Florida State of Mind

It’s just like riding a bicycle. In other words, I’ve never learned.

Beginning in 2003, my former company sent me to a different city of its choosing within the contiguous United States every October. Some of the locations of the annual fall conference were fantastic: the bright lights of Las Vegas are always a win; as is San Diego, with its beautiful weather and scenery; even, surprisingly, Minneapolis and Charlotte, which both manage to combine legitimate nightlife and a small-town feel. Other host cities, however, were god awful: I’ve already talked of my distaste for Vancouver, WA; when I was 11 I saw Orlando as a waste of Earth and tourist money, and nothing changed when I was 30; Pittsburgh…because, well, I already lived here. It was behind in the game before the opening kickoff.

Recent business decisions, made by people with yearly salaries bigger than my lifetime earnings, made it likely that the 2012 event will be the organization’s last. So where better to throw your life away send off fond memories with a bang than St. Petersburg, FL?

I last visited the area in 2008, when a different conference brought me to Tampa. And after five days of strippers, Maker’s Mark, sunshine, and gambling, it’s a miracle that anything brought me back. But a lot has changed since then. The economy tanked. TJ moved to Pittsburgh. I discovered my addiction to Hispanic women. …Hell, all of those things happened by the end of 2008.

One swing towards the positive, though, was TK’s southern migration. Our favorite goofball moved to the area in the summer of 2011 in search of a better life amongst beaches and tanned blondes. When I alerted him to my travel plans, he happily agreed to be my tour guide/chaperone/co-defendant for any and every night of the October trip when my schedule would permit some time away from work.

My first day in town, a Monday, was not going to be such a night—especially since I had to be up at 5:30 the next morning. But a day of air travel and annoying coworkers soon changed my attitude towards getting away for a few hours. And when TK texted me around 3 p.m. with designs on getting buzzed like a bored housewife on a Thursday afternoon, I decided to join him that evening for dinner and drinks. By 7 I was hopping into the same old, beat up Alero that had once cruised western PA, and we were setting a course for Treasure Island.

Warm air and a coastal sunset will cure many an ill, including work stress. Alcohol is still the more effective remedy, of course; but Florida’s top two attractions—well, top two family-friendly attractions—come home a respectable second. Thankfully, all of these medications can be taken at the same time, and we hit up Sloppy Joe’s to do just that. We were shown to seats at the outdoor bar of the beachside restaurant, which was populated by a modest dinner crowd enjoying ocean breezes and light beer. As we walked past a long table on the deck, we both spotted a boxed cake, which sat alone on a cart as though it was awaiting further orders. Joking, TK pointed at it and said, “It’s my birthday, can I have that cake?” I quickly responded, “That’s a wedding cake, dumbass.”

Although I said the words, I somehow did it without processing their meaning.

As I took healthy swigs of Corona and discussed the sexy blonde bartender’s physical attributes with TK, I soon noticed a large group of people finding themselves seats at the aforementioned long table. When I spotted the white dress, I almost choked on beer. TK caught wind of it all at the same time, and it was all we could do just to reaffirm each other’s faith in our own eyesight.

TK: “There’s…a wedding reception?”
Me: “…At Sloppy Joe’s?”
TK: “…On a Monday?”

The bride wore the strapless, full-length white gown that you might expect; the groom wore a white dress shirt and khaki shorts. Guests munched on nachos. TK attempted to sneak a picture of the bride from over his shoulder when she wasn’t looking—and then froze with panic when his flash went off. Someone’s uncle randomly yelled excitedly about cheese. And I looked on in amazement, all while washing down an oversized Cuban sandwich and cheese sticks with several more Coronas.

Ahh, Tampa. (…/St. Pete/Treasure Island. Same thing.)

After dinner we decided to head back to St. Pete, and respectfully congratulated the bride and groom as we walked past them on our way to the doors. Once back in St. Pete, we parked amid a string of bars in downtown, and pulled up seats at a sidewalk table at 5 Bucks Drinkery. And on that table we sat two draughts of Bud Light big enough to cure a redneck’s erectile dysfunction. We didn’t set the town on fire that night—I was back in my hotel room by 10:30 p.m.—but I was definitely eased into my groove.

Tuesday saw a predawn-to-sunset workday, which closed with a poolside reception for all of our customers. I began the event drinking Heinekens, and eventually switched to scotch once I had gotten some dinner in me. TK and I had made plans for the next night—dinner and a more thorough night of debauchery with Racktacular in Tampa—so instead of tagging along with coworkers and/or customers headed to various nearby bars and restaurants, I thought it better to play it low key. Heading back to my room to check emails, work on a spreadsheet or two, and get some rest would be the responsible thing to do.

