Why Would Any College Student Want An Alcohol Enema?

When I was in college we drank often, and sometimes to excess.  I remember drinking shots and slugging down awful-tasting concoctions mixed in garbage pails . . . and regretting it all profoundly when I woke up with my head on the toilet seat the the next morning.  All of that drinking, of course, occurred by slurping and swallowing the contents of cups, bottles, or cans raised to my lips.

Apparently we’ve crossed some new frontier in collegiate drinking excess, because some students are experimenting with alcohol enemas.  This practice involves placing a tube in the keister and pouring alcohol into the colon, where it is absorbed directly into the bloodstream.  As a result, the enzymes in the stomach and liver that break down alcohol are bypassed, and the drinker (I’m not sure that’s the right word, given the circumstances) gets drunk quicker.  In fact, the recipient (I’m not sure that’s the right word, either) can get much drunker, much faster.  A recent incident at the University of Tennessee saw one student hospitalized with a blood alcohol level of .40, which is five times the legal limit and in the range where people can die of alcohol poisoning.

This might just be a weird incident at one school that shouldn’t be assumed to be a trend.  Even if alcohol enemas are just limited to the University of Tennessee, however, what would possibly motivate a kid to drop trou, stick a hose up his butt, and ask another person to do the pouring honors?  Is getting drunk as fast as possible really so important that you would do something so outlandish, disturbing, and dangerous?  I’ve got to believe that any student who has experimented with alcohol enemas has some very serious problems.

On The Water With Woody

One morning on Lake Temagami, we hired a fishing guide to help us solve the fisherman’s eternal riddle:  where are the @$%&*# fish?  The guide’s name was Woody Becker.

Woody is an Algonquin who has lived in the Lake Temagami area for decades.  He’s hunted, fished, trapped, and camped in just about every nook and cranny of the lake, its islands, and the surrounding forested hills.  As you would expect with that kind of background, Woody is a practical, self-sufficient man.  When he came to pick us up in his small boat on a cold morning, he wore weather gear that looked as comfortable on him as an old shoe.  He also wore a snowmobile helmet, face shield down to ward off the chilly air, and was smoking a cigarette behind the plastic faceguard.  As he took us to where he thought the fish might be biting, he strung out a net across one of the connecting waterways.  He was just interested in seeing what he might catch in that spot at that time of year, he explained.

Woody knew his stuff.  He could pilot a boat like it was an extension of his body.  He instructed us on what method (jigging) and what bait (minnows) to use. And, he found the fish.  Drifting along a rocky outcropping in a desolate part of Cross Lake, we caught some huge small mouth bass.  Woody nimbly maneuvered the boat as we fought the fish, netted them, and then used some wire he had handy to repair our net when one of the thrashing fish ripped it to shreds.

Every fisherman know that, for every moment of catching, there are hours of drifting, and feeding out line, and unsnagging hooks that have caught on a watery obstruction.  During those quiet times, Woody liked to talk, and smoke, and laugh.  He talked about how he tried to take down at least once moose a year, for food.  He talked about how the price for pelts isn’t what it once was.  He talked about his ex-wife, and his sons. He talked about where he’s fished before and where he hoped to camp for a week or two this coming summer.

And he talked, often and forcefully, about the issues confronting the First Nation in Canada — the negotiations with the Ontario provincial and federal government on new treaties, the involvement of some new tribe that he thought was trying to bargain away the Algonquin’s rights, and his mistrust for the deals and arrangements that were being offered.  He knew every treaty involving the First Nation, by name and date and contents.  He made me realize that those little bits of history that we learned in school that seemed so dusty and abstract had an enormous and continuing impact on this interesting man and his friends and family.  Sitting on that boat with Woody, as he talked and bailed and lit another cigarette, gave me a different perspective on things.

I’m glad Woody helped us catch some fish, but mostly I’m just glad I met Woody Becker.