Viva Las Vegas: The Hungover

“Ouch.”

I vaguely remember this being my first thought that morning, as I opened my eyes to a dim room. It was about 11 a.m., and sunlight was fighting its way past the edges of drawn blinds. Looking around the room, I felt a bit surprised that all three of us had made it back safely the night before. After Dupa’s Wednesday night/Thursday morning adventure, I had just kind of expected at least one person to be missing when I woke up each day. Maybe even me.

Waking up was difficult, in much the same way that lifting a skyscraper with your pinkie finger is “difficult”. And I say this despite being the first one to get out of bed. Feeling the need to aid the common good, I threw on some shorts and a shirt and shuffled my way to the ABC Store in the mall. I grabbed another gallon of water and another four-pack of Red Bull; I’m not sure if the words I spoke to the cashier were English. …Or words, for that matter. I came back to the room hoping to find T.C. and Dupa exhibiting some level of consciousness. No such luck. I threw the water and Red Bull into our fridge, and went back to bed. If you can’t beat ‘em…

By 2 p.m., there were signs of life. And by 3 we were all back out in the fresh—well, freshish—Sin City air, as we strolled the Strip. More than just my hangover, I was fighting malnourishment; I hadn’t had anything to eat besides water, beer, and Cable Car-tini since dinner at Ellis Island 17 hours earlier. With every step amid the buzzing crowds of Vegas, I felt…fuzzier. While Dupa was buying beers for himself at sidewalk stands, I was teetering and sweating in 67 degree weather like a dusthead, thanks to low blood sugar.

Some fries from a vendor outside of Carnaval Court helped bring me back from the brink, and a burger at Strip Burger steadied my legs beneath me. But I could only eat about half my burger, delicious though it was, and I was only slightly more adept at finishing my “Strip & Go Naked (Grey Goose Citron, lemonade, and pilsner). I felt like I was letting down Nancy, our cute waitress; there was a hint of disappointment in those beautiful eyes each time she stopped by our table and saw my plate and glass. [Nancy, if you’re reading this: I love you, and I never want to hurt you like that again. Come to Pittsburgh, and I swear I’ll be soused with hamburger crumbs all over me every night, just for you, baby.]

As I struggled to put food (and more alcohol) into my body, it occurred to me that I wasn’t the only one moving slowly. True, Dupa and T.C. weren’t nearly as roughed up as I was, but two days of Vegas had clearly put a hitch in their get-along. Since Strip Burger sits across Las Vegas Boulevard from the Wynn and Encore casinos, we decided to tour the sparkling Babylon-that-Steve-Wynn-built; it was only about ten minutes into doing so that I noticed none of us—not a single-fucking-one of us—had so much as a light beer in his hand. We were dry-humping the Encore. The shame was too much; I couldn’t even look at our reflections in the mirrored ceiling.


After a brief stop at the Ferrari wing (where a lovely c**t of a hostess reprimanded me for attempting to take a picture of the showroom—to which I replied, “They’re cars; the camera’s not going to steal their souls.”), we began the return trek up the Strip. We stopped at Carnaval Court, which by now was in full swing: a band played onstage, cougars and young cougars-in-training bopped around, guys standing at the outdoor blackjack tables drooled over the beautiful dealers in their slore-casual attire (tight jeans, cropped t-shirts, etc), and—for no earthly reason—a bartender stood on top of the bar while blowing the loudest coach’s whistle I’d ever heard. T.C. ordered us a bucket of beers as we talked to two middle-aged guys from Pittsburgh who just happened to be standing next to us. There was a problem, though: My hangover wasn’t going away. I nursed my beer, hoping each sip was going to ease me back into my Danny Ocean state. Negative. Instead I was dull and irritable. And I was anxious to go over to the bartender with the whistle, yank him down by his children’s medium tee, and pummel his face with an ashtray.

…Did I mention I was irritable?

Dupa and T.C. polished off the fourth and fifth beers from our bucket (I forced myself to choke down my one beer) as we returned to the Strip. We stopped to snap pictures of T.C. posing with a street performer dressed as Catwoman [she was wearing the costume almost as well as Halle did] in front of the Flamingo, strolled through the Bellagio (this time with a bit more coherence at our disposal), and then concluded our family-friendly tourism with the fountain show, before heading back to our PH basecamp.

By this point, the reason for our sluggishness had been diagnosed: digestive unrest. Two and a half days of plentiful booze and heavy food—two and a half days of Vegas, more or less—needed to be flushed (no pun intended) from each of our systems. After that, a shower (one that I was actually aware of this time!), and some Red Bull mixed with Belvey, I was back up on my game. T.C. and Dupa were still a bit subdued, but we collected ourselves and headed to the curbside pick-up outside of the main lobby, where we would be meeting up with B Rush.

It had been nearly a year since I had last seen B, who’s been busy in Vegas trying to do his thing in the rap game. We caught up on some of the recent doings on our respective sides of the country, his speakers rumbling with one of his latest recordings as we cruised down the Strip. We stopped at Slots’A’Fun to experience a Sin City novelty that B had been telling me about since we had first gotten to town: A 48 oz. plastic cup shaped like a football. A bartender filled one with Tecate, threw in a straw, and handed it to me as I smiled gleefully like a small child being handed a triple-scoop ice cream cone.

B made a similar purchase, and then we climbed back into his car. The plan was simple: We would be touring Fremont Street that night, where casinos have $2 specials on bottles of Corona and Heineken. In other words, $8 refills of Corona and Heineken.

Vivaaaaa…

Dupa and T.C., still in the grips of the slowdown that had been ruining my fun earlier that day, decided to skip the footballs. As we waded through Fremont’s frenetic atmosphere of celebrity lookalikes (Snoop and Tupac!), flashing neon signs, people racing by on zip lines overhead, thick crowds, and a Kiss cover band that tested decibel safety levels from an outdoor stage, they somehow remained dry. I, on the other hand, was clutching my football tighter than Darnell Jefferson. We stopped for some slices of pizza, which did both of them a world of good; afterwards they quickly found a cocktail stand and bought themselves sustenance.

While they were doing that, B and I stood off in the thoroughfare talking. Out of nowhere, a small, older white woman appeared in front of us. Without warning, and to our bewilderment, she began barking at the heavy Jesus piece dangling from B’s neck. “Arf! Arf! Arf!” I don’t know what she’d been drinking, but I can assure you I was jealous that I hadn’t had some, too.

Whatever was coursing through her veins, it most certainly affected her eyesight. When B asked her why she was barking at his Jesus piece, the woman said she thought it was an image of a dog. Then, as if to atone for barking at the prophet, she broke out in prayer while bowing her head in reverence to the golden idol. She then walked off into the crowd and vanished just as quickly as she had appeared. Dupa and T.C. returned from the drink stand to find B and me laughing hysterically, wiping tears.

We headed into the Fremont Casino to use the restrooms and replenish the footballs. Maybe, in another town, a man methodically pouring four bottles of Corona into a cheap, plastic, football-shaped cup while standing at a crowded bar would look…oh, I don’t know…peculiar. Perhaps, one might say, a bit abnormal. Not in Vegas, though. No one so much as blinked. God I love that town.

