Thursday, January 31, 2013

Social Drinking Excellence: Matthew Todd

I...I mean...

From The Huffington Post:
Police in Boaz, Ala., say Matthew Todd, 24, was intoxicated during a crash this past Friday and arrested for DUI before being taken to an area hospital.

But while he was waiting for a room, he convinced hospital workers to let him go outside for a quick cigarette and, instead, attempted a quick getaway by jumping into an ambulance, according to WAFF-TV.

His plan didn't go as planned, according to Boaz Police Chief Todd Adams.

"He got the ambulance stuck at the end of Bernard Street and after that, he entered a barn and a connected pasture and tried to saddle two horses," Adams said, according to NBC News.

Anderson then stole another car, which he crashed. Then he stole another one and got away, but returned to the hospital the next day when he started bleeding from his original injuries, according to WHNT-TV. He was recognized and arrested.
...I...I...fuck it, start the clock.
  1. Is this story a testament to the willpower of Alabama's drunks, or the utter uselessness of Alabama's emergency workers? This guy was drunk and fresh from a car wreck, and he still manages to steal an ambulance, two horses, and a car...AND THEN ESCAPE! That's like an hour and a half, minimum, that he spent just trying to get more than a half mile away from the hospital, where he was supposed to be under arrest.
  2. ...I'd make a note to rob a bank in Alabama if it didn't, you, know, involve going to Alabama.
  3. If this ever gets turned into a movie someday, who plays Todd: Jake Gyllenhaal, or DJ Qualls? It's a toss-up, right?
  4. If you've made fun of Alabama as often as...well, everyone outside of Alabama, you've probably had that random moment where you think to yourself, "Now that was offsides, wasn't it? I'm not really being fair to the people of that state." Then you read a story about hospital workers letting a guy who's drunk, fresh off an accident, and under arrest go outside by himself to smoke a cigarette. And you think, "Nevermind..."
  5. And even if you think, "Okay, one incredibly stupid nurse does not mean the whole state's population are clinically mentally-handicapped," you get to the part where the criminal who got away goes back to the hospital he had escaped from.
  6. I honestly don't know whether to laugh at this story, or cry because these people have the same voting rights as me.
  7. I feel like Jeff Foxworthy wanted to write a new "You might be a redneck..." joke, and hired Matthew Todd to help him.
  8. I truly, sincerely wish he had gotten away on one of the horses. Can't you just see the low-speed, OJ-esque pursuit down the hightway? And the cops getting frustrated and bringing in two Amish guys in a horse and buggy to bring Todd down?
  9. "Trot to Justice, featuring DJ Qualls, Lindsay Lohan, Channing Tatum, and Shia Lebouf. Technology is the true outlaw. In theaters March 2014."
Mr. Todd, you had me at "stole an ambulance"...and then lost me at "came back the next day". Your Rummy's in the mail. There's a GED course book included in the package.

Friday, January 25, 2013

Drunks Say the Darndest Things 5

TD:‘Za is so good!’ should’ve made it.”
Me: “Yeah, well…You had one in there.”
TD: “Yeah, I know…”

Four years ago, it occurred to me that my drunken friends say some really stupid things. …Okay, okay; my drunken friends and I say some really stupid things. I threw together six or so quick examples to prove this thesis, and posted it without much more of a thought.

Fast-forward to January 2012; after posting a fourth edition of the now annual quotes write-up, my little-sister-from-another-mother was questioning my selection. It’s not like TD opened the blog post and was angered at finding I had published a quote of hers. No, her dispute was over the choice I had made among her personal catalog of drunken quotes. She wasn’t uptight over me putting one of her goofier moments on the internet; she was critical that it wasn’t the goofiest moment of hers that I could have used.

These are my friends. And this is just one of the many reasons why I love them.

In 2011, I finally had the good sense to keep a log on my phone of specific quotes as they happened—or, to be more accurate, I tried to keep a log. The best laid plans of mice and blotto men… This past year I was much better at it, and I compiled quite the hitlist for this edition of DSTDT in the process. If you said something to me (or around me) that isn’t listed below, you probably weren’t as funny as you thought. …Or I was just a lot drunker than you thought.

