GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #739: 1 YEAR, 47 DAYS

 It's been one year and forty-seven days since my last drink.

Today I decided to visit Gramps and Grandma, so I stopped by Williams Liquors for his usual airplane bottle of Jim Beam. Williams was my go-to liquor store. My second favorite was Corner Cottage on the other side of town, which had the distinction of being on the way home from work. Also, it was open super late on weekends. But Williams was my favorite.

Whenever I get Gramps's airplane bottle I go to Williams mostly because Corner Cottage doesn't always have them. The last twenty times I went there, they didn't. So even though it's on the way to the cemetery and Williams is not, I go to Williams for it.

Every time I've done this since I quit drinking I have only seen new people working there, but today was different. I saw my usual guy there for a change. He went above and beyond to help me. For example, when I broke my foot and couldn't really get around all that well, he would bring my booze out to the car for me. It was usually a handle of Flesichmann's back then, so I'd give him a twenty. He'd already have my change with him when he came out.

He was very surprised to see me. I can only assume he thought I'd died. I wouldn't blame him, either. Things got pretty rough near the end. If I hadn't stopped when I did, I probably would have died. I might not still be around to write GF #739 as I am doing now.

We talked for a bit, and when I told him I'd quit the booze, he didn't seem too surprised. He knew how much I drank back then. He had to. I came in every other day for a handle of cheap whiskey. Well, almost. When I wasn't going there, I was stopping by Corner Cottage.

Which makes me wonder if maybe the guys there think I died, too. Maybe I should stop by some time. They might think they've seen a ghost.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #14: I'M DRUNK! DRUNK!

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Or something like that.


Seriously, I could never in a million years describe what happened tonight. I'm suddenly reminded of my youth, when any number of crazy things could happen--and then actually did.


This old man's got to rest his bones. I'm going to be 36 next week, and I have all sorts of medical problems. I should probably stop doing all the ridiculous shit I'm doing . . . but . . . well . . . when Charles Bukowski was a younger man, he was told by a doctor that he must stop drinking or he'd die. It depressed him so much he went directly from the doctor's office to a bar, because he needed a drink.


The dude lived for DECADES after that, drinking heavily the whole time. He didn't even die from his habits. Leukemia got him.


But still. I bet you fuckers thought I wouldn't post anything before passing out. Hell, I'm with you. I should have passed out hours ago. I'm not supposed to drink this much. I've had a half-pint of Jameson, a half-pint of Wild Turkey 101, five shots of Bulleit, a Gonzo Imperial (thanks, Katrina!), and maybe--MAYBE--four shots of Fleischmann's (but that was in the afternoon, when I was getting ready for the night).


My doctor is going to murder me. He's going to take one look at me and kill me with his eye lasers. FUCK.

FIRST TANGO WITH FLEISCHMANN'S

[NOTE:  THIS IS ANOTHER SONG FROM THE JESSE RUSSELL/JOHN BRUNI DRINKING BAND THAT NEVER HAPPENED.  THIS ONE IS BASED ON THE TRUE STORY, AS SOME OF YOU MAY RECALL.  ENJOY!]

It was love at first sight.

1.75 liters of cheap whiskey.
For only twelve bucks, you get me?
A doorstop bottle of amber delight.


It was a dry period in my life,
And I couldn’t afford my own booze.
Fitz gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse
The hooch clove my guts like a knife.


It was only supposed to be a pre-game,
I drank half the bottle on Fitz’s chair
I blacked out, and I woke up there
And I barely remembered my name.


I was told we went to the bar
And nearly drank the place dry.
My antics drew all the attention, and I
Was the funniest person there by far.



Hearing these tales of my splendor
Made me wish I’d been there
But all I remember is this stupid chair
I wish I was worthy of this bender.


That’s the trouble with Fleischmann’s, an American tradition since 1862,
It’s cheap and it gets the job done, but good luck remembering what you
Were up to the previous evening, even if you’re told
This Kentucky bourbon is only for the brave and bold.


I shuffled out of Fitz’s place
Still holding the half-full bottle
My body could only move at half-throttle
I felt hung-over, a fucking disgrace.


I stopped at a Dumpster to urinate
When a voice screamed at me,
“What the fuck? Are you taking a pee?”
I jumped and sprayed, I was irate.


“Is that you, God?” I said.
Or perhaps I was on the X-FILES
“I’m in here looking for Marlboro Miles,
And I’m not God, I’m Fred.”


A bum poked his head out of the trash
And he offered his hand to shake
I packed away my trouser snake
And apologized for being so brash.


“That looks like some good whiskey
And it’s been a while since I’ve imbibed
Nothing in my life has since quite jibed
Would you mind sharing some with me?”


What the hell? I thought. Why not?
Alcohol this good should not be hoarded
Even if the fellow looked slightly sordid
I handed it over to the old sot.


We passed the bottle to and fro
For a while, but it got late
Tonight I had a date
So I said, “Have a good one, bro.”