[To be continued...]

Wifey Material: Chelsea Handler

The queen of vodka-drenched partying is a natural for this feature. So much so, in fact, that I'm a little curious as to why it took until now for me to do a post about her. Nevertheless, Chelsea recently took the term "put your back into it" to a whole new dimension.

From The Huffington Post:

Chelsea Handler visited "Live! With Kelly" Friday morning to assure us all that it is, indeed, possible to have too much fun. After bringing up a Page Six story describing Handler's Belvedere-fueled night at New York's Provocateur last Friday, the "Are You There, Chelsea" actress and creator told Ripa that the night of dancing and drinking has since landed her in a back brace...

Well damn. Any woman that will go that far just to rock it out is certifiably wifey-worthy. Keep doing the damn thing, Chelsea.

Open for Business

A wise man once said that the greatest two-word phrase in the English language is “open bar”. And not only is he wise, but handsome. And modest.

Obviously, this wondrous phrase is most commonly associated with weddings, corporate-sponsored private parties, and other very formal (and typically expensive) engagements. But, on that rare occasion when the stars align, this gift from the gods of liberal libation can be found at your local bar or nightclub.

If you’re ever given a shot at it, I tell you now to make the most of the opportunity—it may be once-in-a-lifetime. Of course, for me it’s been at least thrice-in-a-lifetime. I can’t say for certain that there have not been more than three times when I’ve been able to saunter up to a bar and nod towards the higher shelves with nothing more than destiny in my hand, like I was Hugh Hefner at a Playboy Mansion party; but I know there are three distinct occasions that I will now brag about detail for your reading pleasure.


The Matrix Grand Opening

In April 2002 I was less than a year out of college, and still a rookie in the world of professional boozing. Most of my Fridays and Saturdays were spent at bars and nightclubs around the city, making good use of dollar drink specials (yes, young Padawan, such a thing once existed within Pittsburgh’s city limits), drunk girls who couldn’t spell “virtue”, and bartender hookups. One of my favorite hookups—though it was more for the fact that she actually became a close friend, and not just for her bartending generosity—was Steph. She had been working at a bowling alley bar in Monroeville […I mentioned I was just out of college, right? I wasn’t going to be picky—cheap booze was cheap booze!], but soon announced a new job she had just landed: slinging overpriced plastic Dixie Cups of rum & Coke at the newest nightclub in the city, Matrix.

She urged us all to come to opening night at this new megaclub, which boasted no fewer than four separate barrooms, each with a different theme and atmosphere. Butters and I, the only two adventurous enough to take her up on the offer, showed up to the Station Square locale to find a growing line at the doors. Keep in mind that this is Pittsburgh, not New York or L.A.; here, a line actually means something special is going on. The lengthy wait at the door may have just been due to the club being brand new…or maybe everyone else already knew what my friend and I were about to learn.

You see, there had been one slight glitch in Matrix’s owners’ business plan (well, actually, there were a lot more than just one…): They had failed to secure a liquor license in time for opening night. Thankfully, this didn’t mean that they couldn’t serve alcohol; no, it just meant that they couldn’t sell alcohol. And so, faced with this impediment, they did the only sensible thing—once you were inside the doors, everything was free.

My thoughts, upon learning this from the bouncer: “Oh. My. Fuck.”

Of course, it’s been almost 10 years since then, so I’m really just guessing as to what my exact neurological reaction was. But that can’t be very far off. What Butters and I walked into was very likely the closest either of us will ever come to Shangri-La. The first room (and, until the day Matrix closed, my favorite of the four) was the ultra lounge. It had an adult, upscale, European feel, with carpeting, leather couches and chairs, and mellow music—it was the only one of the four to not have a dance floor. It also featured two beautiful girls in revealing cocktail dresses dancing on top of the bar. In my 23-year-old mind, that fact in no way diminished the classiness of the room.

We walked into the second bar. This room, much bigger than the first, carried an “ancient Greece”/“vintage Hollywood” vibe: The bartenders and waitresses wore togas; white, sculpted architecture was everywhere; and black and white portraits of famous actresses covered the walls. A large dance floor sat in the middle, and top-40 music pulsated from all angles. We found Steph in here, toga’d up and offering up her big trademark smile as she greeted us with full cups of booze. We said a few words to her, but quickly moved on to allow her to tend to the mounting crowd of customers.

The third barroom, which had dimmer lighting and wooden décor, was more of an all-out dance party, with house music rumbling through the air. The fourth and final room was dark and trippy, with techno music, black lights, and an oxygen bar (…yes, these existed too). We decided it best to stick to the first two rooms, repeatedly hitting up Steph and her fellow besieged bartenders for cups of Belvedere, Grey Goose, Jack Daniels, etc. In those days, almost any drinking I did at a bar or club was nameless: rum & Cokes, bourbon & Cokes, gin & tonics, etc.—well drinks, in other words. Being able to add a brand name to your drink order was for lawyers, CEOs, doctors… You know, people who had jobs. But now, for just a $5 cover charge, I was big-timing it. The meek had inherited the Earth.

The one clear memory that remains from the latter hours of that night is a telling one. Butters and I found ourselves in the ultra lounge, standing at the bar as one of the formally-attired go-go dancers worked it to a Spanish rhythm a few feet away from our Dixie Cups. I suddenly realized that the various TV screens in the wall behind the bar were showing what appeared to be very old softcore porn. In one scene in particular, a nude young nymph frolicked through a meadow in black and white, basking next to a pond from which a moose was drinking. I pointed out this odd ambience to my friend, who then began shouting, “Moooooosssssssse! Mooooooossssssssssse!”

Me: “You do realize that there’s a naked woman on the screen too, right?”
Butters: “I don’t care! Mooooossssssssse!”


The Buckhead Drinkers’ Delight Night

[Note: I use “Drinkers’ Delight” as a placeholder here. As you would expect of any promoted event at a nightclub, there was an official name for this night…I just haven’t the foggiest idea anymore what it was. That’s what they get for giving me “free” booze (I’ll explain those quotation marks in a moment).]

This is where we hit a gray area; the setup of this Saturday night of bacchanalia in the summer of 2007 can be described as either “open bar” or “all-you-can-drink”, the point of contention being that you had to pay one inflated, upfront fee before enjoying the “free” drinks. I would argue that this fits under the former of the two options for one simple reason: A $25 cover charge pales in comparison to the kind of damage I—or any single one of my friends—will inflict upon a bar if freed of financial restraints for the night (…and it allows me to fit the story neatly into my theme, so…two simple reasons).

And so, on that balmy night, I caught up with Hurley and others at Buckhead, laughingly handing the doorman the measly $25 that I was about to get returned to me twofold. And that probably would have been fourfold if not for each of the bartenders being outnumbered approximately 3290-to-1. Whereas Matrix had four barrooms, six or seven bars, and several beer tubs at which orders could be placed, Buckhead—which, at half the floor space, was packing in nearly as many people that night as Matrix had on its opening night—had only two bars and two beer tubs. Their bartenders and beer girls were the 300 Spartans fighting for blood and country against us, the invading Persians.

