“Buy me a beer and thank me later!”
Sheppy’s weak but unique way of soliciting a free beer at the Ron De Voo.
“People tell me, ‘Oh, you just drink to escape your problems.’ Well, no shit. I’d eat rat heads if it let me ditch my problems.”
Fred R. spells it all out in front of Walgreen’s.
“Drinking blows my brains out. It blows out all the crap in my head and allows new and better ideas to seep in.”
Michael C. pulling the trigger on a double bourbon at the Streets of London Pub.
“I drink because I prefer the company of drunks, and they don’t like sober people hanging around, making faces.”
Tim M. making sure no one feels uncomfortable at the Lion’s Lair.
“We’re 1/16th American Indian. And since we’ve both had at least 16 drinks, by my calculations we’re about to go on the warpath.”
One of a pair of siblings makes a radical prediction at Lancer’s Lounge, shortly before going berserk.
“Before you throw me out, make sure I pay my bar tab.”
The fatalistic and honorable Peter M.’s customary greeting to bartenders.
“Oh, I hate alcohol, too. Give me a bottle of the stuff and I’m pissing it right out an hour or two later.”
An agreeable gent communing (and commuting) with a church-bound crone at a bus stop on Broadway Ave.
“What’s the scariest sound in the world? Ice rattling in an empty glass.”
Observation by Gordon at the Ale House in Tacoma, WA.
“Can you mute the idiot box?”
Charlene T. making a polite request in a bar with zero TVs and one loudmouth.
“Is that a fifth in your bloodstream, or are you really happy to see me?”
A skeptical guest to an overly-welcoming host at a cocktail party in Boston.
“That jerk is the ugliest, smelliest, assholiest fuck-face on the planet. I would never sleep with him again.”
An unnamed lady shores up her future standards at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“Alcoholism is the only disease they
yell at you for having.”
Tina R. channelling the late great Mitch Hedberg at
the Three Kings Tavern.
“I’m going down to the bar to
sober up.”
Dan M. bowing out of a hard-pounding party at midnight.
“I’m in the midst of a one-man
intervention.”
John C., when asked why he is eschewing his usual
bourbon rocks for draft beer at the Old Curtis St.
Pub.
“Can I get a shot of whiskey to wash
down that shot of tequila?”
Terry T. clearing her palette at the Hondo Lounge.
“I’m not fat. I’m
larger than life.”
Pete R. placing his impressive girth into a kinder
light at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“Gotta early A.A. meeting tomorrow.”
Drunkard, name unknown, explaining why he has to leave
the Lancer Lounge a full half hour before last call.
“I'm looking for a
big strong tab I can warm myself next to.”
Cheryl “the Bear” upon being asked what
she’s doing sitting at the bar of the Retreat
Tavern without a drink.
“I don’t hide inside the
bottle. The bottle hides inside me.”
Patrick M. slowly camouflaging a bottle of
gin at the Lion’s Lair.
“Why should I apologize? It was my beer!”
Bessie after spilling her Sierra Nevada into
Darius’ lap at Matty’s Corner, Black Rock,
CT.
“You know, man, some people may call you a
stoner, but to me you’ll always be a drunk.”
Mike L, 23, complimenting his buddy Duffy
over a bottle of Windsor and bong loads in a California
hotel room.
“They treat me like a king in this bar, because
I act like one.” Tony T., roughly 25
minutes before being “crowned” by the bartender
and carried from the bar for helping himself to one
of his minion’s beer at the Corner Bar, Newark,
NJ.
“Why you reading a book in a bar? That’s
like arm-wrestling on the Moon.”
Name unknown dishing out a unique brand of
logic at the Curtis St. Lounge.
“I’m sort of a fashion nut, and I was
just checking on what kinda shoes people are wearing
this season.”
Charlie picking himself off the floor of the
Broadway Bar and Grille in Nashville, TN.
“I am brilliant and charming. You are
overly talkative. He is disgustingly drunk.”
Dan M. at the Cruise Room explaining the contrary
effects of five martinis on three different people.
“Either you’re too drunk or I’m
too sober.”
Sara N. attempting to get to the bottom of
why she can’t understand a friend’s conversation.
“When I’m loaded I feel like a glamorous
movie star with a totally retarded publicist.”
Terry S. struggling to rationalize heightened
self-esteem and lukewarm reviews at the Carioca Cafe.
“I went out last night and didn’t drink
a drop. I talked all night and in the morning I remembered
everything I said. It was horrifying.”
Juan R. explaining his third shot of the afternoon
at Swanky’s.
“How do you look when I’m sober?”
Ring L. postulating a question to a gent with
a strikingly eccentric hair style.
“A hangover is just Beer’s way of reminding
you you shouldn’t have stopped.”
Pat S. channeling the God of Hops at Gabby’s
Bar in Toronto.
“Call my number. I don’t want to reach
down in there if it doesn’t work.”
Jake B. asking a friend to call the cell phone
he just dropped in the Streets of London Pub’s
toilet.
“See, that’s the problem.
I get so drunk I always forget I said it.”
Robert N. explaining why he has already managed
to break the previous night’s promise of “I’ll
never get this drunk again.”
“It’s not ‘drinking for breakfast,’ sir.
It’s merely round 12 of my nightcap.”
