Category Archives: Guest post

March 31, 2011

The Hot Rod Unloads: I’m so pissed I can’t remember what I was sayin’….

By The Hot Rod

Guys -

I’ve drunk to much, and now I’ve drawn a blank. I think this piece was going to be something witty, but now I fear it’s jus’ gonna be somethin’ about nothin’. And in the process, a complete massacre of the English language. Thank God I don’t know French. They hate massacres. Inevitably, the drunken, slurry speech about how your wife never puts out enough or the way your fav’rit football team lost on the weekend descends into a swathe of “blarggghargaaagh” and “musssshhhhinblaghreachhh”, before a big burly bouncer chucks you out on your drunken ass. Mention having an enormous penis (perhaps even in a more crude manner than I have here!) or a set of testicles that would make King Kong feel small and shriveled and watch the womenfolk at the Bar roll their eyes in disgust. Or, is it a come-on? In your drunken stupor, how can you tell? Groping lady-parts or pulling your pants down to dance along the bar isn’t considered acceptable behavior, and nor should it, yet each and every weekend around the world, people of all ages and physical abilities try to do just that.

You know how you go out for a night on the town and end up waking up looking like Jon Voight did at the end of Anaconda when the anaconda puked him up? Shit that film was cool. That’s how cool you’ll be if you end up in a river full of anacondas, but on a night in downtown Metropolis you ain’t gonna get very far with stylin’ up like LiLo after a bender. Puke and stained clothing, as well as a stench of urine and spilled beer, will make anybody approaching you retch in disgust, so don’t be confused if you think you’re Gods gift to women and all the women you meet just happen to be Lesbetians. They aren’t, and neither are you. We may poke gentle fun at those among us who get hammered and end up on the internet with their mugshot looking like a reject from Faces of Meth (Gary Busey, you fucking legend you!) but the sad hard fact is, man, you ain’t Gary Busey and nobody gives two cracks how cool you think you are while you’re pissed.


Gary Busey after a night at The Bar None

 

Pissed people are generally offensive, whether they mean to be or not. They’re inconsiderate, loud and obnoxious. Or asleep in the corner, but those types don’t come along as often as the potty-mouthed fight-seekers. They make good tabloid fodder, the ever-present security vision highlight reel on the five-o’clock-news will attest to that. Drunken fighting only looked cool when Jackie Chan did it. So don’t bother, because you’ll look like a right tool. And not the good kind.

I was out on my good mate’s Bucks Night (otherwise known as a Stag Night in more seppo sections of the world) and it was, I believe, quite late in the night (or early in the morning, I forget), when we stumbled past a hotel that was packed so deep with people they were falling out the windows. Now, our group (I think there were about a dozen of us) had enjoyed a night of strippers, booze and music; we’d successfully made our way down the nightclub district visiting almost every bar, strip-joint and club we could gain access to. Most of us were a little tipsy, and more than a few of us were absolutely fucked up from the floor up. So we’re walking -staggering- past this bar, with the Buck wearing a set of fake boobs and a hula skirt (and not much else) when some drunk dude lurches from the doorway and proceeds to face-off against my friend. The Buck, who stands about nine feet tall if he’s an inch, looked down to his nipples, which was about where our drunken interloper made it to, and laughed drunkenly. Note to self, never laugh at an angry drunk dude. This guy had taken offense at the Buck wearing a hula skirt, and wanted to make something of it. We didn’t know him, and he didn’t know us. And the hula skirt wasn’t that bad, honestly. For a moment, in a drunken moment of gayness, I thought about trying a move.

 

My kind of Bucks Night...

Now, I’d like to say that the dozen of us manned up and took this clown down to Chinatown, but before we could bear arms and send his testicles on holiday to his sphincter, the bouncer at the door made his move. Now, the bouncer was even bigger than my mate, the Buck. He was as wide as he was tall, and looked like he’d take on a bunch of Hell’s Angels and pick his teeth with their bone fragments. He grabbed this dude by the arm, and swung him around to face him. The drunk dude was about to launch an attach at the bouncer in retaliation when he suddenly he realized that he was physically outmatched. As the guy looked up into the face of the bouncer, I got the sense that his bowels had let go with fear, and piss began to run from his crotch. We just kept walking, and I don’t know how that little tete-a-tete ended up, but I like to think it involved a parking meter, several minutes of insertion, and a lovely amount of ass-banditry.

 

Allow me to introduce the Bar None's two bouncers, Fuck and You.

Mental note – always wear brown pants out for a night on the town: you never know when you’re going to shit yourself. If you feel angry about something, don’t start a fight at the bar. The bar-folk don’t give a shit what your problem is, they just want you to either buy more booze, or getthefuckout. No sense being there to be taught that lesson by some big hairy guy with more ink on his arms than a BIC employee. I’ve already written a short diatribe on the perils of being drunk out in public, but I wanted to reiterate it again specifically for the guys reading this. Guys, you don’t look good when you’re pissed. Unless you’re fucking Jack Sparrow or that guy from The Rolling Stones who looks like he died forty years ago and nobody told him. Don’t try it.

 

With enough time and energy, you too could look like this...

I only say all this because I’ve really got nothing more to add. I’ve blown my creative wad, so to speak, with my previous posts. So I’m just rambling. Rambling like the Crazy Cat Lady on The Simpsons, ‘cept I’m not crazy and I don’t have any cats. That I know of. My original idea was to write something pithy (no, not pissy with a lisp) about drink driving, about my unfulfilled fantasy about having sex with Mila Kunis, and even a tentative prod at my inability to coherently form a sentence without brackets. I promise, my next post here at the Bar will involve the tale of the blowjob I got while on air at a local radio station. For now, I write this simply to pass the time. I’m here waiting for something to happen.

 

I'd go there. I'd even climb over your corpse to do it.

Wait, there’s a knock at the door. I’ll go see who it is.

Nope, it’s just the neighbor wanting to know if I remember borrowing his garden clippers. Do I remember? Nahh. I remember breaking them and throwing them in the trash, but I’m not gonna admit that to him. I’ll just let him think I gave them back and he’s forgotten. Time for a glass of wine. Might help settle my lying nerves. What have we learned today? Yep, don’t borrow your neighbors garden clippers. Buy your own you cheap bastard.

Hot Rod Out.

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12 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Alcohol, D.R.I.N.K.E.R., Guest post, Humor, Mug Shot

February 19, 2011

The Hot Rod Unloads: Hot, Heavy and Drunken Petting

By The Hot Rod

You know how you get drunk and start thinking that you have the sexual prowess of a porn star, before deciding to try acting on it and discovering that, actually, you don’t? I put this to the male members of the Bar None’s quorum of intellect, since they’re the ones most likely to try it on with the females in the joint…. it’s a broad generalization, I know, but are you really going to argue the point? It’s my experience that alcohol makes men randy, and women flirty – there’s a subtle difference I’ll get to in a moment; we all know a randy drunk man experience, right girls? Let’s face it: men, when pissed, think they have a 12-inch penis and a body like The Situation. Girls, though, tend to follow the example set by Cyndi Lauper: the Before looks stunningly hot, sexy and sultry, the kind of woman most men would lust after – the After looks like a cross between Sid Vicious and Sid Haig, a laugh like Fran Drescher on helium, and an exhibitionism mandate that makes Graham Norton look like a choirboy. Which is why Beer Goggles are a great invention.