With the bar counter looking like the floor of the NYSE, and the bartender only able to take your order about once every 30 minutes, the seven or eight of us in our group quickly fell upon a strategy for survival and intoxication’s victory. Very early on, someone was able to snag a seat at the main bar in the front of the club. With the rest of us crowded around this location, we set up a rotation—one man would order a round for everyone (and usually multiple drinks per person, as well), pass them out, and then quickly hand off the barstool to the man to his left. The new Seat Keeper would then pull out money (for tips, but really more of a bribe at that point) to wave, in a renewed bid to draw a bartender over. This may have been the most efficient and productive bit of process engineering I have ever been a part of while completely blotto.

I think I started the night drinking either Goose or Belve; but I know for certain that, over the course of the night, my orders covered a wide spectrum. Vodka, beer, gin, whiskey…repeat. At one point in the night I was even double-fisting glasses of Dewars. “Looking good Billy Ray!” “Feeling good, Louis!” As last call drew near, it occurred to me that I would need a ride home. I had driven myself down to Station Square that night, but nothing good could possibly come from me trying to make the return trip behind the wheel.

…Enter “Old Friend”. At the time, she was a bit newer of a friend, though it had still been some time since our last session of Bed Sheet Muay Thai. I bumped into her and her homegirls midway through the night,

but didn’t dare stray away from my group’s drink ordering rotation when the girls roamed elsewhere. Now, miraculously, they had reappeared at the end of the night. And, like a guardian angel, Old Friend swooped in like a vulture to take advantage of my weakened mental faculties for the purposes of her own sexual gratification rescued me in my time of need. Thankfully, as twisted as I was, I was still capable of “earning” my lodging for the night.

[*looking around* I put in work, son. *cough*]


The Cain’s New Year’s Eve

When our crew of young thirsty bastards was looking for a place to hang our party hats for New Year’s Eve in 2002, a friend of ours from college kindly offered refuge. The father of one of her close friends (“Sinful”, just because…) owned Cain’s in Dormont at the time. Sinful, as it happened, was hosting a closed-door NYE party at the bar: All-you-can-eat, all-you-can-drink, all-night-long. It’s almost like they were daring us to get recklessly shitfaced. It cost $25 to attend, since this was a private party; but again that’s nothing, as any one of us was more than capable of drinking down $100 worth of alcohol in a night (and that’s not even factoring in the food we were capable of consuming). And, unlike with the Buckhead event four and a half years later, our blackouts weren’t going to get cockblocked by the bartender-to-booze-fiend ratio getting out of hand.

Genoa and two other friends of ours (Theresa and Gina) were renting a house about a mile away from Cain’s. Once she and Finn said they were down to hit Sinful’s party, the rest of the planning wrote itself: 1. Drive to the party. 2. Crawl home to Genoa’s. 3. Figure out in the morning how to get back to our cars. Boom. Easy. We were a lock to achieve a fourfold return on our investment.

There’s not a lot of in-depth tales that I can still recall at will about that night. Some of that’s true now because it took place almost ten years ago, and some of it was true the very next day. I know one thing for certain: The six of us (BlahBlahBlah, Finn, Genoa, Triple A, our boy “Firewater”, and me) did the damn thing. Cain’s is a low-key, neighborhood bar, and has always been one of our favorite places to drink the booze. That NYE simply solidified its place in our hearts. Sinful made sure plenty of food was on hand (Cain’s kitchen has long been one of the best in the business, as far as greasy bar food goes), and the flow of beer and liquor—from taps and bottles to glasses to patrons to throats—was nonstop.

Here’s the most specific anecdote I can remember from the night: Late in the proceedings, I entered the barroom in the front of the building (the back half was the dining room and the location of the pool tables and dart boards) on my way to the bathroom, only to find BBB and Firewater engaged in conversation with two good-looking women. One of these ladies appeared to be older—which, at the time, meant she was between 27 and 34—and was wearing a tight top (that wasn’t at all shy about displaying her ample cleavage for her) and a novelty cowgirl hat. Basically, she was a “woo girl”. In those days, though, “woo girls” had yet to be identified as a social subgroup; so to me she was a cougar (…well, a cougar like you would find in porn, since they’re almost always played by 27-to-34-year-olds and not true “cougars”). I slowed down as I approached them, only long enough to bring a pause to their conversation when their heads turned towards me. Looking directly at Porn Woo Cougar, I exclaimed, “NICE!” Then, never breaking stride, I turned and headed straight into the men’s room.

How we made the mile long hike back to Genoa’s, I may never know. I vaguely remember stumbling through darkness and suburbia with my five friends, hoping each step was the last one necessary before I could fall asleep. Triple A and I crashed in Theresa’s room (both she and Gina were elsewhere for the night), fighting over covers and each of us almost pushing the other completely off the bed at different points in the night and morning. Firewater slept in Gina’s room, where he vomited all over the floor (ironically, she was the neat freak of the house; Genoa may never have had to clean a room as feverishly as she did the morning of 1/1/03).

As for BBB…well, I’m not sure where he slept. But I’m guessing it was on a couch in the living room; there had been no capture of the Porn Woo Cougar that night. The species remains as elusive as the Sexual Gratification Vulture, the Softcore Oasis Moose, and the open bar. The reward of bagging one, though, will always make the hunt worth it.

Viva Las Vegas: Fear & Loathing

The first day of the trip (10/5) was, in fact, Dupa’s birthday. Our 6:20 a.m. departure had us groggily trudging through the Pittsburgh International Airport with a muted sense of anticipation. Really, how excited can you get for an orgy when you’re barely able to keep even your eyelids up? “If we look like this now,” I thought, “what the hell are we going to look like when we come back?”

Thankfully it was a direct flight. While T.C. snoozed a few rows back, Dupa and I alternated between states of reading, sleeping, and shrinking patience. By 9 a.m. Pittsburgh time we were nearly at our destination; Dupa looked at me and said “Jack & diet?” Why not? He pushed the flight attendant call button, and shortly thereafter we each had a surprisingly-strong plastic cup of party on the tray table in front of us. As we snapped pictures of our respective drinks (right), the older guy in the aisle seat next to me muttered, “That’s trouble.” Oh, if you only knew sir.

Once we were on the ground, the giddy schoolchildren inside of us took over. Facebook and Twitter updates were launched, announcing our arrival. Jokes were cracked back and forth as we claimed our bags and waited for a shuttle to the Planet Hollywood Resort & Casino. Suggestions about where to go for breakfast, where to gamble, and where to lose all hope of ever going back to Pittsburgh were all tossed around. We were kids in the admission line to an amusement park, competing over which rollercoasters we were going to ride first.

We arrived at the hotel around 8 a.m.; being well ahead of the check-in time, we left our bags with the bellhop and headed to Pampas Brazilian Grille for a steak and egg breakfast. Dupa washed down his breakfast with a Bloody Mary, which was one of the restaurant’s two morning drink specials. I chose to go with their other special: a mimosa. I was on vacation, after all. And feeling fancy, damn it. …Fight me.

