The Lush wrote:Currently I have nothing in my hand, but as the next two DOTW's both contain cream, I thought I'd use this as an opportunity to discuss the drink I wish I had in my hand right now.
It is always a tough choice, how many times have you wandered into one of your usual haunts and immediately been given the same drink that you have had so many times in the past? Before long you have settled into the same rhythm, and yet you may find yourself thinking, "you know what, I really don't feel like this right now, I want something different". What can the wise drinker do to avoid this? Should we 'phone the bar in advance? Should we try to force ourselves to remember to tell the staff before they hand you the next one (afterall, it would be unforgiveable to refuse the first one) that we fancy having a change? And what then, once we have decided to have a change, will it bugger up our rhythm on subsequent nights? I am sure I remember at some point in the distant past I always tried to vary my drinks in my regular bars to try to avoid this situation, but my habits have slipped, as I find myself drawn repeatedly to drinking whatever is the cheapest thing in each bar.
Of course having found a solution to the first problem, I find myself confronted by the second, which is potentially even more disastrous. The confusion bubbles up inside as I stare at the drinks list, bottles and glasses. What to order? As I blather I waste drinking time, but after so long on the same drink, from the same glass (it's called the same), in the same place, I feel disjointed breaking my routine. The same feeling you get when you change some minor part of your daily routine, like shaving the left side of your face before the right side, or whatever it is that leaves you with a nagging feeling that something isn't quite right. It is a battle to think of something to have, but then, and I finally come to some semblance of a point, DOTW was born. No longer did we need to stare gormlessly at the pretty bottles, we knew to try a drink recommended by other boozehounds.
I have digressed, so will come back to my point. The drink I wish I had in my hand right now is the one that will satisfy. The one that is right for the moment, and yet at so many times it eludes me. Of course, not when the choice is obvious (Wimbledon = Pimm's, Christmas morning = Champagne, cold winter's evening in front of fire = mulled wine or Whisky, and so on to your individual taste), but when I am in a situation where almost anything would be appropriate. At those times when I could order anything, I find I am still so unversed as to not be able to instantly know which drink will satisfy me. Even as I type this, I think that a Whisky would be the best thing to have in my hand right now, but how can I be sure?
It seems there is but one solution, to experiment more, to refine my knowledge not only of the sensations caused by each drink, but rather the sensations my body is giving me when it is demanding a drink, to more often break from the monotony of life and reach out for something new.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have no idea what I want in my hand right now, but trust me, one day, I will find out.
SteveD wrote:Do the wide green leaves of maple turn a blushing array of colors before falling to your earth for the rake? Have you yet seen Orion's belt leaning over you? Are the jackets with their many useful pockets clinging again to your shoulders?
I breathe crisp air outside my house. I tremble slightly from the cold. The clear skies hold piecing stars blinking through the icy weather at me. And this adds so much to where booze can take me.
Drinking in any season has its fun. But as winter creeps up I savor the warmth in my belly in a much different way. On a much lower level.
Where partying by the beach and quenching my thirst with liquid loquaciousness is an ode to the sun, so is warming my huddled frame with pulls from a steely bottle an embracing of booze not as recreation, but as a contributor to survival.
Its warmth ensnares me like a light does a moth. I can savor the taste just enough time to let the longing for a next sip to build. To let my tightening back muscles settle into a more relaxed stance. To let the rose of my cheeks not be numb to the cold, but to be tingling with excitement.
I'd rather drink in winter overall. Bring the cold, bring the layers, and bring the booze.
Shot Time wrote:"What are you having?"
"Beam rocks, please."
I remember ordering this at my old local once. I drank it down quickly, then ordered another, and another. I started feeling the stares from two men drinking Bud Lights--damn, what's up with that? I imagined them thinking--a young guy orders bourbon and finishes it smoothly and efficiently, grimmacing only when the glass is empty. That's right guys, it's called "drinking." It's not having tea time next to the touchscreen trivia machine. No, I'm unlocking something here. Can you imagine that?
Often I will find myself drinking next to some dude just zoning out in front of the TVs--hypnotized by the scrolling scorebars and trying to follow a game he doesn't care about. Usually something will cause us to converse; we'll talk about the bitchy bartender or the friendly one, talk about the bar, talk about ourselves. It's then that I call out shot time and get something vile--unlabelled vodka, whiskey with fruit flies circling the spout, or tequila.
"Can I have two shots of tequila--no lime, no salt. And make sure they're warm."
"Oh man," he says.
"That's right," I say.
