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The Alcohol Enthusiast » The Alcohol Enthusiast
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Jul
01
2010

My First Time

—Josey


For some of us, our first time tanked did come at what some bloggers refer to as “a disturbingly young age.” Maybe it was the disturbingness of that awkward stage that lead this Enthusiast to her first bottle, or maybe it was the feverish anticipation of fourteen years and freshman year and the thrill of the unknown. It was July and one of my best friends at the time had returned recently from France, arriving triumphantly at SFO, her suitcase brimming with legally-bought bottles. Five of us girls schemed a sleepover at the victor’s home, waiting for parents to doze off before breaking fifths of tequila and rum from under piles of tucked-away clothes in a bedroom closet.

Less experienced than my companions, I was especially eager to pull the small round limes from my backpack and salt my thumb’s webbing. “It burns,” they explained. “Drink it fast.” Salt taste, then sharp, wet scent as I raised her parents’ shotglass. Acrid effervescence met at mouth with sour. “Oh shit,” I thought to myself. “This is great.”

Read more »


Jun
24
2010

An Enthusiast’s guide to drinking in public

 

Waking up to the hot-ass sun painfully penetrating one’s hung-the-fuck-over frontal lobe is enough to make any Enthusiast want to start throwing sheets to the wind. It’s summer, and street fairs, parks, playgrounds, public beaches, marathons, county fairs, and the slightly-less urine-soaked bus stop in front of your girlfriend’s stepmom’s apartment complex are looking ripe for the boozing in.*

In a pinch, any alcoholic substance within grabbing distance can (and should) be consumed outside—but there are certain hassles and risks involved when said outdoors is in what the courts define as “public.” So, if  you have some imbibe-preparation time, here are a few insights to help your load stay light and legal record squeaky clean:

1. A 16-hour supply of beer is bulky as FUCK. For the Enthsiast on the go, that backpack of beer is your cross to bear. Same problem with bottles of wine, and the bladder from the Franzia box is a tad too conspicuous.

2. Liquor is quicker—but let’s face it: flasks don’t hold enough booze. Even the stylishness of this sneak-a-swig doesn’t compensate for the fact that you’re going to be out of Early Times before your first funnel cake.  And you have to suspect that around each woven-goods stall in Anytown Main Street Fair USA a cop could be waiting—waiting—for you to pull that bottle of Taaka out of your bag so he can escort your enthusiastic ass across the car-blocking barricades in full view of curious, face-painted children and/or tipsy adults, uncomfortably waiting for Porta Potties.
Read more »


Jun
16
2010

A veteran Enthusiast

Not to get all sappy, but to say my grandfather has been an inspiration for me would be an understatement. A member of “The Greatest Generation,” this is a man who lived through the Depression, graduated from Stanford, fought as a Naval commander in the South Pacific, ran a successful newspaper business that stretched up and down Washington state and has rarely—if ever—missed a cocktail hour.

Unfortunately, as he served in the Navy, this was not my grandfather’s plane—but I am sure he’d approve.

Maybe I move in the wrong circles, but the tradition of cocktail hour seems to have gone the way of smoking indoors and showing your appreciation of a female colleague’s good work with a firm pat on her behind. Which is why I have always relished the visits to my mother’s parents house which invariably included mandatory 5:30 alcohol consumption. It effectively forces informal personal interaction and has the obvious added benefit of making dinner conversation all the easier an hour later. These were the times in college when I would, with increasingly flushed cheeks, explain the various classes I was taking and be told that I should really read the paper every morning; that it was a shame the young people didn’t keep up on worldly events any more. It was there, too, that I learned how to make the basic cocktails and was able to sample a much wider variety of booze brands than my humble income would allow. Needless to say, I loved it.

