Your Biggest Bender

There was a semester all I did was smoke pot.
I went to class baked, talked to advisors baked, all of it.
It was one of my better performing terms but the courses were writing intensive.

 

I've wanted to walk certain streets in different cities and have a drink at every bar. Dorchester Ave in Boston and 55th Street in Chicago were a couple I've had in mind.

 

The Dot Ave bars have lost a lot of that edge. Blame the kids who can’t afford to live in Southie and are driving up rents in Dot.

A friend does Burning Man on the regular and, oh, the stories — and a lot of them aren’t drug/booze influenced.

And I know this probably is an unpopular opinion, but I don’t know if making out while in a relationship is all that bad. Now, once things progress ...

 

I don't even know where to start.
I've got a lot of drug and alcohol stories.

 

Well, I mean, a bet is a bet.

 

One of the many things I'm having to reckon with, growing older—like, in the last few weeks, I've reached the stage where I'm the guy who needs a light to see the menu, and that's fucking brutal—is my alcohol tolerance seems to be decreasing, not increasing. I went out for dinner with some colleagues the other night, and I had five Old Fashioneds, along with my meal. Now, it was a strong Old Fashioned, and I did have five of them, but I was totally facked. That should have been a nice buzz, and it would have been a few years ago. Instead I entered the "Now I'm going to tell some stories that will make you glad you're you and not me" phase of the evening, which normally doesn't come till midnight.

 

five Old Fashions with a meal? See, I can't do that. If I'm drinking or partying, I am not eating. Or if I am, it's like a bowl of soup and some bread. I've often thought that if I wanted to quit boozing, the key for me would be to prepare and eat a rather large dinner each night right when I get home from work. I lose all interest in drinking on a full stomach.

I'm not the type who unwinds with a drink or two. I'm having half a bottle of something or not drinking at all. And yes, I realize that's not good. But I can go five, six days without a drink or a smoke, then smoke half a pack and whack back half a bottle of scotch. It's like I'm shot out of a cannon.

 

Well, I had a couple with dinner and then a few more after dinner. It was a meal that turned into an "evening out." But I can eat and drink at the same time, absolutely. Drinking for me is a social thing. I never drink at home alone. I can't even remember the last time I had a beer just sitting at home. But if I go out, I can turn my body into a Dumpster. I think I'm a little like you—zero or sixty. The difference is, food is part of my sixty a lot of the time.

 

In 1980, we went to Ockoberfest, the real one in Munich. Started in London. This story revolves around the day going from London to Amsterdam.
6 a.m. train from King's Cross to the coast. About 2 hours, beers for breakfast.
Got to the coast, Harwich, I believe, to board a ferry boat across the channel to Holland. About a 6-hour cruise. Beers for brunch AND lunch.
Landed at Hoek van Holland, board a train for Amsterdam. About a 3-hour trip, beers, yeah.
It was the middle of the evening when he got to where we were staying. Somebody said, "Are we gonna go crash?" Answer: "Hell no, we didn't come here to sleep."
Hit the party zone. Went the distance until closing time at 4 a.m.
I'm sure I hit the 36-mark on beers, a good case and a half.
GOOOOOD beer. No hangover. Score!!
Oh yeah, we did this ON THE WAY to Oktoberfest. Munich is a whole other story.

 

Eating while drinking is impossible for Ye Olde Chef.
Went to a bud's house and tied one on some time ago. Get home, and I'm famished.
I think I cooked half a dozen eggs, put some black or kidney beans in with it......found some tortillas, put everything in the tortillas with a bag of sharp cheddar, some hot sauce and some sour cream and had myself a son-of-a-bitchin feast.
Wife woke up the next morning to the carnage that had become of her kitchen, and just chuckled saying "What in the hell?"

 

I have a friend who shall remain nameless. Whenever we're on the road, we go out, he gets back to the hotel at 4 AM, and he promptly places a ridiculous order for room service—"I want—no, I need—a rainbow trout with lemon in its mouth, four biscuits with extra gravy, a dozen soft-scrambled eggs, and a pot of coffee"—and then promptly passes out face down on the floor.