New York City is our great corn-eating, god-fearing nation’s unofficial capital for commerce, media, fashion, food, knockoff Gucci bags and excuses for our commander in chief to declare war. Our accomplishments are made even more amazing considering our all-star levels of intoxication.
In honor of April’s role as Alcohol Awareness Month, the Department of Health and Mental Hygiene dropped the bombshell that, in 2005, 14 percent of adults (and 23 percent of guys) binge-drank, which is classified as draining five or more drinks on any occasion every month. This appears to be an abnormally frightening number—nearly one in every four adult dudes help turn the LES and E. Village into Dante’s Seventh Circle of Hell, reserved for sloppy boozers prone to high-fives, tequila shots and sidewalk vomit.
These statistics stir up conflicting notions in my liquor-ravaged brain. On one narcissistic hand, yippee! There’s an audience for these sodden words. On the other, more concerned hand, we suck. Lost within these alarmist stats is the fact that we’re pathetic alcoholics: Nationally, 24 percent of adults and 31 percent of men are dipsomaniacal bingers.
I’d suggest drowning our sorrows with Jack Daniels, but then again, far too many of you would prefer seltzer with a lime squeeze. How did this teetotaling injustice occur? From my beer-goggled perspective, we should be, hands down, America’s top hooch hounds.
The very concept of NYC should drive people to staggering drunkenness: We work pressure-cooker jobs for paltry paychecks, reside in apartments that make pigeon nests seem well-appointed and must deal with the ceaseless, smelly crush of millions. After another morning commute with face smushed against unwashed armpit, it takes every iota of willpower to resist rushing to the nearest liquor store, grabbing Old Granddad and challenging the Tompkins Square Park lushes to an a.m. drink-off.
After all, it would be an honor to imbibe with these fine, bearded men. They deserve our well-lubricated lauds. When was the last time you finished a fifth of vodka before noon? These blessed itinerants are true New Yorkers; they’re sacrificing their ability to walk a straight line to bestow our town the fine besotted reputation it needs. Yes, I said needs. We’re deluding ourselves if we think we’re world-class if we’re not world-class drunks.
If community boards and the draconian New York State Liquor Authority had their druthers, Downtown would be as dry as the Gobi. Respectable saloons and eateries, such as Blind Tiger Ale House and the E.U., have been forced to jump through flaming hoops to secure liquor licenses. As the crime rate has plummeted and the gritty city has turned as dangerous as my Ohio hometown, bars have become quality-of-life pariahs.
Call me inconsiderate, but shouldn’t Downtown dwellers simply be celebrating that their nabes no longer resemble bombed-out WW II Europe? With fewer junkies, muggers and floozies to complain about, eternal nitpickers need a new grievance. This is why bars and inebriates are centered in the crosshairs of irate neighbors and ravenous developers who would rather shoehorn a bank or Dunkin’ Donuts into every saloon.
If we don’t stem this tide, we’ll soon dwell in a dry, boring backwaters burg. Heck, it’s happening already: The stark, sobering truth is that just 14 percent of New Yorkers are slurring their words every month. Are we really that abstemious? Do the city a favor and shotgun an icy Bud and slam some inky Jägermeister. Now repeat. Our bars sling hooch until 4 a.m. for a reason, people, so slur it loud and slur it proud: No one, and I mean no one, out-drunks New York City.
