Guidos. Guidettes. Fake ID’s & Alcohol Abuse!

 

Alcohol.

I was wondering ┬ájust how much this liquid lifesaver actually affects most of us. I’m also very curious to why so many of us have different reactions as a result of alcohol consumption. I don’t know the answer to this but I must admit, watching a 120 LB man with a flea infested mullet, bad sunburn and three teeth actually believe he can beat up six police officers armed with tasers on an episode of Cops is very entertaining. I can’t lie.

It is obvious alcoholism is a serious disease and should not be taken lightly. Although I enjoy my drink, I never completely understood the whole concept of what actually drives an individual to the point of alcohol abuse. I know this is a struggle for many and reasons are different for all. Perhaps anybody struggling with this can educate me.

I had my first taste of alcohol at the ripe age of 15. When I say taste, I mean a sip of my Uncles Sambuca. A gulp of my Grandmothers red wine. A swig of my Aunts beer. Testing the waters. Never seemed to acquire a taste for the spirits until a bit later in life.

I had my first “I’ll never drink a drop of alcohol again as long as I live” experience at 17. I’ll never forget that day.

The summer day began as usual with a work shift at a local pizzeria. I worked amongst family and friends. It was honestly one of the best jobs I ever had. We laughed, cried, worked hard & partied even harder.

This was the late 80’s into the early 90’s. So naturally we were all in full Guido mode. We planned our nite as we showered in 89 gallons of Drakkar Noir. TKA serenaded us gracefully through the “kicker speakers” in our Ford Mustang 5.0’s & Iroc-Z’s. Our signature “Vanilla Roma” air fresheners and “Italian Horns” dangled from our rearview mirrors.

 

We fastened our black velcro reeboks, tucked our yellow sparkling bum equipment shirts into our Sergio Tacchinis, sprayed spearmint binaca into our mouth until our teeth fell out as we prepared to make our entrance.

Proper Guido etiquette was in order. We were now ready to pay a $40.00 cover charge to ultimately wind up grinding some acid wash Jordache jean wearing Guidette on the carpeted dance floor with an aqua net infused tidal wave hair due chewing a piece of grape hubba bubba as a 14k gold name plate dangled around her neck spelling out the words “Joeys Girl Forever” as her boyfriend was named Frank.

Fake ID’s were a staple of the times and was a “must have” in order to get into the local clubs. You obtained these by driving down to NYC and meeting a man on the corner of 55th & 2nd that resembled Paul Bunyan on crystal meth. You negotiated. A few details were required to finalize the process like your name & address. For some strange reason we always gave the most complicated information which turned out to be impossible to remember. For instance, Mr Bunyan asked me what name and address I would like. My response. I would like to be Franco Dominicano Balentini Farusigato from 111767 Apt #175 East, Forgettaboutit Way, Florence, Italy. Zip Code 912675.

I now realize John Smith from New Jersey would have been much easier to remember. Who knew until you experienced your first fake ID quiz by the door man.

Somehow it always seemed to work. Except the one time my cousin Dennis lost his Fake ID. We had to improvise. We called my Uncle Chet and all was good. We picked up his legitimate ID which I believe stated he was 27 years of age at the time.

We were on our way. Until we actually got to the door. The crew of 6 or 7 strong submitted our fake ID’s and we entered the club ready to party. Then it was finally Dennis’s turn. He presented his ID stating he was Uncle Chet, 6’3, 220 lbs, brown hair and brown eyes. Only problem Dennis was actually 5’4, 135 lbs, black hair and blue eyes with a face full of freckles.

Yeah. We didn’t think this one entirely through.

Needless to say, the doorman chuckled “wow you lost some weight and appear to have shrunk a bit!” He then proceeded to let him in.

I bellied up to the bar and ordered a 142 oz “sex on the beach” filled plastic fishbowl laced with hepatitis C and began sucking this drink down like a “Desert Arab Man” at a water park. I drank 3 more.

I woke up the next day with a naked “Desert Arab Man” in my bed, a half eaten cheeseburger on my chest, a tattoo of the Italy boot on my shin as I was French kissing my toilet seat that wasn’t cleaned in a month. I couldn’t move as traces of yellow stomach bile hardened within my eyebrows.

I said, and I quote, “I will never drink again as long as I live.”

Hahahaha hahahaha.

I went to work the next day. Delivered pizzas as I threw up 17 consecutive times. I even left a Sicilian pizza on the roof of the delivery truck as it blew off and landed on the vehicle behind me.

It’s was a bad day. By 5pm I felt great and had a “sex on the beach” in my hand ready to do it all over again.

Obviously when we are young our decisions are based on stupidity and inexperience. We have all been there.

I can honestly say, I enjoy my drink. I also respect alcohol and what it can do. I know my limits as an adult.

I never understood the connection where someone drinks enough alcohol to the point they feel the need to eat their mother or become so emotional they lay down in the middle of a four lane highway and weep because their pet parakeet lost a feather. It’s actually amazing to watch.

We all drink our drink for different reasons. Some to socialize. Some to cope with the stress of daily life. Some because they can’t make it through the day without.

Whatever your reason is, try and be responsible. If you can’t handle the affects you should not be drinking it. If you are drinking alcohol to get through the day, get help.

I am not a preacher and don’t judge anybody. Do whatever you all need to do. Just my opinion. Drinking should be fun. It should make you happy. Enjoy it.

Happy Sunday. Cheers my friends!