Slash and Burn

“So, were you at Chesney?” The ER nurse didn’t even look up from her paperwork while saying it.

And, in fairness, I really didn’t have to answer. My bloody cargo shorts, body smelling of sweated alcohol, and 10:30 p.m. visit to UPMC Mercy spoke for me. It was more of a rhetorical question, anyways. Kind of like when you stumble while walking with someone, and they ask, “Walk much?” Sarcasm is the one luxury afforded to those who must suffer the fools.

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It was a little after 11 a.m. when I parked in front of Jay Swag’s house, but I instantly—and, hindsight being 20/20, prematurely—chalked the day in the “Win” category. Four beautiful 20-somethings with tight, revealing tops and even tighter, even more revealing shorts were gathered on his porch. One—tall, mixed, and of King Magazine cover proportions—I quickly recognized as Liz, a friend of Swag’s that I had met once or twice. The other three were faces I wasn’t acquainted with, though none were making it easy to maintain eye contact long enough to know for sure.

Swag: “Sup dude.”
Me: *In my head, while beaming like a kid who had just walked through the doors of Toys ‘R’ Us* “…Wow.”

This, of course, was the one thing I had been consistently hit over the head with each and every time friends tried, in years past, to convince me to go to the Kenny Chesney concert: You’ve never seen as many hot, nearly naked women as you will at this tailgate. Last year, that stream of relentless hyperbole was finally validated when I attended my first Chesney tailgate. I walked through parking lots so chock full of tanned, toned female flesh that you could’ve mistaken the entire scene for a Michael Bay remake of Bikini Beach. You literally could create a “Chesney Concert Girls” Tumblr page and stock it with a year’s worth of material from just that one day every June.

Liz and her friends—a slender stunner with dark eyes and hair; a smoldering redhead with great curves and girl-next-door beauty; and an energetic, Italian brunette who looked like she belonged in party pictures from the Playboy Mansion—had begun dipping into their cooler bag, which was filled with cans of Bud Light Lime. Swag invited me to grab myself a beer from the fridge. I returned to the porch with two stacked Miller Lites in my right hand and confessed, “I got two.”

After some discussion between Swag and I about auto body repair, and between the girls about anal suction (ask Liz, not me), we all headed for the T. The train was already nearing capacity when we stepped on board, and we still had to pass through five more stops teeming with guys and gals giddy on the one day a year they wear their cowboy hats. We were crammed together, and surrounded by overgrown frat bros who alternated between repeatedly trying—and repeatedly failing—to get “Let’s go Bucs!” chants going, and not-so-subtly nodding and making reference to Liz and her girls (…and their “girls”). Oh well, at least there was cold beer from the cooler bag.

In the year since my last Chesney tailgate, I’ve become a regular on Pittsburgh’s North Shore. Every morning, Monday through Friday, I park in a garage down the street from PNC Park, walk over to North Side Station, and take the escalator down into the city’s underground. And every evening, on my way home, I drag myself in the opposite direction up the towering incline, towards daylight. But arriving at the top of that escalator on Chesney Saturday bore no resemblance to any other time I’ve done it over the past seven months. It’s like your attention span is a Marine standing on a WWII landing craft as the gate comes down. Suddenly sensory impulses are flying at you from every angle: music, noise, skin, pickup trucks, cowboy hats, heat, smells of food, smells of booze, bikini tops, and frenetic bustle covers every square foot of concrete as far as the eye can see. Making it to the beach Gold Lot 2 is a victory in itself.

We found Bill’s annual tailgate party, and got down to business. Swag and I handed over our cover fees and grabbed drinks. The girls had another party they wanted to stop by, so they asked us to wait there for them and headed off. I sipped from my cup of alcoholic lemonade (there was a whole Gatorade cooler of it there; Bill is apparently a fellow student of Ron White), while surveying the landscape in and beyond the party. The scene may be the closest to the definition of “bacchanalia” that any non-swinger will ever know. When Swag mentioned that his girlfriend, Skeets, would be joining us later that afternoon, I expressed pity for him—and I like Skeets. But a Chesney tailgate is no place to endure the limitations of monogamy.

During a brief lull in conversation, Swag suddenly pivoted and headed off towards the port-o-johns. I didn’t think much about it, other than to note that the need to urinate would have to be particularly strong to convince anyone to wait in the lines that stretched around the block. I continued schmoozing with Bill and other guests (including one friend who carried with him a Mason jar filled with a much stronger lemonade mix). Our host expressed gratitude for the visual delights that I had brought to the party, even if they had only been there briefly. Sadly though, his girlfriend, too, was due to arrive soon—and I like Janna. When Swag finally returned to the party, he succinctly explained to me why he had left so suddenly: “Thought I sharted. Had to go deal with it.”