We cough them down. Like two soldiers in the trenches battling poison gas, crawling around in lazy fog, we rise up disoriented, shocked, and curious. Maybe we'll go get food; maybe I'll go to the juke and put something fast and alive on--something to metronome our marching; a guide, a Virgil to take us through Hell. But this is no terza rima--this is terza zima, and we follow it all the way to paradise.
What kind of drinker has this man become? Has he seen what he is capable of--that all those multicolored bottles and strange tap handles aren't ornaments, but levers and buttons of a fascinating machine that he now knows how to drive? But where will he go?
"Heyyy doy ouuu have iiinnernet accesss?"
"Go here maaan, do it."
I hand him a beverage napkin with a odd language scrawled out across the middle; I watch him try and translate it--something about a drunkard, something about a magazine. What will he do with this map? Am I nothing more than a solicitor hanging in the doorwell of a diner, passing out flyers for 10% off at Penneys? I think back to the two men at the local, examining the anomaly outdrinking them. I think,
anomalies don't spread, because they are anomalies--they are what's different, what's special. Will the man recognize what he's been given? Or will it fall into the margin of things remembered--like the equation scribbled in Fermat's notebook, baffling thousands?
Perhaps one day, while cleaning the loose change out of his car, he will find the napkin, and take it inside. Perhaps he won't. Perhaps one day, a new member will post in The Pub, saying, "hey I was at the bar the other day and..." And we will say, welcome newb, I'll take a Beam rocks.
Rob wrote:It's kind of like surfing, getting on the wave is one thing, but riding it smooth, just on the edge of falling and staying on that peak for the whole night is pretty hard work. But it's rewarding. Usually I don't get to the perfect buzz or I rush past it so hard that I only catch a quick glimpse of it before going into oblivion.
Oggar wrote:Ah the glorious blackout. The warm, dark, oblivion that lies beyond drunk. In my research I have discovered several distinct levels to this abyss. Unfortunately due to lack of government funding I was forced to experiment on myself…
1) The Brownout- At this level the blackout did not take hold for some reason. Although you awakened with no concrete memories with time and a few helpful reminders the memories come flooding back to you.
2) The Rolling Blackout- When you awaken you may not even realize you've had a blackout. There are plenty of memories from last night and you remember coming home. You begin to realize you might have sailed out beyond the sight of land when you begin to converse with friends and bar staff later that night. You begin to reminisce about the previous night's activities but at some point their story begins to diverge from yours, "...and then you started howling like a wolf and did two more shots of Yukon Jack." You protest that this did not happen but apparently there were several other witnesses to the events. You are eventually forced by the preponderance of the evidence that you indeed blacked out.
3) The Blackout- This is the standard. You wake up in the living room having apparently decided to sleep in a chair last night and leave your pants in an as of yet undisclosed locale. Your memory just cuts out at a certain point, you knocked back that shot of tequila and took a swig of beer and 'poof' it's gone. Nothing special.
4) The Power Outage- You wake up in your bedroom, on the floor... by the closet. With a lot fewer memories than seems appropriate and a vague sense of dread. As you begin to scan your surrounding you notice the cell phone. You wince as you check the call log and see several calls to a strangely familiar number and then another and several more to friends you're pretty sure weren't out with you last night. Oh well these things happen. That night when you go out to the bar your arrival is greeted by a mixture of laughter and applause. You are regaled with tales of your heroic consumption and comedic declarations. Apparent strangers converse freely with you liberally sprinkling your name into the mix as if to taunt you for having no recollection of theirs. The waitress who had your section last night seems to be avoiding you like the plague and when the bartender finally comes down your way he is holding a tab and that credit card you were missing. The bill seems mighty steep but perhaps this was why you had that feeling of impending doom hanging over you head all day. No such luck, as you phone begins to ring non stop and you are bitched out by friends and their significant others for calling them at "fucking 3am".
5.) The Quantum Leap- The last thing you remember doing was really good. Like making time with a supermodel good. And now well now there’s an angry man jabbing you with a stick. You’re trying to ascertain things like where you are or what he is saying with shockingly little effect. As you’re trying to figure out what’s going on another angry man with a stick dressed exactly like the first shows up and the only words you can muster are “Oh boy…” Later, during questioning, the sparseness of your memory truly becomes apparent when you’re unable to answer questions such as; “Where were you at?” “Where were you going?” and “Why were you exposed?”
6) The Retro-active- This is the mother of all blackouts. The kind you've probably only seen in movies or cartoons. The last thing you remember is picking up the first drink of the night. The sweet nectar washes over your lips, rolls over your tongue and down your throat. And as your head reaches the perfect drinking tilt.... everything is gone. Strangely, you wake up in your bed and scoff at the homing abilities of those “amazing” pigeons.
