More Art

Local artist and DK friend/art contributor, MB, has provided these images that I wanted to share with our readers. And by "provided" I mean that I sneaked photos of his artwork and posted them here without his permission. But really, he is responsible for our logo and shield design that is featured on the blog and we hope that he continues to support our drunken efforts. Hey, I know they aren't drink related but isn't there more to life than being drunk all the time. No? Ok. Thanks MB!

Wall St. a.k.a. Graffiti Alley

More wisdom from Knoxville's street artists. Or something. Maybe you can decipher what they mean in the comments...or not.

Stink-O Alert!

Stink-O! Stink-O! Stink-O! It’s time to get stink-o. Tonight, TND via bourbon at my place. This is a call to all DK contributors, past or present, to gather and drink until the drinkin’s done. W.L. Weller requests your presence and attentive liver around 8 pm. Supplies are limited so be prepared to bring more booze or shuffle onward to the bar for backup drinks. That is all.

Monday Hangover

Ugh. It’s been rough the past couple of weeks. Holidays, work, and illness have me down but not out. Only a few more weeks remain in 2009 and if I’m going to make any kind of “go” at enjoying this stressful time of year you can bet that I’m going to drink my way through it. Therefore any unsecured booze, beer and wine that I encounter will have to deal with my liver. Those half-drank bottles of bourbon and vodka at my place: gone by tomorrow (starting tonight). The upcoming company work party: I will perform the “hat trick”, perhaps get fired. House parties and friends’ gatherings: I will cadge your party booze! Plus there will be trips to the liquor store and brewery. I’ve been in a fugue of sobriety for too long and it must stop now.

Douchery

Not certain if that's a proper word, but as a title for this post it's apt.

As a fitting end to DfV, I need to relate some hilarious circumstances that Mackey and I were privy to last evening. Now admittedly, DfV started strong but tapered off towards the last couple of days due to circumstances beyond our control. Shit happens. Fortunately we were able to make a suitable rally last night at The Hill.

The Hill, like many such places, has a challenge for patrons regarding its wing sauce. Nothing new there as I said, but last night was a real gem. Towards the higher end of the Scoville Scale, you will find a nasty little bastard called a Ghost Pepper. This vile nuke is beyond my taste buds, and I'm a hot sauce fanatic in general.

Anyhoo, we are enjoying a tasty meal, cold beverages, and in my case a large glass of delicious bourbon...the bar was not packed by any means, when some young folk at the bar decide to fuck up their evenings completely by participating in the challenge. To be brief, what started as a night of modest drinking ended in a gastro-holocaust for these two. One guy began in earnest, consuming three before breaking out in a sweat, drooling, and eventually puking in a hastily provided trash can. No amount of water, and later-milk- could help. The kitchen staff came out to scorn this well-meaning young man(read: laugh their asses off) before he put his head down in defeat. The kicker is that his friend looked upon this goddamn farce and decided "Hey, I want some of that." Set upon this course, he at least made it to the bathroom before puking all over the damn place. They went down faster than a cheap whore on check day.

Folks, these challenges...from large steaks, to hot sauce consumption...are invitations to defeat. Much like a casino, the house usually wins. These two defeated warriors slinked off with their friends to an evening filled with heartburn, hallucinations, and toilet paper usage. Even now I suspect they still have a 'lava tube' effect going on.

To sum up, these kids(clearly students) probably learned a lesson...and they'll remember that more than any exam or test during finals week. Welcome academic probation!

Efficiency

As in uptight German efficiency, but you know, with beers. Also, the Krauts* are big on revenge so it fits with the season. That's pretty much the end of the correlation though.

