Dear Concerned Cad,
Normally shy, in the midst of a blackout I can influence, coordinate, seduce, and work a room like a stand-up comedian (according to witnesses). Unfortunately, I can neither remember my actions nor replicate them sober. In your years of fighting the good fight have you come across a system to help remember all this fun and clever sauciness? Am I forced to live the best nights of my life vicariously through my friends’ recounts? There’s got to be a better way!
—What The Hell Did I Do?
Dear WTHDID:
It’s an age-old conundrum—drinking makes for better times, but it also makes them harder to recall. F. Scott Fitzgerald summed it up perfectly when he mused, “Sometimes I wish I’d went through those good times stone cold sober so I could remember everything, but then again, if I had been sober the times probably wouldn’t have been worth remembering.”
The answer, of course, is to carry around a mini digital recorder. Make sure it has at least 12 hours of memory. Before your first drink, hit the record button, slip it into your shirt pocket, and forget about it. (Don’t let anyone know it’s there, or they’ll be yelling at your pocket all night.)
Then, theoretically, the device will capture all the brilliance you’re sure to spew as the evening progresses. The next morning you may wallow in your genius at your leisure and maybe learn a little about the real you.
That’s the upside.
So what’s the downside?
This: that infernal machine is pure evil. All the scientists of the Third Reich couldn’t have constructed a more sinister device.
It will take your brilliant speeches and twist them into insane blithering. It will make your smoothest lines seem the creepy mewlings of a sexual predator. Nuggets of pure wisdom will be spit out as lumps of offal.
You will find yourself cringing with horror before that tiny digital spy, punctuating its merciless squawking with great shouts of “Good God, no!”, “Holy shit, did I really say that?” and “Well, I can never go back to that bar again.”
As you can tell, I’ve tried this system, and what it taught me is to appreciate the beauty of the blackout.
I much prefer to wake up thinking I was on my best behavior the previous evening, until proven otherwise in a court of law.
Dear Concerned Cad,
I hear a lot of talk about “moderate drinking,” and how good it is for you, but what exactly is the definition of such? Everyone seems to have a different opinion. What’s a good amount to drink, anyway?
—Confused in Columbus
Dear Confused:
There was a time when moderate drinking meant drinking as much as you liked, so long as it didn’t cause any problems. That perfectly sensible definition, however, doesn’t sit well with the regimented mind set of the modern Nanny State.
And even the nannies can’t come to terms. The FDA, for example, says two drinks a day for men and one for women is moderate drinking, regardless of your weight and tolerance. The UK government’s estimation is about twice that. Other European countries reckon up to five drinks a day for a male is perfectly acceptable, while a growing number of US health groups swear that five drinks in one session (even if the session occupies an entire day) is honest-to-God binge drinking.
Consider it: drink one beer every two hours over a ten hour period and you’re — Great God! — binging! Or what we drunks like to call sobering up.
Some anti-alcohol groups have even gone so far as to suggest that anyone who drinks 3 to 4 drinks a week is a “heavy drinker.”
Which is perfectly hilarious. What they’re trying to do is lower the standards to the degree that even a grandmother who enjoys a glass of wine with dinner will be shamed into giving up the hooch entirely.
Finally, asking me how much you should drink is akin to asking a deacon how much you need to pray to get into Heaven. Some people never pray (except perhaps in those hours of extreme need and fear), some think once or twice a day is plenty, and there are those so caught up in the fervor of devotion they prefer to pray all the live long day (and night).
Ultimately it is up the acolyte—whether we’re talking about drinking or praying—who must decide how much he needs to do to get to his or her version of paradise.
Dear Concerned Cad:
I’m just getting started in the world of drinking and am pretty ignorant about the whole scene. I was wondering if you could turn me on to some good books to get me started down the path of enlightenment.
—Bob in Lakewood
Dear Bob:
While there is no surer path to drunken enlightenment than putting in your time on a barstool, you are correct in thinking certain books will serve as torches to light your way down the trail.
Around the World with a Jigger, Beaker and Flask (1939) by Charles H. Baker Jr. A splendid book. Baker did what we all wish to do — he traveled the world gleaning exotic cocktail recipes from the cream of the drinking intelligentsia. Each drink is served up with a charming (sometimes ribald) tale about how he acquired the recipe.
John Barleycorn (1913) by Jack London. Though Jack meant this to be a prohibitionist rant, he couldn’t seem to help himself from turning it into an robust guide to adventurous drinking.
The Hour (1948) by Bernard DeVoto. A curmudgeon of the highest order and a misanthrope after my own heart, DeVoto speaks volumes about what drinking is truly about.
The Joy of Drinking (2007) by Barbara Holland. This slim volume is loaded with breezy wit, and revels in all the good drinking has done humankind.
Modern Drunkard (2006) by Frank Kelly Rich. Essential reading for the—ahem—modern drunkard.
On Drink (1972) by Kingsley Amis. Armed with a caustic wit, Amis covers all the bases of being a functional drunk.
As far as fiction, you should start with The Ginger Man by J.P. Donleavy, The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway, The Thin Man, by Dashiell Hammett, Money by Martin Amis, and anything by Charles Bukowski.
Dear Concerned Cad:
Do you drink to live or live to drink?
—Curious in Michigan
Dear Curious:
I live to drink and drink to live and drink to drink or whatever the hell else, so long as there’s a drink involved. ¸
Dear Concerned Cad:
I keep getting
drunk in bars and then making out with random men. My
friends are getting a little irritated about this, as every
time they try to find me in the bar I’m too busy
sucking on the face of a stranger to hang out with the
people who actually know me and invited me out in the first
place. It’s
getting a bit out of hand. Suggestions?
—Hey,
He’s Kind
Of Cute
Dear HHKOC:
While I can understand
your friends’ feelings
of abandonment, they need to come to grips with the fact
that you are serving a much grander ideal. The possibility
of meeting (and perhaps sucking face with) a woman such
as yourself is one of the major reasons single drunkards
go to bars in the first place. Let your friends (and perhaps
some of the embittered gentlemen who are denied your attentions)
think you a floozy—in my eyes your are nothing less
than a modern-day Florence Nightingale.
Dear Concerned
Cad:
Recently
becoming the legal drinking age, I am constantly called
an alcoholic by my friends and family simply because it
takes me 15 beers to get to the stage they are at after
six. I am
proud of my constant boozing and my title of “alco” but
I know that they are jealous of my superior drinking skills
and call me these names to try offend me. While I have
a natural talent for drinking; it has taken me many nights
and sometimes days of hard hooching to perfect my skills.
Is there any way that I can get them to confess their
jealousy of my boozing and admit that they know all their
taunts are in vain?
