• Is this really just because Australians are all drunks anyhow?
• Or is it because all ad people are cokeheads, no matter where they're from?
• Could these numbers possibly be any higher in Australia than they'd be in the American ad industry?
• Does this mean that the ad industry has even more drunk cokeheads has than the media?

Informed answers in the comments. (I say yes, yes, no, and who knows?) [via AgencySpy]

Berlin's most beloved singer went into rehab after that, but it didn't stick.

"'I called the clinic and discovered he had checked out. I knew I had to go to him. I chartered a private plane and flew from LA to Palm Springs.’ Pamela learned that David had been taken to a local hospital, but didn’t know which one. ‘I got into a taxi and went to every hospital until I found him.’

"She discovered later that he’d drunk the entire contents of the minibar and had been found by a maid, semi-conscious and half-naked on the floor. The police had been called. This sordid episode, like so many before, was covered up by Pamela and a team of minders."

And, says Bach, don't buy it if the Hoff seems to have gotten his act together lately: "To the woman who recently divorced him... Hasselhoff’s image as a self-aware, post-modern celebrity is a sham. ‘David is a falling-down drunk and I covered up for him for years. Alcoholism destroys you whether you are a regular Joe or the biggest star on the planet.’"

Dayum, lady. Get a blog! [Daily Mail]

They're concerned that their precious sun-kissed tots, who naturally adore the easy-going movie star, will be driven to drink after watching him lounging around the beach and having a few brews.

"Matt is rarely seen without a bottle or can of beer in his hand—he likes to unwind with friends. They surf and down beer after beer," says a tipster.

"The kids who play on the beach think Matt's cool because he's in movies. [The parents] don't want their sons and daughters watching Matt get tipsy. Matt thinks they are overreacting. He says he's a dad, too, and they should mind their own business." [Star]

It's in Murray Hill (hills! the world is full of amazing connections!), whose state flower is the blue button-up shirt and official drink is the Totally Fucked Up, Man slinger. As Heidi is exactly as sexy as an unclothed Barbie doll, expect lots of hot girls and cool-as-Spencer dudes to frequent the joint. [W]

An Ad Age survey of in-house bars at agencies reveals that—much like alcoholics themselves—they run the gamut from classy to trashy. A condensed highlight version:

The Homeless Drunk Beggar

Too cheap to afford a real bar, Digitas in Chicago satisfies staff with a travelling beer cart. "It's operated by Digitas staffers who walk from desk to desk offering a selection of Miller beers (Digitas is Miller's interactive shop), water, soda, popcorn and occasional specialty drinks." In brown paper bags, presumably.

The Frat Boy With A Burgeoning Problem

TBWA/CHIAT/DAY in LA has a "Surf Bar" made of castoff surfboards in its office, where the agency throws keg parties. Yea.

The Sad Hipster Drunk

Rivet in St. Louis has a bar called "The Bar." It has a ping-pong table, and "it's stocked with Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, a client, as well as wine and other basic drinks." So, so sad.

The Rich Alcoholic

JWT in New York has a 50-foot-long, plush, futuristic-looking in-house bar with white decor. It's brand new, and all the Diageo liquor is subsidized, along with bar food. As JWT staffers leave their elegant parties they toss a few coins at Digitas staffers to buy something from their beer cart.

[Ad Age]

Obviously you know by now that yes, it's true, our little weekly that could has folded. I was part of the editorial staff, one of maybe 30, not counting advertising, production, photo, art, and other assorted staffers. Sorry I didn't email earlier but I've been having a pity party with my friends and a few bottles of wine and a big dose of "this economy sucks, sorry you have no job now." It's basically awesome. This morning I was worried about there being enough ice in the machine for an iced coffee and by 4:30 I was wondering how much unemployment actually pays out. The only good thing to be said is that Hearst is a great place to work for because as of now they seem to actually care about our fates. Cathie Black, the indomitable example of a woman, came to tell us the news herself. I just want to say that this isn't a magazine that had been counting the tolls until the final death knell, we have dedicated readers, an amazing staff and inspiring EIC in Susan Toepfer, and I actually enjoyed coming to work every day. It all sounds corny and too good to be true but in a world jaded and morally bankrupt, I felt good about doing my shit every day. Anyway, I'm rambling, but that's what you do I guess when you have no job and you like wine. Anyway Hearst is apparently going to try their best to get us situated. Good luck to all of us out there in the magazine world, it's a shit place to live and some of us happen to be in the toilet. Keep me anonymous just for the fun of it, and in case I do win the lottery and end up back at Hearst. Oh yeah and got a job for me? I'm pretty cute and I like words.

[Not sent by Cathie Black or Susan Toepfer, surprisingly!]

[via MultiCult Classics]

"Siberia was the kind of place you went to drink to forget. 'It's where I went to forget that earlier that day I showed up to cover a party for Freddie Prinze Jr. and Freddie Prinze Jr.'s publicist told me that he wasn't doing interviews,' offered Spiegelman.

