Kang like T.I.—But in the Chi? Daffy (Pt. 3)

[Continuing on from where we left Part 2...]

Saturday, March 1st
I awoke after 8:30 and rolled over to see TJ lying on the other half of the air mattress, looking through something on his phone. “They may call off the game, because of the [approaching] storm.” I responded with a barely intelligible “Oh yeah?” I’d almost drifted back to sleep when the meaning of what he’d said hit me. “WHAT?”

Since he was the first one up, TJ cleaned up and then headed out to Wrigleyville to catch up with Weatherman while the rest of us slowly pulled ourselves together. Fire, showing true Chirish hospitality, had coffee and doughnuts waiting for us. And though he didn’t have aspirin or Advil, he had vitamin packs that he said would help replenish our systems. I wasn’t going to question it. In the state I was in, he could’ve handed me a rolled up twenty and said the lines of white powder on a small mirror were a healthy aspirin alternative, and I would’ve accepted it without contest.

Before we left I added a can of Mountain Dew Kickstart and a shot of Milagro Tequila. Hashtag: “Chicago Breakfast.” Leggo!

We cabbed it to Goose Island Wrigleyville, where Tennessee and his girl were with some friends of theirs. A waitress showed us to a table upstairs, and before we had even sat down, TJ, Weatherman, and GG walked in. They hadn’t even known we were there; the synchronicity of booze-loving minds is amazing. Our party of 11 ordered up beers and food. When Swag suggested mimosas, Weatherman and I were game. When the waitress came back over to us, he and I each ordered one. Swag ordered two.

As we ate, drank, and loudly debated various ramblings, Alex texted some of us to tell us she and E-Bomb were on their way. Nearly an hour later, they still weren’t there. When I casually looked over my shoulder in the direction of the stairway to see if they’d arrived, I instead saw a familiar stocky blonde guy in a Penguins tee striding towards us. It was Dupa.

“WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU COME FROM?!”

…When I glanced around at the tables of bewildered diners staring at us, I abruptly remembered that being in public requires a tad more decorum.

My unfiltered reaction, though, was caused by the fact that our Polish homie had kept his planned attendance a secret from everyone but TJ. He’d played it up brilliantly the day before, repeatedly commenting on all of our Facebook check-ins, pictures, and statuses about the trip with the same one-word response: “Stupid.”

Alex and Ed finally caught up with us, and shared their tales of running around Boystown the night before. Among those accounts was one about Alex getting taken to the wrong hotel by her cab driver. I laughed heartily. (Remember that later…) Dupa worked on getting caught up, asking the waitress for a beer and a menu item named the “Black Earth Burger,” which he instead called a “[D.E.F.I.] Burger.” She gave him a blank stare, since she didn’t know my name, and the joke had sailed over her head. I laughed heartily some more. He also asked for poutine style fries; when we got our bill later, the final entry on our list of damages was, “POUTINE THE FRIES.” At that point, Chicago was starting to feel like my spirit animal.

We moved the party across the street to Sluggers. There we met a cute waitress with a spectacular bottom, Fire’s buddy German, and a phenomenon called Old Style. While the rest of us ordered up various drinks of credible pedigree (Vodka Red Bull for moi) and rounds of shots, Dupa ordered a pounder of the Chicago delight that was—and probably always is—on special just down the road from Wrigley Field. The look of anguish on his face as he tasted it was really brutal, as a friend. I almost didn’t laugh at him. …Heartily.

When Swag returned from the batting cages on the second floor (yes, really), we introduced him to a guy in the bar wearing a University of Miami hat. You see, Swag is an impassioned Florida State fan, who bristles at the mere mention of “The U.” So while this guy meant no harm and jokingly chided him about their differing collegiate affiliations, Swag was seething with rage over someone daring to wear Miami gear. You know...here in Chicago, the land of FSU. (Don’t try to find the logic. The rest of us gave up years ago.)

The NHL officially stated that the game would go on as planned, so those of us staying at Fire’s—including Dupa—cabbed it back to that location, so we could fortify ourselves for the weather we were going to endure in the stands. For me, that meant a thermal shirt, Pens t-shirt and tossle cap, gloves, and heavier socks being added to my standard attire. When someone asked Dupa, who had come from 70 degree temps in Houston, what he had brought in preparation, he said, “Ski tech.” I did not laugh heartily; I muttered jealously.

Fire poured us out shots (more Milagro for me), and the seven of us toasted to the night ahead.

