drinkwel field testing: 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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Be proud, Enthusiasts!


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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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.



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