Without much further ado, here are more moments of drunken brilliance and brilliant drunkeness in my crew’s endless pursuit of the perfect buzz.

  • This past St. Patrick’s Day, our girl Belle was injured before a single Car Bomb had been detonated. As she bled from Eve’s wound, we did our best to make her forget about it fun of her for it. While she and Jay Swag played against TJ and Rackt on Shannon’s W&J-Black-and-Red cornhole set, a thought came over me. “Wait…” I said, interrupting TJ’s throw. “Shouldn’t Belle be throwing the red bags?”

  • One night in late summer, TJ called me to share one of his typically insane stories, the kind that only he could find himself involved in. The female antagonist in the tale, who had quite literally gone insane, was seemingly driven over the edge by Swag’s refusal to date her. A little later that night, I texted the man in question for background on this drama.

    Me: “Apparently your penis is the source of much magic and sorcery.”
    Swag: “lol. Just talked to [TJ] for 20 mins. Holy fuck.”
    Me: “Yeah. Insanity. All caused by you not being freer with the velvet rope you call a zipper.”
    Swag: “lol. She’s been avoiding me like the plague.
    A) I don’t care.
    B) You’re not attractive.
    C) I don’t play games, I’m a grown ass man.”
    Me: “LOL. The force is strong in this one.”
    Swag: “She’s stupid. You boob bang someone one time and they have to catch feelings. *sigh*”

  • My girl Steph came into town in late April to visit and show off her very prominent baby bump. She gathered about 12 of her friends for dinner one night, including TJ, Dupa, and me. As we all B.S.’d around the table, her friend Molly brought up a cultural difference between companies in Europe and those here in the states: some European corporations keep beds in their offices so that employees can take naps. I immediately saw the number 1 reason why this idea would never work in the US. “There are too many sexual harassment laws for me to have a bed in my office.”

  • During our night of revelry in Ybor City, TK uncovered a drinking issue that seems specific to massage therapists. Rackt was trying to describe an injury she had suffered at CrossFit, and as she stumbled in detailing the location of the strain, TK began rattling off Latin-worded diagnoses. Catching himself, he stopped and explained, “When I get drunk I start naming muscles.”

  • As TK and I sat taking in the scene at Gaspar’s Grotto later in the night, a fella at the other end of the bar was romancin’ and b-boy stancin’. When he walked past a cute emo girl who was standing near us, drinking from a glass of clear liquid, he stopped to engage her in small talk.

    Guy: “What’re you drinking?”
    Girl: “Gin & Tonic.”
    Guy: *walking away* “Ah…classy bitch.”

  • As I documented last summer, several of my friends took part in a kickball tournament one Saturday in August, and then hit the bar afterwards—hard. At Shady Grove, talk amongst some of the women in our group centered around Wall Street’s moment of glory, when an open bathroom door left him exposed in Alex’s glass-walled shower.

    Wall Street: “I should’ve pressed my cock against the glass.”
    Me: *sipping from my Manhattan* “If you had looked closely, you would’ve seen the imprints from all of the other guys who’ve pressed their cocks against the glass in Alex’s shower.”

  • The following Monday, I texted Alex to ask if she had caught The Newsroom the night prior. But her hangover from Saturday’s fun, it seemed, had handicapped her well into the night. “I think right about then,” she texted back, “I was laying on my hardwood floor praying for god to just take me.”

  • TK was barhopping around St. Pete and Treasure Island one night last year, and in doing so managed to spill a drink on his shirt. When he happened upon a random, unattractive chick, she called him out.

    Chick: “Is that cum on your shirt?”
    TK: “No, but you want some on your face?”
    Chick: “Yeah!”
    TK: *blank stare*

  • With cold germs and flu bugs wreaking havoc on the East Coast in the month of December, all three of my team members at work were sick at different times during a two-week period. Since all four of us sit in the same small, open-plan section of the office, it was a minor miracle that I avoided coming down with something. When this fact occurred to my manager, she asked, “How didn’t YOU get sick?” With a grin, I answered, “I disinfect myself every night.”

  • The Saturday before NYE found several of us at TD & Boy Toy’s house for a night day of boozing. During a furious game of (drunken) Catch Phrase, Boy Toy tossed out clues to try to bring his teammates closer to his given word. TD wasn’t on his team, but wasn’t about to let that—or inhibitions—stop her.

