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Drinking Behavior

Everything there is to know about how and why people drink...and the spectacle that follows. Share your tips on what not to do while intoxicated, and check out some interesting facts about alcohol.

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158 days ago

Thats what friends are for man, to Prevent you from doing such dumb things.

Helps to have trustworthy friends.
votes 2 Helpful / 0 Funny / 2 Agree / 0 Disagree

162 days ago

Nobody should drink and drive. You could alter your life or someone else's in a second. If your objective is to have a good time then do it but take any chances.
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162 days ago

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164 days ago

For me, the whole point of drinking was so I didn't feel like crap. Generally speaking, you had a few hours of euphoria, of conviviality and bonhomie, of deeply-felt communion with your fellow drunken man (or, if you were lucky, your fellow drunken woman), and then...sleep. The next day, inevitably, I always felt REALLY crappy, but my response to that was pharmaceuticals, not more booze. More booze right after I had tied one on was never the answer for me.
votes 1 Helpful / 2 Funny / 1 Agree / 0 Disagree

164 days ago

The last time was in the the mid-90's. A small group consisting of myself, a male friend, and 2 female friends began drinking at approximately noon, and we continued on throughout the day. One of those times where the euphoric feeling, the warmth and joy one feels in the midst of inebriation...particularly inebriation with like-minded people...just continued on and increased with each passing hour and each drink consumed. By the time darkness fell, we were at the one lady's house, having a deep discussion about my adoption, something I didn't talk about with too many people, and Iggy Pop, and David Hess of "Last House On The Left". Like all drunken discussions, parts of it seemed quite profound, and I vaguely wondered to myself why I was incapable of such cogent observations when sober. By the time the euphoria passed (as it, sadly, always does), and I began to confront the reality that I was very, very drunk, starting to plummet down from the high...and that I was going to pay bigtime for my extravagance and recklessness...I was stranded in this house miles from where I lived in the middle of the night. Both ladies were comatose, and my male friend, while reasonably sentient, didn't want to leave. I was adamant-- I found the number of a local taxi service, and arranged for a ride home, even though it cost me close to $100 (which was a lot of money at the time...hell, it's a lot of money now!). As we drove down the highway (this was a Saturday night), numerous cars had been pulled over by the cops, and their red flashing lights brightened the darkness, and made me feel quite relieved that I was a passenger and not a driver. Dropped off near my residence, I paid the guy, and trudged up to my front door. As I unlocked the door and entered my crib, nausea gripped me intensely, and I just made it to the toilet in time. I'm sure I spent longer than 2 minutes in front of it, and I remember thinking, "You know, I'm in my 30's now; I'm way too old for this shit." And I was. I can't say I haven't had too much to drink in the years since then (although nowhere near as much as I used to routinely drink), but that was the last time I communed on my knees before the porcelain god.
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164 days ago

votes 2 Helpful / 0 Funny / 1 Agree / 0 Disagree

164 days ago

Many a time have I bowed down to the porcelian god. Pain and illness are temporary, memories last forever.
votes 0 Helpful / 0 Funny / 1 Agree / 0 Disagree

164 days ago

I can remember 2 occasions where I was so egregiously annhiliated that I shouldn't have been in the company of humans, much less behind the wheel of a car. The last occasion served to be a sort of epiphany, and I've never driven drunk since. The first occasion, I don't think I was much more than 17, and somehow or other, my friend and I were in a bar getting served. All I really knew how to drink at that point was beer (my parents drank Gin, and I couldn't stand the taste of it). My friend said, "Try this. It's an Alabama Slammer." It looked like cherry Kool-Aid, and didn't taste much stronger. "Ok, this is the ticket," I remember saying to myself (I was reading a lot of Stephen King at the time and his characters had a tendency to say,"That's the ticket."), "This is just my speed." Within minutes, I was completely annihilated, and remember nothing until I woke up the next morning feeling sick in my own bed. I had been driving my father's crappy little Honda the night before, and, with my heart in my throat, I ran outside to check on it. It was intact, although pink vomit was running down the side of it. I called my friend, and asked, "What's the last thing you remember from last night?" "Last thing I remember," he said, "Was you driving up and down the hills in the cemetery." I swore then that I wouldn't ever drive drunk again, and it was over a decade before I weakened. At that time, a friend's mother (whom I had known since I was a tot) was dying of cancer, and we went to the local tavern for what was supposed to be one beer. One led to another, which of course led to still more, I met the brother of a friend I went to grade school with and he bought a few, we bought him and ourselves a few more, and then the bartender was buying us shots of something very vile tasting, very intoxicating. It was not long before dawn when we stumbled up to my friend's house, and I was determined to drive myself home (he walked into his front hallway and collapsed). At the time, I was again driving my father's vehicle (not a crappy Honda this time; my own car was in the shop for some repair), and I headed up the roadway toward home, confident in my ability. As I pulled off the circular exit towards the main highway, I suddenly started vomiting all over myself. I remember saying aloud as it seeped into my lap, "If there is a God or a heaven, just get me home in one piece, without killing myself or someone else, and I'll never do this again. I can worry about the puke tomorrow. Just get me home in one piece." At that point, I blacked out. Somehow, I made it the 30 miles or so to my own place, and I remember crawling up my front steps toward my door like some dying insect. When I finally awoke the next morning (late for work; I called in several hours after I was supposed to be there, and somehow convinced them that I was deathly ill, which wasn't far wrong), I was as sick as I've ever been in my life, and I've been pretty sick in my time. I was messed up enough in those days that, after attempting to clean the vomit out of the car (I called my father...how could I not tell him?...and he yelled at me like I was 15 instead of in my early 30's, "You never learn your lesson, do you, boy? You never learn!"), I popped some painkillers and drove to NY. However, I had a hard talk with myself and decided to honor the promise I had made to God, myself, or some ephemeral phantom. Like Irishgit, I wasn't as concerned about my own possible demise (although the thought of being paralyzed was scary) as I was with being responsible for some innocent person's death or maiming. I know enough about myself to recognize that I could never live with myself were I responsible for such a tragedy. And so, since then, I've never gotten behind the wheel of a car if I've just consumed any quantity of alcohol (or other intoxicating substance; it wasn't unusual for me to occasionally take a drive into the country while whacked out on opiates). Not to pat myself on the back; I just know I'll never be able to handle the consequences...emotionally and otherwise...if the worst case scenario occurs.
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165 days ago