—Tom from Canberra
Dear Tom:
First,
you’re
going to have to accept the fact that being exceptional
at anything will always earn you a degree of spite from
your peers. Especially if you’re young.
This is natural. No one likes
to be shown up. Imagine if you were a tremendous poker
player and you effortlessly emptied your friends’ pockets
every time you sat down for a friendly game — how
long do you think it would be before they stopped inviting
you to games and started whispering that you might well
have a gambling problem?
If it’s true you are
as cognizant as they when you have two to three
times more hooch coursing through your veins, it cannot
be your behavior they’re worried about. It’s
their own image that concerns them — your superior
ability is making them appear to themselves and others
a pack of slack-jawed lightweights.
There are several possible
solutions to your problem. First, you can do what most
champion drinkers (and poker players) do and seek out peers
who perform at your level. You’ll find them at the
bar.
If you think your friends worth
salvaging, however, you are not without options:
Consider switching from beer
to cocktails. A stoutly poured cocktail can carry
the alcoholic weight of two or even three beers, allowing
you to match them in rounds without cutting back on your
natural intake. Instead of running circles around them
(and their egos), you’ll merely jog next to them
with a 100-proof rucksack strapped to your back. You might
also consider a couple windsprints before meeting up with
your less athletic cronies.
If subterfuge doesn’t
appeal to you, you’re going to have to go on the
offensive. Realize that in most drinking circles you would
be revered and saluted. Make them understand that the real
problem isn’t that you drink too much, it’s
that they’re a gang of slack-jawed lightweights.
Next time one of them makes
a remark about your aggressive consumption, turn the tables
with this troika of stingers:
The “Only Midgets
Call Me Giant” Ploy:
“Man, I wish I had as
low a tolerance as you. It would save me a helluva lot
of money.”
The “It’s All
Relative, You Goddamn Nazi” Defense:
“Well, you know what
they say—some drink like Churchill, some drink like
Hitler. Eh, mein fuhrer?”
The “I Seek the Higher
Mountain” Gambit:
“I know it’s easier
to play it safe and cautious like you, but I want more
from life. I want adventure! I want to push the limits!
I want to live life to the fullest, damn you!”
With any luck at all you’ll
shame them into stepping up to your level of expertise.
Dear Concerned Cad:
Here’s my situation. I
hope you can help. I
recently started hanging out at a new bar and have found
myself attracted to one of the ladies who works there.
Amazingly, I think she might be interested in me as well.
She makes a point of coming over and saying hello every
time I’m in, sometimes a pat on the arm, etc. After
careful observation, this is more than other regulars get
from her. Also, she works the tables and I sit at
the bar, so it seems unlikely that she’s bucking
for the big tip. So, here’s the tricky part: I
have worked in a few bars in my time. I know how guys who
ask out the girls on the clock are perceived. I don’t
want to be that guy. How can I make a move without
seeming like a total douchebag? Or is it even advisable,
since I would hate to make such a flagrant breach in the
rules of proper drinking protocol? What do you think?
—Stuck
Between Human Nature and
The Code of Conduct
Dear
SBHNATCOC:
You are quite correct in your
assumption that asking her for a date while she's on the
clock is a bad move. If she says no, both of you will be
forever uncomfortable and you'll most likely have to go
into exile to another bar for at least three months. Furthermore,
your chances of success are diminished because she too
is aware of The Code and will be afraid of giving other
patrons the impression she is open to all sorts of advances
while she's on the job.
Which
leaves you two alternatives. The best, of course, is to
meet her on neutral ground, off the clock. You can arrange
a "chance" meeting by eavesdropping and finding
out where she spends her free time.
Failing that, you can attempt
a stealth date. While in the bar, casually remark that
you and some friends (this is important) are going
to see a band that she’s likely to find agreeable.
Tell her you have an extra ticket if she wants to tag along.
So long as you keep the excitement out of your voice and
matters on a purely platonic level, this does not technically
violate The Code. The great thing about live bands is they
provide a self-standing purpose — no one has to confess
romantic inclinations of any sort, but merely a similar
taste in bands.
If she says yes, make sure
you do bring your friends along, or she’ll think
it a crass violation of The Code and be forced to behave
accordingly.
If things go well, you can
ask her to join you for drinks after the show, where you
can attempt get on more intimate terms.
If she turns down your offer
to see the band, that’s fine, no one is uncomfortable
and the ball is in her court. You have obliquely expressed
your interest and she may ask you out if she wishes. Oddly,
there is no stigma whatsoever with a staff member asking
a patron out.
Good luck!
Dear
Concerned Cad:
If I may pose this query
as a rhyme
Besides the meetings and the verbal choleric
What difference
between the drunkard sublime
And the sad, diseased alcoholic?
I
am curious to hear what will surely be a very slanted opinion.
—Ed
W.
Dear Ed:
If you mean
slanted in the sense of speaking the truth loudly where
others would couch it in whispers, then I’m
leaning like the Tower of Pisa, chum.
Your question is a valid one, considering the times
we live in. What was once the norm is now reason for condemnation
and confinement. There was a time when drinking with gusto
meant you were at best a vital member of society, at worst,
human. But now your three (or more) drinks after work serves
to brand you an antisocial cretin deserving of whatever
terrible circumstance can be visited upon you. So, you
might ask, what the hell happened?
Some of my chauvinist peers would place the blame squarely
on women getting the power to vote. While it is true that
that turn of events ushered in Prohibition, the ladies
are not entirely at fault.
The real reason is we are fighting a two-front war.
It used to be alcohol was under siege solely from the Religious
Right (The Women's Christian Temperance Union being a notorious
example), but nowadays the real threat comes from the politically-correct
nannies of the Left.
Why would these self-proclaimed liberals want to take
away our after-work beer? Because they think they’re
smarter than us. We’re a gang of dummies incapable
of making our own decisions, so they’re going to
make them for us.
I do agree with the opposition on one point. Everyone
shouldn’t drink. There are those, AA meetings are
full of them, who are, quite frankly, horrible drunks.
You know who I’m talking about — they’ll
have two beers and turn into Attila the Hun, ruining the
drinking experience of everyone within earshot. The more
self-aware of that gang rightly choose not to drink. As
the Bible says, their right hand offended them, so they
chopped it off. Which is fine, except some of them would
also, purely out of spite, like to chop off everyone else’s
right hand too.
I am often asked by that crowd why I defend my right
to get loaded so vehemently. I’ll let Lord Byron
field that one:
He's a fool who gives over the liquor,
It
softens the skinflint at once,
It urges the slow
coach on quicker,
Gives spirit and brains to
the dunce.
The man who is dumb as a rule
Discovers
a great deal to say,
While he who is bashful since
Yule
Will talk in an amorous way.
It's drink
that uplifts the poltroon
To give battle in France
and in Spain,
Now here is an end of my turn,
And fill
me that bumper again!
