How Not to Drink too Much at a Party

"The way I figure it, the law of averages is on our side..."
Playboy, 1965

Sometime between 8PM and that point when you hear a voice in your head tell you it's time to go... there is everything else. It can be a sober, hail fellow well met, gallant exit with thanks directed to the right people. Or, a slightly buzzed exit with gratitude displayed to the hosts and a little too much hand shaking and kissing on the way out. Not that that's a bad thing...

New Years eve night (1986) and I was on a California king size bed - in Atlantic City Long Branch - with three sorority sisters - watching TV. We were all leaning up against a massive butt ugly headboard when a sorority sister suggested we all have sex.

The night started with beers at the Stoned Stone Pony. Somewhere along the way it turned to gin martinis. Beaver Brown (WS: I don't think that was a Beaver Brown night though, you're conflating that with New Year's 1983) sang about bourbon and a retro order for Whiskey Sours was made (WS: The other option that night was to see Buddy Guy and Junior Wells at the Deckhouse in Asbury Park, which in retrospect we should have done instead). Wally mentioned his girlfriend was having a party for her sorority sisters at her parent's Atlantic City Long Branch condo.

We arrived at the girlfriend's-parent's-condo filled with sorority sisters. I had been ignoring the "GO HOME " voice in my head for at least an hour but this opportunity was too much to pass up. A thick scent of cigarette smoke and hairspray filled a room covered in white shag and pale blue everything else -- a perfect frame for 20 drunk sorority sisters.

Champagne was poured and I made my way to the sliding glass doors of a balcony overlooking the black ocean. I slid the door open and drank cold air like water. My nose hairs froze and sweat quickly iced. Revived, I walked back in and found the parent's bedroom. The TV was on and I sat at the foot of the bed.

Rule 1) Avoid mixing drinks you say? Wrong. Avoid moving around? Good for you. When you get to the party find a place to sit down and stay there. Don't go anywhere unless you need to refill or defill. Moving around, dancing, push up contests...these all get the alcohol soaring through the bloodstream. The less movement the better.

Rule 2) Avoid drinking anything fast. Beer. Soda and anything. Tonic and anything. Champagne. Wine. All bad. Drink hard liquor straight. Cognac, Single Malt Scotch, Bourbon... No ice. Trust me, it'll slow you down and all the wrong sort of women will be impressed.

Rule 3) Arrive late and leave early. This was Trad Dad's advice to me many years ago. Not that I ever took it, and I doubt you'll take mine, but there it is. The strategy is everyone will remember the party didn't get going until you arrived and it went to shit about the time you left.

Rule 4) Do not lie down. Not until you're ready to stay there.

Rule 5) Eat. A lot. Greasy food works well. Popcorn does not. Keep it dense. Beef, chicken wings, fried anything...Eat as much as you can. Someone passes a tray of food around...eat it.

The bed comforter was soft and a shade between Tiffany and Infantry blue. It was marshmallow-ey and calming. I leaned back and laughed at the TV. A girl joined me. Then another and another. A cute brunette with nice hands asked the question and I answered by throwing up on the Tiffany-Infantry marshmallows.

Looking back, I remember seeing them out of the corner of my eye scramble off the bed in film-like slow motion. I could see fear on their faces. I don't remember screaming but Wally told me there was a lot of it. We left quickly. No erudite goodbyes. No hail fellow well met. No exchanging of phone numbers. No that it mattered, but we did obey Rule 3. I never did like that rule.

Update: Corrections and comments noted in RED from Wallace Stroby.

Tomorrow: The Hangover & What Not To Do

Trad Rule # 9

Trad Rule #9: You can never have too many sweaters. Have a happy and natural fiber filled Fall.

Trad Rule #88

Vogue October 15, 1936

Trad Rule #88: Never date a woman who is proficient with firearms.

Double Breasted Rules

He's not nine but you get the idea... (from The Trad Library)


DB with unbuttoned button down


The highly evolved Mr Boyer

"It's over yonder -- by that Fry-toe Lay truck. " I looked 'over yonder' to see a Frito Lay truck in a shopping center parking lot somewhere in North Carolina. 'Frytoe Lay.' 'Over yonder.' Language I'm still unsure of but understand.

Beth Hyer gave me a small bag of Frito Lay chips in 4th grade at St Thomas More in Chapel Hill. She was stunning in her plaid jumper and crisply starched white shirt with Peter Pan collar. I wore a blue blazer, dark grey trousers, a white shirt and a navy clip on tie. There was one kid in my class who wore a double breasted blazer. I didn't like him. Not even a little.

