Dingleberry Gazette

There’s been a wave of ’90s nostalgia lately. KUFO has ‘Smells Like the ’90s’ weekends. The Simpsons had a hilarious episode about how Homer created grunge music. While I haven’t been caught up in the wave, (the ’90s were, like, yesterday, right?) I revisited some of the products that got me through that somewhat hazy decade.

Thanks to an unexpected four-day weekend, (and one too many ’something came up’s) I had a lot of time on my hands Saturday. Debating what to do, and not having anybody to do it with, I chose to run with an old friend by the name of Evan Williams. When I get down in the dumps, I frequently fantasize of buying a bottle of whiskey and heading for parts unknown. Since this was the only vacation I was able to afford on short notice, I took the opportunity.

I’ve talked a lot about my history with alcohol. I know what drinking leads to. I know I can never ‘have just one’, it doesn’t work that way. I also know that when the cravings get too intense I must figure out a way to alleviate them. Translation: get good and drunk, spend a couple days doing it, and don’t get too high-profile about it. I usually take the opportunity to go places that sound like fun, e.g. The Matador, Portland City Grill, McMenamin’s brew-theaters. None of those were on my list today. This was more of a guttural experience.

Saturday’s weather was gorgeous. (Folks on the bus called it the only day of Spring.) I’d missed the hourly bus, and didn’t want to waste another minute being sober, so I walked half a mile to another bus line with three liquor stores on it. The first one was about halfway to downtown, my destination. If anyone knows how to get away with street drinking, it’s moi.

The ladies at the liquor store were quite accommodating. I placed a can of Diet Pepsi on the counter and requested a fifth of Evan Williams black label, a 90 proof bourbon. (Looks like JD, tastes like Wild Turkey, half the price of both!) “I’ll get it for you,” said the manager. She walked over to the shelf and picked up a bottle. “Sorry, we only have glass. Is that okay?”

“Yes, that’s fine.” (I’d forgotten about the plastic travel bottle. Didn’t matter, it wouldn’t be in either style container for very long.) “Didn’t there used to be a counter across here? I don’t recall this store being self-serve.” If I’d browsed, I probably would have spent more money.

I paid for the Diet Pepsi, the fifth, and two airline bottles of Wild Turkey 101. The fifth went into the backpack, the airline bottles went into an easy-access pocket. I was ready to roll, at least for a few minutes.

I walked a few blocks away from the liquor store. People take notice of those who step outside the door and take a big chug, and I didn’t want to cause commotion or draw attention. I found a bus stop in front of a bistro, popped the tab on the Diet Pepsi, and waited. I called Transit Tracker. Seven minutes until the next bus. Perfect! I popped an airline bottle and took it in one swallow. Mmm, warm and comforting. A sip of Diet Pepsi took the burn away.

I waited, looking around. A fellow came out of a nearby chiropractor’s office, looked at me, and dialed his cell phone. Hmm. A race between cops and the bus?

I’m being paranoid; he was checking Transit Tracker as well.

I saw the bus come around the corner, so I popped the second airline bottle, killed it and chugged the rest of my soda. I managed to belch fire just as the bus pulled up. I rode about four blocks when I realized I was on a rerouted bus. Ack! As I jumped off, I saw my other bus heading past about a half-block away. Damn.

Fortunately, it was on a frequent service line, and there was a nonstop stream of scantily clad and very beautiful people walking by. I sat on the bus bench next to a panhandling couple, taking advantage of the view and feeling the fire building in my belly. My aggravation was subsiding, and that ‘hug from within’ that bourbon gives me was taking over. Next stop: downtown!

I cruised by work, got a cup of ice and bought a 20 oz. Diet Peach Snapple, in a nod to my lesbian friends. (Sorry to stereotype, but I don’t think I’ve ever sold Diet Peach Snapple to anyone who wasn’t a little butch.) I took the key to the bathroom and disappeared into the catacombs of the building.

I poured the contents of the Snapple into an empty cup, rinsed the bottle and poured most of the bourbon into the bottle. I topped off the two empty airline bottles, which left about two inches of whiskey in the bottle. Perfect! I chugged that mother like Slash with the shakes, and buried the bottle in the dumpster on the way out.

Now I had two more quick hit shots, a glass full of diabetes-friendly chaser and a discreet disposable flask that I could hit just about anywhere aroma wasn’t a factor. Perfect for a walk downtown.

I walked through the Upscale Mall. The lovelies were out today, but I wasn’t in much of an ogling mood. I wasn’t drinking to forget, I was drowning my sorrows. Soon the airline bottles had been emptied and disposed of. Next stop? Northwest 23rd.

I rode the bus down Portland’s version of Rodeo Drive, disembarking at the library. When boozing on the fly, it’s important to know where the friendly bathrooms are. They have unisex single occupancy toilets, which is perfect. I took another giant swig of my ‘Snapple’. I thanked the always-friendly librarian and stepped out just in time to catch the bus back downtown.

By the time I’d made it back to the Upscale Mall for another visit to the bathroom, (glug glug) it was time to head home. I still had half a flask…

I don’t remember the ride home, which was my intended goal. I sat in my room, finished the whiskey and listened to an old favorite album, then listened again. I fell asleep early, and woke with a moderate hangover.

Still have two days weekend left. I know how to kill a hangover…

I went to the little market near my house. The old guy who owns it smiled. (He’s got a rep for being an old crank. I’m surprised his face didn’t crack.) “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

It had been about a year, the last time I went on a bender. I took two six-packs of Olde English 800 to the counter, then put them in my Fred Meyer grocery bag. Total cost? $9.00. He must have given me a special price; they were $6.50 a six-pack last time I bought them there.

I got home and popped one open. Nothing like that first beer in the morning, when your head hurts and you feel like you are producing sand instead of saliva. I took a big long chug, felt my toes curl and my gut rebel.

Jesus! Did this stuff always taste this bad? Maybe he sold them to me cheap because they had been there since last year? Nah. While OE has never been a flavor-favorite, I don’t remember it being this, um, myeh..

After the third can it started tasting a little better, but not much. By early evening, along with nine cans of malt liquor, the hangover had gone away. I hadn’t ate since Saturday morning. It was time.

There’s no bus service near my house on Sunday, and people with cars were out enjoying them, so my choices were either to walk or have something delivered. I still had most of my weekend money, (drinking on the cheap has its rewards) so I settled on pizza.

In keeping with the whole ’90s nostalgia kick, I chose a national chain that rhymes with ‘Eats a Butt’. I got one of their top-of-the-line combos. I used to work next to one of their outlets, and pizza and Olde English were dinner an average of four nights a week. I got so fat…

The pizza arrived in 20 minutes, and I was ravenous. The verdict? Sadly disappointed.

The crust (usually a golden brown, slightly oily pan variety) was soggy and undercooked. And how many cups of salt per pizza did they use? It was so salty it burned. I ate it, but it will be a very long time before I choose that option again.

I had one final beer before bed. When I awoke this morning, the urge to drink was gone. I went to the fridge, pulled out the last three cans and poured them down the sink. The smell was enough to gag me, and I tossed the bag of empties into the back yard.

There were two slices of pizza left, I ate them cold. They didn’t seem as salty, and tasted better chased with milk. Maybe I was too harsh in my judgments, but I’m sticking with Papa Murphy’s until further notice.

And now? I’m back on the wagon. I’d like to say it was fun while it lasted, but if that were true I’d still be drinking. It served its purpose. I can handle reality again, at least until the next time.

Wild Cherry Diet Pepsi never tasted so good. That’s what I’m drinking tonight.