The Big Casino wrote:Led Zeppelin has a great song, "Going to California", arguably one of their best, but before you damn pompous Californians get ahead of yourselves, it's not actually ABOUT California. California is no longer a place, California is an ideal. As much as I love NY, NY is not an ideal, it is a PLACE. Your or my California could rest with some pretty gal fromm Dayton, Ohio, Paris, Texas, or fucking Yuma, Arizona. it's about finding paradise, which is quite funny, because L.A. will chew your punk ass up and spit you out just as fast as the Bronx, NY would.
California has produced some of the finest drunkards i have ever had the chance to drink with, DJF, Barca, LadyRedLabel, the GTO, MOL, Captain Mullocked ( half of you fucks don't even know who he is, you bastards ),Sweet Lou ( who even though i talk mad shit aboiut, he's still my boy ) but yes, great drinkers - know this, California does not belong to you anymore, it belongs to everyone. New york City belongs to NY'ers, but the mythos of california, that belongs to everybody trying to go somewhere over the damn rainbow, and everybody's California is different. Like i said, it is no longer a place, it is an ideal, and it's not your anymore.
Which brings me to a place, aplace I like to call "land of the fucking lighweights", otr in other words, New York Fucking City.
You fucking sonofabitches make me sick
The "Capital of the World", if the world were made up of pansy lighweight appletini drinkers, then yes, NYC is the capital of the world, but guess what you fucks, it isn't, i've gotten loaded with titanic drinkers who live in the middle of fucking nowhere and drink more than 9 out of twen drinkers in the damn city - and guess what, I'M THE FUCKING TENTH DRINKER. You guys fail to represent every time, and never fail at disappointing anyone around you. Drinkers fro fucvking Nerw jersey make us look like punks. You have nowehere else to turn. Revel in your blue drink mediocrity, I'll be in the corner of an Arizona dive bar drinking Baker's - do you even know what that is? and half the motherfuckers claiming to be from NYC aint even from NYC. You guys wanna be a fucking blue drink poseur, go right fucking ahead.
massivedrunk wrote:Nieghborhood bar, 11:33 PM. A young man in a suit and tie sitting and clutching a folded flag in a wooden case. If that isn't a visual that'll inspires heroic drinking I don't know what is.
Thanks, Armed Services.
Oggar wrote:Upon further reflection, I must offer a slightly revised opinion of Vodka. Perhaps, this revised opinion is brought on by a craving... be that craving a desire for the booze itself or the company of absent friends. Vodka is a a mysterious beverage which attracts it's supporters from both ends of the drinking spectrum, the rank amateur and the inveterate professional. It is not a beverage by which you can judge the character of a drinker. Perhaps it's meant to illustrate that deeply held Drunkard belief that alcohol can foster the brotherhood of man and unite us under a single banner.
Alack, the answer is not that easy and that task cannot fall to Vodka. For Vodka is a two-headed monstrosity trying to run in opposing direction. Trying to offer annihillation without pain and hence becoming the most devisive of all the spirits.
DrDrinkBastard wrote:or "Sorry I drank the 10.2% beer I promised you, Barca"
"There is nothing in the world
That I ever wanted more
Than to feel you deep in my heart"
The front load. Pre-party. Lack of self-restraint. Call it what you will, but the pre-party has a long and glorious history with the Modern Drunkard. it allows us to be good guests at functions we don't care to attend. We don't hog all the hooch, and have a remarkable dry wit to go with our apparently dry persona. We casually sip where others guzzle or abstain, demonstrating our command over nature and ourselves. Mixing up another batch of Cosmopolitians? No thank you, I'm still working on my single malt. What's that about the president/co-worker/latest American Idol contestant? Well, that reminds me of a droll anecdote...
The pre-party is proof that God loves a host, because hey, you don't have to get to the party (unless you count putting the bottle of Gin back in the toilet tank and getting out of the bathroom to be "going to the party"). You can drink to your heart's content, flirting with the knife edge of sanity. As you exterminate the colonies of microorganisms living in your sink and vaccuum the crumbs of the last soiree out of your couch cushions, you are allowed to drink and cavort as you please. Does the rythym of the Swiffer remind you of Jenna Jameson's lastest pneumatic adventure? By all means, put it on! Feel like getting in a practice round of pants? Your warm-up round will enable you to kick everyone's ass later on tonight. Is it time to yell at your ex over the phone? Better now than with a roomful of your mutual friends.
