I love drinking in Denver, and have always believed that this city has produced some of America’s foremost drinkers. I mean, you don’t get voted “Drunkest City in America” three times unless people around here have their sozzled shit wired tight. But something weird and foul has reared its odious little head in my town. And not only in my town, but right on Colfax Ave., no less—one of the country’s last bastions of dizzy debauchery; of free-wheeling and fuddled fun.
I won’t name bar in question (mostly because, for reasons that needn’t be rehashed here, I hate them and they hate me) other than to say it pretends to be an Irish pub, and this: it sponsors a running club.
Yes, a running club.
And not one of those cool sort of clubs where you stop every mile or two and shotgun a beer. No, this is an honest-to-Bruce-fucking-Jenner club for people who jog. Just jog; without shame, without fear, and, apparently, without so much as a jot or a tittle of booze. They pop inside the bar for water. Water! And on top of that, they have T-shirts. For real. T-shirts that say “The Blah-Blah Running Cub” or something equally daffy, with a little logo to round out the whole Up With People atmosphere.
What the hell is this? I mean it simply makes no sense. It’s non-Euclidian. It’s like AA sponsoring a shot luge, or the Southern Baptist Convention getting behind “Harvey Milk Day.” The words “running” and “bar” don’t even belong in the same sentence (other than this one, I guess). Bars sponsor darts leagues, pool tournaments, trivia contests, karaoke, motorcycle rallies, and that kind of thing. Gyms sponsor running clubs. I was bitching about this the other night and a guy said my thinking was too conventional. Maybe so, but look at it this way. Do you go to the zoo to see the critters, or to play golf? Do you visit a brothel to rent some rumble-tumble, or play Skeeball?
And another thing: jogging is just stupid all on its lonesome. Running just to run? That’s what hamsters do, and they have a brain roughly the size of a sunflower seed. You ever take a good look at a jogger? They look fucking miserable, man. Loping along, soaked in sweat, with this face like they just swallowed a maggoty turd. And the really serious runners, the marathoners, the 20-mile-a-day dingbats, they barely look like people anymore, with their ropey arms and legs, and their skin baked to that splendid shade of melanoma brown. They look like beef jerky in track shoes.
Who would do such a thing on purpose? I’m running, there had better be a pile of gold or a hot willing lady in front of me, or something with a gun and fangs and a snotty fucking attitude behind. Otherwise, let’s play basketball, or run from a herd of cranky bulls, or make it to the liquor store before it closes. Then, at least, you’re expending lots of energy for a demonstrable purpose.
Now, I realize that, with the economy the way it is, a bar has to address its attractions to stay in the long green, but damn. A bar sponsoring a running club is an affront against the gods. At least the ones who have taken any interest in my wobbly world. I plan to park my truck along one of their jogging routes with several cases of beer on ice. I dunno, just to fuck with ‘em, I guess.
I spend an appreciable amount of time in bars. They are my favorites spots to do research and write rough drafts. Bar life is conducive to creativity. Just ask Hemmingway, Dorothy Parker or P.G. Wodehouse (think Cuba Libres, Orange Blossoms & Jeeve’s no-fail hangover tonic). So, yes, I’m the weirdo on the end-most stool by the wall hunkered over a book and scribbling in a notepad. Nothing too remarkable I don’t think. Just doing my thing and minding my business.
Which is usually about the time my Freak Magnate kicks in.
If there’s a Freak in the room, he or she will seek me out; drawn to me like a June bug to the inviting blue glow of an electric insect zapper. They come in many shapes and sizes, but over the years I’ve come up with three main groups: Distractions, Annoyances, and Brain-Cookers.
The Distraction category is populated mostly by talkers. Friendly enough folks who just want to chat away a minute or two with the guy on the next stool. But they do not in any way notice that the guy on the next stool is immersed in a book, and even if they did the knowledge probably wouldn’t cause them even a moment’s hesitation. On more than one occasion I’ve realized that someone has been talking to me for a fair few minutes or longer, apparently unconcerned by the fact that I’ve been utterly unresponsive, and when I finally do pry myself away from my studies the first words out of their mouths are usually along the lines of, “Sorry to bother you while you’re reading.” And then they go right on with their monologue. I usually nod a bit, maybe participate for a minute or two, then go back to work, or tell them I have to get back to work, which sends them in search of other conversation partners. These are not bad people. Quite the opposite, more often than not. They just need a little polish in the manners department.