From the Juiced Box: Kevin Bloody Wilson – Do You F*** On First Dates?


 

The greatest invention ever?

Beer goggles are often blamed for a multitude of facepalm moments The Morning After, as you roll off the bed and try escaping the clutches of whichever fat-best-friend you slutted yourself with to get into the panties of the girl you’re really into. Alcohol makes the brain process images in a different kind of way: the ugliest, fattest, most socially repugnant member of the opposite sex is suddenly transformed into (at least) an option for copulation, if not an outright certainty. Thoughts along the “well, he/she isn’t that bad lookin’” line start to bubble up, and before long, you’re playing tonsil hockey with somebody who looks like they’ve eaten a herd of cows. The speed at which this occurs is directly proportional to the quantity of alcohol imbibed.

 

Ye Olde Timey Sexing

All of which leads me to the topic of this post: the inexplicably amusing concept of Drunk Sex, and the journey we all take along the pathway to it. Most consenting adults have tried it at some stage, with varying degrees of success. Men find alcoholic courage allows them to try it on with a woman, bypassing the social conventions of meeting and getting to know a woman before trying to sleep with her. Women, on the other hand, get all flirty by steadfastly refuse to put out: drunk women are, frankly, a sexual pain in the ass. In every way imaginable. Most of the time, when the clothing becomes less restrictive, and more bare flesh is shown, and the louder the laugh and the wobblier the walk, the less inclined the womenfolk are to let a man…. well, you know. It’s my experience that woman become a giant prick-tease after they’ve had a skin full. It’s frustrating as all hell for the men, who’re only trying to do the most natural thing in the world by screwing their brains out in an orgy of lust and sexual release – like two positives, drunk women and men will almost always repel each other.

 

Fun? I doubt that...

That being said, there are exceptions. On the occasion when two people manage to get themselves into the position (ahem) of being intimate with each other, and both said people are a little hammered (or blind drunk, whichever you prefer), the act of procreation becomes something of a routine the likes of which will never make it onto Comedy Central. Limbs thrashing, sweaty skin and the slo-motion fumbling which feels like Basic Instinct but looks more like Showgirls, Drunk Sex is like trying to drive a bus through a rabbit hole. The man usually has a lack of ability to maintain his erection, and the woman is breathing so heavy the curtains threaten to open by themselves and expose all the goings-on to the rest of the world. Neither wants to admit they’re unable to enjoy themselves because they’re concentrating so hard on being the Perfect Lover and being not-quite-so-pissed, the sexiness of the fantasy is replaced with the cold, limp realization that sex whilst drunk is an event so replete with ineptitude it’s never gonna get a look in at the Olympics. So after the man fails to satisfy the woman, or himself for that matter, and both of them collapse on the bed/floor/pavement in an exhausted pretense of being “finished”, one of them will invariably mention the concept of “spooning”, and so they both fall into a slumber with the aforementioned unfinished business a rapidly evaporating memory.

 

An example of wooden things spooning....

However, the real belly-laughs come from The Morning After, when both parties awake to find that the person they thought was quite hot and sexy the night before, actually looks like a reject from Hoarders. The Lauren Hutton gap-toothed look you thought was modern and chic the night before is actually a Redneck-style cigarette-caused tooth decay miasma of proportions not seen since Faces Of Meth. If both parties wake up at the same time, that uncomfortable awkwardness of the realization usually results in a conversation along the lines of:

“Ugh. What time is it?”

“10.”

“In the morning?”

“I have to get to work.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Right.”

Pause.

“I have to get to work. I’ll call you.”

Hurried location of clothing, buttons half left undone, then a swiftly written fake phone number, a pause by the door to look back longingly (which is actually a mental note never to drink and fuck again), and scarper to wherever it was you think you left the car.

That’s if both parties wake at the same time.

 

This could be you on The Morning After...

The alternative is one of them (preferably you) wakes first, and notices the harridan next to them has breath that could chemically castrate a Catholic priest, looks like a small moon just crashed into the Earth, has a physical deformity they thought was sexually exciting less than 12 hours ago, and desperately tries to extricate themselves before the other party wakes. There’s no phone number left, often not even any kind of evidence at all that you were there save a skid mark on the sheets or a used condom wrapper (with the condom often still inside, because Ansell are bastards at making condoms fucking impossible to get up and running when your fingers feel like tree trunks) lying embarrassingly in the middle of the floor.

 

There. Is. No. Escape.

I can’t claim to have ever been in that situation, mind you. I’ve only garnered this opinion from what I’ve seen on television, read about thanks to tabloid journalism (yay the British press!) or seen happen to friends I’ve known through the years. I did try a drunken session with my wife once…. so I avoided the unpleasant Beer Goggles in the Bar scenario, but since she was sober it made for a less-than-satisfactory performance that evening, let me tell you. No, I don’t mind admitting it. Drunken Sex is funny to watch, but not that funny to go through personally. It can be a debilitating ego-killer, and it can get very, very messy. Sex should be messy in a good way, not in a drunken spewgasm after fornicating like two morphine addicted elderly folks trying to copulate over a zimmer frame: the sweaty, sheet ripping, pillow destroying, Lady Gaga-styled antics of a normal session in the bedroom should involve almost complete recall of the event, not a blank stare when mention is made of it around the water cooler the next morning.

Just remember that when you’re staring down the barrel of a hot night of passion with some wanton drunken skank you just met – even at The Bar None – drunken sex can be a vile, life-altering experience from which there is no forgetting the horror of – gasp – the morning after.

3 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , | posted in Alcohol, Guest post, Humor

February 11, 2011

The Hot Rod Unloads: Drinkin’ – Is It A Spectator Sport?

By The Hot Rod

You know how you go to a bar, hop on a stool to knock back a few, before witnessing some complete tool down the other end behaving like an imbecile, and all you can think of is why the bouncer at the door let him/her in in the first place. Usually late in the evening, there’s always a dickhead or two to watch get absolutely smashed by first the drink, then some stranger they’ve met and abused, and finally the bouncer throwing them out. Often, it’s quite hilarious, with the bodily fluids and hoarse, booze-affected vocalisations threatening various forms of “wahahh blergggg ahhhrggerbylyyy”, before finding solace in spending the rest of the evening picking teeth from the pavement outside. Unless it’s you that’s the cause, of course, which would be indicated by a lack of ability to stay inside the bar you just got thrown out of.

