'Murica

There was a time when three straight days of alcohol-sodden, brain-left-at-home fun was the gold standard for a “staycation” holiday weekend.

If you’re at the beach or on a cruise, all bets are off. You’ll go a week without even stopping to feel the first twinge of a hangover—I’m speaking from experience here. But when you haven’t even traveled out of your area code? Three days is the max. The human body just can’t take more than that without being recharged by ocean air and drunk strangers from other states, who you know you’ll never see again.

That used to be what I believed. Fourth of July Weekend 2013 changed my religion. I have been to the mountaintop.


Wednesday, July 3rd

You gotta get up to get down. How do you get everyone primed for a weekend full of shenanigans and alcohol? Throw a house party—correction: “a small get-together,” according to TD—full of shenanigans and alcohol in the middle of the week.

The location: TD and Boy Toy’s new townhouse. I chose to wait and arrive fashionably late (most everyone else was tweeting or facebooking about drinks as I was still sitting at work). So I wasn’t the least bit surprised by what I found as I carried a case of Canoe Paddler through the front door: a dozen or so people kicking the ever-living shit out of sobriety.

• When I walked in, Mitch Canada and TJ pointed out the half-empty little cans scattered about the kitchen. Apparently the newest product coming to these boozing streets is cocktail-in-a-can. Martinis, margaritas, Cosmopolitans, etc., in small aluminum cans. It appeared the first half of the party had served as an impromptu product test.
  
  
• Marty was awake for about the first 20 or so minutes that I was there. He then passed out while sitting on the couch, and slept the rest of the night. I was told he had started his night by drinking glasses of straight whiskey. People put props on him, people took pictures of him, girls gave him lap dances; none of it had any effect.
  
  
• Jay Swag was drunk. Very drunk. And he was guilt-ridden. Very guilt-ridden. It seemed like every time I tried to engage him in conversation, he’d just look down at the bandaging on my shin and say, “It’s my fault.” I finally had to pull him aside and explain that all of his self-flagellation was ruining the fun I was trying to have busting his balls about the accident.
  
  
• TJ had brought a friend with him: “Fried Green Tomatoes” (FGT), a new coworker who had just moved to Pittsburgh from the South. I'd already met her once before, but this was her first introduction to everyone else; being that she’s blonde, sassy, buxom, and cute, everyone else took notice.
  
  And she’s young—24, to be exact. That night was a crash course, like a rookie backup seeing her first action against all-pros. She was okay when I got to the party get together, but rapidly declined thereafter. At one point she asked for my Twitter handle, followed me, and tweeted to me, “It was nice meeting you” (again, I was the one person besides TJ who had already met her before that night). I tweeted back, “It was nice to meet you, too.” Two minutes later, while still standing next to me, FGT showed her phone to TJ and said, “Look, this person tweeted me—I don’t know who this is!”
  
  Her first night of sitting at the grown-ups table ended with FGT falling down a small flight of steps on her way out of the townhouse, and then sleeping it all off on TJ’s couch.
  
  
• I don’t know when, where, or why this became a thing, but TD and Boy Toy taught us a new ritual. “Slap the Bag” consisted of passing around a plastic pouch filled with punch drink [A cocktail party ball?]. While one person holds the bag in the air, the player smacks it like a john who’s paid extra, and then pours a shot directly into his or her mouth via the built-in tap. Pass the bag, repeat.

Thursday, July 4th

I felt no guilt over being slow-moving that day. The trial-by-fire that I had given my weekend, in hindsight, was probably for the best. But… FUCK. When TD texted me impatiently around 4 p.m. asking where I was, I laughed it off. Fourth of July or not, the simple fact that I was upright and moving was a victory in my eyes.

I pulled up to Swag’s with another case of Canoe Paddler. Let’s go. I found a host of people in the backyard drinking, listening to music, and playing cornhole. Oh, and this was just the pregame. After a couple hours of killing most of the case, we walked up to Belle and Finger Bang’s for the actual Fourth party. Get it.

• I had decided to get festive for the occasion, though I quickly learned the difficulties of writing upside down.
  
  
• My injury is more of an inconvenience than a health concern. Case in point? I can’t run while it heals, which means any gains I’d made in personal health in June bled out with the cut. Combining that with a hilly ten-minute walk through stifling heat and humidity meant I was wheezing and sweating like a Kevin James movie by the time I reached Belle and Bang’s.
  