I've never done this, but I had one friend who couldn't resist the temptation, and it used to drive me crazy. He'd call at 2am (or later), sloppily sentimental in the pitiful way that only drunks are capable of, and I'd often have to turn my phone off before I went to bed (this particular friend drank all the time). If he had a "gay side", it sure came out when he was drinking. He'd call to tell me he loved me, that I was the best friend that he had ever had, that we had been friends forever and we'd be so until the day we died, that he could confide things in me that he couldn't even confide in his wife...blah, blah, blah. I don't like talking to a drunk when I myself am drunk, much less when I'm stone cold sober. Added to which, I had elderly parents and didn't feel comfortable shutting the phone off at night. The final straw, for me, was when he showed up on my doorstep at 2am one morning, pounding on the door. Startled out of a sound sleep, I opened the door with an open knife in my hand. He immediately became weepy, and started telling me of how his wife had just left him for good (she was a putana, she was a nymphomaniac, she lied...of course, none of the problems had anything to do with him). I calmed him down, had a beer with him, and then hustled him on his way (maybe not the best idea, considering the shape he was in, but I was more than half-asleep and had to be at work at 8 the next morning). I called him the next day, and, as calmly as possible, asked, "You OK now? You sober?" He admitted he was. I wasn't one to throw my weight around, or act "tough"...I'm essentially good-natured and easy-going, but I have my limit and he had crossed mine. I told him, "If you ever show up on my doorstep that late at night again...ever...putting you into the hospital will be the least that I'll do." Maybe it was because I didn't tend to talk that way, or the conviction in my voice, but from that day to this, he's never shown up on my doorstep after 8 or 9pm (or even during the day without calling first). And I haven't gotten anymore late night idiot phone calls either. I guess it's true; sometimes people only understand one kind of language.
votes 3 Helpful / 0 Funny / 1 Agree / 0 Disagree

166 days ago

Never happened to me, but a friend of mine...far more of an alcoholic/addict than I could ever hope to be...once called me in the middle of the night in a panic. He had lost consciousness at one of the parties he routinely attended (this one in New Brunswick, where Rutgers is located), and awakened to the realization that someone had stolen his car. Although I had just taken a sleeping pill, I liked to think of myself as a good, helpful friend, and I drove down (a not inconsiderable distance), as he seemed to be in such a distraught frenzy. As I remember it (the sleeping pill was kicking in, so my own memory is probably not as clear as it ought to be), we drove to the local police station, and he reported the car stolen. As we were driving away, and passing through a certain nearby neighborhood, we came across his car, parked right where he had left it, and forgotten about it. One of the reasons I never became more of an alcoholic/drug-addict than I am is because of the amount of time I spent in the company of this particular friend. He actually seems to have done some permanent brain damage as a result of his "activities". For instance, he was a big fan of the Ramones, and actually hung out with them on occasion in their "touring van" (Joey Ramone once wanted to buy the leather jacket that his father had given him, but my friend reluctantly turned him down.). When I mentioned that Joey was buried in the Jewish section of the non-sectarian cemetery where members of my own family are buried (including my maternal grandparents and my biological father), he was anxious to visit the location. We did, and he took photos of Joey's grave (along with photos of the mementos that various fans have left). A few months later, when I mentioned the visit, he said, "We never went there, did we?" He had completely, and totally forgotten the visit (the undeveloped photographs are probably atrophying as I speak). Whether that's "wet brain" syndrome, or something far worse (or "better", depending on your definition), it's kept my own drinking excesses to a minimum.
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