    Boy Toy: “Uh…ok. When I come to something, I come…?”
    TD: “BUCKETS!”

  • My friend Ton’s wedding was a blur of booze, dancing, lewd behavior in the photo booth, and more booze, all in the wilds of Eastern Ohio. The next morning I awoke in a room at the Days Inn—next to a pizza, courtesy of Dupa. Although my travelling companion hadn’t passed out quite as early as I had, his recollection of the previous night’s events was no less clouded. He hopped out of his bed and walked into the bathroom to take a shower. As I put the pizza box on the dresser, Dupa called out, “Apparently I ate a piece of pizza while pissing; there’s a crust in here.”

  • Jay Swag’s 30th birthday was a three-day murder scene, where everyone put his or her liver in a pit and ordered it to put the lotion—and a can of Four Loko Watermelon—in the basket. As things got underway on Thursday evening, I cracked open a Loko, sat down on the couch, and snapped a picture of the can with my phone. When everyone in the room stared at me, I looked up and explained, “I’m going to want to know why tomorrow.”

  • The pace of our intake hadn’t slowed down one bit by the following Saturday. Collette’s drunk wasn’t satisfied with sadistically torturing her internal organs; it even projected racist stereotypes onto her.She asked for a sip of my Loko, having never had tried it before. She smacked her lips, examining the flavor. “Is that watermelon,” she asked, “or does it just taste like that because I’m Black?”

Ripped City, Bitch

You scream. I scream. We all scream...until the police get called and "public intoxication" charges get filed.

Salt & Straw are some folks I'd like to know personally. Especially if it would score me free pints of their latest creation: Ripped City.

From Thrillist:
The gourmet ice cream-ists at Portland's Salt & Straw have concocted a nationally available, mesmerizingly tasty, limited-edition flavor for Thrillist they're calling "Ripped City", which mashes notes of Aviation gin, Pinot Blanc-infused sea salt, and...unsweetened dark chocolate.
The video below is a comical take on this concoction's creation. It's also a fairly accurate depiction of my methods for creating new cocktails.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Business as Usual

There are some customers who make the ol' 9-to-5 worthwhile. Such as the one who just sent me this joke in an email.

I pointed to two old drunks across the bar from us and told my mate,
"That'll be us in ten years."

He said, "That's a mirror, you dickhead."

Yes, he's one of my favorites.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Florida State of Mind

It’s just like riding a bicycle. In other words, I’ve never learned.

Beginning in 2003, my former company sent me to a different city of its choosing within the contiguous United States every October. Some of the locations of the annual fall conference were fantastic: the bright lights of Las Vegas are always a win; as is San Diego, with its beautiful weather and scenery; even, surprisingly, Minneapolis and Charlotte, which both manage to combine legitimate nightlife and a small-town feel. Other host cities, however, were god awful: I’ve already talked of my distaste for Vancouver, WA; when I was 11 I saw Orlando as a waste of Earth and tourist money, and nothing changed when I was 30; Pittsburgh…because, well, I already lived here. It was behind in the game before the opening kickoff.

Recent business decisions, made by people with yearly salaries bigger than my lifetime earnings, made it likely that the 2012 event will be the organization’s last. So where better to throw your life away send off fond memories with a bang than St. Petersburg, FL?

I last visited the area in 2008, when a different conference brought me to Tampa. And after five days of strippers, Maker’s Mark, sunshine, and gambling, it’s a miracle that anything brought me back. But a lot has changed since then. The economy tanked. TJ moved to Pittsburgh. I discovered my addiction to Hispanic women. …Hell, all of those things happened by the end of 2008.

One swing towards the positive, though, was TK’s southern migration. Our favorite goofball moved to the area in the summer of 2011 in search of a better life amongst beaches and tanned blondes. When I alerted him to my travel plans, he happily agreed to be my tour guide/chaperone/co-defendant for any and every night of the October trip when my schedule would permit some time away from work.