As we wrapped up the meal, we each ordered a Shock Top draught for the road, drinking them down as we strolled through the Miracle Mile Shops. [If only all malls were void of open container laws. Can you imagine how much greater Christmas shopping would be? Black Friday would be one big kegger. Picture handing your mother a box on Christmas morning, and neither one of you has any clue as to what might be in there. Is it a blouse? Is it a piece of Sbarro pizza with a bite taken out of it?] We thought about cruising the Strip, but the unseasonably cool weather (low 60s) and overcast skies encouraged us to limit our exploration to the lands within the Planet Hollywood. And there was plenty to see. The casino floor is a purple, pink, and black playground, with slot machines, blackjack tables, roulette wheels, and TVs playing promos for Holly Madison’s “Peepshow” everywhere you look. Cocktail waitresses and “Pleasure Pit” dealers, dressed in bustiers, hot pants, and thigh high boots, patrol the grounds to catch any male eyes still standing after that onslaught, before they can stray towards the elevators. The poker room—really just a roped-off section of floor real estate—was the closest the PH came to disappointing me, but even it beckoned like a half-naked siren.

In the last year, Dupa has nurtured a blackjack obsession, starting with online play and then moving to the Rivers’ video blackjack games and low stakes tables. He found a $15 table on the PH floor that seemed to have his name on it, and changed in for $300 worth of chips. T.C. and I watched a few hands before realizing that neither of us planned on joining him at the table; T.C. suggested we find two open seats and video blackjack games at The Heart Bar, and I readily agreed. Free booze while you play—suck it Pennsylvania and West Virginia gaming laws! $20 in a machine meant we were drinking on the house, and my vodka tonics were like little reminders coming every ten minutes to say, “Hey, good for you; you made the right choice. You are very intelligent, and an exceptional human being. And have I told you how charming and handsome you are?” …Did I mention I was going through one every ten minutes?

After a short while, T.C. wandered off to the men’s room, but soon came back with Dupa. “Cashed out; I’m up $700,” the birthday boy said, grinning from ear-to-ear like a Cheshire Cat.

We played a bit more, slugging drinks and blinkingly taking in our surroundings, still in shock to be in Vegas. I took repeated breaks from the electronic blackjack cards to watch a sugar daddy across the bar who was seated with a hot woman. He was pushing 60; she was in her mid 20s. She pretended to find everything he said to be hilarious, and he kept shelling out money for drinks. Ah, the American Dream. As for this American, such pay-for-pleasure pursuits are just that—a dream; I cashed out at $10, down $50 to that point, slurping up the last of my drink as we finally made our way to the front desk to check in.

Every room in the PH is based on a different movie. The three of us were given the Forrest Gump room. It just felt…right. We made a quick trip to the ABC Store in the mall for supplies. T.C. bought a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black; I picked out a bottle of Belvedere and grabbed some cans of Red Bull. Happy birthday, Dupa. We also purchased two gallons of bottled water. This wasn’t our first rodeo.

Back in the room, Dupa decided he needed a nap. Why he also felt that he had to be naked to take said nap, I’ll never know. I can only hypothesize he felt it poetic to be in his birthday suit on his birthday. Then again, this is Dupa; taking his clothes off in public is as common as a handshake. (And, ironically, it’s also the next step for him in the course of an introduction.) Before he could climb into his bed, there was a knock at our door—the rollaway bed we had ordered was being delivered. Dupa jumped up to answer the door, but T.C. stopped him, and told him to go to bed. Thankfully he did, because when T.C. opened the door a cute girl in her early 20s pushed in the rollaway bed. Sexual harassment lawsuits – 0, Three Drunk Guys – 1.

After an hour or two of rest, we got ourselves together again. Showers, shaving, and Johnnie Walker on the rocks prepared us for our short walk down the Strip to O’Shea's. We grabbed a quick meal of traditional Irish cuisine at the in-house Burger King, and then found a $5 blackjack table to call home. Cheap blackjack, free drinks, and a bounty of skin populating the nearby beer pong tables. It was like a yinzer paradise. We soon learned the names and bedside habits of just about every dealer the casino employs, as we didn’t leave our seats for the better part of four hours. Unfortunately, they don’t hire from the same headhunters as Planet Hollywood. Nice people, all of them, but… Not that my boys or I cared, as long as they kept flipping over 23s to our doubled-down 18s.

One dealer (“Raw Deal”), who took over our table early in the night, reinforced my theory on O’Shea's “We don’t need hot, half-naked women to keep people playing” policy. Though, to be fair, I didn’t go any lower than her face. Dupa and T.C. stated that she had a very large rack that was eager to be freed from her uniform’s blouse. I don't remember that myself, but I highly doubt it could have salvaged anything for her.

[*pauses* God I’m an asshole.]

I asked the guys where the bathroom was; when T.C. pointed off in the distance, I couldn’t see anything. After leaning over and looking around Raw Deal, who was directly in my line of vision, I spotted the elusive men’s room sign.

Me: “Ah, couldn’t see around [Raw Deal].”
RD: *teasing* “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Me: *slightly embarrassed, trying to save face* “No, I mean, your beauty was just so overpowering, how could I possibly look anywhere else?”

This obvious (I thought) instance of back-pedaling bullshit managed to win the moment, as we all laughed and returned our attention to the blackcrack. And that was pretty much the only winning I did that night. But, I bought in at $100 and managed to play that same Benjamin all night. Not so fortunate was T.C., who made a trip or two to the ATM. Dupa, though, was actually up (call it birthday luck). Alcohol, however, was up on all three of us. To the point that, as a new dealer began at our table late in the night, I managed to spill my beer all over him, the table, and the deck of cards. “FLOOR!” [I vaguely remember joining him in yelling, “Floor!” As if I wasn’t the drunk that had caused the problem to begin with?]

I can’t imagine, though, that this is the first time they’ve had this happen at O’Shea's. Bellagio, Wynn, Caesar’s Palace—at those casinos, a couple of guys in colored blazers probably tap you on your shoulder and point to the doors when you soak a dealer, table, and cards (the trifecta!) with beer. At O’Shea's, they just walk your party over to another blackjack table, and call over a waitress to replace your drink.

Around 4 a.m., T.C. called “no mas” and stumbled out the doors. I hung on for another half hour or so, finally losing the last of my chips to a dealer’s 20. As I bid Dupa adieu and began following T.C.’s footsteps, I felt a tug at my arm. I turned to find Raw Deal, smiling at me. “Uhhhh…oh fuck.” [I mean, that’s what I said in my mind. I wouldn’t say that out loud, of course. …Then again, it was closing in on 5 a.m. and I’d been drinking all night. I can’t guarantee that I didn’t.] I gave a quick smile back, said a hurried and awkward “Be safe,” and power walked out the door.

