When I was associate editor for a business trade covering the international entertainment industry, I frequently attended trade with splashy cocktail parties for the launch of new TV series or consumer products lines. Once, in NYC, I was at an MGM party for the launch of a new tween apparel line for the Pink Panther. Everything at the party was pink and the signature cocktail was cosmopolitans (back before Sex and the City popularized them).

istock photo

Now I’ll admit that I had a few glasses, but I was suddenly too inebriated to stand. I laid down on the sidewalk, in the middle of New York, and told my colleagues to leave me there. They finally got me back to my hotel, where all I wanted in the rapidly spinning world was to sleep off what I knew would be the mother of all hangovers.

One of my colleagues was worried about me and called 9-1-1. To my surprise and horror, I was shaken awake to find my hotel room crawling with police officers, paramedics and firefighters. That’s right, five big, burly men in my hotel room – which under different circumstances I might have found amusing. They asked me to come with them and I resisted, saying all I needed was to sleep. They insisted. I refused. They finally said: “Amanda, you can come quietly or go out in cuffs on the stretcher.” I meekly agreed.

I spent a long night in a New York City hospital (and felt smug pride in our Canadian health care system), where it was discovered that one of my drinks had been drugged. I had to take a cab back to my hotel in the morning with no handbag, no coat and no shoes (the hospital gave me a pair of socks) and run up to my hotel room to grab the cash to pay the cabbie.

For the rest of the week, several high-powered industry executives, who had witnessed my humiliation, jokingly asked me if I would be “on water” at the roster of cocktail parties that evening.

And that is why I don’t drink cosmopolitans.

Post from: EveryJoe

Your Craziest Drinking Story

It’s easy.  Just email Sabrina with the subject line “crazy drinking story” and we’ll take it from there.  Not only will your story be featured on our site but you’ll have bragging rights for a week!

Take a look at this week’s winner.  Can you beat it?

Submitted by Anonymous from Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Two years ago I was out of town for new years and I was pre-drinking with friends in our hotel room. Before we left for the bar I went back to my room and on the way I came across a cute girl. I approached her and talked to her and it turned out she was going to the same bar as I was, so we exchanged numbers.

At the bar I had more drinks and after some time the girl came.  We talked, dance and had many more drinks.  I threw out the idea of going to a strip club and she  actually agreed so we left the bar.  At the strip club we had even more drinks and things started to get pretty hot so we headed back for the hotel.  She told me to come back to her room so I went to my room got a condom and headed on over to her room.  She was already in bed, I climbed in and we watched some TV, her friends clued in and left.  But one stayed behind and declared that she was tired and was going to sleep on the floor in the room.

I wasn’t going to let this girl’s jealousy ruin our moment and neither was the girl I was with, so we turned up the volume and went about our business under the sheets. I put on a condom and then there was a knock on the door.  She threw on some clothes and went to see who it was and it was her friends checking up on her, making sure I wasn’t some creeper or something.  She gave them the OK, cause I’m awesome and came back to bed.  At this point all that alcohol was beginning to catch up with me, so for the first time ever, I lost my erection. So here I am completely wasted, with blue balls – no erection, naked  next to me, her friend “sleeping” on the floor.  Only thing that was left was a walk of shame … literally … I put my clothes on and she told me to come back tomorrow and there was no way I was going to do that.  So, when I got into my room I realized I left one sock in her room. Why do I still remember this?

I never threw out that odd sock, so at the end of every week there is always an odd sportek ankle sock staring at me, reminding me of my night.  As if I needed the reminder.

Post from: EveryJoe

Your Craziest Drinking Story

On to the story:

When Scott and I lived in St. Thomas (yes, the Virgin Islands. Jealous much?), we were regular weekend features at Iggie’s Beach Bar. Conveniently located at the bottom of the cliff we lived on, it was walking distance from home; it also served the best portabella mushroom fries on the planet and had karaoke every Saturday night. They don’t call it paradise for nothing, folks!

Typically, I got my fill of tropical rum drinks during the week (that’s a whole ‘nother blog!), but my weekends were reserved for long neck bottles of beer, usually of the Coors Light variety. Our waitresses were trained to keep the buckets coming. We’re from Texas, see, where beer has the highest allowable alcohol content in the nation. Many a night we were amused by the stunned faces of the other patrons to see the number of buckets of beer Scott and I could put away and still sing our asses off on stage. And then walk home after!