People in the Annoyance gang are similar to Distractions, but with even less well-refined social skills. At worst, they are semi-literate hillbillies who insist upon knowing what I’m reading and then, when I tell them, get pissed off because, A.) they haven’t heard of it; B.) it sounds faggy; or C.) because the last time they undertook the same activity it resulted only in a grammar-mutilating squabble as to the veracity, indeed physicality, of the lead letter in last month’s Penthouse Forum. It’s important to keep an eye on this bunch, as they are unpredictable and whiskey sometimes makes them volatile. If they conclude that they are being humored or ignored, they can get snarky, and some will even try to stomp on things they find confusing or intellectually threatening. Buying them a shot, however, is usually enough to end the hostilities. Anyone who buys a stranger a drink can’t be entirely queer, book-nerd or not.
And then there are the Brain-Cookers. They are very rare, thankfully, but because they are so diabolically random and strange they can by-God shove a stick through the spokes of a perfectly pleasant afternoon ride. By way of illustrating the exact nature of the Brain-Cooker psyche, take the following brief transcript of an actual conversation that took place between me and a truly surreal example of the species.
I was sitting at a table in one of my usual hangouts, collecting facts for a book I’ve been working on; notebook open; a pint of beer and a glass of bourbon within easy reach. All at once I became aware of a hovering presence and, looking up, found it to be a rather nondescript chick with red hair, holding a beer in both hands as if she was about to conduct some sort of religious rite.
Brain-Cooker (BC): Can I sit at your table?
It was about 3:30 in the afternoon. There were maybe five people in the place. She had her pick of open tables and bar stools. But I elected, for whatever reason, not to be rude, and gestured at a chair.
ME: Sure.
BC: Cool. Thanks.
ME: Hope you don’t mind if I keep working.
BC: I won’t bother you. Just need to sit for a few minutes.
ME: Knock yourself out.
She plopped onto a chair across from me and let out a massive sigh. Glancing up I saw she was frowning fit to beat the band, alternating between sips of beer and gnawing on the cuticle of her thumb. She kept tossing her hair, too. Sigh, gnaw/sip, toss.Sigh, gnaw/sip, toss. Steady as a metronome. It was obvious she wanted me to ask what was bugging her, and I withstood the urge to comply for as long as I could, but eventually caved.
ME: Crappy day?
BC: Fuck yeah. Just broke up with my boyfriend.
ME: Just now?
BC: Yeah, like ten minutes ago.
ME: That sucks.
BC: I dunno. Fuck him.
ME: There you go. Getting better already.
BC: He don’t know what he let go.
ME: They never do.
BC: He’ll never find another me.
ME: Of course not.
BC: Never. Not the shit I can do.
ME: Nope. He probably deserves it, though, right?
BC: Fuck yeah. Never find another me.
ME: So you said.
She tipped the glass to her lips and drank off about two thirds of its contents.
BC: Cuz I’ll do anything, man. Anything.
ME: Oh, yes?
BC: Any-fucking-thing, dude. Swear to God.
ME: I’m sure.
BC: And he’s gonna miss it.
ME: Of course.
BC: Miss the shit out of it.
ME: No doubt.
BC: Cuz you can do it. You can cum on my face. Fuck me in the ass.
ME: Uh…
BC: Have yer friends over and watch while they have a turn. Fuckin anything.
She suddenly sprang to her feet, downed the last of her beer, and slammed the glass on the table, sloshing my drinks all over.
BC: I gotta go. See ya.
And she scurried from the bar without another word.
I stared into space for a few long ticks, wondering if I’d hallucinated the scary mutant and her whole twisted rap, then realized it was just my Freak Magnate operating at peak performance. I tried to get back to work, but she’d cooked a hole in my brain that wouldn’t close. So I closed up shop, dragged my stuff over to the bar, ordered a double Maker’s, and dialed up some Ramones on the juke.