Anonymous patron shrugging off disdain from
a waiter during a morning diner visit.
“I drink well tequila because
we wicked drunks need to be punished.”
Lady P. beating herself up at the Squire Lounge.
“If you want something you’ll
have to speak up. I can understand Drunk all day
long but I’m not fluent in Shit Head.”
A waitress named Stacy giving a brief linguistics
lesson to a belligerent and mumbling patron.
“Keep your legs together, and don’t
get high-centered.” Bobby Mac on most any
Friday night in the Miles Inn, Sioux City, IA.
“It’s because I don’t
believe in God that I am so terrified of him.”
Mike S. grappling with a dubious belief system
and a double bourbon at the Lion’s Lair.
“Common sense is for commoners,
and I happen to be a royal asshole.”
Unidentified patron fending off a bartender’s
query of “Do your think another shot is sensible?” at
the Squire Lounge.
“I thought I was dancing ‘til
somebody stepped on my hand.”
J.D. after nine J.D.s in Club AK, Fairbanks,
AK.
“Bartender, one more pony Bud,
please. They give me the illusion of height to fend
off the Lilliputians.”
Reggie elevating his stature and sense of the
absurd in Hank’s Saloon, Brooklyn N.Y.
“You better stop drinking because you’re
getting
blurry.”
Mono R. looking after his friends and his eighth shot of tequila.
“Hey, can you help me find my
cell phone? I need to call my cigarettes.”
Laurie G. getting her act together over a Bloody
Mary at a house party.
“This is the point in the day
where everything good goes to shit!”
Travis K. wrestling with imminent woe and a Bloody Mary
at 7:30 am.
“Excuse me, sir, care to make
a donation to the United Negro Michelob Fund?”
An unusually honest panhandler
outside Murphy’s
Pub, Alexandria, VA.
“It’s hard being a student and a drunk,
but I try to keep my GPA near my BAC. I got a 4.0 last
semester, but my grades didn’t do so good.”
Jim H. balancing the books and
the booze at the Lion’s
Lair.
“If you don’t drink in the morning, you
can’t be drunk all day.”
Uncle Tom breaking out philosophy and the first beer
of the morning.
“Now that I can see two of you, you’re
twice as hot.”
Kasja M. doubling her vision and dishing out the compliments
at Red Square.
“I’m afraid of three things:
Women, snakes, and the police. They all have the ability
to hurt me and make it look like it was my fault.”
Gil H. sums up his fears at Auntie
Mae’s Parlor
in Manhattan, KS.
“Look on the bright side — eventually
a new girl will come along and break your heart, then
you’ll forget all about her.”
A
friend’s comforting words at the
Magic Stick in Detroit.
“If you
want to drink all day, you gotta start early.”
Unnamed drunk at Mary’s Cafe,
Clifton Heights PA.
“If you
run that through some cheesecloth, that’s a perfectly
good shot.”
Jeff W. at the 1902 Tavern in Pittsburgh
after his date, Kim, gulped a double shot of Crown
Royal then immediately and matter-of-factly puked it
back into the glass
“Gin is
a morose widow. Tequila is the
supple mistress with the cojones to attend the funeral.
Pour me some mistress.”
Scott Q. after being offered a gin and tonic
at the Firehouse Bar.
“There’s
a point where every man has to draw the line and say
enough is enough, Eric. The problem I run into is that
I’m a real patient
person.”
Ralph justifying his latest blackout to
the bartender at the Starlite Cafe in Jacksonville.
“Whose round is it? Can’t
be mine already, I bought one four drinks ago. Who’s
the fifth guy? Where’s that asshole? Step up
to the plate! Fifth man up!”
George T., 24,
searching for the ever-elusive fifth man in the shadows
of the Streets of London Pub, not comprehending the
fifth man is, after all, all of us.
“Yeah, if they cut off all your
fingers.”
Tim H.’s reply to Terry
A.’s boast of “I can count the number of
women I wouldn’t fuck on one hand,” at
JR’s Lounge.
“Anybody not using their tab?”
Mike
L. checking for a little slack at Lincoln’s Roadhouse.
“Let’s drink ‘til
we can’t feel feelings anymore.”
Peter
G. sets the course for Blackout Island outside the Drunken
Clam.
“I’ll
fuck the guinea pig but I won’t be the fuckin’ guinea
pig.”
Jeff, drunk but not crazy drunk,
being dared to jump off a balcony into the Chicago
River.
“Hey, bro,
can you spare fifty cents? My car ran out of gas and
I need some gas money so I can catch the bus to Boulder.
Ah, shit, I fucked that one up. I meant to say I need
a cup of coffee and some food and shit. And it’s
July 4th. Pretty near. Fuck you.”
Name
refused, still working out the kinks on the 16th Street
Mall.
“The optimist sees the
glass half full. The pessimist sees the glass half
empty. The drunk says, 'Are you gonna drink that'?"
Robert
G. eschewing the philosophical for the practical.
“So, have you always been
a tool, or are you just going for the ‘look’?”
Bartender
Lifto welcomes a slumming and high- maintenance yuppie
to the Casino El Camino .
“You’re paying off
like the world’s worst slot machine.”
Rick
E. watching his friend regurgitate expensive scotch
outside the Whiskey Bar.