But then I remembered that the hotel bar had bourbon.

As quickly as I had sat down with a glass of Maker's & Coke, a group of coworkers and customers were inviting me to join them at their table. I convened with their assemblage for a half hour or so; then, as I was again about to head back to my room, I ran into three of my managers, who—along with my team manager’s husband—were sitting at the bar downing drinks. As I sat down and my program manager ordered me another Maker's & Coke, my team manager introduced me to her hubby. “Have you met Bart?” He and I reminded her that we had met previously, and she returned to her glass of wine. After another 10 minutes of conversation, she turned to me and said, “Hey, have you met Bart?”

My program manager was a fellow lover of American whiskey. I ordered another Maker's & Coke, but he stopped the bartender and told her to change it to what he was drinking: Basil Hayden’s, neat. The smooth bourbon rubbed my shoulders and whispered sweet nothings to my consciousness. Fantastic stuff, that. I added one last Maker's & Coke to my body count, and then slipped off to my room. Two relatively quiet St. Pete nights in a row; I felt like such a cocktail tease.

I knew, though, that Wednesday would certainly bring a return to normalcy. By the end of the business day, I was ready to drink away anything work-related; “sloppy-drunk” was my affirmed goal. And before long, TK and that black Alero were there to whisk me off to a place made for just that objective: Ybor City.

We found Rackt at the Tampa Bay Brewing Company, and quickly got caught up while ordering dinner. Conversation steered towards work; I explained my woes, but TK’s professional life was a much different world. The young man, you see, is a certified massage therapist. And, while I’m sure you can envision the benefits that might come from having such a job in Florida, it also leaves him vulnerable to an unlimited amount of jokes involving sexual innuendo. And that is something squarely in Rackt's and my respective wheelhouses.

Me: “Do you ever have to massage hot chicks?”
TK: “Yeah, I massage hot chicks.”
Rackt: “Do you get a boner?”
TK: *flustered* “They can’t SEE it!”

After dinner and a few delicious draughts, we strolled through the streets of Ybor, eventually finding our way to Gaspar’s Grotto. We grabbed seats at the bar on the patio, and drained more draughts while I caught Rackt up on the happenings in Pittsburgh over the seven months since she had last visited. She eventually had to call it an early night, but TK and I were in it for the long haul.

An Ybor bar crowd on a random weeknight doesn’t disappoint. It’s the single malt of people-watching; you just sit back and savor it. And, as we were about to learn, things only get better when the bar is having an open-mic night. There was soon a middle-aged white man—wearing a jean jacket that seemed to have been relieved of its sleeves by a pair of gardening sheers—singing a blues song while a barefoot guy in a tie-dye t-shirt emphatically strummed a guitar. Later, women in burlesque-style heels, garters, and bustiers walked through the crowd handing out fliers to their show while a garage band—and a guy playing bongos—banged out a set. TK and I clinked our draught glasses.

After some time we moved down the street to Doppel Decker. Here we found a much sparser, but younger and more attractive crowd. That included the bartender, a beautiful, petite blonde who looked all of 17. We decided to do shots, and as TK went to order, she walked off towards another customer. Matter-of-factly, TK looked at me and said, “I’m not aggressive at bars.”

When she was back within earshot, I called her over and ordered two shots of whiskey. The bartender informed me, though, that Jager Bombs were buy-two-get-one-free. Hell of a saleswoman, that gal—and the thong peeking out from the back of her low-rise jeans was quite the capable wingman. I ordered up the $20 “bargain”, and gave the third shot to our lovely personal shopper. As she tossed it back, the thought that I had probably just bought and handed alcohol to a 17-year-old briefly crossed my mind.

After finishing our beers, TK and I moved on down 7th Ave., and wandered into The Dog's Bollocks. Count this as the first—but hopefully not the last—time I’ve ever set foot in a soccer bar. Such a thing doesn’t exist in Pittsburgh, to the best of my knowledge; but I wish it did. There were no soccer games that night, and as such no hooliganism. But the atmosphere within that bar was positively engrossing. The bar is dark but inviting; looming but non-threatening. Sitting at a barstool, you don’t feel like you’re sitting in a place of Tampa nightlife so much as you feel like you’re sitting in a child’s treehouse. A treehouse that serves lots and lots of tasty beers.

I marveled at graffiti in the bathroom, and then found a spot at the bar in the backroom with TK, where we ordered 24 oz draughts—a serving size the folks at 5 Bucks Drinkery would probably consider quite adequate. Dog's Bollocks serves these draughts in giant plastic mugs; there may or may not have been such a mug tucked into a thigh pocket of my cargo shorts when I stumbled back into my hotel room that night. I can only imagine a bartender chuckled at me straight-legging it out the door, while he muttered “tourist” and reached into a box of 200 more mugs just like it.