The plan was to use the Hilton Chicago, where TJ and Fire’s boy Kerrigan had a room, as a base camp. It was within walking distance of Soldier Field, making it a perfect place to meet up before and after the game. Those of us who had clothing more comfortable to wear in a bar took our bags to the hotel, so we could change following the game. Everyone squared away their (physical) baggage in Kerrigan’s room, and we hit the hotel bar. …Well, most of us did. Dupa made a quick pit stop in a lobby bathroom to vomit. Old Style’d.

Count this as the first—and, in all likelihood, last—time I ever have to wait in line to get into a hotel bar. The place was packed to the limits of the fire code with Penguin and Blackhawk fans trying to numb themselves up before the Lake Michigan winds could. I downed a couple of Miller Lites in an effort to do the same, but it just wasn’t working. Try as I might, I just couldn’t fight off the effects of soberness. I even switched to a Jack & Coke. Nada. Damn it.

It wasn’t helping that we were standing right next to an emergency exit, which people were regularly using to give themselves a more direct route to the stadium. Each time they did, Chicago’s “Windy City” reputation reached into the bar and punched each of us in the balls. Swag was clearly getting fed up, and when a round middle-aged guy in a Hawks jersey headed for the doors, our buddy asked mockingly, “Where ya goin’?”

“Uhh…the museum,” was the smart ass response he got (and probably deserved), as the guy continued on his way outside and met up with a friend standing on the sidewalk. Unable to handle not getting the best of this stranger, Swag fired one last salvo; he cracked open the door, stuck his bald head out into the pounding winds, and yelled, “FUCK YOUR MUSEUM, BRO!”

TJ and a few others had waited until the last minute to throw on their heavier gear, so while they went upstairs to do that, Canada and I each downed a Jack & Coke at the bar. After the drink we wandered out into the lobby, waiting to meet up with everyone. It seems the hotel was hosting a formal event of some sort, as men in tuxes and women in expensive dresses sauntered past us and up to a ballroom. Maybe it’s a good thing I couldn’t get drunk. Otherwise I might’ve let them have it for thinkin’ they were better’n me.

By this point, the blizzard had moved into the area and had put down about a half foot of snow. Our black, gold, and red battalion marched dutifully toward Soldier Field, with Canada bringing up the rear in boots so worn that they had no tread. Not ideal for the conditions, to say the least.

Kerrigan, his wife, Cap, TJ, Dupa, Swag, Canada, and I were all seated together in the next-to-last row of the stadium. The wind was coming from left to right, pelting us with snow and dragging it across our face like icy razor blades. And we were loving it, thanks to our adrenaline—and the hand warmers that Cap passed out. I probably would’ve loved it even more if I had been drunk and not feeling as much of it as I was, of course. But the atmosphere in the stadium was electric, and unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. People weren’t just excited to see their teams play; they were excited about the game. The moment captivated all. Have you ever attained consciousness during a dream, where you understand that it’s just a dream, and felt the calming peace of knowing nothing can harm you, nothing can be taken from you? For at least a brief moment, 63,000 people dreamt that dream together.

After the first period, we had our first casualties. Dupa announced that he was soaked through, and had to leave. Apparently Mr. I-live-in-the-third-world-heat-of-Houston-now had decided against wearing the outer shell of his ski tech. Stupid.

Swag went with him, as they told us they’d wait for us at the Hilton bar. Canada and I got more beers. At the second intermission, more casualties. Tennessee and his girl abandoned their seats on the other side of the stadium, and Canada abandoned ours. I waited in line for 20 minutes to get into the men’s room, and then got more beer.

As the third period got underway, my lack of thermal underwear (not that I don’t own them, I just didn’t bring them; looking back I have no clue why) meant my thighs were frozen. As was my beer, which had turned into a Bud Light slushy. TJ asked if I wanted to bail, too. Hell no. I was the only one of my Pittsburgh brethren still standing. The Pens were being easily handled on the ice, and I knew I was going to have to hear about it for the rest of the weekend. I would’ve amputated my own frostbitten leg before I would’ve handed Blackhawks fans an opportunity to add material about Pittsburghers not being able to handle Chicago weather to their impending stand-up comedy set list.

With five minutes left, the stadium PA alerted all that the north gates—which we’d come through—would be closed after the final whistle while postgame fireworks were set off. That was all the nudge we needed, and the five of us remaining in our group jumped up and headed down the long staircase to the concourse.