  
• I cooled off in Belle’s air conditioning, and took in her gorgeous view. I may have to put aside my rule against dating friends just to marry her and bask in that prime real estate. [#TrueLove]
  
  
• One of Belle and Bang’s friends showed up in an American flag cape, with an Uncle Sam top hat and wearing red and blue shorts—and not much else.
  
  This did not shock me. That he showed up with his kid and his baby mama, though, did.
  
  
• Belle & Bang’s neighbors were having a party of their own, complete with beer pong games in the front yard. Boy Toy reportedly ran their table like a boss for most of the night.
  
  
• FGT made a subdued appearance, barely drinking anything despite the mayhem going on all around her. Welcome to the league, rook.
  
  
• I remember drunkenly babbling at Belle and Bang’s parents. I didn’t get slapped by any mothers or chased by any fathers, so I’ll chalk that up as a win, though I have no clue what I may have said to them.
  
  
• …my Wednesday night drunk may have combined with my Thursday drinking. If this seems obvious to you, and you’re wondering why I’m bothering to mention it, the simple answer is: I hadn’t even considered that possibility until just now, as I sit here writing this.
  
  
• I know we walked back to Swag and Canada’s after the fireworks, though I remember very little for the rest of the night. The one thing I do remember? Well, I’ll get to that. But first…

Friday, July 5th

FURRY DAY, BITCHES.

I may or may not have awoken on Swag’s couch shouting that. After going home for a power nap and a shower, I hopped into TD’s car around 11 a.m. and chugged liberally from a Mountain Dew Kickstart as we headed for our Furry Safari mecca, Tonic.

• While lying on my couch that morning, I’d suffered the sudden memory flash of trying to kiss someone. A few seconds later, the full picture came back. “Well…I owe FGT an apology.”
  
  
• A block from my place, I realized I’d made the mistake of leaving my shades at home. TD stopped at a gas station so I could pick out the finest pair of sunglasses $12 can buy. I rocked it out in my Sunoco Chanel’s the rest of the day.
  
  …I then lost them by the end of the night. And this is why I buy my sunglasses at gas stations.
  
  
• TD and I grabbed a smaller table in the sidewalk seating, our traditional big corner table having been reserved by another party. Our primary goal—well, secondary, when you factor in furry chasing—became the command and conquer of every other table and chair we could get our hands on as other diners left. A couple of hours later we held command over 90% of Sidewalkistan.
  
  
• The first furry I got my picture taken with this year? A black unicorn wearing a kilt. I could’ve retired off that one.
  
  
• I started with Red Bull & Vodkas. After two I switched to Corona, because there was no way drinking vodka while sitting out in the hot sun all day was going to go well for me.
  
  
• Boy Toy started with Bloody Marys. After one, he switched to Bloody Marys with a double shot of vodka. Then he started pounding shots, including those bought for him by a cougar at the bar. His drunk went from 0-60 in 3.4 seconds. He’d eventually recover, with the help of food and glasses of water. But for a while there I kept expecting to look over and see him sleeping on the sidewalk with his arm around a furry.
  
  
• Some among our crew started their day with Molly. Why they chose to snort MDMA before partying with people in animal costumes is something only their future court-appointed psychiatrists can tell you.
  
  
• Special K was our Rookie of the Year. She eagerly chased down furries for hugs and pictures, and grilled them with questions about the lifestyle.
  
  
• A big blue dog with a GoPro camera rigged on his chest hugged TD. From the gallery I observed, “He just got a camera full of boob.”
  
  
• That furry and his furry buddy had a camera crew with them that we hardly noticed. We would find out the next day that the camera crew was from a local news station, and that all of us—minus TD’s cleavage—were in a piece that aired that night. That’s right: Our Furry Safari has now attracted media attention.
  
  
• Dupa made an appearance, albeit three hours later than he was supposed to. He immediately got up to speed by sexually harassing the guys and doing some furry chasing. You can take the drunken W&J grad out of Pittsburgh, but you can’t take the drunken Pittsburgh out of the W&J grad.
  
  
• Half of our crew made a break for the South Side around…well, if you think I spent all day furry watching in the July heat while pounding drinks and still had some kind of grasp on time, you’re at the wrong blog site. Dupa, his lady, TJ, and I hung back.
  
