Blah

Now don’t get me wrong – I’m a huge fan of festivals. Where I’m from they’re a pretty big deal and yes, while the merchants make money, ultimately they serve as the mortar in which the bricks of our culture are strengthened. There’s the Lilac, Cornhill, Park Ave, Jazz…and being that they’re few and far between they don’t make me feel as if I’m being garraged with the GREATEST ONE YET. Not so it seems in Atlanta; while the ones I mentioned above are all different in some way (arts, drinking, music, etc), the following are solely beer festivals promising untold elixirs and brews from far and wide. Try not to lose your breath while reading:

Brookhaven Beer Fest

Decatur Beer Fest

Suwanee Beer Fest

Atlanta Summer Beer Fest

Atlanta Winter Beer Fest

Hogs and Hops

Great Atlanta Beer Fest

Atlanta Novembeerfest

New Beers Eve

Beer Bourbon and BBQ Festival

Inaugural Taste and Brews Festival

Heritage Sandy Springs Beer Festival

East Atlanta Beer Fest

HOToberFe…

HOLY SHIT!

Now here’s the thing: you think a site devoted to drinking would damn well LOVE this; where else but surrounded by a tribe of hopped up drunks can you act more like yourself, right? Well, notice the key word in that last sentence: drinking. That’s right – this site is about what happens after you’re done inhaling the furious bouquets of citruses and peat. This is about being drunk. The old cliche says “it’s not about the destination, but the journey.” WRONG. This is about the goddamn destination! This is about the circle in the cul-de-sac with the basketball hoop and cars parked on the side of the road. This is about going round and round the merry-go-round waving to familiar neighbors until you wake up on the grass.

Drinking is like a smile stretched between two ends: while you may only notice the middle, you’d look like the goddamn Joker without the ends – sobriety and drunkenness. Let the Hop Heads write about the middle – I’ll guard the borders. Besides, at the end of the day you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall – a bottle of Jim Beam cocked and loaded.

Granted, a lot of these festivals raise money for charity, which is all well and good, but why can’t drinking be an end in and of itself? Like playing music or writing a blog?

Of course when all is said and done, anything that brings people together under a drunken umbrella, regardless of their motivation, is fine by me. However, it just feels contrived; like a restaurant Twitter account or corporate tumblr, they’re after my wallet, not my liver. Although they may get both in the end, I end up paying with authenticity, and that just feels…lame.

So that said, I’ve compiled a list of festivals that I really, truly enjoy, and that wonderfully capture the spirit of 300 beers:

Half-Eaten Pizza From The Night Before Fest

Cigarette Burn Fest

37 Missed Calls Fest

$%^& Fest

I’m Going To Kill My Neighbor If He Doesn’t Turn Down The Music Fest

Shit My Music Is Too Loud Fest

This Beer Smells Funny Fest

4 AM Amazon Spending Spree Fest

Who Are You? Fest

Jesus Christ I Need To Stop Ripping My Shirt In Half Fest

Strippers

Now I’m not sure when these take place because the dates are carved into a bar top somewhere, and it’s extremely hard to read after trying 300 beers. Nevertheless, I’m sure someone will advertise, so be sure to check your email.

It’s hard to think of a mile as being “long”; we’re told that a mile is exactly 5,280 feet – a set distance arbitrarily measured out from the phenomena of experience. We’re then told again that the distance from A to B is entirely relative as you travel close to the speed of light, insofar as that speed stays constant, the distance contracts and expands to balance the equation.  An outside observer sees you taking millions of years to cross the expanse, while to you it is nearly instantaneous. What we observe and how quickly we move determines the spinning of stars.

Miles also change length when you run; when your foot first plants on the ground with the spring of a brand new shoe, you barely notice how casually you bounce as you wait for the non-existent smiles of those you pass.

I’ve been a runner for about as long as I’ve been a drinker, but I was only ever good at one of those. And so as if to make things extra interesting, I decided I better train to improve where I was lacking.

Soon the bouncing subsides, and you find yourself in an easy rhythm as you watch the lines on the road streak under your feet. The colors of the living city blend together, and you begin to see things you normally wouldn’t notice – a particular path, an old bench…you see the daily litter of people who ran before you. Empty bottles, old bandannas…you start to see all the endless minutiae of the world’s turning – at the very thing that causes you to split up time at all. Maybe at this point you see a glimmer of skill reflecting back on those timid first tries? Maybe the faces grow more familiar on your daily jog? And then suddenly, that familiarity makes you forget the shape of your stride; it makes you forget the proper motion of your arms by your side, as a small ache grows in your chest.

From there, the miles grow longer. “The next lamppost,” you say, or “the next stop light.” You break your route into Zeno’s Paradox, making it worse. You make stops here and there, tricking yourself into motion like so many frames in a movie. “Will I ever finish?” And then the lactic acid of doubt makes you wonder why you even began? The lines on your GPS trace a staggering trail – another skilled device subject to relativity. The miles become yards, the yards, feet. And then each step is a failing victory, a terrible triumph.

