Mr. Nick and Mrs. Kula. 

Earlier this week, I got my dinner from a Greek Orthodox Church in Scranton. They had a food festival, though there was no rice pudding with raisins, loukoumades or ouzo. 

But over my lamb shank, Greek salad and piece of baklava, I toasted Mr. Nick and Mrs. Kula, and thought about the Greek immigrant couple who had a big impact on my life. 

OPA!