  
• A blonde girl in a trucker cap, shades, and leopard-print stretch pants took residence at the table closest to us, which our friends had recently vacated. She looked like Paris Hilton, if Paris Hilton was the Sidewalkistan ambassador to Furmany.
  
  
• A girl Dupa went to high school with appeared, and sat down with us. After a few minutes, he leaned over to me and said, “We gotta get out of here right now—she’s about two minutes from dropping an n-bomb.”
  
  
• TJ and I headed for Rumshakers to meet up with Belle, Swag, Canada, and others. At some point, the racist chick showed up. And at some point after that, she started dancing at the bar with Belle’s homegirl, a sister who is more “Da Brat” than “Lil Kim.” (…ya follow?) The world I thought I knew was hanging by a thread.
  
  
• After a while we made our way to the White Eagle, where the other refugees from our safari were located. I drank until I just couldn’t drink anymore.
  
  
• I caught a moment alone with FGT and apologized for the night before. She graciously accepted my apology, and then gave me a ride home. I passed out in my own bed for the first time in what felt like six months.

Saturday, July 6th

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Well, he partied on the 3rd; but that was the last workday of the week, so why not? And he partied on the 4th because, well, he’s ‘Murican. And the 5th just happened to be the day of the Furry Safari. He had no choice but to drink all day that day. It was just a scheduling anomaly that he had no control over. But the 6th? He probably just stayed in bed the entire day with an IV of Gatorade, and put it on cruise control. There’s no national holiday or annual celebration of people in animal costumes on 7/6. What could he possibly do to punish his liver on that day?”

Three words: Whiskey. Distillery. Tour.

In June, Alex and I had kicked around the idea of taking Wigle Whiskey’s tour. But July 6th was the earliest set of tickets available. So we did what any sensible-minded adult would do: laughed at the devil and bought tickets to ride into Hell aboard a chariot loaded with dynamite.

• When Alex picked me up, TD, Joel, and Gaelic Gangsta were already in the car. The latter two had not been active (read: shlammered) participants in the previous day’s mayhem, and seemed fine. I loathed them for that. Me? I was a pause away from being declared mentally-handicapped.
  
  
• Have I mentioned that TD is my little sister from another mother? She tried to verbalize a thought, and got met head-on by her inability to form a sentence. A few minutes later, I ran into the same roadblock, proclaiming, “Vehdf floi shfff bnff shffid aookd.” Without missing a beat or showing a trace of sarcasm, TD nodded her head and said, “Mmhm, yup.”
  
  
• We reached an intersection and saw the distillery off to the right. TD pointed at the building and proclaimed to Alex, “It’s right there, on the left!”
  
  
• When you walk into the lobby, they offer you one of three free cocktails, made from either their whiskey or their genever. We managed to get some of each, including an extra drink for free. (Tell me you expected anything less.)
  
  
• The tour is fun and informative. If you plan on being in Pittsburgh on a Saturday afternoon, I highly suggest it. The 128-proof glass of whiskey they gave us at the end was worth the price of admission alone.
  
  
• We were joined on the tour by Alex’s parents and her good friend Jerry. While Jerry had other business to attend to afterwards, the rest of us walked over to the Harp & Fiddle to further wet our whistles. And, being that we were in the Strip District with moist whistles on a Saturday afternoon, TD and I quickly decided an all-day bar crawl was in order. (Tell me you expected anything less.) The other five people had made plans to go to GG’s house for a small party; after two rounds we bid them adieu and ordered ourselves another.
  
  
• Our next stop was The Beerhive. There we grabbed several rounds of beer, as well as some food to help channel the boozy floodwaters. Boy Toy, Under The Porch (UTP), and MoPaddle soon arrived to give us some backup.
  
  
• Next up: Luke Wholey’s. Probably not bad for a business lunch or dinner date, but…nah. One beer and done.
  
  
• Next: A place called Lefty’s. Arguably the least well-known of our destinations that day, its relaxed atmosphere (read: nobody there) made it cozy and welcoming. I mean, how many places advertise $4 Strong Islands? Okay, okay…the fact that the bartender gave us a couple of rounds of free shots may have swayed my opinion. And the fact that they had sex in the bathroom may have swayed TD and Boy Toy’s.
  