The problem with alcohol, aside from the obvious physical stuff, is the fact that it makes some people furious. Not sure why, but there are people in the world known by the somewhat appalling label of “they’re a mean drunk”. Generally, add alcohol to make an absolute wanker. People who can’t handle their alcohol, even in minor doses, and turn to rage and antisocial behaviour to make their points, are among the most abhorrent kind of drunkard – perhaps only bested by those fucksticks who go home from the bar and beat their wives. Generally, antisocial behaviour is less tolerated, and in Australia at least, a lot less socially acceptable than it might have been back in the day. In this day of lawsuits and “what about me?” attitudes from the younger generation, people aren’t so easily ignorant of those who seek to create havoc with their drinking. Since humans are fundamentally social animals, the majority of us spend time in the company of others – work, home or simply out stalking a Hollywood movie star. While normal human interaction is controlled by social etiquette and conventions, the addition of alcohol can often (and does, often) lead to a breakdown in those social barriers, to create a Super Human…. in a sense. A human who is no longer restricted by their upbringing, who no longer walks inside the laws of Right and Wrong, is a dangerous one. Often, they do stupid things involving property destruction and public lewdness, invariably leading to some kind of police involvement. Or, they involve themselves in a dangerous scenario leading to hospitalisation and months of rehab: jumping from a rooftop or driving a vehicle, among others.

 

Drunken Jumping Roofing Idiot.

I’ve seen a few truly hilarious drunken escapades in my time, mostly involving a groom’s Stag Night or a bride’s Hens Night – usually the most socially acceptable scenario in which to get plastered and wander the streets with a pair of fake boobs attached to your front, hollerin’ down any car that’ll stop and asking them to take you to your intended love for a session of mad, romantic sex. (Which reminds me, I’m working on a post regarding drunken sex at the moment!). Myself, I didn’t drink on my Stag Night, although I did visit the obligatory strip club and enjoy a nice, sensual lapdance (or three) from several eye-candy pieces strutting the floor. My intent at the time was to actually be able to remember what happened on my Stag Night, rather than have it disappear into a haze of rum-induced phantasmic ghost-memory, empty moments from which those weird phone calls begin with a husky female voice saying how much they loved what I did to them and wondering if I could do it again, and soon. And missing clothing.

I don’t think I’ve ever tried to pick somebody up while I was drunk, but I will admit to trying to pick up a girl while she was drunk. Bad, I know, but I was about 18 and didn’t know any better. See, I’d been doing a shift of the local radio station for the Saturday night party show, and had been phoned up at the studio by a young girl who wanted me to come to a party with her after I finished. We chatted in between songs and adverts about everything she could think of, and I do remember she seemed like a pretty nice girl, if a little flirty. Mind you, how can any woman resist the dulcet tones of a man on radio, right? Yeah. I finished my shift at midnight, and after a drive of a half hour to the party (it was in the next town from where I was) I met her at a predetermined place we both knew. I can’t for the life of me remember her name, but I think it was Tracy or something. Anyway, MaybeTracy had a couple of her friends with her, and they were all of sweet 16 – and had been drinking. Not that I minded, because as soon as she saw me, young MaybeTracy gave me a big hug and didn’t let go. Perhaps she saw me as a giant bottle of hooch, I’m not sure, but as we walked from my car to the party (about three blocks) she didn’t once let me go. Since I was 18, my hormones were going absolutely crazy with her intimacy – I would be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly turned on, but being stone-cold sober and a little timid to try anything, about the worst I did was put my arm around her to support her as she staggered along. MaybeTracy was quite pretty, a fair face surrounded by a frame of dark hair, and that soft, lilting voice of teen drunkeness – slurred words and spittle.

 

Join me for a drink....

We arrived at the party, which was at some dude’s place whom I did not know, but I went in like I owned the joint, MaybeTracy at my side and her friends trailing along behind, giggling wildly. We sat on the couch, I had a beer thrown into my hands (I didn’t drink the stuff, and eventually found a spare second to casually put it aside without much notice) and we sat there, listening the sounds of Rednex murdering “Cotton Eye Joe.” MaybeTracy was yabbering away in drunk-speak to me, hardly pausing to listen to any reply I may give, while I was passing a casual eye around the room with increasing amusement. The majority of the people at this party were my age or younger, the tweeny-bopper giggle-shits, and the majority of them were holding those stupid pre-mixed lolly drinks with names like Lemon Spike and Pink Velvet and stuff. The dance music, after about twenty minutes of a mega mix of Reel 2 Reel’s “I Like To Move It”, Roxette’s “Sleeping In My Car” and Ace Of Base’s “All That She Wants”, eventually shifted to the more slo-motion make-out crap like Bryan Adams and his band doing “All For Love”. Fuck you Bryan Adams, you soft core music peddler: go back to your garage band in ’69. All I seem to recall from the early 90′s was your gradual whoring of a decent singing career to shite like “Please Forgive Me”, the aforementioned “All For Love”, and “Have You Ever Really Loved A Woman?”, the latter of which is designed specifically to make men feel both guilty and inadequate. Yeah, fuck you Bryan Adams. My radio career highlights involved your incessant warbling – and it ruined me.

 

The Hot Rod in his early days...

The Shittiest Love Song Ever Written – All 4 One: I Swear


Ahem.

Anyway, the Juice-box had just kicked in with All 4 One’s “I Swear” when MaybeTracy decided she’d had enough of sitting there with me, and she got up and started dancing. She grabbed my hand and dragged me up, pulling me close. Dear Penthouse, I never thought this could happen to me. As we swayed there, surrounded by half-shouted conversations and alcoholic staggering, I looked down at her – she looked up at me – and we kissed. Awww. So I thought my luck was in, dontcha know? But the problem was, she was drunk (and getting drunkererer) while I was trying to stay sober – after all, I still had to drive home, and the thought of crashing on the couch of this house was as unappealing as typhoid. I began to feel guilty, an attack of my conscience like Jimminy frickin’ Cricket was sitting on my shoulder yabbering away. I didn’t want to take advantage of her, so my options were to either get hammered myself, or stop and go home. So I went home. Like a loser. A perfect chance to get laid, albeit with somebody who most likely remember later on anyway, gone begging due to my principles. Damn me for not being an asshole.

The point of this, though, isn’t to ask for your sympathy is a missed sexual opportunity. It’s to highlight the fact that I was an alcoholic spectator – instead of drinking and becoming part of the seething mass of teen-drunkeness, I stayed sober and ended up feeling worse. I look back and thank God I didn’t go through with the plans my penis had for MaybeTracy, because I know it was the right thing to do, but for years afterwards I regretted my decision. Had I been drunk, had I had a few bevvies whilst sitting on the couch and cuddling with this girl I’d just met (God, how much of a whore am I? – Don’t answer that!) I could very well have ended up doing the x-axis tango in a blur of thrashing limbs and fumbled seconds. Mind you, watching the girls at this party losing their inhibitions was a pretty sweet trade-off. Whilst on the couch, goggling at the skimpy outfits worn by the girls of the time, the amount of faux-flirting going on by both the guys and girls was extraordinary. As opposed to a drunken rampage of toxic anger and rage, like you’d find at any club and bar you care to visit these days, it seems, the teenage-dance crowd seemed content to get hammered, get frisky, and get-to gropin’. The mix of rampant hormones and alcohol induced a sexually liberated malaise over the group. I did see a few boobs that night, although not from MaybeTracy, which made me happy: a poor offset for the fact that I didn’t actually get any sex.

 

How it looks to slow dance while drunk...

