by Deirdre Sinnott

When I was 14-years-old, I found myself in a tight huddle with a few of the cool high school kids on a cold night in the tiny village of Clinton, New York. For most of the people in our knot, beer was the main attraction. But finding myself standing, concealed by tall cedars, in the town’s small graveyard, splitting a six-pack of Genny Cream Ale, gave me my first tantalizing glimpse of the social glue alcohol could provide. Across the street stood our destination — the Clinton Arena and that night’s hockey game. I stamped my feet, hating the cold of the crunchy snow and loving the freeze of the Genny as it slipped down my throat. I was in ninth grade or so and it was the first time I had my own beer to drink. But of course it wasn’t my last.

I rode a wave of suds through college. It was my constant companion, whether I was flopped on the industrial carpet of my good friend’s dorm hallway charming his mates or perched on a stool at the glittering bar of Phoebe’s Garden Café in Syracuse, NY, after a grueling day in the college theater mines. The arrival of the beer signaled that a new phase of the day was beginning. Beer was my reward, my comfort, my release.

I was never really satisfied with the volume of liquid that a mixed drink offered. I was incapable of sipping, so my alcohol/drunkenness calculations were frequently found wanting if I strayed into the rye-and-ginger or the gin-and-tonic world. I found that beer, in a single serving size can, prevented the sort of mess that a Long Island Iced Tea might engender. At least drinking beer usually meant that I was not going to rely on friends to hoist my arms over their shoulders and stagger together, like a bad imitation of the Rockettes, across the manicured lawns of fraternity and sorority row to get home.

As I grew older and moved to New York City, beer made for the perfect excuse for camaraderie. After rehearsals, my fellow theater addicts and I would retire to a bar that served 50-cent beers in eight-ounce glasses. The place was crusty, covered with a patina of wild 1970s action where men, still dirty from a day of manual labor, smashed down shots and brawled for fun. Some of the holdovers still occupied the same barstools; their hands remained rough, but not as steady. Buying rounds there was easy and drinking them even easier.

Beer rarely broke its promise to me. It remained a reliable 5% alcohol level, enough to soothe my troubled brain and normally expensive enough to keep me from enjoying too much of it.

I don’t remember my last beer. I know I was drinking Budweiser instead of my beloved $1.49, 40-ounce malt liquor. I’m sure it was cold and had an effervescent bite as it slid over my tongue. It, no doubt, radiated tranquility through my core. The difference with that beer was that I drank it alone. The “social” part was over. I stuck with the beer, not the friends.

Now that beer and I have parted ways there are no hard feelings — at least on my part. Breweries across the U.S. and Ireland might have noticed a slight decline in their sales numbers in February 1997, but I’m certain that others have taken my place at the tap.

But during those early years, I loved beer so much that I said I could write verse about its virtues. Of course I was too busy enjoying it to actually put fingers to keyboard. So here is the best I can do now, in this post-beer moment:

Time was, I was queer for beer, my dear.
I drank and I drank till I stank.
I didn’t care if the weather be fair,
Snowy or hot or what-not for my shot.
Nights weren’t concluded till I was polluted,
Like a sack on my back run down by a Mack.
When the sun rose and I woke from my dose,
God it was vile, lying in bile, face creased by floor tile.
Those mornings I vowed to stop getting plowed
Alas by midnight all the might of my fight
Would fail by the wondrous pale of an ale.

This is Deirdre Sinnott’s second essay for Drinking Diaries (back in November, she wrote a great piece called “The Grinder.”) You can find out more about Deirdre by visiting her website at www.DeirdreSinnott.com.

by Laurie Lindeen

I grew up in the 1970’s in Madison, Wisconsin–number one party town in the “If it feels good, do it” state. Being able to drink with the big boys was a cultural expectation:

“So here’s to sister Laurie, sister Laurie, sister Laurie. Here’s to sister Laurie she’s with us right now. So drink motherfucker, drink motherfucker, drink motherfucker…” At sixteen, I was doing everything within my power not to puke up the Pabst Blue Ribbon I guzzled in front of everyone who was anyone in my high school. The beer tasted like it smelled, and I wasn’t good at drinking yet, so my stomach lurched and my throat constricted. But I couldn’t boot in front of everyone; I’d never live that one down.

