Drunk personality types: Part II


Anyone who drinks has a drunk personality type. In Part I of this post, we described 6 of the most common drunk personality types. For Part II, we’ll look at 5 of the slightly-less-common types.

Your drunk personality may be a louder, more naked, and less funny version of sober-you. Or maybe you’ve got some intense Jekyll and Hyde shit going on. Either way: your drunk personality emerges when you’re maximally inebriated and it’s the heart and soul of your drunken self.

The Philosopher. (Thanks to our friend Alice for this one.) He’s a variation of The Oversharer (see Part I), but he’s not looking for any feedback—in furrowed brow form, in hugs, in speech, or otherwise. The guy sitting at the bar by himself seemed harmless enough. So when he smiled, made a totally normal comment about the sports team playing on the bar TV, and motioned for you to sit, you thought—why not? With an open mind, you belly up. And no sooner does language start flooding from your new friend’s mouth do you realize you’ve made a terrible, tragic mistake. First of all, he doesn’t want to talk about the sports game at all—the ball they’re playing with is apparently a well-made helium balloon, and the players merely engaged in an elaborate ballet. Also, they’re cyborgs. Wait, you didn’t take that literally—did you? The only truth is that there is none. It’s all a socially-constructed, collective lie we’ve agreed to reinforce for each other—like my fucking ex-wife! That bitch lied a lot. She said she’d never get fat. She told me she’d never suck my brother’s dick. There’s no “knowing.” But you’re probably too enamored of the mirage to really understand.
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Diaries of a cigarette girl: Part 3


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

Despite my novice status as a drinker, alcohol quickly became my fuel, pushing me through the insanity of each night as a cigarette girl. I knew nothing about cocktails so I usually asked the bartenders to make me something they liked themselves. The beautiful brunette tending bar at the upscale dance club on Broadway made me an ultra-sweet concoction in a martini glass called a Purple Hooter; the friendly, scruffy-faced guy at the dingy sports bar made me a SoCo and peach schnapps atrocity called an Alabama Slammer. The geeky bar-back who clearly harbored a crush always greeted me with two shots of Fernet, one for me and one for him. And the aging, chubby queen behind the bar at my favorite gay dive made me a large juice glass filled to the top with his secret recipe for a Vanilla Cosmo, which he refused to reveal. I didn’t know what I liked, so I would try just about anything. I never had to ask for a drink, as bartenders tended to have some affection for the cute Peachy Puff girls, and offered booze freely to us. I enjoyed the camaraderie I felt with my fellow night workers, and they, along with the drinks they shared with me, were my only comfort during each night of stressful, fast-paced, disorienting work.

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Alcohol related games, by nature, require a certain amount of binge drinking. I mean, that’s the point, right? But no game that I have encountered necessitates the rapid consumption of liquor faster or in greater quantities than Quarters.

While I am sure there are many iterations, the rules we played by are fairly simple. You can play with as few as two or as many as you have room for/who are willing. The object of the game is to bounce a quarter off the table and into a shot glass. You go around in a circle, each taking turns. If you manage to get the quarter into the glass, then the person to your left must do the same or else they have to drink. If they make the shot, the onus falls on the person to their left, and so on.

We used to play with a handful of quarters, so there was very little downtime between shooters and the quarters would start to pile up in the glass when everyone made their shot. The unlucky bastard that missed after a run of 4-5 hits had a lot of drinking to do. Not to mention that a full circuit of the players could take as little as thirty seconds. One way or the other, without a keen eye and a steady hand, you were going to end up rather tight (and possibly queasy) in very short order.

Of my friends, I was definitely the weakest link. Mercifully, they did not require full 1.5-2oz shots to be taken with every miss—a simple swig off the bottle would suffice—but it went quickly and we were liable to run through a fifth in no time. I think our record was eleven minutes for a bottle of Knob between six people. Yours truly took the brunt of that blow and definitely paid the price about halfway through. But never fear, Enthusiasts, boot though I may—I did not hesitate to rally.




My First Time


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.”

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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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