  
• It was getting dark, and the decision was made to move the crawl to the South Side. UTP drove us over, but then made up an excuse and dipped after dropping us off at Rumshakers. Boy Toy theorized that his homie had left to hook up with a girl he’s involved with. Is that really what the new generation [he’s 25] of drinkers does? Lie when they are getting ass? Really?
  
  
• Everyone at ‘Shakers seemed subdued. Even the homie Joe. I tried chatting with some girls there for a birthday, and the room stayed lukewarm. Given my history with Rumshakers, it felt like I’d stumbled into the Twilight Zone. After a couple of rounds we got the fuck out.
  
  
• Next, The Smiling Moose. I grabbed some dinner to go along with a few more beers. MoPaddle, on the other hand, highlighted her time there by sitting her purse too close to a candle burning on the bar. Did you know leather was flammable? Thankfully she caught it pretty quickly, and the damage was minimal. But if you think a drunk girl is going to be calm about her Coach bag getting singed, well…
  
  
• Stop #8: Casey’s Draft House. This crawl had suddenly become segregated by gender. Distraught over her purse, MoPaddle had a moment, and had to be chased down by TD. They would end up at Primanti’s. While that was going on, Boy Toy and I got ourselves beers and shots at Casey’s and talked about the world, being really, really good looking, and other deep, philosophical things.
  
  
• I don’t remember what possessed either of us to suggest Skybar as our next destination, though I do remember Boy Toy reconsidering when we got to the doors. That the South Side’s latest attempt at having an “ultra lounge” expected us to pay a cover charge to get in wasn’t too shocking; it was the fact that they wanted $10 a piece that made us pause. My response, though, was “Fuck it. I’ll gladly pay $10 now for the experience, and to be able to say I did.” And I did. I probably never will again. But I can always say I did.
  
  Look, it’s not that the place is all that bad. Once you’re inside, Skybar is a good time, especially if you have money to throw around recklessly, and/or you’re an inexperienced drinker under 25. But this is Pittsburgh, and the environment will never support their business model for multiple years of existence. Ultra lounges in this town are the bastard children of the overly ambitious, and the naïve who think this is a city as into “scene” as a New York or L.A. Pittsburgh doesn’t want a “place to be seen”—the blue collar heritage is too deep.
  
  Hell, I’ve seen Pittsburghers bitch over having to pay a $3 cover at bars and clubs. If you’re a tourist, Skybar probably seems like a great night out on the town. But, as a resident…nah. One-and-done.
  
  
• We rendezvoused with the girls, and went to Jack’s Bar. I don’t know if I caught a contact high off a roofie’d drink at Skybar, or if 12 straight hours of drinking was just finally catching up to me, but I have very limited recollection of the tenth and final stop on our path of (self-)destruction. I had a beer, but shortly thereafter we were back out on the street, hailing a cab.
  
  
• Once back at the townhouse, Boy Toy, MoPaddle, and I called it a night and went to bed at 2 a.m. like somewhat-sensible adults cracked open a handle of premixed cocktail (some kind of fruit punch, though we appropriately christened it “Red Drank”) and didn’t stop ‘til it was gone, close to 4 a.m. It felt like a poetic close to a maniacal weekend that had started there.

The next morning TD drove me home. I climbed out of her car with bright red lips and a bright red tongue, shuffled into my building, and fell face-first into my couch. That’s the problem with reaching the mountaintop: It’s all downhill from there.

Big Swag Steps Off Laughin'

I wrote in May that 30th birthdays are kind of a big deal. They represent the end of a process that begins with the first loosened baby tooth and then carries through puberty and on past using a proper name when ordering a cocktail. On your 30th, the last remnants of youth are shed. Sure, some try to accelerate the aging process by jumping into marriages and parenthood in their 20s—the less-homophobic cousin to “pray away the gay” camps. But, in those rare moments when these misguided souls find themselves free of the shackles by which they have willingly come to be bound, they still fall back on the their birth certificates as evidence that they can party all night and laugh it off in the morning. And it’s accepted currency—until they turn 30. Then they’re as tattered and worn as the rest of us, if not worse.

Dupa has done it. T.C. Aff. Mitch Canada. I did it before all of them, though not before TJ, Tony, and Pak. But two weeks ago it was finally Jay Swag’s turn to join the Grown-Ass Man Club.

