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It’s hard to invent a new drink. Bartenders have been bored into becoming mad chemists for years. These days, the standard thing to do is to mix some fancy crap with some vodka and call it a “blank-tini.” But that shouldn’t stop one from trying.

The other night, bored like many a bartender before, I invented a drink that someone else must have invented. But a cursory survey of the internet cocktail database has failed to reveal it. So allow me to introduce the Coked Up Tart.

Recipe:

In a tall rock glass with ice.

A shot of fresh lime juice.

A jigger of Jack Daniels.

Coke.

Pour into a shaker. Quickly pour out of the shaker and back into the glass, straining the ice.  Add more coke and more ice. Should have a slight froth. Garnish with a slice of lime.

And there you have it:  A Coked Up Tart. Ask for it by name.

I’ve tested the concoction on a Russian and a DJ, both to positive reviews.  But they’d probably drink Lysol if it had a lemon wedge.

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Is this man a mother?

Mothers Against Drunk Driving is at it again: Come August, if you are below 22, you will need a zero alcohol blood level to drive a car.

It’s unreasonable but not unexpected.  This is one of the very worst charities in existence.

MADD was founded by a decent woman with decent intentions.  Candy Lightner, whose daughter was killed by a drunk driver, set to work raising awareness about the issue and passing legislation about it.  She quit the organization in 1985, feeling that MADD had been hijacked and saying that the group had “ become far more neo-prohibitionist than I had ever wanted or envisioned … I didn’t start MADD to deal with alcohol. I started MADD to deal with the issue of drunk driving.”   This is a distinction that MADD seems incapable of making.

They recklessly inflate their statistics.  Notice that they talk about ‘alcohol related accidents.’  This is any accident that can be related to alcohol in any way.  Did you have a beer at lunch and a sober person ran a red light and crashed into you?  Did your passenger have a blood alcohol level higher than zero?  Was an empty beer can found in your car even though you had no alcohol in your system? According to MADD, these are alcohol related accidents.

Even for statistics, it’s corrupt.   I have not looked at the numbers for car crashes involving people below the age of 22 but I imagine that there are more accidents  in general -not just “alcohol related- than in older drivers.  Hence the insurance costs.

As far as fundraising goes, MADD just received a D (a scale from A to F ) from the watchdog organization, The American Institute of Philanthropy.  This was caused by its poor spending practices and lack of victim support.

“The AIP says while most charities spend $35 to to raise $100. MADD has spent nearly double that amount. It also says in recent years they have spent $30 million on salaries, leaving just one third of its budget for victim services.”

The American Beverage Institute (a restaurant trade organization)  agrees, saying that, in 2008 MADD spent almost $30 million on salaries, leaving just a third of its budget, or $15 million, for charitable work and victim services.  They add that:

“Ten to fifteen years ago, Mothers Against Drunk Driving really did shift their focus away from hardcore drunk drivers and targeting them, getting them off the road and policies that did that and going after social drinking of all kinds. They need to shift back, go back to basics.”

And they probably would get back to basics if they could.  Problem is, they’ve already achieved every single legislative goal they started with and quite a few that drove their founder straight into the arms of the liquor lobby.  Yet they’re still making laws.  No wonder.  They make a lot of money from doing so.

Now, while one should believe The American Institute of Philanthropy, one could sensibly point out that the American Beverage Institute has a vested interest in badmouthing MADD.  But if one is concerned with vested interests, they might also consider the one that MADD has.  They too are a multi-million dollar organization.  One that has a male CEO.  For those of you unfamiliar with biology, it is possible for a male to be against drunk driving but impossible for him to be a mother.  This matters because so much of MADD’s cache is based on “motherhood.”  Would you expect a group called Canadian Fathers for Change to be headed by an American woman?

For everyone involved,  MADD is a money making scheme.  They should have no place in forming the laws of this country.  That the media gives them respect, air time and acts as if MADD are serving the interests of the people, when they are simply serving the interests of a small, greedy and puritan group while taking advantage of their mostly well-intentioned but hopelessly naive donors, never fails to amaze me.   Then again, MADD does buy a lot of advertising.

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When I was  sixteen, Nan sat me on her lap and gave me some advice:  “Never trust a man who doesn’t drink, smoke or swear.” I can only imagine what she would think of bottled water.  The woman is still alive, of course, but I doubt she’s aware that anything other than booze or mix comes in a bottle.

