A Story About Triglycerides, Delta Air Lines, and Why Sobriety Should Come With a Fucking Warning Label.
Well, it finally happened.
After 20 years of perfecting the art of drinking really good French and Italian red wine, I’ve decided to take a break.
Not because I have a drinking problem.
I have a triglyceride problem.
Apparently, my blood has been quietly transitioning from a liquid into something resembling extra virgin olive oil.
My triglycerides have been a little high lately.
And by “a little,” I mean WAY FUCKING HIGH.
Which is confusing because I’ve been eating incredibly healthy.
I’ve lost 30 pounds. No Ozempic. No drugs. Almost no carbohydrates. Just a beautiful Mediterranean diet full of fresh fish, grass-fed beef, vegetables, olive oil, and enough antioxidants to preserve a 2,000-year-old Roman statue.
Unfortunately, I may have misunderstood one small detail of the Mediterranean diet.
Apparently, you’re supposed to drink wine in moderation.
What the fuck is moderation?
I thought it was a region in southern France.
Those of you who know me personally know that I love a great glass of Italian or French red wine.
It’s my hobby.
I don’t collect cars anymore. I don’t need another boat. I’ve retired from most forms of expensive stupidity.
I just enjoy sitting with friends, laughing, telling stories, and enjoying a beautiful bottle of wine.
Or two.
Over three or four hours.
What’s the harm?
Maybe it wasn’t the wine.
Maybe it was the occasional martini before dinner.
You know, the medicinal one.
The one designed to calm my nerves after spending the entire day dealing with people who should probably be required to wear helmets in public.
Anyway, I’ve decided to conduct a scientific experiment.
No alcohol.
Let’s see what happens to my lipid panel.
I’ll become one of those people who orders sparkling water with lime and tells everyone how incredible they feel.
Maybe I’ll start saying things like, “I just love waking up with a clear head!”
I already wake up happy every day.
How much fucking happier am I supposed to get?
But I’m committed.
And what better day to start than TODAY!
Which brings me to San Diego International Airport.
9:00 AM — THE EXPERIMENT BEGINS
I arrive at the airport for my 10:50 AM Delta flight back to Atlanta.
No security line.
Everything is perfect.
I’m at the gate by 9:50.
For those who don’t know me, airports are my kryptonite.
I can negotiate multimillion-dollar deals, acquire companies, manage impossible situations, and remain perfectly calm.
But put me inside an airport terminal, and my blood pressure immediately resembles the tire pressure on a Boeing 747.
I’m convinced my Apple Watch should automatically call 911 whenever I enter an airport.
But today is different.
I’m sober.
I’m healthy.
I’m relaxed.
I’m practically fucking Gandhi.
9:55 AM — GANDHI IS LOSING HIS SHIT
The pilot comes out.
“We’re going to delay boarding about 10 minutes.”
No problem!
I’m sober.
I’m patient.
I’m centered.
Ten minutes becomes 30.
Thirty becomes an hour.
An hour becomes two.
Two becomes four.
Eventually, Delta announces that our 10:50 AM flight will now depart at 6.
SIX FUCKING AM.
TOMORROW.
Apparently, Delta has invented time travel.
Unfortunately, it’s only available in the wrong direction.
I have now been at the airport long enough to qualify for California residency.
Which means I probably owe another 13% in taxes.
At this point, I’m beginning to suspect that God has a sense of humor.
And that God drinks.
THE DELTA SKY CLUB — WHERE SOBRIETY GOES TO DIE
I retreat to the Delta Sky Club.
Normally, this is where I would order a beautiful glass of red wine, find a quiet corner, and watch the human race slowly disintegrate.
But not today.
Today I’m drinking sparkling water.
With lime.
Like a fucking Labrador retriever on a wellness retreat.
Around me, hundreds of passengers are losing their minds.
People are screaming into phones.
People are screaming at Delta employees.
People are screaming at other people who are screaming.