My first day in town, a Monday, was not going to be such a night—especially since I had to be up at 5:30 the next morning. But a day of air travel and annoying coworkers soon changed my attitude towards getting away for a few hours. And when TK texted me around 3 p.m. with designs on getting buzzed like a bored housewife on a Thursday afternoon, I decided to join him that evening for dinner and drinks. By 7 I was hopping into the same old, beat up Alero that had once cruised western PA, and we were setting a course for Treasure Island.

Warm air and a coastal sunset will cure many an ill, including work stress. Alcohol is still the more effective remedy, of course; but Florida’s top two attractions—well, top two family-friendly attractions—come home a respectable second. Thankfully, all of these medications can be taken at the same time, and we hit up Sloppy Joe’s to do just that. We were shown to seats at the outdoor bar of the beachside restaurant, which was populated by a modest dinner crowd enjoying ocean breezes and light beer. As we walked past a long table on the deck, we both spotted a boxed cake, which sat alone on a cart as though it was awaiting further orders. Joking, TK pointed at it and said, “It’s my birthday, can I have that cake?” I quickly responded, “That’s a wedding cake, dumbass.”

Although I said the words, I somehow did it without processing their meaning.

As I took healthy swigs of Corona and discussed the sexy blonde bartender’s physical attributes with TK, I soon noticed a large group of people finding themselves seats at the aforementioned long table. When I spotted the white dress, I almost choked on beer. TK caught wind of it all at the same time, and it was all we could do just to reaffirm each other’s faith in our own eyesight.

TK: “There’s…a wedding reception?”
Me: “…At Sloppy Joe’s?”
TK: “…On a Monday?”

The bride wore the strapless, full-length white gown that you might expect; the groom wore a white dress shirt and khaki shorts. Guests munched on nachos. TK attempted to sneak a picture of the bride from over his shoulder when she wasn’t looking—and then froze with panic when his flash went off. Someone’s uncle randomly yelled excitedly about cheese. And I looked on in amazement, all while washing down an oversized Cuban sandwich and cheese sticks with several more Coronas.

Ahh, Tampa. (…/St. Pete/Treasure Island. Same thing.)

After dinner we decided to head back to St. Pete, and respectfully congratulated the bride and groom as we walked past them on our way to the doors. Once back in St. Pete, we parked amid a string of bars in downtown, and pulled up seats at a sidewalk table at 5 Bucks Drinkery. And on that table we sat two draughts of Bud Light big enough to cure a redneck’s erectile dysfunction. We didn’t set the town on fire that night—I was back in my hotel room by 10:30 p.m.—but I was definitely eased into my groove.

Tuesday saw a predawn-to-sunset workday, which closed with a poolside reception for all of our customers. I began the event drinking Heinekens, and eventually switched to scotch once I had gotten some dinner in me. TK and I had made plans for the next night—dinner and a more thorough night of debauchery with Racktacular in Tampa—so instead of tagging along with coworkers and/or customers headed to various nearby bars and restaurants, I thought it better to play it low key. Heading back to my room to check emails, work on a spreadsheet or two, and get some rest would be the responsible thing to do.

But then I remembered that the hotel bar had bourbon.

As quickly as I had sat down with a glass of Maker's & Coke, a group of coworkers and customers were inviting me to join them at their table. I convened with their assemblage for a half hour or so; then, as I was again about to head back to my room, I ran into three of my managers, who—along with my team manager’s husband—were sitting at the bar downing drinks. As I sat down and my program manager ordered me another Maker's & Coke, my team manager introduced me to her hubby. “Have you met Bart?” He and I reminded her that we had met previously, and she returned to her glass of wine. After another 10 minutes of conversation, she turned to me and said, “Hey, have you met Bart?”

My program manager was a fellow lover of American whiskey. I ordered another Maker's & Coke, but he stopped the bartender and told her to change it to what he was drinking: Basil Hayden’s, neat. The smooth bourbon rubbed my shoulders and whispered sweet nothings to my consciousness. Fantastic stuff, that. I added one last Maker's & Coke to my body count, and then slipped off to my room. Two relatively quiet St. Pete nights in a row; I felt like such a cocktail tease.

I knew, though, that Wednesday would certainly bring a return to normalcy. By the end of the business day, I was ready to drink away anything work-related; “sloppy-drunk” was my affirmed goal. And before long, TK and that black Alero were there to whisk me off to a place made for just that objective: Ybor City.

