Dear Enthusiast,
My alcohol soaked friend thought it would be funny to open a fake Facebook account for me.  Is it okay to smear poop on his car in retaliation?

—Dr. Hatt

Dear Dr. Hatt,

As useful a tool as Facebook is for 3am, criminally-inappropriate public proclamations of cousins and/or co-workers’ “hotness,” the world’s favoritest social networking site can be a minefield for the very drunk—and their slightly more sober friends. While it’s tempting to get angry at your booze-soaked buddy for what you, judging by your cruel choice of revenge, perceive as a malicious act, you’ve really got to look at this from his perspective: He was trying to help you.

I’m trembling with enthusiasm!

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It has come to our attention here at the Enthusiast that while in an enthusiastic state, common rules of decorum break down. Manners fall apart. People ass out. Chaos can ensue.

So we’re piloting a new column on TAE, Ask The Enthusiast, where you can ask us all your most enthusiastic, drinking-related questions. And which we will be happy to answer.

After we’ve made sweet sweet love on my … is this a cot?
This is called a cot, right? On my cot.

The lone fifth: To yoink or not to yoink?

If I am at a house party, it’s after beer-30, I’m planning to stay a while still, and I notice there is only one fifth of liquor left in the kitchen, is it okay for me to grab it and hide it in my purse to ensure I stay properly enthusiastic for the duration of my time there? Or do I need to share with the other guests?

—Sobering up in Seattle
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—Milla

There was period in my own personal history when I had happily already discovered the joys of enthusiasm, but was unfortunately still neither legally entitled, nor financially able to demonstrate this enthusiasm with anything like the flare it deserved.

I was not alone in my plight, and every Saturday night (among others, if I am to be honest) this tension presented a willing assortment of cohorts and me with a dilemma. And for better or for worse, our dilemma was, in fact, enhanced by the fact that we were trapped.

A 17-year-old girl pursuing a career in enthusiasm from within the confines of a Dorset boarding school, while attempting to pass an A-level or two has something of an uphill struggle ahead of her … trust me.  (Oops—there it is; a confession as to my true heritage from across the pond.)
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—Christian

Health should be a priority, even for Enthusiasts. We all know that drinking has certain negative effects on the body. While long term use can be quite beneficial, in the short term, the consequences can be devastating. Such was the case after a recent Sunday birthday celebration at which consumption got a little out of hand a little too late in the day. Unsurprisingly, I woke up feeling less than amazing—far less. Fortunately, that day I received a package in the mail from The Alcohol Enthusiast’s first swag-provider, drinkwel.

But first some backstory. We found out about drinkwel by way of the Enthusiast friendly email magazine, UrbanDaddy. The article explained that there was finally a supplement designed specifically for drinkers. Further investigation on the drinkwel website revealed that the formula is intended to replenish the body with the vitamins and nutrients that alcohol tends to suck out of you in the process of filling you with the feeling of being the coolest person in the world (I guess something has to give).
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—Josey

The never-ending party is the most effective way to ensure no hangover. But once in a while it’s Sunday night and you realize you’re supposed to stagger through the doors of your workplace in mere morning hours, and that you should probably start sobering up. With visions of pounding temples and queasy bellies in our fuzzy brains we futilely chug glass after glass of water, swig Gatorade, and shakily nuke frozen pepperoni pies, praying for salvation in the form of grease, carbs, and electrolytes. Short of a pre-work Bloody Mary that could result in (depending on your job) certain termination should supervisors get wise, what’s a desperate drunk to do?

Mama’s greasy medicine.

Enthusiast HQ learned of drinkwel, a new and supposedly-hangover relieving multivitamin supplement from an UrbanDaddy email. We wrote the company in search of swag, and luckily, our plea resulted in free samples. Was I skeptical? Of course. The placebo effect is powerful. I needed a field test—and, another fantastic excuse to get insanely wasted for 48 hours.
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—Jason

Housewarmings. Birthdays. Gay Pride. The World Cup. Tuesdays.

June was downright slutty in her offering up of reasons to imbibe to excess.

July gave it up quite a bit, too.

Being the Fernet fan that I am, I am often accosted by ridiculous hangovers. If hangovers were people, then I would be the guy that ran over their dog. wife. infant son. Because my hangovers are clearly angry at me. Tony Montana angry.

Don’t get this reference? You may have reached this page by mistake. You can find the Eclipse fanpage here.