Here’s the fun part. Ever have that dream where you’re stuck in a maze, disoriented in a haze of sleep, taking turn after turn that leads you right back to where you just were? Get sloppy drunk and stumble into the Planet Hollywood from the entrance on the Strip. I promise you, it’s the closest you’ll get to living that nightmare. I knew our room was on the 38th floor, and I knew that there were two sets of elevators—ones that went past the 23rd floor, and ones that didn’t. When I finally found a set of elevators after wandering through the casino floor, they were the wrong ones. I walked back out, and circled the floor again. Finally, I found a set of elevators. I hopped on one, and looked at the buttons; nothing higher than 23. Fuck! Another voyage out onto the casino floor, another set of elevators located. I peeked inside of one; nothing higher than 23. Fuck!

I took the escalator back down to the lobby and check-in counter. I knew we had gone up to the room from there that afternoon, and I remembered the elevators being down a hallway off to the left of the counter. I staggered past people just arriving from—or just leaving for—their what-happens-in-Vegas sin stories, and got to the elevators. I stepped onto one, feeling triumphant…only to see no buttons above 23. FUCK!

When I walked back out to the hallway, I wondered how hard the clerk would laugh at me when I asked for help getting to my room. Then a thought hit me. I had walked in from the left, where the lobby was. I turned and looked towards the right. Down the hall I saw a sign reading “Elevators: Floors 24 – 52”.

*sigh* Day One was officially in the books.

Wifey Material: Angela Yee

Angela Yee, I think I love you. From her Twitter feed:

"You ever be at work and you just need a drink? #morebelve"

Holiday Spirits

The holidays. What is it about this time of year that just makes you say, “I want to lose all consciousness as quickly as possible”?


Wednesday, Dec. 22nd

I went to an S&M shaming at the Consol Energy Center, otherwise known as the Penguins’ 5-2 manhandling of the Florida Panthers. As I sipped on my beer (at $7.75 per 12 ounce draught, I savor every drop of Miller Lite at Pens games like it was a snifter full of Remy Martin's Louis XIII), my friend—and Crooked Straight fan—Maria asked what “D.E.F.I.” stood for. I explained that it really doesn’t stand for anything, and was just me being cute with my former stage name, “Defi” (or “Defiance”).


Maria: “Oh. We should come up with something that it can stand for.”
Me: “Ha. *sip*”
Maria: *after a full 2.69 seconds of thought* “I’ve got it! ‘Drunk Enough For Intercourse’!”

Early in the night I received a text from Mo-Fo, who was back in town with his lovely wife for the holidays. He informed me that they would be drinking with others at Shady Grove, where our boy Jed bartends, so I decided to stop by on my way home from the game. About 90 seconds after I walked in, Jed had a Long Island Iced Tea in my hand that could degrease an engine. I snapped a picture of it and sent it to Dupa, who responded, “*like*.” Jed was full of his quotable effervescence, the bar was packed with a solid crowd of people, and I got to catch up with Abbie and GG (neither whom I had seen since this summer); all in all, a cool little night with old friends.

The event’s highlight, though, came from our buddy “Trip”. A friend of ours for some years now, Trip is a boozing jokester who sees more rear than a car mirror—if you know what I mean. His goofy charm is reminiscent of Jack Tripper from “Three’s Company”; little did we know that he was capable of Jon Ritter-esque slapstick, too. He attempted to smack the ass of a female acquaintance, but timed it just as she was about to lean forward towards the bar. He whiffed, and injury was then added to the insult when his hand’s momentum carried it through a crushing blow to his own junk. Trip doubled over in pain as the rest of us cracked up at him for hitting himself in the balls.


Thursday, Dec. 23rd

The third annual Xmas Eve Eve, a night of boozing in Shadyside, had been anticipated by all for weeks. TJ, Pakistanimal, and Dupa all pregamed at my apartment with Belvedere, Captain Morgan, Woodford Reserve, the Penguins/Capitals game, and various innuendo involving each other’s sisters, mothers, and loved ones. TJ had to work the next morning, and therefore cut out early; the rest of us moved the fun to Shady Grove, where Tony soon met up with us. I began with another of Jed’s vicious LI Iced Teas, but halfway through it—and after rounds of Jager Shakes and Batman shots—I had the realization that I was heading up Shit Creek sans paddle. If there was any hope for my survival, the next round had to be beer. Unfortunately, I found a brand new LI Iced Tea sitting in front of me before I could form the word “beer” with my lips. Uh oh.

We left the bar around 1 a.m. (Tony says it’s because I had begun to pass out at our table; I don’t remember that, therefore he’s a dirty, dirty liar) and headed back towards my place. Along the way we passed a drunken Indian guy who was babbling about random topics. Pak decided, though, that this guy had insulted his heritage; thus began an India vs. Pakistan tribal showdown. The centuries-old border war in Asia was reignited by two sloshed idiots screaming at each other on a sidewalk in the middle of Shadyside.

We dragged Pak away and avoided any escalation to the conflict. From there on, though, my night is sketchy to say the least. I remember lying on my apartment floor for a while, laughing at myself and nothing all at once, but not much more than that. The following morning I awoke and shuffled to the bathroom. While washing my hands I noticed that the sink seemed to have specks of some foreign substance on it. “Ugh,” I thought to myself, “One of those assholes threw up in here last night.” I had just climbed back into bed when a memory came to me of my own face being buried in that sink. “Wait…did I throw up last night?”


Friday, Dec. 24th

When I finally got out of bed for good that day (around 1:30 p.m.), I found nothing but chaos. A snack mix that had been in my cupboard was raided, and pieces of peanuts, raisins, and chocolate were scattered about my living room. No more than five people had been in my place the night before, yet somehow 11 or so dirty glasses and cups littered my coffee table and kitchen counter. A skillet with the residue of scrambled eggs sat on my stove. The air smelled of stale bourbon and flat cola, and a bottle of sorely-needed Gatorade was missing from my fridge. I dashed off a text message to all those responsible: “I hate you guys.”

Christmas Eve, mercifully, was a toned down affair. TJ and I had dinner at my mom’s house with my cousin Jump, his fiancée, and her son. Various bottles of wine were uncorked and poured, but I was more partial to the bottles of PowerAde that my mother keeps handy for me. Who knows you better than your own mom, after all? Shortly after dinner TJ and I received a text from Dupa that included a picture from the night before; in the picture, Pak was taking a joyride on the tricycle belonging to the seven year old daughter of the family living in the apartment next to mine. The only words that I could muster were sent back to Dupa in a text: “My neighbors hate me.”

When I got home around 11 p.m., I poured a glass of Woodford and tried out my Christmas gift from TJ: whiskey stones. The little cubes of genius worked beautifully, as the chilled fine bourbon massaged my consciousness. At 12:30 a.m., I figured it was time for me to begin wrapping gifts (why do two weeks ahead of time what you can put off until the very last minute?). At 12:31 a.m. I realized, though, that I didn’t have any wrapping paper (oh, that’s why…).


Saturday, Dec. 25th

As has become our tradition, my mom and I unwrapped gifts—well, I unwrapped gifts; she merely had to pull hers out of their bags and boxes—Christmas Day while sipping from glasses of Pennsylvania Dutch Egg Nog. If you’ve never had it, I suggest picking up a bottle during the holidays. It’s real egg nog that has been pimped out with rum, brandy, and blended whiskey. In other words, it’s egg nog that comes out of the bottle spiked. Merry New Year!