If she did know about it, stopped swearing and cackling for a moment and I was lucky enough to catch her between calls to her bookie, she might sound a lot like this article.  Once she got over the surprise.

It seems that Americans drink more bottled water than beer. (My Nan believes that drinking anything weaker than whiskey is not actually drinking.)  Susan McWilliams puts forth an excellent argument that this phenomena is dangerous to life, liberty and the American Dream.  It’s symptomatic of a society leaving the pub and disappearing up its own arse.

Go read her article, I’ll wait for you after the jump.

I’m inclined to agree with her every point. Though I no longer drink, I do work with the stuff and strongly encourage the habit in others.  People who drink bottled water are almost always more unpleasant than those who drink beer.

Those who drink tea are the very worst.

This isn’t to glamorize drunkeness.  I do have to remove a fair amount of drunken assholes.  Earlier this very week I had to toss a fellow out who thought being an “Irish Alcoholic” was both an excuse and a point of pride.  (That’ll teach me to wear a green sweater.)  But even a drunken asshole is easier to handle (and knock out) than a tea-drinking prick.

All things be equal, I would much rather serve, hang out with and talk to a drunkard.  They’re fun and they think you’re better looking than you are.

Drunken assholes are usually just assholes who happen to be drunk.

But there does come a time when alcohol will make anyone start repeating themselves, talking shit and render even the nicest person as unbearable as they are incomprehensible.  But sober people reach that point too.

And quick.

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In a stunning scientific breakthrough, researchers have discovered a relationship between owning alcohol branded clothing and teenage drinking.  There’s not yet any word about what owning a bandanna covered in pot leaves may indicate.

But wearing a beer shirt does say something else about a young man.  It says:  “I have no imagination but a lot of brand loyalty.”

If you are going to drink –and I mean drink– it’s important to know how to dress while you do so.  Being properly attired can make your assholery charming, your  incomprehensible opinions understandable and, perhaps, even save you an overnight stay at your local drunk tank. So before you get loaded, get dressed.

After the jump, we’ll explore how to do that.

The Teenage Drunk

pic nicked from here

Too young to look respectable, these lightweights must find a a way to express themselves in such a way that explains their drunken behaviour while bracing spectators for what comes after the third vodka cooler.

For anyone below twenty, I recommend some sort of sub-cultural garb.  It doesn’t matter what.  Goth, hip-hop or hippie, it just needs to suit the sort of drunk they are.  Your behaviour should be blamed upon your personality rather than your drinking.  If you like to smash things, sport a mohawk.  If you talk a lot of shit about the universe and whatnot, try a peace pendant.

The Factory Worker

Looking like you just finished a hard day’s work will excuse all sorts of drunken misbehaviour.  You can say things like “I work hard and I play hard” and talk about blowing off steam.  Just hope that no one notices that it’s ten in the morning on a Tuesday.  If they do, tell them you work the night shift.

Father

This is a slightly more difficult act to pull off.  Some people disapprove of fathers being drunk.  Mainly when you remind them of their own father.  That is, the factory worker.  You need to be the ideal father.  So employ props.

Smoke a pipe and wear a cardigan.  Make sure to drink your beer or whiskey from the glass –never the bottle.  If people still object, print up a picture of the teenage drunk above and show it to them.  Say:  “That’s my son.  He’s artistic.”

The Priest

pic nicked from here

People just don’t fuck with it.

Author/Artist/Musician/Philosopher/Other Assorted Geniuses

pic nicked from here

You’ve been “writing” the same novel for fifteen years and your “art” is some sort of performance based, multidisciplinary bullshit.  This shouldn’t stop you from being the greatest writer since Hemingway and the finest artist since Picasso.

At least, not at the bar.

You must affect some sort of tortured expression while you pretend that your genius — not your girlfriend– has driven you to drink.  Wear black and cultivate a studied but unkempt air.  Should you be a writer/philosopher a tweed coat will serve you well.  Only attempt the beret with extreme caution.

While Hemingway was able to pull it off, he was also able to fight.  And write a book.  But that’s beside the point

The Cad

It should be noted that The Cad’s primary interest is not alcohol but emotionally vacant sex with women suffering from low self-esteem.  If a Cad wishes for their drunken advances to be met with giggles instead of slaps, they must cultivate a moustache.  Women with daddy issues love moustaches.

It also adds an element of humour to even the most lecherous proposition.  This increases your flirting capacity.