Pretty sharp for a dead guy.
Dear Concerned
Cad:
My bartender recently informed me the famous
drunk Dylan Thomas didn’t drink himself to death,
as is widely believed, but was killed by a doctor who
misdiagnosed his condition. Enlighten me, please.
—Dylan
Was Framed
Dear TWF:
The
bartender was undoubtedly referencing the 1997 book The
Death of DylanThomas by British biographer
George Tremlett and Yank neurosurgeon James Nashold. The
authors contend there is near-irrefutable proof that the
Welsh literary giant was not hustled to an early grave
by the 18 bourbons he downed in a single sitting, but
rather the drugs administered by Dr. Thomas Feltenstein,
who apparently wasn’t aware Dylan Thomas was a diabetic.
Misdiagnosing Thomas’ lethargy for alcoholic stupor
(even though it was days after his drinking feat), he
injected Thomas with cortisone, morphine and Benzedrine,
shocking his system into a fatal diabetic coma. When two
young doctors at the hospital questioned Feltenstein’s
diagnosis, the book claims he destroyed the medical records
that would label him a quack.
So there you have it. Often feted as a dire warning
to young poets who would have their way with the booze,
Dylan Thomas’ fate may now be considered a caveat
against quacks.
Dear Concerned Cad:
What’s
the hands-down best way to get a free drink?
—As a Matter
of Fact, Being-Broke-Is-My-Job
Dear Broke:
There
are as many ways to wile a free drink as there are to get
a hangover. You probably know about and make excellent
use of art gallery openings, brewery tours or simply moping
around your friends’ house
until they get irritated enough to buy you a twelve pack
of Meisterbrau. For the more sporting chaps, however, there’s
a vast arsenal at your disposal, namely age-old bar tricks
that were once known as Check Payers. Wildly popular in
the ‘40s and ‘50s, they have virtually vanished
from bars and clubs today, which makes them all the more
effective.
Here’s how they work: when it comes
time to pick up the tab or pay for the round, offer a friendly
wager with your drinking companions or bartender for the
price of the drinks. For example:
Bet that you can breathe underwater
indefinitely. The idea of holding your head underwater
will probably appeal to them on some level, so they are
likely to accept the wager. At which point you simply hold
a glass of water over your head, smile in a “Better luck next time,
chaps!” sort of way, then run, do not walk, to the
nearest exit.
Another fine trick is to tell the patron
on the next bar stool that you will introduce him to a
blonde from Paris if he buys you a drink. If he agrees,
and he probably will, tell the bartender to put this one
together. (Don’t tell him the name, it tends to spoil
the fun.)
Parisian Blonde
1
oz. Dry Vermouth
1 oz. Gin
1/4 oz. Creme De Cassis
2 oz. cream
Shake with ice, strain into a cocktail
glass and serve.
Accept the drink, salute your benefactor
then drink it down like there’s a fire in your belly.
When he asks when he can meet the French blonde, give him
an odd look and say, “You just did, chum. She liked
me better.”
Once again, run, do not walk, to the
nearest exit.
Bon chance!
Dear Concerned
Cad:
I am currently unemployed
so my girlfriend buys all my drinks. Every day it gets
a little harder to swallow, literally. I feel like I’m
trading my pride for booze. What should I do?
—Guilty
But Thirsty
Dear Guilty:
Listen,
pal, this is a column for people with problems, not a forum
for bragging.
Dear
Concerned Cad:
As
a transplanted native of New Orleans, I’m having
a hard time adjusting to the liquor stores closing at
midnight and the bars shutting down at 2 am. Is there
any chance for some after-hours action in this town?
—Too
Sober To Sleep
Dear Too Sober:
Sorta.
While Denver has many charms, liberal drinking laws is
not one of them. To carry the party past last call you
have to be a bit more cunning and, sad to say, more flat-out
ruthless than you would in more cosmopolitan burgs. Here’s
how:
1) The Secret Lives Of Bartenders
Bar
owners are loath to admit it (and some probably aren’t aware),
but there are after-hour drinking parties at many of the
bars you habit. Sometimes they are just a brief respite
for the staff to wind down after a long night of putting
up with you and your ilk, other times they are all-out
booze fests that last until the wee hours. Most veteran
drinkers have been privileged enough to sit in on at least
a few, and because it’s the staff—the zoo keepers
if you will—who
are getting hammered, it’s a great opportunity to
try out some highly experimental cocktails. I will go so
far as to say the majority of the cocktails we enjoy today
were created during these sessions.
The catch is, they’re not easy
to get invited to. I mean, why should they invite you,
a rank outsider, into their beautiful circle? What have
you to offer? Here’s a couple suggestions:
Date one of the staff. Then you can
claim to be his or her ride home. Failing that, transform
yourself into an affable, high-tipping regular, a guy who’s
such a gas to have around they’ll start thinking
you might add some flavor to the after-hours banter. You’ll
know when you’ve made it when the bartender, after
screaming at everyone else to leave, turns to you and whispers, “You’re
cool.” And at that point, you are cool.
The beauty of it is, once you do
one after-hours—and behave yourself—your chances
of being invited to the next one are vastly improved. Thing
is, you have to prove yourself worthy every time or
you’ll lose your AHP (After-Hours Power). It’s
unfair, but that’s the way it works. Bar staff are
taking a chance by having you there and you have to make
them want to take that chance. And don’t expect it
every night. You’ll know by the staff‘s behavior
at last call if they’re going to throw one. If it
seems unlikely, for the love of God, don’t try to
talk them into one.
If it does seem likely,
make yourself useful, put up chairs, cool down conflicts,
make the staff feel you’re on their team. If you
help the bouncer/bartender drag out a troublemaker, odds
are you’re going to get a victory drink. Drink it
slow, cross that indefinable time line, and you’ll
be hooching all night.
2.) The Party Conjuror
If
you haven’t caught
wind of a party by last call, you’re not out of the
game yet. Do this: seek out a friend or even a casual acquaintance
who you know has the booze but not the motivation to stay
up drinking, then assail his weaker emotions. After last
call, spot two attractive females on the other side of
the room and tell your victim the ladies want to hang out
for some after-hours cocktails. This doesn’t have
to be true, he just has to believe it is. Tell him you’re
going to set it all up. Get his address then go over to
the girls and invite them. If they say no, engage them
in some idle chit-chat, tell them anything you want, just
make sure your pal can see but not hear you.
Walk back to him with a big
sloppy smile and say, “It’s all set.
I gave them your address and they’re definitely going
to be there after they pick up some smokes. The cute one really digs
you, man!”
Once you get to his place,
dive into the booze immediately. Then pretend to wait,
drinking as fast as you can. Say things like, “They
were pretty loaded, I hope they didn’t get in an
accident,” and later, “Those goddamn whores!