We pride ourselves on attaching useless numbers and values to our drinking. For example, we prefer to boat on a craft with a high BPH quotient. What's that? Why Beer-Per-Hour value of course. The performance of the boat itself is meaningless if you can't get drunk in a hurry and remain shitfaced for hours on end. A speedboat that may haul ass is thus useless if it cannot support enough cooler space for the thirsty passengers. Conversely, a lumbering cruiser is useless if it takes too long to get back to dock for more beer** even if it can otherwise maintain a large number of boozers for a set time. A few years back yours truly and venerated compatriot Sweet Tooth tried to knock back the little 8 oz bastards of High Life...thinking that they would get colder faster and not have the lukewarm dregs we all face towards the end of a longneck.

Big. Fucking. Mistake. We went through two full packs of those little bastards before taking the first turn out of the dock. Turn back around, try again. Conversely, drinking tall boys on the lake is also disrecommended. Takes too long, beer gets warm, and the BPH suffers accordingly...to say nothing of how dumb a koozie looks on them.

Back to the last night. We are, of course, mug club members from waaaaaay back. Drinking on Tuesdays at the Brewery is cheap and you get loaded on IPA pints. Add the four ounces extra from the mug and you are getting the best deal in town. That's the truth. You can roll out of there for right at ten bucks(tip them well though) and be quite polluted.

Beerficiency is not a mere matter of ounces though, timing is also key. Every sound drunkard should be aware of specials and where to get soused on the cheap. Turns out that Wednesdays at the Brewery are quite good as well. Two-dollar pints(same as happy hour) for club members. Still the best deal, but the added 50 cents*** reduces the beerficiency accordingly.

Also timing is key. A new club member these days will have to wait for the bartender to fetch their mug...depending on how new you are, that is akin to Herakle's labors. Whereas we old fucks have ours on the low rung and the employee can get it, fill it, and you drink it quick as Pan. Beerficiency is a tricky thing, so I encourage each reader here to ask: "Am I really making the best use of my time and drinking dollar?"

For purposes of this action, I'm not including drinking at home in this formula...sure it's cheap to drink a twelve pack, but that's not entirely the point. Ridicule is also a part of this science. You can tell your dog or cat at home that you are shitfaced on Southpaw and they won't care. Smugly reminding the aging trollop with the nine dollar appletini**** that she's needlessly wasting cash is something else entirely. Mockery and pettiness are driving factors here at DK.


* The ones driving Panzers, not the pussies of today
**Buying boat dock beer is for fucking idiots
***Be certain to point out the outrage of paying the extra 50 cents
****Appletinis suck beyond belief and therefore you for ordering one

Self-diagnosis

I'm not talking about groping tit or nut to feel for the Big C. Nay, my concern is the dreaded and highly disturbing fear of empty glasses-Cenosillicaphobia. Sure there are larger and more complex issues for the beer-drinking body politic, but none more personal than this demon. While we drink with a vengeance, let us prosecute the war against this scourge.

Many times I get a feeling of unease as I gape at a rapidly depleted pint. Dear Lord, what if it goes dry soon? Where is the bartender? Am I expected to fill my own mug, thus confronting my worst nightmare? Awful.

When I first came to grips with my illness, I was just out of college. Before seeking gainful employment, I decided that during the interlude I would two-fist frequently. My mind recoiled in horror at the obvious problem belied by this otherwise noble effort. Should I sip both at the same time? Is it cheating to chug one and concentrate on the other? These rotten questions were pushed aside as the bottom came closer and closer...mocking me...blah, blah, blah.

Fortunately, upon the advice of charlatans and witch-doctors I discovered that the best way to end this crippling and debilitating fear by closing ones eyes and then gulp your way to metaphysical bliss. Speak proudly to the barmaid for another. Tell your asshole friend to get his shit to the kegerator. Stroll proudly into the store for more booze early in the morning. Don't judge me, retiree, I've got an illness and I'm out of beer. This is post-modern America after all, everyone's got some baggage like this.

I would propose a therapy group, but honestly I can't help any of you. Recommend instead you go to the Brewery tonight and let those $1.50 pints salve your battered soul. Explore your rich inner landscape and spear your inner demon right in the taint.