Aside from this, be well groomed, look as if you have money but be utterly devoid of ostentation.  Leave the tie at home.  You must appear very neat and clean but also casual and confident.  Pay great attention to your shoes.

The Rake

The rake is truly a prince amongst drunks and, perhaps, the most difficult of all looks/attitudes to pull off.  When executed well, it is impervious to everything that anyone can possibly throw at it.  Meeting every challenge with a raised eyebrow and a slurred oath, The Rake is up for anything, anywhere at any time.

Squander is the word that every rake must live by.  Born to wealth, influence and so many of the things other people strive after, they simply drink, gamble and piss it away. They are masters of booze.  It’s all they live for.

A rake enters each bar like a Victorian come to brutally civilize the savages and exits it after brutally savaging the civilized.

These self-destructive princes  are riding a rocket to rubby town but have a surprisingly long journey ahead.  To look the rake, you must appear that you have been on that rocket for a while.  To actually be one, you should have crashed it a few times.

A rake must look like they were immaculately attired.  A week ago.  Since then, they’ve been drunk.  Modern Drunkard puts it best when they say:

“This look is effected by dressing up, then dressing down. Put on your suit, then pull it apart. Pop the top button of your dress shirt and loosen the tie to the second button. Pomade your hair perfectly, then dishevel it. Insert a pint of whiskey in an outer jacket pocket and you’re William Powell in the midst of a five-day bender.”

One requires a flask, a suit and a good deal of panache.  A lawyer also helps.

The Rubby

If rakes are the princes of drunks, then rubbies are the kings.

Should you reach rubby status, you’re far beyond caring about clothes.  You’re drinking gasoline on a sidewalk.  And you probably can’t read this because you lack a computer and your vision is blurred.

But, if you’re just on the verge of becoming a rubby, you should treat the office with respect.  I would not think to advise these sartorial geniuses who do so much with so little but I would like them to remember:

You are a gentleman of the street.  It is your duty to regale the respectable members of society with jigs, crazy antics and an all-round lovable demeanour.  If possible, assume all the airs you can, garnish these with graces and demand to be treated with respect.  Claim to be nobility.  In your own way, you are, I assure you.  Sneering, swearing and being an angry asshole is not allowed.  Be jolly and enjoy yourself.

You crazy sonuvabitch, you.

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pic of Liana K nicked from Nerd Girl Pinups

Sometimes, when people forget to invite me to a party, I just invite myself.  I’ll even pay the occasional cover charge.  But I do have limits.  I will never line up.  Life is too short.  I refuse to wait to be somewhere when I’m already wherever I need to be.   Although doormen may kindly separate everyone on the inside from me with a velvet rope, it does makes me feel a bit like a museum piece.

Thankfully, there was no line for the Nerd Girl Pinup Launch Party at The Annex Wreckroom.  This might have something to do with the site’s utter lack of nudity.  They claim that it’s sexier that way. As a man who enjoys some of the most vile pornography in Christendom, I wouldn’t know.

This whole clothing idea seems a bit quaint and I doubt it’ll catch on.  The competition is being humped by donkeys and whatnot.  Seems to me that, to compete, you should be getting humped by larger donkeys.

And they should be angry donkeys.

Now, you may say that’s sick and maybe you’d be right.  But could you masturbate to this?

If you can, you’re a sick pervert.  She’s clothed, obviously busy and minding her own business.  If that gets you off, you shouldn’t even be let out of the house.  What won’t you masturbate to?

Even though these women insist on wearing things and there wasn’t even a mule in sight, I still invited myself to their party.  I even paid a cover charge.  That was okay.  I suppose.  It reminded me of what life was like before I had a mildly successful blog and when I still went to strangers’ events.

Walking though the door was like returning to 1997.

For starters, I felt utterly louche.

I’m growing another mustache.  Not for cancer or Hitler but for a combination of the two; the Canadian winter and me.  My face is an itchy mess and I feel slovenly.  Since last year, I’d forgotten that growing a mustache is a long arduous journey that starts in peril and ends in disappointment.  It’s a lot like love.  Or breakfast.

Aside from my poorly put together face, the musical selection reminded me of the past.  It’s called “retro.”

Retro songs are the songs from your adolescence.  This nonsense sounds good when today starts making yesterday look better; when your youth has been gone long enough for you to imagine you had another one.  A glamorous one.  One that was fun.  No one ever hurt your feelings.  And you weren’t a loser with a bad haircut.  You’ve never had a bad haircut.  No one has.

