An Open Letter to Hard Seltzer

Dear Hard Seltzer,

How popular you’ve become as of late. Everywhere I turn, there you seem to be on bar menus and in advertisements. Even breweries have forgotten they are brewers in a mad dash for the slightest fraction of hard seltzer market shares. How garish are the colors of your label in concealment of your true content, so pale and void of backbone, so wanting for potable character.

Yes, hard seltzer, you are the bastard son of Zima. You are the wine cooler of today, gone tomorrow. When the gimmickry of your carbonation and crappy fruit flavorings have been removed, you’re just water in a can. I’d rather have a real drink.

Sincerely,

Badfellow

An Independence Day Toast

As we prepare to celebrate the virtues of living in the land of the free and the home of the brave, and all the ingredients which make this country great, it’s time to raise a glass.

Today we honor not only the courage and vision of those who won our independence, but we should also pause to give thanks and remember those things which bring us happiness and joy.

Here's to our federal government, which gave us a paid vacation day so we might get shitty drunk. Unless a terrible vocational choice has been made, we are spending the day in drunken splendor. Our founding fathers were wise enough to choose a beautiful summer day with us in mind. We barbeque, we bask in the air-conditioned comfort of our homes, huddle together in cool, dark bars, and we blow shit up. Most importantly, we drink. It's our right. We drink as an observation to this right. Hell, it's our duty.

So join me with a lifted glass and celebrate the freedom to drink. And let's also drink a little for those who are no longer around to join us in this toast.

Cheers to all of you. And cheers to America. Nice job.

It Won't Die

Powerful beverage corporations, let's call them Big Booze, undertook a campaign to introduce an inoffensive way to consume alcohol and solve gender inequality at the same time. "We need a slimmer can." "We need a lower ABV." "We need fruit. Lots of fruit!" "Bubbly! It's got to be bubbly!" Then the soulless bastards unleashed a new category of drink on us that can only be described as a cross between AM radio static and pomegranate juice. Hard seltzer, they called it.

* * *

It's difficult to say exactly when this whole hard seltzer thing got started. Some say as far back as the 1500's in Finland with their honey-fermented sima. Others say you'd have to fast forward all the way to 1993 when Aussie Duncan MacGillivray brewed his first batch of Two Dogs. But for the purposes of explaining the craze that's sweeping bars and pool parties today you can point the finger right squarely at Nick Shields from Westport, Connecticut when he brewed his first batch of SpikedSeltzer in 2013. It was branded with a veneer of health and wellness—gluten free, low carb, and "all natural." Compared to a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos with its 2,000 word ingredient list, maybe it really was all natural. Health conscious consumers grabbed onto it (ignoring that sugar rots your teeth). The Mark Anthony Brewing Group took notice and in 2018 brought out White Claw hard seltzer. White Claw sales exploded and within a year dominated the hard seltzer market. Today it is estimated that White Claw accounts for nearly 50% of all hard seltzer sales, and along with Truly hard seltzer, accounts for 85% of the market.

            Beer brewers took notice. They were losing market share to the above-mentioned health conscious consumers (and to people who identify as sober-curious) and Bud Light came out with its own hard seltzer in 2019. Ricardo Marques, vice president of core and value brands at Anheuser-Busch said in a CNN interview "This is not a fad. This is here to stay." The makers of Zima might roll their eyes at that. They briefly resurrected Zima in 2017 hoping to jump on the bandwagon. It flopped and today you can only find Zima in Japan. Maybe Zima was simply unable to shake its reputation as a drink for effeminate weirdos. Under the lead of White Claw, however, hard seltzer is succeeding in branding itself as a drink any bro would be proud to be seen with.

            "There ain't no laws when you're drinking Claws." This is an in-your-face to the unwritten law that no self-respecting bro would ever be caught drinking a fruity, bubbly drink. Whereas anybody's photo album of past frat and pool parties show only bottles of beer being clinked together by the male attendees, now they happily snap selfies while hoisting their cans of hard seltzer. This attempt to vaccinate hard seltzer from derision is apparently working. White Claw's annual revenue is estimated around $4 billion, and growing at triple digit rates. If it's a fad, it's enjoying a hell of a long run.

My Fake I.D. - Thank You James Darren Lascot

ser•en•dip•i•tous

n. pl. ser•en•dip•i•tus

1. The faculty of making fortunate discoveries by accident.

2. The fact or occurrence of such discoveries.

3. An instance of making such a discovery.
 
There were only a few times in my life when I felt truly free. I think I can count them on one hand: learning to ride a bike without training wheels, going to summer camp for the first time, getting a driver’s license, moving out of my parent’s house and into my first apartment. The memories of each of those moments are so clear, I can easily play them back in my mind and relive every detail as if it was yesterday. Each of those events had a profound impact on my life, but none quite as grand as the day I received my fake I.D.

When I was in high school, I was envious of my friends with older siblings who would let them use their I.D.s for a night of drinking. In some cases, older friends who looked similar to my underage classmates would share their I.D.s from time to time. I only had an older sister, and couldn’t seem to find anyone who either looked like me or who was willing to hand over their ID. So I was stuck with having to wait outside the liquor store playing “hey mister” while my more fortunate friends enjoyed the inner sanctum of a bar; drinking, playing pool and eating free pretzels.