Cap, somehow, assumed the role of our group’s navigator as we walked from the stadium. I didn’t realize it at first, but he had not been our navigator when we walked to the stadium. This would be a bit of a problem; we quickly found ourselves in a part of Grant Park that I hadn’t seen three hours earlier. As we began crossing a field with our sights trained on the distant lights of the Hilton’s block of Michigan Avenue, I suddenly felt my foot slip on a hard surface as I planted it in the snow. “Odd,” I thought. “Why would grass be icy?” After a few more steps, I distinctly heard the sound of ice cracking.

“Wait…what are we walking on?” I got no responses. “AYO! ARE WE WALKING OVER WATER RIGHT NOW?!”

TJ: “I mean…technically it’s not water right now…”

Apparently, these four white Chicagoans found my sudden murderous rage very comical. I failed to agree. (The next day, TJ would explain that we had merely been on a retention pond, and the water below us wasn’t more than four feet deep. But for all I knew that night, I was walking across Lake Michigan.)

Once back at the Hilton, we caught up with Weatherman, GG, and their boys in the lobby. The line to get into the hotel bar had doubled, as had Weatherman and GG’s level of intoxication. Once it thawed some I was able to turn on my phone, which had shut down in the cold of the stadium. Swag and Canada finally responded to our texts, informing us that they had gone back to Tennessee’s room at the Courtyard Marriott instead of the Hilton where we were all supposed to be. Yayy… I went up to Kerrigan’s room and retrieved my bag. When I came back downstairs, Weatherman and GG had already departed for the Marriott. TJ, Fire, and the rest of their people were going to go to dinner in the area. I decided to catch a cab to the Marriott.

As we parted ways, TJ and Fire told me to tell the cabbie I wanted to go to “the Marriott River North.” I recited that phrase over and over in my head, as I stood in a very long and slow-moving line at the cab stand. It took almost 45 minutes for me to finally get into a cab. “Marriott River North,” came out of my mouth aboard a sigh of relief.

The roads in Chicago weren’t exactly clear, and even though my cabbie was driving a small SUV, he slipped and struggled in a few places as he carried me across the city. I could just feel the bemused gods toying with the idea of getting the cab stuck in the snow, and stranding me in the middle of a giant, foreign city. When we got to the Marriott I felt my shoulders relax for the first time in hours, and I started putting together thoughts on how to get myself back on the righteous path to drunkenness.

Swag had texted while I was in the cab, and told me he, Canada, Dupa, and Tennessee were in room 1225. I found my way to the 12th floor, but was at a loss when the door numbers on the odd side of the hallway went from 1219 to 1227. I retraced my steps; the rooms on the even side were all there: 1220, 1222, 1224, 1226… The fuck?

I dialed up Swag.

Swag: “Yo.”
Me: “What room did you say you were in?”
Swag: “1225.”
Me: “Why don’t I see it?”
Swag: “What?”
Me: “Man, I’m looking at these room numbers, and there’s no 1225. The rooms go to like 1219, then there’s nothing on that side again ‘til like 1227.”
Swag: “I’m pretty positive it’s 1225.”
Me: “I’m standing outside of 1224.”
Swag: “Well, I’m standing in the hallway looking at 1224, and I don’t see you, sooo…”

I was in the wrong Marriott.

There’s frustration, and then there’s being sober and alone in a new city you know nothing about, with a phone with a dying battery, barely defrosted from three hours of watching your favorite hockey team get embarrassed in an 8°F snowstorm and another 45 minutes of waiting for a cab in an 8°F snowstorm, carrying a duffel bag like you got lost on your way home from a rec league game, wandering through hotel hallways fantasizing about a magical liquid that eases the pain and makes you forget bad experiences, only to learn that the hotel you were dropped off at isn’t the one you wanted to go to.

There wasn’t a single person or thing on the planet that I didn’t want to strangle the life out of.

Google Maps was the first to get back into my good graces. If only that cabbie had heard of it. It informed me that the Chicago Marriott Downtown Magnificent Mile, where I was taken, was only 0.3 miles from the Courtyard (Marriott) Chicago River North, where I was going. I started walking, and along the way shot off a text to TJ: “I hate your city right now.”

My rage subsided when I finally reached Marriott room 1225, and found everyone having a quiet conversation while Dupa slept (*sigh* Houston makes you sofff). Weatherman and GG’s room was just down the hall. I stopped by to share my tale and found GG ready for bed, while Weatherman was making himself Makers & Cokes.

Swag, Canada, Dupa, and I formed a new plan. It was around midnight. We’d cab it back to Fire’s, drop off Dupa and my bag, and go get properly drunk in Old Town. We went out to the street to hail a cab. It would be another hour-plus before one finally stopped for us. All I heard in my head while we waited was, “Man, fuck this town.”