People get drunk, cling to this soundtrack and pretend that things were either much better or much worse than they were.  They remember themselves like little adults.  I can’t.  I lack an imagination.

But looking at the party –I never participate, just look– I realized that this was the sort of thing that would blow the mind of a seventeen year old from a small town.  They’d stare at the costumes and think: Toronto: That’s the place for me.  Look!  That person is dressed as Donald Duck!  And no one is kicking their ass!

I know that feeling.  I once had it.  And I know that place.  It was called “The Dance Cave.”

Just thinking of that makes me think of what my high-school sweetie, who broke my filthy little heart, said when I told her I was moving to the big city:  “What are you going to do?  Be you better than anyone else can be you?”

Well, I showed her.

Ahem.

I hope she’s fat.  Sarcastic bitch.

Aside from my troubles with high school romance, the party seemed to be going well.  There was a costume contest and they were giving away The Cure’s new CD.  I’m not kidding.  The Cure has a new CD.  And it’s a CD.  If someone tried to give me a CD –any CD– I’d ask for the nine bucks instead.  If they tried to give me The Cure I’d just keep the disease.  Even if it was AIDS.

But disaster was waiting to strike.

From the young woman providing the table service, I ordered my customary tonic water.  She arrived with the drink and I had a good swig.  It tasted a bit flat.  I figured it was one of those draft ones.  They always taste off.  I continued to drink and, halfway through, noticed that I felt a bit peculiar.  A bit warm and sick.

The DJ, for reasons I still cannot fathom, started playing Rage Against the Machine.  I was shocked to find that my fingers were tapping the table and I was thinking — They’re not so bad.

That’s when I realized what was wrong with my drink.

I handed my glass to my date and said:  “Could you have a taste of this and tell me what it is?”

She looked at me and had a sip.  “It tonic–OHHHHH- That’s gin!  That’s what gin and tonic tastes like?  Yuck!”

“I’m drunk,” I said. “This music sounds like music.”

My tolerance is utterly gone.  I once quit drinking for two years.  When I decided to start again, I was pissed after three sips of my Guinness.  That didn’t stop me from drinking ten pints more.  But things were different then.  I intended to start drinking again.  This was some horrible accident.

Then the stress hit.

Although I don’t intellectually believe any of that AA nonsense about how you can’t have just one, it’s difficult to avoid emotionally believing it.  It’s similar to how I don’t consider myself a racist or sexist but, if I’m walking through the park at night, three black guys walking towards me will make me more nervous than three white guys walking towards me and either of those will make me far more nervous than three women of any color being humped by donkeys.

It’s incorrect, screwed up and ugly but it’s there.  Just like that lie about just one.

I’ve always figured I could have just one.  I just couldn’t figure out why I would want just one.  Even when I drank, I never wanted just one.  What is the point of just one? Better none than just one.

But better one than half of one.

I finished my drink.

Frankly, I was thirsty.  Aside from that, to push it away whilst turning my nose up seemed like an ostentatious display of self control.  The damage was done.  I might not like it but there are children in Africa who have no gin and tonics.  So I finished the damn thing.

And did not order another.

Nor do I plan to ever order another.

I felt something like a Looney Tunes character.  I accidentally walked off a cliff, looked down and saw the abyss.  But, instead of falling down it, I staggered back to solid ground.

To be completely honest, I did want more.  Like all people, I’m fairly capable of bullshitting myself.  And that AA lie was a convenient line of bullshit.  I have an excuse, I thought.  I could get really drunk and I wouldn’t be to blame.  After all, you can’t have just one.

Well, it turns out you can.

And this becomes another line of bullshit.  After all, if I can just have one, why not just have one on special occasions?  Like breakfast.

You see, the mind is a tricky little rascal and one must always check its bizarre claims against reality.  Though black men in a dark park may frighten me, I’ve been more often attacked by white people in broad daylight.  Although I may think I can have just one or think I cannot, my thinking is irrelevant.

I’ve put the question beyond thought.  I won’t drink.  And I don’t ask the monkey about it.

Just look at him!  Do you trust that monkey?

I don’t.

If I thought about it, I could think of a lot of reasons to never drink again.  But, if I thought about it, I could also think of a lot of reasons to drink again.  That Nerd Girls Launch Party would be a good one.  The Annex Wreckroom is a better one.  So I don’t think about it.