But most importantly, the pre-party allows you to be happy before you have to be on. Dean Martin, perhaps the king of frontloading*, was always remembered for having a drink in his hand and 10 in his belly, but you never saw him struggle to get enough booze. He rolled with the evening, carefree and happy. We should all be so skilled in making a day-long drunk look so effortless.
The tools are simple, and the execution merely requires proper prior planning. The years have brought the understanding that a fine brown liquor, be it Rum, Brandy, Whiskey, or a devilish concoction of your own devising, can be neatly sipped from the flask or half-pint bottle for hours. The everpresent water bottle full of Gin or Vodka and an appropriate mixer can make even the most dreary documentary screening fly by before the after-party. A bandolier of airplane bottles tied around one's leg like a garter can make every trip to powder one's nose become a voyage to the bottom of a snootful.
So take heart as the drinking holidays leave us until the end of the year. St. Patrick's Day is a scant 7 weeks away, and it's best to get some practice in before Whacking Day is upon us. As you venture out with friends and lovers over the next few weeks, remember that everyone else loves a drunk, but no ones like to watch them drink. Because frankly everyone else is an uptight fucktard who wouldn't know a good time if it crawled into their mouth and laid eggs in their small intestine. Except for you, gentle reader, except for you.
*If it was apple juice, then I'm a monkey's uncle. But that matter is the subject of next week's debate.
daphne wrote:It's 5 AM and I'm at my laptop sipping on a shot of Dickel Whiskey. I think I'm almost completely undrunk, but then again I know that's the whiskey whispering to me that I just should have some more.
The sun will be up soon, but I continue to sip because it's the time to have a drink. I'm supposing that the drink doesn't give a shit whether or not the sun is coming up yet. When it's the right time to tie one on, one should do so.
At these times, I think booze is at its best. While it's great to talk to another drunkard or whoop it up somewhere, I find myself appreciating these times more and more with the bottle. Does this make me an alcoholic? I don't think so. I just think I've gotten to a point in my life where the things I needs are right here. And Mr. Whiskey helps me chill out a bit about the time and what I "should" be doing at this time so I can just enjoy the moment.
Everyone knows life is going to go on later on today (I was going to say tomorrow, but that's not right), but right now it's stopped, and nicely so. Without these times, life would be a bit more hurried, harried, and downright unsatisfying. I need these late night/early morning times where the only people besides me in the house up have twice as many legs as I do. Having a few shots helps me say "Fuck it."
Thank you whiskey. I needed that.
Dotto Blotto wrote:Usually I'm challenging my liver to a game of chess. I always win. Punk.
Shot Time wrote:In light of some fine drunkards lately who have made it known to the board that they are taking some time off, or selling their prized booze collections to protect something, I wanted to examine the wagon while it so casually makes a stop here in Drunkard Nation--for if a rickety old jalopy of an un-fun caravan can so easily penetrate the walls of our livers, then goddamn, I need to know why.
Right now I'm training for my second marathon. My program is based on a simple idea: 2 steps forward, 1 step back; 3 steps forward, 2 steps back, and so on. The reason for this is that by resting for 1 week until you push further on the next week, you allow your muscles time to heal and rest so that you can gradually work up the mileage, instead of simple increasing every week until you eventually overtrain and get hurt. The key word is rest: by slowing down, you allow yourself to work harder than you previously did, until you're cruising pain-free towards the finish (well not exactly pain-free, but you get the idea).
I was thinking about this, and realized something: drunkards need rest, too. Sure, if we were all superstars, we could funnel bottles of bourbon every night and compose great works of art like all those heroes we admire; however, just like only a very small percentage of runners break the 3 hour marker for marathons, or even win one, so it is with drunkards. We can beat our ass and develop our skills much further than the average guy, but ultimately we are stuck with our genes and that's that.
Therefore I commend all you bastards who have trained your livers to such greatness--rest them now, get yourselves back on pace, and when you return I expect even more debauchery. And with that we now know why the wagon is such a run-down, two-tone, bad excuse for transporting ourselves through life--because it's only temporary. Let the next guy mend the axles--there's a drink waiting for me at the bar.
TwoMartiniBreakfast wrote:I am quite new to these forums but I was disturbed by the following post:
http://www.moderndrunkardmagazine.com/b ... hp?t=51326
in which the poster advocated pouring booze down a drain.
I had the supreme benefit of going to the same college as my older brother and one of the tenents I was able to assess was that every drop down the drain was not only a missed opportunity, a denial of the beauty of booze, but that he who poured down the drain was literally throwing hard-earned money down the drain.
I recently woke up in the action of vomitting and not ten minutes later was cleaning up the wounded soldiers from last night. Advocate this, sisters and brothers. The sewers don't give a shit about booze, but we always should.
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