So you can imagine my excitement when Christian wrote to me to tell me about this drinkwel stuff. I took a look at the ingredients and the FAQ and figured this was something I’d need to try. It had the usual suspects—lots of B vitamins (which are always good for you, post-enthusiasm). But B vitamins don’t cure or relieve hangovers. There’s some evidence that they shorten the duration of your hangover, which is good,  but in my experience, they’ve done nothing for the headaches, nausea, black eyes and concussions which are frequently the results of my overindulgence.
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Alcohol related games, by nature, require a certain amount of binge drinking. I mean, that’s the point, right? But no game that I have encountered necessitates the rapid consumption of liquor faster or in greater quantities than Quarters.

While I am sure there are many iterations, the rules we played by are fairly simple. You can play with as few as two or as many as you have room for/who are willing. The object of the game is to bounce a quarter off the table and into a shot glass. You go around in a circle, each taking turns. If you manage to get the quarter into the glass, then the person to your left must do the same or else they have to drink. If they make the shot, the onus falls on the person to their left, and so on.

We used to play with a handful of quarters, so there was very little downtime between shooters and the quarters would start to pile up in the glass when everyone made their shot. The unlucky bastard that missed after a run of 4-5 hits had a lot of drinking to do. Not to mention that a full circuit of the players could take as little as thirty seconds. One way or the other, without a keen eye and a steady hand, you were going to end up rather tight (and possibly queasy) in very short order.

Of my friends, I was definitely the weakest link. Mercifully, they did not require full 1.5-2oz shots to be taken with every miss—a simple swig off the bottle would suffice—but it went quickly and we were liable to run through a fifth in no time. I think our record was eleven minutes for a bottle of Knob between six people. Yours truly took the brunt of that blow and definitely paid the price about halfway through. But never fear, Enthusiasts, boot though I may—I did not hesitate to rally.

 
—Christian

There is one call to arms (and I am by no means implying there is ONLY one … but I am sure you will agree that this one has earned a particular gravitas over the years) that no Enthusiast can resist, regardless of their age, social standing, and even their level of comprehension of the greater cause. This reason for revelry, this justification for joviality—dare I say it, this Excuse for Enthusiasm (not that one needs an excuse)—has all but dragged people from their deathbeds.

So what is it? Only that inherent belief in the simple phrase: “it’s for charity.”

Sometimes there is the prerequisite of a small investment in the “charity of choice,” but sometimes there is not. All that is required of you is to show up, drink up and try not to throw up.

The traditional staging of these affairs opens with the arrival of a hoard of glamorous, young whipper-snappers, and a dappling of elegant, seasoned antiques at a venue quite unsuitable for those at either end of the age spectrum. This provokes a chorus of “oohs,” “aaahs,” and “wows” accompanied by a wave of theatrical expressions of surprise, wonderment and humble gratitude. Niceties over with, the focus turns to the proximity of the bar, and an enthusiastic urgency ensues. The hardened drinkers on the circuit hit the scotch, those tortured by an inner conflict between wanting to appear cultured while secretly wishing for an intravenous delivery system head for the gin mixers, and the floozies who skipped dinner giggle their way towards the champagne (or the closest thing on offer).

Some of these occasions even call for dancing in honor of charitable giving and this will inevitably be to a soundtrack of covers of the shockers your parents used to get their funk on to, and take place on a waxed wooden surface that is just aching to get its revenge on your stilettos; simultaneously offering you a view of the ceiling—while giving everyone else a view of your nether regions.

But dare you complain? No, it is for charity, and if that charity is asking you to party and imbibe, and party and imbibe … then a dedicated Enthusiast will follow that gospel.

As the evening wears on, however, and the open bar begins to claim it first victims; the illusion wears off, things disintegrate. Come home-time, the rag-bag crowd that stumbles out bears an uncanny resemblance to the crumpled, disheveled, sartorially oblivious exhibitionists seen ejected from an underage gathering on New Years.

This slithering descent from glittering superiority to infantile subservience can be blamed entirely on that simple phrase, “it’s for charity.”

I mean, if someone offers you a beverage in the name of Breast Cancer Research, who are you to turn down libations so loaded with altruism and generosity? If your very presence at the bar is going to lead to a breakthrough in genetic science, is it your decision as to how long to stay? Has vodka ever tasted better than when it is laced with pure, organic self-satisfaction?

