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.




Drunk of the Day: “Where you there when I was asleep?”


We are looking to move into a better apartment and thus, spent a recent Saturday afternoon scoping out potential future abodes. Little did we know that while touring one (pretty damn nice, but way isolated) building, we’d meet the Drunk of the Day.

Drunk of the Day wandered out of his door and into the hallway just as our group was exiting one available place and moving on to see another. Sugar free Red Bull in hand, he asked us if we would like to see what a furnished loft looked like. We all agreed and followed him inside his place. He explained his various hip and artsy furnishings and accessories in great detail (these are the many mirrors we look at ourselves in while getting ready to go out, this is my display of Mary artifacts—although I’m not religious, this is a prop door) and came across as incredibly friendly and generous, albeit eccentric, and maybe nursing an enthusiasm-over.

Once we left his loft and Drunk of the Day proclaimed he would like to join us on the tour, things took a turn. In the elevator D.o.t.D. turned again to the group and asked if we would like to see what his loft looked like. Silence ensued as the tour guide muttered awkwardly that we’d already seen it. “Were you there when I was asleep?” he asked, looking bewilderedly around the crowded car. Nervous laughter, darting eyes. “So. . . what have you been up to? Not sleeping much?” Our tour guide inquired. “Actually, I’ve been on a 30-day drinking binge,” D.o.t.D. announced in a strangely clear and unwavering voice. “I’m living off of these.” He held up his can of sugar free Red Bull.

The moral of this story is that just because someone isn’t slurring their speech, falling over and/or hitting their head on shit, lighting their smoke on the filter end, or buying the whole bar a round of red headed stepchild shots—it doesn’t mean they’re not blacked out drunk.


Photo courtesy of mfarjado, flickr.