First met: my Dad rubbing some booze onto my gums at a party when I was an infant so I'd stop crying. Said it was an "old family trick." Yeah, we're Irish. My Mom hates that story.
I remember when I was maybe ten or twelve by Dad gave me a Budweiser once when we were hanging out at the beach and I had to struggle to finish it. The first couple sips were good, but after that I didn't like the aftertaste. I thought beer was kind of crappy.
In high school I used to pour myself a nip of Beam from a bottle in my parents' cabinet on occasion since neither one of them ever drank bourbon. Room temp bourbon was my first liqour-love.
First drunk: I'm honestly not sure. I remember one time when I was 13 or 14 my buddy and I swiped a bottle of Glenfiddich from his Dad's cabinet and drank the whole thing in this tree fort. First hangover was that morning, getting unwittingly interrogated by said Dad who was an FBI agent at the time. He knew. We didn't have any idea which was the good liquor he'd notice go missing and what was crap. I think the next time we swiped a bottle of Old Granddad and drank it with some other punks at this rope swing on the bank of this river. I remember my buddy wiping out on his bike on the way home.
felinamojokitty wrote:my parents had a tavern and restaurant in Norwalk CT..
When I was about eight or nine, I snatched up the ice-cold glass of coke my pops was drinking and stole a mighty swig. What a wretched taste! That was no mere coke, you see, but a rum and coke. If that is booze, I thought, count me out.
When I was fifteen I went out on the town with my buddy Nasty Neb Nix and this guy two grades above us, DJ, and a bunch of his Spanish friends.
DJ was a goddamn musical prodigy - piano, trumpet, guitar, violin, stand-up bass, etc etc - but he also liked to go out by the harbor at night with his pals and drink sangria. With me and Nasty attending such a gathering, it was not long before I began hopping up and down and remarking how I was experiencing a strange and exhilarating sensation.
On Nasty Neb's counsel (he had gotten drunk once before and so he was more experience than I) we began a series of sprints up and down the sidewalk. If I could still jog, Nasty said, then I wasn't really that drunk.
That sage advice led to me getting so legless drunk that I have yet still to piece together the apparent journey I made from the harbor to my bedroom, where I awoke the next morning.
First drink: Older sister threw a party at the house. I was somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 years old and the beer was Heineken. I don't think I've drank once since.
First drunk: At 15 we were stealing from the box wine my friends parents kept in the garage fridge. Then we found the liquor. Some sort of cheap bourbon as far as I can recall. I had to walk my bike home because riding made me feel nauseous and I was afraid I'd take a dive.
First blackout: Involved weed, actually. Never a smoker or pot-head, I was drunk at the college apartment.. not even a party, just "Tuesday" - and I took a hit off the double chambered bongstrosity of my roomies and promptly stopped breathing. Asphyxiated. Greatest high I'd ever felt when I was finally able to suck in some air. And then plop.
Last time I drank well-bourbon-on-special: Slept on the bathroom floor because I couldn't move and when I did get up, I had no idea that time had even passed and thought it was the same day.
First drink was beer slyly passed under the table at family gatherings at my uncle’s farm. Passed to me and my twin brother by that very same uncle. I was 11 or 12. It was done as the adults all sat around drinking and bullshitting as the sun set. Under the cover of darkness and the adults already having a “glow” on as they referred to it, I met Pabst Blue Ribbon. It tasted horrible but I tried to never let on. It was a right of passage. My uncle thought I was man enough to handle it.
First taste of whiskey the Bubblez (the aforementioned twin) and I had snagged us a pint of Old Crow. We were 12 I think. Maybe 13. Not really sure where. We tried to entice the neighbor girl to drink it with us down by the creek at the back of our neighborhood. She had a sip and declared it not for her. She fucked off back home. We both had a big pull and nearly chocked to death. Tasted alright but burned like hell. That feeling though. That was gonna be worth the burn. We had a pull or two more and saved the rest for a family camping trip later that month.
Which brings us to our first drunk. We had managed so score some peach schnapps some, hey we were kids. We smuggled the stash in our sleeping bags to our grand parents trailer. That Saturday night while the adults were around the campfire a bunch of the kids in the campground met at the giant tire swing. An actual tractor tire hung from a telephone pole frame. Well weren’t we the cool kids whipping out a little booze for the evening. Ha. For all their bullshit talk about how much they’d drunk before in their short lives those kids sure shied away from the bottles. A few had a second pull from the sickly sweet schnapps but none got past the smell of the Old Crow. Well the other kids helped with the schnapps and we finished the pint of OC. Needless to say we were snot slinging drunk but the time we staggered back to camp. Grandma was fit to be tied but Grandpa assured her all would be right come morning. He woke us at the ass crack of dawn our little heads pounding for some good old fashion road work till we swore we’d never touch booze again.
It was a lie of course. The repercussions while substantial never came close to the enjoyment of the blissful feeling of the night before. There was no turning back. We had tasted and felt the face of Bacchus. We would chase sweet Mother Booze the rest of our days.
Now you're ready for some anti-dry-otics!-BeerMakesMeSmarter
If worms had daggers, birds wouldn't fuck with them-Todd Snider