But if I move faster it will approach instantaneous! you think. The fake energy from curiously named shots fools your body at picking up the pace with false strength. All the while forgetting about the outside observers, the people behind the tape, cheering you on, whom only see the years flashing by in a terrific time lapse display. And as you sprint, so many years flash by, the world turns and turns like a furious gyroscope until you stop for water, needing rest now, and what is there?

An old man standing next to a mirror. No cheering, no fans. Nothing but empty bottles, and old bandannas.

And here is where the miles are longest of all…

When the selfishness of your speed has left you away from the pack, away from those you could draft on the way to the finish, what then? Then all that is left, is guts. The guts to make it over Heartbreak Hill, up Suicide Slope.

Heartbreak Hill – Webster Park, NY

What speed are you now? Step off the course and have a sip, drink it down. When you drink and run, it does nothing but splash over your shirt. No doubt you have plenty of stained shirts? Stand there and let it pass over your lips, and into that place where it must descend, whether you choose to or not. There it sets the pace, tells the time, picks the speed. There it determines if the miles are long, and whether to step back on the course, and run.

The first time I read the line, “all men of character have places they’re not welcome,” I realized that there were certainly places where I wasn’t welcome, but I wasn’t sure I had character. While it seems that someone who steadfastly holds to their drinking principles is admirable, it seems more likely to me that the line just rationalizes bad behavior. Then again, as I’ve written about before, and the motto of this site explains, most of the time I fail. For every dancing Santa there are ripped polos; for every glorious knee slide is a pizza slice to the face.  However, getting tossed from one of your local watering holes doesn’t always have to come with a lecture from the local law enforcement. Sometimes, they’re even quite friendly. Maybe you’ll even be able to laugh upon returning about playing “Hells Bells” 20 times in the juke with the bartender, although honestly you should probably wait until everyone has forgotten. Why memory has to be so persistent while in Anxiety Jail, I’ll never know. It would seem blackouts would be more effective the next day – perhaps even arriving complete with some Gatorade and Advil – a combo meal to gobble down the moral hangover.

There are good and bad reasons for getting 86’d:

Good – waving a giant Irish flag around at the bar on St. Pat’s

Bad – hitting people in the face with your flag

Good – 20 foot knee slide

Bad – 20 foot knee slide, on the bar

Good – spilling booze all over yourself

Bad – spilling booze all over the bar

I should probably write this: if you’ve been 86’d you most assuredly deserved it, despite whether it was a good or bad reason. You might not realize it at the time, but it’s time for you to leave. Go gently, hell- go proudly. As you’re being escorted to the exit, be sure to give the person standing by the door a high five as the bouncer snatches the beer from your lips.

At this point, if you’re coherent, you’ll find yourself navigating invisible cones on the street outside. Yes, we know your finely tuned machine turns on rails, but try and resist the urge to demonstrate. This will only serve to get you tossed before you even enter your next bar. At least give them the chance to savor your sick version of the Two Step! If not, you’ve now entered 40 Ounce Land. Take the wad of ones you were saving for the juke, and rule your exile like a pigeon-eyed Napoleon in the alley next to the sex shop. Recruit any derelicts you find there for your cause, and soon enough your ranks will swell to the point where you may even be able to storm the mainland again, and declare yourself Emperor.

Once you’ve passed out behind the dumpster the bars will be closed, and the only 86’ing you’ll have the opportunity to engage in will probably be from within an 8’ x 8’ room. If you’ve managed to elude the authorities through your ingenious, drunken snake slithering, start making your way home. Don’t bother checking for your keys because they aren’t there, for you’ve now completed the final banishment – locked out of your house. With any luck the neighbor will find you sleeping in the hallway and prod you with a stick. Thank them for their hospitality, or rather – thank that first, generous bouncer: it’s only when we’re tossed overboard that we learn how to swim and get homeless people to buy us drinks.

With the exception of the first time I hung out with my buddy Marcus Adams at a happy hour function, any formal event where the drinks bubble up from the drains and coat buildings like the pink slime from Ghostbusters 2 (not the McDonald’s chicken nugget variety), I am able to guzzle approximately 25 vodka tonics (this of course has been known to change on occasion and unfortunately there are pictures to prove it. However if you are going to pour toxins into your body with willful abandon then you better own the results. U MAD?), and still shake hands and kiss babies. The reason for this is what’s known among no one as “Event Tolerance”; spurred on by nice clothes, social put-ons, and the rarity of the open bar, your usual pathetic drinking prowess morphs into an Irish, Incredible Hulk-sized, hand-shaking charmer. With the floodgates open, booze washes inland into the previously barren cracks of your personality, and suddenly conversations with strangers with whom you’ve never spoken grow outward and into the dance floor.

Ever see kids playing in front of a fire hydrant in the summer? So the open bar gushes. However, it is not without its own curses and perils. Just as the authorities might come and syphon up the fun, so too you may eventually find yourself wading in the kiddie pool of your local.

Paralysis by Analysis

It’s understandable how this would occur; your liver unchained from the bottom shelf and released from the unlabeled cages of rotgut, you’re set loose on the wind of strange and exciting new cocktails. Singapore Slings and Harvey Wallbangers await the cursory glances of bartenders. But therein lies the problem – what do you order? Suddenly you find yourself thinking too much and next thing you know it’s your old standby, more familiar than your shadow.  After all, this guy’s getting a flat rate and you don’t want to be the asshole that makes him work, do you? At the very least order some top shelf or just a couple fingers of scotch. You’ll still feel sassy and the bartender won’t hate you the rest of the night.