The summer after high school, a couple of buddies and I spent a week in Santa Cruz for one last adventure before we headed off to college. We spent our time wandering around the boardwalk, hanging out on the beach, and listening to street musicians.

That was when my life changed. Forever.

One particularly warm afternoon, my friends and I were sitting on a bench on Pacific Avenue listening to an old hippie play guitar and sing a pretty good rendition of Proud Mary, when a stranger approached us. He had an open wallet in his hand that he was inspecting. He kept looking at me, then back at the wallet. I really didn’t pay any mind to the guy. This was, after all, Santa Cruz. Weirdo capital of the world. It wasn't uncommon for lunatics to carry on a conversation with themselves, with nobody at all, or with anyone who would listen. What I didn't yet recognize was this guy wasn't a weird lunatic. He was a true good Samaritan, trying to do a true good Samaritan deed.

Finally, he spoke to me. “James?” The only word he said.

Being a little curious, I answered him. “Yes, but it’s pronounced Jaahms.” First of all, that's not my name. Second, to this day, I have no idea why I answered him in such a way.

“Err.. okay, Jaahms, I found your wallet.”

The stranger now had my full attention. "You did?" I asked with staged excitement. "I've been looking everywhere. Where did you find it?"

"Over there by that payphone," he replied as he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. He held the wallet out and I took it.

I swear to God, the clouds parted, I heard angels sing and a golden glow appeared as I opened the wallet to take a peek inside. The first thing I saw was a brand new one hundred dollar bill, a concert ticket for Bob Dylan and Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, and then, the Holy Grail: a valid California Driver's License.

Looking at the photo, I could understand why the stranger thought it belonged to me. I strongly resembled James Darren Lascot from Felton, California.

James was of drinking age. This will work, I thought. Fuck yes, this will work.

From that very moment, nothing was the same again.

My friends and I headed straight to the nearest grocery store to see what it felt like to buy $100 worth of booze, beer, and wine coolers without having to ask someone to buy it for us.
I remember feeling a little scared when the clerk asked to see my ID. What if she doesn’t believe it’s me? What if she calls the cops? What if she knows the real James Darren Lascot? But she casually glanced at it and continued placing the bottles in a paper bag. No questions asked.

For the next two and a half years while buying alcohol and drinking under my new assumed name, only one person questioned the validity of the ID. It happened very late at night at a 7-Eleven in Van Nuys, California. The clerk said loudly “THIS ISN’T YOU!” But the store manager quickly intervened, snatching the ID from her hand, looking at it, then at me, and saying: “It’s him,” as he placed it back in my unsteady hand.

I quickly became a valuable friend to many people. I was the guy who could supply a party with a case of cheap beer. I was the guy who could buy Absolut Vodka to replace the bottle from Jenny Smitcamp’s father’s liquor cabinet after she and her friends took it to the drive-in movie theater; I was the guy who could purchase a bottle of Rootbeer Schnapps for Robbie Greenwood, so he could take it with him to his older sister’s wedding; and I was the guy who could buy a four-pack of wine coolers for Danny Adams so he could impress his date as he lured her to the 16th fairway of a local country club at 3:00 AM.

I was the guy to know.

Within a couple of months, however, I felt as though I wasn’t using my new I.D. to its fullest potential. I had grown bored with my peers and knew it was time to move on. That little card was more than James Darren Lascot’s California Driver’s license. It was a passport to a different world. A beautifully dark and dank underworld with distinct, almost edible smells. That’s when I became a student of bars. I began to learn about drinks, studied the dusty bottles sitting on the dimly-lit back bar, and discovered people with colorful nicknames like “Lefty,” “Slick,” “Big Rick,” and “Bird.”

I stayed away from popular nightclubs because of the bouncers. I always felt that they were better trained to examine an ID. I favored dive bars and neighborhood pubs. Sure, the salty old bartenders would look at my I.D., but these places were always dark and smoky, so I stood a better chance. Plus, I doubted if they truly gave a shit as long as I behaved myself and tipped well.

I selected a quiet, unassuming neighborhood bar as my home base. This would become the place where I could start the night, end the night, or even spend the afternoon. The Stardust Room was a logical choice for several reasons. First, it opened at 6:00 AM and closed at 2:00 AM, so I could show up at any time the law allowed bars to be open in California. Second, it was a simple blue collar dive bar. There were never any bouncers, door men, or cover charges. Finally, once the bartenders remembered my face, I wouldn’t have to show my I.D. again. This greatly reduced the chance of somebody figuring out my game.

I began to spend most of my free time playing a variety of dice games with a group of old codgers as I listened to their stories. Their words were poetic and prophetic. I felt as though I gained an education every time they spoke, imbibing their wisdom. In print, their words would be red.

At first, I answered only to the name Jimmy. But a few months after becoming a regular at The Stardust Room, some friends from one of my college classes showed up and called me by my real name. After that, the other regulars and the bartenders started calling me by my real name too. I was a little disappointed I never got one of those cool nicknames.

I studied for midterms and finals at that bar, forged long-term friendships with other customers, charmed girls by taking them there and introducing them to the seedy side of life, solved all my problems and created many more. All at the Stardust Room.

Then, I turned 21-years-old. I became the age to legally buy and consume booze. And I celebrated at the Stardust Room.