“You have abused the right
to say something stupid.”
Tom B. in Orlando
after getting his fill of his barstool neighbor.
“I tried drinking myself
to death. Now I have to get my health back just so
I’ll have the strength to jump in front of a
bus.”
Tracy M. switches mortal gears
in Manhattan, KS.
“These floozies aren’t
sluts, man. They’re just liberated."
Aaron
B. strikes a blow against entrenched sexism at the
Squire Lounge.
“The damn wagon’s
too crowded anyway.”
Anonymous drunk
about to take a fall in front of the Lions Lair Lounge.
“Before I order the cabernet,
may I examine its box?”
Ross L making
broad assumptions as to the quality of wine served
at Joe’s Pit Stop.
“I used to drink to get
drunk. Now I just get friend-shot-buying stupid.”
Johnny
G. toasting his brother-in-law’s
son at Red Square.
“Here’s to all the
women out there! They sure fuckin’ treated my
ass right!”
Andy K. toasting his impending
divorce and imminent bachelor status while reacquainting
himself with his old pal Canadian Club.
“Did you just say that
or did I?”
A confused Blake W. after
a moment of silence in Wingo Saloon.
“The drinking will continue
until you show a dramatic improvement in attitude.”
Sandy
T., 28, addressing her “uppity” liver
at the Cockpit Lounge.
“Everybody gets fucked
over by the world sooner or later. It just happened
to you a little sooner than you probably expected.”
Bonnie
B. comforting a heartbroken friend at the Squire Lounge.
“She spilled a beer on me. That’s
foreplay.”
Paul responding to either clumsiness or a come-on in
the Satire Lounge.
“You better pour me a shot of Turkey. I don’t
want to drink too much beer on an empty stomach.”
Grimace Hornbuckle at the Kitty Kat Club moments before
darkness descended.
“I used to
live to work. Then I worked to live. Then I worked
to drink. Now I must drink to work.”
G.J. clocking in at work, partly drunk and fully functional.
“It’s
at the bottom, luv.”
Maggie at Nallen’s savvy reply to “Why didn’t
you pour a clover shape into my pint of Guinness?”
“We’ve had enough to drink. Now let’s
have too much.”
Mike C., 40, raising the bar at the Ale House in Tacoma.
“According
to the wussies, last night was a six binger.”
Luke S. co-opting the Man’s rap by applying their
current definition of binge drinking (5 drinks in a
row) to the previous evening’s festivities.
“There’s only two
people in this town that I hate, and you’re
both of them.”
Ian R., a drunkard with few
enemies but much bile, venting at Rosalyn’s
Bar and Grill.
“Bar stools are like prostitutes.
And if you think one belongs just to you, you’re
setting yourself up for a lifetime of heartbreak.”
Unnamed
drunk rebuffing a regular’s
claim of dominion at Jay’s Lounge.
“It’s the name of
a new drink.”
A very loud (and very brief)
visitor to The Corner Lounge explaining why he walked
in and shouted, “Buncha
cocksuckers!”
“Don’t worry, I
speak the lingo.”
Wendy B., shortly before
repeatedly shouting “Fuck off!” at a panhandler
working the patio fence at the Streets of London Pub.
“Looks like we got ourselves
three pitchers and a bottle of Wild Eye there.”
Unnamed
and wily wino deftly translating the handful of change
in a newfound friend’s hand
outside John’s Liquors.
“It sucks when decent,
hardworking people get screwed over like that. Because
that means pricks like us don’t stand a chance.”
Jim
S. watching the devastation of the recent tsunami on
the television at JR’s Bar.
“Let us never speak
of this again.”
John N., confronting an empty bottle of whiskey and
full bottle of vermouth.
“I was in Hollywood a long, long
time. I was on the verge of making it too, but some
cocksucker stole my shopping cart and I was back to
square one.”
John The Juice, 45, decrying the unfairness
of the Hollywood system.
“I used to drink with Jack Kerouac. We’d
buy each other drinks all night, and sometimes when
I was broke he’d buy all my drinks. Especially
after he became a big movie star. I didn’t need
any money, I’d just work for drinks. He understood
that very well. Hey, aren’t you in the movies,
too?”
Rusty P., 58, trying to build bar tabs through association.
“Things are a lot more like they
used to be than they are now.”
Graffiti in the men’s room of Gritty McDuff’s
Portland Brew Pub, Portland, ME.
"It’s okay,
I already asked.”
Nick G., 22, responding to the
bartender’s inquiry
as to why he is refilling his glass from the tap.
”No wonder you were sick—look
at all the puke you swallowed!”
A bartender’s pithy diagnosis
of a patron face down on the bar
“Either I’ve
fallen down or you guys have turned into giants.”
Joey D. enjoying his new perspective
from the floor of the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
““Let’ssss leave in
mysssstery.”
Amy slurring and sneaking her way out the back door
of a New Orleans bar, leaving behind the two soon-to-be-mystified
gentlemen who bought her and her friend drinks all
night.
“If you didn’t serve me last night, what
makes you think I’d remember that?”
Unnamed drunk in the James Joyce
Pub in response to the bartender’s query of: “If we didn’t
serve you last night, what makes you think we’re
going to serve you this afternoon?”
“The jukebox is the drunkard’s
fireplace.”
