"Play Ball!"

[this past Tuesday]
My mother: “Are you still alive?”
Me: “Yesterday was a long one.”
My mother: “The game was actually pretty good.”
Me: “There was a game yesterday?”

The Pittsburgh Pirates’ Home Opener; it has become a yearly tradition for my friends and me. And it is quickly growing into one the city’s biggest annual events. I’ve gone to three of them now, and each year the crowds seem larger than those of the year prior.

We were surprised to hear, at around 8 a.m. that Monday morning, that our traditional tailgating location was closed due to construction. While this didn’t spell doom (most of Pittsburgh’s “North Shore” is a series of parking lots surrounding Heinz Field and PNC Park), it did mean that we were not going to be anywhere near our beloved 222 (the “Triple Deuce”), the dive bar that we pile into every year for rounds of cheap shots of Jack and Beam.

On the plus side, however, we had nearly doubled our numbers over last year’s party. The larger number of people and the change in location led to the new logistical headache of trying to coordinate everyone. TJ and a work buddy got to the parking lots around 8:30 a.m., a full two hours before I finally arrived. In between those two points in time were:

• a stop for me at a grocery store to pick up burger buns and cheese;
• me sitting in my car in the parking lot outside of Esq’s very upscale apartment building, taking swigs of Johnnie Black Label from my monogrammed hip flask [thank you, baby] as I awaited the arrival of my traveling group;
• a dozen relayed text messages and phone calls between myself, Dupa, Chief, Baby Joey, and an increasingly agitated TJ.

Dupa met up with TJ while I was en route in a cab, and called to ask if anyone from our crowd was already down there. I told him that our friend Mudd had gotten down there early and set up camp; but, because neither he nor TJ had met Mudd before, I had not tried to coordinate their forced introduction to each other from my remote location. In passing I added, “He’s a large Black man in a cowboy hat.” 45 seconds later I got a text from Dupa: “We found Mudd, we’re at the spot.”

TD, Baby Joey, and I walked into a beauteous scene: our party stretched about five parking spots wide, and was flanked in every direction by others of similar sizes. Music was blasting from one of the SUVs in our section, and a large table next to it was filled to the edges with food, plates, utensils, drinks, and cups. Grills churned out smoke, games of beer pong raged on two tables that had been set up side-by-side, and everyone everywhere was tipping back some form of nectar. It was downright spiritual.

Pakistanimal, who was at another party nearby, stopped by with a friend of his for a little while. When they had left to go back to their party, someone said about the friend, “I don’t like that girl.” I responded, “I don’t hate her, but I don’t really care about her either. I nothing her.”

My boy, “Beard”, was on hand, which meant a bottle of Jim Beam was, too. Beard is a great character: muscle-bound but quiet and easygoing, he maintains a calm and steady presence, no matter the situation—and no matter his style of the moment. Two years ago, he showed up for the Home Opener with a thick Fu Manchu mustache and beard, and when I spotted him he was chewing on a turkey drumstick while wearing a t-shirt and sunglasses in 40 degree weather. This year he wore a wool ascot cap and shades, and had grown his beard into that of a cartoon devil’s, replete with a streak of gray running the length on either side.

He handed me the fifth of Beam, and as I took one long chug from it, I turned back towards TJ and his boy from work. TJ cracked up, and his friend had a look on his face like, “Who are these people?” And if that image wasn’t enough to freak him out, then the sight of Mudd, standing in the bed of his pickup—cowboy hat and all—popping and locking to some random song, had to be the tipping point.

Familiar faces from all around were gathered for the festivities. Tony arrived, as did Stacy and some of her girlfriends. Nate eventually joined us, as did Shock B. (who had slept through much of the morning). CJ made it for a second year in a row, rocking his routine guise of an overcoat, a cigarette, and hilarious sarcasm. We all ate, drank, and took turns knocking each other off the beer pong table. Chief roamed the party wearing a large pirate-like eye patch. I successfully haggled a guy selling Pirate gear down to $10 for a fitted cap marked at $31. Hollywood made an appearance, although he seemed much more reserved than usual—possibly to avoid repeating the embarrassment of some of his recent exploits. Dupa lifted girls into the air—including TD and her sister, who posed on his shoulders simultaneously—with drunken glee. Pakistanimal, having returned from the other party, inhaled a couple cups of Captain & Coke before deciding he wanted to wear a nearby traffic cone as a hat. Mudd bounced around with a special concoction in a large apple juice bottle, making sure everyone took multiple chugs, but refusing to reveal the recipe. As intoxicated as our shenanigans were, however, none were more ill-conceived than those of a certain girl at the party.