One night, however, I startled both the waitress and my husband by shaking things up. I had noticed a sign change on the wall across from our regular table (stop judging me) and was intrigued. Cruzan Rum, a favorite in the islands, was advertising their new Voodoo Juice–a scrumptious-sounding concoction of 4 flavored rums, dark rum and (a minuscule amount, I’m sure) fruit juices. It was all served up in a really kicky plastic pail with spears of fruit chunks and little parasols. I wanted one, and would not be satisfied until I had it.

It was so freakin’ good! In another setting, at another time, I never would have believed there was even any alcohol in it. That, my friends, is the evil design. I was amused by the pail and its adornments and sipped it with abandon. I wasn’t even bothered by the $12 price tag!

It just so happened that this particular night wasn’t just any old karaoke, but a karaoke contest hosted by VI’s own Pirate Radio!! Fueled by my liquid courage, I got up and sang my heart out. My first song choice that evening was Tricia Yearwood’s “That’s What I Like About You”. Naturally I rocked the house (countried the house just doesn’t sound right) and returned to my seat, convinced I’d won the contest.

Scott sang brilliantly and others sang so-so, but I was not to be swayed in my confidence. So confident was I, in fact, that when the waitress came by and asked if Scott would like another beer, I butted in and ordered another bucket of bolstering. “Um, really?” was the waitresses response… or so I’ve been told. Scott looked at me and said “Honey, are you sure?”. Well of course I was sure! I know the difference between sure and not sure.

Yeah.

Right.

The remainder of the night only returns to me in oily flashbacks whenever I see a rum bottle. As told to me later (much, much later), I got up on stage one more time. Before the music started, I even made an announcement:

“A shong sho nice, I’m shingin’ it twishce.”

And I did. A memorable rendition of the same song, that would probably get me kicked out of Tricia Yearwood’s fan club. (Ms. Yearwood, I hope you understand it was the rum. I’m very, VERY sorry. And please tell Garth I said hi!)

Needless to say, I didn’t win.

How Scott managed to get me back up the hill I’ll never really know. He said I stayed funny right up until the point the puking began, and then we both lost all humor. It didn’t help that by the time I woke the next afternoon I was absolutely miserable with pain and a mango aftertaste that I just couldn’t shake.

And the capper? Both of my hard-earned plastic pails were left sitting on the table at Iggie’s. All things considered, I nearly cried when I realized this. I really wanted to blame Scott, but I’m just not that cruel. It’s not like he didn’t already have his hands full!

The moral of the story? Rum is the devil’s swill and to be avoided at all costs.

Heather Hyde-Herndon currently lives and works in Houston, Texas. She has one collaborative novel published (written with her husband) and is an aspiring screenwriter.

Image|Svenstorm

Post from: EveryJoe

Weekly Feature: Drinking Stories

On to this week’s drinking story:

Oh, where to begin?

How about the time I was on travel with some co-workers back in Virginia and our flight was delayed, so we decided to (of course) go to the hotel bar and while away the hours. Someone came up with the grand idea of “drinking the alphabet”.

So we started with A is for Acid Trip (Midori Liqueur, Gin, Vodka, Rum & Tequila), B is for Bronx Cheer (Apricot Brandy & Raspberry Soda), C is for Canadian Diamond (Champagne, Grenadine Syrup, Strawberry)… well, you get the idea.

I do remember staying semi-lucid until the P, which was a “Purple Jesus” (being south of the Mason Dixon Line, it contained pure grain alcohol and grape juice). It was so named because after consuming one, it was rumored that one would actually see Jesus. I don’t know about seeing Jesus, but I do not remember any of the flight home (Dulles to San Diego), nor the taxi ride from the airport, not really crawling into bed.

I do remember feeling my own bed and thinking how nice it was. I did not wake up with a hangover (never really have), but it took about 2 weeks before I really felt like going drinking again.

As a wounded veteran (Purple Heart, even!) of the corporate marketing wars, Angela had been laid off three times in eight years. Deciding to heed the advice of her therapist, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results,” she decided to create a product that would be hers and hers along. Thus, Your Personal Poster was born. Although she has really had to learn to like Top Ramen and Mac & Cheese, she’s been in control of her destiny and has never been happier.