We found Rackt at the Tampa Bay Brewing Company, and quickly got caught up while ordering dinner. Conversation steered towards work; I explained my woes, but TK’s professional life was a much different world. The young man, you see, is a certified massage therapist. And, while I’m sure you can envision the benefits that might come from having such a job in Florida, it also leaves him vulnerable to an unlimited amount of jokes involving sexual innuendo. And that is something squarely in Rackt's and my respective wheelhouses.

Me: “Do you ever have to massage hot chicks?”
TK: “Yeah, I massage hot chicks.”
Rackt: “Do you get a boner?”
TK: *flustered* “They can’t SEE it!”

After dinner and a few delicious draughts, we strolled through the streets of Ybor, eventually finding our way to Gaspar’s Grotto. We grabbed seats at the bar on the patio, and drained more draughts while I caught Rackt up on the happenings in Pittsburgh over the seven months since she had last visited. She eventually had to call it an early night, but TK and I were in it for the long haul.

An Ybor bar crowd on a random weeknight doesn’t disappoint. It’s the single malt of people-watching; you just sit back and savor it. And, as we were about to learn, things only get better when the bar is having an open-mic night. There was soon a middle-aged white man—wearing a jean jacket that seemed to have been relieved of its sleeves by a pair of gardening sheers—singing a blues song while a barefoot guy in a tie-dye t-shirt emphatically strummed a guitar. Later, women in burlesque-style heels, garters, and bustiers walked through the crowd handing out fliers to their show while a garage band—and a guy playing bongos—banged out a set. TK and I clinked our draught glasses.

After some time we moved down the street to Doppel Decker. Here we found a much sparser, but younger and more attractive crowd. That included the bartender, a beautiful, petite blonde who looked all of 17. We decided to do shots, and as TK went to order, she walked off towards another customer. Matter-of-factly, TK looked at me and said, “I’m not aggressive at bars.”

When she was back within earshot, I called her over and ordered two shots of whiskey. The bartender informed me, though, that Jager Bombs were buy-two-get-one-free. Hell of a saleswoman, that gal—and the thong peeking out from the back of her low-rise jeans was quite the capable wingman. I ordered up the $20 “bargain”, and gave the third shot to our lovely personal shopper. As she tossed it back, the thought that I had probably just bought and handed alcohol to a 17-year-old briefly crossed my mind.

After finishing our beers, TK and I moved on down 7th Ave., and wandered into The Dog's Bollocks. Count this as the first—but hopefully not the last—time I’ve ever set foot in a soccer bar. Such a thing doesn’t exist in Pittsburgh, to the best of my knowledge; but I wish it did. There were no soccer games that night, and as such no hooliganism. But the atmosphere within that bar was positively engrossing. The bar is dark but inviting; looming but non-threatening. Sitting at a barstool, you don’t feel like you’re sitting in a place of Tampa nightlife so much as you feel like you’re sitting in a child’s treehouse. A treehouse that serves lots and lots of tasty beers.

I marveled at graffiti in the bathroom, and then found a spot at the bar in the backroom with TK, where we ordered 24 oz draughts—a serving size the folks at 5 Bucks Drinkery would probably consider quite adequate. Dog's Bollocks serves these draughts in giant plastic mugs; there may or may not have been such a mug tucked into a thigh pocket of my cargo shorts when I stumbled back into my hotel room that night. I can only imagine a bartender chuckled at me straight-legging it out the door, while he muttered “tourist” and reached into a box of 200 more mugs just like it.

The airport the next afternoon…yeah. Hangovers that take place during air travel are far from new to me, but experience doesn’t stop the room from spinning. Having arrived at the airport about three hours before my flight, I got some lunch into me, followed by some Starbucks, and then set up camp at the gate. Fantasy football on my laptop, Joe Budden on my iPod, and an abundance of Florida’s top export walking past helped me to somehow keep it together. I watched a MILF in a sundress glide through the terminal, past the college girls’ volleyball team that was huddled around an iPad at the next gate, and suddenly remembered: The Ex is from Florida, too.

Nope, I've never learned.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

The Grinch is a Teetotaller

I’ve been spoiled over the last 10 years: I worked at a company where Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day was a blissful seven-business-day stretch of paid holidays. Every year I left the office on December 23rd—or sooner, depending on where the weekend fell—knowing I wouldn’t be back until January 2nd—at the earliest.