Toying with our emotions like that!” After an hour
he’ll start getting upset, but hey, now you’re
too drunk to drive home. Ask to crash on his sofa and as
soon as he hits the sack, it’s a wide open bar, baby.
3.) The Soft Drink Switcheroo
If
all else fails, fall back on this time-tested gambit: stop
at a 24-hour supermarket that sells 3.2 beer and doesn’t
lock the coolers at midnight. Go to the soft drink section
and find the premium root beers. Select one of the brands
that feature the cardboard six-pack carriers that hide
everything except the top of the bottles. Go to the beer
cooler and trade out the root beer for 3.2 beer. Try to
find a lesser known or imported beer, something that isn’t
instantly recognizable by its bottle cap. If you get caught
at the check out, act innocent, even offended that they
were trying to push beer on you. If you get away with,
don’t
waste any drinking time feeling guilty. Premium root beer
and 3.2 beer cost about the same. The only person who’s
getting the shaft is the sap who takes home a sixer of
Barqs when he wanted beer. But screw that guy, anyone who
buys 3.2 beer when he could go to the liquor store and
get the real deal doesn’t need to drink anyway.
See you at the check-out
stand!
Dear Concerned Cad,
I like to get really drunk, then do hilarious and mind boggling things. The problem
is that the next day, all of the things I did are neither hilarious nor mind
boggling, they are simply lame. But I have found that a few beers makes me feel
much better about the experience, and in fact it makes me not give a crap about
what I did. Is this a standard practice for drunks?
—Confused
Dear Confused:
“All the world’s a stage,” Shakespeare said, and he was more
right than he knew. Problem is, we have to spend most of our lives stuck in
the cheap seats, straining our eyes to see what’s going on. There is an
agreeable usher on hand, however, and if you get friendly with him, he’ll
move you closer to the action.
That usher, of course, is alcohol. The more you buddy
up with the guy the closer he moves you, and if you
spend the evening getting really tight with the fellow,
you’ll find yourself right up on stage, at the very center of the drama,
delivering the performance of your life.
Sometimes the reviews aren’t exactly fawning, come morning. Those who
don’t know the usher will be especially deprecating, but that’s
only because they’re too far from the stage to fully absorb your brilliance.
As you noted, however, sometimes even you might have
doubts about the value of your performance, but pay
no mind. In the words of the peerless actor (and consummate
drunk) Sir Laurence Olivier: “After the play I may think I
was awful, but while on stage I’m sure I’m sublime.”
Dear Concerned Cad:
I am a gainfully-employed, fully-functioning drunkard who frequently finds himself
supporting moneyless alcoholic friends. I don’t go to any house, any
party, any theater without my own supply and yet I am constantly dishing out
my drink out of generosity and feelings of guilt that I am drinking and others
are not. How can I maintain my heroic intake of booze around my friends without
these feelings of guilt and selfishness and ultimately, without giving half
my booze away?
—Alexander in Canberra
Dear Alexander:
Your problem, Alex, is you are trapped between two primary laws of drinking.
The first law, the one that’s lending you the wholly undeserved feelings
of guilt and emptying your pocket, is the Law of the Open Bottle. This age-old
covenant states that if you have booze, and your friends do not, you must share
the wealth. Your friends seem keenly aware of this law, as most drunks are.
The other law, the one that they seem keen to forget,
is the Law of Round Reciprocity. Also known as the
Buy Back Rule, this states that when someone buys you
a drink, at the next opportunity you must complete
the cycle (or close the circuit, if you will) by buying
a round in return.
As it stands, you haven’t broken any laws of drinking and they have, repeatedly.
In the old days, when Bacchus was running the show, they would be chased out
of the bar like mangy curs. So cast aside any feeling of guilt and cut them
off. It is your duty as a proper drunkard to educate these savages. If they
don’t start learning the rules, the whole system will come crashing down
around us and we’ll be forced to drink in caves like hermits.
If they start whining about you being stingy, tell them: “You know how
electricity works, right? If you don’t close the circuit, you don’t
get any juice.”
Dear Concerned Cad:
I’m in the military, and my favorite drinking buddy was recently forced
to attend AA meetings, and I have a feeling I may be on the same road. Apparently
they can do that. I was wondering what pointers you could give me to combat
their rhetoric and possibly save my good drinking buddy, one of the greatest
drunks this world has ever known.
—Still Searching for a Decent Bar in Middle Georgia
Dear Still Searching:
Just as it’s harder to get sucked into a movie when someone has told you
the entire plot line, you’ll have a much better chance of surviving AA
if you know exactly how their gig goes down.
First, be aware that AA uses the same effective techniques
a lot of other successful cults use. Second, their
approach is very subtle, so you have to stay on your
toes.
Right off the bat, they will encourage you to admit
you’re an alcoholic.
Now, you and I might consider the tag a hard-earned badge of honor, but to this
gang it means victim. Next they will try to get you to believe that you are
a powerless victim. That alcohol is not, in fact, the means to a good time,
but rather a terrible tyrant you never had a chance against from the start.
Finally, they will try to convince
you that you will always be a powerless victim, right
up to the day you die.
That’s how it works. First they take away your identity, then your self-determination,
then your hope.
Remind you of anything? That’s right: basic training. The difference being,
the military is interested in creating aggressive soldiers, while A.A. seeks
to create powerless slaves.
Fortunately, those forced to attend A.A. usually arrive
with their self-esteem still intact. And because of
that, your first instinct will be open defiance. Resist
that feeling. First, it’s hard to maintain, because they’re
all so damned nice and caring. See, all they want to do is protect you from
that big mean bottle that so effortlessly kicked all of their asses up and down
the street of life. And since they couldn’t handle it, they figure you
can’t either. If you tell them you don’t have a problem with the
booze, they’ll counterattack with hugs and gentle speeches and smug little
frowns. What’s worse, they’ll make a project out of you.
Subterfuge
is the smarter path. Remember what you learned in basic
training: keep a low profile. Don’t draw attention
to yourself. Never volunteer information. If they ask
you to make a testimonial, do not launch into those
drinking stories you like telling at the bar. They will
detect the relish in your voice and try their damnedest
to squash it. Instead, tell the most boring and mundane
stories you can think of. Make them think you have as
much personality as the chair you're sitting on.
All the while, keep this in mind: you have absolutely
nothing in common with these people. You are an Olympic
athlete forced to attend an Overeaters Anonymous meeting.
They are the defeated, the weak, the forlorn. Where
they failed, you succeed. Your self-esteem is your
best defense, keep it intact and you’ll
graduate with flying colors and an undiminished taste for alcohol.