When I moved to the big city, however, the adults there behaved like maniacs when drunk. Instead of a “free love” environment reminiscent of the Swinging 60′s, Austin Powers was pretty much gang raped by the late 90′s adult-drunk animosity which permeated our culture. Instead of the frisky, hint-of-nipple groping going on, for the most part, adults became even more isolated from each other, as alcohol served to inflame tension rather than quench it. The infrequency with which I joined the boys at a bar to drink a few only served to highlight the general stupidity of adult humans when pissed. Almost every time out, we’d notice some imbecile making an ass of himself (side note: now, it’s more often the girls being an imbecile… a social swing which is only too recent) and inevitably the cops would be called as punches started to fly. But, as with the couch party I attended waaaay back, there was also plenty of flesh being shown off. And that’s the thing, isn’t it boys. Go to any bar, anywhere, and if it’s loud enough, eventually those skimpy dresses and short skirts, skin-tight tops and boob-tubes will begin to lack the ability to cover what they’re supposed to. The more crowded the bar, the more likely it is. And of course, the drunker the girls are, the likelihood skyrockets. Which is why I usually like to go to a bar and not drink, just to scab a perv at some free flesh – although when I say it like that, it really does sound disgusting.

 

Early days at The Bar None

Going to bars isn’t high on my weekly quota of activities either, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a bar-hound in real life. The danger of frequenting a bar, especially the wrong bar, was made all too clear one day when several of the boys at work didn’t come in for a week because they’d been involved in a bar brawl (something I’ve actually always wanted to see, an all-in brawl like they have in the movies!). When they finally did return to work, all battered and bruised, one of the guys showed me a specific injury which he seemed to be wearing with pride. False pride, I think, as he pulled up his shirt to expose the still-visible bruise-mark of where he’s been hit with a bit of chain: apparently, the biker he’d bumped into at this bar was carrying a piece of chain around just for special occasions, and so had whipped my work colleague like a dog with it during the fight. You could still make out the individual links in the chain from the indents in his skin. Who the fuck carries a chain into a bar? Bikers, apparently.

 

Too much booze often led to a dis-clothesure policy at The Bar None.

I now consider myself to be an alcoholic spectator: somebody who will tell you he’s drinking a Rum+Coke when he’s actually drinking just Coke. I maintain my equilibrium, by ability for rational thought, and my dignity, while laughing internally at the folks who end up plastered all over the floor and sidewalk. Like a massive game of Eye Spy, or Bingo, you mark off the clichéd alcoholic behaviour you witness until the board is full, and you can put your hands in the air and exclaim “BINGO” with as much force as possible. Watching drunk people is more fun that being drunk myself, I find. That’s not to say I don’t mind having a drink, but no longer to excess (unless it’s a special occasion) – I just find people trying to behave normally while their brains feel like hot syrup is much more amusing than a hangover.

So let’s hear it folks: what’s your best Spectator Drinking Story – if you have one. We want the funniest, most insane stuff you’ve got! Let fly below in the comments!

1 comment   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Functional Alcoholics Slurperson (FASe), Guest post, Humor, Uncategorized

February 8, 2011

The Hot Rod Unloads: My Last Drunken Night

By The Hot Rod

You know how you resign from a job, and all your work colleagues want to take you to the pub and get you hammered? Ply you with booze, perhaps engage in a few physical challenges midway through the evening and hopefully find you hooking up with a young nubile hottie out with her friends? Maybe even a little out-of-tune karaoke? Or a lot? You know how you look forward to that impending drink-fest with only the merest hint of fear that you could find yourself bondaged to a train carriage on your way to Christ knows where, with no wallet and no phone? Or waking up naked tied to a light pole on a major intersection with an entire used roll of clingfoil nearby? Actually, that last one sounds like a standard Sunday morning at my place…!

 

To find out why this picture is here, keep reading.

The classic scene of the final-day-at-work-booze-up ended up happening to yours truly at the end of last year, when I resigned from my job at a transport company, a position I’d held for about 6 years. My work image was one of relative abstinence from alcohol, an image I’d tried hard to subvert with conversations about a bottle of wine I’d drunk the weekend before, or how I used to party a lot in my younger days – stuff I’d make up to sound cooler than I actually way. The day I announced my resignation to the office, was the day at least three people came up to me and proclaimed that on my last day, they were going to get me absolutely smashed and make me make a fool of myself. I could only utter one single phrase: bring it on.

From The Juiced Box – Jimmy Barnes: Cheap Wine :


I’ve mentioned before here at the Bar None that I’m not the worlds biggest drinker – I like the casual wine or Rum+Coke, but I very rarely drink to excess. Al’s made a living regaling us all with his stories of drunken excess (much of which can be attributed to his recent lack of visibility here at the Bar None) and while it would make me feel better to say that I can drink along with the best of them, I’m afraid to say, I can’t.

So when the date of my impending a-drink-alypse was set, so was the date for my liver to potentially collapse. Warn the ER, I may be comin’ in. The final day, of course, was pretty easy for me, with my feet up on the desk shrugging my shoulders at all and sundry who thought I’d still be doing some work. Idiots! As a going away present, they gave me an inflatable sex toy in the form of a sheep, as well as a voucher to spend on my other favourite thing: BluRays.

Rodney with his ex-work colleagues at the Bar None...

 

But the main event was to come. Around 6.30, a number of us arrived for our session at a local drinking establishment (no, I’m not proud to admit that it wasn’t The Bar None!), and I proceeded to start on my first drink. It was a well mixed Rum & Coke, my drink of choice for writing myself off. My wife had decided to drop me off at the bar, and return home to baby-sit my daughter, which was nice of her – especially considering I’d done the same for her the weekend before! Essentially, I was a man out on the town without a leash: a combination of freedom and alcohol makes for a very tipsy Rodney before the night is out.

Since I arrived first (to my own going-away party… what’s with that?) I had to buy my own drink first, which I did, but as I sat down to enjoy it and listen to the godawful dance beats pumping over the speaker system, several of my now-former work colleagues arrived as well. The most common question I was asked that night, as far as I can recall amidst the blur of wonky floorboards and puking in the bushes out the back of the bar, was “how many have you had?”, referring to the quantity of drinks, of course. After about the fifth drink, I couldn’t remember how many I’d had. Not to mention that my drinks were coming with such alacrity that I couldn’t even finish one before I had another in my hand, and you can imagine that had I been in any condition to allow my brain to function properly, I still would’ve had no idea.

 

Getting ready to start drinking...

After a while, I started to feel very sleepy: it’s a well established fact that instead of getting even funnier and more verbose than I already am, when I have a bit to drink I start to get tired. So there I am, slumped on one of the seats at this bar, a couple of people propping me up and asking me if I needed another drink, when all I wanted was to lie down and go to sleep. But I pushed through. For a while. Funny how you get to the stage where you suddenly realise that you no longer have control over your body, and can recall that moment with absolute clarity later on.

A while later – it could have been and hour or five minutes, I wouldn’t know – I started to get that feeling in my gut that things weren’t right. I’d had a little bit for tea, but probably not enough to stop the vomit-instinct I knew would kick in soon. Sure enough: heave… a bit of a swaying stomach made me reach for one of my mates and ask him to carry me to the lavatory. He and another of my friends do so, with my feet dragging along the floor as I feel them go out from under me. Propped up in the dank, squalid cubicle, smelling a bunch of piss and poo around me, I tried to keep whatever monster was in my guts from breaching the surface. Fuck you man, my gut responded. But I swallowed hard, and forbade a vomit event.

