What do Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, James Joyce, Dorothy Parker, Edgar Allen Poe, Silvia Plath, F Scott Fitzgerald, Truman Capote, Raymond Chandler, O Henry, and John Cheever have in common? If you said they were all great writers then you would be correct. But they also share another commonality; they were all alcoholics.

Apparently there is a pattern between heavy drinking and heavy writing. None of the above mentioned, unfortunately, came to a happy ending. Hemingway and Plath took the easy way out while the rest died the painful wracking death of the abusive drinker with their yellow livers and minds of mush.

Still, one could conclude and equate libations with literary genius. I imagine to Joyce and his fellow Irishmen, a snort before a prepositional phrase was a necessity, but for the others perhaps it was just an innocent way to get the brain started and on its way to magnificent prose. Their problem was they didn't know when to stop.

To be honest, I sometimes have a pint of inspiration before taking pen in hand. The words seem to flow easier after a pat on the back from the St. Paulie Girl or my friend, Buddy Weiser. Just one or two a couple of days a week. I also keep no guns in the house just in case I write that great American novel, fall into depression, and then blow my head off as famous authors are prone to do.

Ever curious, though, perhaps we should experiment. I had two beers earlier and now I will continue to partake of the sweet nectar and see if it affects my writing. I will take breaks between my flowery prose and then quaff a few more before returning to write.

Break--- Another beer.

Okay, I'm back and I truly feel smarter and much more prosier.

How's this: She sucked hard on the burnt filter of her Winston and knew then how she would murder Paul and get away with it. Brilliant. That was lovely wasn't it?

Break--- Two more beers.

Back again. So what is it with Capote anyway? Did he make up In Cold Blood or what? I'll bet he wrote To Kill a Mockingbird for his buddy, Harper.

Break--- Two more brewskis.

Yeah--I'm back--So what, you wanna make something of it? You people make me sick. Blog this. What is a blog anyway? Isn't that the Steve McQueen movie or something? What do you mean coming to my blog without my permission? Why if I were Hemingway and had to read this modern tripe I'd shoot Kurt Cobain!

Brake------------- I'll have tea martoonies please.

Jack Nicholson, the actor, not the golfer."Heeeeeerrrrr's Johnny!"

So. What do ya want? Yeah, I'm talking to you, my invisible reader who's sitting there in your underware--underwier---underwear. There we go. Stop reading!

Br-Br-Brake again---Two Landsharks so Jimmy Buffet can get more frickin' rich.

Okay--Okay--What?--Okay, what kind of name is Faulkner, anyway? Is it like-- What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Is it like the movie or something? Meet the Faulkner's. Hello, Mother Faulkner. What? bbbbbbbbzzzzzzzzzggggtaj Okay. Sh-Sh- Shut up! No. You go to hell. I mean it.

Brake again time-Time for sleep.

Well. It's the next day and I must say my writing last night was not only inspirational and exciting but, dare I say, genius.

If in the future I write four or five best sellers I will be able to spend my nights wallowing in self-pity while drinking myself to death and then I can be a famous author and leave my legacy just like the aforementioned drunks.

God Bless Beer.