Scary Hot

If you're under 30, allow me to introduce you to the frightening banshee above: Her name is Claire Forlani. And she's not Scottish.

She was born in England, though she's lived in America for much of her life, and has rarely shown any effects of an accent on or off the stage. Her husband, however, is a Scot (no, his name's not Angus), so she does have some Scottish in her, occasionally. *rimshot* He's also an actor, so I can only imagine Dewars chose her over him because he doesn't look quite as good sitting on a table in a miniskirt.

Coincidentally, if you ARE under 30 and are wondering why you've never heard of Forlani—or if she seems vaguely familiar—then let me share the "Career" section of her Wikipedia page for reference (this is the entire section, which will only further illustrate my point):

Forlani's parents moved to San Francisco in 1993, in order to allow for wider casting opportunities in Hollywood films. Subsequently, Forlani was cast in the television mini-series J.F.K.: Reckless Youth and the film Police Academy: Mission to Moscow. In 1995, she played the supporting role of Brandi Svenning in Mallrats. In 1996, Forlani appeared in a supporting role as Sean Connery's daughter in the film The Rock. She continued to appear in both widely released and smaller-budget films. In 1998, she starred with Anthony Hopkins and Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black. She then appeared in Antitrust, a thriller released in January 2001. Forlani was the new face of L'Oréal in 2001. She has been ranked No.51 (2000) and No.89 (2001) in Stuff magazine's 100 Sexiest Women, No.85 (2001) in FHM magazine's 100 Sexiest Women and was slotted in Loaded's Hot 100 Babes. In 2003, she co-starred with Jackie Chan in The Medallion.

In autumn 2006, Forlani joined the cast of CSI: NY in a recurring role as a medical examiner, Dr. Peyton Driscoll.[4] In February 2007, Forlani portrayed Tori Bodeen in the film version of Nora Roberts's best-selling book Carolina Moon. In 2008, she starred opposite Daniel Craig in Flashbacks of a Fool. In 2011, Forlani played Queen Igraine in Camelot and Kate Templeton in Love's Kitchen alongside her husband Dougray Scott.[5]

In 2011, she also made an appearance in NCIS: Los Angeles as Agent Lauren Hunter replacing Henreitta Lange (Linda Hunt) temporarily as the operations director at NCIS for the end of season 2. She also appeared in season 3's finale, where she is killed in a car blast.

You'll note the steep and sudden drop off in high-profile acting gigs. For a small period of time she was every Mallrats-loving stoner's dream girl; now she's inciting fear boners on the behalf of a blended scotch people drink when they don't have an extra few dollars to buy entry-level bottles of Johnnie Walker Red Label.

Every company starting a new marketing campaign does an "extended cut" ad exclusively for the internet these days, and Dewars is no different. It appears below, but if you've got a weak bladder, beware: this shit's like a trailer for a Scottish version of American Horror Story.

Wifey Material: Christina Hendricks

Any friend of Johnnie Walker Blue is a friend of mine.

*pauses*

*stares*

*drools*

I think I'll cut this post short, to prevent typing something that will get me in trouble with our Standards and Practices Department.

Go Big Blue

Justin Tuck, your gangsta will never again be questioned by me.

From Shutdown Corner:

To celebrate the New York Giants' victory in Super Bowl XLVI, defensive end Justin Tuck gave every member of the team an engraved bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.

The New York Post reports that Tuck handed out 80 bottles to teammates, coaches and staff on Tuesday morning before the team's victory parade. Each 750-milliliter bottle was engraved with "Super Bowl XLVI champions." The total cost was $17,600, or $220 per bottle.

Well damn... Yo Justo, I was cheering for you guys on Sunday. Can you send a bottle my way?

People in Boston, I would imagine, aren't all that appreciative of this display. Don't worry folks, you'll always have the Bruins' victory party at Foxwoods last summer.

Streets is Listing

'Tis the season for yearend lists. I don’t normally do these. But during a moment of day-to-day tedium last week, it occurred to me that there is a ton of stories that accumulate over the course of a year. And while this year, compared to previous years, I’ve been slightly better at getting those stories told via this page (100+ posts in 2011!), the sheer volume of drunken shenanigans practically begs for reflection in the waning days of December.