 

The drinking begins...

I was dragged outside by my now-concerned mates, and as I stood there against a railing, overlooking a nicely hedged sunken garden, I unloaded. All that rum and coke came back up, a creamy stream of projectile chunder looking more like chicken soup than stomach contents. At the same time as it sickened me, I was quite impressed: I don’t think I’ve ever thrown up so hard or so much apart from having a stomach upset. My mates patted me on the back… well, one of them did. At the same time as I was having a conversation with the bushes below and emptying my tea into them, a quite attractive woman came up and started chatting to one of my mates: ostensibly seeing if I was okay, but secretly I think she was trying to pick up. The mate who was being chatted up suddenly seemed to forget I was there.

Immediately after my spewgasm, I began to feel better. I didn’t know it at the time, but this feeling would pass. In the moment, though, I decided to get back to the bar, and my other friends, and keep drinking. My legs still wouldn’t work right, so I was half-carried, half-staggered back to the bar, propped up on a stool, and made to drink more. I say “made” when I really mean “self inflict”. A few Jager Bombs later (a mixture of Jagermeister and Red Bull), and I was completely, utterly, irrevocably fucked. And by fucked I mean totally smashed. I didn’t even know which way was up. I think it was to the left, but I wasn’t sure.

The drinks are taking effect.

 

After a few drinks (I think), I began to feel horrific again, and once more asked to be taken outside where I could safely release my stomach again into the bushes. I did so. But at that point, somewhere in the fog my brain called “thought”, I realised I’d had enough. I was beyond fucked, and I had a wife and child back home to get to – if I thought a taxi would stop and pick me up, I might have fumbled my way through the process. But the wife of a good mate came out, I grabbed her arm and asked her to take me home, in the most forceful manner I could. Not because I hated her or anything, but because I wanted to impart just how fucked I was, and how important it was for me not to be offered any more drinks.

She and her husband slid me into their car, and while my guts probably had no more contents to eject anywhere, I wasn’t about to take a chance. I grabbed an old McDonald’s bag stashed in the back seat and held it to my face like an aircraft sick-bag, and we began the journey back to my place. A journey which seemed to go on forever, with all the lights, motion and sounds of a city in party mode (it was a Friday night, after all) scrambling rational thought and creating a discombobulating discordance that made me even more disoriented. They dropped me out the front of my place, where I staggered down the back to where the garage door opened as I fumbled with my keys. I was going to go in the back door, since I didn’t want to wake the good wife, and with our bedroom quite close to the front door, thought the sound of me struggling with something as complicated as a fucking door lock might cause a reaction I didn’t need. The fact that she’d left the front door unlocked, and had told me she would before I even left, had been forgotten.

 

Really starting to feel it now....

I couldn’t open the back door. The exterior light had blown, and blown good, which meant the moonlight dampened by a think band of cumulonimbus had to be enough. It wasn’t, and I think I stood at the back door for about fifteen minutes convinced I’d be able to pull an Ocean’s 11 out my ass and get inside. I staggered back, and slumped against the car parked there behind me. God I was tired. I don’t recall ever being so tired in my life, at least, not this week anyway. I decided to rest my head on the back of the car, just for a moment. Moment. Moment. Several moments. Waking with a start, and wondering just how long I’d stood sleeping on the car like an idiot, I made the decision to go in the front door, my memory suddenly recalling the open-door policy we’d instigated that night.

Stumbling through the front door with the subtlety of a hamstrung elephant, I slid down the hallway to the lounge, where I was going to sober up a little. On my way, I grabbed a bucket from the laundry to catch any future vomit (one can never be too sure) and slid, sighing with gratitude, into the soft, cushiony embrace of our modular lounge. By this stage, I’d started to think about what had happened during the night: I had gaps, and that wasn’t a good sign. But I don’t think I did anything untoward, except the bit with the vomit…. and that was to be expected.

 

Been here? Let us know!!!

My evening ended with me waking up at about 6am, a carpet-mouth and slightly fuzzy head, getting a drink of water (the first of many that day…) and going to bed. My wife woke up a while later, and left me there (so she said) to sleep it off. To this day, the best recollection I have of the night is a gallery of photos on Facebook, the contents of which I’ve shared through this article. Considering a photo of the tits of the “Hottest Girl At Work” was taken (see photo below) and I don’t even remember it, I consider the evening to be the highlight of my life thus far.

So why recount this story? I know it’s not that alarming, nor is it the wildest night many of you have ever seen, heard or participated in. I didn’t wake up tied to a pole with clingwrap, nor did I find myself naked on a train bound for somewhere I didn’t know; for a casual drinker such as myself, though, I thought I managed to scrape through a potential disaster like getting hammered into oblivion with a great deal of fortitude. I didn’t embarrass myself (any more than normal), nor did I injure myself or anybody else in my efforts.

However, the following day, when I went to pull my keys from the pocket of my jeans, I pulled out a condom. I don’t carry condoms as a matter of course, because I have a wife and always know I’m faithful to her, but it did surprise me. My investigations revealed that one of my friends had decided it’d be a good larf to put a condom in my pocket for the wife to find when she washed my clothes… yeah guys, a great larf!

So I ask you, dear reader: tell us your best drunken story. We want details, and the gorier and more insane, the better. Drinking stories make me laugh hard, I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because in order to achieve them we must make ourselves truly inebriated, a consequence of too much drink, but it’s a choice we make, and the consequences can often be hilarious [Ed: They can also be downright dangerous, but we aren't here to pass judgement on those who drink to excess!]. The comments section below awaits your tale of drunk. Get to writin’.

4 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Alcohol, Booze Toonze - The Bar None's Juice-Box, Guest post, Humor

February 4, 2011

From the Emergency Barfcast System….

By The Hot Rod

“This is the Bar None’s Emergency Barfcast System. If you’re hearing this now, it means I no longer have the capacity to run the Bar to the quality you all think you deserve. Therefore, I have instigated the bar-tacular secondary drunk-making device, and his name is Rodney. He has been fully trained in the art of pouring y’all a beer or three, so saddle up and enjoy a drink with him while I’m not here to do so myself.”

You know how you go to a bar and your favourite beer wench ain’t behind the counter any more? Imagine this kind of thing happening at The Bar None…. okay, stop imagining it coz it’s finally happened.

By now, all the regular patronisers of the Bar None will be aware of the fact that recently, our superstar barkeep has been out of the office for a variety of personal reasons, and as the most frustrated of all Al’s customers with being unable to get a beer ’round here, I’ve decided to say “Screw it, I’m gonna pour the drinks for a while.” So…. I’m gonna pour the drinks for a while, in Al’s absence. You cheapskates won’t be getting ‘em for nothing, though, so pony up the cash, my friends, as we continue our drunken revelry well into the night tonight.

 

Rodney preparing for a night at The Bar None...