Some of my gifts this year: A Chivas Regal gift set (a fifth of Chivas Regal 12 Year Old and two tumblers) and an airplane bottle of Grey Goose from mi madre; a fifth of Crown Royal from Jump; and a liquor store gift card from my aunt. Add those to the whiskey stones from TJ and the 375 ML bottle of Goose that my manager bought me, and there seems to be a theme here…


Sunday Dec. 26th

If you play fantasy football, then you know what the 16th Sunday of the NFL calendar means: championship. By the 1 p.m. kickoff, TJ and I had glasses of Captain & Coke and Belve & cranberry, respectively, in our hands and NFL Red Zone in HD on the screen. Tony (my opponent in one of my championship matchups this year) and LRG eventually joined us as we drank, ate pizza, and screamed at Reggie Wayne, Josh Freeman, and others.

After the afternoon’s last NFL games, we went to Cappy’s Cafe on Walnut to watch the Pens and continue laughing in the face of sobriety. Eventually some fool (*raises hand*) had the bright idea to order Jager Shakes. Before long LRG, Tony, and I found ourselves at Grove yet again (TJ had to be at work early the next day); more beers, more shots, more delusions of grandeur. The last thing I remember clearly that night is asking Tony to call my phone around 2 a.m. as we stood in my apartment, because in the ten minutes that we’d been back there I had managed to lose it. As you might imagine, I had a long, uninterrupted sleep that night. And to all, a good night.

When I dragged myself out of bed the next morning, I found a pair of sneakers sitting on my living room floor. They looked like Tony’s, but he had already left. I texted him about the shoes, eagerly anticipating a story about him leaving my place in his socks. About five minutes later, though, he responded in confusion, saying that he had his shoes with him. I looked again at the pair in my living room; they were small, probably a woman’s size. I realized that they probably belonged to the mother of the family next door. But that opened a new round of questions. How, exactly, did her shoes end up in my apartment? Unfortunately, that question still has yet to be answered. But one thing’s for sure: that family hates me.

I can’t wait for New Years Eve.

Fade to Black

Last Friday night I experienced what I would later dub on Twitter, “the world’s safest blackout.” On what was intended to be a low-key, low-dough night with the boys, TJ, Dupa, “Armo”, and I kicked back with a bottle of Belvedere, dinner, and some DVDs. And right about the time that “The Professional” ended, I experienced my preferred means of time travel, jolting awake the next morning. I felt like I hadn’t moved from the exact spot on the couch where I’d been watching the movie. If anything, I’d just sort of fallen over and then gotten right back up, only to now find myself in the Saturday dawn.

No bars full of strangers. No “How did I get there?” No losing my credit card. No losing my driver’s license. No losing my cell phone. No strange numbers on my phone. No drunk dials or texts. Well, no damning ones; I did manage to call TJ’s girlfriend in Tampa and wake her up, though in my defense it was only about 11:30 (that’s right, I was fully blacked out by 11:30—fight me). No unexplainable bodily harm (save for a small cut on my thumb that was more likely the result of fumbling with my zipper in the bathroom than me carrying out and/or thwarting a surprise ninja attack). I had blanked my memory of much of the night, with no possible consequences to bear the next morning. Win.

Things seldom go so well. Rarely is the fan turned off when the shit hits it. I’ve used the metaphor of a snowball in the past to describe professional drinking, especially if said drinking is done in celebration of holidays and special occasions, when it starts early in the day with the intention of rolling on through the night. And that imagery is more than appropriate, because not only does the size of your drunkenness grow exponentially, but so does the speed of this giant snowball of intoxicated idiocy—and your inability to control where it goes.

Several of my blackouts have already become On the Rocks greatness. Stories like my Halloween at Ohio U., Steph’s going away celebration last month, and a Friday night out with the boys two Februaries ago are now familiar seasoning in the l-o-l stew that is my recreational activities. But many more—for one reason or another—have yet to be published. Like last Thanksgiving Eve, when Pakistanimal, his girlfriend [now his fiancée—congrats], and her sister joined Tony and I in a night of Shadyside boozing. After pregaming at my apartment, the five of us were soon slamming Batman shots at Shady Grove, and then I was casually strolling up a street eight city blocks away, alone and dazed. And Tony was standing in front of my apartment building fuming, because three hours earlier I had left him at the bar without a way of getting into my place. That bar, though, would be William Penn Tavern, and my departure was a good hour after my last recollection of anything, when we were still partying like rock stars at Grove. Just like that, a fun night with friends had turned into W-T-F-? Tony said that when I finally ambled up to the building, I slurred something about having been at a party. And now every day I fully expect someone to approach me on the street and say, “Hey, you were that tall random guy at that party last Thanksgiving!”

[Note: Given the fact that my family—and my parents, even—read this blog, it has suddenly dawned on me that I probably should have been masking these stories as something some friend of mine did. “Then my friend…uhh, 'Dave'…got really drunk on Batman shots and…” Oh well.]

Thanksgiving Eves have proven fertile ground for this sort of thing. In 2004, that particular night of the year was, dare I say, epic. Dupa, T.C., and I had hit the South Side to drink and revel. Then, at about 4 a.m. or so, I found myself leaning against a front door, slowly knocking on it. I stopped my fist just before it barreled into my mysterious wooden resting post once more, and stood upright to take in the scene. I was on a porch…that I had never seen before. The house was dark, and to this day I wonder if its owner had been peeking from behind the curtains, terrified. I walked down the steps and out to the street. I was in a suburban area, but it all looked so unfamiliar. I began walking down the street, deciding that the one thing I absolutely needed to do was get away from that house; to hear sirens at any moment would have been “game over”. As I came to the next intersection, it suddenly hit me: I was in T.C.’s neighborhood, and his house was on this street. I had met him and Dupa there at the start of the night. I quickly found my way to T.C.’s, and got myself on a couch to sleep it all away.

Over the next week or so details of the missing hours began surfacing. The last thing I remembered was being at the upstairs bar in Smoking Joe's Saloon. That had been around 11 (fight me twice). After that came stops at a couple of other bars, including Jack’s. There I found myself momentarily separated from my boys as I waited in line for the restroom. Some random jackasses brought static, and fists were soon cutting the smoke-filled air. From across the room, Dupa had quickly spotted me, cornered and surrounded, and charged into the fray with T.C. close behind. According to reports, my boys and I proceeded to bring the ruck, soused though we were, until bouncers could finally break it all up. I was so in the zone, in fact, that when one bouncer first stepped in to intervene, I swung on him. Luckily it was just a grazing shot, because—I’d later learn—he was our friend Jed’s cousin (I ran into him again a few months later and apologized, but he understood; as drunk as I was, I probably couldn’t see, let alone discern between attackers and bouncers). Pakistanimal, who had been out with other people, said he walked up to the door at Jack’s that night, but was told they couldn’t let anyone in until they cleared out a fight that had just taken place. Just then, Dupa, T.C., and I stumbled out the door laughing. “[Pak], what up? We were just in a fight!”