We were far from the only members of our crew who were roaming the wilds of the North Shore Thunderdome that afternoon. Alex, Shannon, and others were a half mile away, camped out closer to PNC Park (Alex had tweeted—while I was still on the train—that she was on her way to being “looped”; she would be in bed by 6 p.m.). LRG, to my amazement, was also tweeting from some unidentified parking lot near us; all attempts at coordinating a meeting with him failed. Entertainer seemed to be the nearest to our position: He was over by the Clark Building, drinking shirtless—that part was a guess, but a pretty odds-on one.

The girls returned, as I worked on my second—third?—third cup of alcoholmonade. We journeyed off with them in search of one of their friends’ parties. All Liz knew was that the party was “by the Clark Building.” This superior field intelligence resulted in the six of us trekking through every foot of parking lot around the building. While walking through the tailgate tent city that stood under the overpass, I couldn’t help but note the feel of a rowdy refugee camp in the air. The air was thicker; the tone was darker, tenser. Dark Eyes grabbed me a Bud Light Lime from the bag; I gulped it down as a coping mechanism as we soldiered on towards brighter terrain. In a small lot located at the base of a cliff, we found both Entertainer’s and Liz’s friends’ parties. And Entertainer was shirtless. I suddenly wished I’d bet someone on that.

While Entertainer was called away by some minor event, Swag and I grabbed beers from his cooler and took cover in the shade at the foot of the cliff. As we stood there bullshitting, I casually turned and looked up the steep hillside…to find a girl halfway up it with her pants around her knees, hovering on a small ledge, pissing. I turned back around and took another sip. Chesney, man.

Down at our altitude, two cute girls—a blonde and an Asian girl—were nervously circling the area. Finally they explained their problem: They had to pee, but didn’t want people watching them as they did. Prudes. I told them to squat behind one of the cars parked in the spots at the base of the hill, and that we would turn around while they did. Out of better options, they dipped down behind a Nissan to our right. After a few minutes, I noticed the blonde walking back out into the parking lot, alone. I turned to find the Asian girl still squatting, looking frustrated.

Me: “You’re still pissing?!”
Asian Girl: “I have a shy bladder!”

Swag and I headed back to Bill’s party to meet up with Skeets, who was finally arriving. Shortly after we got back, Janna passed out Jell-O shots to go with our alcholmonade. Yeah, I could feel all of this going to a good place. We decided to investigate some of the parties that stretched out closer to Heinz Field, in search of…someone. By this point in the day, I’m more amazed that I was standing than disappointed in my recordkeeping. I know we found Rushel Shell for the second time (Swag had spotted him walking past during our first stop at Bill’s party), who informed us that he was trying to return to Pitt. [That, of course, was a failed venture, as would be announced a couple of days later.]

From there, my next clear memory, after walking through various North Shore tailgate parties, is the three of us being on the South Side. For those unfamiliar with Pittsburgh and its geography, at a minimum that transition is typically a solid cab ride spanning two different rivers. And I have no idea how it all happened, and if a cab was even involved. Damn alcoholmonade.

What I’ve since learned from Skeets, however, is that before we ever left the North Shore, we walked over to Rivers to eat dinner. Swag even found photographic evidence on his iPhone; the three of us are gathered at a table full of food in Wheelhouse. To this day I have absolutely zero recollection of this, though I clearly remember the events that followed it in the South Side. …Chesney alcoholmonade.

We went to Mario’s South Side to catch up with TD at Jenn’s bachelorette party. And, as an unforeseen consequence, that resulted in me having to see and speak to BIO for the first time since August. [Guilty of whore crimes, all personal and public record of her was subsequently napalmed. And yet, that persistent, hot ass fought its way through the debris to get in my face, quite literally. Fun.] We moved on to Rumshakers; and then, sometime later…

We were heading elsewhere when Swag, who had decided he wanted a tattoo, broke loose. Skeets spoke the words that were already in my head: “Go get him!” I took off down the sidewalk of Carson St. in pursuit. And then I crumpled to the ground. And strangers on the sidewalk around me had recoiled in disgust. Fun fact: Fire hose fittings protruding from the sides of buildings are impervious to human flesh. Who knew? A girl walking past with her boyfriend was Johnny-on-the-spot with a rag to apply pressure. Though I’m grateful to her for her kindness, concern, and assistance [Seriously, if you’re reading this, Miss, I owe you and your man each a drink; click on my profile name below to contact me by email.] she kept overreacting by saying that the cut was so deep that my bone was showing. It was not. But I was going to need stitches, at a minimum.