Why Are They Putting the Napkins Away?

They will do this sneakily so as to avoid the mad rush of cheap bastards trying to wring dry the sponge of the open bar. To avoid this, make sure to position yourself never too far away. Hell, make friends with the bow-tied server and who knows? You just may find yourself in the wine room joking about Uncle Jimmy’s shitty one-liners. This is kind of a general rule though; anyone who works in the industry most assuredly hates you, and if you can make yourself less annoying just once, you may find yourself drinking 50 year old Macallan and having rap battles.

Event Tolerance? HAHAHAhahaha good one.

You will get drunk.  Everything I’ve written is a lie. Your tie will be around your head; you will be sprawled out in the grass in your suit. Grandma may even step over you on the way to the bathroom.  Patronizing and judgmental glances will come your way more often than the tagged pictures on Facebook.  You are the 1%. You ran from the cops. You reached the end of the level and grabbed the flag.

There may even be a princess waiting.

We all know there was booze in that castle

Hello Drew,

I hope you are well. My name is Miriam, and I am working for absinthes.com, an online vendor for absinthe. I stumbled across your blog and was wondering whether you would be interested in writing a featured blog article. There is a couple of topics we can offer you information to – for instance, we would be happy to send you some samples of absinthe, which you could taste and review. The most exciting fact about these absinthe samples is, that we are the only absinthe vendor who has developed this kind of scheme for tasting absinthe. It’s a great idea for a gift, but also an easy way for people new to absinthe, to get to know a few before buying a whole bottle.

Please let us know what you think, and if you have any further suggestions, let us know! We are very interested in working with you.

I am looking forward to hearing from you.

Kind Regards,

Miriam

Miriam,

Thank you for your email. While I’m convinced this is spam, I’ll humor you with a response. I’m not sure how much of my site you’ve read, but I don’t think it’s something you’d like to be connected to. I tend to write mostly crass articles on the joy of turning into a giant slurring beast. Nonetheless, I’ve danced with the fairy on more than one occasion, so if you’re serious, I’ll happily do it again.

Best,

Drew

 

Drew,

That’s great news! I shall prepare some samples for you, all I need is your address? In regards to the tone, we obviously wouldn’t like you to piss on any stairs ;-), however, a cheery, joyful tone would be quite suitable I think? We really love and appreciate absinthe, however we do not like the whole marketing strategy that evolves around absinthe being a drug and leading to a feeling of high because of thujone. We simply enjoy the different notes and tastes absinthe has to offer, and if you could get something like this across to your readers, that would be perfect!

Glad you’re in for another ride with the Green Fairy. I’ll send you a proper absinthe spoon, too.

Regards,

Miriam

 

Miriam,

I must be on absinthe already if I’m giving my address to you. Here you go. Not sure if I can do cheery and joyful, but a link to your site will at least help you on Google.

Best,

Drew

…and that is how I got commissioned to write a little diddy on some absinthe for absinthes.com.

A few weeks later an unassuming package arrived in the mail. Now, you might think I would leave work immediately to go unwrap this unexpected present in September, however, some of you will and won’t be surprised to hear that I let it sit.

For a month.

When my building finally grew suspicious at the small brown box with German writing all over it, they finally called me to pick it up.

Maybe I was scared at seeing some terrible monster (or wizard) dance across my walls- its twisting snout flicked upwards in condescension…but- I picked the damn thing up.

And I drank it. Or maybe, it drank me.

I thought for a while about how I would approach writing about absinthe; I’m far from a connossieur and honestly who wants to read a fucking review of anything, really? So, I decided to do what I do best- namely, to take myself out of the equation. Alcohol erases the Ego and inflates the Id, and if I was to wrestle with the angel art, there would have to be no meter making argument. Drinking is a combination of wins and losses. I handicapped myself at -5 at accomplishing this. Here’s hoping for a push.

Round 1

First impressions: nice packaging. Vials are a bit much – don’t want it to look like a drug yet I feel like I need to draw the stuff out with a needle.

Sample one is the Absinthe La Valdetra Verte – 65%.

The first taste reminds me of a simple phrase…what is it? Oh yes: these people are not fucking around!

Have no idea what this stuff sells for but if you’re drinking absinthe you don’t exactly care about minor things like “price” and “value.” More like, “I should be in a museum or something” or “What’s her name, The Green Fairy?”

“I wonder if the Green Fairy can Two Step like Cus?” is the first retarded Facebook update.

The oscillating beats of EDM seem to be keeping time…of what though I’m not sure.

I’m thinking that this might be the first blog post that people can see being born. And we all know how nasty live births are.

These short sentences I’m writing remind of me of the drops that melted the sugar on top of the spoon, turning something bitter into something…else.