T.C.’s little sister picked us up from the South Side and took us to a party her friends were throwing. After that? Well, after that I played the world’s slowest game of “Ding-Dong-Ditch”. That’s really all any of us know, because by the time the fight ended, all three of us were at some level of blackout. Only Dupa has any memory of the brawl, and not even he remembers the party.

Luckily, blackouts aren’t frequent (not for me, at least). The anxiety that comes with waking up the next morning is enough to make you nauseous, without the aid of the hangover. This is especially true if you wake up on the floor of an unknown bedroom in Ohio (see “Halloween at Ohio U.” above). But even when you find yourself in your own bed—where, you could argue, you should feel the absolute safest in the entire world—the prior night’s mental abandonment can be waiting to pounce. When I blacked out during the first night of my birthday weekend last year, I had been with my boys at Shady Grove. When I woke up the following morning, I was laying in bed next to The Ex. She was sitting up with her back against the headboard, her folded arms looming like storm clouds over my aching head.

Her, through clenched teeth: “So, do you remember last night?”
Me, in my head: “...fuck!”

Whiskey.Tango.Foxtrot.

Alcohol’s a hell of a drug.

On the last Saturday of February, I set out for Dupa and TK’s place with a firm agenda for the night. Three separate birthday celebrations were taking place (Gaelic Gangsta’s, Hollywood’s, and one for my friend “Nitschke”); we had put together an elaborate game plan, wherein Dupa would drive all of us first to GG’s party in the South Hills, and then over to the South Side where the other two parties were to be located. It wasn’t until I awoke on a couch the next morning that I realized I hadn’t been to any of the three parties, or even to the South Side. What kept me from honoring the promises I’d made to the hosts of each party? Well…

When I arrived at Dupa and TK’s apartment armed with a case of Labatt Blue, the gents were playing a game of dominos. Their living room was sans-TV at the time, and to fill the entertainment void they were using dominos, cards, the radio, and—of course—booze. Dupa was drinking the last of a bottle of Belvedere, while TK mixed together tequila and Red Bull…

*sigh*

At his suggestion, I tried a bit of this new concoction; I have to say, it wasn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be. True, it tasted like gasoline, which is what I expected; but it was more of a midgrade 89 octane, instead of a regular 87. If a mixologist were to use a top shelf tequila, like Patron, I imagine the mixture might even push the 93 octane envelope. Halfway through a game of “Up and Down the River,” as the drinks and chugs became more plentiful, TK’s common sense finally kicked in; he abandoned his new booze blend for the cans of Labatt that Dupa and I were now polishing off in quick succession.

The card games—we followed “Up and Down the River” with several rounds of “Asshole”—were having an unforeseen consequence, though: Dupa, our driver, was losing at everything, and was therefore crushed. My car was wounded, and I was keeping the mileage to a minimum until it was fixed; as so, I had been quickly working myself into a stupor as well. And TK? Well, seconds after we called an end to the cards, TK announced that it was time for him to do a Stuntman Shot…

*sigh*

He even asked that I get it on camera, in hopes of making it onto Tosh.0. As the camera rolled, he snorted salt, tossed back a shot of tequila, and squeezed lime juice into his eye (these are my friends…). Dupa and I roared with laughter, as the realization that squirting lime juice in your eye really isn’t such a great idea seemed to come over TK, who nearly doubled over in pain. For your viewing pleasure, click here.

And all of this was just the pregaming. With all three of us sufficiently soluble, we changed our means of transportation: we hopped on the T (Pittsburgh’s light rail transit) with the few cans of Labatt left stashed in our pockets, and headed to Station Square, where a fourth birthday party was in progress—this one being held for our friend “Wildcard.”

We joined up with Wildcard and his entourage at Buckhead [a birthday party at Buckhead? It all feels so familiar…], where the birthday boy was already three sheets to the wind. Wildcard isn’t the largest guy in the world; in fact, he’s often one of the smallest in the room. So watching him bound around the club, drunk off his ass on birthday shots, he bared a striking resemblance to a leprechaun. He was hardly an imposing figure…which may be exactly why he came oh so close to sparking a fight.

Buckhead is far from a dive, and I don’t want to sound like a snob. That being said… A wedding party was there that night, complete with the bride in her gown and the groom in his tux. “Classy with a capital ‘K’,” as Dupa would say. The math on this one seems fairly obvious, especially if you know my friends and/or me. Drunken birthday boy + wildly-out-of-place wedding party = a bride getting freaked from behind by a leprechaun. Wildcard’s drunk had manifested itself into a bit of ADD, though, and shortly after he began dancing with the bride, he was bouncing off again across the bar.

Enter the night’s wannabe tough guy. “Wannabe” was a smaller guy with the wedding party, in his mid-to-late thirties, about 5’9”, and far from muscular. In fact, pudgy and wearing glasses, he more than likely would have been the least threatening male around, if it weren’t for the magical slurring leprechaun with ADD who was running around the club. And, as this was likely the closest he’d ever come to being the “Alpha male,” Wannabe decided to take advantage of the situation.

Unfortunately for him, though, his lack of experience in wearing tough guy pants was readily apparent, especially when it came to his tactics. If, in a club full of people, there is only one guy that you feel like you can intimidate and/or beat in a fight, you don’t wait until he has wandered off to talk shit. And, in his absence, you certainly don’t talk your nonsense to me, who is much more clear-headed (and, let’s not forget, much larger).

Wannabe accused Wildcard of saying something derogatory to the bride before he left. When I asked him what Wildcard had said, though, he couldn’t come up with an answer. All he knew was that Wildcard had somehow offended the bride and groom. Our words—his consisting of, “Fuck that” and the like, and mine consisting of, “Just shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of my face”—gradually got louder, and attracted the rest of the wedding party. While some of their friends pushed Wannabe back, the bride and groom themselves came over to talk to me.

Groom: “What’s going on?”
Me: “Did my friend do anything to offend either of you?”
Bride: “No, not at all.”
Me: “Thank you. Tell your friend that. Congratulations on the wedding.” *turns around and walks off*

While all of this was going on, my friends had found another source of entertainment in the forms of three older blonde women at the corner of the bar. All three seemed nice enough, though only two of them were truly MILFs. Of those two, the shorter one was a favorite of Dupa and Wildcard, especially when they found out that she was going through a divorce. While the boys applied their charms—Wildcard’s ADD was still in full effect, but he would stop to dance with “Divorcee” when he came past—I opened up a tab at the bar and ordered myself a drink.

As the bartender was handing me my gin & tonic, Wildcard swept by on one of his laps, and started randomly dancing in front of some girls who were walking past. Their lack of amusement was evident, especially to the bartender and me. I looked back at him, and could see in his eyes that he was calculating how much drunker he was going to allow my friend to be before he called over the bouncers. “You know what,” I said, rethinking the likelihood that I’d be in the club all the way to closing time, “I’m going to close that tab after all.” He agreed that it was likely a wise move, and brought me my receipt.