My grandfather recently celebrated his 95th birthday. We had a big party the night before with a variety of guests—friends and family, young and old—and booze was plentiful. My grandfather, aged though he may be, was still the ultimate host and in a proud display of his long time enthusiasm, got up after dinner wearing a kilt with drink in hand and made a wonderfully succinct and largely humorous toast, with personal quips and recollections about each of the many who were present. Later, the night’s revelries pushed on, even as the older half of the crowd made their exit. A small contingent of us made our way to a local club and danced while male go-go dancers gyrated onstage. Upon returning to the house, and after filling a cooler with beer, we all jumped in the heated outdoor pool and eventually—and quite enthusiastically—watched the sun come up. Did I mention this started out as a 95th birthday party?

The next evening we held his official birthday dinner, with cocktail hour taking place, this day, at the restaurant. And what, fellow Enthusiast, does a 95-year-old man with the last name McClelland order, pre-meal, after about 80-plus years of cocktail hours? The same thing he’s drank for as long as I’ve know him—scotch on the rocks. I’ll be damned if he hasn’t found the secret to eternal youth.

—Christian

Cocktail Hour photo courtesy of Hawk914, flickr.
 


Jun
11
2010

4 incredibly assed-out things that I do when I’m drunk

 

#4: Try to get your dog drunk.

Look, this one’s horrible. You should never give a dog alcohol. But when I get rippin’, I will try. (I could include high, but that takes a little work and let’s face it; if you are going to work that hard to get a dog to inhale a popper or swallow some X, it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that you intend to fuck it. Good pet owners, shit, even bad ones—the kind they arrest on “Animal Cops”—have the foresight to remove their animal from your vicinity before said fuckage occurs.)

Anyway. Somehow cats have the foresight to get themselves the hell out of these situations, and go knock around the mouse turds on the top of your fridge, but dogs will walk into any goddamn room with people in it and start eating and drinking anything at their eye level. Ashtrays. Bongwater. And oh yes, that dish of Mickey’s I just poured.

Fucking relax. This is a close up of Joan Rivers trying to kiss her own reflection. In some bongwater I spilled.

Before you go call PETA, I should let you know that I have never successfully pulled this off. Apparently, dogs don’t like the smell of shame or failure, both of which emanate strongly from me and have permeated my clothing.

“I don’t love them clothes.”

See?
 

#3: SHOUT EVERY SINGLE THING I SAY.

Like:

“BRO! BRO-BRO! CHECK OUT YOUR DOG! DUDE! MAN! HE’S SO FUCKING WAAAAAYSTED!”
“…the fuck, man…My dog isn’t moving, dude! What’d you do to him?

“SO LIKE, WHAT? YOU AND YOUR MAN HAVIN’ TROUBLES? YOU NEED TO TALK? YOU SHOULD COME OVER AND CHECK OUT MY STEREO…MY DAD GOT IT FOR ME…YEAH, HE OWNS A DEALERSHIP…”
“Dude. Why are you talking to my girlfriend?”

“…BUT I’M LIKE, COOL WITH IT, ‘COS IT’S NOT GAY IF YOUR BALLS DON’T TOUCH, RIGHT?? RIGHT??”
“Um, yeah, man. It kind of is.”

“HELL YEAH I’LL DRINK PAINT THINNER!! THINNA!! YEEEEEAH! THINNA FO DINNA! THINNADINNA! THINNAMADINDIN!! WHOOOOO!”
“Hey, can you chill out just a bit? You need to calm down.”
 

#2: Find a way to sing “Baby Got Back.”

I LIKE BIG BUTTS ON A CAN OF FLIES! YOUR OTHER BROTHER MOTHER AND MINE!

The kitchen was packed a moment ago….bitches can’t handle my hand of conga…

I’m not sure I need to elaborate on this much more…
 

#1: Piss everywhere BUT the toilet.

I don’t know what makes me think I am clever when I stumble into your bathroom and pee on every roll of toilet paper in there, but I gotta say, it’s funny as shit when I’m doing it.