So really, what is the point of all the pomp and circumstance of drinking something like absinthe? You take the time to find a beautiful glass (or in my case- a clean glass), a shiny spoon, a clean desk…you admire the packaging, take notice of the subtle decorations…is it because that is what you are supposed to do? Or is it because you honestly believe that what will happen will be in line with what is supposed to happen? You are not the first or last – take some cues! Surely somebody, once, somewhere, knew what they were doing???

Incredibly smooth is all that comes to mind. This is absinthe for people who don’t like absinthe. Virtually ZERO bite for something that is 130 proof. I noticed they put the strong one in the middle of the package – 160 proof. Is that to give me a jolt when working left to right? Life should be that way.

I suppose absinthe isn’t the only thing with pomp and circumstance. Looks in mirror.

I need a hat. I feel unbalanced without something on my head. Or maybe in my head.

At this moment I would like to thank my phone for randomly playing the 80′s remix version of Daft Punk’s Derezzed.

I suppose at this point you feel full of licorice and madness. Hilarious even. You should do stand up.

What does the Joker say before Gotham erupts? “And. Here. We. Go…”

Maybe that’s part of where the secret of this stuff lies? The pomp and circumstance is exactly what makes it so enjoyable to drink. Here is this old drinking ritual, and as you sit in your shitty apartment, having to take the time to prepare something special instagrams the whole shitty ass affair. Absinthe is filter you apply with your liver.

But, I stray.

I guess my first metaphor was appropriate; looking at this empty vial makes me feel like some experiment. Is this what they gave Captain America? Maybe I should go look in the mirror again?

Never look in the mirror when drunk (roughly paraphrasing Frank).

An empty glass is a full Drew.

At this point the sounds of my apartment seem to mix together. I move to strike.

Round 2

As I let the first vial make its way through my bloodstream, I sit poorly in my chair, staring at the Bills Backers wristband on my arm, listening to Mette Lindberg take me back to 1924. The first glass split the mortar of some long dried cracks. Now I’d like to blow the whole damn thing apart. Luckily there’s 160 proof Absinthe Eichelberger. And fireworks.

I’m drumming. Both on my desk and through this anise wall.

Ok: the Eichelberger DEFINITELY came to party. Virtually none of the subtlety of the French stuff. Goddamn Germans like to bust right through the front door. I’m not opposed to that. It is certainly noticeable after kissing hands and doing twirls with the Valdetra Verte. It would appear my initial instincts were correct: the aim was to jolt you awake from the Verte’s lullaby. I feel like I’ve been drop kicked by Heidi Klum.

Feeling my face for no reason and thinking I need a shave. I wonder how Her Greenness is with a razor?

Another taste of the Eichelberger. This is like a goddamn Panzer. Its milkiness is deceiving – although it could just be that I louched it well. I imagine now those milk ads with famous people having a white mustache. A full glass of this stuff will give you a green and red mustache. Perfect for Christmas.

Naturally music has a lot to do with any liquor you’re trying to experience. Hated myself for writing that word – makes it sound like something it isn’t. Do you experience vodka? Do you experience whiskey? Ah, but we’ve covered this. I wear the bottom of my trousers rolled.

4th taste of the Eichel. Not sure I’m a fan of this one. It seems to fight me all the way down – like putting a child to bed, I’m bound to wake up with some scratches from this little bugger. Ahhhhhh but maybe there’s something to this? The Panzer is brutal, makes you drink it faster so as to get to the last remaining vial…Superman’s Green Crystal to help you lick your wounds? I’ll be damned, it’s working.

You planned this, you mother fuckers. Well played.

Aaaaaannnndd it’s gone.

I’m fairly in the wind at this point, and I start wondering if anything I’m writing makes sense? I decide I’ll find out in the next vial.

Round 3

Drinks sit in ice, they get cold.

Drew sits in absinthe, he gets the desire for more absinthe.

The 3rd vial motions towards me like a drunk girl with two eyes pointing different directions, wanting to play a song in the juke.

Well, darling, I have Unlimited Credit, and there’s no Count of Monte Cristo.

A final swill makes it happen. And isn’t that how it always goes? One. Fell. Swoop. And we’re off. Where are we going? Where do you want to go?

I went looking for my dog-eared copy of The Count of Monte Cristo to snap a pick of the chapter, Unlimited Credit- when Danglars gets got. I then realize I gave it away. This is rare- especially for a book I love so dearly. However, if you love something, get drunk and give it to your boss.

Grasping now. I am not a good swimmer. I remember trying to swim 1 mile in the boy scouts, and feeling like I was going to drown. There was nothing to grab onto. Now I swim in a Sargasso Sea.

So, the French do know what they are doing. Round 3 – the Absinthe Blanche de Fougerolles – is, for lack of a better word (although I’m supposed to have one) is delicious. Obviously I have French leanings. Actually I have all kinds of leanings after 3 rounds of absinthe.

So we come to our conclusion: a friend asks for more. So does the bottom of my glass. Friday night beckons. Is the Green Fairy here? Has she come to visit?

Its hues sufficiently in my bloodstream, I go into Atlanta’s- a smirking spirit by my side.

