Monday, November 17, 2014

Social Drinking Excellence: Johnny Depp

Here's the thing: He's clearly earned a Rummy Award; but I don't have a lot of cute jokes for this one. They just aren't needed. And, really, how many "Captain Jack Sparrow" references can I make here? So Mr. Depp, here's your Rummy. I'll leave the presentation of this esteemed award in your more than capable hands.

From Tastefully Offensive:
The first televised edition of the Hollywood Film Awards got a little cringey last night when a very intoxicated Johnny Depp presented the Hollywood Documentary Award to the legendary talent manager and film agent Shep Gordon.

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Social Drinking Excellence: John Boyett

*pulls old cardboard box out from back of a closet*

*blows off thick layer of dust, revealing the word "Rummies"*

It's been a while...

This page has been quiet, as have I for the most part. But the drunken shenanigans, they'll always be out there, being had by someone.

From Shutdown Corner:
John Elway is as popular as ever in Denver, but name dropping Elway did not help Broncos practice squad safety John Boyett when he was arrested on Monday. Elway, the Broncos general manager, didn't seem too impressed either, because he cut Boyett on Thursday.

Boyett allegedly had a heck of a time out, it sounds like from the police report, via the Denver Post. Take a gander at what Boyett was arrested for. It's quite the list:
"In summary, according to the police report, Boyett was highly intoxicated, threatened a bartender at a sports bar where he ate, drank and did shots, was belligerent to his fellow patrons, assaulted a cab driver, stole a shovel from a construction site so he could whack the cab driver, fled the scene and tried to hide from police by trying to bury himself under mulch."

...It's not like that report wasn't enough for the Broncos to consider cutting Boyett, who was cut by the Colts last September after being charged with disorderly public intoxication and resisting arrest (he allegedly played the "I'm a Colts player" card then), but Boyett then decided that his best move was to tell the police to "contact his boss, John Elway." He did this repeatedly, the Post said, after he was arrested and put in the back of a patrol car.
Well now. Start the clock:
  • I take no joy from this, as a Raiders fan. None. ...Okay, maybe a little.
  • Okay, a lot.
  • Really, we shouldn't judge Mr. Boyett. One day of watching Peyton Manning and Papa John pal around and you'd be drinking yourself into a stupor, too.
  • If he'd been going after Papa John with the shovel, instead of a cabbie, the cops look the other way, right?
  • If this was the '70s, Boyett's night on the town would've been called "Tuesday." And most of the team would have either been right there with him, acting a fool, or at a bar on the other side of town, acting a fool. And bad press about it never would have gotten out. Welcome to the 21st century.
  • Being that I know someone who has tried hiding from police in recent years, I'll have to suggest Boyett's mulch idea. Then again, it's not like it worked for Boyett...
Mr. Boyett, your Rummy is in the mail—it's even been autographed:

"Dear Johnny B.,

Good luck on all of your future endeavors parole hearings.

John Elway"


Friday, October 17, 2014

Put 'Em in the Air

Give this man the Nobel Prize.

From Huffington Post:
A product design engineer living in Charlotte, North Carolina, has figured out a way to easily and securely suspend bottles from the top of a fridge using magnets, freeing up empty space in your fridge for whatever else it is you consume.

The device is simple enough: an eight-inch plastic strip outfitted with a row of three extremely strong neodymium magnets. Those magnets are encased in steel cups, to focus their magnetic strength. The strip is held to the fridge by a high-grade adhesive tape that works at low temperatures.

The product is called bottleLoft, and its creator, Brian Conti, is using Kickstarter to bring his invention from prototype to market. With 23 days to go, he's more than halfway to meeting his $20,000 goal and plans to ship the products by January 2015.
Who can deny a man of such dynamic vision? Click here to fund bottleLoft. Welcome to the 21st century.

Monday, September 29, 2014

Wifey Material: Beer-Loving Bae

I have no idea who she is, but I kinda feel like we were meant to be, don't you?

Friday, August 15, 2014

Miracle Pill

As an established drinker, I treat hangovers like police departments treat Black citizens: an unpleasant but incurable fact of life. I have yet to test out a hangover cure that wasn't total bullshit. Put fluids and food in you, get as much sleep as your schedule will allow, and keep a toilet nearby, just in case. Really, those are the only tools afforded to us in this world.

