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"It's all a Smoke Screen"

  We've all heard about Mel Gibson's anti-semitic words flung in the face of the arresting officers. Deplorable words expressing inexcusable sentiments? Absolutely. Yet, I am mystified and ohhh so tired of the attention awarded to the words of a drunken person, in this case despicable words, in other cases flowery accolades. I want us to stop giving this public figure so much coverage. Lest not we forget the Hollywood golden rule that any publicity is good publicity, and Mr. Gibson does not deserve that bonus.

Instead, when we speak of this man let us address the real issue that continues to be minimized, or cleverly framed as a mere character trait of an otherwise charming person. So here is my decree in plain English, bar all spin: To all persons of all races, religions and ethnicities: Mr. Gibson is an addict. Specifically, he is an alcoholic. That is the true north on this situation, as I see it. Now perhaps Mel is also a bigot, I don't know. And, I don't care as I am not generally interested in the stock of any practicing addict, celebrity/film-maker notwithstanding.

It's unfortunate in a nation as educated, and with as many resources as ours, that addiction has such a familiar face. Many reading this will personally know an alcoholic or perhaps a mine-field of alcoholics. I have quite a few in my family tree so I will point out something I have noticed: intoxicated, mood-altered people say and do outrageous, oftentimes, horrendous things.

Let me give a few personal examples. When I was six years old, my dad brought me to a boat show. I had a cold on that particular day but was ecstatic nonetheless to go anywhere alone with my father. One of eight children, it was very unusual to have a whole day just the two of us. Shortly after arriving, my dad's dad joined us. I knew immediately something was different with Pop. He spoke funny and his breath smelled strange. When he learned I was under the weather he offered his flask, assuring me the wicked smelling stuff would make me feel better. Dad scolded him and said no. Years later I was told about Pop's flask and the scotch that frequently wet his whistle.

Big parties were commonplace in our large family and drinking was part and parcel. It was at a brother's college graduation party's that my uncle, well known for his problem with the bottle, announced he would bartend for the day, signaling to all he was off the wagon again. He popped back eight ounce tumblers of vodka all day and then fell down a flight of stairs leaving the party.

My sister is the case most near to me. It seems to me that she has been an addict for twenty-plus of her forty-seven years. For years I called the whole thing something else. Most of the time I have to remind myself not to judge her character, that what I see is the booze and it's fallout, not who she really is. She's got this damn thing that compels her to drink in spite of...well, everything. But it certainly breaks my heart to see her drink glass upon glass of Jim Beam. I recall the night her husband telephoned to tell me the police had brought her to the hospital. We had been out together earlier that evening where I, too, had been drinking. When it was time to call it a night, she insisted on staying with a friend. At some point she wandered from the bar/restaurant and fell on the concrete sidewalk. The police were called. Her head was bleeding. A great deal of pleading and schmoozing helped convince the police to release her from the hospital into our custody without charges. Finally in the car, ending the long ordeal, my sister suddenly punched me in the chest, mumbling that she knew I didn't want to pick her up. I was stunned. She was wild-eyed and aggressive, nothing closely resembling her usual self, and her conclusions of the situation, completely irrational.

Eventually her dependence strengthened and my calling it something else didn't cut it anymore. Our family called a professional and together we carefully planned an intervention to confront her drinking. We pushed hard, in that tough-love way, for her to admit her problem and go into treatment. It was a seeming success until the admissions person at the rehab mentioned mandatory attendance at 12 step meetings. That killed it. It was her much desired loophole. She said she wasn't willing to go the religious route. She got her way and went home that night. We haven't spoken in over two years at her insistence. The way I see it, her need for alcohol continues to separate us. I love my little sister so very much and when she's not intoxicated, she's a gentle woman and as level headed as anyone else I know. I would bet Mel Gibson's family, friends and associate's have similar experiences.

But make no mistake about my positioning, I hold my sister accountable for all her extravagent and unreasonable behavior. As the saying goes, the boozing explains it, but it don't excuse it. So too, I also hold Mr. Gibson responsible for his diatribe. His apologies are empty, and his humble request for guidance from a religious sect, just another smoke screen intended to distract us from his real McCoy.

Go to rehab, Mr. Gibson, and start sobering up. Then, and only then, talk to us. But by all means talk to us with your tail between your legs because you messed up, royally.

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