And the best thing about benevolent drinking has to be the fact that no matter how late you show up to work the next day, how much like a distillery you may smell and how green a complexion you may have … a simple utterance of that invaluable phrase—the pained whisper of just four harmless little words, “it was for charity”—will instantly relieve you of any guilt, any remorse and any strenuous activities.

 
—Milla

Bottles photo courtesy of  de la Ronde, flickr.
Bucket photo courtesy of tray, flickr.

 
Sometimes you can take a good thing too far. In college I decided to man the helm of a weekly Wednesday on-campus celebration known as 40s Night. Typically this tradition started during orientation week and served as a way for the freshmen to meet the upper classes in a jovial and quite enthusiastic environment. It would continue throughout the first month of school before petering out as the Portland weather turned sour and everyone became entrenched in classwork. This particular year however, I was taking a semester off. And, through circumstance to be discussed at a later date, was not gainfully employed. Needless to say, I had a fair amount of free time on my hands.

Through the Enthusiast network at our school, I found out that one could obtain 40s of PBR at a very reasonable rate from a liquor distributor on the other side of town. Each week we would scrape together $100 or so, secure a vehicle, and make our pilgrimage.

The first week we were busted by campus security hiding the bottles in a freshman’s first floor room. So for the following week I devised a method of not only keeping the beer hidden, but keeping it cold and mobile at the same time. Every Wednesday we’d secure a large, rolling recycling bin, empty the contents, and line it with a garbage bag. Then we would load in the bottles, surrounding each successive layer with ice. At about 10 pm, after a couple of hours of chilling, we’d roll the thing over to our designated location and open up shop. The cut-rate supplier combined with fair, but inflated pricing allowed for over 100% profit—in no time I would make back the initial investment and then some, drinking for free all the while.

These were some of my happiest times in college. I quickly became know as The-Fucking-Man on campus and made some lifelong friendships with the entering class of that year. Weeks went by and campus authorities started to get annoyed by the Wednesday night complaints from people “trying to study” and who were “getting distracted” by the baudy noise that came from our revelry. Eventually I was told by the class president that the noise was a real problem and we had to do something about it. Rather than take this as a sign that it was time to shut it down, I just moved us to the Student Union where we could close the doors and minimize noise.

A handful more weeks went by and campus emptied out for Fall break. By this time, the administration had really started to put the heat on 40s night and  I was squarely at the center of the issue. I was determined that we should have one last, good run and intended to call the whole thing off when everyone got back. But the damage had been done. One thing led to another and, non-student that I was, I got banned from campus for the remainder of the semester.

Our school had a notoriously forgiving policy towards that type of thing, but I had clearly crossed a line. Naturally, as an Enthusiast, this is a line that I crossed on a handful of other, unrelated occasions in the future, but I did learn a valuable lesson from that first time. No matter how awesome an idea, and how well executed, you can’t fly too close to the sun without getting burned. That said, I was fortunate that even at that high altitude, I managed to only singe my wings, rather than go down in a ball of flame. In the end, I will forever look back on those nights of 40s fondly—as my most successful (drunken) venture to-date.

 
—Christian

Case of PBR photo courtesy of 40ozmaltliquor.com.
Recycling bins photo courtesy of Dano, flickr.
No Trespassing photo courtesy of Daquella Manera, flickr.

—Jason

I don’t usually wax philosophical (preferring more often to wax off—bah dump chssht!), but I wanted to take a moment to question a few things about drinking, or rather attitudes towards it here in the good ol’ US of A.

I’m talking about all the raised eyebrows and whispers around the watercooler when you show up to work hungover, the hangdog looks and the “I’m sorrys” that accompany particularly great nights out with the boys, even the stern talks with yourself in the mirror Saturday morning when you find the 200 bucks you took out for the whole weekend is now $16.89.

It’s a deep-seated thing, a bad genetic memory even—this Puritanical notion that drinking is bad. Not bad for you, or bad for the earth or bad tasting, but just simply Bad. Morally reprehensible. Evil. Wrong. There’s a stigma surrounding drinking and it’s especially prevalent in the US, where a good many of us are descended from our European brethren who made a run for it way back in the day. It runs deep in many and it’s time we put things in perspective.

I would like to posit to our readers that drinking is not only not bad, but good—even healthy and beneficial to the bodies, minds and souls of those that decide to partake of the Enthusiast’s much-maligned drug of choice. Here’s why:
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