I’ve messed with the year-end list concept once before. It got old for me about five minutes after I finished the post. But nostalgia can intoxicate you as well as any bottle of scotch ever could, and the final couple of weeks of every year are full of it (and full of scotch, if you’re lucky). Toasting to the days that passed, awaiting the inevitable tide of ones to come, and such. So, skipping the ceremony and pageantry oft associated with these types of posts, let’s raise our glasses to 2013’s best.
I discovered the Papa Doble. To be more specific, I discovered Simon Difford’s recipe, which calls for four and a quarter shots of booze to two of lime and grapefruit juice. That’s over six shots of powerful, sour fuel charging its way into your veins.
More often than not, I’ve only mixed them up on quiet nights in, where I know I’m the only one I’m endangering with this high octane. Once or twice, though, I’ve kicked off turnt up nights with a couple of Papas. And each time I’ve awoken the next morning wondering why the fuck I did that, while I carefully check the building for bodies.
Best Life Lesson
Stupidity is expensive.
I’ll get to the “What I Learned This Summer” post later [If you thought it would be posted before January…well, then you must be new to the site. Welcome! Have a Papa Doble!], but half of the summer of ’13 was dominated by learning that previous statement. It seems like it should be an obvious concept, especially when you’re 34. But then I ran shin-first into a fire hose fitting.
It seems like it should be obvious…
2013 was the year I finally grew out a beard. And now I don’t know what life would be without it. I started it during the Penguins’ playoff run in May. Of course, that’s also when I learned about “playoff bushes,” so…call it a draw.
Most Improved at the Twitterz
Dupa learned to live tweet his drunken moments, and it’s everything I had dreamt it could be when he first opened a Twitter account. Just read the sequence from the start of his flight to Hong Kong earlier yesterday. (Click on the images to the right; for the Twitter-illiterate, read from bottom-up, beginning with the bottom picture—which, coincidentally, has a picture of a bottom in it. #BottomPicCeption. For the Twitter vets, yes “@CS_Defi” is my new handle.)
That’s pure, 100%, raw uncut Dupa. I’m just mad he didn’t make use of the inflight Wi-Fi to keep the viewing experience going. Now we’ll never know if he took his pants off and danced around the cabin.
…He probably took off his pants and danced around the cabin.
Most Improved Wifeyness
I’ve loved Aubrey Plaza since the first few episodes of Parks and Recreation. But this year she made me mentally propose.
Some say her drunken debacle at the MTV Movie Awards was faked. Some say it was real. Honestly, either way I’m impressed. You’re telling me a beautiful, funny young actress either (a.) got so irreversibly party-drunk that she tried to wrestle an award away from someone onstage, or (b.) did such an incredible job of acting drunk that no one immediately questioned whether or not she was? Sign me up. I love me some Aubrey.
Most Fun I Had Involving Naked Women
Bareoke Night happened for my crew eight months ago. How it hasn’t happened again is completely beyond me. Everything ridiculous and boozily hilarious happens there, and therefore there is where I wanna be.
Best Morning After Meal
DeLuca’s. Madone. Trust me, if you show up hungover and find a line, just wait there in it. You’ll thank me once you’re in a seat with a plate full of amazing in front of you.
Best Birthday Mayhem
Leave it to TD and Boy Toy; for her birthday party, they put together a huge scavenger hunt across the South Side to be completed by their friends. Six or seven teams raced every which way between bars lining Carson St., getting strangers involved with our tasks. I mean, really involved. After the contest was over, everyone retreated to the home of the birthday girl and her boyfriend, where folks continued drinking themselves senseless.
Best Job of Convincing Me to Do What I Shouldn’t
When it’s 11 pm on a work night and you’re at the bar, you’re inevitably faced with a decision: “Go” or “No Go.” The smart money, of course, is on “No Go.” But the simple fact that you’re faced with the question tells me that you’re not familiar with smart decisions. Which means you’re like me—specifically, like me this past Thursday.
MoFo, Jed, T.C., and Hurley were out at Shady Grove that night. And though I caught up with them expecting to be in my bed by midnight, a few Manhattans and words of peer pressure had me piling into Hurley’s car to head to Cain’s in Dormont. I awoke on Hurley’s couch at 7:42 a.m., texted my manager to tell her I’d be a little late getting in, and spent the rest of the day hating myself and my friends, and all that was life.
Seriously, what the hell happened to my Timb lace?