Eventually, while we were repeatedly failing to flag down a cab, two cars approaching the intersection collided…somehow. We hadn’t been watching, but they suddenly pulled over across the street from us. A furious young brother hopped out of the trailing car. I can only guess that the other driver had changed lanes into him, maybe. He yelled at the other car as he approached it. I reveled in someone feeling the same anger that I’d felt for most of the night, and waited for a gun to be pulled. Then he yelled for his girlfriend, in the passenger seat, to call the cops. So much for murder. “Man,” I groaned. “I was hoping I’d get to see a homicide. Would’ve made this whole night worth it.”

Back at Fire’s, we shared our various miseries with the Chicago boys, who couldn’t fathom the issues we’d run into with taxi service. They hadn’t had any trouble getting cabs all night. We were all too cold and tired to bother going back out to the bars. I sat in Fire’s recliner sober and angry, and realized I hadn't even had dinner that night.

Man, fuck this town.

[To be continued...]

Wifey Material: Selena Gomez

Is it just me, or is Selena looking a lot sexier now that she's "legal?"

From E!:

Selena Gomez didn't mess around when it came to celebrating her 21st birthday.

During an appearance on Tuesday's Tonight Show, host Jay Leno asked the "Come & Get It" singer about her first legal drink upon reaching the milestone.

"I had a shot of Jack [Daniels]," Gomez revealed.

When Leno inquired how many, she admitted, "I don't remember."

She went straight to Jack? This is a woman after my own heart. Come to Pittsburgh, Selena. Come home. 'Cuz we ain't gettin' no younger, so we might as well do it...

Spirit'd Discussion

My girl BIO with the assist.

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.

Running on Empty

I commented on Twitter several weeks ago that I may be America’s laziest writer. But that’s not entirely accurate. Fairly accurate? Sure. Mostly accurate? Perhaps. About two Nicole Ritchie-sized snacks from being nail-on-the-head, spot-on accurate? Check ya tone, boy…

No matter how reclusive a maestro is, though, he still needs inspiration to guide the pen that writes his masterpieces. And for me, that means bottles pouring adult beverages into glasses almost as quickly as I’m pouring them out of glasses and down my throat. To make this booze distribution system—or, as I like to call it, “fluid sociological dynamics”—sustainable, a steady supply of fuel must be available to trigger the process. The most commonly used accelerant is a flimsy green and white (and sometimes purple) form of paper which is most often mined from computer slots in the external walls of banks. And in my case, well…let’s just say I’d be better off if I had to use plutonium to buy out the bar.

The 2008 economic downturn has finally caught up with me, a full two years later. This means that I’ve had to cease all frivolous spending for the foreseeable future—save for a case of Sam Adams’ Harvest Collection a month ago (I mean, if I’m not going to spoil me, then who is?). And so weekend after drunken weekend has passed without participation by moi. I’m not happy about it, but it’s my reality for the time being. Hell, just last week I was in Las Vegas—the Mecca of loose purse strings and alcohol-induced tales of epic proportions—for a business trip, and through the first five nights I consumed a grand total of ten drinks. That, compared to my standard of inebriated debauchery, is basically an Amish tea party.

The last day of the trip was a little different. I finally had time off, and I decided to do a little mild gambling during the day at the Wynn (which, on the whole, was a fail; but, on the bright side, I was able to put some money in the pockets of Steve Wynn, and we all know that poor pauper could use some financial assistance), where I got free Jack & Cokes. Then that night I got to see my boy B Rush for the first time in years, and we did it up with half yards of beer at the Yard House and then cheap draughts at Ellis Island. But even at the end of my booziest day in town (which still saw me back in my hotel room before midnight), I was still only mildly tipsy. Sad stuff, really.

But for a man with a limited budget, it’s my only hope for climbing out of my current hole. Otherwise I’d have to sell most of my possessions and live under the bar at Shady Grove.

*thinking* Hmmmmmm… No, no, nevermind.

Save the Planet...by Boozing

This brings a whole new meaning to "Drink responsibly."

In honor of Earth Month and as a continuation of our commitment to responsibility, Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey is partnering with the non-profit organization American Forests to release a new commemorative bottle – the Jack Daniel’s American Forests Bottle!

The Jack Daniel’s American Forests 750ml bottle will be available in select U.S. markets starting April 1, with a suggested retail price of $39.99. And, for each purchase of this very special bottle, American Forests will plant a tree.