Or, rather, those were the only tools. Now, thanks to the research of Jeremy Glass at Supercompressor, there's a new weapon to consider adding to your arsenal: Drinkwel.
As the Vice editor for a major online publication, my email inbox is constantly flooded with requests from companies asking me to get wasted and try their "miracle hangover cure." Most of it is nonsense. Needless to say, I was a bit skeptical when a box full of hundreds—literally hundreds—of Drinkwel pills appeared on my desk. I'm a smart drinker nowadays...for the most part. I drink in moderation, try not to mix, and hardly ever shove anything weird down my throat anymore...

...But after my long boozy night, I popped three before bed and woke up feeling amazing. Like I had drank a glass of milk and been in bed before Letterman. Like I had fallen asleep in a hammock near a lake. Like a spring chicken covered in dandelions and doused in morning dew. Something like that.
Interesting. But I'm still skeptical. Jeremy lists a five-day "binge" of testing Drinkwel on different types of drinking nights, but few of his alcohol intakes sound all that threatening to begin with. His hardest night sounds like a happy hour for my friends and I.

Nevertheless, I'll be on the lookout for Drinkwel at my local retail outlets (oh god, I may actually have to go into Whole Foods), in the hopes of putting it through a real road test.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Double Up

“You my friend are a legend.”

Praise like that from Pakistanimal doesn’t come cheap. Somewhere along the way you pay with your liver and your ability to give a fuck. It was late afternoon on Sunday, August 3rd, and I was laying on my couch, sucking on a Gatorade bottle. I sure didn’t feel like a legend.

I had started the weekend by not getting out of work until around 6:30 Friday night. Nothing screams “Turn up!” like spreadsheets. Despite that, when Pak called after 7, I think I agreed to go out in Shadyside before the question had even left his mouth.

After a quiet couple of drinks at my place, we walked to The Yard for a few more quiet drinks. And some quiet shots. Fireball Bombs—quiet Fireball Bombs. “This,” I thought, “This is right where I need to stay tonight. Quiet.”

After a couple of rounds—and sharing disgust over the Paul George injury with the bartender and other bargoers—Pak suggested we give in to the inevitable and head over to Shady Grove, where our boy Jed was bartending. We were settled in on Grove barstools by 11:45, and things rapidly went downhill from there. To summarize:
  • My Twitter buddy Lo agreed to come catch up with us. But as soon as she and her friend sat down on the other side of the bar, and before they could come say hi, a group of guys descended upon them.
  • I made whimsical jokes about it on Twitter.
  • Jed decided it was a “Let’s start doing shots of Rumple Minze at 1:30” kind of night.
  • Lo, her friend, and the guys all disappeared.
  • I made less whimsical, increasingly-stalkerish jokes about it on Twitter.
  • Fried Green Tomatoes, out on her own nearby, came over and joined us.
  • Pak got irrationally angry, to the point where he tried to fight people around us for no reason.
  • I awoke Saturday morning with Pak face down on my couch, texts from FGT asking wtf had happened to him, and some tweets that called for an explanation/apology.
After that apology, I asked Lo where she and her friend had gone. “I think the bar was closing?” Welp…

I’d already had plans for Saturday, and they would require a tad more decorum. Alex is good friends with Turbo, one of the Grove’s owners, whose wife was throwing him a 40th birthday party at their home. This would be good food, good drinks, and—most importantly—good behavior. …Okay, slightly better behavior.

Alex and a tray of crabcakes got to my place just as a torrential thunderstorm unloaded on Pittsburgh. If you ever want to see a woman with perfectly done makeup and hair run like a lunatic, drop a million gallons of water from the sky as she heads towards her car.

We went to Grove to catch up with Jerry, Lil Mo, and other friends who were pregaming the party. Jed looked at me like I was a ghost. It had only been about 14 hours since I’d been there last. He helped fill in some of the gaps in my memory, since the last thing I remembered clearly was him pouring the shots of Rumple Minze. Pak’s mood swing, hanging with some of the other Grove regulars, being there ‘til 4 am—all of it was news to me.

