San Diego Nights 3: The Conclusion

For the second straight day, I awoke to the sound of a cell phone; only this time it was T.C.’s. It was about 10 a.m., and GTB was on the other end, barking at him. He ordered the three of us to get up and get ourselves to the Marriott to start the day.

It took a few minutes to get my head straightened out, though; while I did, Hurley’s phone number mishap from the night before was recounted. Nothing softens a hangover like laughing uncontrollably at a friend’s misfortunes (I couldn’t—and still don’t—remember him telling the story to me the night before; in fact, it took him reminding me about our latenight internet exploration for me to even remember the two of us sitting in front of computers). He was the first of us to get ready that morning, and while T.C. and I finished up, Hurley went down to the internet café to continue his MySpace stalk—errr…search—for his dreamgirl. By the time T.C. and I reached the lobby, he had found her profile and shot off a last-ditch message to try to get into contact before our last night in town.

The three of us cabbed it over to the Marriott and, after a quick trip across the street to Subway, met up with GTB and his people. Some of the guys, including GTB’s father and brother, wanted to spend the day at Sea World. Hurley, T.C., and I looked at each other, and undoubtedly all shared the same unspoken thought: “So, we’re surrounded by some of the most beautiful scenery—both natural and plastic surgeon-made—on earth, not to mention an endless supply of alcohol, and you want to watch a whale splash around in a tank?”

Luckily, an alternative plan was offered. A female friend of GTB’s lives in Carlsbad, CA, where she works as a grade school teacher. Carlsbad is a beautiful beachside community about 35 miles north of San Diego. She called him and suggested we hop on the 2 pm train and come drink by the beach with her and her friends. “Yes, please.”

As it was only around noon, those of us going to Carlsbad decided to kick things off at the Hard Rock’s Moonstone Lounge, a rooftop pool bar more luxurious than I’d ever been to before. The pool itself was surprisingly small (or maybe it just seemed that way, since it was crowded with hot chicks and guys of questionable substance who were trying to impress—or to merely keep—them), which was accentuated by the fact that a large portion of the deck had been sectioned off. A stage had been erected at one end for the Goo Goo Dolls, who were playing that night for some kid’s bar mitzvah. The bar lounge was expansive, though, consisting of lots of plush couches and a great view of the bay and city.

There were also great views to be had behind the bar and carrying trays throughout the area. The Hard Rock manager in charge of hiring bartenders and waitresses must wake up every morning feeling like Scrooge after the Ghost of Christmas Future’s visit. All waitresses and female bartenders are at least an 8, and their uniform consists of a bikini and short shorts. For a moment I considered the possibility that I had been hit by a bus while walking around the city drunk the night before, and was actually now in heaven. It was one of the few times in my life when I haven’t feared death.

We drank and charmed for an hour or so, and then made our way to the train station. On the way there, our cabbie told T.C., Hurley, and me that a train to Carlsbad would cost us about $60, the same price that he would charge to take us there himself. We decided to risk the train, and when we got to the platform, we found out that a ticket only cost $5.50. The lesson here: never trust a cabbie who smells the scent of tourist on you (which, when combined with the scent of the alcohol coming out of our pores, probably smelled just like fresh money).

The train ride was agonizing—well, agonizing for an alcoholic separated from his cherished nectar. For an average person, it is probably a great way to spend 45 minutes, since you ride along the Pacific coastline past dozens of scenic towns that I would love to call home. Once in Carlsbad, we met up with Hot Teacher at Dini’s by the Sea. She was by herself, unfortunately, as her equally hot friends had flaked on her. She’s good people, though, and for the next few hours we threw back drinks and watched Big Brown choke in the Belmont. Hot Teacher pointed out to us that we were by the beach on a beautiful day, yet were all sitting inside drinking. I countered that no matter where you are, if there’s a cold drink in your hand, it’s a beautiful day. Her logic won out, though, and we all moved to the patio. Watching the waves crash in while tossing back vodka felt damn-near Zen-like (or maybe I’m just a more spiritually in-tune being than most).