First, a little about me, Rodney, your guest Barkeep for the duration (at least, until Al swaggers back into the bar all Indiana Jones-style and kicks me out again!). When I’m not stooped over the vast mahogany bar that is your favourite drinking establishment, trying desperately to figure out what the fuck goes into a Blood and Sand cocktail without going to the beach, I write film reviews for my own website, fernbyfilms.com. Now, I know it’s a bit much to plug my own site while helping Al out for a while on this one, but those of you seeking a bit more background to my good self only need go over there for a quick gander to get the lay of the land. Either that or I tell you that I’m a Gemini, I love movies and playing with my young daughter, and I’m partial to dirty sex in the morning dawn. When I’m not writing film reviews of my own, I’m often reading others at various places around the Web, and one day whilst trying to click on RedTube with a dodgy mouse, I accidentally stumbled upon this place. Suffice to say, I haven’t left, and Al’s put up with me as a source of constant income if nothing else, so I say thankyou to him. I never did get back to RedTube. I don’t needs me no porn no more, apparently.

Second, no, I’m not gonna elaborate on Al’s current situation, which I think has been covered in detail by his supremely better looking other half, Miss Demeanour, in a previous post. Once Al’s back in the Bar where he belongs, slogging away trying to mix those stupid teenage cocktails Sex & The City has a shitload of responsibility for, it’ll be up to him to let loose the beast of information he’s no doubt working on whilst holed up in his Trainspotting-style bedroom, replete with ceiling-crawling babies and hot, sweaty broken sleep.

Third, and probably most importantly, I’m not here to replace Al at all; I offered my services to tend the Bar for a while during Al’s absence, but this is by no means a permanent change. Al will return (unless he wins the lotto!), and I’ll go back to my own work once he does. In the meantime, I hope I can bring you at least some of the great humour and warmth Al dishes out with his stuff, although I’m hardly the same quality wordsmith the great man himself manages to be. I tend to use a hundred words when three will do, while Al uses just one when four will suffice: and usually that one word is a cuss word of some sort too.

So think of me as Al 1.2, a kind of off-shoot of the big man hisself, although I’m more used to a cerebral drink about the smoking room pondering the complexities of life than a pavement-cuddling spewgasm of binging and memory gaps. I have a few neat ideas of stuff to give to you all while Al’s away (well, technically not away as much as unable to contribute: his eyes are everywhere and like the jolly fat Christmas dude, he knows when you’ve been drunk or sober…) and I hope and pray to God himself that they turn out the way I hope. I want to be invited back at some point.

 

Santa drops in on Al at The Bar None.

This situation (me running Al’s bar while he’s out) reminds me of that old joke (at least, I hope it’s an old joke, otherwise old people are gonna think I’m an idiot!) my dad told me once while sitting watching the football:

A guy walks into a bar and asks for a glass of beer, and the bartender says, “That’ll be four cents, please.”
The guy nearly spits out his beer. “Four cents?!” he says in amazement. “How much for a plate of fish and chips with extra mashed potatoes and gravy and a side order of peas?”
“Eleven cents,” says the bartender.
The customer says he’s going to recommend this place to all of his friends because of the low prices. “Wow!” he exclaims. “Where’s the manager so I can thank him for these low prices and shake his hand?”
“Upstairs,” says the bartender, “with my wife.”
“What’s he doing upstairs with your wife?” the customer asks.
“Same thing I’m doing to his bar and his money,” the bartender calmly replies.

Ahh, a classic. It’s my all-time favourite bar-related joke, and it’s still funny because it’s the kind of thing that could actually happen. So here’s a question to all our loyal stool-hoppers: what’s the best booze-related joke you’ve heard? Something funny, a bit raunchy or bawdy is okay, but it must be related to drinking. Send us your thoughts in the comments below!!!

10 comments   |  tags: , , | posted in Booze Nooze, Functional Alcoholics Slurperson (FASe), Guest post

November 11, 2010

Hot Rodney’s Manifestive

By Al K Hall

My Fellow Alcoholics,

Just like one of those slow claps in the movies, others have joined the groundswell that was In The Same Boat’s Manifestive. The latest addition to the team is Rodney from Fernby Films, as regular as anyone else here at the Bar None. i’d like to thank him for taking the time to write all this stuff down, and if you’re half as decent as i know you are, you’ll thank him too in the comments down under.

By the way, if anyone else out there lurking in the shadows of the Bar None feels inspired to write a treaties of your own, you’re more than welcome to fertilize this grass roots movement with your own shit. The more the drunker, as i always say.

With that, i turn you over to Rodney and his “Non-drinker’s Manifestive”.

From the Juiced-box and dedicated to Rodney, i give you AC/DC – Have a Drink On Me.

[Press 'Play' for real men at work]

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I write this homily somewhat in response to In The Same Boat’s article from earlier this month, in which he captures the essence of the struggling alcoholic perfectly. It’s also a kind of manifesto of my own – on why I don’t get plastered every weekend alongside some of my work collegues and friends.

I’ve hung about the Bar None for a while now, at least I think long enough to be justified in some comments on what I’ve noticed around the place. Al’s been kind enough to spot me a drink on the odd occasion, and the stool at the end of the bar, down there near that fella with the biker beard and knuckle-dusters, that’s my usual haunt. I’m far enough away from the general patronage to not be one of them, and close enough to hear what the hell goes on down there. Some of the behaviour among patrons of the Bar None, while certainly amusing at times, occasionally is quite disturbing – the drunken actions of the folks by the dart board, the near misses in the mens urinal, and the rather sloppy egress via the front door notwithstanding, generally people keep themselves upright and shipshape on most occasions. But not all. Sometimes, it’s not pretty.

I write as somebody who isn’t a shambolic drunkard, a rambling slurperson (great wordplay Al, if I may say so) imbibing far more alcohol than is sensible for a person of my particular body weight; instead, I write as an observer, a casual drinker with little experience at gutter-waking or toilet-barfing. Which, considering where I live, is pretty weird. Weird in what way, Rodney? Glad you asked, valiant reader.

Australia, which most people know as a former English penal colony, has become a modern semi-utopian drinkers paradise, with some of the most lax drinking laws anywhere in the alcoholic world. Although the legal drinking age is 18, most school age kids plaster themselves across side-walks and recreational reserves across the country just about every weekend, such is the ease with which substance abuse can be obtained. Our claim to fame isn’t just the best ever Olympic Games ever held anywhere in the known cosmos, but for the hard-drinking, Kangaroo riding, sheep herding cattle rustling Ned Kelly shooting ball-sack flicking manly man image presented in various films and TV shows we export across the globe: an image not entirely unwarranted, but far from the actual truth. Paul Hogan fucked us forever with his Crocodile Dundee character, the release of which caused a seismic shift in perceptions of Australia from a baby-eating-dingo one to a “THAT’S-a-knife” knockabout larrakin one – an image which has gradually caused more embarrassment than pride in recent years. It’s like saying the entire population of Tennessee is representative of the population of America. Steve “Shove my finger up a snakes ass and see what it does” Irwin didn’t help matters either, and for his entire life was something of an embarrassment as well; the ocker drawl mixed with the insane bravado of a man with no fear portrayed all over the Discovery Channel. As much as the world now loves Irwin since his death, in life he was once considered a national embarrassment.