Image courtesy of  kvanhorn story and headshot courtesy of Angela Watson

Post from: EveryJoe

Weekly Feature: Drinking Stories

Today’s drinking story comes to us from Hollywood Dave Stann and involves not a small amount of drinking and betting.

Let the story begin:

OK, so this isn’t the most insane drunk story I’ve had but it’s certainly the most recent…

Last week was my buddy Mike’s birthday so a bunch of us went out for drinks in Hermosa Beach.  Mike is a degenerate online poker specialist, and also in attendance was his roommate Melissa who does video interviews for an online poker news site, and another degen gambler Eddie who’s definitely won his fair share of live tournaments.  It would only be a matter of time before the prop betting high jinks started!

We ended up knee-deep in bourbon at an energetic little beachside bar watching an 80’s cover band rock out when the prop bet came to me: we would take turns betting on what one of us thought the truth was of a situation.

For instance, we had one of Mike’s friends write down on a bar napkin how many people he thought Melissa had slept with in her life.  Then the rest of us put up a hundred bucks apiece and made our own guesses as to what he thought the truth was.  The key to this prop bet is that the TRUTH of how many people she had ACTUALLY slept with was totally irrelevant — the only thing that mattered was what Mike’s friend would THINK the truth was.

Continuing with the debaucherous theme of that bet, I guessed how many people the mid-40’s hottie singer of the cover band had slept with while everyone else wagered on the outcome.  Despite what a little hard body she was, I watched her for awhile and decided I thought she was married with a few kids, so I wrote down 17 and watched as everyone guessed super high – Eddie’s 23 won over several ridiculously high numbers.  The night went on with us setting lines on everything from how many people in the bar we thought had incurable STD’s to how many bar patrons our party girl cocktail waitress had gone home with over the years.  Fun, fun, fun!

At the end of the night as we were leaving, I found myself up $100 to birthday boy Mike, who made me do one more bet to give him a shot to break even.  Of course Mike saved the ringer for last – how many people Melissa would think my ex-girlfriend had slept with since our breakup!  No one wants to have to think about that, but obviously Mike was leveraging the emotional scarring there for his own sick purposes and just as he had planned, I guessed low (4) to his pick (6), which ended up being closer to Melissa’s number (9!!).

So just like that, birthday boy was even and I had only the cold comfort of knowing that the actual truth of the situation was something I would thankfully never have to know!

—

Hollywood Dave Stann is an actor, television personality, and professional poker player.  He is  known as “The Undisputed Bad Boy of Blackjack” and is considered one of the best blackjack players in the world.  He is also a member of Mensa, excelling in math, and graduated from Kent State with a degree in theater.   Stann is recognizable by his alternative style and flashy prescence at both the blackjack tables and the poker tables.  Stann has amassed more than $150,000 in live poker tournament winnings and plans to take over the world of high stakes poker in the future.

Image|no prawns

Post from: EveryJoe

Weekly Feature: Drinking Stories

On to the story:

When Scott and I lived in St. Thomas (yes, the Virgin Islands. Jealous much?), we were regular weekend features at Iggie’s Beach Bar. Conveniently located at the bottom of the cliff we lived on, it was walking distance from home; it also served the best portobello mushroom fries on the planet and had karaoke every Saturday night. They don’t call it paradise for nothing, folks!

Typically, I got my fill of tropical rum drinks during the week (that’s a whole ‘nother blog!), but my weekends were reserved for long neck bottles of beer, usually of the Coors Light variety. Our waitresses were trained to keep the buckets coming. We’re from Texas, see, where beer has the highest allowable alcohol content in the nation. Many a night we were amused by the stunned faces of the other patrons to see the number of buckets of beer Scott and I could put away and still sing our asses off on stage. And then walk home after!

One night, however, I startled both the waitress and my husband by shaking things up. I had noticed a sign change on the wall across from our regular table (stop judging me) and was intrigued. Cruzan Rum, a favorite in the islands, was advertising their new Voodoo Juice–a scrumptious-sounding concoction of 4 flavored rums, dark rum and (a minuscule amount, I’m sure) fruit juices. It was all served up in a really kicky plastic pail with spears of fruit chunks and little parasols. I wanted one, and would not be satisfied until I had it.