In hindsight, I’m pretty sure that nothing puts a woman in a throat punching, stiletto heel heart stabbing, testicle crushing, murderous rage than having your skirt around your waist and grabbing a handful of piss sopped pulp to wipe with. Fortunately, you can gratify those throat-punchy, heart-stabby, ball-crushy urges practically instantly, because I’ll just be in the next room telling my “secret” to the dudes.

By shouting it.

DUDE, DUDE! DON’T SAY ANYTHING BUT I JUST PISSED ALL OVER THE PLACE! I DECIMATED EVERY ROLL KEVIN HAS, MAN! DUDE! NO ONE CAN TOP THAT!!

Oh, wait.

(This may explain the sexual “Dry Spell” I went through from 1989-2009.)
Wipe that fucking smirk off your face. 2010 ain’t over yet.

 
—Jason

Dog photo courtesy of Mike Fischer,  flickr.
Snoop photo courtesy of chicagofabulous,  flickr.
Drunk dancing photo courtesy of melle oh, flickr.
R Kelly photo courtesy of andrew steinmetz, flickr.
Joan Rivers photo courtesy of david shankbone, flickr.

 


Jun
07
2010

Drunk of the Day

Let’s travel back a couple years, and to a place its locals occasionally refer to as “San Diego.”

It was somebody who may or may not also write for this blog’s birthday, and he may or may not have been turning a year that was one shy of a quarter century. What better way to celebrate, he might have mulled, than crashing for a weekend at a friend’s home in California’s most stereotypically sun-filled of cities? A perfect venue for copious daytime-beach into nighttime-bar-hop booze binging.

The birthday eve began as many had before, with a promise among several present to ingest a certain number of drinks that equaled the years that this possible-future blogger was aging towards. Sharpies were located and stuffed in jean pockets, for keeping semi-permanent tally.

Twenty-four increasingly wavy, lengthy, and/or jagged lines snaked around the forearms of the participants’ arms before the clock ticked past three hours prior to West Coast last call. And the night, she was young yet.
Read more »


May
23
2010

Drunkbook

Do I have a horrifying personal story to share about drunk Facebooking? That’s for me to know, and regrettably blurt out in hour six of next week’s Little Friday festivities. I’m sure if we drink hard enough we’ll be able to squeeze my wasted Facebook confessionals in between my shameful vomiting story (junior year of college edition, version Tuesday, part bushes on the edge of the quad); and your semi-coherent ramblings about your obsession with your co-workers’ significant other (“… and, like, I don’t understand why everyone needs to be so fucking possessive, and fucking … do you think they’d be into, like, a threesome or something? I’m gonnacall right now. I don’t think that’s weird—doyouthinkthat’sweird??”)

But what would an Enthusiast blog be without a comment on the ancient art of drunk Facebooking? Made all the worse by the proliferation of every Enthusiasts’s favorite frenemy—the smart phone—Drunkbook is an integral part of a morning, afternoon, or evening out, as well as the following day’s hungover shamefest.

Unlike the drunk dials of yesteryear, whatever you don’t remember revealing as you stumbled home, barefoot, has been preserved in all it’s cringing detail—and not just in your exes memory or on his or her message machine. And unlike the still-persistent drext (also recorded for your future horrification), it’s not just the two or eight fortunates you made direct contact with that you need to hide from and/or apologize to later—a list of hundreds of former and current friends and lovers, co-workers, classmates, and even family members will wipe the sleep from their eyes on Sunday morning, log on to their respective accounts, and bear witness to your 5:24-6:54 a.m. rampage across their walls, photo albums, and your eighteen status updates, all mis-spelled atrociously, all caps all the way. And exclamation marks—oh, so very many exclamation marks.

It could be worse. At least you didn’t create a fan page devoted to your douchey blog about functional alcoholism as a lifestyle choice and all the perils and pleasures that accompany this—and then ask everyone on your list to join.