As you might imagine (or might have read, somewhere…), that kind of winter break can give a man ample opportunity to suitably numb himself up. And you would be right. Oh, so right.

I now work for the typically sterile, overly-cautious kind of corporate organization that wants employees to drive through a winter storm to be at work the day after Christmas—just because. Don’t get me wrong; there are, of cour$e, benefit$ to making that kind of tran$ition (especially when you’re not married to a beautiful European duchess—damn you, life goals!). But after 10 years of drinking single malt scotch well past 4 a.m. on Christmas night to wash away any headaches my family had caused in the prior 48 hours, drinking ginger ale and going to bed before midnight is roughly akin to that first Christmas when every gift you unwrapped was some item of clothing.

Long-winded intro short, I didn’t get to drink as much as I wanted to last month. And I have a newfound respect for the words of Joni Mitchell.

But I did drink, of course. I mean, it’s not like my failings as a human being stopped being a topic of family discussion.

Saturday, December 22nd

While I have my atheistic leanings, here’s why there’s a small part of me that believes in not only intelligent design, but intelligent design by a deity who’s a total dick: Esq, soon to move into a big new house, chose this night to be his final “Let’s all black out and fall down” night at the swanky apartment where he’s resided for the past eight years. That Saturday was also the opening night of the NFL’s Week 16, better known as championship week in fantasy football. I had managed to make it into the title game in my most cherished league. My opponent, you ask? Why, Esq, of course. And this meant that I got to hear his shit talk live and in person as Tony Gonzalez scored one solitary point for me, and got the ball rolling towards my second straight year as league runner-up. *sigh*

Fake football aside, the night was a welcomed reward after a long week of work. Chief was in town; and along with Tank, Breitling, Tony, BAL, and “The Greek”, we helped send off Esq’s once bumping bachelor pad in grand fashion. Before we had even finished pregaming, there was gambling, wrestling matches, slices of bread being scattered about the apartment and hallway as people beat each other with loaves, Esq strumming a guitar in a neighbor’s pad, and a warning from the building manager that the police had been called because of the ruckus. We had clearly devolved.

That seemed like as good a time as any to make our way to the bar, so we grabbed roadies and headed out. As we strolled out through the building’s parking lot, a police car rolled in. While the cops went inside to respond to the call, we discreetly dropped our half-full cans of beer into the bushes like eight drunken Keyser Sözes and calmly continued on across the street.

Cabs took us to Barroom, and alcohol took us over the edge. Breitling got a table in VIP, and I played Entourage for the first time in a few years. At some point several of us headed down to the dance floor, where I managed to slip and fall flat on my back while trying to pull off some dance move that I’m 15 years too old to do. I laughed my ass off, grabbed another drink and kept on partying. One of the few joys of being in your 30s: The simple fact that you don’t care anymore.

Sunday, December 23rd

…Well, until it comes time to clean up the messes you’ve made. Pre-treating the stains on my shirt that morning was delightful. And I felt like I’d damaged at least two of the three major ligaments in my left knee. My hangover was of secondary concern.

My friends and their respective hangovers, however, were not on so casual of terms. The doldrums of married life has softened some of them, and as a result their day was especially excruciating. Esq, for one, texted me updates throughout the day.

“Woke up at 1:30. What the hell happened last night?! Too old for this shit!”

“It’s 5 pm and I still feel like hot garbage.”

“8pm, still feeling terrible. How the fuck did we used to do this twice a week EVERY week?!”

By that point I was at Armo’s, putting back drinks with TJ and others. It’s so sad to see people fall off their game.