It was so freakin’ good! In another setting, at another time, I never would have believed there was even any alcohol in it. That, my friends, is the evil design. I was amused by the pail and its adornments and sipped it with abandon. I wasn’t even bothered by the $12 price tag!

It just so happened that this particular night wasn’t just any old karaoke, but a karaoke contest hosted by VI’s own Pirate Radio!! Fueled by my liquid courage, I got up and sang my heart out. My first song choice that evening was Tricia Yearwood’s “That’s What I Like About You”. Naturally I rocked the house (countried the house just doesn’t sound right) and returned to my seat, convinced I’d won the contest.

Scott sang brilliantly and others sang so-so, but I was not to be swayed in my confidence. So confident was I, in fact, that when the waitress came by and asked if Scott would like another beer, I butted in and ordered another bucket of bolstering. “Um, really?” was the waitresses response… or so I’ve been told. Scott looked at me and said “Honey, are you sure?”. Well of course I was sure! I know the difference between sure and not sure.

Yeah.

Right.

The remainder of the night only returns to me in oily flashbacks whenever I see a rum bottle. As told to me later (much, much later), I got up on stage one more time. Before the music started, I even made an announcement:

“A shong sho nice, I’m shingin’ it twishce.”

And I did. A memorable rendition of the same song, that would probably get me kicked out of Tricia Yearwood’s fan club. (Ms. Yearwood, I hope you understand it was the rum. I’m very, VERY sorry. And please tell Garth I said hi!)

Needless to say, I didn’t win.

How Scott managed to get me back up the hill I’ll never really know. He said I stayed funny right up until the point the puking began, and then we both lost all humor. It didn’t help that by the time I woke the next afternoon I was absolutely miserable with pain and a mango aftertaste that I just couldn’t shake.

And the capper? Both of my hard-earned plastic pails were left sitting on the table at Iggie’s. All things considered, I nearly cried when I realized this. I really wanted to blame Scott, but I’m just not that cruel. It’s not like he didn’t already have his hands full!

The moral of the story? Rum is the devil’s swill and to be avoided at all costs.

Story courtesy of feathermaye and image by Svenstorm

Post from: EveryJoe

Weekly Feature: Drinking Stories

If you’ve ever drank more than a thimble full of any sort of alcohol then I’d wager to guess that you probably have a couple of good drinking stories yourself.

So, in the spirit of letting everyone have their stories heard/read, I’m doing a weekly feature here called Drinking Stories [original title, no?].

If you have a drinking story to tell, email me at Amy.Tucker@b5media.com along with a link to your website if you want a link or feel free to submit the story anonymously. I know all too well that some drinking stories are best told anonymously.

This week’s story comes to us from Anonymous. It’s a cautionary tale about drinking and driving.

I was due to review a nightclub (not an act but the club) that night, for a newspaper I edited. But when my daughter came home from school that day, she told me something most unsettling. Even though I am signing this as anonymous, I do not wish to disclose.

At any rate, after being assured by my daughter’s therapist that it was OK for me to go do the nightclub review that night, which, since I was divorced, meant leaving my daughter alone (she was too old for a sitter), I went.

I had a limit to my drinks in those days too. It was higher then than it is now, but the point is that I had had only perhaps three drinks. But I was blitzed. I was gone. I was way outta where I was in any condition to drive.

But, realizing how far gone I was, I could only think that I needed to get home. Though the night club acts (it was a variety show format that night) were still going on, I staggered to my feet and headed for the door.

I knew that I was too drunk to drive. I knew I had not had an unusual amount of liquor. I recognized that the encounter earlier with my daughter had predisposed me to being more easily affected by the alcohol. But I realized the bottom line was still that I was very drunk.

I remember heading south on Lexington, bearing right, making a right somewhere in the lower East Fifties and heading west. I know that I must have made a right on Madison, a left onto 72nd, and come out at Central Park West. But I remember none of it from the right off Lexington till I emerged from the park. I remembered none of it even then. I had no idea how I’d gotten there. I know I said a prayer of thanks for my safe arrival as I headed for the garage where, for an exorbitant monthly rental, I parked my car.

I got home safe but shaken…and resolved I would never drive drunk again.

[Anonymous]

Image|crossfirecw

Post from: EveryJoe

Weekly Feature:Drinking Stories