The Coast News Group
Doorman Diaries

Daytime drinking is a whole other beast

A day of drinking usually begins with a simple statement declaring, “Yes, I would like to tip a glass of Macallan instead of a cup of coffee, thank you.”
Early boozing can start out fairly simply — a phone call from a friend you thought previously had plans. A daft pal you promised yourself you’d never spend time with again, only to give in.
Alas, you have precious few irresponsible chums to go to the bar with you during the day.
Now actually drinking liquor at 7 a.m. is the first sign of diminished capacity. No person in their right mind,  excepting college students, blatant soaks and small town columnists, would actually want that swarthy warm cocktail before a jolting cup of Costa Rican Jose.
But what path does that leave? You can’t actively recruit friends who have occupations drenched in responsibility and respect. You have to have a quiet stealth about who you invite to your day of sipping daylight and massaging nightfall into your hip pocket. It isn’t for the meek.
It’s also not for those who can’t ration themselves amidst the glaring sunshine. You have to exude absolute abandon and resolute control over yourself. Duality is your bitch … if she so chooses.
Because that’s the critical aspect of your journey: to recognize that which was once spoken by a big screen ginger queen, “control is an illusion.”
You have no idea where your night is careening after you’ve drank away the sun’s rays. The second you think you’ve controlled your situation is the very instant you’ve lost control.
One of the many unfortunate side effects of your day is that you’re most likely going to make a few poor culinary choices. A greasy burger here, a questionably odd-meated burrito there. Along with all the other pollutants you’re putting into your body, the food should also fit the punishment schedule. 
The most important point to realize is that the day belongs to the bottle. It’s not yours anymore but hopefully you knew that going in.
Once you’ve pulled your eight-hour shift with the day’s last bartender, tip your cap (and the ‘tender) and take a cab home with thoughts and memories about the day’s excursion.
The grand design of your slippery slide into inebriation is that it affords a decent night’s sleep.
And when the day ends — better described as your tolerance reaching its threshold — give a wink to the night sky and say goodnight while the rest of the schlubs are melting their livers into the wee hours while your head hits the pillow amid dreams of your next day drinking adventure.