One woman is demanding to speak to someone “in charge.”
Lady, if anyone were actually in charge, we wouldn’t all be living in a fucking airport.
Delta announces that there are FOUR middle seats available in the back three rows of today’s and tomorrow’s flights.
FOUR.
For approximately 280 stranded passengers.
And apparently, even having the highest possible Delta status doesn’t help.
I’ve seen better odds at a casino.
At this point, I fully expect Delta to announce that the remaining seats will be awarded through a combination of competitive wrestling, a spelling bee, and the Hunger Games.
I’m waiting for passengers to start waving Palestinian flags, declaring the gate an occupied territory, and demanding intervention from the United Nations.
Meanwhile, I’m drinking my sixth sparkling water.
My kidneys have filed a formal complaint.
THE AMERICAN EXPRESS RESCUE MISSION
Suddenly, I discover two decent seats on a 10:50 PM red-eye.
Not tomorrow.
TONIGHT.
An actual airplane with actual seats that might actually leave California.
There’s just one problem.
I have to buy them.
Again.
Because apparently purchasing a ticket on Delta does not necessarily entitle you to transportation.
It’s more like making a charitable donation to an airline that occasionally operates airplanes.
But I have American Express.
And like a good neighbor, American Express is there.
Wait.
That’s State Farm.
Who gives a shit?
I bought the seats.
I don’t even want to know what they cost.
At this point, I would have paid a man with a crop duster to fly me to Albuquerque.
I just want to get out of California.
And now I have another eight hours to sit in the Sky Club.
Without alcohol.
WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK WAS I THINKING?
THE FIVE STAGES OF AIRPORT SOBRIETY
I’ve now discovered that sobriety at an airport has five distinct stages.
Stage One: Optimism.
“This is going to be great. I’m going to feel amazing.”
Stage Two: Hydration.
“Another sparkling water, please.”
Stage Three: Resentment.
“Why is everyone else allowed to drink?”
Stage Four: Hallucination.
“Did that bottle of Cabernet just wink at me?”
Stage Five: Spiritual Awakening.
“Maybe my triglycerides weren’t that fucking high.”
I am currently transitioning between stages four and five.
And here’s what I’ve learned.
Alcohol was never just a beverage.
It was a critical component of my airport survival infrastructure.
It was the emotional equivalent of noise-canceling headphones for the human race.
Now I can hear EVERYTHING.
Every phone conversation.
Every screaming child.
Every person watching TikTok without headphones.
Every asshole conducting a business meeting on speakerphone.
I can actually hear people chewing.
CHEWING!
There are 200 people in this lounge, and I can identify 37 separate dental problems.
This is not sobriety.
This is sensory terrorism.
MY NEW NON-DRINKING HOBBIES
Since I’ve apparently retired from wine drinking, I’m going to need some new hobbies.
And I’ve already started putting together a list.
1. Competitive Sparkling Water Consumption.
I intend to become the Michael Phelps of San Pellegrino.
By next Tuesday, my body will be 97% carbonated.
If someone shakes me, I may explode.
2. Judging People Who Drink.
I’ve decided that if I can’t enjoy wine, I’m going to become absolutely insufferable toward people who do.
“Oh, you’re having a Cabernet? Interesting. Have you checked your triglycerides lately?”
I’ll become the person I used to want to punch.
3. Collecting Limes.
Apparently, when you stop drinking, bartenders give you limes.
I currently have enough citrus to prevent scurvy on a 16th-century pirate ship.
4. Becoming a Professional Airport Complaint Consultant.
I have decades of experience.
My specialty will be explaining to airline executives why their operations resemble a kindergarten class being supervised by three drunk raccoons.
5. Starting a Wine Appreciation Club That Doesn’t Serve Wine.
We’ll sit around discussing the magnificent aromas of Bordeaux while drinking mineral water.
Membership will be free.
Attendance will be zero.