About midway through the day, I noticed a new partygoer. I don’t know whose guest she was, and I had never seen her before, not even earlier that day. She was a blonde of average height and well-above average weight. She seemed to be somewhat in denial about her dimensions, as she wore a t-shirt that was a couple of sizes too small. All too often it revealed her ample midsection and back—sprawled across which was a large tribal tramp stamp. An enterprising guy in our group (I don’t know him personally; I think he was part of Mudd’s extended crew) decided to make use of her self-esteem, which was almost as low as her alcoholic tolerance. I glanced over to the opened hatch of the SUV where he was reclined, receiving a…mouth hug…from Miss Stamp. As this was taking place in plain view of our entire party (and anyone else—including cops—walking past through the parking lot), she reneged shortly after beginning, and it seemed like that outrageous story had come to an end.

But this just wouldn’t be an “On the Rocks” party if it did. About ten minutes later the two of them had moved to the SUV’s passenger side door. She danced and grinded on him while he sat facing out of the open door. A couple of minutes later, she was back at work, her head bobbing up and down in his lap. Suddenly it seemed like everyone had a camera in their hand. People snapped action shots from any angle they could find, all while staying discreet enough to prevent Stamp from realizing that she was on Candid Camera. I stationed myself on the other side of Mudd’s pickup truck (which was next to the SUV) and got a couple of pictures, with Recipient looking directly at me and smiling for the camera. Dupa, approaching from a 90 degree angle, managed to get a much more XXX capture. After several minutes, Stamp came up for air, and in doing so noticed someone near the hood snapping photos. She called it a day—as though she had any dignity left to save.

Unlike in past years, the police set a sort of curfew, coming around not long after the game had begun to shoo away any tailgaters remaining in the lots. We packed up and headed across the street to Calico Jack’s. CJack’s almost always has scores of girls dancing on top of their bar. But there was a lack of female patrons doing it on this day, so some of the staff—most of whom wore black short-shorts and revealing Pirate-yellow tank tops—danced on top of the bars to compensate (right).

We partied at CJack’s for a while, and then moved to McFadden’s. My memory takes a sharp down-spike about this time, and since Pakistanimal was with us, I’m guessing shots were to blame. We lost Nate, Tony, and most of the others over time; eventually Pakistanimal, Dupa, and I were dining by ourselves at Hyde Park, toasting glasses of wine. Picturing our slurring, likely loud and inappropriate antics, I keep flashing to the restaurant scene in “Belly” where DMX toasted the slumped body of his soldier LaKid.

When we left the restaurant, Pakistanimal caught a cab home. I know that I walked across the 6th Street Bridge; Dupa swears he was with me, though I remember being alone. But the next thing he remembers after that is waking up naked on the couch in his apartment in the middle of the night, and hurling all over his bathroom, so I don’t know how well I trust his recollection. As for me, I ran into Baby Joey, CJ, and Chief just down the street from the bridge. I hopped into a cab with them, and we went to Primanti Brothers in the Strip District. We bought sandwiches and then went back to Esq’s, where Joey stealthily disappeared into the spare room and passed out under a blanket on the floor—next to a fully-inflated air mattress. After eating for a second time in less than two hours (don’t judge me), I regained some comprehension and headed home, another Home Opener conquered.

I -heart- Calico Jack's

This one could get me into trouble.