Troy B., warming himself to Wheel in the Sky in the
Streets of London Pub.
“Why am I homeless? Why do all
you motherfuckers need homes is the real question.”
Tony R., footloose, rent-free and begging for spare
change in front of the Denver Public Library.
“My wife never knew I drank until
I made the mistake of coming home sober.”
Overheard at Riley’s Tavern
in Broomfield, CO.
“Time for a cup of Good Morning
America.”
Shannon D., opening his first (but not the last) beer
of the a.m.
"Wow, that one had
corners on it."
Darren at the Cricket on the Hill after knocking back
a shot of well scotch.
"Yes, and I have the solution right
here,"
Jake S., 29, responding to the comment that he might
have a drinking problem at the Lion's Lair Lounge.
"I like it when the booze says, 'You don’t
really want to drink me' and I say 'Shut up, fucker,
and get in my throat' then I drink it and the fuckin’ booze
says 'Got you, fucker!'”
Blackneto relates a recurring conversation on the MDM
BBS.
“Gentlemen, at approximately nine o’clock
last night, a small scouting force was sent into the
vicinity of my liver. They’ve not been heard from.
A rescue force was dispatched, but they, too, have been
lost. I’m afraid I have no choice but to declare
a state of full-scale war with my liver. Time for a
martini.”
Lincoln Freimund rallies the troops
on New Year’s
Eve.
"I kinda like it when the girl makes me buy her
a drink or two before making out with me—makes
it look like she has standards. At least one of us
should."
"Fearless" Jim explaining
the intricacies of barroom romance in a NYC tavern.
“People are shit.”
Angel. 31, not waiting for a bus at Colfax Ave Bus Stop
No. 131.
“Sure I drink a
lot; but just look what it does for my social skills.”
Timothy, 37, being helped by three
concerned young women after he regurgitated an evening’s worth
of boilermakers outside Bisbano’s Pub, Lafayette,
LA.
“I want all the booze in the world in this glass
right now. All of it. Mix it up. I’ll drink every
damn drop. Of course, I’m going to need a bigger
glass.”
An ambitious yet pragmatic Tom
H. wanting it all at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“You gonna to drink that slop or am I gonna
to have to get all Miss Piggy on yo’ ass?”
Unidentified gangsta angling for
his homeboy’s
unfinished beer at the 15th St. Tavern.
“Give me another glass of wine,
and pour it strong this time.”
Annie G., 24, attempting to squeeze booze from a turnip
at the Streets of London Pub.
“Why would you wanna go home? That’s where
your husband’s at.”
A would-be Lothario uses his sly logic to test the
wedding vows of a not-so-young lady at Bar Bar.
“Okay, you got me. What the fuck
is it?
Unnamed patron questioning the
bartender’s unique
way of making a margarita with vodka at the Aloha Lounge.
“Does
that thing even work?”
“Shit, man, it’s still warm.”
Exchange between a New Orleans bartender and
a crack cocaine enthusiast attempting to sell a George
Foreman Grill of dubious origin.
“Come
on barkeep, just give me a free one, then I’m
outta here.”
Rob L. giving fair warning before reaching over
the bar and stealing a bottle of Jagermeister from The
Vine.
“You’re
not drunk if you can lay on the floor without holding
on.”
Scott Q. while desperately clawing at his living
room carpet.
“Give
me well scotch and top shelf water.”
Mary K. worrying about the wagon instead of
the mule at Southpark Tavern.
“One
of my personalities is a lady. Does that count?”
Roger S. probing for psychological loopholes
in Mozart Lounge’s ladies night special.
“All
right, which one of you bastards moved the floor?”
Spoken from the floor of the Double Down Saloon
by an unnamed gentleman who refused help walking to
the door.
“I’m
drinking to get a hangover so I’ll have something
to do during my day off tomorrow.”
Fred L. 44, drinking for the future at the
Lion’s
Lair.
“Behind
every good man, there’s a bartender in front
of him.”
Sheer genius overheard by William G. at The
Library Bar, NYC.
“You
evil fuckers! Oh, you got me this time. Back’s
broke. Laying in my own piss. Oh, you got me now. My
mama told me this would happen and I packed my bag
and hit the road anyway. Ah, fuck it.”
Alabama Bill, 45, paralyzed by treachery and
wine in the alley beside the Lion’s Lair, moments
before his miraculous recovery.
“I’m
Batman. Would you like that? Would you like to drink
with Batman?”
L. Barca (or possibly Bruce Wayne) willing to
share a bottle of Crown Royal at a party in San Francisco.
“Sure!
What’s in it?”
Troy B.’s rather optimistic response to
a bartender’s request of, “You wanna get
the hell out of here?” at Club 404.
“Never
throw out a man deep in his cups, cuz he might drown.
Socrates said that. Just before the bastards drowned
him.”
Unidentified patron playing fast and loose with
history at Bushwackers Tavern.
“I’m
not drunk. I have the flu. All this drinking lowered
my germ immunity”
Adam M, 32, putting a medical spin on why he
fell out of his chair at the High Street Speakeasy.
“I
just escaped from detox. Can you drive me to a liquor
store?”
Unknown woman, soliciting a ride from a perfect
stranger at Speer and 8th Ave.
“Hey,
I hear there’s free shots after midnight.”