Back in the dark ages of Drunkbook, before they made Newsfeed, your mistakes may have been public, but they weren’t shoved so forcefully in everyone’s face(book). Now with Newsfeed + mobile updating capabilities, Facebook seems scarily designed to keep us Enthusiasts in a constant social networking shame spiral.

Also important to remember, fellow Enthusiasts: even if you delete “U LOOOOK SOUPER FUUKING HOTTTT IN THIS PIC!!!!!!!1!!!!!! COME OVER AND LET”S FUCK XXX SSOMETIME HAHAHA!!1!!@!!!!!! LIKE TOONITE????????!!” from the comments of your male and/or female acquaintance from middle school’s “Halloween ’07” album by Bloody Mary time the following day, not only has everyone compulsively checking Facebook on their iPhones at the party and/or bar last night already had seven hours to see your shame in their ‘Feed, but all four utter strangers who soberly and normally commented on said-photo two-and-a-half years prior (“Looking sexy! Epic times at that party. =)”) have notifications of your slurred rant in their email inboxes.

(Side note: worse, perhaps, than the obviously-intoxicated comments are the heavily-cloaked-in-seeming-sobriety ones. The silent storm, the quiet rampage of comments that are well-spelled and punctuated, yet subtly off. Should you really be commenting on the cute-messy-baby picture your friend’s friend posted, obviously for the enjoyment of close friends and family?” [And at 3:32 a.m., no less?] You come across as something of a creep. Not to mention committing the Facebook version of every Enthusiast’s favorite hobby—making set-in-stone social plans while blacked-out.)

Stand proud, fellow Enthusiast. Deleting now is an admission of defeat. Not everyone who saw your: “WAAAAY-STEEEEED!!!!!! CUM TO THE BAR WITH ME I LOVE TAQUILLAAAA!!!1!!!!1 AND I WANT TO MAKE OUR WIYTH YOUUUUUU” and/or “aLL you hot bitches wantto $uck my huge dick” (dramatization; actual drunk statii will vary greatly), will think that was a fucking stupid-ass update. Some of them won’t have slept yet. And, leering at bright screens in their window-blinded apartments, while clutching shakily at, and swigging from, near-empty bottles of Jack—they’ll laugh. These Enthusiasts understand you were only half-serious—and besides, they love tequila and/or making out with everyone and/or your penis and/or their own penis, too.

And then when they awaken with splitting headaches and dry mouths later that night, and, from the comfort of their beds, decide to check Facebook, a shudder of shame will ripple through their aching and hungover bodies, when they see that little thumbs-up with their name, affirmative, beside your stupid-ass status drupdate.

 
—Josey

 


May
19
2010

My First Time

—Christian

Everyone remembers the first time they got drunk (at least the fact that it happened, anyway). I’m not talking about the 13 years-old time you had a couple ounces of something with your friend in your room after your parents went to bed. I am talking about the first time you get bona-fide, rip-roaringly, falling-down drunk. For some people this doesn’t happen until freshman year of college, for others it comes at a disturbingly young age. I was more in the middle of the age spectrum when I first let my enthusiasm get the best of me.

It was actually a pretty epic experience, in retrospect. A family friend invited a bright eyed and bushy-tailed, 15 year-old version of yours truly to go with them on a chartered bus trip to a gig his band was playing out at Hampton Beach in New Hampshire. There was one “responsible” parent that came along with a bus full of underaged enthusiasts-in-training (although, to be fair, some of them already had full-blown enthusiasm issues), who, rather than being a draconian chaperone, ended up buying us booze after the show.
Read more »


May
15
2010

I did that?!? Not actually a person from Afghanistan

Back before we knew alcohol could kill you, in multiple ways, I was known to have a tipple or two of an evening. This occasional column, intended strictly for cautionary purposes, is about some of those multiple ways and some of those evenings.

We’re going to see the Tubes on their first-ever tour of the States (yeah, that long ago–you don’t even know who the fuck the Tubes are). And, of course, this being winter in Michigan, we’re wasted.