Serious drinkers are a curiosity-seeking, educated lot. We like to know what others are sipping, not (usually) to aid in our passing judgment on them, but for the much simpler reason that it’s fun. Plus, we might never have encountered that particular cocktail, which means it needs to be sampled and appended to our synaptic drinks databases. This doesn’t happen very often, though, because most of us drinkers know our mixology, even for those beverages we don’t regularly requisition. Sadly, we sometimes encounter a bartender who is foggy on the specifics of our desired tipple. Arriving at this crossroads we have two options. One, we can simplify our order (while grumbling inwardly about the speed at which American cocktail culture is careening toward the Abyss), or Two, we can suck it up and help the bartender along. Generally, I don’t object to walking an uninformed bartender through the basics of my desired drink. If nothing else, my assistance goes a long way toward ensuring I get what I’m thirsty for. And besides, most bartenders don’t mind a little schooling, as there is a direct correlation between a broad knowledge base and increased gratuities.
The upshot is this: accomplished drunks should always encourage others to guzzle liberally from our reservoirs of tipsy erudition. Desire and accomplishment are two very different things, however, which can make disseminating intelligence to the disadvantaged farmore disquieting and wearisome than it ought to be.
To wit: a brace of true stories, recorded here with as much fidelity as I can manage. I was half (okay, three-quarters) in the bag on both occasions, and even when stone sober my short-term memory rivals that of the fruit fly. All I can say is I did my best.
True Tale #1
A week or so ago I was in a liquor store picking up a few bottles of liquid restorative, and found myself third in line to pay. The clerk was busy with the woman at the head of the queue (who seemed not to grasp the concept of sales tax), so, thinking to kill a minute or two, I gestured at the middle guy’s stuff—a twelver of MGD, a handle of Stoli, and some Rose’s lime juice—and said, “Well, that ought a get you through tonight, anyhow.” The guy chuckled and allowed that he’d had a crappy day. The remainder of our tête-à-tête went roughly as follows.
ME: That sucks. Good thing you have drinks to look forward to.
GUY: Yup. Gonna have Manhattans. ‘Bout twenty of ‘em.
Nodding appreciatively, I took another quick gander at his purchases.
ME: Manhattans and some vodka-tonics, too, maybe.
GUY: Nah. I hate vodka-tonics. Stoli’s only for my Manhattans.
And thus, a crossroads. He seemed to be an amiable enough fellow, though, so I forged ahead, donning a polite smile.
ME: Isn’t a Manhattan made with rye or bourbon?
GUY: Huh-uh. Vodka.
ME: I don’t think so… A Manhattan is rye, either sweet or dry vermouth and a splash of bitters.
GUY: (with a look that suggested his willingness to take pity on me.) You’re wrong there. Trust me. I’ve been drinking Manhattans a long time.
ME: No doubt. But—
At that moment the clerk finished with the commerce-challenged lady and motioned for my new buddy to step right up. He spun away from me and fiddled with his wallet while the clerk rang him up, at which point he handed over a credit card, applied his autograph to the slip, and gathered his purchases. He paused at the door, staring at me, wearing a little smirk.
GUY: You should buy a Mr. Boston or somethin’.
ME: Why? I already know how to make a Manhattan.
GUY: (his smirk faltering) I was a bartender for almost three years.
ME: Further proof that longevity and skill don’t always go together.
GUY: Hey, go fuck yourself you fat fuck! Fuck you!
And he vaulted through the door and out of my life. I watched the space where he had been for a moment, then realized the clerk was looking at me.
CLERK: That guy’s a fool. I don’t know what he’s gonna drink, but it sure ain’t no Manhattan.
ME: Think I should a kept my mouth shut?
CLERK: Hell no. Bet’cha he goes home and Googles “Manhattans.”
ME: (laughing) We can only hope…
And, with that, I went about my business.
