Dec
16
2010

Diaries of a cigarette girl: Part 3

—Chelsea

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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Dec
02
2010

Diaries of a cigarette girl: Part 1

—Chelsea

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

As a teenager I was shy, awkward, and lonely. I devoted most of my free time to solitary pursuits: writing to my pen pals, listening to records in my room, watching my favorite Japanese soap operas. Socializing was not my strong suit and I was rarely invited to the parties and high school dances where most kids experience an assortment of Firsts: first date, first kiss, first swig of beer, first bitter puff of someone’s cigarette. Hearing my peers talk of their typical adolescent antics was like listening to stories from another time and place, completely foreign and without context. Needless to say, I did not drink, ever.
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May
19
2010

My First Time

—Christian

Everyone remembers the first time they got drunk (at least the fact that it happened, anyway). I’m not talking about the 13 years-old time you had a couple ounces of something with your friend in your room after your parents went to bed. I am talking about the first time you get bona-fide, rip-roaringly, falling-down drunk. For some people this doesn’t happen until freshman year of college, for others it comes at a disturbingly young age. I was more in the middle of the age spectrum when I first let my enthusiasm get the best of me.

It was actually a pretty epic experience, in retrospect. A family friend invited a bright eyed and bushy-tailed, 15 year-old version of yours truly to go with them on a chartered bus trip to a gig his band was playing out at Hampton Beach in New Hampshire. There was one “responsible” parent that came along with a bus full of underaged enthusiasts-in-training (although, to be fair, some of them already had full-blown enthusiasm issues), who, rather than being a draconian chaperone, ended up buying us booze after the show.
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