That particular question is put safely and simply out of the range of my thinking.  It’s off limits.  Sometimes you just have to reach your conclusion, give your word and stick to it.  That’s all.

It’s not a question of accuracy, truth or evidence.  It’s one of character, honor and dignity.   You occasionally have be stupid to be smart.  Smart people are capable of the most shocking stupidity.  if I’ve learned one thing about drugs, it’s this:  I am not smarter than drugs.  To forget that would be moronic.

I could have gotten drunk and blamed the barmaid.  But, like every excuse, blame is useless.  You can identify it as such because it’s satisfying. The worst thing about a nuclear holocaust is that there won’t be anyone left to blame.  Not only will we be dead, we’ll be to blame.  But we won’t even be able to blame ourselves.  We’ll be dead.  Then what?

Nothing.

So I had an excuse, my nerves were frayed, my judgment impaired and I was in an environment designed to make me want to drink.  But, if I had any doubt about my refusal, it was cleared up when I met a friend on the stairs.  I watched in horror as my hand shook his.  Jailhouse style.  I was completely out of control.

I don’t know how I will ever look him in the eyes again.

The night ended without further incident.  I  returned home in the company of a lovely lady.  Though I was sober by the time I went to bed some hours later, I woke up with a hangover.  Unshaven.    If I had my boots on, the lady had of been a Kleenex and I didn’t have to work, it would have really been like 1997.

But time keeps moving.  Thank God.  1997 is much better in the past.  Where it belongs.  Not at The Annex Wreckroom.  Nothing belongs there.  Not even Nerd Girls.  And I certainly don’t belong anywhere near 1997.  Wherever it may be, I’m just not there anymore.

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real bespoke by Don of Trend Custom Tailors for yours truly

Lean in nice and close kids, old Grumpy wants to tell you a secret: THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A VODKA MARTINI! A martini is gin and dry vermouth. It is not vermouth and vodka, it is not vodka and a liqueur, it is not filled with fruit and/or chocolate. It is clear. It is not bright blue or neon pink. CLEAR! It is gin and dry vermouth. Stirred. Not Shaken. With an olive, a lemon rind or, if you’re feeling completely batshit crazy, a cocktail onion.

That is a martini.

But we live in society that is intent on ripping itself off. People decided that they wanted the social cache of drinking a martini but they had a problem: They didn’t actually like martinis. So, instead of doing the reasonable thing and ordering something else, they pretended to be James Bond, walked up to their bartender, said “Excuse me Sir, could you faggot up my drink?”, substituted vodka for gin and called that a martini.

The first step down a slippery slope.

Now there’s all sorts of concoctions going under the name martini. Banana, chocolate, apple-fucking-pie; The only thing these drinks have in common with a martini is the glass they’re served in.

As humans we do this all the time. We find something we want but don’t like. Instead of dealing with that, we just change the names of things. We call war liberation, plutocracy becomes democracy, martinis become anything you feel like, and now bespoke is under attack.

The assault is coming from the usual quarters. That is, the evil who profit by the ignorant. And it’s coming for the same reasons. People want bespoke but they can’t afford it. Instead of dealing with that, certain assholes have decided to just call everything bespoke. Then everyone can afford it. It will be –get ready– “affordable luxury.” Problem solved.

This is voodoo.

Things do not change just because you change their names. Just because something is green, organic and fair trade does not mean it is good for the environment, pure as summer rain and bought from well-paid workers in some utopia. (Just ask the minimum wage worker at the cash register where you bought it.)

All that changes when you start abusing words is the words. Everything gets muddy. The word becomes meaningless. When someone used to order a martini, they knew what they would get. Now, if you order a martini, you better say what kind you want or you’ll get the kind you don’t.

There’s nothing really there. “Martini” no longer refers to reality but to some James Bond illusion. It’s meaningless.

Now, why do I care about “bespoke” being abused? After all, I know the difference between customized and bespoke, so why should I care if some twit wants to toss his money buying one thing while expecting another and then lying about the whole thing? At the end of the day, it doesn’t reflect upon me.

You see, while I love bespoke, I don’t care about the social element. I don’t care what it says people who don’t even have the ears to listen. What I care about is the quality. All the words in the world cannot alter that. Whatever the herd calls a martini doesn’t affect the taste of a real one.

But there is a problem.