True Tale #2
The events which comprise my second story took place in a bar, three or four nights ago. It was about ten o’clock and the evening had been quite kind to me and my two companions. The sauce, as they say, was flowing. Most of the customers were sitting at tables, so we had the oak largely to ourselves.
An argument could have been made, however, that the dude sitting alone around the bend from us exuded enough smug self-satisfaction that he had to warehouse his ego on a second stool all its own. This particular bar is a neighborhood watering hole; unpretentious and friendly, and Ego-Man wasn’t a regular, a fact made all the more palpable by his choice of costuming. He was upholstered in a charcoal suit and white dress shirt, open to the middle of his chest. A thick gold chain hung around his neck and another broadcasted its 24-carat opulence from his right wrist. His hair was shellacked in place, sturdy enough, by all appearances, to withstand anything Mother Nature cared to hurl at it. So, yes, he looked more than a touch out of place. To his credit, however, he was knocking back cocktails with commendable ardor, though solely, it seemed, in an effort to ensure frequent return trips by the fetching lady bartender.
Quite out of the blue, one of my pals (call him Pal #2) announced his intention to buy the suited fellow a drink—because “I like his shoes.” He caught the bartender’s attention, and publicized his objective. Ms. Bartender surreptitiously shook her head and leaned forward, saying, “You don’t want to do that. His drinks are, like, twelve bucks each.”
To say we were flabbergasted would be nothing less than a flat statement of fact.
PAL #1: Twelve dollars! No way.
PAL #2: What, they come with a blessing from the Pope?
ME: Weird, man. He come in here a lot?
MS. BARTENDER: Never seen him before now.
ME: What’s he drinking?
MS. BARTENDER: Johnny Walker Blue and Diet Coke.
A silence settled briefly over our little quartet, as Ms. Bartender nodded and the rest of us struggled to get a handle on what she’d just alleged. Johnny Walker Blue Label retails for something like $200 a bottle. It’s a glorious sipping whiskey that demands to be consumed in elegant surroundings and with a certain sense of occasion. Sloshing it into a tumbler and inundating it with Diet-Fucking-Coke is like entering a cherried-out ‘65 Jag in a Demolition Derby. The only possible reason to treat it so poorly is to attract attention to oneself, or, more to the point, to one’s credit rating. But Jesus! If that’s your intention you have leaped way, WAY beyond run-of-the-mill egomania and sculpted yourself a world-view that, strictly adhered to, must surely lead to a prolonged detention in the Nurse Ratched Wing of one of our gloomier mental health facilities.
PAL #2: I’m not buying him shit.
PAL #1: Used-car-salesman lookin’ douchebag.
MS. BARTENDER: Shhhh. He can hear you.
PAL #1: So fuckin’ what.
I sneaked a look, and sure as shootin’, the dude was giving us a blast of the ol’ stink-eye. I lifted my head in greeting. He did not reciprocate. But I took another crack at it, anyway.
ME: What’cha drinking, brother?
HIM: Don’t worry, guy. You can’t afford ‘em.
Well, golly. What a prick.
PAL #2: (louder than called for) So it’s true?
HIM: What’s that?
PAL #2: Blue Label and Diet Coke?
HIM: Fuckin’-A.
PAL #1: But yer fuckin’ it up, man. Yer gonna mix whiskey, buy cheap shit.
ME: For real, brother. You add Coke or whatever, the base doesn’t really matter anymore.
HIM: Matters to me.
ME: Why?
The guy helped himself to a deep breath and spent a few ticks studying each of us, roots to leaves.
HIM: I’m successful and I want to enjoy it. Guys like you, you wouldn’t get it. You gotta dosomething with your life before the luxuries start meaning anything. Guys like you, a new tube a tooth paste is a big deal, yeah?
Another silence settled around us. This one, though, quivered, you might say, with several different kinds of free-floating emotion. For my part, I was wondering how many slaps it might take to displace elements of the guy’s haircut, a question that would ultimately go unanswered due to the intervention of Ms. Bartender. She spoke quietly to her customer at some length, during which the infuriating smirk left his face and his eyes began darting from Ms. Bartender, over to us, and back again to Ms. Bartender, in a little cycle, as if he were watching a very compact game of ping-pong. At the end of Ms. Bartender’s monologue the guy groped for his billfold, slapped some paper money on the bar, and hit the bricks without a backward glance. Ms. Bartender collected the cash and went to the register.