Sometimes, it’s not easy to assemble the drinking Avengers.  Girlfriends, family, weddings, funerals, even work can prevent what is always your stalwart and reliable drinking team from battling the forces of sobriety.  However, just because you find your calls going to voicemail and your 5 pm bar check in met with long distance disapproval, doesn’t mean your light doesn’t shine as bright.  Like the Olympic torch, it’s your job to see it all the way to the grand spectacle itself, where a myriad bars representing countless cliques from near and far stand ready to challenge your resolve.  You may be tempted to sit at home with some bottles of wine and a fully charged laptop ready to write your Great American Novel, however, without venturing into the labyrinth that is your local bar scene I ask you: What are you going to write about?

And so that brings us to the Solo Mission: the calling card that beckons you to a landscape where only your imagination and wallet can take you; the place where without the usual crowd to laugh at your jokes and provide a foil to your wrinkled clothes and humor, you’re forced to engage in that most unholy and terrifying of acts- talking with strangers.  Well I’m here to tell you this: not only is it not unholy and terrifying, moreover- it is the wellspring from which your body absorbs the energy it will use to pound on the keyboard.  And if you do it right, perhaps it will pound something else.

Where do I start?

You might be tempted to hit your local.  Not a bad first thought, but chances are you 1) know all the bartenders anyway, so it’s not really a Solo and 2) you’re usually the first one there as it is, so nothing really would have changed.  Even more so, the usual happy hour crowd is probably there as well, and we know you also know all of them (you do- names don’t matter).  Rather, take this moment to hit a place you’ve never been or even better- a place you scowl at on your walk home from work.  Ever wonder what goes on in the trendy Irish bar on the corner? Time for a Guinness and a Jameson; curious about the spotlight and salsa music next to your office? Slink over as soon as the bell rings at 5. If you are complacent and routine with the Avengers then you’ll be complacent and routine at the local.  Tell Heimdall to open the gate: it’s time to explore Asgard.

They’re staring at me.

That’s the point!  The nail that sticks up gets hammered down, but the point is that someone has to come and do the hammering (preferably a chick).  Don’t act as if anything is out of the ordinary, even if you feel that way.  This is a bar, remember? You weren’t always a regular at the local- think back to those times.  Order something simple so the bartender knows right away that you aren’t a pain in the ass.  Play into your aura of mystery; say nothing, stick to bourbon and beer, and start to take in your surroundings.  Pretend you’re painting a portrait and this bar is a beautiful model; take notice of her every curve; grin at her flowing long hair.  After a few drinks, you may find this model staring back, and that’s when the cruise control of your night is set.

“Sup man?”

“The bottom of this bottle…”

Let your drinking be the spotlight that illuminates your brilliance.  At this point, you will have no doubt met a few strangers.  Let them take notice of the conveyor belt of awesome boom-shucking its way past your lips; ask them if they have a request as you stagger towards the Juke.  When they say “Dave Matthews,” tell them you ran out of credits.

Since you’ve been socially deprived without anyone to talk to till this point (save for bartender’s diatribe on the virtues of jam bands) you may find yourself enjoying the company.  But I’d never talk to a wino like this in real life! But again- that’s the point.  In college they emphasize diversity because the very act of being surrounded by people who are different enhances our understanding, and while that logic is total bullshit in college, there’s something to be said about its usefulness at the bar.  Learn all about Johnny’s failed art trip to France and how he eventually had to come home and work as a janitor in a graphic design firm, but at least I’m close to where I need to be and I’ll get there someday! as he shows you a pen with his website on it that you’ll promise to visit.  And now that you know he’s an artist you can tell him that you are too as you explain your shitty metaphor of you painting the bar like a model.  As he begins to wonder who the wino is he is talking to, laugh maniacally and finish your drink.  It’s time to say hi to

“Surrryeee I’ll take a picture.”

Of course you say yes to their request, but don’t let them off the hook so easily; while it’s nice to take a picture for a group of blurry eyed, sash wearing coquettes, it’s dumb to be a photographer.  Make sure to get one with them as well (“lesss takee one of uss!”) and of course they’ll agree because you’re just that nice.  And since you have such charming command of the English language and looks to rival the V-necked brute checking IDs, naturally you’ll find yourself in a limo.  Of course you may find the more responsible of the bunch staring at you and wondering who the guy with the neon blue top hat is, unlike earlier you’ll be able to brush this off easily thanks to the free-flowing champagne that’s spilled all over your shirt.  Perhaps as the limo departs from (where are we again?) you’ll notice an equally smashed guy with a neon blue top hat and champagned shirt smiling at you like some Napoleonic conspirator.  Smile back.  This guy obviously had the same idea as you, and considering how awesome you are right now there’s no WAY that guy can’t be cool.  Resist the urge to think it’s your reflection playing tricks on you between the fur and flashing LEDs- that last absinthe was killer, anyways.

Where are the cabs?  Are these woods?

Rats.  They weren’t going to a hotel, but to their friend’s apartment at…ah shit.  Well that’s ok buckaroo!  You got your cell phone don’t you?  When you’re done borrowing the bachelorette’s phone to call a cab, realize you’ve got at least 45 minutes, and start relishing that woodland air.  Guzzle down the beer you got from the best friend as she tried to coax you into the room; begin to process the marvelous adventure you’ve been on tonight; let it coalesce and distill itself down into something strong and sharp you can write about in the morning.  When your cab arrives, PROMISE to meet your new friends for brunch and laugh at the other guy from the limo getting down on the couch.  Stupid idiot! 