The bartender, Kingfish, even gave me a special shot glass to commemorate the milestone. As I had long suspected, he knew what I was up to all along.

It’s been many years since that afternoon in Santa Cruz, but I can still remember every detail as if it was yesterday. I’m still a faithful drinker. I still love a dark bar. I drink to old friends, and always drink to James Darren Lascot.

Colin Deal spends his free time exploring the bar culture of cities throughout North America and believes the unique culture of any region in the world can be discovered over a few drinks with the locals. His drunken musings can be found on Twitter here.

The Art of Solo Drinking

The world loves to save the lost and there's nobody more lost than the solitary drinker, alone in his tiny room, seated at a table under a dim yellow light with a bottle of whiskey and a highball glass. Those saviors see solitary drinking as a sign that something's gone wrong—the only type of people who would drink alone must be hopelessly addicted, the mail bomb builders, the chronic compulsive masturbators.

But then there are those of us who've discovered the joy of drinking alone; a pure, unalloyed form of imbibing that chucks the crowd and gets down to the business of getting loaded—just you and the booze. 

Just like marriage is the enemy of love, crowds are the enemy of joyful inebriation. Of course, that seems counterintuitive. Booze applies grease to the gears of societal gatherings. Touchdowns are cheered, ref's calls are booed. You sure don't go to the sports bar to share green tea with the gang. But what happens when everybody gets into their fourth tall glass of Bud? The dynamic changes. Things get a little awkward as each guy in the gang tries to restate what he has already said five times about what a stupid trade the Chargers made at the beginning of the year. It soon becomes drudgery that not even the shots of Cuervo can save. The hangover and regret you have the next morning force you to swear you'll never do it again—until you do it again. (By the way, the Finns have a word for the combination of hangover and regret: It's called morkkis.) 

"I've never been lonely. I like myself.

I'm the best form of entertainment I have." - Charles Bukowski. 

Booze opens up lines of communication between people, certainly, but few people know it also facilitates communication with yourself. It lets you get to know the real you, the one you always knew existed, the one deep down in your subconscious, but never had the chance to let out. But you're never going to get to know the real you while your sitting in a crowd of people and inane chit chat and blasting jukeboxes. The inner you is the one that knows you best, someone you can sit with in comfortable silence without straining under the labor of small talk. Close the door, grab a bottle, and get to know you. 

"Nothing in the world is more distasteful to a man than to take the path that leads him to himself," the poet Hermann Hesse once said, and he was right. To most people, their inner self is some sort of dark and hairy fanged monster that you flee from in fear. Which is exactly why you need to go and have a drink with him. Plan ahead. Stock up on your favorite booze. You don't want to be getting up for another beer run just when things are getting good. Turn the goddam television off. (I dropped mine off in the alley behind my apartment long ago, even duct taping the remote to the screen to increase its value to the crackhead who would later find it and sell it at the swap meet.)

 "If god had intended me to drink with other people

he wouldn't have made me such an asshole." - Hugh Blanton

Recumbent on the sofa with a whiskey bottle is good for the solitary drinker, maybe a dim light from a corner lamp to create ambiance. Sipping straight from the bottle, cap off/cap on between sips, avoids spillage. Some solitary drinkers like to have music on, and I used to listen to tunes late into the night with headphones. However, that stopped after a neighbor came over at three in the morning wondering if Mariah Carey was in here, caught in a bear trap. Silence is best. But whatever drink you prefer—wine, beer, cocktails—you'll soon discover that the annoyances of bars and crowds are gone. No jabbering from the blighter on the stool next to you and going through the "I buy/you buy do-si-do" before he hands over his band's demo CD. Last call is whenever you decide; it could even be the light from a rising sun. No bartender to ignore your empty glass as he chats up the fresh-from-the-salon hotties at the end of the bar.

The submerged you rises to the top like an angel from bondage when you drink alone. Social norms and the dissembling that goes along with it is banished within the four walls of solitude and a bottle. While it's pretty much impossible to achieve ideological purity (even the bearded guy on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel had a wart or two), the lone drinker is as close as you'll get, a person truly in love with booze. Even before George Thorogood's 1985 anthem "I Drink Alone" I was stealing away to secluded spots along the banks of the Cumberland River with my shoplifted bottle of Beam to enjoy the cold starry night with my thoughts and my inebriation. Loners have the advantage of picking up little bits of wisdom here and there that the crowd never will (self analysis is impossible while immersed in the crowd) and the best thing I ever learned along the way was solo drinking.

If one were to total up the number of faux pas made while drinking with the crowd, the number would be somewhere in the vicinity of a million and one. Some of my own involve grabbing unwilling bar patrons for dancing, breaking wine glasses, whispering too loud. But the worst came about after I went to my favorite dive bar at opening time, 7 in the morning. From time to time throughout the morning, various people would stop in for a pre-work shot of their favorite liquor before starting their workday. Some time later I noticed that I had been asked a couple of times by different people, "You're still here?" I looked up at most recent person who'd asked me that and recognized him as one of the people who'd had a pre-work shot. It was 5:30 PM and I was still on my barstool. I could overhear their conversations at the other end of the bar on my lack of a useful life. No such humiliations occur when one drinks behind the locked door of their own room.