The airport the next afternoon…yeah. Hangovers that take place during air travel are far from new to me, but experience doesn’t stop the room from spinning. Having arrived at the airport about three hours before my flight, I got some lunch into me, followed by some Starbucks, and then set up camp at the gate. Fantasy football on my laptop, Joe Budden on my iPod, and an abundance of Florida’s top export walking past helped me to somehow keep it together. I watched a MILF in a sundress glide through the terminal, past the college girls’ volleyball team that was huddled around an iPad at the next gate, and suddenly remembered: The Ex is from Florida, too.

Nope, I've never learned.

The Cocktail Party

*stares blankly at America's unflinching capitalism*

There's (Liquid) Gold in Them Thar Hills

I thought it was just my own craving for bourbon that had increased in recent years. Turns out I'm just part of a worldwide trend.

From Yahoo! News:

It's among the most ambitious of projects for this industry clustered in central Kentucky's rolling hills, where distilleries have spent at least $150 million in one of the bourbon sector's biggest expansions since Prohibition, said Eric Gregory, president of the Kentucky Distillers' Association.

The producers are aiming to quench a thirst for bourbon — especially premium brands — that is steady in the U.S. and rapidly expanding overseas, thanks in part to the comeback of cocktails appealing to younger adults, lower tariffs, robust marketing and a larger middle class in emerging markets.

Personally, I find bourbon to be a great everyday, around-the-house drink. Something to sip on after dinner. Or to drown my fantasy football woes with on a Sunday afternoon (don't judge me). I even have my own bourbon cocktail recipe, which Dupa christened, "God-DAMN deeelicious." Good to see I'm more avant-garde than I'd thought.

And considering all of the Maker's Mark I've been drinking lately...

Maker's Mark, known for its red wax seal, is in the midst of an estimated $50 million expansion that will boost production by about 50 percent and expand bottling capacity at its operations near Loretto in central Kentucky.

In the next six years, it plans to build 20 to 25 new warehouses needed for storing barrels of whiskey that will age no fewer than six years.

The brand, part of the spirits lineup for Deerfield, Ill.-based Fortune Brands Inc., surpassed 1 million cases bottled for the first time in 2010.

...it sounds like someone owes me a "thank you." I'll take a couple of handles on the house, Fortune Brands Inc. Gracias.

5 Nights in Tampa

This is coming to On the Rocks a little late. But quite frankly, how do you reign in the immensity of such a historical event with only a keyboard? Such a temptation of the apocalypse (or is that an apocalypse of temptations?) as me bringing my drinking prowess onto TJ’s home turf?

Three weeks ago I flew to Tampa (or as I now refer to it, “My Freak on the Side”) on a business trip. Never before have work, play, alcohol, beautiful women, perfect weather, and financial irresponsibility blended together into such a rich and finely-woven tapestry. Now if only I could lay that fine work of art out before you, and allow you to gaze upon and feel each of the delicate folds…

…But this is the paradox of alcohol. It provides such unequivocal release of stress, tension, and worry, while creating these wonderful experiences for us, its loyal subjects; and, simultaneously, it severely decreases the likelihood that you will be able to save this magic in your memory banks. I know that, for every fantastic story that I can pull from my mental archives, where I and/or my friends have engaged in a nearly cinematic escapade, there are another two tales, as good or better, that have been erased from my mind forever. It’s the sad plight of a novelist who writes his masterpieces with a blowtorch.

Given the limitations of my recollection, as well as the need for appropriate editing (this page, after all, has a specific theme; and, more often than not, things such as conversations with coworkers during a break, or sleeping alongside a beautiful exotic dancer from Wisconsin—hi, Sage—just don’t fit the mold), I have decided to simply give you some of the many smaller episodes that contributed to each of the chapters of this novella.