For a guy who treats his ordinary birthdays like full-blown, must-see events, turning 30 presented Swag with a new mountaintop of shenanigans to ascend towards. His birthday was Thursday, August 8th; being that his good friend Tennessee (or “The Nashville Knuckler”, as I kept calling him that week) was coming into town that morning, Swag called off work for both Thursday and Friday, with every intention of staging a (minimum) three-day boozathon. He even suggested holding Beer Olympics on the first day, but relented when he realized he didn’t have most of the supplies such a sporting spectacle would require. He fell back on a tried and true game plan: I’m drinking, Tennessee’s drinking; come on over if you want to drink, too.

What he hadn’t factored in, though, was that Wednesday nights he and others play in a kickball league (…I know). After every game they then retire to their clubhouse—a.k.a. Rumshakers—and proceed to party like they have just won the World Series. This led to Swag drinking away the final hours of his twenties, and led to me receiving pictures the next day from both Finger Bang and TJ, in both of which Swag was laying shirtless in his backyard. In TJ’s photo (which was accompanied by the text, “The last photograph ever taken of [Swag] in his 20s. Rather fitting.”), our boy was facedown with a lit cigarette in his outstretched hand, his pale back seemingly intensifying the moonlight that it reflected amid a green pool of grass.

I arrived at Swag and Canada’s Mt. Washington home around 7:30 Thursday night to find Swag, Tennessee, Belle, Bang, and Entertainer drinking Leinenkugels and in relaxed, jovial moods. Then TJ and Canada returned from a beer run, carrying into the house a case of Miller Lite…and a case of Four Loko. I mentally high-fived myself for having had the forethought to call off work the next day.

We watched the Pittsburgh/Philly preseason game, hung out and just enjoyed the moment, drinking and laughing like a group of good friends in a primetime sitcom. Belle danced on a chair, I cracked open a Loko to the cheers of those around me, and everyone fired bottle caps and good-natured jokes at each other. Alex eventually made it up to the party, took the stick, and carried on the pace as if she had been there all day. When I found Bang laying on the couch and drifting away around 9:30 p.m., she blamed her sluggishness on being drunk.

Me: “Would it sober you up if I took you upstairs and banged you silly? Because I’ll do it.”
Bang: “Will you bang me sober?”
Me: “Yes, sweetie. I will do that for a friend.”

By 10:30 we both made our exit from the party; Bang needed to go home and rest up for work the next day, and she dropped me off at the home of a “special *wink* friend” who lives a couple of streets away from Swag and Canada. …Yup.

I played the sidelines Friday (I mean, I’m not a machine…), but Swag certainly didn’t. He, Tennessee, and Belle hit the Pirates game, and managed to fill their time before, during, and after it with booze. “A man got to have a code.”

After 60+ hours of nearly-nonstop alcohol consumption, you would expect a newly-30-year-old man to slow things down, right? Wrong. At 10:18 a.m. Saturday, Swag posted this to Facebook:

“Well, I'm awake so anytime you dickheads want to come over, I'm going to crack beer #1 in less than 5 minutes. Since I've nearly refused to make any decisions about times/places, I'm just going to check-in on here. Otherwise, I'm sure you have Mitch or [Tennessee]'s number. I hope everyone remembers to bring loose women. Extra credit for ones that are morally bankrupt. Can't wait till see all of you fuckers. Deuces.”

He’d later tell me, “Remember when I said I was going to ‘crack beer #1 in less than 5 minutes’? That beer turned into a Four Loko.”

I walked through the door carrying a 30-pack of Miller Lite at about 4 p.m., commanding, “Shut up, [Belle],” as she told some story to Swag, Canada, their buddy Tim, Tennessee, and Canada’s ladyfriend Collette. I squeezed my case into the fridge, where two more Miller Lite 30-packs and a case of Miller Lite pounders were already residing. I cracked open a beer, joined them in the living room to watch Olympic handball, and away we went.

Swag, Belle, and Tennessee had a new—albeit really strange—obsession that week: Listening to “Goodbye Horses” and dancing around like Buffalo Bill…

*sips his drink*

…I have no punchline for this, folks.

I also have no cause or explanation to add. The most telling fact about all of this, though, is that I had no real moment of shock as it was happening. “Swag and Belle are imitating a cross-dressing serial killer from a movie. …So what’s the score of the handball game?”

