Oct
14
2010

You’re doin’ it wrong!

—Jason

It has come to our attention here at the Enthusiast that our best intentions may have gone astray. In fact, they may have jumped into a jeep, lit themselves on fire and driven headlong into the Grand Canyon, Thelma & Louise style…

Here are 4 ways of getting drunk we’ve recently heard of, and we’ve just gotta say … you’re doing it wrong.

4. Russian aftershave


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Jul
20
2010

drinkwel field testing: Jason

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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Jul
03
2010

Be proud, Enthusiasts!

—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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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.

 


May
26
2010

The Nail

—Jason
 

Today I’m going to tell you about something all Enthusiasts know about, have experienced, or are going to experience (for all you beginning your journey of enthusiasm).

It’s called The Nail.

Some of you might call it The Kicker, The Obliviator, The Long Kiss Goodnight or How I Met My Husband, but it’s the same thing the world ‘round: it’s the last drink that puts you over the edge. The one that makes you want to swear off drinking the next day, the one that makes you call and text everyone you know that you were with the night before asking:

It goes like this: all’s well, you’re out and about getting enthusiastic with enthusiasm. The drinks flow, the conversations are rolling. Typical effects of enthusiasm occur:

  1. I am a GREAT conversationalist!
  2. I am Hilarious! I should really think about going into stand-up.
  3. My God! I never knew I could sing this well!
  4. I am an AWESOME dancer! Yeah, I’m totally gonna talk to Rihanna ‘bout getting in her entourage …

And then:

“Less go get one more shot at the bar. No, ‘mfine, ‘swon more and then we out, promise.”

No matter what you end up ordering, the next drink you have is going to be The Nail.

The Nail. It comes in many forms:

  • A freebie of Fernet from the bartender
  • A shot of something you NEVER drink normally: “Gimme a shotta Aftershock, you got any a that? How ‘bout Goldschlager?”
  • Something super strong and expensive to keep the bartender from cutting you off: “He’s ordering a double Johnnie Walker Blue, I’m not passing up the tip on that!”

Whatever your Nail was, one thing is certain: you are done.

The next thing you know, it’s tomorrow. Your “recently dialed” log on your cell looks like someone put the thing on random autodial. Hazily, the fragmented conversations come back to you:

 
College buddy:

“Dude, dude, dude … did I wake you up? What’s up, man? Haven’t talked to you in soo long, bro, What’s up, man? Is someone crying? You have a daughter? Wow, man …What’s up, man? Did I wake you up?” Click.

 
Your ex:

(Softly) “Heeeey you …what’s happening? I miss you. … I been thinking about us a lot recently, you know, the times we had … man, I should have never let you go. Are you at home?”  Click.

 
Directory assistance:

“Um. Illinois. Shaumberg. Kendra Duck. D-U-C-K. Thank you.”

 
Girl from high school:

“Kendra? Kendra …’sat you? Oh man! Wow! It’s me, Jason! From East High School! What? Oh fuck, man I forgot it’s like two hours later where you are. …What?” Click.

“Hey! Don’ you hangup on me! What you wrote in my yearbook was a lie!! A LIE! Cocktease.”

 
Pizza place:

“Yeah, I’m gonna need an extra large with pep, onion and mushroom … um, and 30 wings. And then, um, six wings.”

“Wait, what? Do you want 30 wings or six wings?”

“D’you sell beer?” Click.

 
Taxi:

“C’you … C’yoo … C’you … um … uh … find me with yer Jeepy S?” Click.

The pieces come back slowly, but they are horrifying as they reassemble into the Assout omelette that was your night last night. You hope against hope that you didn’t drext.

Did you drext?

You drexted.

Your boss.



Same ex.


Dude you met just pre-Nail.


Your wife.

 
I think you get it. So rather than try to wrap up with a witty dénouement, I shall leave you with this parting shot:

Whether it be the one that’s coming for you next, or the one you just survived and are living down right now, know this: The Nail is ours. A Nail will come out, but its hole remains … so let’s love The Nail and embrace The Nail. The stories, the shame, the laughter and the adventures at the edge of Oblivion. Painful as it might be, enthusiasts, The Nail is our way of showing that we’re only human, after all.

Cheers!

First nail photo courtesy of Clearly Ambiguous,  flickr.

 
Quick update: This post was dedicated to Sean Chapman—the guy that introduced me to , and has served me many, many, many of The Nail. He’s a good friend, a great bartender and a kickass artist. Do yourself a favor and check out his work here.

 


May
17
2010

Last night a Fernet saved my life.

Fernet Branca

If you live in our lovely city by the bay, then you may already be familiar with this potent elixir of joy.

But if you are visiting this blog from somewhere other than San Francisco or Argentina (welcome, fellow Enthusiasts!) you may not know much about this local hero of a beverage.

For us, Fernet is an “industry drink”—the “industry,” in this case, being the one that is often ironically referred to as “hospitality.”  This would include restaurant, hotel, theme park, general tourism, and though I have no experience with it, I’m pretty sure retail overlaps quite a bit. For the purposes of this post, I speak about Fernet from the POV of the corporate restaurant sweatshop worker, as that is how yours truly became quite the fan of this little bit o’ Darth Vader in a glass.

It’s bad. I mean, really bad. For non-industry people, just the smell is enough to put them off drinking for a good long time. They look at you in bewildered confusion—why on earth would anyone voluntarily drink this stuff?
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Apr
08
2010

For experts only

Living in San Francisco has its ups and downs.

The ups? Well, living in one of the best damn cities in the world.

The downs? Rent, taxes, food, and hookers all cost so much more here. But what really ends up punishing my wallet the most is also the thing I love to do the most.

Well, maybe not the most. But I’m learning discipline. Little by little.

And penis dry heaves are lessons that teach themselves. But I digress.

Yes. That is what we call it now. Fap.

I needed a balance between $220 bar tabs (that I only remembered the first $70 of) and spraying Lysol into the cap and shooting it.

Wait, what?

Yes. I just told you that I did that. You do know you are reading The Alcohol Enthusiast, right?

Let’s just say that I don’t curb my enthusiasm.

That’s why I turned to the Gate. The Royal Gate.

In your city it’s called such things as: “Eye Fuck” and “Rubbing Alcohol” and the cartoony yet foreboding “XXX.”

Look, this is the cheapest vodka I can get that’s still in a bottle made of glass. It’s $9.99 AND it’s Royal. I thought it might be a great way to save money by mixing it with Citrus Vitamin Water.

I thought it would be a good compromise. It was.

Of my consciousness.

And my bowels.

No, the camera is *fine*. This is how it always looks. Blurry.

Not pictured: me. For three days.

Oh, right. Like you don’t shit all over yourself sometimes. The only reason you kept reading past “Royal Gate” was to see if the same thing had happened to me.

But, hey…the upside was this: I had only spent about 12 bucks on booze that night/weekend/week. I had about $81 dollars in my pocket that I hadn’t just pissed away on teeny Fernet shots and overpriced watered down vodka tonics. What to do with my sudden windfall?

I could just see a movie…

fap fap fap fap fap fap fap fap fap fap fap fap fap fap.

Forget about saving money in this city. It’s for experts only. And I, dear friends, am an enthusiast, not an expert.

 
Jason