We moved to another restaurant/bar, Coyote Bar & Grill, where our revelry continued for another couple of hours [I’m suddenly having flashbacks of Hurley and me picking out a bottle to do shots from…that may help explain what happens later]. From there we went to a nearby pizza house/microbrewery for a round. Along the way, Hurley informed me that he would be taking a taxi back to San Diego that evening. “Are you crazy? It’ll be at least $60, and you could hit traffic.” “I don’t care,” he said. “I can’t do the train. I’m NOT getting back on that train.” Meanwhile, one of GTB’s boys and I noticed a beer shack next to the microbrewery, where rows upon rows of 22 oz. bottles stood at attention behind cooler doors like soldiers preparing to storm the beachhead. He and I looked at each other and said, “Train.” So when we left the microbrewery, we stopped at the shack and picked up 7 or 8 bottles and some plastic cups. And when we got on the train, I eventually noticed that Hurley was sitting in the seat in front of me, clutching a plastic cup. I guess beer does make everything better. We all soaked in the riveting stories that GTB’s friend “B Legit” (not his real nickname, but I’m not going to put the kid on blast here—I just don’t know him well enough to embarrass him like that) told. I should get him to guest blog here at “On the Rocks,” because he has stories that need a much wider audience than 15 drunk guys on a SoCal commuter train. Anytime you can combine a stripper, a bottle of wine, a body part, and an Austin Powers catchphrase all into one narrative, you my friend have lived.

By the time we pulled into the San Diego station, things began getting choppy for me. I don’t remember the end of the train ride, or getting a cab to the hotel. From that point on, I remember:

• Getting freshened up and changed in our hotel room.
• Hurley, T.C. and I meeting a group of 5 or 6 attractive girls on the elevator. And though they were drunk and in high spirits, they didn’t seem to be the slightest bit interested in us. Either they were lesbians, or they possess self-respect. Either way, they’re not my type.
• Taking the elevator to Altitude Sky Bar, the Marriott’s rooftop bar, which was rocking with people.
• Looking down on the lights of Petco Park, which is across the street from the hotel. A lit-up stadium is a surprisingly nice backdrop for partying like a rock star at the bar.
• Waking up in my bed Sunday morning.
  

In between all of that, the following happened:

• T.C. started a tab at Altitude that would end up being $170. I may or may not have contributed to it (more than likely I did), but I’m going to kick him some cash just in case.
• T.C. became an eyes-half-open-stumbling mess. A bouncer approached “Lawyer,” one of GTB’s friends, to tell him that they had “their eyes on” his buddy. The bouncer then pointed at B Legit, who was probably the least drunk out of all of us, and who was calmly standing nearby, talking to someone. Lawyer's eyes then scanned off to a corner, were T.C. was (barely) standing by himself, wobbling and sloppy. Pointing to him, Lawyer said, “Are you sure you don’t mean that guy?”
• Approximately 200 times, I informed approximately 20 people that Cali is my home state.
• Hurley and I decided to bounce to another bar. We went into a few different places, but left soon after because of the small crowds. We eventually got to a pretty large club, with a long line in front of it. And who did Hurley spot in line? None other than Dreamgirl. He offered to pay the cover charge for her and all of her friends if they let us cut into the line ahead of them. They did, and we jumped in, to the protests of people behind us. After waiting a little while longer, we reached the front. Hurley paid everyone’s cover, and walked in about 10 feet, expecting me to be not far behind him. When he turned back towards the door, however, he saw 3 unhappy bouncers standing around me. He walked back over, and one of them said, “We don’t think your buddy should come in—he’s too drunk.” Once again fate stepped in to keep Hurley from spending quality time with Dreamgirl.
• Shortly after we left Altitude, GTB and his boys had to load T.C. into a cab and send him back to our hotel. When we came back, he was in bed knocked out, and there was regurgitation all over the toilet.
• Hurley found a pizza place that delivered after midnight, and ordered himself 8 slices of nightcap.
  

The next day was a long, nauseating mixture of cross country air travel and detox. Walking towards baggage claim in Pittsburgh, Hurley answered his cell. His first few words served as a perfect summary.

“Yeah? Yeah. Uh…it’s over. It’s all over.”