Ulf, 40, at the Round Lounge, three days after
the bar was shot up with an assault rifle at midnight.
“Will
Kidnap Your Mother-in-Law For Beer Money.”
Sign held by unnamed wino at the corner of Colfax
and Grant.
“Will
Drink For Food.”
Sign held by a wino who wants it all, with minimum
effort, at Speer and 8th.
“Pour
me a Guinness, and I’ll have a PBR while it’s
settling.”
Troy B., 40, multitasking his pints at Nallen’s
Pub.
“You
know what the difference between a lounge and bar is?
About a dollar a drink.”
Heather B., 24, keeping it cheap and real at
Bushwackers Bar.
“I
hope I get gigantism so I can grip a forty the whole
way around.”
Dave S., on the Modern Drunkard Bulletin Board.
“I’m
not drunk. I have the flu. All this drinking lowered
my germ immunity”
Adam M, 32, putting a medical spin on why he
fell out of his chair at the High Street Speakeasy.
“Go
ahead and unload on me, man. I’m pretty sure I’m
blacked out right now and won’t remember nothing.”
An extremely loaded, yet intensely self-aware
patron at the High Street Speakeasy.
“You’re
hard to remember, but easy to forget.”
Trish C., 24, dishing out a sweet burn at the
Lion’s Lair.
“How
am I supposed to remember everyone’s name? There’s
so many of them and so few of me.”
Trish C., 24, keeps them coming at the Lair.
“Whoa!
You just fucking scared the hell out of me! Up to now
I thought you were a statue.”
To which the bartender at Steve’s Lounge
replied, “Naw, I was just petrified by your last
big fat fifty-cent tip.”
“Hey,
my ride’s here!”
Robin R., 45, upon spotting a police cruiser
pulling up in front of the Wigwam Bar and Grill.
“For
hardly any man dances when sober, unless he is insane.
Nor does he dance while alone, nor at a respectable
and moderate party. Dancing is the final phase of a
wild party with fancy decorations and a multitude of
delights.”
Marcus C. spewing undisputable truths at Caesar’s.
"I
want four stupid fruity shots. Stupid and fruity as
you can make ‘em. Your choice. And a Jack Daniels
neat.”
Name unknown, attempting to rescue his forsaken
masculinity four shots too late at the Bar Bar.
“I
have to get outta my head on liquor at least once a
week. If I didn’t, I’d still go out of
my head. But I might not come back.”
Lilly B., age 27, letting herself out for a
walk at the Streets of London.
“If
drinking is so bad, why does it feel so good?”
Name unknown, posing the eternal question at
Mozart’s Lounge.
“I
never met a man’s bar tab I didn’t like.”
Shelly M., 33, updating Will Rogers at Streets
of London.
“Man’s
best friend, my ass.”
Tomas R., 49, drinking PBRs at the Cricket on
the Hill after losing $200 at the dog track.
“Listen,
you’re going to buy me a drink whether you like
it or not. Accept it. Embrace it. Make it your byword.
Can’t we just get this over with and move on
with our goddamn lives?”
Patrick B., age unknown, accosting a perfect
stranger at the Bar Bar.
“I
don’t just want the hair of the dog. I want his
liver too. Because I think the fucker ate mine.”
Dave B., 39, demanding full retribution at
the Lion’s Lair.
“When
the fuck did all the bartenders trade in their skills
for tits? Did I miss a meeting?”
Jay R., 32, brooding over the plum brandy that
found its way into his Manhattan at the Carousel Club.
"You
ain't that good looking to be that fucking stupid."
Sam Tipton, 3/4 drunk and moving his head back
and forth, trying get his target in focus at J.P. Henley's
Saloon.
“I’d
tip you, but I need that money to get drunk.”
Unnamed patron vocalizing a very powerful subconscious
desire for a very weak Jack and Coke at the Streets
of London Pub.
“Grab
hold me, boys! I’m about to rear up on my hind
legs and take a bite outta the fuckin’ moon!”
Raymond L., 52, losing his composure but not
his dreams at the Landmark Tavern.
“I
was merely trying to appreciate the perspective of
the snake.”
Unnamed patron at the Leisure Lounge, explaining
why she was found laying under a pool table.
“There,
how’d ya like that one? No? Well, here’s
another for ya! That one gotcha, didn’t it! Right
between the eyes! Ya hurting now? Good, because here
comes another! That shook ya, didn’t it? Tell
me it didn’t shake ya!”
Burt B. 65, beating up his liver with belts
of well whiskey at the Congress Lounge.
“I got drunk on whiskey when I was ten and I got
so sick I hated the even the smell of the stuff. I couldn’t
even touch it until I was thirteen.”
Paco R., 39, reminiscing the The Streets of
London Pub about his first drunk.
“Hey,
fuck face, what happened to your fucked up face?” The
erudite Troy B., 39 winning over new enemies
at the Lions Lair.
“I
hide my vanity behind this pretty face.”
Tricia P, age refused, mixing her drinks (and
her signals) at the Lair.
“Keep
in mind that, after I do this shot, I may not be the
same man you’ve come to love and trust so completely.
In fact, you may consider chaining me to a sturdy radiator,
if one is handy.”
Jack T., 28, giving fair warning prior to sinking
a double shot of well tequila.