That’s the trouble with Fleischmann’s, an American tradition since 1862,
It’s cheap and it gets the job done, but good luck remembering what you
Were up to the previous evening, even if you’re told
This Kentucky bourbon is only for the brave and bold.


I went home and got dressed
And called my girl, but the date fell through.
What the hell am I going to do?
I still had the bottle, and I did what I thought best.


One minute I was knocking ‘em back
And I was watching TV
Then all of a sudden I lost me
And all I could see was black.


When I woke up the next day
I was naked and bleeding
And, of course, I was needing
Some hair of the dog, or I’ll pay . . . .


I remember seeing a naked man
In my bathroom late last night
It gave me a hell of a fright
And I had to go to the can.


I yelled until my face was red
And lashed out at his form only to hit
The smooth mirror, and the glass bit
Into my hand, and I said:
HOLY SHIT, THAT MAN IS ME!!!


That’s the trouble with Fleischmann’s, an American tradition since 1862,
It’s cheap and it gets the job done, but good luck remembering what you
Were up to the previous evening, even if you’re told
This Kentucky bourbon is only for the brave and bold.


Now the bottle is empty
So I go down to my liquor store
With twelve dollars for more
And I pour new whiskey inside me.

FLEISCHMANN'S: AN AMERICAN TRADITION (a whiskey review)

That’s what it says on the bottle: “an American tradition.” It also says that they’ve been making Fleischmann’s since 1870, which makes it almost as old as the Civil War. Finally, it says that it’s a preferred blended whiskey. “Premium taste throughout the years.”

The first part sounds like the typical hubris that comes with just about every American whiskey on the market, regardless of quality. The second part is undoubtedly true. The last part? Well, that’s the most outlandish claim of them all. It’s not smooth, the smell is atrocious, and the taste makes one wonder where the “premium” is hiding.

But this alcoholic beverage has one thing to recommend it: IT’S CHEAP. One can acquire a handle for $15, generally speaking. There are some places that sell it even cheaper (the bottle in the picture above was purchased for $13). Not only that, but despite its customary 80 proof, it will fuck you up. This whiskey will lead to hook-ups you’ll later regret. It will turn you into the life of the party (at least until you cross the black-out line). People will flock to you, eager to be your friend because you will be the funniest person in the room. It will lead to grand stories that you will tell for the rest of your life.


Don’t let the lack of quality get in your way. Fleischmann’s makes up for this by being your ticket to glory. Hm. Maybe that part about American tradition wasn’t hubris after all . . . .

FIRST TANGO WITH FLEISCHMANN'S

[NOTE: This first appeared on my MySpace blog a couple of years ago, brought back by popular demand. Mostly, though, you have Fitz to thank for this.]




Holy fucking Cthulhu, Fitz, what have you done to me? I've been a jabbering fool for days, all because of that bottle of cheap whiskey you got for me. Have any of you ever heard of Fleischmann's? I hadn't either, not until Friday night. It says on the label that it's been an American tradition since 1870, but they might just be delusional.

I am no stranger to cheap whiskey. Cheap whiskey has helped me through many lonely nights and long stretches when I haven't been able to get the good stuff. But Fleischmann's brought me to a whole different level of madness.

I remember showing up at Fitz's place. I remember a bunch of us having a conversation about the women who have fucked us over. Then Konz and a couple others showed up, and the mists of drunkenness started overcoming me. I remember vaguely some kind of card game, and holy shit! They were playing with Al-cocksucking-Swearengin from HBO's DEADWOOD. Was he really there? I don't think so. I recall them having a framed picture of the man on their wall, so I think they were just using that. The game was spades, but one of them was waving a knife around, and I think he might have shanked one of the losing players. Did they just kill a guy in front of me? Shit, what have I gotten myself into?

I do not recall going to the bar. Presumably, we did, but I don't recall doing so. I hereby apologize for any savage bullshit I might have pulled. Judging from my sore throat the following day, I think I did a lot of screaming, which is par for the course when I'm blacked out.

Anyway, the entire evening was lost in a haze of booze, and when I came back to myself, it was to a loud voice saying, "Hey, are you taking a piss?"

"Fuck no!" I screamed indignantly, but after a moment of careful consideration, I realized I actually WAS urinating. In one hand, I held the bottle of Fleischmann's, and in the other, my cold-shriveled dick. The sound of pattering fluid against metal was a pretty definite sign of what I was doing. I looked around, trying to figure out where I was, and I was still at Fitz's apartment complex, but I was outside, pissing against a Dumpster.

"You're really fuckin' wasted, man," the voice told me.

Who the hell was talking to me? Was I hearing voices? Was God finally speaking to me? And if it was Him, would He then ask me to kill?

"Where are you?" I asked.

"In the Dumpster. Where else?"

I peered over the top of the Dumpster, and sure enough, there was a guy in there, knee-deep in trash. He was kind of a short fellow, and it looked like he was ripping open garbage bags.



