A friend (who shall remain nameless for his sake) and I were sharing a bottle of soju and a pitcher-bottle of Hite at a Koreatown establishment (which shall also remain nameless)
I really liked drinking at this Koreatown establishment, but its only drawback was that their waiting staff was not the most beautiful to look at.
Anyways, my friend and I were just about done after taking down a few bottles and a few pitchers. We called the waitress and she came with the bill, smiling. After doing the credit card dance of “I got this” and “NO I GOT THIS” and “NO NO NO I GOT THIS,” my friend laid his credit card down and awaited the waitress to return. He had a goofy grin and a happy pair of eyes. I heard Ludacris come on over the speakers. The waitress came up to the table, bowed and thanked us for our patronage.
My friend reached out for the waitress’ wrist and held it as gentlemanly as possible.
“I’ll give you an extra tip if you leave me your phone number on the bill.”
Keep in mind, these waitresses aren’t lookers. It was pure poetry that I heard T-Pain croon over the speakers:
If I take one more driiiiiiiiink…I’m gon’ want to fuuuuuuck YOOUUUUUuUUU~~
The waitress brushed off my friend wordlessly and came back with a blank restaurant copy for him to sign. I could not stop laughing.
I told you that story to tell you these ones.
These are some of the golden eggs that my friends and I have laid in attempts to find a paramour during our late-night quests to drown our brains.
Chicago: Yeah, I mean, I write shit and shit, but I’m really more of a romantic, ya know? I’m all about those feelings and shit girl.
San Francisco: Na, you look good, it ain’t like you….Jabba the Pizza Hut fat or nothin.
San Jose: Anyone ever tell you that you look exactly like Tila Tequila?
Seoul: 저기여, 나는 미국 사람.
Unless you’re one of those naturally smooth alpha male types like Hemingway or that guy from the Dos Equis commercials, most men do not increase in intelligence and charm with every stacking sip of whiskey. Think about the deterioration of game proportionate to the pace and amount of liquor one takes in the course of a night. The drunker a man gets, the more stupid he sounds.
“But Daniel, I seem to get more success the more I drink.”
That’s because the people you talk to are just as drunk as you are Other Daniel.
I first noticed the inhibition of alcohol on creativity and wit when I sat down after another long night at da club to work on some essays. This type of creative is something I can do (and have done) in my sleep. Except I couldn’t, not this time. I was too drunk to write, which was unheard of before.
It was not the grammatical errors, stilted sentences, or typos that really got to me, it was the inability to string together good creative. Even in my drunken state, I knew that it was crap. I couldn’t possibly send this horseshit out. Looking at this faltering prose…it was like having the drunk goggles fall off, and you realize you’ve spent thirty minutes talking to a girl who’s 30 pounds heavier than the whiskey said she was.
What happened to me? I used to think that I was the master of inebriation. I remember I would drop drunk-azz knolij on my high school feelings blog and get so many more eProps than my sober ones. I could maintain perfect grammar and spelling after 10 shots of whatever plastic bottle liquor was in my system. Arguments that I couldn’t link together with a clear mind seemed to dovetail seamlessly in my hazed mind. It’s as if the drunken mist would cover over the inherent flaws of these thoughts, revealing curvy intelligence and wit, leaving much to the imagination. You have to share this thought. It’s the best thought you’ve had all week. Everyone thinks smarts are sexy.
Then you share your thought.
Then you get those looks.
Then the mist clears, and you realize how stupid your thought really was. Your once golden thought, shining as the most goldenest thought you’ve had in weeks, was actually as useful to the conversation as a fart is to a job interview.
I’m not sure how alcohol has been seen as a driver for creatives like Hemingway, Tennessee Williams, and Hunter S. Thompson. The kind of artistic touch that’s in each canonical hand can’t be found in my fumbling drunk fingers. Every blitzed conversation I’ve had with people is a result of practiced auto-responses, which I use to protect myself from drooling syllables and letters out of my drunk ass mouth.
Maybe back in the days (and by that, I mean from 18 to 24), when I had youthful biology that metabolized alcohol into smoothness, I might’ve been able to flip some really compelling and witty stuff. I might’ve written the kind of creative that might go viral. I might’ve thought of a line to seduce that beautiful brunette. I might’ve gotten my Don Draper on with the amount of Old Fashioneds I’ve just taken down.
Now, all I have are drooling letters and syllables whenever I try to talk to strangers at the bar.
It’s even more amazing that I look at period dramas and see old, suave men sip bourbon and whiskey from bottomless bottles. Not a single hair misplaced or a wrinkle in their suit, just smooth speech that moistens attraction and establishes enrapture.
Not I. Not my friends. We say things that make other people say “Keep it down, you insulting fuck.”
This entrance into adulthood is when I feel like I have to say goodbye to those stumbling sentences. Make better decisions. Say no to that extra drink, because the magical liquid that transforms reserve into charm is starting to turn intelligence into idiocy.