Kudos to Jack Daniels for such an environmentally-conscious initiative. Of course, if they had started this campaign 20 years ago, my family alone would've reforested half of the country by now. Uncle Red probably would've had inner-city Baltimore looking like Yellowstone.

It's a Family Thing

It’s the age old psychological argument: nature vs. nurture. Are a person’s character traits and behaviors inherited, or merely a result of the influences of his environment? It’s a debate that often takes place while drinking, but I think it’s also worth looking at when talking about drinking (that is, aside from examination of the root causes of alcoholism, in which both nature and nurture tend to factor—trust me, I’ve been to enough AA meetings to know that much**). This being the holiday season, I’ve once again spent some time mixing my family and alcohol. And it has reminded me that my proficiency with booze, whether because of nature or nurture, is largely due to my own flesh and blood.

• On Christmas Eve I had dinner at my mom’s house, and we were joined by two of my cousins (“PJ” and “Jump”), as well as PJ’s husband, Jump’s fiancée, and his fiancée’s son. Shortly after their arrival, my mom had the realization that she hadn’t picked up any beer for the occasion. All she had was the few cans of Coors Light in the refrigerator in her garage—cans that have been down there so long, even I won’t touch them. Jump sprang into action, despite our warnings, and ran down to get a can. He’d cracked it before he had even come back upstairs, and he declared it to be "fine" as he took a few preliminary sips. Later, when he’d finished the beer, my mom asked him what the expiration date on the can said. “September 2007.”

Jump stuck to wine the rest of the night.


• An unapologetic yinzer 20 years my senior, Jump has never found a moment where he felt uncomfortable saying exactly what is on his mind. Particularly when he’s been drinking. Even at family gatherings. Especially at family gatherings when he’s been drinking. And this hasn’t changed now that he has a fiancée with an 11 year old son. As PJ, his sister, explained which kinds of vegetables—fresh, frozen, or canned—that she and her husband eat, Jump patiently sipped from his glass of wine and waded through the mind-numbingly mundane conversation, awaiting his chance to speak.

PJ: “…He won’t eat frozen. But we both like canned.”
Jump: *beat* “Do you like kielbasa in the can?”


• Jump got at least part of his drunken bravado from his mother, my late Aunt Pat. As a kid, my favorite feature of each year’s huge family Christmas dinner get-together was the inevitable moment when Aunt Pat was visibly sauced. It usually came shortly after dessert and just before we began unwrapping gifts. One Christmas, as all of us laughed at her feeble attempts to entertain our cat, Jagr (we’re Penguins fans—fight me), she slouched back into the dining room chair and said, “Jagr…you little pussy!”


• I’ve already written about my mom’s night of celibations a few weeks ago. Although such nights have always been few and far between for her, I do have a few childhood memories of holidays and parties where she and her siblings would indulge and cause hilarity. There was even a late night peanut fight when I was about 11, where my Aunt Barbara, my mom, and I battled in a winner-take-all peanut-throwing showdown that led to us finding peanuts in different corners of the house for the next few months.


• Throughout my younger years, there were several summertime cookouts and parties at Jump’s house, and they often involved him and his buddies polishing off a bottle of Ouzo (among other things). When I was about 14 or 15, they began offering me a taste or so of my own. Now I can drink the stuff without much change in my demeanor; I’ve done shots of the Greek delight with friends, however, who afterwards look like they’ve just drank turpentine.


• In June 2005, I was in Connecticut for a cousin’s wedding. As people began to roll into his house for the rehearsal dinner, I helped my uncle carry the first keg out to the back porch. Picking up the tap, he asked, “Do you know how to put one of these on?” I had it locked in place and was bleeding the foam before he could finish his sentence. “Ah,” he countered, “I see you’ve done this before.”


• In October ‘99, my boy E and I were in Baltimore for Morgan State’s homecoming weekend. While sitting in my grandmother’s living room on Sunday, we talked with my aunt, a couple of my cousins, and one of my uncles (“Uncle Red”), who was sitting quietly at the dining room table with the Sunday paper. My aunt, ever the little sister, grabbed the glass of iced tea sitting in front of Uncle Red and took a swig.

Aunt: *shocked, nearly choking* “[Red]! This is almost all whiskey!”
Uncle Red: “That’s why you don’t take other people’s drinks.”
Aunt: “It’s 11:30 in the morning!”


