Last year, I hosted a birthday party for over two dozen of my friends in Station Square, and suffered one of the most epic fails of my boozing resume. So this year, I wanted to avoid the entire large-scale event all together. I was weary of gathering together a horde of deviant drinkers who were going to turn me into a barely functioning vegetable by 11 pm. Why go overboard? Heck, why even celebrate the day? Despite what one might glean from some of my stories, I’m not big on being the center of attention (well, not all of the time). Why not just have drinks quietly with a few of my good friends at a bar? I didn’t want a big party because it would be a hassle, and because it would mean scores of people trying to pour shots down my throat (and because I was turning 30).
The forces of the universe, however, conspired against me. Early in March, T.C. and I were contacted by the guys we partied with in San Diego last summer. They wanted to make a weekend trip to Pittsburgh for shits and giggles. The Saturday that was the most accommodating for everyone’s social calendars? March 28th; a.k.a. the day before my birthday. Now we had eight booze hounds travelling from Buffalo, looking for a day of the best our city had to offer them. So much for enjoying a quiet night.
T.C. and I then set about working out a dinner plan where we could accommodate 20+ people. Our first idea, Smoking Joe’s, fell through, so Girlfriend took charge and set up a dinner party in Bar Louie Station Square’s private room, along with drunk limo transportation to Carson City Saloon afterwards. I now had a party consisting of 20 – 50 people (almost as many—if not more—of my friends planned to skip the first half of the night, and meet up with us at CC Saloon), a private room, limos, and multiple locations requiring the logistics management of my girlfriend, T.C., and I. Girlfriend cracked that it was my “MTV Sweet 16 party”. It’s always the ones you love the most who can own you the fiercest.
So much took place that weekend, however, that I feel writing a detailed play-by-play would take at least three blog posts. I will instead try to condense the highlights for your time-killing enjoyment (and this is a long one, so I’ll break it into two parts):
- Since TJ had to work Saturday night, he set about annihilating me on Friday night. He, “Pakistanimal” (no real need for an alias, but he’s been crying for the past few months that he doesn’t have one, so hopefully he’ll shut up about it now), Dupa, and I hit The ‘Side for a booze smorgasbord. I promptly blacked out before midnight, yet somehow made it home in one piece and without vomiting.
- That last part is all the more notable when you consider the birthday shot that TJ bought me. He and his peoples have a tradition of doing a Liquid Cocaine shot—a potent combination of Bacardi 151, Jager, and Rumple Minze—on birthdays. The bar at Shady Grove, however, didn’t have 151 on hand (I mean, of the three, how is that the ingredient they don’t carry?), so TJ’s ingenious solution was to replace it with Goldschlager. Ouch.
- The best way to describe this shot is to compare it to the electromagnetic pulse (EMP) weapon that is used to kill the sentinels near the end of “The Matrix”. The mixture hits your stomach and explodes, sending out shockwaves that shut down everything in your central nervous system.
- Pakistanimal ran into a blonde girl he knew from W&J. The last time he had seen her, some years ago, she (1.) mistook him for a friend of ours nicknamed “Black Sean” because…well, his name’s Sean and he’s Black; and (2.) told him the only reason that he (Sean) had made it into law school was because he’s Black. So, on this night, Pakistanimal decided to address this previous encounter. After first snapping a picture with her, he then reminded her of her comments. “First of all, I’m not Sean; and second of all, I’m not Black, I’m Pakistani, you racist!”
- As a tear began its trail down her cheek, she responded, “I’m not a racist—I work for the ACLU!!”
To be continued...