One final
caveat: don’t try to free any of the slaves. Though
they will never admit it, they are slaves by choice
and not the sort of people you’d
want to drink with.
Dear
Concerned Cad:
My
girlfriend is super religious, but I’m not even sure if God exists.
Is there a drink for that?
—Terry
Dear Terry:
Why, yes, Terry, there is.
F. Scott Fitzgerald once claimed to have seen the Almighty,
up close, while loaded on absinthe. His pal Ernest
Hemingway also claimed the liquor gave him “religious
feelings” to the point he would sometimes drift into churches to pray
while in the Green Faerie’s grip.
Of course, getting absinthe at a bar is (except for
a few rare cases) nearly impossible in the States,
so we’ll fall comfortably back on a libation
collected by cocktailologist extraordinaire Charles H. Baker Jr. in his excellent
drink guide Around the World with a Jigger, Beaker and
Flask (1939).
Hallelujah Cocktail
1 oz. Babylonian Grape Brandy (cognac)
1½ oz. Sodom and Gomorrah (Italian vermouth)
¾ oz Rum aged in Noah’s Ark (light rum)
½ tsp. Cain’s Syrup from the Garden of Eden
(grenadine)
Citrus from the Desert of Sin (4 drops of lime juice)
Ice from the Crest of Mount Sinai (finely cracked ice)
Give it a good shake, pop a cherry
on top and yell “Hallelujah!” after
drinking.
Teach this recipe to the bartenders at your local
haunts, then announce to your girlfriend that you have
found The Light. Then, whenever you pop into one of
your locals with your girlfriend (just tell her you
just want to shake down the sinners a little), greet
the bartender with a righteous and resounding, “Hallelujah!” When
the cocktail arrives, quickly drink it down. The customary
after-drink “Hallelujah!” will also serve
to order your next round.
When your girlfriend asks what the Devil is going on,
say, “I have no
idea. Every time I praise the Lord a delicious cocktail appears. He does indeed
work in mysterious ways.”
This should serve to confound her and, perhaps in some
small way, bring you a little closer to the Almighty
(after about eight Hallelujahs you may even catch
a glimpse of him.)
Dear Concerned Cad:
As I approach the “autumn of my years” some of my friends and many
relatives have taken to relentlessly importuning me to abandon my drinking.
They resist all arguments about health benefits and the simple pleasure it brings.
Why won’t they leave me the hell alone?
--Awaiting Your Sage Advice
Dear AYSA:
Why won’t they leave you alone? Because they rightfully suspect you’re
having a much better time than they are. It’s basic human nature. It’s
never the people at the party that complain about the noise, its always the
sober and spiteful neighbors next door.
The bigger question is: why did they decide at some
point that they had to slow
down? Some will have a good excuse (child rearing), some will have a bad one
(getting serious about their careers) and some will have no excuse at all.
It is a very American idea that at a certain age we’re supposed to stop
enjoying ourselves, become “responsible,” and start waiting for
Death to make his rounds. It a rather dubious gift of our Puritan forefathers:
for every pleasure, they assumed, there must be a penance, a time on the rack.
So if you lived it up in your spring and summer years, surely you must live
it down in the autumn and winter.
Which is a perfectly ridiculous notion. Alcohol was
once considered the solace of the aging, a gentle crutch
to carry them to the darkening horizon. If the Bible
is to be believed, Noah drank (and plenty) into his
eighties. When a Viking became too old to plunder villages
for booze, he was issued a standard ration of mead
to ease him toward Valhalla. And wasn’t it William Faulkner who
said, “A man shouldn’t fool with booze until he’s fifty; then
he’s a damn fool if he doesn’t.”?
It’s the same as anything. The strong will carry on, and the weak will
fall to the wayside then try to convince the strong that the ditch they’re
lying in is actually far superior to the wide-open road. Winners never quit
and quitters ever whine.
So don’t expect them to get off your back anytime soon. What you need
to do is accept your mantle as the black sheep of your clan, turn a deaf ear
to their complaints and revel in your time.
I mean, do you think the Vikings ever gave a damn what
the villagers said about them?
Dear Concerned Cad:
What’s the deal with pink elephants? I drink a
hell of a lot of liquor and I’ve never seen one.
Are they extinct?
—Big Game Hoocher
Dear BGH:
Etymologists tell us the creatures are most likely a descendent of “pink
giraffes” who were said to follow drunks around as early as the 1890s.
The idea being, if you happen to find yourself drinking with a large, exotic,
unnaturally-hued creature, you are well into your cups indeed.
The first mention of the elephant moving in on the giraffe’s action is
in Jack London’s brilliant drunkard confessional John
Barleycorn (1913),
when he spoke of a type of drunkard “who sees, in the extremity of his
ecstasy, blue mice and pink elephants.”
Guy Lombardo wrote and performed a popular song about
the plastered pachyderms in 1932 (a purple cow, lavender
alligator and a polka-dot boa constrictor also made
appearances in the song, but they were strictly B-team.)
Most of us were most likely introduced to the animal
long before we took our first drink, thanks to the
rather startling “Pink Elephants on Parade” sequence
in the classic 1941 Disney film Dumbo. Remember the song?
Pink elephants on parade
What’ll I do? What’ll I do?
What an unusual view!
I could stand the sight of worms
And look at microscopic germs
But technicolor pachyderms
Is really too much for me
During that great drinking era that was the 1940s-1960s,
the beast was tamed and transformed from the stuff of
dipsomaniac nightmares into a lovable icon that promised
a good time. Becoming very nearly ubiquitous throughout
the cocktail culture, pink elephants appeared on bar
napkins, coasters, glassware, flasks and anything else
that had to do with drinking.
But just like rye whiskey and the swizzle stick, the pink elephant eventually
faded from the culture and presently survives only as a quaint idea.
That said, if you really want to see a pink elephant,
your bartender can point you in the right direction:
Pink Elephants on Parade
4 oz vodka
4 oz pink lemonade
½ oz Midori Melon Liqueur
Mix and drink.
Dear
Concerned Cad:
Just a question that popped
into my head at the end of happy hour (and me broke again!).
Is it possible to be truly happy without
being filthy, stinking rich?
—Poor
and Unhappy
Dear Poor:
Well, of course it is. As an astute German nobleman once noted, “No matter
how rich you are, you can still only drink 16 or 17 liters of beer a day.”
Dear Concerned Cad:
My friend the cop (I’ll leave him unnamed) insists
that police officers are among the biggest boozers
in the world. Fact or fiction?
—Helen In Evergreen
Dear Helen:
Just the facts, ma’am—it’s true. Like members of other high-tension
professions, law officers turn to alcohol for stress relief. And why not? It’s
legal and won’t, after a short period of time, show up on a drug test.
