From the author: My father finds himself trapped in the clutches of alcohol: cunning, baffling, powerful.
When my dad was made aware of his self-induced, non-genetic diabetes, he thought it might be time to lay off the hard stuff.
He has a stale, high-pitched stench; a putrid aroma of rotting meat that rings around his portly belly like Saturn and pours out from his mouth in bursts of clouds and stars, creating a galaxy self-sustaining and all its own. To sustain the guttural galaxy, his magic ceased to come from vodka, and began to come from something classier. Wine makes a boring person seem...