“That’s
so tasty I’d drink it right back down if it were
to come back up.”
Terry M., age unknown, reveling in the tastiness
of the the mai tai cocktail at the Streets of London.
“Full
moon tonight, fuckers! Watch out for me! Full moon
tonight! Lock up your bar tabs and hide your beers!”
Nameless were-wino howling at passersby from
the mouth of the alley at Colfax and Vine.
“That
beer you’re drinking looks suspiciously simular
to the one that was stolen from me two days ago.”
Sarah S., 25, looking to recover stolen goods
at the Lair.
“Hey,
you got any extra shots in that bottle?”
Mike K., attempting to squeeze good will and
free whiskey from the bartender at the Streets of London
Pub.
“You’d
think if someone really wanted to be mayor, he’d
buy a couple rounds for the, you know, potential voters.
Because I vote. I vote like crazy.”
Jess T., trying to politic a round from the
Wynkoop Brewery, which happens to be owned by Denver
Mayoral candidate John Hickenlooper.
“Excuse
me, sir, but I’d like to open a tab for the troops.”
A devious yet patriotic con man at Club 404.
“Night
Train? Love the stuff. There’s a fight in every
bottle.”
Ramon P., possessed of a bottle and the makings
of conflict outside the Squire Lounge.
“Oh,
I’m not a drunk. I’m a drank. As in, I just
drank all my beer. But I’m willing to be a drunk
if you buy me a drink.”
Joan B., playing with words and men’s
emotions outside the Carioca Cafe.
“Come
on, John, open up. I’ve got stuff to forget.”
Jimmy K., standing outside John’s Liquors,
wearing a bathrobe and a watch that reads 8 a.m.
“Depression
is just anger without enthusiasm. It’s an empty
beer bottle with no one worth throwing it at.”
Norma M., her seething rage barely contained
by apathy at the Cricket on the Hill.
“Is
it okay to puke in the restroom? Not even in the toilet?
I have to go outside? It’s fucking cold outside."
Susy B., all messed up and nowhere to blow in
the Squire Lounge.
“When
I think about all the people out there that want to
kill me, I’m just glad as hell I’m in here
drinking with my friends. You are my friends, right?"
Ron T., attempting to separate the Cowboys from
the Indians at the Streets of London Pub.
“I
want a shot. Do you want a shot? What about you? Hey,
you guys want a shot? You? Okay, that’s one, two,
three, four, five shots of tequila. Awesome. This is
going to be great. Now, who’s got some money,
cuz I’m broker than a broke-dick dog.”
Nameless (and shameless) patron at the Lion’s
Lair.
“Fuck
those guys who ride around in limousines. Fuck them.
Even if they got a bar in there, fuck them. How many
bottles do you think that little bar has? Five? Maybe
ten at the most. How many bottles we got here? A hundred
at least. Fuck their little ten-bottle bar. I wouldn’t
even want to ride in a limousine, unless I had somewhere
important to go.”
Jay H., railing against the sham riches of
the ruling class at Bushwackers Saloon.¸
“I
once got so drunk I woke up in a tree. Which wasn’t
so bad, except the tree was in a different state than
I started in. I call that being ‘Cross-Country
Tree-Climbin’ Drunk.’”
Roy B., drinking on the ground and in his home
state (for now).
“I
used to think of Heaven as a bar that was open all the
time and everything was free, but now I think of it
as a bar that won’t throw me out.”
Jimmy J., wrestling with his lowered expectations
in the temporary paradise of the Squire Lounge.
“See
that girl over there? I dated her for two months and
now she won’t even look at me because I tried
to give her cat some bourbon. Hey, Lucy! Hey, Lucy!
How’s Whiskers? Is he out of AA yet?”
Joel R., gleefully taunting the ghosts of his
past at the Carioca Cafe.
“Yeah,
I just threw up too. Wanna get another
pitcher?”
Charlie M., not letting a little regurgitation
get in the way of the Beautiful Dream at the Streets
of London Pub.
“Always
remember what Winston Churchill said: ‘I have
taken more out of alcohol than any bartender ever took
away from me.’ Something like that.”
LuAnne W., living up to the spirit, if not
the exact words, of England’s finest drunkard.
Patron: “I’ll have an extra dry Tanqueray martini
on the rocks with a twist and when I can’t say
it any more, don’t bring me any more.”
(5 drinks later)
Patron: “I’ll have a Tanqully
moonton wit wockers.”
Bartender: “You can’t say
it, so you can’t have one.”
Patron: “Okay, I’ll have
a scotch and soda.”
Beating the system at Diamond Jim’s Club
in Mendota Heights, Minnesota
“Every shot of whiskey I drink is like poison
in Bin Laden’s eyes. And before I go home tonight,
we’re both going to be blind as bats.”
Johnny K. at Lincoln’s Roadhouse, sticking
it to the international terrorist network, one shot
of Beam at a time.
“Look
at all the those yuppies in there, drinking up all the
good hooch, then slappin’ it on a gold card. Make’s
ya wanna be commie, don’t it?
Rodney T., leering through Uptown Tavern’s
window and seething with proletariat rage.
“Give
a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how
to fish and he’ll sit in the boat and drink all
day.”
Earl P., practicing his fishing skills in the
Squire.