• As long as I can remember, when my uncles and cousins would gather for a family event, the two most plentiful liquors on hand were always Ketel One and Jack Daniels. One day several years ago, I walked through the liquor store on a Friday afternoon, looking to replenish the bar in my apartment. I had no particular brand in mind to buy, but I knew that I wanted a bottle of vodka and perhaps a whiskey or some other dark liquor. As I placed my items on the cashier’s counter, I realized that I had picked up none other than a fifth of Ketel and a fifth of Jack. I texted my cousin, “Mrs. Blue Moon” (MBM)—Uncle Red’s daughter, coincidentally—and explained what had just happened. She laughed and said, “It’s in our blood. Don’t try to fight it.”


• My Uncle Johnny has often told a story about my Uncle Rob visiting him once. Johnny had a bottle of some liquor that he proclaimed to be deceptively strong. Rob’s response was a confident, “I find that hard to believe.”

An hour later, confined to his chair by the potent drink, Rob called on Johnny’s son to take the glass from his hand and put it up on the counter for him.


• Once MBM, Uncle Red, and I were heading to a small family reunion at my sister’s house, just outside of Washington, DC. We packed up the trunk of Uncle Red’s car with coolers of drinks and food, and hit the road. While navigating our way to the highway through the streets of Baltimore, I casually mentioned that I was eager to get started on the day’s drinking. Uncle Red, ever the gracious host, pulled over to the curb, ran back to the trunk, and came back with bottles of Dos Equis for MBM and me.


• In the summer of 2000 my dad’s family held a large reunion in Raleigh, NC. Because a cousin of mine—who herself lived in North Carolina—was also getting married that same summer, they decided to combine the two events. This meant that nearly everyone in the family, even many of those who lived in North Carolina, got rooms in a nearby Homewood Suites for the weekend. My boy Chris and his girlfriend made the trek with me; upon checking into our room, we decided our #1 priority would be keeping the kitchen fridge stocked with bottles of all sorts. Our room quickly became the default party room, where my generation of the family hung each night to booze and party.


• MBM is a skilled drinker herself, and often the instigator of intense boozing sessions. She volunteered her house as the site of the afterparty following our cousin’s wedding last May, and it was there on her porch where I first witnessed beer pong and flip cup being played in the hood. Often when I would come to Baltimore for a visit, I would crash at the upscale townhouse where one of our uncles lives. On one such trip, we decided one night that we wanted to drink, but neither of us felt like going out on the town. MBM came up with a remarkably perfect solution: The uncle who owns the townhome hardly drinks at all, but yet has shelves full of alcohol in his basement closet (he keeps it stocked for those occasions when he’s entertaining guests). And since his basement features a plush TV room, complete with a large sectional sofa and a large television, it was the ideal place to quietly relax with some drinks. It quickly became a mini-tradition that anytime I was in town, at least one night of my visit we would get twisted with drinks at the townhouse.

In the end, it’s difficult to say which has played the bigger part in making me who I am. While nature has certainly ingrained me with a comfort level with booze, it’s hard to deny the nurturing that went on while hanging with my crew during my college years—or any that has occurred in the time since. Each has played a part, but I would never have become elite without both of them. To put it into drinker’s terms: A glass of Guinness is good on its own, but if you drop in a shot of Baileys and Jameson, it becomes something much more powerful.

Damn it...now I’m thirsty.


[**Sadly, that’s not a joke. My stepmother has been sober for over 18 years now, and I’m proud of her for it. Although this page is a dedication to the pouring pastime and I often (read: constantly) make jokes about my friends and I being “drunks”, I would never belittle the disease of alcoholism. I’ve seen firsthand the kind of pain and damage it can inflict on both its victims and their families. I would hope that any and all of you out there reading this understand that my writings are largely tongue-in-cheek. I like to have fun, as do my friends. But each of us knows his or her limit, and I only feel comfortable talking and joking about our drinking because I am secure in it being merely social recreation, and not the symptom of deeper problems.

This is something that’s very personal to me. When I was younger I spent a lot of time at AA and Al-Anon meetings with my stepmom and my dad. I listened to people tell stories that not only crossed that ever-so-fine line between “funny drunken antics” and “destructive addiction,” they raced across it like a Top Fuel dragster. That’s why, with every story I report on this page, I do so knowing that its participants were firmly on the safer side of that divide. I have also, on a few occasions, talked with people who are authorities on the subject of alcoholism—namely, men and women who counsel people that abuse alcohol and drugs. I don’t consider myself an expert; but I do feel that my own hands-on experience with the sickness makes me slightly more qualified than the average person to identify who might or might not have a serious drinking problem.