We were eventually joined by JL, Bang, Courtney, and Alex, and we made our way to Rumshakers. Once there…well, I’m having trouble remembering exactly what happened there. I know Tony met up with us in time. I remember talking with Joe, a bartender (who bears a striking resemblance to Chad Johnson, and who is nearly as charismatic), as we watched female members of my crew run around goofily. Which girls, or what exactly they were doing to make the two of us shake our heads…yeah. Gone with the booze. I also remember going across the street with several others to get some dinner from Dairy Queen, which we brought back and ate in the bar. But what I drank, what quotes others or I made, what hearts I stole, and what laws I broke are all a blur.

From Rumshakers, we backtracked back to Mt. Washington, heading to Redbeard's. We drank and celebrated there for a couple of hours before finally returning to Swag and Canada’s around 11:30. Checking out from the bars before midnight during a birthday bash? How positively “30” of us. We finished the night throwing back beers at the house, some people congregated (relatively) quietly in the living room around the TV, others (including the birthday boy) loitered on the front porch, enjoying the summer night.

By around 1:30 I moseyed off into the darkness, finding my way over to my “special friend”. Since she had taken in a healthy night of drinking as well, it was 11:30 before either of us got out of bed with any real resolve the next morning. In doing so, I checked Facebook and saw a 6 a.m. post from Swag asking if anyone else was awake. “Wow…” After a hearty brunch, my friend dropped me off at Swag’s, and I walked in to find Collette, Canada, Belle, Courtney, and JL in a joint state of “fml”. They reported that, though most everyone else had called it a night around the time that I did, Swag stayed up well into the morning, drinking and roaming the house. “I probably woke each guy up at least once to do a shot with me,” he explained when I went upstairs and found him awake again. “Mitch and I did a shot of Red Stag at 6:30.”

Brewski Fest 2009: Tasters' Choice (Part 1)

Brewski Festival. A mountain resort. A buffet of gourmet food. 46 breweries, 105 beers. Mmm-mmm-MMMM.

This was my 4th Brewski Fest—Dupa and I are the “Brewski O.G.’s” among our circle of friends. In each of the two previous years, our numbers had grown considerably, due in large part to the word of mouth and stories that began spreading the second we had returned from the annual beer tasting festival. T.C. and Toe have been to the last three; LRG has been to the last two, and so on. However, this year the trend reversed. When dates were announced and initial planning began, well over 30 people said they were at least interested, and more than half of those 30 said they would definitely be there. But over the months between then and April 25th, that original projection of thirty participants was thinned by prior commitments (most commonly weddings and wedding-related dealings). And others just didn’t seem to believe me when I told them that tickets would sell out quickly, and missed the boat (tickets went on sale in late November; by mid-January they were sold out). So Saturday, when we had all assembled at Seven Springs, a grand total of seven of us actually held a pass to the fun.

However, while we had fewer troops this year, we did come armed with a new weapon: team t-shirts, complete with names and numbers on the back. We weren’t the first to think of it; for years now we’ve seen groups of people at Brewski Festivals rocking shirts custom-made for the day. So this year we threw our hats in the ring. I designed a shirt, took orders, and we showed up properly outfitted at gametime.

While only seven of us—Dupa, Chappy, Toe, LRG, T.C., his brother-in-law (“J Sun”), and yours truly—would be going to the Brewski Festival, there were 10 of us gathered at the resort. The wifey squad—Girlfriend, Mrs. T.C., and “Mrs. J Sun” came to the hotel, but chose to pursue ventures other than Brewski. Mrs. T.C. is pregnant, and therefore settled for relaxed activities like watching movies in the room. Mrs. J Sun, happy just to have some “her time” away from her kids and hubby, joined her in the relaxation. Girlfriend, on the other hand, was feeling her not-just-inner debutante; she went horseback riding early on, and then later got a massage.

The menfolk, on the other hand, gathered in Toe’s room with a few beverages to watch the NFL Draft and the Penguins/Flyers playoff game. Thanks to the room having a rather unique floor plan—wherein one large hotel room is split into two separate bedrooms, with a bathroom and short hallway between them—we were able to have both broadcasts on at the same time on two different flatscreen TVs. We would occasionally migrate back and forth to catch the latest on either screen, all while polishing off a case of Miller Lite and the better part of a fifth of Captain Morgan Private Stock.