• The Monday of the conference was St. Patrick’s Day (the official one). The organizers held a reception that evening, and decided to use a St. Patty’s theme. This meant green beer. As a matter of protocol, such events are never open-bar; not only that, but the prices are outstandingly high (ex.: $6 for a Heineken, where as the Tampa average is about $4). Some glorious individual, however, had decided to make the green beer complimentary. It’s enough to make you start humming “Oh Danny Boy.” Many of the conference attendees were from other nations and cultures. They viewed the green beer as a strange novelty, and sipped at their cups cautiously. The large, uncouth Americans such as me, however, tossed them back like Dixie Cups of water along a marathon route.
• At a second reception that night, my ex-boss and his wife were in attendance. His wife is a fun, spirited older woman, who my coworkers and I love to hang out with at these events. We often share innocent jokes, but I was full of green beer and managed to stupefy her with this:
  o Her: “So what have you been up to lately besides work?”
  o Me: “Drinking.”
  o Her: *shocked pause* “Anything besides that?”
  o Me: “What else is there?”
• I packed for the trip like a lobotomy patient (I left the day after St. Patty’s in Pittsburgh, sooooo…), and needed TJ to take me to a mall so I could buy myself a pair of jeans. Sage came along, and as we left the mall she jumped on his back for a piggyback ride through the parking lot. I trailed slightly behind them, and suddenly had the notion that her bottom needed a firm reminder of who I was. Telepathy is an amazing thing; just as I stealthily approached to deliver the palm of my hand, TJ instantly stopped in his tracks to add emphasis to the smack. The sound resonated throughout the quiet parking lot like a gunshot.
• That night, TJ took me to his private oasis, i.e. "The Club". The place is full of a cast of characters; and I love all of them like family now. Which would make “S-Money” the hot distant cousin that makes you think, “hmmmm…” She bartends at "The Club," but on this night she was off-duty and had been out celebrating the holiday. Hard. When TJ introduced me to her, she enthusiastically jumped up and hugged me with her legs wrapped around me. The exact thought that went through my head at that moment? “I love this place.”
• The bottoms of a couple more dancers were introduced to my palm as the week went on. The girls seemed to like it, and management didn't care. A girl who can't sit down isn't wasting company time, I guess.
• We ended the night kicking it at TJ’s. Sage prefers herbal stimulation to the kind that comes in fifths, but didn’t have a bowl. Weedheads are always creative, though; a weedhead can make a bong out of a paper clip, a roll of toilet paper, and two onions if need be. But TJ’s apartment didn’t yield any good materials. She decided to knock on the door of his neighbor, who he had never met before. A 20-something, five-foot-nothing girl answered the door. When Sage asked if she had an apple, she said, “No, but I have a bowl you can use.” I guess weedheads always know one of their own.
• Tuesday, one of my company’s larger customers had a large party at Hattricks, an Irish hockey bar. The max capacity of the establishment, however, was about 100 people; the party consisted of about 200 people. I got TJ, Sage, and some others in, and all of us took advantage of the open bar. Makers & Coke doubles, baby. At one point, two waitresses were standing near us at the bar, somewhat bored, when they decided that they needed to do shots. TJ and I were recruited to join them, but he balked because the shots were Irish Car Bombs, and he’s afraid of beer.
  
• My ex-boss and his wife were at the party, too. Early in the night, she told me she was going to keep count of how many drinks I had, to make sure I behaved myself and didn't have too many. A couple of hours later, when they were leaving, I looked at her from across the bar and held up five fingers; she laughed and shook her head.
• By the end of the night I was hammered, and found myself reclined in the passenger seat of TJ’s car getting a shoulder massage from Sage, who was sitting in the back; next to her was Codi, a fellow dancer, who was ordering McDonalds from a drive-thru window. I thought about this scene as I sat in a business luncheon the next day, and the dichotomy almost made my head explode.
• Thursday was my last night in town, so we did it up to the best of our abilities (and our wallets’ limits). We started with a few pregaming drinks in my hotel room (Makers on the rocks for me, Parrot Bay on the rocks for TJ). Next we hit 5 Guys for a quick dinner, and then moved on to the Hard Rock Casino. I spent a grand total of 20 minutes at the poker table (embarrassing, to say the least), and then we went to "The Club" so I could drown my shame in beautiful women and more Makers. S-Money was behind the bar, so the Makers-to-Coke ratio was righteous. I considered the very real possibility that she was my soulmate.
• One of the dancers, Lexi, has a unique and phenomenal talent. Standing straight on one leg, she can lift the other into the air 180 degrees; while talking to her by the bar, TJ suggested that she put her foot next to my head. She did, with a simple shrug of her shoulders and an evil smile on her face. I considered the very real possibility that a man can have two soulmates.
• As an early birthday gift, TJ bought me a dance from Erin, a beautiful brunette. She waited until a two-for-one special was announced on private dances before she led me by the hand to the private room. I sat with a glass of Makers & Coke, while she plied her trade with graceful perfection. A soulmate harem, perhaps?
• As closing time approached, the club DJ, his girlfriend, S-Money, the manager, and TJ were all trying to convince me to move to Tampa. The DJ’s girlfriend showed me pictures of the apartment that they had just moved into on the beach in Clearwater, noting that there were still a couple of units available in their building; the manager and S-Money told me about “hurricane parties,” when everyone gathered together in one secure location during a storm and drank themselves fearless. By the time I got back to my hotel, I couldn’t remember why I don’t live down there.

Now if only I could get my harem up to Pittsburgh.