By the time I was in college, I had gotten pretty good in the drinking arena. I threw up a lot in the dormitory bathroom in the wee hours after overdrinking, and that probably saved me from alcohol poisoning.

After I dropped out of college for the umpteenth time, the only job that jived with my drinking habit was to play in a rock and roll band (of course there were many other forces driving me toward that career choice).

“You mean you’ve never tried Jagermeister?”  My bandmates and I stared at the British journalist in utter disbelief.  Someone–a drinker, no less–who’d never tried our black gold, our show business enabler, our nightcap du jour, Jagermeister?

That was then, this is now:  I’m the author of the memoir, Petal Pusher, a wife, and the mother of an eleven-year-old boy. I hold an MFA in creative writing, which I now teach.  I don’t get around much any more by choice and have tempered my wayward drinking.

Last spring, I was a literary guest at a charming small town Midwestern university. In the company of two talented writers—one, a poet, the other, a writer of fiction–we read, discussed the writer’s life, and spoke to classes. The college was old enough and the town small enough to inspire that feeling of being immersed in another era–a feeling I love.

After a fun day spent talking shop and fielding questions by on-fire up-and-coming writers, we’d unwind over a beer and cheese fries at said town’s campus watering hole, which also happened to be a sports bar during the ever-popular NCAA basketball tournaments.

As night two came to a close, and we were all scheduled to return to our homelands the following morning, one of our hosts muttered, while looking over our shoulders and rooting for Memphis, “I know this great seedy bar downtown.”

Maybe it was the sports bar thing, or the old rocker in me, or the tired busy mom sprung loose and basking in the glow of professional attention that made the idea of a seedy bar sound appealing. It had been some time since I’d been taken to a good seedy bar; I used to love them for the camaraderie amongst the regulars, as well as for the jukebox and décor.

It should be noted that I adore alcohol and nicotine, and for those reasons, I keep a tight reign on myself a majority of the time.

But that night I told myself, “When I drink, it’s not like I make bad choices that jeopardize my relationships, or anything.” (Never mind my weak justification, all that really needs to be said here is yes indeed, I was game.)

After endless glasses of strong ale and half a pack of American Spirits, our once high-brau/low-brau literary/cultural conversation became increasingly snarky and unintelligent. Fittingly the bar was named after an obscure lit. snob villain — was it Grendel?  And thankfully, it closed.

Safely re-deposited at our “guest” dorm,, I offered a hyper-enunciated “Goodnight” to my colleagues that I hoped said, “Really, I’m not that wasted,” and I closed my door behind me.

I couldn’t make it to the toilet fast enough. A silver pipe attached to the throne jutted out of the wall, my knees dug into institutional bathroom tile, and I heaved and hurled off and on until early morning. When the polite graduate student who would be driving me to the airport knocked on my door, I was still shaky and uncertain as to whether or not I could hold it together for the forty-minute trip.

Ghostly, dizzy, and still churning, I gripped the dashboard. After five minutes I rasped, “Can you please pull over now?” How cute is that: Mrs. Roper ruping on the side of the road after tying one on in a seedy bar with a pretentious name. This scene occurred twice.

The rosy shades of embarrassment and self-disgust brought color back to my face and I apologized and over-joked for the remainder of the ride. Poor guy—my driver was so cute; he actually tried to make me feel better by claiming that he’d been in the same predicament earlier that week.

After checking in for my flight, trembling and pale, I administered to myself a steady stream of Tums, Pepto, a plain McDonald’s cheeseburger and diet Coke, just like I had in the old days.

By boarding time, my crisis was under control, though I looked and smelled like a middle-aged celebrity DUI mug shot minus the celebrity.

Lesson learned: There’s nothing cute, charming, or witty about a middle-aged drunk writer. Sad, yet comforting realization: I don’t still have it in me.

In spite of the fact that I feel like I’m twenty-two on the inside–all wild, enthused, and energetic–I’m not. And I can’t party like I used to. That, I conclude with wary resignation, is a very good thing.

Laurie Lindeen is the author of Petal Pusher, A Rock and Roll Cinderella Story. She was the lead singer of Zuzu’s Petals. Her work has appeared in Rolling Stone’s anthology Altarockorama and the online magazine, The Morning News. Find her on the web at www.laurielindeen.com