Of course, complete avoidance of the crowd is impossible. People will beseech you to meet them at the bar and they'll assert that it's important, i.e., it's been too long, a favorite celebrity has died, etc. As the jabber progresses and becomes more inane, steal a glance over at the mirror behind the bartender and think, "Next time it's just you and me, buddy."

Hugh Blanton is a truck loader who combs poems out of his hair during those times he can steal away from his employer's loading dock. He has appeared in Bottom Shelf Whiskey, The Dope Fiend Daily, Terror House Magazine and other places.

Old Man in a Straw Hat

'Humidity?' he asked. 'Were you talking about humidity?'

'Yes' - I answered and knew I was in for it.

Oh - nothing to do with humidity -

but it was another lonely old man
in a bar - getting drunk - wanting to talk.

'I'm from Miami - I know humidity!'
Although he looked 80 -
he laughed like a giddy thirteen-year-old.
He told me about the Miami humidity -
I listened as long as I could - waiting for pause.
When I got my pause - I averted my eyes up
to the close captioned TV above the liquor bottles.

He took the hint and swiveled upon his barstool -
away from me.

'Is that Sordovsky?' - he asked -
pointing at a vodka bottle on the shelf behind the bartender.

'Yes - yes it is' - the bartender answered.
Her mistake. He launched into a fifteen minute lesson
on proper vodka distilling procedures.

He finished his third tall glass of beer and left
without saying goodbye - probably feeling defeated
in his quest to defeat loneliness.

The old should be wise enough to know
that loneliness can not be eradicated
through talking.

Originally published by The Rye Whiskey Review, March 7, 2020

Hugh Blanton is a truck loader who combs poems out of his hair during those times he can steal away from his employer's loading dock. He has appeared in Bottom Shelf Whiskey, The Dope Fiend Daily, Terror House Magazine and other places.

Amtrak for Dummies

This past weekend was a bit of a vacation for me. I had Friday off, and Monday also, which gave me a spectacular 4-day weekend. So, I decided the most productive use of this mini-vacation would be to get out of town, and visit some of my favorite drinking spots in Sacramento. For those who have never experienced Sacramento through the bottom of a bucket glass, you are missing out. There is a whole booze culture up there. Remember, the place has been around since the gold rush and was founded on saloons and brothels. Plus, it’s the state capital and I found that most capital cities are great drinking destinations. Don’t know why, it just seems to be so.

But the real story here is not a warm-hearted tale of a personal mecca to boozing nirvana. Not exactly.

On Wednesday, I logged on to Amtrak’s website and purchased round trip tickets between Fresno and Sacramento. On Thursday, evening, I arrived at the newly remodelled Santa Fe station in marvellous downtown Fresno. I had about 40 minutes to kill, so I stopped in at the Sheepherder's Inn for a few pints of Guinness. And yes, those fuckers hit the spot!

I went back to the Amtrak station, and proceeded to wait on the bench for my train, 713. I was informed the 713 would be about 20 minutes late by a courteous Amtrak employee. Fuck it. I didn’t mind the wait. After all, I was on vacation.

Within five minutes, my train came in. I proceeded to ask the same Amtrak guy what the story was with this train. Again, he stressed – in no uncertain terms - that MY train was to be 20 minutes late. The gentleman informed me that THIS train was bound for Bakersfield, and he would let me know when the Sacramento train arrived. Feeling quite comforted about this information from a qualified professional, I sat back down, and continued to wait.

Sure enough, 20 minutes later came a train, oddly from the north. The Amtrak employee scurried out from his office and let me know that my train had arrived. I boarded, sat down, and the train departed.

“JESUS H. CHRIST, MARY AND JOSEPH HANGING OFF A CROSS, GOD DAMNED SHIT. MOTHERFUCKER!” was the only thing I could think of to say at that point as the train slowly began to roll south.

The conductor came by to collect my ticket, and smirked at me a bit as I shamefully turned it over to him.

"Next stop, Hanford." He chuckled.

The next 20 minutes were stretched out infinitely. I knew the train I was supposed to be on was the last northbound train in the Central Valley, but Hanford isn’t far from Fresno. It was getting late on Thursday, and I could have probably had someone just drive down, and pick me up. Alas, a vicious combination of stubbornness and pride prevented me from doing so. Besides, I was on vacation, and had no intention of going home.

When I finally arrived in Hanford, I thought I might still have a chance of getting to Sacramento somehow, or perhaps Fresno at the very least. I didn't think Hanford really held anything for me that evening, and I was anxious to depart as soon as possible. I went into the train station to rustle up some alternatives, still hoping perhaps a late night train would still be coming through.

A freight train passed the station before I reached the counter, and for a brief moment, I considered jumping on it like a depression-era hobo.

The Hanford station attendant found my situation to be pretty funny and told me he was getting ready to close up and that I should come back at 6:30 AM, 15-minutes before the first train north. He would not refund or exchange my ticket, and kept saying just to come back tomorrow, the station was closed. I couldn't help but notice the hours of operation listed on the window that separated my and the attendant. They were supposed to be open for another half hour. He was clearly sick of my questions.


I asked him about other transportation alternatives. I was shit out of luck. Where there any cabs? Nope. Busses? Nope. Thinking about hitching or walking, I finally asked how far it was from Hanford to Fresno.

"78 Miles" He replied.