"But some memories remain: 'One time [owner] Tracy [Westmoreland] interrupted our conversation to go throw some guy in a Dumpster and then returned to our conversation,' says former 'Page Six' scribe and current Maxim editor Chris Wilson. One of his fondest recollections of the bar is the night he did shots with CNN's Lou Dobbs.

"Another is the time when, just for fun, Westmoreland ordered his clients to hurl his entire inventory — several thousand dollars worth of alcohol — against the wall. 'I put it up in the pantheon with Max's Kansas City, CBGB, Mudd Club," said Wilson. 'I think they all occupy the same shadow of awesomeness.'

"''The first time I went down into the basement I thought, How can there not be a body down there?' said author and book publicist Sloane Crosley. 'It looked like Silence of the Lambs.'" [NYM]

[via Modern Mechanix]

When she invited everyone to "come get drunk on my drink!," Froelich tells us, she assumed that the event would have a cash bar. But she found out that it actually had an open bar—which would have amounted to her selling her name in exchange for free booze for her friends. So the Post told her she couldn't go. The liquor-guzzling paper somehow managed to make the right call, and a scandal was averted. Luckily none of this prevented the Voice's Michael Musto from getting his drink on.

An IZZE FROLIC:

Vodka
Sparkling Grapefruit Juice
Lychee and Lemon Juices

Mix. Don't forget to pay.

[UPDATE: Portfolio media reporter Jeff Bercovici notes that he emailed the Post's PR firm on Monday asking about the ethics of the planned party—the same day Musto reports that the paper told Froelich she couldn't attend. Reporters working together to keep each other in line, huzzah!]

The club was quite a hot affair for the first 40 or 50 years after its founding in 1905. It once boasted members like Dwight Eisenhower, Harry Truman, and the cream of the city's journalism, literary, and artistic communities. Today, it can be more accurately embodied by the membership of gossiping octogenarian oddball Liz Smith. They're old:

A weekly e-mail message is sent out to "newcomers and forgetful old-timers" reminding: 1, Lunch is still $25 and wine is on the table; and 2, please be sure to turn off cellphones, or put them on vibrate.

They like to get buzzed:

A gold medal dangling on a red ribbon is handed out to guest speakers and performers, engraved with the club's mascot: a man in a top hat and tails with a monocle reclining in the bottom of a martini glass.

And they're now equal-opportunity horndogs:

Women were not admitted until 1991, a dramatic change that came about after intense voting, which required a recount because of suspected cheating...

Since the 1920s, the club has produced a yearbook known for its drawings of nude women that used to be inspired by the club's favorite coat check, hat and cigarette girls. At the end of the annual dinner, members will be given their 2008 yearbooks by the club's first woman president, the cabaret singer KT Sullivan.

[NYT]

Application of the hair of the dog may sound like nothing more than a way of getting yourself drunk enough so that you don't notice you have a hangover, but, according to Wayne Jones, of the Swedish National Laboratory of Forensic Medicine, the biochemistry is probably more complicated than that. Jones's theory is that the liver, in processing alcohol, first addresses itself to ethanol, which is the alcohol proper, and then moves on to methanol, a secondary ingredient of many wines and spirits. Because methanol breaks down into formic acid, which is highly toxic, it is during this second stage that the hangover is most crushing. If at that point you pour in more alcohol, the body will switch back to ethanol processing. This will not eliminate the hangover—the methanol (indeed, more of it now) is still waiting for you round the bend—but it delays the worst symptoms. It may also mitigate them somewhat.

Some people say that the Red Bull holds the hangover at bay, but apparently its primary effect is to blunt the depressive force of alcohol—no surprise, since an eight-ounce serving of Red Bull contains more caffeine than two cans of Coke. According to fans, you can rock all night. According to Maria Lucia Souza-Formigoni, a psychobiology researcher at the Federal University of São Paolo, that's true, and dangerous. After a few drinks with Red Bull, you're drunk but you don't know it, and therefore you may engage in high-risk behaviors—driving, going home with a questionable companion—rather than passing out quietly in your chair.

The inescapable conclusion: They believe that only gays are fit for modeling! Outrageous. Or maybe it's something else, now that I think about it. Other possible conclusions in the comments, please.

[via MultiCultClassics]

"Olivia
Monday: Bottle of wine over lunch.
Tuesday: Bottle of wine over lunch. Two cocktails, one tequila shot, one vodka shot, all at a bar in the evening.
Wednesday: Bottle and a half of wine, two cocktails, two vodka shots, two Aftershock mint liqueur shots, all after work.
Thursday: Bottle of wine over lunch, two pints of beer in the afternoon. Finish off the night with two tequila shots, one Aftershock shot.
Friday: Four cocktails, large glass of wine, four tequila shots, two vodka shots, all in one night.
Saturday: Bottle and a half of wine, three vodka shots, one pint of beer, two alcopops, all in one night.
Sunday: Bottle of wine, two large gin and tonics over a long lunch."