And besides, it’s a matter of tradition. The beat officers of turn-of-the-century
New York, Irishmen for the most part, were nicknamed “wobblies” because
they would often walk their beats in an intoxicated condition.
Don’t expect to find policemen falling down drunk at your favorite watering
hole, however, as they, perhaps sensing the public’s inability to appreciate
the irony of the situation, generally drink in bars that cater to their own,
every town has at least one.
For further affirmation, pick up one of Joseph Wambaugh’s excellent novels.
An ex-career police officer, Wambaugh not only gives sharp insights of life
in the LAPD, but also provides excellent primers on getting extremely loaded.
Sadly, I’ve found that bringing up this rich irony while leaning back
and touching your nose to the beat of swirling blue lights to be a poor choice
of topic or tactic.
Dear Concerned
Cad:
After my drinking friends went home late on a Sunday
night, I was still thirsty so I strolled to the nearest
lounge. I ordered a drink from the waitress and as
she handed me the bottle I was caught between her
beauty and the beer and I dropped it on the counter.
The base of the bottle slammed the counter and the
beer splashed out all over the waitress’ chest.
I apologized and sat down in a booth alone. I finished
what was left of my beer and noticed the waitress
avoiding my table. I went to the bar for another
and was halted by the owner who said, “It’s
cold outside, I don’t think you need another.” I
sat in my booth without a drink and listened to a
few tunes on the jukebox before I walked home in
the snow. After the incident I cringe each time I
walk past the bar and am too ashamed to go back in.
Should I ever go back and order a drink? It is the
closest bar to my place, so I am confused.
—Euch
Dear Euch:
Not only should you go back, you must go back. First off, everyone who ever
had the nerve to apply the title drunkard to their name has dropped a bottle
and spilled a little beer. Your offense is trifling compared to behavior
of other great drunks. The great poet Dylan Thomas, for instance, would crawl
about on the floor and snarl like a vicious dog, sometimes even biting the
ankles of innocent patrons. The next day he would stroll in, tell a few jokes
about “the hair of the dog,”, buy the house a round, then, a
few hours later, get down (on all fours, as it were) to some serious ankle
work. This happened so often it became a tourist attraction of sorts.
So here’s the battle plan—go into the bar completely sober and
order a drink. Odds are she won’t even remember the incident, spilling
beer and breaking glass is like blood at a bullfight, these things happen every
night. If she does appear to remember the misfortune, make light of it. Say
something banty and self-effacing like, “Sorry about the other evening,
I thought it was wet T-Shirt night and I was trying to lend a hand.” Then
have a few drinks, tip well, say goodbye, then go drop bottles somewhere else.
Later you will both laugh about it, which will serve to lever you into position
to ask her out. So you see, my drunken comrade, from funerals come flowers,
and from spilled beer comes fresh opportunities.
Dear Concerned Cad:
All my favorite authors and poets (Hemingway, Faulkner, Pound, Byron) were
alcoholics. Were they great because or in spite of their drinking
habits? Do you have to be a drunk to be a good writer?
—Just Starting Out
Dear Starting Out:
Yes, as a matter of fact, you do. I’m not saying pounding booze is going
to automatically make you a better writer, but it certainly can’t hurt.
I’m
also certain your creative writing instructor in high
school spent an entire class fretting aloud about how
much greater those masters of prose and poetry would
have been if they’d just laid off that awful booze.
Well, let me tell you something—they would have
all sucked and you’d never have
heard of them. If your teacher's logic were true there would be scads of great
teetotaler writers instead of a meager few.
I scan my
extensive library and can’t find a single master
who wasn’t
a certified drunk. F. Scott? Boozehead. Mark Twain? Drunkard. Dylan Thomas?
Whiskey addict. Mailer? Sot. Kerouac? Big boozer. Wilde, Swinburne, D.H. Lawrence?
Hooch hounds!
Now, one could argue that too much drink brought low
some of the greats from their dizzying heights of genius,
but it was the creativity and life-enhancing properties
of alcohol that put them in that high tower in the
first place. And if you’re going to fall, you might as well dive from such a height
that you can enjoy the view on the way down.
Don’t you agree?
Dear
Concerned Cad:
Does drinking four beers a day qualify me as a drunk?
--Confused
in California
Dear
Confused:
Yes and no. According to AA and any number of prohibitionist
organizations, you qualify for full-fledged drunk status
if you manage to put down two drinks a day.
So, in their eyes at least, you are a super double-drunk.
Congrats!
However, in the eyes of dedicated
drinkers—those who consider the word “alcoholic”
a badge of honor and honest effort—you are what’s
known as a Happy Hour Hero: you have your hands on the
oar but you’re not doing much pulling.
Dear
Concerned Cad:
I keep hearing that quote about how Abraham Lincoln,
when told General Grant was a raging drunk, gave the
order to find out what brand of whiskey Grant drank
so he could give some to his other generals. What brand
was it? I want to be a kick-ass leader of men too.
--An
Ambitious Lieutenant in Ft. Lewis
Dear
AALIFT:
It was Old Crow (and plenty of it) that saw Ulysses
through America’s darkest hours. Andrew Jackson,
another general who shifted the party from the battlefield
to the White House, also swore by the stuff. Remember
to save some for the troops.
Dear
Concerned Cad:
I notice that bartenders are held in high regard in
your magazine, and while I recognize their vital job,
I would also like to voice some anger. I am getting
tired of bartenders rolling their eyes as if I’m
laying a terrible burden on them when I ask for a drink
that contains more than three ingredients and requires
more effort than holding a pint glass under a tap. For
all the money they make you’d think they’d
be a little more helpful. If I went to a restaurant
and asked for extra cheese on my dinner salad, I wouldn’t
expect them to get snotty about it. So what’s
the deal?
--Still
Waiting For a Drink at the End of the Bar
Dear
SWFADATEOTB:
I’m going to tell you a secret that may shake
your belief system right to its very foundations. If
you’re unwilling to have your world turned upside
down, turn the page.
Here it is: Most bartenders
secretly despise their customers.
Don’t get me wrong. Some
bartenders love their patrons more than their own flesh
and blood. But they are in the minority.
So why would the majority loathe
the very people who put money in their pockets? Couple
reasons. Ever walk into a bar at last call while stone
cold sober and spend a little time with your hammered
friends? If you were in a similar condition you’d
think them the greatest guys in the world, but while
sober they can be rather vexing. Now imagine if you
had to do that eight hours a day, five days a week.
They're not only paid to serve us, they’re
paid to put up with us. Secondly, bartenders
dispense something we want very much and anyone
with that much power is going to get a little mad
with it. All the money, conversely enough, tends
to fuel this power mongering.
So what’s to be done?