Now, I took some advanced math in high school, and a little in college. I was never any Will Hunting, but I could figure out the area of a parabola. I was tired and annoyed with the whole situation and asked the attendant how in the fuck a 20-minute train ride from Fresno could cover 78 miles? Well, I learned. Hanford east to Goshen, east to Visalia, west back to Goshen and then north to Fresno is 78 miles. I asked again, recognizing that I was dealing with a retard.

Any guesses?

"78 Miles."

Ahhh fuck it! I gave up. I decided to stay in Hanford for the night.

I set out on foot and discovered an amazing little town. I saw the Fox Theatre, and saw Willie Nelson is playing there next month. I saw a permanent outdoor carousel and a real town square. The place reminded me of the town in Back to the Future.

I checked into a Comfort Suites, showered, and decided to make the most of my stay.

Heading out, I stopped at the front desk and asked if there were any decent bars within walking distance. I was directed to Simon's.

It turned out to be a place I never would have expected in small town Hanford. Simon's was a surf-themed bar with about 20 beers on draft, and Surf videos playing on large screen TV's. They had a pool table and Guinness. What more could you ask for? Well, since I was a stranger in a strange town, I decided to veer off course and sample some of the other beers on tap. Then, I decided to make it my mission to try them all. I succeeded.

By 10:00 I was shit-faced and ready for a change of scenery. So I walked down the street and ended up at a cool bar called The Bastille. Great place with a great bartender and fun regulars. I ended up playing dice with a guy that couldn't win a roll and walked away with about twenty extra dollars.

On my way back to the Comfort Suites, I found another little bar and decided to have a few more "nightcaps." At this point, I can't remember the name of the place or what I drank, or how many I had. As a matter of fact, I can't even remember if I even paid for my drinks. I do, however, remember walking the half block between the bar and the hotel, because a local cop pulled up to me and started asking questions. Apparently, I was so drunk, that anyone driving by would say "that guy is so drunk!"

I explained to the cop that I was not planning to drive and that I was a visitor staying in the Comfort Suites and dug around in my pocket until I was able to find my room key. Then, the strangest thing happened. The cop walked me to my room, opened the door for me, and told me to enjoy my stay in Hanford. Stranger yet, about ten minutes later, there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find the cop with a Taco Bell bag in his hand. He handed it to me and said "you should probably eat something." I think I tried to give him a tip but he didn't accept it. I ate and passed out within a few minutes.

I know I got a little long winded on this one. Thanks for hanging in there if you have gotten this far. I guess the whole point of the story is this: Make do with what you have. I turned a miserable night into a whole mess of fun by realizing my glass was half full. I was on vacation after all. And, if you ever plan on getting super-loaded in a small town. Choose Hanford. They know how to treat their drunks.

Colin Deal spends his free time exploring the bar culture of cities throughout North America and believes the unique culture of any region in the world can be discovered over a few drinks with the locals. His drunken musings can be found on Twitter here.

Fear and Loathing in Reno

Reno is a benjo ditch filled with drunken cabbies, ugly prostitutes and ignorant bartenders. It’s a
shallow grave dug especially by, and for, two-bit pimps, wanna-be players and degenerate gamblers. It’s a last stop for drop-outs, quitters and the outcast. What the fuck happened to these people? They’ve given up trying to get it on with the American Dream. Hell, most of these fuckers never even made it to first base. Now they’re barely content to masturbate to it as they watch it from an abandoned doorway. They’re all desperate and doomed and I can’t help wonder what sliver of hope they still possessed when they decided to make Reno their home instead of swallowing the black metal end of a really long shotgun and pulling the trigger with their toes. But, of course, it’s got its downside too…

On Friday afternoon, Allen, Khan, Neil and I piled into Allen’s Subaru Outback as he pointed the Pleiades star cluster north toward Sacramento, and then east on the road paved with good intentions toward Reno.

This was the start of our annual Booza Palooza road trip.

Each year, my friends and I choose a different drinking destination. This year, we chose to make a pilgrimage to the unholy mecca. It was our journey into the land of fuck-ups and losers. Whoever said “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” must have been some sort of a fucking communist. We would never join them. We were there to drink their booze - it’s the one thing in which Reno doesn’t have a shortage. We were being lowered into their diamond mine and we were bringing our own pick axes.

Our plan was to take Reno for everything it had; we would rape the city and burn all bridges behind us. For fuck sake, this was Booza Palooza!

After a five-hour drive, we arrived at the Silver Legacy Hotel and Casino. It was 8:45 P.M. and we were immediately struck by the smell of cigarette smoke and the sound of money and laughter and screaming and the overwhelming feeling of madness in the air. It was all around us and we fully understood there would be trouble to be found, problems that we would cause and, most importantly, a good time to be had.

We also knew that we would not be able to tame the numinous nature of the ethyl. At some point in our lives, we had all tried and failed. It can be as unpredictable and feral as spilled mercury. So, instead, we would simply put our faith in it and let it guide us. We would bow and agree to its terms.

It wasn’t for us to understand or even define. Our plan was to accomplish all things through the magic of grain alcohol.

We set out with a fantastic universal sense that wherever we were and wherever we were going would be the best place to be. We were the chosen ones. We were righteous. We were winners. We were the elite.

“Let the drinking begin,” Allen proclaimed as we all downed our first cocktail. Mine was good. A perfectly constructed Jameson and Soda. It went down well and I started ordering one after another.