Not wasted enough, apparently. When the later-to-be-famous out-of-town rock critic offers your humble reporter a Quaalude to top off a 12-pack of Stroh’s, the humble reporter wolfs it, only to report back to the critic 20 minutes later that his motherfuckin’ Quaaludes ain’t working, what the fuck?!?

So he hands me another.

We harass the Tubes onstage–most of the harassing being done by the perma-wasted crazy guy who’s driving us(!) and who actually works at an insane asylum. He’s barking “Fuck you!” over and over in the lead guitarist’s face. Nevertheless, after the show, we follow the band back to their motel and barge in on the after-party, where, luckily, there is fine California weed to augment one’s dual-ludes-and-12-pack high.

Then we hit the road for whatever other lethal perils might be found in the frozen Michigan midnight.

We’re tooling down the highway, madman at the wheel, en route from somewhere up north to Ann Arbor down south when we spot a hitchhiker, and the madman decides to stop. Or decides a little late. So first he has to throw it into reverse on the highway. As the hitchhiker slings his duffle bag in the back seat with me, I–answering the inscrutable logic of the buzz–get out and lay behind the car. Whereupon the madman backs up some more until he’s pinned my arm. Eventually, I yell enough for him to pull forward and set me free and yell some more when I take my seat back in the car next to the (frightened? psychopathic?) hitchhiker.

Then I see her.

Turns out the hitchhiker has a girlfriend. In the dimness, I can just make out her golden tresses, wavy and multi-hued, by the far window on the other side of her man and his hobo luggage. She is gorgeous–or her hair is. And I have no shame.

I snake my arm behind the hitchhiker to tentatively touch Sister Goldenhair. She doesn’t respond. Except, well, she doesn’t respond! Which may be the best response a guy in my condition could ever hope for. She doesn’t recoil. She doesn’t retch. She doesn’t complain to her boyfriend or jump out of the car. Emboldened, I run my fingers more assertively through her mane. Again, no response. No slapping hand. No screaming, ducking, nodding or otherwise shrinking from my advances. Nor, thanks to my cat-like dexterity, does her boyfriend notice.

Now I am full on petting her, or at least her head, transported by that sleek, golden coiffure. But as my hands dance lovingly around the lassie’s noggin, it dawns on me that there is something odd. At first, I deny it. How could there be anything wrong with the most beautiful woman in the world? The most beautiful–and pliable–woman in the world?

I begin to explore. My hand arches to encompass the top of her, admittedly, not very large head, which seems to ultimately form into some kind of bump. No, bigger than a bump–a red-rubber-ball-sized mini-dome. My hand rotates left and right to assess its true circumference, but there’s just no getting around it: the top of this girl’s head comes to a weird, blunt point.

I rouse myself from erotic reveries and lean forward to peer past the hitchhiker. And it is then that I see, finally, that the love of my life, the object of my fondest fantasies, the shining vision of my drunken vision quest, is indeed an Afghan. And not, mind you, a person from Afghanistan.

Yes, dear reader, this Alcohol Enthusiast came on to a dog.

Postscript: Many years later, after I had shared this tale far and wide, a commercial for (I think) BMW came on the TV. It was a typical scene of a couple in a top-down convertible speeding down a scenic highway. The view was from the rear and overhead. The man, who was driving, wore shades. His lady sported gorgeous golden tresses, which blew in the breeze. Then the camera flipped around, and we could see the couple from the front. Of course, she turned out to be an Afghan dog.

My question: can I sue?

 
—Toots Shor

Stroh’s photo courtesy of prettywar-stl, Flickr.

 


May
13
2010

From underage to overpriced

Am I seeing things, or is that tiger leering at that innocent vocalist?

Every Enthusiast knows that nothing—nothing—goes better with booze than music. Especially live music.

