It’s Bartender Appreciation Day! In honor of the gods and goddesses behind the stick, here are some “dos” and “don’ts” to help you be the best drunkard you can be—provided by our dear friend Haley, who tends bar in Portland, OR.

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—Haley

Thanks for appreciating all the ass kickin’, kissin’ and holes we deal with. Here’s some pointers to show you give a shit. Because saying “you work in the industry” doesn’t mean jack. Frankly, it can be a little insulting.

Your lovely bartender—off-duty

Don’t…
1. Pound on the bar to get my attention. I see you. I see the 50 other people standing around you, and the 4 that are immediately in front of me. Your lack of patience and common courtesy makes me want to make you wait longer.
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—Leila

It’s getting toward the end of the year, and if your 2011 New Year’s resolution was anything like mine—more day drinking—then you’re probably realizing right about now that your best intentions quietly slipped away sometime in … well, let’s face it, early January. Damn work.

But unlike with all your other failed resolutions, there’s still time for this one before the clock strikes 2012.

“But Leila,” I can almost hear you saying, “when will I find time for all this merrymaking? I have things to do! Presents to buy! Holiday parties to attend!”

First of all, quit your whining. Second, I have a solution to all of these problems and more, because you and I are getting ready to make infused liquor as holiday gifts for all your friends and (selected) family. Infused liquor is delicious, quick and easy and fun to make, and is appreciated both at holiday parties and as gifts. And you’re pretty much forced to taste it as it infuses! So let’s Martha Stewart it up and make some homemade gifts, shall we?
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—Tessa

It wasn’t my intention to begin my column about drinking in Antarctica while sitting at the bar at 8am on a Tuesday, but now that it’s happened, it seems like a very fitting start to these cold- and bourbon-fueled insights into alcohol enthusiasm at the end of the world. My name is Tessa and I’m a vagabond artist and voluntary canary down the coal mine currently working as a cook down at McMurdo Station, Antarctica. For the next fourish months, I’ll be working and drinking from my little home on the Ross Island Ice Shelf, and will be regaling you with tales of inebriation from the very, very deep South.
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—Brittany McLawStudent

Like so many of us, my drunken moments are depressing if not downright concerning. Considering the fact that I do NOT need an intervention in my life right now (I’m on a roll here!) I will tell you about one of the moments that I can look back on now, and muster a hearty, belly-rolicking chuckle.

Let’s set the scene: It’s prom night. No, not high-school prom—my 22 year-old boyfriend, who didn’t have enough sense to avoid knocking a 17-year-old up, did have enough (or was it shame?) to refuse to take me to that one.

Fast-forward to my next prom going opportunity. Hastings. Law. School. Prom.  Also known as “Barristers Ball.” Open Bar. Top-Shelf Liquor. Marble Floors (in hindsight, a terrible and dangerous idea—in fact, I’m surprised none of the assholes I go to school with have sued over it yet).  And bless those bartenders, they didn’t cut anyone off—the whole night!  Imagine the most stressed-out group of students finally letting loose with unlimited Patron, Makers’, and Grey Goose.
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—Haley

So, this one time when two of my favorite folks were in town…I got LOST.

There’s getting lost, being lost, and getting LOST. Getting lost can happen to most anyone, at any time. Being lost and getting LOST, I feel, are reserved for the habitually enthusiastic. Like the time I was shooting for 12th and Ladd and wound up at 28th and Stark with a skid mark all the way down my right arm (from connecting with a van while trying to slow my bike down enough to read a god forsaken street sign). I’d say this counts as being lost. Once I figured out what street I was on I knew where I was. Entirely different from getting LOST.
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Thanks to all the Enthusiasts who entered our Moonshine haiku competition, and cheers to our winners, Naomi and Christina. Here are their haiku:

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—Naomi

Take one deep breath in
hold it and swig that on down
swallow, then exhale

that is how I learned
to drink corn liquor white light
august on my lips

once in a log stump
trip to north carolina
1920 brew

smooth glass in my hands
peaches soaked at the bottom
of your mason jar

thought to pack the car
crate of that fire at my feet
drive west liquor rich

the thought came to me
of the incineration
if we were to crash

a wonderous sight
somewhere on the interstate
flames across the sky

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—Christina

Clear, pure on my tongue,
Beautiful Appalachia
has warmed this sweet soul.

—Prez

I’ll be honest with you guys; this was a tough one to come up with. I don’t want to brag too much, but I’ve been quite drunk quite a few times. For every good story I came up with, I was promptly reminded of a different time where I was even drunker. After searching the dark recesses of my mind and contacting some drinking buddies, I realized that one story stands out like a wine-drinker at a dive bar, and it happened on my trip to the homeland a few years back.

Technically, I could make the argument that the entire three-week visit was the drunkest I have ever been, since I don’t recall a day when I wasn’t heavily enthusing with some cousin, uncle, or childhood friend. Seriously, it was 21 days of non-stop alcohol consumption, but one drunken blur of a night stands head and shoulders above the rest (and it wasn’t the wedding that was the genesis of the trip, that’s a story for later).
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—Zip

I work at the One Union recording studio. One year, our annual Christmas party was to be followed by a recording session at 2am. Turns out we were connecting to Cape Town, South Africa to record “Ninja” from Die Antwoord. It was noon there.

The fancy shmancy restaurant we go to for dinner every year is Jardiniere, by the opera house. They pour drinks with a heavy hand! We all had some whiskey at the office before the party, and once there I indulged in my usual drinking of the oldest and most expensive scotch they have available (it’s on the boss’ tab!) The dinner went well, was really fun, and Jesus those scotches were huge! We ate scallops, steak, risotto, holy shit, tons of buttery french shit piled up on top of all that booze. I drank like an asshole even though I knew I had an overnight session coming up.
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—Ian

The “hero’s journey” (a term coined by American writer, Joseph Campbell) is a common theme in global mythology. Here, in a line from Campbell’s The Hero With a Thousand Faces, is the hero’s journey summarized:

“A hero ventures forth from the world of common day into a region of supernatural wonder: fabulous forces are there encountered and a decisive victory is won: the hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.”

This all-encompassing event in a person’s life happens in a series of defined stages: Departure, Initiation and Return. Each stage is then marked with various steps, the full list of which (with descriptions) can be read here.  In The Big Lebowski, the Dude’s journey follows this pattern. And interestingly, certain key steps of the adventure are heralded each time the Dude imbibes his favorite drink, the White Russian (or as he refers to it—the Caucasian).

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—Naomi

**
So many good men
Died face down in Hanoi mud
So we can drink this

**

Donny, my Donny
You are just like a child man
Please, shut the fuck up

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