Oh, what a sea of booze lie before us. It was striking, and majestic, and vast. Usually, I like to stick my toe in with a cold Guinness or two and wade in at an even pace with gin or rum or whiskey until there is no turning back. But on this day I ran right in and dove headfirst into the first large wave I could find.

There was talk of going out to dinner as a group. “Fuck that,” I told them. “I’ll get a hot dog or something later. Right now, I’m ready to drink.”

Khan insisted that is was the right thing to do and described the benefits of starting a big night of drinking after a good meal. He had a point. Fortifying ourselves with food would increase our stamina. I finally agreed and we all headed to the Hash House A Go Go restaurant at Harrah’s.

It was the longest meal in my life. It felt like I was six-years-old on Christmas morning and I was being forced to sit through a huge breakfast before running into the den to see what Santa left.

***

We had all decided to go in search of the best Irish pub in Reno. The internet gave two-thumbs-up to Foley’s, Ole Bridge Pub, and several other local bars.

We took a cab several miles south on Virginia Street to Foley’s, but were immediately disappointed.

It was a sterile cookie-cutter chain-restaurant-looking place. The staff was courteous and responsive but there was a family with little kids celebrating a birthday party for one of the children. What kind of savage actively plans to get drunk around a bunch of kids? We all knew what would happen and it would not end well. So we downed our Guinness and immediately walked outside to hail another cab.

We followed our list to a couple more places and were disappointed at each stop. We may as well have just gone to Applebee’s, for fuck sake.

Our final stop of the evening was to be the Ole Bridge Pub, but the slightly inebriated cab driver didn’t know how to get there. So, he dropped us off about a block away and made us walk around until we found it. Once inside, we met a really stupid bartender who was not interested in making drinks or dealing with customers. There were a total of six people in the place, but even that volume pushed her past the limits of her abilities.

Still, we stayed for several pints and a couple of cocktails and a few shots. We even played a dice game where, by rolling, it was determined who would choose a drink, who would pay for the drink and who would drink the drink.

A poorly constructed Long Island Iced Tea put me over the top.

“Fuck you! Hey bartender, fuck off! You fucking cunt!” Jesus! Did I SAY that? Or just think it? Was I talking? Did they hear me? I glanced over at my buddies, who seemed oblivious. Time to move on.

***

At some point after Friday turned into Saturday, we made our way back to The Silver Legacy where we continued to drink as we posted up at a five dollar Blackjack table. I can’t recall any details except for a conversation with one of the dealers. She was young and friendly and had absolutely no idea what to make of us. For some reason, the subject of Gingers came up and she informed us that she had siblings who were redheads with freckles. We informed her that Gingers are the result of anal sex, are sub-human and cannot be trusted. She may have agreed. I have no fucking idea and I didn’t give a shit what she thought. The only thing I knew for sure was that we were not physically ejected from the casino. And for that, I am slightly disappointed.

I have no idea what time I went back to my room, or if I even went on my own power. What I do know is that I was rooming with Allen and he came in at some time after me. It could have been five minutes, or maybe five hours. Either way I remember hearing him fumble and stumble into the room.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m sleeping,” I yelled into the darkness.

He didn’t seem to hear me or care one way or another. He began whistling the tune to Gilligan’s Island as he climbed into his bed on the other side of the room. We both laughed like lunatics before fading to sleep.

Allan has never been able to accept the notion - often espoused by members of AA - that you can have just as much fun undrunk as you can drunk. And, clearly, neither have I.

***

Somehow, we were all up and ready for round two by noon on Saturday.

We agreed that a good portion of Friday evening had been wasted due to our plan to follow the recommendations found on social media. The top-rated bars turned out to be terrible. So for the rest of the day, we would pick the worst-rated bars and go from there.

We piled into a cab and started our expedition.

Our first stop was at Ryan’s Bar and Grill. What a fantastically shitty little place. The bartender, Pete, was a middle aged guy with a bad case of the hangover shakes. Neil bought the first round. Four Guinness. The bartender rang up the order and we were shocked that the grand total was only $10. Great prices! Khan took advantage of this and bought the next round by announcing “I want to buy a round for everyone in the place!” I looked around and noticed that there were only five people in the entire place, including Shaky Pete.

We had several more rounds before moving on.

We hit a couple of other bars before we got to Filthy McNasty’s, which was chosen based on a Yelp review that started with “This place was awful,” and ended with “STAY AWAY FROM THIS PLACE!”

Filthy McNasty’s was exactly what we were looking for. It was filled with about a dozen locals who looked like a collection of off-duty hookers, low-level drug dealers, and a few burned-out dudes who resembled Nick Nolte's mugshot. They also allowed smoking, they had dice cups and a pool table, and the bartender was drunk. Our reverse engineering plan was working perfectly.

We even noticed a large hook hanging down from the ceiling in the center of the room with what appeared to be splattered blood on the ceiling itself. We resolved that the hook must be there to hold a Chinese Fuck Basket and that the blood stains were an accepted consequence of its use.

We started off with a round of reasonably cold Guinness and quickly recognized that undrunk people drink good beer and drunk people don’t give a shit. So we switched to cocktails and continued through the night.