Monday, December 24th

Christmas Eve, as is tradition, saw TJ joining some of my clan for dinner and drinks at my mother’s house. Wine bottles, beer cans, ham, and weapons-grade-passive-aggressive-vitriol found their customary places at the dinner table. TJ gave me a bottle of 12 year old Glenlivet, which I’m confident will get put to good use. Maybe not quite as early as it would have in years past, but…

Tuesday, December 25th

Before the aforementioned ginger ale and self pity, the day resembled just about every other Christmas of the last 10 or so years. Late morning my mother and I had breakfast, and then opened gifts while sipping spiked eggnog. I got a bottle of something nice among my gifts (this year Jameson; there’s a running debate between that bottle and I over whether or not it’s going to live to see St. Patty’s Day). And we had a few drinks during a quiet dinner, while wistfully remembering Christmases past. Later, I briefly considered stopping by Shady Grove on my way home, before remembering…*sigh*

Wednesday, December 26th

Work, snow, and shitty roads. The City of Pittsburgh gives about the same amount of effort to clearing snow from its streets that Rolando McClain gives to self-awareness. (The answer, for those of you playing along at home, is “zero”.)

Thursday, December 27th

Dupa was back in town, and gathered several of us to join him at Fathead’s. [It occurs to me that even the most loyal and regular “On the Rocks” reader might be confused by Dupa being “back in town”, seeing as how I failed to inform you that early in December he moved to Houston, TX. Seems that would be a fairly obvious blog topic, right? One that would have been discussed at some point in the past month? What can I tell you—I suck.] I downed some He'Brew Jewbelation and doubled my body fat percentage with TD, TJ, Mitch Canada, and Dupa. Then I went home and fell into a beer-and-grease-induced coma.

Friday, December 28th

For all of my bitching about not having more days off, when Friday night rolled around I chose to stay at home (I would argue, though, that this had more to do with the exhaustion brought about by working that day; had I been home and rested, things may likely have gone differently). Instead of foraging for boobs and drinks out at the bars, I ordered food and did some home bartending while watching Goldfinger on DVD. Don’t judge me.

Saturday, December 29th

TD has recently moved in with Boy Toy in Mt. Washington, and had told us at Fatheads earlier in the week that she wanted to have some people over for a small party. Nothing too crazy, just some drinks, games, and laughter; a low key night. As I went about my Saturday afternoon, she sent a text at 1:57 p.m: “Come on over whenever!” That was followed just a few seconds later by another text reading, “[Swag] said he has Four Lokos.”

“I…but…One fifty-sev…I…”

Thankfully, my schedule (and more shitty weather) meant I didn’t get to their place until after 7:30. TD, Boy Toy, Swag, Mitch Canada, Finger Bang, and Boy Toy’s buddy “Friction” were playing Catch Phrase, wherein each round the members of the losing team had to take down Crown Royal Maple minis (there are thousands stored in TD’s place—a perk of her job). “This is healthy,” I thought. I popped open a bottle of Sam Adams Cream Stout, and was one sip in before being admonished by a slurring Bang, all because I wasn’t drinking Four Loko (mind you, the Loko can she was waving around as she talked was bigger than her face). TJ eventually joined us, and I soon had a can of Loko in my own hand. By 9:30 I couldn’t spell blotto—though I’m sure I could’ve written a 30-page blog/thesis about being it.

Canada and Bang found their way to the South Side, while TD and I walked to Redbeard’s. I don’t remember much of our time there (aside from a convo that was more familial than those that I’ve had with my actual family, and TD asking our cute waitress if she could make out with her). We stumbled back to TD’s, and at 2:30 a.m. I snapped out of a mini-blackout to find her facedown on the living room floor. Friction and I, like any good friends would do, snapped pictures of our fallen amiga like paparazzi seeing a Lindsey Lohan/Amanda Bynes head-on collision.

Sunday, December 30th

When I opened my eyes late the next morning, I was the only one in the living room. The scene was no less damning, though. As I jotted on my phone:

TD’s kitchen looks like something out of Mad Max. Half-empty bottles of Ciroc. Fully-empty airplane bottles of Captain Black and Crown Maple. Miller Lite cans. Sam Adams bottles. A frozen pizza box. A jar of pickles. Four Loko cans. Bottles of water—as though there was innocence amongst the carnage.

I gathered up myself and the bottle of Ketel One that TD had given me for Christmas, and shuffled up her snowy street. New Year’s Eve was only two nights away. But before that, unlike in years past, I had to be at work—no carousing the night of the 30th.

My head throbbed anger at itself for thinking too hard. Maybe I could get used to this more restricted way of life after all.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

The Daydrinker Cometh

Given the amount of drinking that goes on in any given episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia [Have you ever noticed this? I mean, seriously...I love those guys.], I'm a little surprised that it took this long for gang from Paddy's Pub to get their own beer.