But our drinking, the national pastime outside of riding roos and rooting Koalas, is the one thing we can all agree on. Hell, we even stake a claim at having invented the stuff, thanks to Yahoo Serious and his eternally stupid film Young Einstein. Australians claim to be the world best drinkers; a reputation built on our love of sport – drinking at the various venues around the country has increased in recent years as our standards, and our love of the fine drop, has increased as well.

Adelaide, sitting comfortably on the coastline of the Fleurieu Peninsula in South Australia (look it up on a map if you don’t know!) is situated between two major wine regions of our state, and just to the left of another wine-region of growing potential. We have two major beer producing brewery’s in the city, West End and Coopers, which supplies not only our entire state, but pretty much the entire country with their amber ale. To the south, the McLaren Vale wine region looms large, a veritable panoply of vineyards and small pubs in which to intoxicate oneself – perhaps known as the lesser of the states three main wine producing regions, outside of the Barossa and the Coonawarra down towards Victoria. The Barossa, which produces enough wine annually to cover the surface of the Earth twenty times, is your choice of locale for inebriation anywhere in the state; it’s a wine free-for-all, if you’re so inclined, and wine tours of the area are your best bet to get slammed.

What I’m saying is that here in Adelaide, of anywhere in Australia, we have the most opportunity to drink ourselves stupid. Myself, I’m not that big a drinker, although external influences would seem to suggest that perhaps I’m the exception rather than the rule. As a kid, my father would offer me the token sip of beer (which I detest to this day – the beer, not the offer!) as well as a selection of adult drinks including various wines, champagnes and liqueurs. I have to admit that as a youngster, and even now that I’ve matured a little, I’m not fond of the hard stuff as much as I enjoy a tipple of red or white fermented grape. Not because I didn’t have the funds to imbibe as I do these days, but because I didn’t enjoy the taste of the stuff. Alcoholic beverages took a long while to slide their slippery fingers around my palette; but once they did, I found myself open to an entire new world of taste and sensation. However, the lack of practice at drinking to excess has resulted in a deficiency in my body that I’m working to overcome: I have a very small tolerance to alcohol. I’m unable to sustain an upright pose much past three standard drinks. Which means I’m a cheap drunk (a positive?) and an easy lay, should some hot chick decide to jump my bones after a night around the Bar None. That may be the beer goggles talking, but hey, no doubt Al will set me straight if I hook up with a basher, right Al?

So I sit here, propped up at the Bar None main bar with glass of vino in front of me, peering stuperously at the mirror behind Al’s hard liquor, trying to check out just how red my eyes are and if it’s possible to work from “home” today. Not sure how the Bar None goes with a wireless internet connection, or even if Al’s hooked up the telephony machine yet (he is a little lax in that department, I’m told) but I’m damned if I’m gonna go to work smashed. I look on in amazed disbelief at the crazy antics of those who drink to excess, the stumbling alcoholics whose livers would surely require immediate surgery for replacement were they to be inspected then and there.

There’s a few times in my life where I wish I could get myself totally written off to forget my troubles – especially that one time on the farm where I woke up next to the family goat, tied to a stake in the middle of the lawn. Sometimes you wish you could blot out the horror of life, but then, in the clear and un-drunken clarity of regulation life, you find yourself basking in the glory that it presents; the laughter of children, the roar of a hot car, and the post-coital afterglow as you snuggle with the missus.

I’ve never had a problem with alcohol where, like ITSB, it’s taken over my life to the detriment of my social ability and family relationships. I’ve never had to attend an AA meeting, take a 12 step programme to reclaim my life, or apologise to family for variety of drunken escapades to which the only conversation I can remember is the one ending in “… yes officer.” Personally, I find those who pride themselves on this kind of weekly escapade have a deeper issue than just drinking. There’s no reason alcohol can’t be enjoyed responsibly, like many of the patrons of the Bar None do already – but the muddy grasp of deep alcoholism, whereby your life functions include retching in the toilet and trying to maintain an upright stance during the day is one I don’t understand fully. I’m starting to understand it due to the work of many of the fine folks here at the Bar, but never having experienced it, either for myself or through somebody I know personally, leaves me a little less able to appreciate Same Boats recent exposition on the subject. The thought of having hours, weeks and months of hazy memories, induced by consumption of alcohol, is a little terrifying, to be honest. While I’m a fairly outgoing person in my non-drunken state, when I get a little tipsy I tend towards the outright zany – I truly think I’m funnier than Robin Williams and Billy Connelly put together. Which I doubt is true. I have a major problem with spending so much on drink that I end up waking up some days later with gaps in my memory, and a large hole in my bank balance  - I find it hard to understand how some people think this is a good thing!

I read the exploits of ITSB around the place (I’ve checked out his blog, among other things, and can recommend anybody looking to quit drinkin’ to have a look at it!) and while I don’t entirely understand what people like him are going through, I can empathise with it, if not offer some tacit sympathy. I’m not sure about America, but here in Australia the image of hard drinkin’ cowboys is one to be proud of, not ashamed of. This makes it hard to work against the image of the drunken pub crawl and the bravery of those who attempt it – an image we’ve accepted socially through movies and music to think that this is actually okay. To say I’m not a big drinker in conversation is like saying you once fucked a dachshund. Do it sober, you’re ostracised forever. Do it drunk, you’re a legend. That’s the mentality going round here.

(Mind you, as I write this, a national sporting celebrity was recently fired from his team after a drunken night out where he managed to simulate a dog giving him a blowjob… apparently, you can only perform drunken bestiality and get away with it if you’re NOT famous).

It’s somewhat hypocritical to sit here, in the comfortable confines of the Bar None and state that drinkin’ isn’t fun or acceptable, but folks, drinkin’ in moderation is where it’s at. Obliterating yourself every day/week/hour isn’t the way to maintain a healthy lifestyle, as ITSB has attested to. The perils of social alcoholism, while initially a bit of a laugh, eventually overtake the common-sense part of your brain and become your actual life.

So I congratulate ITSB for his efforts, for his ability to recognise and then overcome his drinking problem – I extend that same congratulatory plaudit to anybody else reading this now who is… well…. in the same boat, for want of a better phrase. To accomplish this, to turn a weakness into a personal strength, is valiant and not entirely ignoble. We’ve all read about Al’s problems with the drink, which is part of the reason why he set up the Bar None in the first place, but he’s currently on the wagon and keeping it under control. Again, a valiant effort. I say this not in that mocking, “I’ve only read about this” kind of way that non-drinkers might offer, looking down their nose at you, but in a sincere manner befitting the personal triumph you’ve all accomplished.

Now, shut up and pour me a big tall glass of the strongest shit ya got, Al. After this, I need a drink, then I need a Koala to root**. [**"root" being an Aussie euphemism for sex.... in case nobody understands....]

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A few words from your humble servitor just to remind you, Rodney, and you the rest of y’all that the Bar None is not reserved for those who drink to excess or in any other way have built a shrine to the cult of alcoholism. True to its name, the Bar None bars no one and all are welcome from the hard drinkers to the soft touches, from those who nurse their drinks to those who require medical attention, from prohibitionists to exhibitionists, from T-Totalers to the Totally Fucked.

Thanks again, Rodney, for this look at your life and life in Oz. i’m rooting for you, brother.