It really shouldn’t—I did nothing wrong. I merely documented the evening; in part for the later fun of reliving it with friends for years to come, and in part for reporting it here for all of you. But sometimes when you’re dating someone, they don’t necessarily see things with the same logical eye that you do. There’s a certain level of jealousy that can taint their viewpoint. And that’s not to say that I have never been infected with the disease of jealousy; but, to trigger the symptoms in me, it takes a little more than learning that someone I’m dating watched an amateur strip tease. Some years ago, a girl I was dating had a threesome with her male friend and one of his close female friends, and the only part that really pissed me off was that I never got the pictures from it that I was promised. But I digress.

Saturday we celebrated the birthing day of my friend Stan (or “Mr. L-R-G,” as he prefers to call himself on MySpace). We did it up at Calico Jack’s with a $10 all-u-can-drink happy hour from 8-10 pm, followed by further gratuitous boozing. My brain was soon awash in cheap bourbon and Coronas.

Around 10, LRG called my attention to a girl in a fluorescent blue dress walking past. “I guarantee you,” he said, “later on she’ll be on top of the bar getting naked; she does it every week.” I had witnessed this type of behavior the last time I visited C-Jack’s. Flesh displays take place every weekend, and have become something of local lore. Scanning through the pictures on the club’s website, you find plenty of examples. It makes you wonder sometimes if these girls realize that their pictures are getting put on the internet. Someone’s going to walk into a job interview and get a big surprise one day.

Around 1am, the party started. LRG’s prediction came true, as Blue Dress made her way onto the bar and began giving the people what they wanted. She started demurely (for drunken clubbing standards), showing glimpses of her black panties from underneath the blue cloth that stopped high on her thighs. Soon she was pulling the dress up to her chest, shaking her booty for the cheering spectators. Girls dancing alongside her took the cue, and began exposing their panties for the crowd’s approval, too. One girl wearing jeans was getting a spanking from those closest to the bar, and when she finally pulled down her pants, red skin glowed through black lace. A few feet down the bar, a girl lay on her back while others climbed on top of her and went to town. Is it still closeted lesbianism if it’s acted out in front of hundreds of strangers at a nightclub?

All the while, Toe, LRG, Zach, and I cheered and snapped photos with the rest of the slobbering throng (the pictures below are all authentic, and are among the 30+ that I took...and no, that's not my hand approaching for a spank). And we each spoke the same undeniable thought: “I hope I never have a daughter.”

James Thompson: Practice Squad Hero

This past Thursday was payday, and seeing that monthly boost to my bank account nearly brought a tear to my eye. I mentioned before that January is a rough month on finances, and being handed a paystub on the 31st is like crossing the finish line after a marathon. You may not have done as impressively as others around you, but at least you finished the race.

A wise man would consider his upcoming trip to Washington, D.C. and its high drinking expenses, and hold off on spending any of that paycheck until then. If you’re looking for the keyword of that sentence, it’s “wise.” I, therefore, decided to go out on the town with my friend Ashhad and some of his boys on Saturday night.

We met up at Ashhad’s apartment to pregame, and after two glasses of Hennessey and a glass of Smirnoff, I was feeling right. The five of us hopped in a cab and headed to Calico Jack’s, a newer bar/night club. The club’s name is a little misleading, given that it is also the name of a brand of spiced rum that serves as a discounted alternative to Captain Morgan. But there was nothing “discount” about the alcohol in this place. Allegheny County recently instituted a 10% “Drink Tax,” which has pushed the price of a domestic beer to $4 in the downtown nightspots. It’s not a big deal when you’re only buying for yourself; but when you’re buying a round of drinks for you and four other people, it adds up.

Given my state of mental lubrication, however, I quickly came to accept the new world order. This was my first visit to C-Jack’s, and I have to say I was impressed by the level of talent on hand. It’s located near Heinz Field and PNC Park on Pittsburgh’s North Shore, which is an up-and-coming area. And, being that it’s near the ball fields, it is often visited by both professional athletes and young women who dream of adding a famous name to their resume. Translation: the place is a groupie feeding frenzy. Hot girls were everywhere, most of them having chosen to wear the sluttiest outfit in their wardrobes. The bar in the back section of the club is a large rectangle, approximately 50 ft. by 15 ft. And nearly all the way around were girls dancing on top of it while scanning the crowd for any Pirate, Penguin, or Steeler that might be in attendance.

