The Hot Rod Unloads: My Last Drunken Night

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’.

How i Was Spent My XXX-Mas Vacation 2010 – DAY 1

[Press ‘Play’ for a song from the juiced box that really has that vacation flavor. Sublime – 40 Oz. To Freedom]

Most of y’all do not know it, but i’m tending bar in a hole away from hole for this holiday season. My kids and i are staying with Old Grand Dad & Sea Grams (my mother and father). i hope to get some tending to the Bar None done while i’m away but can’t make any promises.

What i’ll try to do is keep y’all posted on what may be my Last Mind Bender for awhile, as i plan to go on the wagon starting January next year. These then are the dregs of my Last Brew-haha.

First off, on the plane, i had two glasses of wine, 1 of each color. Fortunately for all involved, i had to pay for the wine (even though it was a trans-atlantic flight) and my cards didn’t work and i only had enough cash for what you see in the picture. This prevented a repeat of last year’s Business Class fiasco which was a good thing because this time i didn’t have Miss Demeanor to babysit me.

Then, 22 hours later, my folks had cold Bud (or 3) waiting for me.

Budweiser Sunrise

Total Damage:

  • Two glasses of wine on the plane: 1 of each color
  • 2-3 cans of Budweiser

Drink Mating: My Heart Is Thirsty

Here’s the freakin’ idea of the Century. Internet dating through empties. You buy a bottle of cheap wine (which is called “Soif de Coeur”, or “Thirsty Heart” in French) and drink at least ¾s of it to find a secret code inside, at the bottom of the back label.

The Code Is The Smudge At The Bottom Of The Back Label

After you’re sufficiently buzzed, you try to decipher the illegible scrawl through the warped glass. Think of it as a drunk test. Then you surf onto the A Thirst For Romance website, where another drunk test awaits ’cause you have to enter your code.

After that, you have to do things like remember your name and birthdate. And what language you speak (which is trickier than it seems, as “drunk” isn’t one of the options).

Then, all you do is sit back and wait for someone who also drinks cheap wine and looks for romance in the bottom of empty bottles.

As you can see, my soul mate is on his/her way. i just hope he/she isn’t driving to get here.

i’ll keep you posted.

[AlKHallism: Just in case you’re wondering, Miss Demeanor is fully aware of this experiment and does not feel threatened by anything the dregs of the net could throw up at me.]

The Booze Talkin': An Exclusive Interview With My Mom

‘Member how in the last Dregs Of The Weeks i said:

On a more somber note, my Mom is coming tomorrow and you know what that means. i’m gonna spend one week drinking with her so i won’t have time to post much of anything for a while.

And ‘member how you thought i was kidding? Well, she and i have been drinking pretty regularly since she got here, her with her white wine and me with my red, to the point that the first night she was here i told her about The Bar None and y’all.

Now, one of the main reasons i keep my identity secret (other than the fact i’m a superhero) is so that my folks don’t find out about this place because The Bar None is where i come to be myself and talk about my problem without worrying about shocking those who love me. Anyway, i told her about how i’m writing this blog to deal with my alcohol problem and also to entertain you patronizers.

Long story shorter, we were both a little buzzed last night and i asked her to do an interview for this Diary-a Of A Chronicle Drinker, to which she agreed on the condition that she remain anonymous as well. (See? We’re a family of freakin’ super-heroes…) So here’s the impromptu drunken interview, the only problem being i didn’t write down the questions, just her answers. Good luck with that…

  • THEY LOVE ME (my Mom & Dad)
  • She drank a bottle of Chardonnay before the interview
  • She believes there’s a 100% genetic predisposition to to alcoholism, but will power can fight it
  • Her dad drank 7&7s, we grandkids could make them for him by the time we were 15
  • Her mother drank Harvey Bristol Cream sherry [which i learned is not a skin care product]
  • My dad’s dad was a skid row drunk (which is why my dad worries about me)
  • My sister drinks 1-2 glasses of wine nightly
  • On a scale of 1-10, they worry a “7” about my drinking because i have the will power to stop
  • My expresso (ex-wife) told my parents she left me because of my drinking
  • She (my mother) drinks for relaxation
  • My father drinks 1 martini a night out of ritual
  • My mother saw her parents drunk, but only when she was an adult
  • She wants everyone to know her parents were optimistic, accepting and positive
  • You have to lose a lot of life to recognize there’s a problem.” [emphasis is mine]

And there you have it. Hope at least some of it makes sense.