“Thou
shalt not kill anything less than a fifth.”
Billy F., walking into Scooter’s Liquors
with murder is his heart.
“Let
other mortals vainly wear,
A tedious life in anxious care;
Let the ambitious toil and think,
Let states or empires swim or sink;
My sole ambition is to drink.”
Mark M., getting all philosophical and ambitious
over a gin and tonic at William’s Tavern.
“A
well made Martini, correctly chilled and nicely served,
has been more often my true friend than any two-legged
creature.”
Monica F., hanging out with a good friend at
the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“If
the hangover came before being drunk, drinking would
be a virtue.”
Sammy B., preceding virtue with sin in the alley
behind Walgreens.
"Alcohol
is necessary so that a man can have a good opinion
of himself, undisturbed by the facts.”
Finley D., reveling in a scotch and soda and
a very high self-opinion at Swanky’s.
"You Yanks are a funny lot; you drink
whiskey to keep them warm, then put some ice in it to
keep it cool; you put some sugar in it to make it sweet,
and then put a slice of lemon in it to make it sour.
Then you say “Here’s to you” and
drink it yourselves.”
Boris C., attempting the break the Great American
Drinking Riddle over double neat vodkas at the Satire
Lounge.
“Life
is like a bad margarita with good tequila.”
Peter A., skipping the bad and sinking a shot
of the good at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“When
I drink, the part that feels dangerous and needy grows
bright and strong and real. The part that covets love
kicks into gear. The ‘yes’ grows louder
than the ‘no.’”
Caroline K., saying yes, yes and yes to another
round at the Squire Lounge.
“There
are people who strictly deprive themselves of each
and every eatable, drinkable, and smokeable which has
in any way acquired a shady reputation. They pay this
price for health. And health is all they get for it.
How strange it is. It is like paying out your whole
fortune for a cow that has gone dry.”
Sammy C. pontificating over a cigar and bourbon
at the Streets of London Pub.
“Waking
up hungover and snuggled up in bed with the boss’s
19-year-old daughter and having to walk out of the house
past his surprised ass at the breakfast table doesn’t
do wonders for your career.”
Duncan J., explaining why he has so much time
to drink at William’s Tavern
“Alcohol
is like love: the first kiss is magic, the second is
intimate, the third is routine. After that you just
take the girl’s clothes off.”
Raymond C., falling love all over again with
his sixth rye at Ogden St. South.
“I
love to drink and I love to sing. But most people like
to hear me drink.”
Georgie B. giving the audience what it wants
at the Carioca Cafe.
“Drinking
when we’re not thirsty is one of the few things
that separates us from the beasts.”
Beau T. at Swanky’s, getting more civilized
by the minute.
“Being
drunk doesn’t make me steal stuff. It makes me
get caught.”
Sharon M. at the Lion’s Lair, drinking
her first shot since being released from county jail.
“There
ain’t no devil. That’s just me when I’m
drunk.”
Patrick T. at Nallen’s Pub, twisting
an old adage to his own diabolical purposes.
“I
get loaded because it’s the only time I get to
play with the monkey inside me. We all got one. And
if we don’t play with him every now and then,
he gets mad and tries to claw his way out."
Roger “the Dodger” playing with
his monkey at the Buffalo Rose.
“Drinking
doesn’t affect my job. Hell, I have to get drunk
just to get motivated to go to work.”
Juan R. enjoying the early riser/pre-work shot
and beer special at the Carioca Cafe.
“You
got any of those smart drinks? No? Give me a scotch
then, I usually feel pretty smart after a couple of
those.”
John T. at the Squire Lounge, about to get real
smart.
“Vermouth
is all we have left? It’s always the last asshole
in line. I really hate that shit. Is there even alcohol
in it? Really? Okay, give me the bottle.”
Pat B. at a disgracefully stocked after-hours
party, stuck between an empty keg and a hard taste.
“She
said I was an asshole because I’m drunk and my
breath stinks. So I asked her to buy me a shot of peppermint
schnapps so I’d be only half an asshole.”
Larry L., revealing his own brand of pragmatic
romanticism at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“The
secret of being a good drunk is not to try to hard.
To me, it just comes naturally. You might even say it’s
effortless.”
T-Bird Barry, calmly sipping while hipping
up the amateurs in the alley next to the Lion’s
Lair.
“Last
night I dreamt you bought me a big bottle of wine. I’m
sure it was you. Actually, it was more of a vision
than a dream. A prophesy, really. Are you a religious
man, sir?”
Malone, testing the faith and gullibility of
a perfect stranger one block from Eighth Avenue Liquors.
“I
don’t smoke filtered cigarettes for the same reason
I don’t drink whiskey through a bar rag.”
Unnamed drinker at the Streets of London, smacking
up his pack of Pall Mall straights.
“Can
you pour me a Bass while I’m waiting for that
Guinness?”
The patient, but not that patient, Tim K. at
Nallen's Pub, maximizing his beer drinking time.
"Thunderbird?
I hate that shit. Pure piss. Why, do you have any?"
The tasteful but thirsty Johnny K., 45, lingering
outside the Kentucky Inn.
“Drunk?
You think I’m drunk? Just wait fifteen minutes
and I’ll really show you drunk.”