"What the fuck are you doing?" I asked.

"Looking for Marlboro Miles. You smoke Marlboros?"

"Sorry," I said. I looked down to see a yellow puddle at my feet, freezing over. Now that I was done, I flipped myself back into my pants and zipped up.

"I'm gonna' get me one of those sweet-ass jackets," the man in the Dumpster told me. "I'm almost there, too. It's gonna be fuckin' awesome."

I nodded. "Hey, do you see any Coke points in there?"

"Sure," he said. "A few. Trade 'em for a couple a' pulls on that bottle ya' got there."

I shrugged. "Sure."

He moved around for a bit, and I heard him spinning the tops off of several bottles. When he handed them over, I had about ten of them. I then gave him the bottle, and he tried taking a swallow.

"What the fuck?" he muttered. When he examined the top, he swore again. "I hate these fucking things. Sure, it makes pouring easier, but what about us guys who like drinking from the bottle?" He took another drink, then gave me the bottle back.

I took a swig, myself. Anyone else would have probably worried about whether or not this guy had something, but for those of you who have forgotten high school science class, alcohol kills germs.

"You live here?" I asked.

"Fuck no. I just come here for the Marlboro Miles. There's a few more Dumpsters, too, so I gotta' go."

"Me, too. Good to meet you."

I put the cap back on the bottle and started looking around, trying to get my bearings. It took me a little bit, but I finally realized where I was (and I must have been wandering around a long time before I came back to myself), and I started the trek back toward Fitz's place across some of the most treacherous ice and slush I've ever encountered. It didn't help that I was still tipsy. After a while, I realized I was staggering around like a lunatic, and I was holding the bottle the whole time. Things would not have gone so well if a cop just happened to come along. There was no way a bottle this big was going to fit in my pocket, so I held it inside my trench coat as I made my way through what could have been the movie set for John Carpenter's THE THING.



When I got back to where I must have started, I began looking around for my car, and I was not very successful. It was nowhere to be seen. As I stumbled blindly around, I kept pushing the button on my key ring that would make the lights flash. Nothing.

After a half an hour of wandering, I finally saw the bumper sticker (WHAT IS TABARD INN? GO TO: TALESOFQUESTIONABLETASTE.COM), and I made my way home. The next day, I came to feeling queasy, and I wasn't able to stand up without having the world spin around me. When I finally gained the courage, I looked at the bottle and realized I'd drunk between half and three-quarters of its contents. Horrified, I wondered if I should get my stomach pumped.

Later that night, I sat down to watch THE OX-BOW INCIDENT, and I brought my friend/arch-nemesis, Fleischmann's, to watch it with me. In the opening scene, Henry Fonda starts downing shot after shot of whiskey, and I decided to keep up with him. At the fifteen-minute-mark, I realized I'd had about six shots.



So, what the hell? Why not continue?

By the time the movie was over, I'd probably had about twenty shots or so. When I looked at the bottle to see where I was now, I was shocked to discover that the line of booze was just about at the same place. Was I losing my mind? Was I already wasted? I just felt buzzed.

So I started attacking the bottle as if I hadn't had a drink in months. My guts churned with cheap booze, and once more I found my life overcome by the mists of drunkenness.

I have one memory of jabbering wildly at some asshole who had broken into my bathroom and was walking around naked. I took me a moment to realize that I was screaming at the mirror.

The next day, the bottle was still filled one-quarter of the way. I felt like laughing and crying at the same time. When I ventured forth from my house to hang out with Jesse, Jason, and Vince, the neighbors looked strangely at me. I wondered what else I had done last night, then decided I didn't want to know.

The drive home from Jesse's sucked. It was so cold the inside of my windows were frosted over, and no amount of scraping was able to banish it. The garage door was frozen shut. A river of ice threatened to break my ass several times on the way to my back door.

It was time to get acquainted with Fleischmann's again. Not too much. Just enough to help me get to sleep. At least, that's what I told myself as I started swilling it directly from the bottle.

I woke up this morning naked on the bathroom floor in a puddle of my own blood. Clearly, it had come from my nose, but my face was not bruised and it didn't hurt much at all. During cold weather, I'm prone to nosebleeds, so that's what I guessed happened.

When I pushed myself to my feet, I realized that I'd written something on the mirror in my own blood. What it was, I honestly can't say. It was unintelligible.

I wondered vaguely how much I'd had to drink. Stumbling to my bedroom, I sought the bottle, and can you guess how much was left?


A FUCKING QUARTER OF BOOZE REMAINED!



For now, I am sober. Tonight, when I get home, I might have to attack that bottle again. It's either Fleischmann's or me, and something tells me I'm going to lose once more.

Or maybe I've won. Maybe I've found a bottomless bottle of booze. Could Dionysus be so generous?

Don't be surprised if I come in tomorrow, and I'm no longer me. Fleischmann's may have stolen my body by then. If it's me, I'll wear a red carnation . . . .