ME: What did you say?
MS. BARTENDER: (shrugging) Nothin’ much. It was time for him to go anyway.
ME: Seriously. What?
MS. BARTENDER: Let it go.
She grinned at me. I grinned back.
PAL #2: Heh. Sure, he’s successful and all—
PAL #1: A successful fucking twat.
PAL #2: —but at least we don’t cut and run.
ME: And we know how to treat good hooch.
PAL #1: Damn right.
PAL #2: What a tool.
And from there, our conversation trekked off in other directions.
So. Two true stories which, I hope, illustrate the fact that it is incumbent upon seasoned drinkers to correct misapprehensions and confer knowledge. If it is sometimes a less than cheery duty, so be it. And when our words fall on deaf ears? So what. Fuck ‘em.
Drinkers in the United States have been indulging their inebriatory habits for hundreds of years; since before there were States to indulge them in, in fact. In the beginning, they did their wrist-raising with uncomplicated gusto and a formidable immunity to guilt or shame. But then, in 1919, the Volstead Act put American drinkers on notice that their wobbly predilections were no longer going to be tolerated by “polite society,” here taken to mean “a well-organized, politically connected minority of squinty-eyed teetotalers who had the astonishing nerve to assume they could dictate behavior to the general public.” Prohibition was eventually overturned, but the anti-alcohol mindset that forced it down the nation’s throat, persisted, like a smoldering tumor, and continues to exert its share of influence today, so that even though Americans are purchasing booze in record amounts and bar-stooling with most of their traditional verve, our merrymaking is colored by the murmuring voice of self analysis:
Yes, you are drinking, whispers the voice. Yes, you are whooping it up at the saloon, kegger, ballgame, but beware. Don’t have too much fun. Be responsible. Drink,but don’t enjoy it. And when you tell your friends Monday morning about your weekend bacchanal, be sure to focus on your hangover first, and not the fact that you had a really good time. Make sure they see that you were amply punished for your transgression. Otherwise, they might wonder what is wrong in your life that you have to compensate for it by getting drunk—and you don’t want to be the subject of gossip, do you?
The Walk of Shame? It’s more about Tanqueray than Trojans.
Around thirty years ago Americans became the targets of what has swollen into a deluge of anti-alcohol propaganda. For teenagers, M.A.D.D. mothers and other professional fretters warn parents (without citing any proof, of course) that alcohol “effects kids differently” than adults, while our tax dollars fund organizations that demand we “D.A.R.E.” to keep kids sober, and instruct them to “Just say nada mas.” Breweries and distilleries are required by law to spend millions every year broadcasting the dangers posed by their products. In liquor commercials it is against FCC regulations to depict people actually drinking the advertised beverage. Movies now receive “R” ratings from the MPAA for “scenes of teen drinking” (yet they can shoot, stab and otherwise assault one other and still get a “PG-13”). Parents who escaped unharmed from their own under-age boozing, and now feel it would be just a tad duplicitous to berate their kids about it, there are ads explaining that not only is it acceptable for them to act hypocritically, it is vital that they do so.
Shit. Let’s just pack our kids in Styrofoam at birth.
The wiser course of action would be, of course, a well-thought-out illumination of the facts about booze. Don’t scare the kids. Teach them. (Our society already has quite enough taboos as it is.) If they know the true scoop they will be more likely to make good choices. They’ll will become aware of their limits, and come to understand all the fine and friendly things alcohol has to offer. Insulating teenagers from the realities of adult life only leaves them unprepared to handle them…well…like adults.
Next time the news blares a story about some hapless waif who, at the ripe old age of 19, fell into an alcohol-induced coma after drinking 20 shots of Stoli raspberry, please remember: it wasn’t the alcohol’s fault. Our whole benighted culture is to blame.
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