Sure, I might have made a similar statement about drinking and air travel in a previous post, and I meant that one, too. It’s just that I mean this one way, way more. And don’t you dare think this is the final, super-definitive statement about “nothing going better with alcohol than…” that you’ve heard out of this Enthusiast. After all, what goes better with enthusiasm than loudly proclaimed, sweeping generalizations and over-blown, oft-self-aggrandizing, defiantly definitive statements which are always forgotten entirely until sobriety returns, rearing its dehydrating, leg-muscle-spasm-causing, sinus-duct-pinching presence? (Hangover symptoms may vary.)

Many of us Enthusiasts have been on this rodeo circuit for many, many years, despite little restrictions like the “law” and, additionally and prior to that, our “parents” or “legal” “guardians” telling us that we had to be over 21 (or whatever your country of adolescence’s legal boozing age is) to ride this liquid freight train straight to Enthusiasmville.

Nothing could ever stop this Enthusiast, for one, from getting wasted before seeing all my favorite bands play live. We all liked a lot of what we now realize are hilariously bad bands as we trundled awkwardly through middle and high school, so I’ll spare myself the added shame and you the boring—the way that other people’s pictures of themselves in front of C-List tourist monuments are boring—deets. This blog is about alcohol enthusiasm, anyways.

Concerts meant long, sweaty lines of washed-out dyed green hair, and tattered, baggy black tee-shirts emblazoned with imposing logos and sharp, cracked white or raised silver lettering. And acne, and loosely-laced skate shoes. Then there were the shoulder-tap acquired plastic jugs of bottom-shelf, ice-clear liquid-panty-remover, poured gingerly into dumped-out and more discrete plastic water bottles that we could slyly swig from in line. All of this burning through our throats, and chased by M&Ms or crackers and the intense desire to get super wasted before it was our turn to get padded down by security on our way through the stadium and/or venue and/or pier gates. Enviously, we watched our elders lined up at beer-fueling stations, or aside long bars, ordering and receiving that which we’d only carried in with our bloodstreams. So cool with their big plastic branded cups and/or fancy little glasses with their fancy little twin straws. By the time your or my mom and/or dad arrived to collect the sweaty teenaged music lovers, splitting headaches and joy waltzed hand in hand into the blissful sunset of our fuzzy brains as we raced down highways, home.

Last night I got drunk at a fancier-then-I recall-from-being-a-tipsy-15-year-old venue in San Francisco. Pushing past crowds towards the wrist band line, where ID shares were exchanged for rights to buy pricey cocktails, I wondered—was this what I had lusted after, when secretly guzzling seared clear liquid from those plastic lips in preparation for lights up, ear-splitting, cheering, shoving, encore? These short, flimsy receptacles lousy with warming ice cubes, infused with the faintest splash of the essence of vodka or bourbon?

Maybe you just don’t know what you got, until it becomes wildly age inappropriate to participate in it.

And we flashed our IDs to have our wrists festooned with paper bracelets, and we pushed our way past heavily-perfumed, shot taking, bumpit-ponytailed women to swig that which we still and always, lust after.

 
—Josey

Tiger lusting after rock star photo courtesy of Easystreet.

 


May
04
2010

Drinks on the plane

Drinking and airplanes go together like discount gin and regrettable sex partners. But even the seemingly-happiest of marriages ends in divorce sometimes—just as once in a while, those adorable little bottles of booze will turn on you. Not on me, personally—quite the contrary. Airplanes and airports are definitely in my top ten list of favorite places to get wasted. I mean, as someone who’s spent the majority of her post-21/fake ID having years in major metropolitan areas only, the airport is the only location in my life where Chilli’s TOO is considered a totally awesome bar (I cannot vouch for rural/super suburban and/or Midwest living, so if the TOO is your fav local haunt, my bad, man—and no disrespect). By the way: Shout out to the Chilli’s TOOs at OAK and SEA and wherever else you’re plying away pre-plane jitters with your gateside full bar. Your extremely gigantic margaritas really enhance my flying experience.

But even though it’s never happened to me, I have seen the plane drunken-ness rear it’s hideous head.
Read more »


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