Nothing. It’s been this way since the first wine
seller set up shop in Babylon. If you can find a genuinely
friendly one, stick to her like glue. If you can’t,
then just play along. Focus on your drinking and try
not to wonder what’s behind that strained smile.
Just pretend it’s as real as the money you’re
laying on the bar.
Dear
Concerned Cad:
I’m currently on the tail end of my freshman year
in college and living in the dorms. Being a generous
fellow, and a somewhat accomplished drunkard for my
age, I generally am quite free with my alcohol. I’ll
gladly invite complete strangers over for a drink, particularly
the female ones. Lately, however, my budget has grown
tight, and I’m having trouble meeting my cigarette
and whiskey obligations. Since I’m already drinking
the worst cheap bourbon imaginable, I was forced to
institute a payment system (well, ladies still drink
free). All of a sudden, I’m an asshole because
I won’t let people drink all my goddamn booze!
I’m a generous guy, but I gotta look out for number
one. Help me out here, Cad.
--John
in Iowa City
Dear
John:
Ah, yes. The golden goose stops laying eggs and suddenly
everybody starts wondering what pâté
de foie gras tastes like.
You obviously wanted those people
in your dorm room or you wouldn’t have invited
them in, and if you do invite someone in, you
must abide by the rules of Drunkard Hospitality. Which
means, yes, you must provide drinks. Which can be expensive.
So naturally you asked for money.
Which was a mistake. While it’s
true drunks will empty their pockets in a bar, paying
for a drink in a private residence always seems sordid.
Why? It’s the Brothel Syndrome. You pay for sex
inside a brothel, but outside it’s utterly free.
Similarly, once a bottle leaves a liquor store it radically
changes in value. It no longer represents its equivalence
in dollars, it instead represents bonhomie, hospitality
and good times, things everyone expects to be freely
shared.
Now, if Mr Manners were fielding
this ball he’d probably tell you to impress upon
your guests the idea that they are expected to bring
beer, wine or liquor to your get-togethers. But the
problem with Mr. Manners is, he’s an idiot. If
those cheap bastards had ready access to beer, wine
and liquor they wouldn’t have cursed you so roundly
for cutting them off.
Your best hope is the age-old
Chip In Ploy. It goes like this: When guests arrive,
announce that you are fresh out of hooch but are about
to make a run to the liquor store and would they like
you to get something for them? Or would they care to
chip in on a bottle or case?
They probably will. Why? Because
the booze is still sitting on a shelf in the liquor
store and thus still has a tangible monetary value.
When you were asking money for booze you already possessed,
you were the Man, but now you’re a brother-in-arms
looking for a little help. Watch how it works.
Dear
Concerned Cad:
I’m tired of guys saying I drink too much, just
because I can drink them under the table. Is it some
kind of macho defensive tactic? I’d love to hear
your take on the subject.
--Amadorsnap
Dear
Amadorsnap:
Men are frightened of women capable of drinking them
under the table because we’re afraid you’ll
take advantage of us while we’re passed out.
Not really. The real reason
is that historically drinking has been considered a
male sport. Not so long ago women weren’t even
allowed to drink with men, never mind outdrink
them. It was considered something we are naturally better
at. Which, physiologically speaking, is generally true.
Because women tend to be lighter in weight and carry
more body fat, they get drunker faster.
Thus, insecure men will
feel threatened by women who can out drink them. Or
beat them in a basketball game. Or beat them up in general.
So, yes, it is a macho thing.
But times are changing. Women
are not only drinking more than they used to, they’re
drinking stronger drinks. And just as there are now
female cops, CEOs and senators, there are a growing
number women at the bar, matching men shot for shot.
So keep drinking them under the table. And if they
don’t
like it, beat the living crap out of them.
Dear
Concerned Cad,
I
am a reasonably young, reasonably attractive woman who
enjoys a quiet drink or five when I’m forced to
travel for business. Unfortunately, “reasonably
young and attractive” turns into “Bridget
Bardot look-alike” to sleazy businessmen from
Omaha six Scotches into a padded expense account.
I’ve been told by those whose opinion I trust
that any woman alone at a bar is seen as “fair
game” and “easy.” I don’t want
to appear as such, I just find that drinking kills a
lot of time and helps me unwind from a long day of meetings.
Plus, I like to drink. I’ve tried ignoring the
“her drink’s on me” types by burying
my nose in a book, intently watching whatever game is
on, and pretending not to speak English, but a drunken
salesman can be quite persistent. Is there a way to
stave off unwanted advances and just enjoy getting quietly
drunk in a dark hotel bar?
--Sign
me, Wanting To Get Tight, Not Be Seen As Loose
P.S. I am married and clearly wear a ring, but that
is totally ignored by all and sundry.
Dear
WTGTNBSAL:
I feel your pain, sister. I don’t know how many
times I’ve sat at a bar, minding my own business,
and some pushy dame starts forcing drinks down my
throat. Then, once my sterling virtues have been
eroded by devil alcohol, she turns into Ms. Octopus.
Then I—well,
I usually stop dreaming and wake up.
Just a little joke, but it illustrates a point. Men
tend to be aggressors and women tend to be defenders.
Blame society, testosterone or Hollywood, but it’s
a fact. Men will attack, that’s not going to change,
so you’re going to focus on digging deeper and
better moats.
Your current defensive tactics are actually working
against you. A lone woman reading a book at a bar is
very nearly irresistible to most men. It makes you appear
lonely and intellectual. Intently watching a sports
game sends the signal that you’re a sporty lass,
and guys love that. And you know how American men feel
about innocent foreign women so helpless they haven’t
even learned the native tongue yet. The ring won’t
help at all, half the men approaching you probably have
one too— though it’s probably buried in
their pocket for safekeeping. And forget the “I
prefer women” ploy, every heterosexual male operates
under the assumption he can turn any lesbian around
with the sheer power of his manly charm.
You are not without hope, however, because there are
three time-tested strategies specifically designed to
fend off the horny hordes. Namely:
Your
Blue Balls May Earn You a Black Eye
No matter what smooth line he lays on you, fearfully
whisper: “Listen, I’m waiting for my husband.
I know you’re a nice guy and all, but if he sees
you talking to me he’s going murder us both.”
Stare at the bar’s entrance as you say it, like
the hulking bastard is ready to lunge through the door
at any moment. The impending arrival of a jealous and
potentially homicidal husband has a chilling effect
on the most overactive libido. It doesn’t matter
if your imaginary husband ever shows up. If your would-be
suitor comes near you again, just throw a look of terror
toward the entrance. Fear is infectious. He’ll
keep his distance.
Befriend
the Gatekeeper
Sit at the bar. When you order your first drink quietly
inform the bartender that you’re alone and don’t
wish to be bothered by stray males. Then tip well.