Amazingly, though, Wildcard managed to keep himself from catching the proverbial hook for the rest of the night (though he did catch a literal one when, spotting him making a beeline towards the bride on yet another pass, I reached out and yanked him over to the bar with the rest of us; he looked at me momentarily bewildered, and then ran off in another direction, grinning sloppily yet again). As the lights came up we were still chatting up the First Wives Club, I having found the taller of the two MILFs to be more my speed. I shared some of my tales of woe from my embattled relationship with The Ex, and she listened with a mixture of pity and astonishment. She showed no signs of wanting to stray from her husband, though—such a waste. She and her friend also gave me a quick heads-up when Divorcee was out of earshot: her soon-to-be ex-husband is a powerful man in the area—powerful enough for me to have heard of him—with serious mob connections. When I found a moment alone with Dupa, who was still entertaining thoughts of ringing her back into the world of singlehood, I quickly passed along this information. “So what you’re saying is ‘Don’t get myself killed’? Gotcha.”

As we departed from the bar and our new cougar friends at close, Tall MILF and the non-MILF gave me words of encouragement, telling me how I deserve a great girlfriend [Note: this is what my life has become; instead of taking women home, I get pep talks from them about how I deserve some OTHER great woman…*sigh* fml].

It being after 2 a.m. on a Saturday night, it was time for that great game played around the city of Pittsburgh each weekend: Can You Catch That Cab? TK, Dupa, and I spread out at Station Square’s main entrance, trying to optimize our chances of hailing a cab. After 5 minutes, though, I had already started having flashbacks to the end of my Saturday night in DC a few weeks prior. Frustration had begun to set in for TK as well, as he laughingly commented, “I need help!”

Enter “Blankman”. A random guy standing near us grabbed TK’s arm, and started pulling him towards the Sheraton. As I watched with a look of confusion matched only by the one on TK’s face, Blankman announced to some friends of his, “Hey, this guy said he needs help!” Dupa and I ran over to reclaim our boy, explaining to Blankman’s friends that we were just trying to find a cab. As we walked off to another spot to continue our taxi hunt, Blankman began following us all the more urgently, insisting that TK—who was now cowering behind us, afraid of his would-be hero—was in trouble. The other guys finally stopped Blankman and dissuaded him from his caped crusader ways as they dragged him back towards the hotel.

TK: “What’s going on?”
Me: *arm up, focusing on approaching cab* “He thinks we’re trying to rape you.”

Dupa spotted a jitney cab driver, and negotiated for him to take us back to the apartment. We were barely out of Station Square when we amended the terms to include a stop at McDonalds along the way. The next morning I awoke on the couch, staring at the scene in this picture (above right), which I took in an attempt to wrap my aching head around the total WTFness of the prior 12 hours. [Note: I just now noticed the question "What's the secret?" written on the side of the bag, which is just so perfectly appropriate.]

It’s been over a month now, and I still can’t quite figure it all out. Tequila, dominos, a Stuntman, a drunk leprechaun, a wedding party, a confrontation, MILFs, the mafia, TK being “rescued”, and stopping at Mickey D’s at 2:30 a.m. in the back of a jitney.

*sigh*

And this…is what we do.

Happy Birthday to Me?

It took 29½ years, but I’ve finally come to the realization that birthday parties are not for the birthday boy or girl; they are for his or her friends. (This is similar to weddings not being for the bride and groom—I think we can all agree that they are definitely not for the groom—but instead really only serving as a big drunken soirée for their guests.) Maybe I’m wrong; maybe this is only how it is for my friends and me. But it seems that when convening at a bar or club to celebrate someone’s date of birth, everyone except for the man or woman of honor has a blast and comes away with some crazy tales. The most basic of explanations is that if you have 20 people, it’s a 19-on-1 brawl; unless you’re the Bruce Lee of BAC, you’re just not going to survive. Witness my most recent birthday, which I chronicled on this page last April. But despite my night ending brutally, everyone else who was there has told me how much fun they had (for example: Hollywood made out with a 40 year old cougar at the bar while her 22 year old son watched with a disappointed look). The person celebrating the birthday is usually so wiped out that he or she doesn’t get the opportunity to party as hard as everyone else. Drinking is irony sometimes.

This new wisdom came to me Saturday morning, after a Friday night spent commemorating TD’s birthday in The ‘Side. The 28th anniversary of TD coming into being was actually October 22nd; however, colds (first hers, then Baby Joey’s) helped to push back any revelry until November 14th. The recuperated couple joined Zach and I in pregaming at my apartment that night, throwing back Ketel One, Belvedere, and Crown Royal for about an hour. We ended that session by downing a round of Jager Bombs, and then strolled up the street to William Penn Tavern to meet up with her friends from work, Ashhad, and others. More shots and drinks were passed around in every direction, especially TD’s; but it seemed like Joey, Zach, and I were sprinting out ahead of the 5’5” 10 lb birthday girl on the road to Blackoutville. My theory: This particular highway is a pretty steep decline, and our greater masses brought about a higher rate of acceleration.

At least it kind of sounds intelligent, right?

Though I can barely remember this portion of the evening, talking to Ashhad and Zach the next day confirmed that the three of us ended the night at Doc’s Place. Ashhad ordered six rum & Cokes—two for each of us—and handed them out. Instead of sipping my two drinks, though, I picked up a random glass that had been left on the bar and began to chug an unknown concoction. Both of my boys tried to talk sense into me, but to no avail. Who were they to tell me not to drink free booze, anyways?

That moment of personal brilliance surely contributed to the scene that I awoke to the next morning. Coming to, I saw my nightstand and bedroom wall in front of me. Well, I made it back to my bed. Next, the standard “Do I still have my cellphone” check. I looked behind me, and saw the back of Baby Joey’s bald head. Hmm, I wasn’t expecting that.

I jumped out of bed to get a better assessment of the situation. Joey, still clothed, was tucked under the blanket on the other side of the bed. Scratching my head, I walked out into my hallway. On the floor of my bathroom sat one of my spare blankets, neatly folded. I shuffled down the hall to the living room. Zach was passed out on my couch. His jeans were on the floor next to his bottle of Crown. The dress shirt that Joey had worn the previous night was on the floor by the TV stand. What wasn’t anywhere in sight was the birthday girl herself. Resigned to letting Joey have the bed and kicking his ass for it later, I grabbed the blanket from the bathroom and laid on the loveseat. I shot off a text message to Lady Friend, who was out of town: “Babe, you won’t believe the morning I’m having. I woke up in the Twilight Zone.”

Ten or so minutes later, Joey emerged from my room.

Joey: “How did I end up in the bed?”
Me: “You tell me!”

To the best of our collective knowledge, he had passed out on the couch upon returning to the apartment. At some point in the night, probably after coming out of the bathroom, he had been disoriented, thought he was back at his own house, and climbed into bed.

During a phone call to his MIA girlfriend later in the morning, Joey found out that she had slept in the front seat of their car; she then drove home around 5 a.m. When he asked her, “Can you come pick me up?” TD gave him a terse, “I guess so.” After hanging up, Joey said, “I think it’s safe to say we got into a fight last night.”

Zach: "You don't remember?"
Joey: "Nope!"