Years ago, when I was much younger and dumber, I sometimes drove after drinking too much, occasionally even with a beer in hand. Once a state policeman stopped me leaving the small town of Joseph, Ore., and asked me to count backwards, touch my toes and walk a line. Fortunately, he knew me, and so he just suggested gently that I get in the passenger seat and let my wife drive home. There was also the time after a full and fabulous day at the ski run, when, sipping that last beer as we headed for home on the back roads, I hit a patch of ice and slipped into the barrow pit. Again, fortunately, the only damage was to my ego, and all my law-breaking and stupid behavior took place at low speeds on quiet roads. Then along came Mothers Against Drunk Driving with its memorable acronym, MADD.