Al K Hall

Functional Alcoholic Slurperson, Founding Member of D.R.I.N.K.E.R. (Drunks Really Involved Now Known as Exiles Reunited), Member of the D-Generation (Drinking Generation) & Tender Bartender at the Bar None

9 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Alcohol, D.R.I.N.K.E.R., Functional Alcoholics Slurperson (FASe), Guest post

November 7, 2010

ITSB’s Manifestive

By Al K Hall

My Fellow Alcoholics,

Your Functional Alcoholic Sluperson here with a first in the Bar None: A Guest Post.

In The Same Boat is a regular commenter on many drinking blogs the net over and has been giving out great, non judgmental advice to drunks and drinkers, wannabes and wanna-not-bes anymore. As a non drinking alcoholic, his experiences help because of the perspective of where he’s been in the same boat.

i sent him an invitation a long time ago to write up his experience and how he was able to tame the monkey on his back and he finally responded with this well-thought, rich and universally useful treaties. Please be sure to leave ITSB a comment thanking him for his insights and if there’s anyone else out there who’d like to share their experiences, you’re more than welcome. This is, after all, the Bar None.

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You know how you are drinking and reading an alcoholic’s blog?   You start thinking to yourself, “Man, I thought I had a problem.  I bet this guy gets 20% of his calories from alcohol or more every week!  Why can’t he stop this madness?” Then you sober up, do some calculations, and realize that 20-33% of your diet consists of alcohol too?   It gnaws into your psyche and you start to obsess: “If I am what I eat, alcohol comprises 1/3 of my being!”  Looking in the mirror you take inventory: your bloated alcoholic neck, your sagging face, the bags around your eyes, and your decaying muscles, only to realize that alcohol is killing you.  ”It has to stop!” you keep telling yourself.  But how?  AA is for whiny losers who call at all hours of the night and day only to parrot their platitudes, and blow your cover.  And anyway, you can’t even take step 1.  And you’d sooner die of cirrhosis than take Steps 2 and 3.

And so it went for me.  I tried to “moderate.”  I moved to an isolated part of Los Angeles, deep in the Santa Monica mountains, far enough away from any bar or liquor store that I’d have to drive a dangerous road to get to.  And I made a rule that I would only bring to my house what I bought sober.  That worked most of the time but it was painful.  After the beer ran out, I was left craving more but forced myself to go to sleep.  And soon, the old habits started sneaking back;  I’d stop by the bar on the way home from work, have a couple beers with dinner, and then buy what I needed for home so the buzz would be more intense.   And then there were people who would ask “Why are you living so far away from everything?”  To which I would meekly reply “well, I like mountains.”

Also there were the rare times when I’d actually want to do something social instead of drinking by myself.  Like the time I met this charming film director and she invited me to her party at her bungalow.  I promised myself I wouldn’t drink but there was a table full of free booze and wine and I succumbed.  I made such a fool of myself in front of all these cool people.  The film director seemed to understand and suggested that perhaps I am not the type who should drink.  ”But I don’t want to go to AA,” I drunkenly lamented.   She gave me a knowing look and said “There are other options.  There’s a group in Beverly Hills that approaches this problem rationally.  As a scientist you should appreciate that.”  So that planted the seed in my head; I don’t have to go to AA to fix this.   I thought this over as I staggered down Lincoln Boulevard, looking for a cheap hotel to stay in Venice.  Luckily, I found one.  But I was sick for 3 days after that.

I was too embarrassed to ask the director exactly what she was talking about but the idea of finding an alternate group started to grow in my head.  In retrospect, it seems obvious that AA is not the only answer and I am sure I knew that.  Yet I postponed the idea of quitting: never drinking again was too painful a concept to grasp.  I attempted to moderate some more but with little success.  In fact, I was starting to become dangerous.  I found myself in the habit of ditching work on Friday afternoons, hitting the gym, going to a bar,  pounding down several drinks in solitude and then going to see a movie to sober up.   Except I wasn’t exactly sober after the movie ended, driving home was dicey, and  picking up some beer on the way home made it worse.  I was very disgusted with myself.

I am not exactly sure how I found it, but one day I started reading Sum Zero’s blog.  I could identify with this guy: an academic type with a good job, living in a big city with a drinking problem.  I spent a day just reading all of his entries and decided that I should try this SMART recovery program.  Their website is very unappealing at first glance, but his entries made the methodology come alive for me.  So, with some consternation, I forced myself to admit that alcohol is the biggest problem in my life, and if I can’t find 2 hours to attend a meeting that could fix it, then I’m truly pathetic.  And off to my first SMART meeting I went.

The people there were very friendly and helpful.  One challenged me to quit for 90 days and see how I felt.  Another told me upon learning that I am a computer programmer by trade to “reprogram my life without alcohol.”  If I had said I was a writer he undoubtedly would have said “cut alcohol from the story.”  Or if I had said I was a mathematician he might have said “Take alcohol out of the equation.”  So I made a plan to rebalance my life without alcohol.   I would stay away from any triggers, driving a different way home to watch all 5 seasons of Lost on Netflix streaming at night, instead of going to my favorite restaurant/bar. I would count the days.  And I would work the ABCs to cope with the urges.  Further, I had to set goals and find replacements for alcohol.   I decided to train for a marathon.  And as the morning hangovers were replaced with morning runs on the beach in Malibu, I realized that life without alcohol is far more enjoyable.  (The running also kept the post acute withdrawal syndrome under control.)

I kept going to meetings once a week for 6 months.  And they helped keep me on track with certain issues.  The biggest issue  I had was that alcohol is a big part of my family life, unfortunately.  My uncle has a sign in his kitchen that says “Never trust a man who doesn’t drink.”  So when I went home, I was instructed by my SMART facilitator to behave like a objective observer when everyone else was drinking.  And I found I could do that; nobody wanted to talk to me anyway; they were more into their wine.  Luckily I had my two young nephews to distract me and I could entertain them when everyone else was drunk.   I felt like a kid again around the drunk grownups.  Nobody in my family said anything about my not drinking and that was quite a relief.

Another problem I have is is with airports.  I love getting loaded in the airport bar and having a couple vodkas on the flight.  Really, it’s the only way to fly.  I still have to fight those urges intensely.  I tend to schedule my flights early in the morning to avoid temptation.  They also taught me to choreograph the trip in advance, and eat at an airport restaurant rather than stop at a bar.

Finally, the SMART meetings helped because I did not want to admit to the regulars in the group that I had slipped; so I didn’t slip.

In a few days, I will celebrate my one year of sobriety by running the Santa Barbara marathon.  As much as I miss the buzz, I am much happier without it in my life.  The risks and consequences far exceed any joys.  My friends accept the new sober me and I find that I can relate to them better now that I can devote more brainpower to the conversation.  They actually seek my advice rather than a partner to get loaded with.  And they invite me to more events because they know they don’t have to put up with an obnoxious drunk.  Honestly, quitting was the best decision I’ve made in quite a while.  I’m not looking back.

Cheers!ITSB

9 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , | posted in Alcohol, D.R.I.N.K.E.R., Functional Alcoholics Slurperson (FASe), Guest post

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