From Complex Magazine:
Fans of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia can rejoice, because Stone Brewing Company has announced that its first collaboration beer of the new year will be an ode to the irreverent FX comedy. Oh, and it's called Dayman Coffee IPA.

The beer is the work of the aforementioned California-based brewing company, Illinois-based Two Brothers Brewing Co. and Chicago's Aleman. Look for the beer around March...
Sounds perfect for games of Chardee Macdennis.

Sunday, January 6, 2013


Life would be so much simpler. (And if I could get a 25-year-old Elisabeth Shue, too...that'd be great.)

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

A New Day

For the first time in seven years, I’m having a few drinks on New Year’s Day. That may be a good thing, or it may be a bad thing. Right now I’m just going to go with “good thing”.

I certainly didn’t slack off last night. For those people who pursue kids and homeownership as a means to giving their lives purpose, Christmas is probably the main event of the holiday season. It certainly was when I was a kid. New Year’s Eve was just the closing bell of the weeklong vacation from school.

Then, when I got a little older, I realized that I didn’t really care about getting gifts. And I discovered NYE parties.

I’ve been a part of some legendary NYE parties. Some highlights:
  • One year BBB’s aunt and uncle let him and his cousins throw a party at their Seven Springs condo. Having packed 20+ people and three kegs into the lavish condo on a snowy December 31st, we welcomed 2002 by me blindly walking a few miles through the wilderness to get back to the cabin after a latenight voyage to another party, and several people in our crew watching two party guests have sex on a hallway floor when they thought everyone was asleep.
  • A few years later we managed to put together another Seven Springs NYE, though not at a swanky condo. T.C. found a big cabin available for rent, and on the first night I counted 30+ people in attendance. We ran simultaneous games of beer pong and flip cup (on the same table), deep fried turkeys, and chilled in the hot tub. At the end of the night BBB unwittingly cockblocked me in said hot tub; then his little brother, Affliction, wittingly cockblocked me with the same girl inside, as she and I tried to get things going on an air mattress in the living room, when we thought everyone was asleep.
  • The following year our friend Cara hosted a party at her apartment in Squirrel Hill. I know there were games of flip cup. I also know that I made out with an Asian girl whose name I never caught. I threw up in the bathroom and passed out not long after midnight. K-Man made out with the same Asian girl, then threw up outside in the bushes. I woke up the next morning while trying to fit all 6’6” of myself onto an ottoman. Cara said that at one point late in the night, all seven of the guests still at the party were either throwing up or passed out.
  • Some NYE exploits have already been published, so I’ll just give you a link and spare the recap.

To ring in 2013, Jay Swag decided to throw a blowout at his and Mitch Canada’s home. I braved Mt. Washington streets in a snowstorm with rear wheel drive; when I had arrived and parked safely, I took it as a sign from above that I was supposed to get ridiculously shitfaced that night. I found Swag, Canada, TD, Boy Toy, Belle (who was hammered off her first three beers, after a week of inactivity due to illness), and others inside, racing towards that very same end. We were eventually joined by TJ, Finger Bang, Tony, Shannon, and many more of our fellow lushes—quite the assembly of masters of the alcoholic arts.

I started the night drinking Sam Adams Cream Stout and Sam Adams White Christmas. Once those were polished off, I moved on to cups of Miller Lite from the keg as TD and I repeatedly got mopped off the beer pong table. Throughout the night shots of Crown Royal Maple were passed around. At midnight I popped a bottle of Taittinger brut, and by 12:20 it was gone. I’m not quite sure what I drank the rest of the night, but the Belle & TD dance party that I found immortalized in photo and video on my phone suggests there was no stoppage to anyone’s consumption. I awoke on a couch this morning with a blanket over only half of me, and Tony snoring from a nearby recliner.

Before heading home, I helped Shannon with a family tradition. I stopped by her apartment, and in doing so ensured that she had a dark-haired man walk through her door on New Year’s Day; she then gave me a shot of whiskey and a dollar. God bless those crazy Irish.

2013 is looking like it’ll be a strange, wild ride. Salud.