It's hard to write about a double breasted blazer. Not because it's too damned hot to even think about it but, like a middle aged purchase of a Porsche Boxster, it comes with a whole lotta baggage. The rules are simple: Navy only. Peak lapel. Side vent. Six button. Never with a button down collar shirt. Good rules. Nothing is more vacuous than a notch lapel DB blazer -- unless it has a center vent and comes in maroon. One shudders at the thought.

A small detail overlooked by ready made retailers is the required button hole on each peak lapel. For some unknown reason, I'm guessing cost, ready made double breasted usually has only one button hole. This is as criminal as a notch lapel to the cognoscenti.

A simple fix is to have the retailer add a button hole to the other lapel. It's not easy and they'll try to talk to you out of it, but stand your ground or go someplace else. Chicago's Michigan Avenue Brooks Brothers did it for me and they did a good job. The head tailor also told me what a pain in the ass it was but he assured me he understood my desire for balance.

A friend lives in Los Angeles and he's mastered the not so balanced West Coast casual look. Sockless & Gucci-ed, open collared & waistcoated, he runs every day and looks 10 years younger than his age. He also has custom shirts made with double cuffs, button down collar and a monogram on the pocket. And while he likes to wear this shirt with a DB blazer, I blame this lapse in judgement on L.A. and not him.

There is an old rule about never wearing a button down collar with double breasted anything. Once aware of the rule, it's easy to see the clash between soaring peak lapels and a constricted collar anchored with buttons. It's just wrong. Spread collar is preferred even if it's open which the English like to do. But what about a unbuttoned-button down collar?

The highly evolved know they're breaking a rule so they leave the collar unbuttoned. This is language to those in the know that you know, you know, what's going on. The DB is complicated language.

Yanks prefer the blazer buttoned up to the Brits who prefer to wear it unbuttoned. Wearing it unbuttoned in the States or buttoned up in London leads to more language problems. It's another language I understand but am never sure of. This much I do know -- Never give a double breasted blazer to a nine year old.

One Night Stands & Zippos

This picture of Central Park should put you in a reflective mood. If you're reading this, bouncing your knee and biting your finger nails -- consider coming back later this evening. Maybe with an adult beverage. Put on some music and slow down. Just a little. I have something to tell you.

I was talking to Stew, a blogger (Blood & Grits) I have a great deal of respect for. Not only as a writer I admire and envy, but as a man who can simplify complicated things. Be they, cooking pig trotters or giving insight into life or finding really cheap hooch. In short, I think Stew is a poet. A couple days ago Stew asked,

"Why the fuck is every blogger compelled to take photos of his submariner and post them right along with the pictures of "the serene bedroom" with bedside tables littered with stained espresso cups or teacups with PG Tips bags hanging like limp dicks from their lips?"

I told you he was a poet. I tell Stew about a blogger who showed me a Vietnam era Zippo he bought off eBay. I noticed the unit insignia on the lighter was from a division that had been disbanded in the 1950's. Stew said,

"Shit happens if you have no knowledge of the artifact you pursue. Knowing the artifact and simply acquiring it are mutually fucking exclusive. But today, to have is to know. A simple blog post stakes authenticity or at least makes a claim of being "in the know." Most of the time, as you say here, it shows one actually knows little of what one claims. Fucking Internet."

That's it. You can stop reading now because all I'm going to do is repeat what Stew said, but I'll use a lot more words and be far more confusing. It's so good I stole it. I would add that curiosity is key to a well lived life. Buying a picture for the sake of hanging it on a wall is like having a one night stand with a stranger. Sure, it's pleasurable, but not for very long.

I was interested in European advertising posters about 12 years ago. I was living in Chicago and there was a dealer across the street from the Art Institute. I looked at posters but bought four books on poster history. The dealer rang the books up and said, "It's nice to see someone who's really interested and willing to research before buying." I though he was busting my ass for not buying a poster, but he added, "Most folks just want something to hang over the sofa. They could care less about where it came from, who designed it, the significance of it..."

A funny thing happens when you accumulate a lotta shit you don't know anything about or have any connection to. It quickly moves from "The Get" to "The Get Rid Of." For bloggers it becomes a prop for electronic Show & Tell. Sadly, while authenticity is touted it's usually sacrificed. If you don't know what it means or stands for -- how the hell can you appreciate it?

I would add that the experience of the purchase -- that is, "I stayed up 'til two in the morning bidding on eBay for this" is not the experience I'm talking about. However, learning what it is, researching the background and history, wondering who owned it before you, or even better, knowing who owned it...These simple things make the connection.

I'm trying hard not to get too curmudgeonly about this, but I guess the question is this. Are you curious? In the end, curiosity didn't kill the cat but kept me alive while being in a world I didn't think much of. No matter how bad things got, I always wondered, "What's gonna happen next?"