Bartenders are instinctually protective of women
who tip well. It’s part of their code. And
the one person drunks don’t screw with is the
guy pouring their drinks.
Bubonic
Betty
The instant the barroom Romeo starts slingling lines,
start coughing. I mean, go to town with it. For fifteen
full seconds, and don’t bother covering your
mouth. When you stop, he’ll try again. Let him
get in two words then start coughing again. Long and
hard. When you finish, say: “I don’t
know what it is. It’s been like this for a
month. I hope to God it isn’t what I think
it is.”
He’ll think the worse. Every sexual fantasy spinning
through his head will come to a dead stop. Naked sick
people are scary.
Good
luck!
Dear
Concerned Cad:
I’m a functioning alcoholic. One of those people
who get “I can’t tell when you’re
drunk” all the time. Little do they know I have
whiskey with my cornflakes and sometimes don’t
wait for lunch break to have a cocktail. The only thing
that’s giving me away is my scent. It’s
not horrific, but even after a shower and a good brushing
of the ivories and tongue it’s still there. I’ve
found Breath Assure to be helpful in the mouth department
but that stuff is like four bucks a pop! Is there any
other advice for me specifically in the “emanating
from my pores” department?
--Sincerely,
Haze of Booze
Dear
Haze of Booze:
First thing in the morning, take an extremely long
and hot shower. Stand in there until it’s like
a goddamn sauna. Sweat out all the lingering booze
in your pores. After toweling off, splash yourself
with old school cologne. I’m talking Old Spice
or Aqua Velva. Not only will it hide your tell-tale
scent, your co-workers will not come within six feet
of you. If they dare make a comment about it, confess
your wife, child or girlfriend gave it to you as birthday
present and you have to wear it. As for your booze
breath, gargle and drink an entire can of Spicy V-8.
Tomato juice will get the smell of skunk off a dog,
and it’ll get
the smell of last night out of your mouth.
Drink
on, brother.
Dear
Concerned Cad:
I am faced with the dreadful dilemma of reaching my
late twenties and finding that while my passion for
liquor and beer has increased in intensity, my, how
shall I put this, storage of said liquor is becoming
increasingly obvious. Despite finding the recent need
to purchase new slacks and a stronger belt, I cannot
bring myself to give up my boozing/expanding. I have
attempted to give up food, but found the withdrawal
pains far too severe, and as for trying to subsist on
a diet of liquor and bar food, my previous employer/girlfriend/neighbor
can tell you that course of action was unsuccessful.
Anyway, the bottom line is: How do I remain slim and
continue to break my personal bests as consistently
as I have been?
--Aging
Boozehound
Dear
Aging Boozehead:
Alas, it’s a sad fact that as we get older our
metabolism slows down and we end up looking more like
Jackie Gleason than William Faulkner.
But don’t blame the booze. At least not directly.
A slew of recent medical studies suggest that the beer
belly is a myth. Believe it or not, on average drinkers
tend to be slimmer than teetotalers.
That said, America as a whole, drinkers and non-drinkers
alike, is getting fatter. Why? Three reasons. One, we’re
more sedentary than our forefathers. Two, we are constantly
bombarded by advertising for very unhealthy food. And
finally, the government foisted the wrong-headed carbohydrate-heavy
Food Pyramid on the public thirty years ago. And we’ve
been ballooning ever since.
So what’s the solution? A modified Atkins or
Zone Diet, which I like to call the the Drunk Caveman.
I’m
talking meat and hard liquor. Most liquor doesn’t
contain carbs, but the mixers do. If you drink Jack
and Coke, switch to Diet Coke, or better yet, Jack
on the rocks. Martinis are a safe bet and diet tonic
isn’t
noticeable after your third G and T. If you’re
a beer man, much as I hate to say it, switch to the
new low-carb varieties. They taste like hell, but
they’ll
get you just as drunk.
Now this may seem outright sacrilege and a hell of a
sacrifice to you, but remember, you’ve become
aware of a problem and you’ve decided to do something
about it. Reaching a new goal almost always means changing
your direction.
Will it work? Yes. Two years ago, after noticing my
rib cage had gone into deep hiding, I embarked on the
Drunk Caveman. I lost thirty pounds in six months.
Dear
Concerned Cad:
Lately I haven’t been drinking as much as I would
like. The thing that makes me concerned is that it’s
not because I can’t stomach it or I don’t
have any money, it’s that I don’t really
feel like it. Is it possible to be too depressed to
drink?
Thanks,
--Carrie
Dear
Carrie:
As with most endeavors, it’s all about taking
that first step, or drink, as the case may be. You must
have faith. Realize that after three drinks you’re
going to feel much better about drinking. It’s
like going to the gym: It can be the hardest thing in
the world dragging yourself there, but once you get
started, you feel fantastic.
That said, you can’t expect the whiskey to do
all the work. Realize that booze and the bar that serves
it doesn’t owe you a good time. It merely provides
all the tools a human being needs to have a ball. A
bar is a playground. And since there are no slides or
seesaws to be had, you’re going to have to play
with other people’s minds.
In his infamous 1813 scallywag manual Trappings of a
Cad, Sir Edward Biddle referred to the practice of this
dark art as “Going on the Hoot.” He and
his cronies would drift from bar to bar, executing elaborate
pranks on the staff and whatever unfortunate customers
were on hand. Often their pranks would result in bodily
harm, but what did Biddle care, he was high-born and
protected by thick circles of money and power. As you
probably lack both, here’s an assortment of less
violent yet equally cruel tricks I sometimes use to
liven up a long stretch of power drinking.
Bar
Games for Bastards
Devil Rum’s Advocate
Sit at the bar and wait for someone to voice an opinion
about something, anything—sports, religion, politics,
the weather, whatever. Immediately pick an argument
with him, even if your position is diametrically opposite
to your actual beliefs. It’s really quite exhilarating,
especially when your opponent states an opinion he believes
utterly safe and widely held, making your counter-stance
completely ridiculous and indefensible. For example,
if your victim says Benito Mussolini was a nasty person,
inform him you are in fact a card-carrying Blackshirt
and we’d all be happier if Benito were in charge.
March up and down while shouting, “At least he
made the trains run on time!” If your victim speaks
poorly of rain-forest destruction, announce that you
are going to personally fly to Brazil to hack-and-slash
as much vegetation as possible. Why? Because a rubber
tree fell over and crushed your dad when you were a
kid and you must have your sweet revenge. Or tell him
you believe the faster humanity destroys the environment
the faster we can build cool Battlestar Galactica-style
colony ships and cruise the universe looking for alien
chicks. You must speak with absolute, infatiguable fanaticism
and never give in. You may get in a fistfight but, hey—you
said you wanted excitement, right?
Free
Drink Frenzy
Try to see how many free drinks you can sleaze and seize
in one ho
