Jul
21
2011

The Drunkest I’ve Ever Been: Lost in Portland

—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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Jul
14
2011

Haiku for Drunks: Moonshine

Thanks to all the Enthusiasts who entered our Moonshine haiku competition, and cheers to our winners, Naomi and Christina. Here are their haiku:

***

—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

***

—Christina

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


Jul
08
2011

The Drunkest I’ve Ever Been: Visit to the homeland

—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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Jul
01
2011

The Drunkest I’ve Ever Been: The exciting conclusion of 2010

—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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May
13
2011

The Dude’s White Russian journey

—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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May
12
2011

Haiku for drunks: Walter Sobchak

—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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Apr
08
2011

My First Time

—Prez

Before I recount the tale of my first time, let me first provide a little back-story. You may not be aware of this, but I was born and raised in Eastern Europe: the land of accordions, iron curtains, and vodka. The Double E is also a land that doesn’t simultaneously glorify and vilify drinking like America has a tendency to do. In the old country, enthusing is a part of normal day-to-day life. It’s simply in our blood. And as such I feel I should have some leeway when it comes to that pesky BAC limit—but I digress. Sure we have our problems with overly enthusiastic relatives and dangerously inebriated soccer hooligans, but there isn’t a big social stigma against drinking itself, and certainly not against enthusing at “disturbingly young” ages. I don’t remember there being an official drinking age, and if there was, it was certainly never enforced.

Asking me to recall my first time trying an alcoholic beverage is like me asking you to recall your first birthday party. I was simply too young to remember the very first time that the sweet nectar-of-the-gods touched my lips. I do recall my father/priest/grandma/doctor letting me try some of whatever they were drinking on multiple occasions in my extreme youth, so let’s just say it first happened when I was 4 and wrap up this part of the flashback.

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Mar
16
2011

Strange bedfellows: A Vegas adventure

—Prez

Ah, Vegas, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways… Of course, I can’t tell you exactly what happened on each trip, I was sworn to secrecy upon arrival at McCarran International Airport by a scruffy man who approached me in the men’s room and assured me that “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” In retrospect, I probably should have told an adult, but hey, IT’S VEGAS!

Forget the family-friendly image Vegas has been trying to push lately; Sin City is all about indulging your vices. And mine happens to be over-enthusing to my heart’s content.  Sure, I’ll be the first to admit that Vegas is not for everyone, but every alcohol-blooded, booze fan should think of it as Mecca: a holy place that every Enthusiast should pilgrimage to at least once in their lifetime—preferably once a year.
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Dec
28
2010

Diaries of a cigarette girl: Part 5

—Chelsea

Guest writer Chelsea regales us with her first forays into the wild world of booze in this multipart series.

Working as a cigarette girl is only partially about selling cigarettes. It’s much more about selling yourself. A Peachy Puff is a product, and when a customer buys a pack of cigarettes from her, he’s also buying her company. It’s a form of very short-term, platonic prostitution. This is where it came in handy to be witty, funny, and exciting, because these things were the real wares we were peddling, much more so than the packs of gum and the disposable lighters. But this could cause some confusion about the role of a Puff as well; we were propositioned often, if not nightly.

I can’t tell you how many times people tried to pay me to party with them at someone’s house after the bars closed. I remember one guy drunkenly trying to convince me to come play a late-night game of tennis, with complete sincerity. But sometimes, people were looking for more than just friendly company. Once, a man with a thick accent and an old-fashioned pinstripe suit and hat pulled me over to sit next to him. He wrapped his arm around me, telling me that he wanted me to come back to his hotel room with him. “I have a jacuzzi in my room,” he offered. “You don’t have to take all your clothes off, just wear your panties.” He pulled out a huge wad of hundred dollar bills—more than I had ever seen in my life—and waved it in front of my face, saying “Don’t you want this? Take it.” I quickly removed his arm from around my shoulders, smiling nervously, and hurried off.

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Dec
21
2010

Diaries of a cigarette girl: Part 4

—Chelsea

Guest writer Chelsea regales us with her first forays into the wild world of booze in this multipart series.

The Peachy Puffs were a motley bunch of tough, loud, beautiful, shit-talking night owls, who would do almost anything for an easy buck. And by easy I mean, not requiring 40 hours a week behind a desk, a Bachelor’s degree, or getting out of bed before noon. These girls were hustlers. The maximum amount of money in the shortest amount of time was the goal, and many also took work as alcohol promotion girls, models, gogo dancers, and drug dealers—as long as the pay was in cash and under the table. The turnover rate was high, as the job can be intense. Many girls quit after one or two nights. But there were some stalwarts who became my nightly companions.

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