When you wake up on the couch the next day with 13 missed calls at 4:40 am, don’t be alarmed; instead of fiddling around for Advil or that woodland beer from last night, the first thing you should seek is a calendar.  Ahhh Saturday!  Which can really mean two things…

What the fuck did I do and when can I do it again?

Bar fouls are mostly contextual; while it’s almost always unacceptable to play “Money Money” twenty times in a row anywhere, with the right crowd it can send them into a dizzy delirium.  In short, it depends.  Drinking in a field with your sordid crew may invite the cops; drinking in a field during a festival invites drugs.  Everything has a context and so what you’ll read here as bar fouls can be bar triumphs in other settings.  There really is only one way to find out.  Nonetheless, there are some things you shouldn’t do, some lines you shouldn’t cross.  While every rule can be broken and ultimatums are a poor man’s logic, it doesn’t change the fact that shit – there are some things you just shouldn’t do.  I know, because I’ve done them all.

1. Walk out on a tab

If they haven’t taken your credit card up front, it means they trust you.  Maybe you’ve earned that trust through endless eye-crossed, slurring jukebox plays.  Maybe they’ve seen one too many times a stagger turn into a doctor’s signature, and so they focus on the tourists.  Don’t betray that trust on the one thing that makes them tolerate you.  Of course, there is a difference between ordering a tray of 30 Jameson shots and leaving, or drinking 5 High Lifes and leaving, however – the difference is slight.  These are the people who take care of you – who give you drinks when you’re not sure you can, who cut you off when you’re sure you can.  Your bartenders are the DD through the checkpoints of bad times.  Don’t make them pull over.

2. One night stand a bartender

How much do you like that bar?  You like it a lot?  Well congratulations because you’re never going there again.  While you may think, “ah shit, I’ll get drunk and that’ll get rid of the awkwardness” that is something a drunk person would say, so it’s false.  There’s a reason a bar looks like some impassable boundary – a trench between the battle lines of alcohol.  If you’ve managed to crawl on top of that trench you’ll find yourself in a barren land replete with customer/bartender hybrid drunken zombies, roaming the Earth unsure of their next drink.  Unsure because you now are a man without a country – existing in an unspeakable gray area.  You might as well write it off entirely.

Personally, I rather like mustard.

3. Take your clothes off.

Now I was kind of on the fence with this one, simply because taking your clothes off is completely ridiculous, and I am a fan of completely ridiculous.  However, the more I thought about it (before the wine completely took over the keyboard) the more I thought that this certainly falls under “things you just shouldn’t do.”  I mean, it’s kind of self-explanatory.  Nobody wants to see your fast food laden, High Life swollen body hopping around like Justin Bieber shoved into a piping bag.  Resist the urge to take a shower in the fountain outside of Pub 71 and you may just have a beer waiting for you.  Or, you may just have a beer waiting for you.

4. Ask for shit

If you ask me to read your blog, not only will I not read your blog, but I will actively avoid reading your blog; if you ask me to follow you on Twitter, not only will I not follow you on Twitter, but I will block you.  The easiest way to get shit is not only NOT to ask for it (which is just plain goddamn dumb) but to not want it.  When Marcus Aurelius asks Maximus in Gladiator to be emperor, Maximus declines, to which Marcus Aurelius says, “that is why it must be you!” Don’t ask for shit in bars.  Despite what you may think, because you have a liver, a mouth, and a wallet, bartenders are not there to serve you – they are there to make money.  And if you happen to get drunk in the process, and tip, then everybody is happy.  But the moment you ask for something you wrinkle that fragile relationship, and remember – they already hate you.  Want to know what a beer tastes like?  ORDER IT.  Nothing destroys a bartender’s faith in humanity more quickly than someone tasting 5 wines and ordering Lambrusco.

5. Brood

“The grave is a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace.”  Heartbreak and disappointment are more common than white people wearing sombreros on Cinco de Mayo.  And while it’s cathartic and/or enjoyable to wear the costume, it doesn’t change what’s underneath – the awesome person that made you go to that bar in the first place.  The bar is a lighthouse that keeps the shadows out – don’t invite them in.  Invite the boats of strangers who buy shots and in turn invite you to weddings they’ll forget about in the morning.  With any luck you’ll at least get on the boat, and we all know how goddamn fantastic that is.  Instead, let yourself be the beacon that beckons them to shore.  Tell them the rocks they see from binoculars are simply crystals lonely in their next drink.  Be the one who pours; be the one who turns bottles upside down, and they’ll turn you upside down.  A rush of blood to the head.  Just be sure when you reach for the $20, you play AC/DC instead of Coldplay.  And if you do accidentally?  Let’s hope it isn’t 20 times.