As we moved from bar to bar, we encountered a variety of personalities. Some were affable and happy we were there and others were cautious. I’m sure they whispered to each other “Who do these assholes think they are, coming in here like they own the fucking place?” So, we found that it’s best to be as confident as possible. If we were preparing to go up against the enemy, on their own turf, we couldn’t show any sign of weakness. If they smell it – and they always do - the result will not be favorable to us. We entered every room with the confidence and swagger that’s usually afforded only to celebrities. We had no time for lines, limits or to fuck around with slow service. We were there to drink and the rest of the world was there to serve us.

That, I think, was the point of our pilgrimage. It was an overwhelming sense of inevitable victory over the forces of undrunkenness. Our spirit was able to prevail. We started with enormous momentum and coasted when we lost our steam. The brake lines had been cut and there was no point in steering. Captain Morgan was driving and we trusted him.

In the end, I thought it might be possible to stand atop the mountain, just above Donner Pass and survey the vast wasteland that is Reno. With a discerning eye, one would be able to make out the scorched earth left behind by us as we advanced through, and later withdrew from, enemy territory. But as I am able to reflect back on this journey, I realize that we barely made a dent in the city-wide inventory closet of booze. The city is still standing and awaiting our return.

Colin Deal spends his free time exploring the bar culture of cities throughout North America and believes the unique culture of any region in the world can be discovered over a few drinks with the locals. His drunken musings can be found on Twitter here.

Last Dance at the Ranch, Part V

Once Dennis was safe inside his own room, Steve and I headed back to our own cabin to continue our night of drinking.

We sat on the front porch and started in on our first cocktails. A night of outdoor drinking couldn’t have been more perfect. The weather was great, the drinks were strong and there was no one around to bother us.

As we finished our first round of cocktails, we realized that the drama with Dennis had a negative effect on our level of drunkenness. We needed to catch up.

Two, three, four drinks later, we were almost there. I recognized this because we were both starting to laugh at really stupid shit. And the shit was becoming more and more stupid. Just dumb ideas and thoughts and observations. And then, we came up with a brilliant one.

“Dennis’ window is still open,” I told Steve. “I couldn’t get it closed when I broke into his place. Why don’t we go sneak in there and scare the shit out of him?”

“That could be a really bad idea,” Steve said, “What if the guy has a gun or something and freaks out and kills us?”

“Good point. Let’s walk over there and check it out.”

We walked along a little path which connects all of the cottages together. It was pitch dark, but the path is lined by bright solar lights.

When we got to cabin 117, I whispered to Steve, “Let’s wake him up.” Then I picked up the window screen that I had removed from the window earlier and through it through the window. I was hoping that it would knock over a lamp or something, but it just disappeared into the darkness of Dennis’ cabin.

“That’s no way to wake him up.” Steve said to me with a silly tone that meant step aside, little boy, let the grown-ups take care of the real work.

I watched as he walked back to the foot path and pull two of the solar lights out of the ground, then return to the window and flung them as hard as he could into the cabin. Two things happened. First, they made a shit load of noise. Second it completely illuminated the inside of the cabin’s living room and kitchenette. It was cool.

We started giggling like little kids and ran back to our own cabin to do some more drinking.

After another drink or two, I decided to pick up all of our empty bottles and any other trash that I could carry and throw that through Dennis’ window too.

A few minutes later, Steve disappeared down the path toward cabin 117, only return a few minutes later laughing like a lunatic.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Well, I had decided to try to take a piss through Dennis’ window but couldn’t find anything high enough to sand on. Fucking thing is five feet off the ground! So, I just grabbed a bunch of sticks and weeds and tossed them through the window.”

Jesus, I wish Steve wouldn’t have brought up the idea of pissing through the window, because now we both really wanted to make it happen.

Finally, when we were both to the point where we were barely able to speak English and/or walk, we came up with a plan.

We took the little Rubbermaid trash can from under the sink in our cabin and carried it down the path to cabin 117. We set it on the ground and both took turns pissing into it. When it was as full as we could get it, Steve lifted it up and poured it through the window, onto the living room carpet.






We were both startled awake by someone knocking loudly on our door. I hadn’t made it to bed the night before and was still lying in the hallway. Steve was leaning backwards on the couch, passed out. Who was it going to be? Dennis? Tom? A security guard? The cops?

Oh fuck.

I opened the door to find a maid wondering when we would be checking out.

Relief

We straightened up the place as best we could manage, threw our shit in bags and into the ice chest and hauled it all out to my car. And within fifteen minutes, we were heading home.

It was the end of an era and the death of an old friend, rolled into one.

But, how is cool is that? Even if Stevinson Ranch wasn't closing, we were both pretty sure that we would never be allowed to come back. We walked across the bridge and threw a lit Zippo over our shoulders.

It was fun.

Last Dance at the Ranch, Part IV

Steve woke up and felt the need to apologize.

“Sorry man, give me a minute and I’ll be ready.” He was frazzled, and I'm not sure if he really knew what was going on. “Just let me take a shower and I’ll be good to go.” I was still a little drunk. Steve was still drunk too.

It took him about twenty minutes to prepare for day of golf and another day of drinking. God bless him.

When we started our round at 11:00 A.M., the starter said “You have both played this course five times each.” That was odd. And how would he know? And why would he give a shit?

We finished at about 4:30 P.M. Both of us played golf like a couple of dick heads, but our ending scores weren’t too bad, considering that I lost five balls and had to take a penalty for each of them. In the end we had a fun time.