6. Learning to Meditate.
Apparently, when people stop drinking, they meditate.
I tried it for approximately 11 seconds.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and immediately started thinking about punching the guy next to me who was eating potato chips with his mouth open.
Namaste, motherfucker.
7. Becoming a Sparkling Water Sommelier.
“This is a remarkable 2026 San Pellegrino. Beautiful minerality, aggressive bubbles, and subtle notes of disappointment.”
Pairs beautifully with delayed flights and broken dreams.
8. Replacing Happy Hour With Angry Hour.
Same time.
Same friends.
No alcohol for me
Just four hours of discussing everything that’s wrong with the world while aggressively drinking water.
I suspect we’ll solve absolutely nothing, but I will definitely be urinating every 11 minutes.
AND BEFORE ANYONE ASKS…
No, I’m not an alcoholic.
And if I were, do you really think I’d announce it to the entire fucking world in a blog?
“Good morning, Facebook! Just wanted to let everyone know I have a serious drinking problem. Please like and subscribe!”
I’m simply a guy who enjoys good wine, great friends, and occasionally a martini large enough to qualify as a swimming pool for olives.
And now I’m taking a break to see whether alcohol has been contributing to my triglycerides.
That’s it.
A little experiment.
A healthy decision.
A mature, responsible, scientifically motivated lifestyle adjustment.
Which, naturally, I decided to begin on the single worst travel day of my adult life.
You cannot make this shit up.
THE FINAL INSULT
Here’s the part that really gets me.
For years, I’ve enjoyed a glass of wine while watching the absurdity of humanity unfold.
Now I’m completely sober.
And humanity is somehow getting MORE ABSURD.
I’ve spent the entire day watching an airline attempt to solve a mathematical equation involving 280 passengers, four seats, and approximately zero common sense.
I’ve consumed enough sparkling water to irrigate the Sahara.
I’ve purchased two airline tickets for the privilege of traveling on one airplane.
I’ve watched people become emotionally unhinged over boarding announcements.
And I’m now preparing to board a red-eye that will deposit me in Atlanta at 5 AM, looking like a corpse that was denied admission to the morgue.
But here’s the really funny part.
For 20 years, I’ve occasionally blamed my most ridiculous stories on having a few glasses of wine.
What the hell am I going to blame them on now?
I can no longer say, “Well, I may have had a little too much Cabernet.”
Now I have to admit that every inappropriate comment, every outrageous observation, every questionable decision, and every “what in the actual fuck” moment came from a completely sober brain.
That’s terrifying.
For my friends.
For my family.
For the people who follow my blogs.
And especially for the poor bastards at Delta Air Lines.
Because apparently, alcohol wasn’t making me funny.
It may have been making me LESS FUCKING FUNNY.
And considerably more tolerant.
So here’s to my new alcohol-free lifestyle.
Here’s to lower triglycerides.
Here’s to better health.
Here’s to another 30 years of laughing, smiling, building businesses, making people happy, and finding the absurdity in absolutely everything.
And here’s to the greatest scientific discovery of my lifetime:
I DON’T NEED ALCOHOL TO BE A COMPLETE FUCKING LUNATIC.
I can do it naturally.
With sparkling water.
And lime.
And a $3,000 airline ticket.
Cheers, motherfuckers.
Oh, wait.
Can I still say cheers?
Or is that considered a relapse?
P.S. If my triglycerides don’t come down after this experiment, I’m going to be absolutely fucking furious.
Not because of my health.
Because I’ll have wasted perfectly good drinking days.
P.P.S. To the good people at Delta: Please understand that this entire blog was written without consuming a single drop of alcohol.
Imagine what I’m capable of when I get really pissed off.
P.P.P.S. If anyone sees me ordering a glass of sparkling water with a lime at a restaurant, please don’t congratulate me on my healthy lifestyle.
Just ask me if I’m okay.
Because clearly, something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.
Directive 17