As I sat on the ground talking to Skeets and the strangers about my next move, Swag randomly came jogging back past, headed in the opposite direction. When I yelled at him, he strolled back over and said, incredulously, “What? What happened?” Thankfully, our buddy Jay—a bartender at Rumshakers—also happened past, his shift just having ended. He ran and got his car, we hopped in, and he zipped us to Mercy.

I never wanted to watch S.W.A.T., but I caught the bulk of it while laid up in the emergency room. Skeets and a remorseful Swag waited patiently for me in the waiting room while a doctor stapled me together, and I freaked out people on Facebook with a picture of the open wound. As bad as it looked, though, I never really felt much pain. Thank you, alcoholmonade. After my leg had been bandaged up and I was released, I rejoined my friends, and we joked around on the sidewalk outside the hospital as we awaited our cab at 2 a.m.

Me: “Call Liz.”
Swag: “Why?”
Me: “I want one of her friends to come be my private nurse tonight.”

Don't Get Mad, Get Even

Revenge is a shot best served with a “fuck you” chaser.

On the first night of my Dirty-30 celebration two years ago, TJ hit me with a death blow in the form of a somewhat improvised shot. He’d wanted to order me a Liquid Cocaine, but the bar didn’t carry Bacardi 151. In its place, he asked them to mix Goldschlager with the Jager and Rumple Minze that come standard. If I remember correctly, I called upon my Czech ancestors to curse his soul then and there. Or maybe it was my Seminole ancestors. Or was it my Creole ancestors? All I know is that I wanted some supernatural being to make him feel the same pain that I felt for the next 15 minutes, as my night dutifully faded to black.

I now owe one (or all) of those ancestors dearly, because my call was answered on April 15, 2011.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. On that night, TJ, his son’s mother (“Glitter”), and her boyfriend went to dinner and a Tom Green show in the Waterfront. Chappy, Tony, Dupa, Jay Swag and I started the night in the South Side for the Pens’ game; we then traveled to Bar Louie afterwards (minus Swag) to meet up with TJ’s trio, as well as Mr. & Mrs. Prince of Ligonier, to celebrate TJ’s birthday. The birthday boy was already showing signs of being tipsy, though it may have just been a Friday night free from responsibility, and not the alcohol, that tilted him. As for Glitter, it was most certainly alcohol that was putting in work. She greeted me with a hug, but it was less old-acquaintances-seeing-each-other-after-an-extended-time, and more giddy-five-year-old-at-Disney-World-squeezing-the-ever-loving-shit-out-of-Goofy. TJ reported that she had been drunk enough to loudly interject during the comedy show earlier in the evening, even causing Tom Green to pause and acknowledge one of her comments. Glitter was clearly in honey badger mode. She really didn’t give a shit.

Not too long after arriving, I noticed a trespasser in our ranks. A slim, tall guy in a tight shirt and product-heavy blonde hair had driven the lane and was now face-to-face with Glitter. Given her state—and that her boyfriend was standing next to her—I didn’t find this news relaxing. And when I saw her boyfriend put his hand on LFO’s chest (Glitter would later make the hilarious observation that he looked like a member of LFO) and push him backwards, I immediately darted into the fray, stationing myself between Glitter’s man and the self-tanner spokesmodel.

I hadn’t been the only one watching this pot boil. One of LFO’s friends arrived on the scene at the same time that I did, and quickly had his hands on his tight-shirted comrade to pull him away. But it was soon apparent that LFO wasn’t overlooking the potential fight that his actions were provoking; on the contrary, he was openly inviting it. Before I knew it, he was back on our side of the bar, inches away from me. As Prince, TJ, and Glitter’s man barked from behind me, I laughed off LFO and tried to talk some common sense into him by saying, “Get the fuck out of here before someone destroys you.”

Oddly enough, those soothing words didn’t seem to calm him down.

Let’s review the situation here: LFO was the most metrosexual man on Earth. He had two friends with him, neither of whom was overly imposing, and neither of whom had the same hard on for fisticuffs that he did. I had TJ, Tony, Prince, Chappy, Dupa, and Glitter’s BF lined up behind me. Even in a one-on-one tangle, LFO would’ve been a light snack for any one of us (aside from maybe Chappy; but he’s just dirty enough to use a bottle or other foreign object to tip things in his favor). But, beyond all that, we also had an ace in the hole: the bar’s manager, Stefani [not to be confused with Steph] is an old friend of Dupa’s. There was no scenario in which any of this ended well for LFO.