When words are abused we all pay. When a war is called a liberation, the concept of war is not only diminished but also that of liberty. As things stand now, the people who actually make bespoke are the ones who will suffer. If people think that they’re getting bespoke when they’re not, the real bespoke will vanish. Tailors will have to explain to morons why their bespoke is actually bespoke and why it costs more.

All we’ll be left with is some cheap copy.

I think we have enough cheap copies already. Enough lies and enough marketing schemes. We’re already neck-deep in bullshit. There is no need to throw another shovelful on the pile. If anything, we should be digging our way out. In the meantime, hold your nose.

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It’s not new, it’s not real and it’s not a condition. But it’s still being reported on. DRUNKREXIA!!!, This newest menace to the fairer sex is characterized by the liquid lunch. When women drink without eating, they’re not girls with a straight sense of priorities. Oh No. They’re DRUNOKREXIC!!!

How do you know if you are a DRUNKOREXIC!!!? Well, if you calculate the calories of booze vs food, then you are. Period. Doesn’t even matter what conclusion you come to. But it helps if you have a vagina.

Every woman I’ve ever met is a drunkorexic. You see, on one hand women are told that they should care about their weight. On the other hand, they like to get drunk. Maybe it helps them forget about their weight and the people telling them they should care about it. Maybe they’ve learned something men discovered a long time ago: Alcohol makes women look better. Given this situation, there is only one reasonable course of action for an intrepid damsel.

Get drunk and don’t eat. You kill two birds with one stone.

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I knew it was going to happen. The people who brought us the smoking bans are now changing focus. “To what and who?” you might ask. “Isn’t obvious?” I would reply. “To your vices and you.” The WHO has developed a global strategy for “The War on Drink.”

And it’s based on their war on tobacco.

“Impossible,” I can hear you say. “It’d never happen. After all second hand smoke hurts people other than the smoker and drinking just hurts me.”

This is where I have to interrupt.

The science on second hand smoking has always been dodgey. It’s agenda driven. (I trust what anti-smoking groups have to say about it as much as I trust what big oil has to say about global warming.) But the results of second hand drinking are clear: Car accidents, fights, abuse, the list is endless.

Plus, talking to a drunk is as annoying as the smell of cigarettes.

Now that the puritans have laid the framework with second hand smoke, they’ll find it easier to use the same reasoning against alcohol. They’re already using it.

According to New Scientist, Ian Gilmore of, president of the UK’s Royal College of Physicians says: “The tipping point for banning smoking in public places was third party damage. Third party damage from alcohol is much greater, in terms of violence and the damage to unborn children, the first sexual experience and the percentage of unwanted pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases.”

The WHO plans to call for higher prices –more taxes– to protect the children who won’t be able to afford increased prices. Too bad children aren’t the only people without money. It will also protect the working classes from the solace of an after work pint and shot. I’m sure champagne will remain affordable to those who can afford it. Then the puritans want to move onto advertising bans and clampdowns on drunk driving.

They’re simply and openly applying their anti-tobacco strategy to alcohol. If you think it will end with higher prices and advertising bans, you’re out of your mind. These people will never stop. Every new solution will create a new problem. They banned smoking in pubs and restaurants and now they complain about butts littering the street. So they banned it there. Now they’re trying to ban it in people’s homes.

The same thing will play out with booze. First they’ll clamp down on people being drunk in the street and then they’ll complain that they’re all being noisy indoors. When they start drinking at home, then they’ll talk about the neighbors having rights and the poor abused children; adverts will feature a terrified wifes cowering in the corner while her drunken husband converts their home to a speakeasy. The cost to health care will be mentioned and everyone will forget that drunks pay for it too.

And it won’t even end with booze. It didn’t end with cocaine, opiates or pot, it didn’t stop with tobacco and it won’t stop with alcohol. These people need a hobby and they have one — they enjoy banning your hobbies. It makes them feel better than you. They will move into your bedroom, your wallet and everything else they find objectionable. You better watch the fuck out — these people object to anything fun.

When people talk about surveillance, they often mention “the chilling effect on dissent.” They should –but rarely– mention this when it comes to tobacco and alcohol bans. People often gather to drink and smoke and eat. These are the primary reasons humans gather. Laws like this only serve to divide people and a divided people are a conquered people.

Potheads act like they don’t smoke while a joint burns between their fingers. They complain about the health and societal effects of alcohol. Smokers act like they’re not intoxicated while that nicotine lights up their brain. Some fellow with scotch in one hand will use the other to wave away the second hand smoke from his face. None of them like Fatty. All act like their drug is superior to the other. We’re divided.