J Sun, who is Mrs. T.C.’s older brother, was a first-timer to Brewski Fest. In fact, it isn’t often that we get to hang out with him at all, and he was now surrounded by some of the drinking world’s heavy hitters. As the other six of us fired back and forth inappropriate stories and comments, he sat quietly smiling and shaking his head. After one particularly strong comment by Toe, I looked over at J Sun, who almost seemed to be wincing.

Me: “You taking this all in, J?”
J Sun: “You know, I’ve been married for eight years now, and have two kids. I’m just sitting here, soaking all of this in and thinking, ‘I remember those days…’”

Around 6:30 pm we gathered for a few “before” photos, our band of 7 Brewski brothers showing off the tees on our backs and the giddy anticipation on our faces. Then we headed to dinner. Each of us quickly inhaled a plate of gourmet food from the buffet, laying down a solid foundation for the monument to intoxication that was about to be built. At 7 pm the doors to the Foggy Goggle (Seven Springs’ ski lodge) were opened; we tightened our laces, gripped our complimentary Brewski Festival sampling glasses, said a quick prayer for our success and safety, and entered the arena.

Dupa has recently become somewhat of an aficionado on Belgian beers (or, at least, he knows a lot more about them than the rest of us do), and within 5 seconds of entering the Goggle I lost him. I made a few stops, and when I finally glanced down towards where the Belgian companies were, I spotted him tipping back his glass like a toddler with a sippy cup.

We tasted, tested, and tasted some more. Beer was all around, and much of it was delicious; personal favorites, among those I was trying for the first time, were Brouwerij Van Steenberge N.V.’s Gulden Draak, Leinenkugel Brewery’s Summer Wheat, and New Holland Brewing Co.’s Dragon’s Milk. The Erie Brewing Company was giving away temporary tattoos, and one of their reps happily helped Dupa, Chappy, and I each apply one to our respective bodies. Being modest (shut it), I asked her to put it on my right bicep. Dupa, being…Dupa, had his pressed onto his stomach. Chappy joked, “I should get a tramp stamp.”

Dupa and I *simultaneously*: “DO IT!”

A few minutes later, Chappy was proudly sporting his love of Erie Brewing on the small of his back.

As in past years, some of the breweries used “booth bunnies”—young, attractive women who probably knew as much about the beer they were hawking as they did about quantum physics. Often I would find one or more of our squad’s single gents coolly chatting-up a young lass from the other side of a countertop tap, likely not taking a moment to think and realize that she’s not going to fall in love with you while she’s on her grind. At one point, while the remaining five of us stood around a counter talking, we noticed that LRG and Toe had disappeared. I walked around a corner, and found them standing at the Labatt table, where a pretty brunette in tight white shorts was stationed. I walked up, got myself a glass of Summer Ale, gave the two of them a “you horndogs” grin, and walked back to the others.

One particular girl earned more proclamations of love from the boys than any other. She was working for Peroni; petite, with brown hair, personality, and an intriguing smile, she was pleasant eye candy. She bewitched Toe in particular, as he repeatedly bemoaned to us how he would love her deeply and truly. If the kid could’ve gotten his hands on any kind of ring that night, he would’ve dropped to his knee for her. Her partner at the brewery’s tap was a cute blonde, whose “Peroni”-emblazoned t-shirt found itself struggling to keep her ample chest modest. As TJ said when I later showed him a picture of the girls and mentioned the brunette’s charming personality, “Shee-it. The blonde's got two personalities.”

The occasion really is a one-of-a-kind experience. A reggae band played as hundreds of people from different walks of life rubbed elbows while holding little glasses full of a variety of ales, porters, stouts, ciders, and lagers. Our rookies, Chappy and J Sun, seemed to be patting themselves on the back mentally for heeding those who had convinced them to buy a ticket. Our shirts drew appreciation from vendors and fellow event goers alike—although several asked if we were a Brewski Fest softball team. We collected shirts, stickers, bottle openers, and other giveaways along with our servings of nectar. Dupa even purchased an apron with a brewer’s name printed on it. Eventually 11 pm came around, with each of us grabbing the last drops of beer from the nearest table we could find.

To be continued...