And yet, despite this, I have had to defend myself from the reckless accusations of a few individuals in my private life who know very little about alcoholism, but who have naively decided that because I drink a lot, I must be an alcoholic. If you know anything about the disease, you know that my consumption habits fall well short of anything that should sound off any alarms. I already have a mother, and she worries about me as a matter of standard operating procedure. And if she’s not concerned about my drinking, then you shouldn’t be either.]

Brilliant Insanity: B-Day '09 [Saturday]

[The conclusion of the 48 hour booze race...]

• While I was still fighting through a raging hangover the next afternoon, T.C. called to inform me that the Buffalo boys had already began drinking in the South Side. It was only 2 pm. I showered and shaved, and then rolled out around 5, stopping at a convenience store to pick up a bottle of Gatorade (for hydration recovery) and a can of Monster (for sleep deprivation). I slammed the bottle of Gatorade before I reached the Wendy’s drive-thru for a chicken sandwich (the only food I had eaten to that point in the day) and a milkshake (to coat my stomach prior to that night’s onslaught). I had finished my sandwich and shake by the time I caught up with the guys at 1311 Tavern.

• The Buffalo boys were crushed. When they stumbled out the door a half hour later, one of them (Pete) ran into the doorframe, bouncing off and onto the sidewalk without even realizing it.

• Dupa had met up with us a little late, and only had time for one quick drink before we left for the Sheraton in Station Square, where Girlfriend had booked a room. His choice? A pitcher of cherry vodka and Diet Coke. Granted, it was about half the size of a standard beer pitcher, but it was still large enough for him to need T.C. and I to help him kill it before we departed.

• T.C. walked to the nearby Holiday Inn, where the Buffalo Boys were lodged. Dupa and I took my car over to the Sheraton. In navigating our way over there, we happened to approach an intersection as T.C. crossed it. As we blasted past him, Dupa shouted, “Get out of the way, you Irish fuck!” With both of us nearly in tears from laughter, he looked at me and said, “It’s going to be a good night!”

• Girlfriend went all-out for the occasion. Not only did she book the room so that she and I had somewhere near the action to crash, but she stocked it with a case of Miller Lite, a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label, and a bottle of Patron. She’s pure wifey material, folks.

• Unfortunately, to go to any of the guest floors of the Sheraton by elevator, you have to first swipe a room key. This meant that I had to go downstairs and escort anyone coming up to meet us. I first did so with Hurley, and then made a second trip to collect T.C. and the Buffalo boys. The hotel was swarming with girls age 5 through 17 that day, as a large dance competition was being held in the convention hall. Boarding the elevator with T.C. and the boys, we found ourselves sharing it with a girl, about 12 years old, and her chaperone. The chaperone was a heavy woman who appeared to be closer in age to us. As the elevator lifted off, she cracked that her charge was too young for us.

Me: *blinks* “Ooookkkkkaaayyyy”

We politely laughed at the unnecessary joke. We reached the girls’ floor, and as they parted through us to exit, Chaperone said, “We don’t want any perverts!” We were all stunned and confused for a split second. But before the doors closed, T.C. chirped up, “Yeah—and we don’t want any fat chicks!”

• At Bar Louie we discovered that for $15 per hour in the private section, you could purchase an all-you-can drink special featuring top shelf alcohol. Bang. 17 of us signed up for two hours of Jack Daniels, Grey Goose, and Ketel One. With tip, the bill for the alcohol came out to about $600 at the end of the special. The waiter said, “You guys drank over $1000 in alcohol tonight—you just made $400 on us.”

• Pakistanimal spotted a plump woman out on the main floor wearing a blueberry-colored jogging suit. He noted to us that she looked like Violet Beauregarde in the original "Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory". Dupa walked downstairs for a closer look; upon returning to our lounge, he announced, “Oh my g—I just came in my pants!” Laughing, all I could say was, “Dude,” while pointing at my friend Michele, a coworker who was seated with her husband on a couch 3 feet away from him, cracking up. Realizing his level of inappropriateness, Dupa countered, “I immediately regret saying that!”

• Dupa “found” a pair of white-framed sunglasses on the bar, and rocked them for the rest of the night. The look led to me saying the next day, “You looked like a chubby Scott Storch. You’re ‘Scott Starch’!”

• Pete and T.C. began an ice cube war, tossing them halfway across the large lounge. Hurley and I, seated near Pete while we ate our dinner, joined on his side. Cubes were raining down on T.C., to our giggling delight. At one point, Pete fired a shot that landed flush against the side of T.C.’s head. Before he could react, a second volley came from Hurley; it hit the small table next to T.C., and then bounced up and smacked him in the face.

