A Little Bit of Right

Ah hangovers. God’s little way of saying, “Job well-done.” It’s been a while since I’ve achieved “the drinker’s afterparty” twice in one weekend—yeah, I’ve been slacking. As per usual, this past weekend consisted of several small stories/events that painted an overall picture; a “What the f**k” photographic mosaic, if you will.

Friday night Tony and I headed to a house party out near McKeesport (did someone just say “Here we go again”?). Along the way, we stopped at Wendy’s so that I would have something in me other than my bloodstream to absorb alcohol. While standing in line, I noticed that the gentleman at the front was having some trouble placing his order. He was a middle-aged white man (MAWM), dressed in a suit and long overcoat. Standing in line at a Wendy’s in a predominantly black neighborhood…let’s just say, he was noticeable. After he had finally sorted out just what he wanted to order, MAWM looked at the cashier in bewilderment when two cups were placed in front of him.

MAWM: “Ummm…*pointing at cups* What are these?”
Cashier: “For your drinks.”
MAWM: “I…I didn’t order drinks.”
Cashier: “They come with your combo meals.”
MAWM: “Oh. Even for ‘to go?’”
Cashier: “Yes.”
MAWM: “I didn’t know…*pointing at cups again* I have no use for these.”

At this point, a brother in line in front of me turned and gave me a wide-eyed “Are you f***in for real?” look, which I returned (and paired with a “THIS motherf***er…” headshake). The cashier was speechless. He was about to take the cups back, when MAWM decided to throw caution to the wind and indulge in a couple of cold beverages after all. He left at the wheel of a Jag after getting his food, which confirmed my suspicions that I had probably witnessed his first ever foray into fast food nation. His personal servant must have had the night off.

Once we arrived at the party, we quickly established ourselves as one of the top beer pong teams, although we had frequent run-ins with another W&J alum, who combined with his boy to take 2 of 3 matches from us. We drank until 5 a.m., when I reached my saturation point. I was in the middle of a cup of beer when a voice from the bottom of my esophagus yelled out “OK JOEY, SHUT ’ER DOWN!!” I don’t know who Joey is (or why my inner workings have a heavy Brooklynite accent), but he’s good at his job. My throat closed off, and I put the cup down obediently. Joey’s compatriots must have been at work in everyone else’s digestive systems; the 10 or so of us still awake seemed to stop drinking at once, and began moving in unison towards resting spots. Most of us literally fell down on the softest thing we could find. For me, it was a couch in the living room (I had something softer in line early in the night, but she left around 10). The next morning I found Tony curled up on the floor of the computer room, using the top half of a Chewbacca costume as a blanket.

We left for home around 9:30 a.m. I was half-dead; Tony was still drunk enough that, just last night, we had to rehash that car ride’s rehashing. And he was driving. (*sigh*) I got home and slept until about 3:30, and then hit my fridge for one of my “morning after pills”—a 32 oz. bottle of Gatorade.

That night I went to my friend Shannon’s apartment. Her sister, who is also a good friend of mine, was in town and sent out the Bat Signal—she was going to be fighting the evil forces of sobriety, and needed as much help as she could get. She's a very interesting person: for those of you who have seen “Lost in Translation,” she is a living incarnation of Anna Faris’ character, “Kelly.” She has the same look, the same personality, the same non-stop motor. The only difference is that “Kelly” was a Hollywood actress; Shannon’s sister is a doctor. (I’m not sure how it happened, either; but she will heretofore be known in this blog as “Doctor Kelly”.)

The apartment's front door opens into a long hallway, which leads past a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen, and into the livingroom. As I walked in, Shannon raced ahead of me down the hall and into the kitchen, and emerged to hand me a can of beer as I came past. I remembered why she’s such a dear friend. Ten minutes later, when she realized that I was near the bottom of that can, she instinctively went to the kitchen again, and this time came back with two cans. She ordered me to finish the first, and then shoved the second and third into my hands. My feelings of friendship transformed into love. Later, when she saw me crack open the third can, she called into the kitchen and instructed her boyfriend, Tom, to get another can out of the fridge for me. I considered proposing to her; I also considered the distinct possibility that she was trying to kill me.

We headed to Buckhead Saloon, a club that is equal parts sports bar, nightclub, and ski lodge (despite being across the river from downtown Pittsburgh). The result is a tug-of-war for your attention between hot girls, college basketball games (UNC vs. Duke on this particular night) on big screen HDTVs, and an in-house band rocking out at barely-safe decibel levels. Not to mention female bartenders who occasionally jump up on the bar to pour tequila into the open mouths of patrons below, like alcoholic momma birds feeding their chirping, drunken offspring.

I took advantage of the free tequila, and soon I was feeling no pain. Dr. Kelly and her friends usually attract a lot of male attention at bars—strange how young, vivacious, drunk girls can do that. Quite often I’m the only single guy hanging out with them, and therefore I get drafted into being the designated “boyfriend” whenever the aforementioned male attention is unwanted. If I happen to be sober (thank god that’s rare), this tactic is mildly annoying—you’re being used as an involuntary c**kblocker. When I’m drunk, though, it’s rather amusing to watch a poor shmuck’s face as his look of determination reverses field into an “oh sh*t” when his target runs over to a 6’6” 250lb guy for “protection.” This game played out 4 or 5 times throughout the night; and the drunker I got, the harder I glared in mock anger at the retreating Romeo. I’m such an a**hole sometimes.

Sunday morning I woke up on Shan’s couch, buried in blankets, with a strategic bombing offensive taking place somewhere in my frontal lobes.

And I beamed with pride. Daddy’s back.