Unnamed drunk at an after-hours speakeasy who
oddly seemed surprised when the bouncers didn’t
seem interested in waiting long enough to find out
if his statement was true.
“Listen
fucker! I’m Spider Man and you’re the Green
Goblin. Hear me? So I guess you know what’s going
to happen next!”
Chuck L., 23, at the Squire Lounge boldly and
allegorically challenging his freshly arrived whiskey
and coke.
“Drink
up and be somebody.”
The sagacious Denver Joe at the Cricket on the
Hill, every Monday Night.
“Every
morning I have to a make a decision—smokes or
drinks. Cigs or forties. I tell you, alcohol is saving
me from lung cancer.”
Jay T., 24, expounding on the health benefits of hooch
outside the Lion’s Lair.
“Hooking
cans out of a dumpster ain’t as easy as it looks.
Lotta amateurs out there. You gotta bend the clothes
hangar just right and you gotta know where to look.
I can just look at a dumpster and tell if there’s
cans in there. None of these young guys can do that.”
Redwood, 44, musing on the fast fading art
of can-hooking and dumpster diving behind John’s
Liquors.
“Goddamnit,
I should have learned to play the piano. I’ve
never heard of a homeless piano player. Have you?”
Peter B., 39, figuring out why it all went
wrong outside the Lion’s Lair.
“The
great thing about keeping all your stuff in a shopping
cart is you always know where all your stuff is at.”
Tilman B, 57, looking over this year’s
new models in King Soopers parking lot.
“You
have anything lighter than Coors Light? I have to drive
home tonight.”
Unnamed drinker at the Cricket on the Hill,
fearful of going crazy on calories.
“Work?
Oh, I work. I only spare change on the the side. Like
a hobby. When I do day labor they usually appoint me
crew chief. I’m an executive. The line about being
out of work is just part of my PR campaign. Just part
of my logo.” J.R., explaining the the “Unemployed”
portion of his ‘Unemployed Homeless Veteran’ cardboard
logo a block from IH
“Whoa!
Look out for that cop, he’s a mean one. Hey, you
got a quarter? I got to meet Johnny at a quarter of
five. You got a quarter, man? I could use a quart of
beer right about now. Sure you don’t have a quarter?”
Tom H., practicing the fine art of subliminal panhandling
four blocks from Argonaut Liquors.
“OSAMA
DOESN’T WANT ME TO DRINK.. Don’t let him
win. Please give for freedom.”
Terry the Tramp’s patriotically defiant cardboard
sign, corner of Speer and Washington.
“They
won’t let me in there. ‘Cause I’m so
nice to people. And I tip and drink so good. That’s
why. And the time I hit that fucker with a mug, ‘cause
he was eyeballing me. Don’t eyeball me and I’m
the sweetest motherfucker around.”
Sweet Jerry, languishing in permanent exile outside
the Squire Lounge.
"I
tried that work thing and I just couldn't get behind
it. I mean, you go to work, you get off, you
eat some awful meal, you watch some t.v., you go to
bed, you wake up and then whole fucking thing stars
over again. I mean, there's just no end to it."
Rolly, age 33, unemployed and loving it under a tree
along Speer Ave.
"Detox
isn't as bad as everyone says. I make a game out of
it. I pretend I've been captured by alien robots disguised
as humans who are conducting experiments on me. And
I just play along, pretending to not know what they're
up to. See, it can be fun."
Jose P., age 40, evading the alien robots' grasp
three blocks from Hi-Lo Liquors.
"I don't drink to escape or to forget or because
I can't handle real life. I drink because whiskey is
the key that sets the monkey free."
Daniel at the Lion's Lair Lounge, getting an early
start on the afternoon.
"My daddy drank, grand-daddy drank, my goddamn
great grand-daddy drank, and I'll be goddamned if I'm
going to drop the ball now."
James K., age 27, keeping the tradition alive and
well three blocks from Paul's Liquors.
"You evil fucker! Oh, you got me this time.
Back's broke. Laying in my own piss. Oh, you got me
now. My mama told me this would happen and I packed
my bag and hit the road anyway. Ah, fuck it."
Alabama Bill, age 45, paralyzed by treachery and
wine, moments before his miraculous recovery.
"Wine is my woman, my buddy is beer. Whiskey
is my father and water is what I wear."
Jack, age 26, a block from Paul's Liquors, inspired
to poetry by two 40s and an early morning rain.
"I used to be a millionaire, I lived on top of
the Empire State Building. They called me Earl the
Pearl. Then I got tired of all the attention."
Earl, age 53, lounging on a downtown bench, explaining
why he gave his riches for the wino way.
"I don't need this . . . yes, sir, I'm getting
up . . . I live over there . . . my sister fell down
the stairs, hospital bull . . . no record, sir . .
. can't help a guy out . . . ah, who gives a shit,
I just want to lay down."
No name volunteered, startled from his midmorning
nap behind a dumpster two blocks from Argonaut's.
"Of course alcohol is good for you. I don't
need a doctor to tell me that. I mean, just look at
me."
Al, age 47, strolling down Broadway, weighing in
at a strapping 255 lbs.
"Hooooooooooweeeeeeeeeeee! That'll kill those worms!"
Preacher, age 50, taking his morning constitutional
in the alley behind Wax Trax.