I don’t really know anything about painting – at having colors come together into a theme that is profound.  If you read this site enough perhaps that resonates with you.  I can’t even really compare it to a Jackson Pollock, which would again assume some sort of abstract brilliance.  I guess it’d be closer to a Duchamp Readymade – seeing art here is like seeing art in a urinal. I can handle that, although just because something can be mundane and profound doesn’t mean I’ll be pissing on my keyboard.

Marcel Duchamp - Fountain, 1917 (I'm serious)

This was Duchamp’s process – there was more to it than grabbing a shovel or a wine rack and displaying it as art.  Rather, he had to “adjust” it in some way as to give the object new meaning. I’m not a fan of processes, which is probably the reason why when I have to cook something I just put the ingredients on the table, and grab at will, or when I have something to build, I prefer to just mix it together with some ice.  9 times out of 10 it will come out smooth.

…well maybe 4 times out of 10.  As my buddy Sloane likes to say (which I’ve also taken as the tagline for this site), even Ted Williams only went 4 for 10, and he was the best.

Talking about the minority of successes as if they are the majority is irresponsible (among other things).  Nonetheless, irresponsibility is itself the minority (hence the once-a-month posts?)  I don’t like to draw such silly distinctions.  It must be the old Taoist education: “all wins hold within themselves the element of failure, and vice versa.”  Is this why something can be two things?  Here are 6 times when I turned the art, back into a urinal.

6. The Fail of Tears

Now, the crew who knows me well also knows quite well that this is not an isolated incident; I say when you let loose the coils of the Ego so that the Id is free to bubble to the surface, anything can happen.  That is more or less the point; if “anything” was synonymous with “the best thing” then it wouldn’t be anything.  Let’s remember our Taoism, yes?  Well as it was I had met these two frauleins at Oktoberfest at Fado and what would you know? They were smitten with your friendly neighborhood drink blogger.  We stumbled arm and arm throughout the festival until I awoke the next day to:

“Yo man you fucked it up with those girls.”

“What’d I do?”

“Started crying at the bar man, damn.”

“Oh Jesus.”

5. The Real Busted Finger

One could say I had a legitimate reason to be in tears for this one, but it’d probably be a stretch. After some competitive Silver Strike bowling where my buddy Brett proceeded to jam his finger going for an electronic turkey, we decided to take a trip to Athens.  As I was still relatively new to Atlanta at this point, I relished the opportunity to get down and do some serious, college-style partying.  Well, I would get down alright – straight into a sidewalk courtesy of whiskey and old sandals.  While I stared at my finger bent sideways in the hospital room sobbing, we asked the doctor to quickly take a look at Brett’s finger from earlier:

“Oh yeah, that’s broken.”  Mine?  Simply dislocated.

4. The Robbery

Let’s just get this out of the way:  I DID NOT KNOW SHE WAS A PROSTITUTE.  In Atlanta, it’s well known that certain cars (you learn to recognize them after a while) are there to patrol the drunken streets looking for gullible dudes to pick up and take their cash.  I certainly knew this, although during the time in question I’d have been hard pressed to know my name.  Well as it was, one of these girls asked me if I wanted to “hang out.”

“Suuururrurre,” I think I said.

As she proceeded to drive 4 miles up the road it eventually got to the point where she wanted money.

“Money? Wahat? I’mmm not paying you.. wha the fuu?”

“GET OUT,” she yelled, and as soon as she peeled away I realized that my phone, keys, and wallet were in the cupholder.

3. The Sahara – Las Vegas

That hotel wasn’t the only thing to get demolished.  Thank God for Blackjack and the Motel 6 by Macarran.

2.  The Wizard

1.  This Site

I’ve alluded to it already by referencing this site’s tagline – we fail more than we succeed, and that most certainly applies to writing as well as partying.  So you make adjustments; you make little tweaks here and there to keep the engine humming, to raise your batting average, to find the right angle so the light illuminates the hidden art.  Every dumpster puke has within it the stuff of museums (don’t believe me?).  That, and probably some Fireball and Dominos.

St. Pat’s usually gets a bad wrap from “true” drinkers – in that the day is filled with people who are loud and obnoxious – people who drink out of frosted mugs or generally don’t know how to act in a bar.  With that it’s usually given the name, “St. Amateur Day,” or the like.  Well, as someone who is loud and obnoxious, drinks out of frosted mugs, and generally doesn’t know how to act in a bar, allow me to address this crowd:

Fuck you.

Please enjoy your Smithwick’s and corned beef and cabbage from the comfort of your favorite recliner, because we don’t want to party with you anyways. If drinking is about thumbing your nose at the middle finger that is alcohol, then I will happily oblige you – as long as you are not a cop and that hand is not holding a beer.

So that said, I’m setting some goals this year that way I can keep boom-shucking my way through the Charlotte Pub Crawl and don’t end up on the shores of Blackout Island too early. They should be pretty easy to accomplish, except for the last one – though anything is possible. After all, I have won Beer Fest…

Goal #1:  Beat my friend Bob at darts

Bob has been beating me at darts for the past 12 years.  Coincidentally, our matches usually involved Guinness, so of course it being the flagship beer of St. Pat’s, we will be playing a shitton of darts, and it’s high time I took him down.

St. Pat's - 2002. We also liked Labatt.