We loaded our golf bags into the back of the FJ and headed straight to the bar.

“Hi, I’m Dennis,” a guy from out of nowhere said, as he reached out his hand for a shake. “I’ve played 60 rounds here.”

Steve and I walked up to the bar and found our old friend Kelly waiting with a Captain and Coke and a Gin and Tonic waiting in front of her on the bar.

“Thanks Kelly,” said Steve. “Here’s my credit card. It’s going to be a long night.”

We wanted to smoke, so we took our drinks out to the massive deck.

“I’m Joe,” another guy from out of nowhere said, as he reached out his hand for a shake. “Can you believe that I’ve played this course over 4,000 times?”

“Four thousand?” Steve asked. “That’s 200 rounds a year… That’s almost four rounds a week. Pretty impressive.”

Okay, okay we get it. The guys in the pro shop have been keeping tabs on all of us for twenty years and they get a kick out of telling each and every one of us how many rounds of golf we’ve played at Stevinson Ranch since the day they opened for business. Steve and I have played five times. Dennis has played 60, and Joe has played 4,000.

“Hi, I’m Dennis.“ Dennis was back reaching out his hand for a shake. “I’ve played 60 rounds here.”

We all shook his hand and both Steve and I acted like we’d never met him before. Including, but not limited to, the time he introduced himself to us five minutes before this.

“I guess Dennis is drunker than us,” I said to Steve.

“Then we have some catching up to do,” he replied.

We sat on the large wooden patio for a few hours, drinking one cocktail after another and listening to
funny stories from strangers.

Every twenty minutes or so, Dennis would come by. “Hi, I’m Dennis. I’ve played 60 rounds of the golf on this course.”

He was a funny guy and we started watching him make his way around the deck having the same conversation with the fifty or so people who were there. He was bumping into chairs and, at one point, almost fell into the fire pit.

By the time the sun was setting, Steve and I started becoming concerned about Dennis. We don’t know the guy, but we could tell that he wasn’t very good at being drunk. He was bound to hurt himself and he needed a babysitter. So, the next time he came by to introduce himself and tell us how many rounds of golf he had played, we started asking him questions.

Dennis was from Santa Barbara and made the five hour trip to Stevinson Ranch a few times a year with his buddy Tom.

I excused myself and went into the bar. The place was packed and noisy. “TOM,” I yelled into the crowd.

“That’s me,” said a mid-fifty-ish-year-old guy. “I’m Tom.”

“Are you here with Dennis?”

“Yea, why?” Tom asked.

“He’s pretty loaded and probably needs someone to look after him,” I explained.

“Okay. I’ll be right out.”

But he didn’t come right out. I returned to our seat on the deck and continued to watch Dennis deteriorate into a nuisance and a liability for another 30 minutes.

“Let me give this a shot,” said Steve, as he made his way into the bar.

A few minute later, Steve returned with two more cocktails.

“Did you find Tom?” I asked.

“Yea. He’s busy trying to get laid,” Steve explained. “He said he’d come get Dennis right away. They’re both staying here too. So I’m not too worried about them.”

We stayed for a couple more hours and finally decided to head to our cabin, where we would continue drinking.

This time, we remembered to bring our room keys and the little paper folder with the gate code written on it.

As we drove through the complex, we were surprised to see that there were very few cars parked anywhere near the cabins. We assumed that most of the people who were staying here were at the bar.

“Hey wait,” said Steve. “Back up for a second.”

Why? What’s up?”

“Just back up.”

I stopped and put the car in reverse.

Steve rolled down the passenger side window and looked carefully towards cabin 117. “Look at that,” he said. “Look up that walkway by the porch.”

Yep, I saw it too. There was a person lying in the bushes. Oh shit. Is that Dennis?

We parked and walked quickly to cabin 117. Sure enough it was Dennis. He was laying about five feet from the bottom step of his cabin’s porch. His knees were bloody, his shirt and shorts were muddy, he was missing a shoe, and he had pissed his pants.

“Dennis, are you okay?” I asked

“I think so.”

“Why are you laying in the bushes?”

“I can’t find my key.”

“Come on,” Steve told him as we helped him to his feet. “We’ll help you out.”

We went through his pockets and couldn’t find his key, but we did find his cell phone. So we found Tom’s number and tried calling him. It went straight to voicemail.

Tom’s an asshole and a shitty friend.

Finally, we decided that we would get Dennis up the steps to his porch and I would break into the cabin through the living room window. I had practiced this and knew it would be easy.

While Steve stayed with Dennis to keep him from falling down the porch steps, I carefully removed the screen and slid the window up high enough to fit my entire body through. Then I climbed up and slid across the window seal on my stomach and came through head first onto the floor of the cabin’s living room. Then, I turned around to close the window but it was now stuck open. It must have come off its tracks when I pushed it open. I worked on it for about 30 seconds, and then remembered that Dennis is probably never going to realize that the thing is open, so it didn’t really matter.

I opened the door from the inside to find Steve and Dennis exactly where I had left them. Dennis extended his hand and I expected to hear him say “thank you,” or “sorry to trouble you,” or something like that. But instead, he said “Hi, I’m Dennis, guess how many rounds I’ve played here.”

“Ummmm… Sixty?” I guessed.

“How’d you know?”


JUMP TO PART V