Ashhad and I were standing at the bar admiring these amateur performances (in between rounds of shots, which were being passed around like bullets in a warzone) when I spotted one lovely young lady at the far end. While the other girls were doing their best “look at me—I’m sexy,” baby girl was popping off with the “this p***y could be yours.” She was wearing a short skirt, and was bent over shaking her sincerities in guys’ faces. I called Ashhad’s attention to her, and at nearly the same exact moment he and I both said “She’s gotta be a stripper.” The clues were numerous: other girls were dancing in one spot, but she was working her way around the bar; she had a backless top on, and a large tattoo was etched across her back; and, without much suggestion, she pulled her top down to reveal her breasts, squeezing them to the drunken admiration of the guys below.

When she started dancing for one of Ashhad’s boys, she told him that her name was “Angel;” when she made her way over to me, I asked her the same question and she said “An—Jessica.” Our assessment proved accurate when she leaned over to my ear and said, “Come visit me at Club Erotica,” which is a popular local strip club. A female “friend” of hers then began rubbing Angel’s thigh while she danced, and offered to kiss her for our viewing—if we coughed up $5. I’m sure there were some inexperienced saps who fell for that offer at some point in the night; we, however, were not them. When the two girls figured this out, they began to kiss each other for the sheer love of the game. Bravo.

The best story of the night, though, took place an hour or so later. Some of my friends have this odd desire to pawn me off as a Pittsburgh Steeler when we’re out at bars and clubs. I have the stature, true. But, for some reason, they seem to care more about potentially landing a naïve groupie than they do about my desire to not have to lie to kick it. The only thing I hate more than the seedy, lying aspect of this ploy, are the Pittsburgh Steelers themselves. I hate them with a fiery passion typically reserved for villains in Shakespearean plays. Therefore, when one of my friends attempts to pass me off as one, I usually shoot a hole through the scam by quickly telling the girls that I am not now, and have never been, a professional football player. Usually. There have been a couple of notable exceptions, and the common denominator among these cases is intoxication. If I’m hammered, I’ll play ball. Figuratively. And literally too, I guess.

This was one of those nights. Ashhad found a girl standing by the bar, and quickly announced to her that I was a Steeler. I opened my mouth, about to shoot the lie dead, but he quickly countered with an adjustment to the story: I wasn’t on their travelling roster; I was just a practice squad player. I don’t know if it was this creative twist to a familiar shtick, the vague look of too-drunk-to-know-better twinkling in her eyes, or the six or seven shots coursing through my veins, but I decided I was game. It wasn’t about getting her sex, though. She was cute, but I wasn’t interested in slutting her out; it was just a game to play.

She asked me what my name was. I said, “Bob,” but not very convincingly. She challenged that I had made up the name, and I realized I needed to step up my game. I replied, “Yeah, I was just kidding. It’s James.” She bought it, and asked what my last name was. “Thompson.” Hook, line, and sinker. “What position do you play?” “Linebacker, but they put me at defensive end sometimes, depending on who we’re playing that week.” I’m firing on all cylinders now.

She told me that I was “so nice,” and not like the team’s stars. She had heard a rumor about Troy Polamalu, specifically. Apparently, he has been spotted around town picking up various slores at clubs, while his wife sits at home unawares. I don’t know the guy, and I really don’t doubt the validity of that claim. But I was in character. I was James Thompson, damn it, and no one was going to spread vicious rumors about my teammate. “Nah, don’t believe all of that hype, sweetie. People just like to make up stories. I know Troy—he’s totally committed to his wife" (in my head I suddenly regretted not knowing his wife’s name; using it right there would’ve been picture-perfect).

Now, to know me is to know just how big a deal this is. I told this story to TJ on the phone on Sunday, and he was awestruck by my commitment. Well, his exact words were “You must’ve been HAMMERED.” But I like to believe that what he really meant was, “That is a fantastic dedication to scene and character portrayal.”

Expect nothing less from James Thompson.