Although his buddy had once again pulled him over to their side of the bar, LFO continued to mouth off at us, while most of us did our best to ignore him (Prince, full of beer and childlike glee, was mouthing provocations towards him from our side, only to turn back to us and giggle, all to the disapproval of Mrs. Prince). Eventually LFO walked over to the front doors, yelling for any one of us to join him outside. As he stood there in auto-erotic gesticulation, he felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned around, he found himself face-to-face with the police that Stefani had called. Checkmate.

After a 15 minute conversation with the officers, LFO decided—completely by his own accord, I’m sure—to leave for another bar without any further words or glances in the direction of my crew. With things quieted down, the two female bartenders and a couple of the waitresses came over to share their own encounters with LFO that night. “He was telling everyone that he’s the hottest defense attorney in the city,” reported a waitress. When someone mentioned his two-sizes-too-small shirt, Alyssa—a bartender and Maxim Hometown Hotties contestant—shrugged her shoulders and cracked, “Never trust a man with frosted tips and his nipples out.”

When I suggested that Alyssa, at 5’2”, should try fighting me just like LFO had, she quickly jumped up on the bar and flexed in my face. The thought that I might get frog splashed by a tiny amateur model in the middle of a bar gave me enough pause to consider just how likely my boys would be to believe that I let her take me down. Not very likely, I’m sure.

I would eventually triumph over the short people, though. Stefani, herself all of 5’nothing”, asked for my help in getting a bottle of whiskey down from a high shelf. When she had taken the bottle back behind the bar, I stepped up for another Miller Lite draught. Chappy, however, had also decided to order another drink, and flagged her down first. When Stefani came walking back over with his bottle of Bud Light Lime, I voiced my displeasure.

Me: “I can’t believe that, after I just helped you get that bottle down, you’re going to serve him first!”
Chappy: *laughs in victory as he reaches for his bottle*
Stefani: *grins* “You know what? You’re right. *pulls back the bottle, which was only inches from Chappy’s hand; turns, and puts it in a refrigerator beneath the bar*
Chappy: “Wha..? Hey!”
Stefani: *to me* “Miller Lite draught?”

Chappy was left to whine in protest until after I’d been served my beer and had walked off laughing.

It soon occurred to me that, even though it was close to midnight, TJ was in great condition. This was just unacceptable. I stepped up to get my homie a birthday shot, but froze for a moment while trying to figure out just what to order. Then a villainous grin swept across my face. TJ, looking at me with his eyebrow cocked, sensed something bad was afoot. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I know exactly what I’m getting you.” And if there was any internal doubt about the sincerity of my desire for revenge, it was likely erased by this: When I called over Alyssa, the first thing I asked wasn’t if she knew how to make a Liquid Cocaine; no, the first thing I asked was, “Do you guys have Bacardi 151?” When she frowned a “No,” she likely felt I was going to be disappointed by that response. Oh, how wrong she was. Instead, I smiled. “Great!” I may even have cackled.

I ordered the Goldschlager/Rumple Minze/Jager blend of hell, and then heard lines from Nas’ “I Gave You Power” in my head as I called TJ over: “He walked me outside, saw this cat, cocked me back, said ‘Remember me?’”

Me: “Remember my birthday a couple of years ago?”
TJ: *ice grills me, knowing he can’t argue his way out of this*

I handed him the shot, and Dupa tapped me on the shoulder.

Dupa: “What did you buy him?”
Me: “The Goldschlager/Rumple Minze/Jager shot he got me for my 30th.”
Dupa: *grinning* “It would be pretty messed up if I bought him the same thing right now, wouldn’t it?”
Me: “Yup. Do it.”
Dupa: “On it.”

TJ, to his credit, tossed back the first shot like a soldier. When he was handed another by Dupa, though, just as the first pains from my shot began working their way through his veins, there was murder in his eyes. He gathered his strength, and after a minute tossed back the second one. When he handed over the empty glass, Chappy handed him a Three Wise Men. I think I heard his soul cry.

Then again, it may just have been his Jewish ancestors being summoned.

You Can Get It...

It's Friday, so here's to everyone out there getting some...in the can.

More of the Same

Another double dose-weekend of boozification. I really think I need to slow it down. My bank account can’t take this, not to mention my liver. Actually, that’s an exaggeration; my liver’s been dead for years now. I’m basically just dragging it around like “Weekend at Bernie’s” by now.