• There were a few bachelorette parties at Bar Louie that night, and one of them soon found their way over to our private lounge. The 20+ guys we had gathered for the party quickly swooped in, chit-chatting and helping the girls achieve their bachelorette party tasks (getting bench-pressed by a guy, getting a lap dance from a guy, etc.). Dupa, in pure heaven, took several pictures with the ladies, including a series in which he picked the bachelorette up into his arms, and then began swinging her around into different positions, as if performing a figure skating routine. Later, as we were leaving, he tried to get a picture while holding up two of the girls—one in each arm. He promptly fell backwards, and the camera flashed as all three lay on the floor of the lounge in pain, embarrassment, and laughter.

• I had a steady flow of Red Bull and Vodkas coursing through my veins. I routinely double-fisted, occasionally with a third drink warming up “on deck”. As the last minutes of the special ticked away, someone in the party—a saint amongst men—told the waiter to make all drinks doubles.

• The night was well documented photographically, by both me and Dupa. He recently purchased a new digital camera. It’s waterproof, a fact he displayed by repeatedly dunking it into his drinks. Standing in line for CC Saloon, he accidentally fumbled it. Our gasps were met with the unruffled demeanor of Dupa.

Dupa: “It’s shockproof, too. See?” *drops camera onto the concrete intentionally*

• Girlfriend paused to take a picture with the cop standing outside of CC Saloon. She put her hands out, wrists together, and he pretended to put his handcuffs on her.

Me: “You mind if I borrow those later?”

• The scene in Carson City was crazy, with approximately 40 – 50 of my friends packed into the area surrounding the main bar, dancing, drinking, and laughing.

• I was in remarkably good condition, largely because I refused shots all night. After Friday night, the thought of doing a shot made me gag. Pakistanimal bought me a Jager Bomb, which I politely sipped at for about 20 minutes, until Girlfriend grabbed it off me and tossed it back like a pro. A few minutes later Baby Joey alerted me that he would be buying me a shot. He asked what I wanted; “Water.” He wouldn’t agree to that but sensed my plight , so he bought me the girliest drink he could think of: a Redheaded Slut. I did the shot—it’s more or less like drinking Kool Aid—with ease, but I was spotted by Pakistanimal, who thought the embargo was lifted. He bought another Jager Bomb, which I handed to GG.

GG: “This is yours, I don’t want to do it.” Me: “Look, I can’t do it. So either you do it, or I’m pouring it out.” GG: “Well, in that case…*takes cup and throws it back*

• Hollywood came to CC Saloon straight from a wedding, and was three sheets to the wind the second he walked through the doors. He wore a jacket, dress shirt, and tie; all three were nearly danced off him by TD, Shock, and Girlfriend. I put on his jacket, which quite-obviously did not fit me, and paraded around the bar. While doing this, though, I missed out on the following action: TD accidentally tripped and fell into a random tall blonde standing near our group; the bitchy Amazon shoved TD backwards before any kind of apology could be made; Hollywood jumped to his friend’s defense, pushing Bitchy. A scuffle ensued, and Hollywood was booted. I escorted him outside, where he proceeded to yell challenges to a guy standing nearby who, though he had been in the bar, had nothing to do with the altercation. I told Hollywood to shut up and clean himself up, noting that his wifebeater (tank top) had gotten ripped during the fight. He was too gone to hear me, though. Releasing a primal growl, he ripped apart the wifebeater and spiked it to the ground in a display worthy of his “Gay Hulk” nickname. After a few more minutes of standing around, he suddenly took off running (in a manner Girlfriend described as “like a duck”), disappearing into the alleyway behind the bar. We later found out that he tracked down the kid he had been yelling at, swung at him, missed, and tackled him to the ground. A cop nearby, who knows Hollywood, pulled him off of the kid and told him to get the fuck out of there. How he got back home safe is a mystery to all of us, including Hollywood himself.

• Girlfriend negotiated for a minivan taxi, already inhabited by Chappy and two females who I had never met before, to take us back to the Sheraton. The girl sitting in the front seat of the taxi was attractive, and seemed to know both Chappy and the driver. When we reached Station Square, she opened her door to leave. Chappy, in a last-ditch effort, said, “Why don’t you come up to Mt. Washington with me? We’re going to drink some more and hang out.” The girl barely glanced at him, then hugged the cabbie and said, “Ok, bye” before hopping out and trotting off.

Girlfriend and I woke up the next morning, exhausted. She had been the drunker of the two of us at the end of the night, and her head was pounding out its revenge. My ban on shots had worked beautifully, and I was actually able to look at sunlight without wincing.

Who’s the insane one now?