But the prioritization involved in a “Yearend/Top 25/etc.” list is an especially foolhardy pursuit when you’re dealing with experiences. It’s easy to separate the bad from the good, but how do you deem Good Experience A empirically better than Good Experience B? You may end up with a few really high highs and a few really low lows, but the overwhelming majority of items are going to populate a middle realm where no one event is substantially better or worse than the next. And let’s not forget just how arrogant it is to assign rank to items in a published write. I am one person, and this post will be read by millions hundreds tens of fans; although I may list one event as being better than another, what makes me think that each of those ten readers will agree with the ordering?

This list, therefore, is as random as the life it is fueled by—the items are, however, in chronological order. But no numerical value has been assigned to these moments, so that they may stand as equally brilliant moments of boozy fun I’ve had in 2011. Some of them have already appeared in On the Rocks posts this year, and therefore I didn’t go into too much detail about them here (for the most part). If you want to read more about those specific tales, a link to the corresponding post is provided. For those happenings that are being published for the first time, though, I’ve given a few choice comments.

Here’s to 2012 being a great one.

Top 15 Drunken Moments of 2011

• The Buffalo Trip. Hurley and I drove up to Buffalo, NY—the homeland of GTB [obviously, he’s no longer a “groom to be”, as his wedding took place 2½ years ago; but I’m too lazy to create a new alias] and his crew of boozing all-stars—to join T.C., who was already in town for a business trip, on the second Friday of February. We pregamed at GTB’s house with a few card games, and then headed off to run the town. We bounced from bar to bar to bar, but the only thing I remember clearly is falling in the snow in GTB’s front yard when we got home. The next morning the Pittsburgh boys, all of us enduring massive hangovers, climbed back into our vehicles and crawled back home.
  
• The Pirates’ Home Opener. How do you make a baseball game tolerable to watch? Spend all day getting really, really drunk (and, also, don’t watch much of the game itself). Although we were without our patron saint of home openers, Chief, we boozed at a level that would have made him proud. Beard passed around a handle of Jim Beam until it was completely gone (tradition is tradition); I made out with a shy buxom lass named Kim in the Hall of Fame Club, where we had just met minutes earlier; Baby Joey got kicked out of the same HOF Club for pissing in a bathroom sink; and Dupa molested a female coworker on the McFaddens dance floor. It’s a grand ol’ game.
  
• Four Loko Night. One Saturday in April, Dupa and I decided to go Loko with the case that TJ had bought me for my birthday. As it happened, our buddy Weiner (yes, that’s his real name) was in town with his girlfriend, and they joined the fun. Before long, my apartment was filled with more than ten people, most of us holding 24 oz cans of happiness. Particularly fun to watch was TD, who was consuming her first ever Loko (we only let her have a half a can, being that she was a virgin—and because the can is the same size as her). We later spilled out into the night and hit up Shady Grove. I even performed a lap dance for one of our friends' girlfriends (hey, it was her birthday, and I owed her—she gave me one on my birthday).
  
• Brewski Fest. Beer. Lots of beer. Add in a surprise attendance by BlahBlahBlah, and Tony deciding to leave at 5 am, only to head out the door to the deck and stand there in confusion, and you have something special. And Dupa and I had an idea for a new contest at the annual event: This year, many breweries had stacks of stickers at their booths as part of the swag offered to the Brewskiers. Dupa and I, then, began collecting stickers, applying them all over our bodies. We looked like drunken stockcars. Dupa eventually won by slapping a Full Pint Brewing sticker on his forehead. Now that’s commitment.
  
• The Jim Jefferies Show. When Jefferies announced that he would be coming to Pittsburgh for a weekend of performances in May, my crew quickly made plans to be there. The Aussie comic is one of our favorites, and each of us can recite “I Swear to God” by heart. Hurley and I got boozed up during dinner at Rock Bottom, and then met up with Dupa, Shannon, Stef, and Entertainer at the Improv, where we proceeded to get even boozier during the raucous show. Afterwards we all headed back to Rock Bottom for more drinking, and were eventually joined by others—including Jim Jefferies himself. Best line of the night: Jefferies telling Enzie he wanted to fuck her, kill her, and toss her body in the river.
  