[A PS to Miss Demeanor should she read this: Babe, i realize that my relationship with my family in general and my mom specifically is dysfunctional in many ways. i pro’lly didn’t go into enough detail here about how the links between my drinking and my family’s and how one possible reason for my alcoholism is to justify that of my ancestors. i also didn’t examine what this could mean for my kids, who see their grandmother and father getting buzzed together. Even if i didn’t talk about all this, i do realize it’s there and i do think about it. i guess i’m asking you to go easy in your comments. But if you wanna talk about it, i’ll be the guy beside you in bed.]

Phone Photo Blog: A Typical Day

Before we get started, here’s a tune from the juiced-box:

Nora Jones covering Willie Nelson’s “I Gotta Get Drunk”:

[Press ‘Play’ to feel the buzz]

Just Typical

As all y’all have been following my Twitter page religiously, you’ve noticed that last Friday’s binge (here’s the blog i posted while buzzing so loud i couldn’t hear myself drink) threw me into a depression hangover tail spin that i’m only now just recovering from. Rather turning into the skid mark, as recommended by 3 out of 4 Drinkers Education Teachers, i’ve decided to hop onto the wagon for a limited bad trip. The goal i’ve set myself is to stay dry until the day after Christmas. Don’t worry, i’ll be boring you to beers with regular updates on my progress/regression (depends what end of the bottle you’re on).

It’s not easy, as anyone who’s tried can tell you. One of the tough things about not imbibing are the constant reminders i come across in a typical day. It’s kinda like the dumped guy who walks around seeing the face of the girl who broke his heart in everything he sees.

Here’s what i mean…

What i See In The Newspaper

How To Snort Wine

Billboards

On The Street

When One Hour Isn't Enough

A Reminder Of One i Coulda Had

Reminders Of Ones i Coulda Had

Yeawomen

[For a definition of ‘Yeawomen’ check out AlKHall-hics: A Glossary]

It's A Well Known Fact Yeawomen Have Nice Butts (i think even Wiki says so)

Yeawomen Are Sexy When They Drink Alone

On Top Of It All Off…

…tonight there was a retirement party for a guy at work and the champagne was all-you-can-drink. i had an orange juice. That i picked the wrong week to go for a couple stops on the wagon is kinda the point of this post. Any and every week is the wrong week.

How i Was Spent My Summer Vacation: Days 14 & 15

Day 14

Day 14

The only exceptional day today was that i spread out my 6 glasses between noon and 10pm. Almost like a real, normal person.

Drink Log

  • 4 Bud Lights
  • 2 glasses of ‘Red’ wine

Day 15

Day 15

i fished this morning with Ol’ Grand-dad (blog slang for my dad). Yes, fished. i’m allergic to exercise, it makes me breathe hard, sweat and my heart beat faster. If i were drinking something and i had that reaction, you’d tell me to stop immediately, right? So it is with exercise, or ‘exer’ as it should be called because it’s a four letter word. The only sports i like are the ones you can drink during: bowling, darts, pétanque (don’t ask), croquet, and fishing.

So anyway, there i was fishing with my Ol’ Grand-dad and he asked me where i was with alcohol. My drinking isn’t a secret from anybody, so it was kinda normal he’d ask. i told him that i was keeping it under control, that i was worried about it but the fact i was worried meant i was on top of it. He said he was happy about  that. He reminded me that Sea Gram’s (more blog slang, this time for my mom–you know, Ol’ Grand-dad and Sea Gram) father was a heavy drinker and that his own father was ‘a skid row bum’. He can never really say that without getting choked up.

After this, we went to the only store within 15 minutes of Camp David (Hasselhoff) and he bought me a six pack of Blue Labes (Labatts Blue). (It cost $13–hell, when you’re the only store in the middle of nowhere you get to name your price.)

After four of those i invented, with Sea Gram’s help, a Pour Man’s Amaretto Sour.

(Click on the picture for the recipe)

(Click on the picture for the recipe)

Drink Log

  • 4 Labatts Blue
  • 2 Pour Man’s Amaretto Sour
  • 2 ‘Dry White’ wines