I even feel some grim satisfaction in watching the anti-smokers turn into anti-drinker. That’s what you motherfuckers get, I think. You invited the snake into the pub and now you’ll get bit too. But I have to fight this. You should too. Fat, drunk, high or smoking, our fight is the same fight.

We are all the common enemy of a bunch of meddling assholes. It’s time we realized that we too have a common enemy: Them. Not each other. Them.

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Alcoholics Anonymous is an evil cult. Their meetings lead to nothing except more meetings. You never outgrow it, you never “get better” you just keep discovering problems you didn’t even know you had. Mark the sober days off on your calender like you’re in prison and earn your little badge.

It disgusts me.

The people who join this club –the so-called alcoholics– are the obnoxious drunks. They’re not the fun or funny ones, they’re the bad ones. That’s why they had to quit drinking. We all know one. Some of us were one. What sane person would want to be a room full of these assholes? It’s bad enough if one of them is in the room.

But I do have friends who have ended up this cult. And I do know that it’s one thing to hate and another to propose an alternative. They have 12 steps so here’s mine. I hope it helps but I doubt it will. Drunk or sober, some people never listen.

1. You have and always had complete power over yourself.  (Unless you were drunk.)  No bottle of booze in the whole history of the world has ever drank itself.

2. Make a list of all the people you have harmed through being drunk. Rip that list up. Fuck them if they can’t take a joke. Apologizing won’t change shit. They forgive you? So what? You don’t deserve it. And just who do they think they are anyway?

3. You probably acted like an asshole. It wasn’t because you were drunk. It’s because you are an asshole. Get to know and love your inner asshole. Bring him under control.

4. Don’t get all high and mighty about not drinking. That’s even worse than being drunk. There is nothing wrong with alcohol. The problem is that you’re an asshole. Try not to be a sober asshole. Now you don’t even have an excuse.

5. Being around drunks is fun. Every benefit you ever got from being drunk, you can get from being around drunks. They’re social so you don’t need to be. They do and say stupid things so you don’t have to. They are noble. Love your drunken friends. And buy them a fucking drink. Just because you don’t drink doesn’t mean you have to be dead weight. Buying a pop also means you should tip more. 2 bucks on a drink at least. It’s the only thing that will keep you from looking like a total prick.

6. You must train your memory until you can’t remember anything someone did while they were drunk. You’re not a witness. You’re at a party.

7. Keep your old friends. Only a total prick would stop hanging out because they quit drinking. These people are your friends. Remember that time they pulled you off that car before the police arrived? That’s more than what your sober friends will ever do for your dumb ass. Drunks are great people. Forget that at your peril.

8. Make some new friends who never knew you when you drank and who would be devastated and disapointed by the consequences. Social pressure works both ways. Balancing it is easy.

9. Develop some new vices. You’re fucked up. That’s not going to change. You need a new hobby to get all obsessive about.

10. Do not expect happiness. Wanting to be happy all the time is what got you into this mess in the first place. No one is happy all the time. You’re just vomiting less.

11. Do and say really stupid things while sober — like speaking your mind. It’s much more rewarding. And no one thinks you’re an alcoholic for doing it. They’ll actually take you seriously and also think you’re an ass. It’s not the end of the world. Everyone is an ass.

12. Don’t drink.

Follow these rules and you won’t be on the road to recovery, you will be healed. Hallleujah brother. And no meetings at all.

Continue reading »]]> I’m pretty tired today. Last night I went to an art opening. Being a kind sort of person, I brought some people back to my place for an after-after-party. They cleared out at about five. I think they spilled more gin than they drank. Left quite a bit on the table too. But they did bring some snacks, which I thought was quite nice.

While it’s nice to clean up sans hangover – removing old martinis while your blood brims with gin can be a herculean test of endurance – I still wish that I had a robotic house. Rudy the Roomba does a fine job but I’d love to have a little humanoid who knew when to remove the glasses and wash the dishes. His touch would need to be as soft as a bird-dog’s mouth.

This summer I’m going to my local WalMart, where I’ll attempt to purchase a midget. I’ll ask to be shown to their midget section. I’m betting that I’ll get the same comedy routine they deliver whenever I’ve asked to see anything. They’ll have no idea what I’m talking about and I’ll be referred to other ignoramuses, who also have no idea what I want. Should be entertaining though.