• Redbeard’s Happy Hour Night (post). I've already spoken on how great the random Friday night in June was. Proof that, in life, it’s often the unplanned moments that turn out the best.
  
• Furry Safari (post). Friends, fun, and fur. Plus lots and lots of booze. And an uninvited guest. And then lots and lots more booze.
  
• Armo’s Pool Party (post). Easily the best party of the summer. An entire day and night spent in perfect July weather with beer, lemonade vodka (to TJ’s detriment), bikinis, and craziness.
  
• Xmas in July (post). Hallelujah.
  
• The Admiral’s 75th (post). Say what you will about my family, but we know how to throw one hell of a party. Big Sis tearing down the house at the afterparty, Step Bro hitting on everything in a skirt without a care, the Sunday barbecue carrying on into the wee hours of the night, and a Mason jar of moonshine making the rounds. Yessir.
  
• Esq’s Bachelor Party. In September we gathered for our homie’s last hurrah. Beer pong, scotch, and hookup horror stories at Breitling’s estate, a bus ride to Station Square, and copious amounts of boozing. When walking into Buckhead, I managed to smack my head off a low hung light, causing me to crumple to the ground, and making several cute girls nearby shriek, “Oh my god, are you alright?!”
  
• Dupa’s Dirty Thirty in Vegas (post). Yup. [And yes, the third installment is going to be published…eventually.]
  
• Halloween. Enzie, Chappy, his fiancée, and I helped TJ and Glitter take their son (as well as his friend, who was escorted by his mom—Glitter’s friend Jenn) around Chappy’s neighborhood. And along the way Chappy and I worked on the case of Sam Adams Oktoberfest that was in TJ’s backpack. As the night went on, we had to dig through the candy his son had been collecting to get to the bottles; in other words, we had to find our way through the treats to find the trick.
  
• Whisky Fest. Thanks to TD and her sister Green Pants, I finally got to take part in this coveted November affair. Heinz Field’s exhibition hall was filled with every premium spirit one could ever hope to sample, from Johnnie Walker Blue Label (which was tasted-dry by attendees within two minutes of each bottle being opened) to Courvoisier Rose. Boy Toy and I spent three finely-attired hours working our way around to every table that we could, while growing more and more functionally dysfunctional.
  
• The Ugly Sweater Party (post). The first time I’ve ever enjoyed helping friends move furniture.
  

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.

You Got the Stones?

In case any of you were wondering (and I know you were—yeah, you; I see you out there), we gave “On the Rocks” its name because of our desire to pour undiluted truth into each story on this page. TJ and I have lived lives filled with notes of truly flavorful comedy, often delivered with a silky smooth surrealism. To mix in exaggerations, lies, and fictional accounts would water down our narratives, and do an injustice to the very experiences that we deliver to the readers.

Whiskey/scotch connoisseurs will tell you that they face this very same problem when enjoying the delicate malts that they hold in such high regard. Any drink goes down better when it’s chilled; but, put an ice cube into your Blue Label, and the ghost of Johnnie Walker himself will appear to sodomize you with the bottle. Destroying that finely crafted taste with H2O would simply be criminal.

So you want your drink chilled, to improve the drinking experience, but adding ice will ruin the drink you’re trying to experience. Quite the conundrum, right? Well, my friends, I’m happy to tell you that there is a solution: whiskey stones.

Whiskey stones are small cubes of soapstone (don’t worry, they’re not going to leak suds into your drink); put them in your freezer for a couple of hours, and then add them to a glass of your finest whiskey or scotch. The stones cool down your drink without neutralizing the taste. Simply brilliant.

Whiskey stones are offered by a variety of different companies and specialty stores (Google search), and typically cost about $20 for a set of 8 or 9. If you are a true lover of finely-crafted whiskeys, you’ll buy yourself some today. Salud.

"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.

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?