Friday wasn’t as bad as it could have been—for me, at least. Dupa and I had planned to start early, but by 6:30 he had notified me that he would be changing the plans. He was at happy hour with a new friend, and figured it might extend further into the night. On my couch half-dead at 8:15, I was resigned to calling it a night. Then I got a call from Dupa. Speaking calmly and coherently, he told me that he had parted ways with the friend, and still wanted to hit some bars in The ‘Side. His demeanor on the phone seemed to indicate that he was sober, because “calm” and “coherent” aren’t two words you can use about this man after 30 minutes at a bar. Sure enough, when he showed up at my place a little over an hour later, he had completed his transition to "Dupa Drunk". Apparently he had skipped dinner, which is always a wise choice when drowning yourself in happy hour cocktails. He dropped a bookbag on my table with a thud. Pulling two cold bottles of Bud Light Lime from it, he said, “I figured I could bring a change of clothes, or I could bring beer. I chose beer.” I really couldn’t argue with that decision.

On the way to the bar, we happened past a hot dog vendor, and Dupa’s eyes lit up like Xenon headlights. He threw back a dog in about 5.8 seconds, and off we went to the spot. The bar wasn’t crowded, but there was a high percentage of good looking women. Two vodka tonics—here we go. My bartender friend then walked over with three glasses and began preparing a round of shots, without any provocation on our parts. Is it any wonder why I love this place?

Dupa quickly noticed a girl sitting at the bar who he had met at happy hour. She was with a guy who didn’t seem too pleased that we so easily commanded her attention. Dupa and I had barely shared a couple of words on a strategy for removing him, when the lothario made a smart move: He collected the girl and ghosted. Neither of us saw them leave. They just disappeared. I can only assume that the guy is every bit the douche bag that he appeared to be, and that he has lost easy targets in similar situations in the past. He learned from those past mistakes—pulling her out of the bar was a veteran move. (If only he’d just learned not to be a douche bag instead.)

Returning our attention to drinking, it was rapidly becoming obvious that Dupa wasn’t going to last too much longer. The lone hot dog in his system was up against an army of vodka and shots, and it soon gave way. Our friend Jed had arrived with a cute coworker, and Dupa was all over Jed. Cute Coworker looked at me, bewildered, as her boss was getting playfully molested by a longtime friend in the middle of a nice bar. All I could say was, “We’ve got to go get some food into him.”

It was only about midnight, but we made our way to a pizza shop where Dupa repaired himself (somewhat) with two gyros. The next day he told me, “I sent a text message to [T.C.] this morning that said, ‘I think I got to 2nd base with Jed last night.’”

Saturday started with beers in my boy Nick’s pool. It ended with me nearly jumping out of a moving SUV. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After an afternoon of relaxing in Nick’s pool and drinking beer, Tony and I headed out to Station Square. “Breitling” had a table in the VIP area at Barroom, a new club. My buddy Chief was in town from D.C., and we (BAL, Haze, Chief, Breitling, Tony, myself, and others) got ourselves thoroughly sloshed while watching attractive women in short skirts dance all around us. There’s nothing quite like standing with one foot on top of the wall between VIP and the dancefloor, while looking out over a crowd of girls trying dance their way into your heart—and your table. Of course, if they had known that Breitling was the moneyman, and that I was merely benefiting from his generosity, I doubt a single eye would have been cast in my direction—yeah, I wasn’t going to tell them s**t. Some girls climbed up on a small platform alongside the wall, to give us (and the rest of the club) a better view of their skills. [That’s two of the lovelies to the right. God bless.]

At close Tony and I headed outside to catch a cab, when an old “friend” of mine hit me up. She and her two girls, P and M, were out nearby. They pulled up, and Tony and I climbed into the backseat on either side of M. As we rolled down Carson St., though, Old Friend and I quickly got into an argument, and then P joined in on her friend’s side. I looked at M, and said, “Is she serious?” M shrugged her shoulders and said, “I don’t know what her problem is.” At about that point OF said something that pushed me over my limit. [Note: Since waking up Sunday morning, I have not yet been able to remember what it was we were fighting about; neither can Tony. Broads.]

“F**k this s**t! Let me out of this f***ing truck.” She didn’t slow down, so I unlocked my door and pulled the lever. We screeched to a halt and I hopped out, casually muttering something about “stupid f***ing c**ts” as I slammed her door. OF nearly peeled out as she stepped on the gas and took off up the street.

As I strolled to the sidewalk, it dawned on me that Tony was still in the truck. I looked down the street a few blocks, and saw him getting out and trotting down the sidewalk towards me.

Tony: “Dude, you got out, and they were saying, ‘We got his boy! We got his boy!’ I was like, ‘Uh, you can’t kidnap me.’”
Me: “F**k them.”
Tony: “Yeah. Tom’s Diner?”
Me: *turning around to see it a few doors down* “Sure.”