When we finally walked into Turbo’s house, the weather’s uncooperative nature had forced a few modifications. The event was catered by a barbecue restaurant, and the whole deck had been set up with grilling equipment and tables. The rain meant that those were now abandoned, with the food and booze relocated to the kitchen and dining room. Guests were handed towels as they walked through the door. Thank god Turbo and his wife have a big, spacious house, because 50 people were now confined to the first floor of it.

Once inside and dry, though, standard rules applied. I got myself a gin & tonic, Alex got a glass of wine, and Lil Mo—the smallest person in the place—filled up a plate with grilled meat. We posted up at one end of the living room, some of us sitting along the wall facing the rest of the party like a firing squad of judgment. Jerry and I placed bets on how many pieces of birthday cake one of the older women at the party was going to have, as she hovered around the table on which it sat. Several of us watched a couple go into the bathroom together, and theorized on whether they were fighting, sexing, snorting, or some combination of the three. A beautiful Indian woman, who was clearly feeling whatever it was she’d drank, walked over and retrieved her phone from her purse. We watched in stunned silence from two feet away as she wobbily took a selfie, with a decorative sticker on her arm strategically positioned in the shot. Then, never having looked at or said a word to any of us, she put her phone away and stumbled back off into the party.

Jerry, Mo, and some of the other guests departed, but Alex and I decided to hang out a little while longer before breaking for the bar. Thank god we did, because it gave me an opportunity to meet my future wife.

Nicole, a longtime friend of Turbo’s wife, is awesome. Greek and Italian, she’s hilarious, pretty, full of life, and can drink with the best of them. And she loves whiskey; she was drinking it on the rocks. She told us the tale of how, when a guy was getting menacingly close in a bar some years ago, she reached behind her, broke a beer bottle on the bar, and threatened to stab him.

I literally got down on one knee in front of her on the porch.

By this point, I was sipping on a wonderful tequila one of Turbo’s friends had brought to the party as a gift. And just when I thought it was time to stop drinking and head to the bar, Alex grabbed my cup and went back inside for refills. A drink at the bar, a few gin & tonics, and now a few glasses of tequila on the rocks. This could only go to good places, right?

Alex and I, as well as Nicole and several people from the party, saddled up and headed to William Penn Tavern. We got a table, we got drinks, and a brilliant strategist among us got a basket of fries for the table. In our group was the pretty Indian selfie connoisseur, who I talked to for a few minutes. I don’t remember what that conversation was about, or what her name is. I don’t even think I remembered a few minutes later, when Alex and I walked off to the bar’s patio area. She seemed like a sweet girl, though.

On the patio we spotted the bouncer, who I’ve seen around Shadyside for years working at different bars, including Grove. We bullshitted about the drunken people and the stupid shit they were doing…rather meta of me, I know. At one point, he had to make a run inside to use the men’s room. So like a good friend, I stood at the entrance, and eyed up an ID or two while he was gone.

Here’s where things get blurry. From what I can remember, Alex ordered a round of shots. At some point, while standing at the bar after the shots, I began chatting up a cute brunette. She was cool and smart, and interested in what I had to say, which just made her cooler and smarter. After 15 minutes or so, I had started browning out (i.e., coming in and out of consciousness). I suddenly “woke up” to find myself talking to this girl, with no clue who she was or what we were talking about. So, when she excused herself so she could go to the ladies' room, I did what anyone would do: I finished my beer and walked straight out of the bar.

Yup. Not a single fuck given.

I walked over to Grove and sat down, for the third time in 24 hours. Who I talked to (other than Jed), what we talked about, etc., I was too blacked out to ever remember. The next thing I know for certain, I was waking up Sunday morning on my couch to the sound of my phone buzzing with texts from Alex.

Being a legend is a good way to die young.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Morning Briefing

I’m presenting Sunday morning’s text exchange between my homegirl Alex and me without much context…for the moment. That’s because (a.) frankly it’s funny enough on its own, even without much background, and (b.) I’m hoping to actually write up as much of Saturday’s events as I can remember/publish without legally incriminating myself and others.

*wishes he was kidding*

Just know I was technically still sleeping during this. I don’t remember typing any of the AM parts, despite the convo spanning over 20 MINUTES. I think I went to the fridge and cracked open a Gatorade after the first exchange, but from there I went straight to bed and slept until 3 pm.