Goal #2:  Have a Guinness at 8:30

Being that the goal of my goals is to encourage me to survive the whole day, you might think this is a bad idea, but I’d rather fail than skip this one. A tradition like no other, I’ll temper the excitement with some bacon and a few wins over Bob.

Goal #3:  Take at least 20 pictures with strangers

I actually accomplished this one in the 2008 Charlotte Pub Crawl, only to leave my camera in a cab.  I remember it being an excellent way to garner free Car Bombs as well as some strange numbers that I never would have called anyways.  No better way to enjoy the crowds than to simply absorb them.  Perhaps this is where the obnoxious part comes in?

Goal #4:  Get behind the scenes with a bar owner and/or organizer

Of course this is so I can convey my gratitude, but really it’s to try and score some free Jamesons.  Then I can tell said strangers from above and proceed to get free Jamesons from them as well.

The lights are on, but nobody's home.

Goal #5: Perform the Pants Drop Maneuver

This may seem difficult now, but after the Jamesons from earlier it will be easier than sharing the Kony video and calling myself an activist.  As you can see I’ve done this before, but it’s much easier at your local than in the jam-packed pubs of one of the most famous crawls in the country.  Caveat emptor bar owners: I ain’t neva scared.

Goal #6:  Win a chugging contest

I’m not the chugger by any means that I once was, and even got beat by my buddy Brett once, but I’m thinking the adrenaline/whiskey fueled peer pressure on one of the greatest party days of the year may relax that gag reflex just a little.

I’ll let you know how I do, for the same reasons that you put pictures of your baby on Facebook:  we all have our little bundles of joy to share.

Tough to realize anything actually.

This is not the forum to recount the time when I stared in blackout shock at Playmates dressed as woodland nymphs at the Palm, or the porn stars throwing mini fridge bottles off our balcony.  They have movies for these stories, and now they’re more ubiquitous than cardboard flyers advertising $5 blowies in front of the Luxor.  What happens in Vegas, ends up on Facebook or dissected into bite-sized pieces for the masses.  What I want to tell you here involves the gritty magic of mysterious puddles and flaming absinthe on Bourbon Street.  I want to get at the grounds, man – the stuff that made it past the filter in the machine, and now sits at the bottom of my cup, waiting to be drank.

All good trips start with the airport cocktail.  It’s where the torch is lit, before being passed on in that bastard relay race called the bender.  Then that fucker starts to burn quietly, even on the plane…and they say you can’t bring explosives on board?  Not if you hide them in yourself.

Like most places you want to visit, it helps to have a local.  Even Dante had Virgil to guide him through Hell, but we’d need more than a poet to traverse the rain and beer soaked buildings of those worn-out neighborhoods.  And while Dante didn’t have a soundtrack, we did – sliding between saxophones that seemed to slur and flow more fluidly through the streets than my slushied stupor.  I know very little about jazz – or wine, scotch, beer…however, I do know what pinches my cheeks; I do know what makes my eyes go glassy as they take in the melting reds and blacks and purples and yellows that is the underbelly of New Orleans.  Well I was going to scratch it, and it was going to purr.

Vegas, on the otherhand, stands more erect and forceful than the bouncers who tell you to tuck in your shirt.  You go looking to cast it all overboard, and find yourself not in the dregs, but in the shining high rises of clubs sipping $12 vodka tonics.  Sure it has an underbelly as well, and if you’ve seen Casino you know that it used to be ALL underbelly, but the artifice has taken over – an anti-saheel spreading over the desert of not giving a shit.  My $130 wristband speaks to an ironic bacchanalian that doesn’t quite exist between the living Roman statues that dance for me as I walk on the red carpet.

So as the advent of wedding season starts to fill up my mailbox, and bachelor party email threads start multiplying, we’re left with an overwhelming question, which a thousand visions and revisions a minute will reverse: where, exactly, do we want to get broken?  Where is the boundary between Law and Order reruns on a Wednesday night and drinking 14 shots of Everclear out of an electric guitar in a bathrobe?  Do we draw that line in the desert or in the swamp, or furthermore—do we draw it at all?

It was when I was drinking absinthe in a bar with lanterns instead of lights, next to a fireplace with a group of girls dressed as pirates, that I had my answer.  In Vegas, you need to be good at something: good at gambling or dancing; good looking or simply have good endurance. In New Orleans, you need to be good at precisely nothing.  Put on a red dress or a feather boa and buy 4 drinks for $5.  It’s still the only place where I’ve actually ordered a daquiri, gotten hammered and ordered another (and for once my lips were blue for a good reason!)

You could say that I’ve seen the wrong parts of Vegas, and you’d probably be right.  After all, everywhere there’s an underbelly.  Maybe it’s just that Vegas’s is harder to turn over – it doesn’t quite flop over the lip of its Diesel jeans.  New Orleans flashes it in front of your face from every balcony, street vendor, and stripper; it spills and froths over the levies we put in ourselves.  When Hunter S. Thompson spoke of the “high water mark” that was the doe-eyed dreams of the 60s, he should have picked a place where the water isn’t piped in, but out, and everyone gets wet.  It’s goddamn democratic debauchery, and in an election year, that’s one party I can support.