"Georgina
Monday: Three large glasses of white wine.
Tuesday: One glass of champagne, two G&Ts, one large glass of red wine on plane. One large glass of red wine , one amaretto on ice at hotel.
Wednesday: Three large glasses of white wine at lunch. Two double vodka tonics in the evening.
Thursday: One glass of champagne, two glasses of red wine on return flight. Glass of wine at home in the evening.
Friday: Glass of wine with lunch. Bottle of wine, two vodka tonics at after-work drinks
Saturday: Two glasses of wine at dinner with friends.
Sunday: Three bottles of beer, half a bottle of wine over pub lunch. Glass of wine at home."

Now go make your own booze diary!

Diary of a Functioning Alcoholic [Telegraph]

I had known this woman from my days as an intern at Harper's. "I may be slutty," she said, "but I'm no intern." It was true, she's now an editor!

After berating me for a few minutes ("If my name shows up on Gawker, I'm going to hunt someone down!") I informed her I wasn't the one who had written about her anyway and that if she would like to register her complaint, perhaps a more appropriate person to talk with could be found. She wasn't interested.

Then, a bit later and drunker in the evening, she approached a group clustered on the sidewalk. They asked her where she worked. "I'm from Harper's," she said. "Harper's Bazaar?" one asked. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," she said. Charmed! Then she bummed a cigarette.

Club Crawler Denies DWI Rap [NYP]
Club Heir-Head Busted on DWI [NYDN]
Earlier: Gawker's Coverage of Fabian Basabe

observation #5

i was going to write about
an old man i saw
but am now so drunk
that i cannot concentrate enough
do do so
or remember him
h9old on
giveme a sec.

The glamorous life of our Team Party Crash reporters takes an occasional toll on their fragile psyches. For an example, look no further than this bonus outtake footage shot at "the busiest, coolest, slammingest bar in downtown Manhattan." Warning: This video is so vivid you will smell the stale beer and bad cologne.

Retirement is the last thing on Hoy Wong's mind. The New York bartender, who turned 90, plans to carry on mixing martinis just as he has done for the past six decades.

But when you sidle up to the bar and say, "Do tell us Hoy (today please, in spanish), how does one get to love such a long fulfilling life?" You may cough up that ketel-and-cranberry when you learn, "Wong himself quit drinking 30 years ago and never smokes, although he professes to have a weakness for women." Surprise, surprise, no drinky, no smoky, and plenty of iGalloping vag is the key to immortality.

Blasted infidel! Bartenders who don't drink are eternally dubious. If we see him on a crawl, we hope he's not offended when we leave him a fortune cookie as a tip. To Read: Life Sucks. Drink Up.

Sobriety Means You're Dead Already Hoy [Yahoo News]

The New York Observer hosted the premiere, and copies of the pink newspaper were strewn throughout the packed club, on the knee-high coffee tables that we kept tripping over after downing a few of the evening's signature cocktails, called the "Lonesome Observer."

So what exactly is a Lonesome Observer? (Actually, we'd imagine any Observerian who made it to Home was a little lonesome, as all his or her colleagues would have still been crosstown on a Tuesday night, closing the paper. But we digress.) A helpful source within Home explains: It's Finlandia vodka infused with peach and passionfruit puree, poured over a dash of grenadine and served in a martini glass on the rocks.

It does not, alas, come with a new sugar daddy to pick up the tab.

Premiere Drama: 'Lonesome Jim' vs. 'Lucky Number Slevin' [OAN]

NYC Bars Map 2.0 [Gridskipper]

Some established TriBeCa bar owners are scrambling to find a legal loophole that will allow them to hold onto their liquor licenses after the State Liquor Authority moved to revoke the licenses upon learning that the bars are within 200 feet of a mosque.

In fairness, it turns out the mosque isn't labeled as such on the building and it's not taking any sides in this dispute, and it has been invoked but what seems like some bitchy, townhouse-owning couple using any NIMBYish excuse to shut down the bars in their neighborhood. All that said, we can't help feeling that if we can't have several options on where to drink within feet of West Broadway and North Moore, we're letting the terrorists win.

N.Y. State Tries to Close TriBeCa bars for Being Too Close to a Mosque [NYS]

Seems the Ace Bar is for sale. And there are no bidders yet.

As we read the eBay ad, you get the business, the lease, and all the fixings — the decorations, the hardware, and a supply of booze and napkins and glasses and straws. The catch seems to be that they won't show anyone the books until you've already won the auction — in other words, you don't actually get to do your due diligence until after you've already committed to buying the place, which doesn't seem particularly diligent.

That said, the donovan20 says spaceman999, who's selling the bar, is an "AAAA++++" seller. So things seem safe.

Ace Bar [eBay]