Peter O'Toole on David Letterman talking about his drinking days

[frazzled]

8. I enjoyed this a lot (but)

I began to ask myself, what is it we find so adorable about drinkers and drunkenness? I include myself among those who can fall for a charming rapscallion with a quick wit—as long as that drunken wit, of course, does not live in our houses, befouling the nest and causing anxiety to all. Then it's a nightmare.

So sad that Peter Finch, his drinking buddy in this story, died at age 61 (and Richard Burton, apparently another friend, at 59) — both of them younger than I am. Indeed, I looked it up, and Finch was born the same year as my father (1916), who is still alive and well, and Burton the same year as my mother (1925), also thankfully alive. Really just as sad that Finch almost died in the 1970s, and I suppose he's lucky to have lived to 81. Though 81 is not particularly an advanced age these days.

I guess I was just comparing the endearing comments with those surprisingly angry and hostile comments that have been around a lot the last few weeks here excoriating cigarette smokers (and even e-cigarette smokers!). And it can't be because smokers supposedly harm those around them: drinkers harm them even more directly, ruining people's lives and sometimes killing them on the spot.

So while I'm a big fan of Peter O'Toole's and I loved his story (especially his tombstone), and while I am not judging him, I do wonder why we love a drunk.