In This Diary

Maybe it’s because I’ve been reading “Living Loaded”, and Dan Dunn’s recounting of his “business trip” to New Orleans inspired me. Maybe it’s because Jay Swag appearing in my neck of the woods is such a rare occasion. Or, maybe I was just end-of-a-boring-workweek-excited on a Friday. (...Maybe all three?)

I’m not exactly sure why I decided to try and keep a running diary of my Friday night this past weekend. The Living Loaded theory carries added weight, though. Dunn is, as you can imagine, my living god an idol of mine. And his running diary of the New Orleans trip is pure poetry. I’ve live-tweeted events (like the bar crawl I was on a couple of weeks ago) and did one running diary before, but after reading that Living Loaded chapter I felt the need to do more in-the-moment recording of my own. And while major events like Brewski Fest and the Pirates Home Opener make for the perfect type of subject material, they are still a few months off. But what better practice could I ask for between now and then than Swag’s sudden decision to throw down in The ‘Side? Game on.

6:08 PM – Just rambled on about Dan Dunn, Swag, and a running diary.

6:09 PM – Wondering if I’m being too in-the-moment. Time to start cleaning up before Swagapalooza. …Swag-a-thon. Moves Like Swagger?

6:11 PM – …Swag & Bake? …Yup, too in-the-moment.

6:52 PM – Get out of shower and start getting dressed. Put on a pair of jeans that were lying on furniture in my bedroom.

6:54 PM – I remember that the last time I wore that pair of jeans was New Year’s Eve. Take jeans back off. Administer “sniff test” on said jeans, and they pass. I put the jeans back on.

7:50 PM – Waiting on Tony, who said he’d be here at 7:30. I haven’t even started drinking yet. I remember there being a couple of Four Lokos in my fridge…

7:52 PM – I crack open a bottle of Michelob Lager instead. From somewhere deep within my body I hear a meek and bedraggled, “Thank you.” Was that my liver?

2:30 AM – Back home. What just happened? There was a cop, and…


And that’s where my recording cuts off. To say things didn’t go as I had planned would be an understatement. I did eventually meet up with Tony, as well as Swag, Mitch Canada, TJ, and Lil Mo. And, while I didn’t black out that night, I have no clue where or when a cop came into the mix. When the 2:30 entry was typed at night’s close, Tony was passing out on my couch and I was sipping a beer on my loveseat as we watched reruns of “Entourage”. If someone in my group met with the law that night, then they’re still sitting in a cell somewhere. (If they can sit…)

It may have occurred to you that these entries were all typed here on my home computer. I tried to keep tabs on my Droid while running tabs at the bars, but came upon the harsh realization that a bar night with friends is not the most convenient time to be typing detailed notes into your phone every few minutes. The following is, word-for-word, what I captured (you’ll notice the lack of a timestamp next to each item; I completely forgot to record that minor detail):

“[Swag] gone. ‘My roots are not invested in that soil.’ Mo on Lakers/Celtics.

Wait was I supposed to be recording something? Watching ‘Pound My Muffin’ on Mo’s Kindle.

‘If he had turned around, I would’ve donkey punched him.’ – Mo about dropped cell on random dude.

drafts. Mo. quote”

Don’t even ask me to decipher the last line; your guess is likely just as good as mine. The “donkey punch” entry, though, was Mo’s reaction after very carefully retrieving her cellphone from the lower back of a guy by whom we were standing in a crowded Mario’s. Somehow, neither he nor the people he was sitting with noticed (a.) that Mo’s phone had been dropped into his tramp-stamp region, nor (b.) a 5”1’ girl delicately reaching down his back and extracting a phone.

Fucking drunk people, huh? As for my running diary efforts, well…I guess I’ll need more practice. *opens bottle of Ketel One*

Some of This + Some of That = Sum of Zero

It’s Monday afternoon, and I just took two aspirin to help quiet my hangover. This just feels…wrong.

So I was drunk on a Sunday afternoon, and it’s all Carson Palmer’s fault. His inability to throw the football to players in Bengal uniforms helped lead to a blistering defeat at the hands of BlahBlahBlah in fantasy football. And my subsequent need to erase all memory of Troy Polamalu posing like a Vegas showgirl while flying across the goal line led me to assault my new bottle of 1792. Maybe I was wrong for doing it, but let’s be real: Look at it in that picture. You can’t tell me that sexy bitch wasn’t asking for it.

Nevertheless, I awoke drooling on my couch at 12:30 a.m., instantly knowing I was going to regret everything the next morning. And when my alarm blared at me at 7 a.m., I did. What makes it all the stranger is that I didn’t drink myself Palin on either Friday or Saturday. And Friday was…eventful.

It started with the annual Christmas party thrown by my mother’s former coworkers. Once again I was her DD, and this time the venue was the Lexus Club inside the Consol Energy Center. When we reached the doors of the club, my mother—who hadn’t even had a hint of alcohol to that point—clarified to one of the CEC hostesses working the party, “I’m not a cougar; this is my son.” (For the record: No, the girl hadn’t asked.) I polished off Michelob Amber Bock draughts and an after-dinner glass of Glenlivet while listening to my mom’s friends bitch about their boss. Throughout the party I was receiving text messages from TJ and Jay Swag about how much they were drinking (I believe they started with personal pitchers of mixed drinks at 1311 Tavern). So after I finally dropped off my mother—who was feeling no pain—at her place, I went home, changed, and headed down to the South Side to catch up.

As I approached Rumshakers I found Swag; or, rather, I found a super drunk interpretation of Swag. With a fuzzy red beard (that, we later realized, makes him look like Treebeard from Lord of the Rings) and speaking 10 decibels too high on the phone while slumped in a doorway on Carson St., he was just a little brazen hubris away from being in Swag Montana mode. He was also the only member of the crew still in the South Side, as TJ had gone home and Mitch Canada had left for a house party in McKees Rocks. As I talked to Canada on the phone to get directions to the party, Swag stumbled off to another doorway, where he found a dark corner and unburdened his bladder. I chuckled as I watched a guy and a few girls walk past and one of the girls, curious about the source, began to follow the stream trickling from out of the doorway. Her shriek and fast retreat from the doorway was priceless.

After some time spent driving around the West End and McKees Rocks while Canada and others tried to give us directions, Swag and I finally arrived at the party. The first two things I noticed upon entering the house: (1.) It was a Christmas sweater party; (2.) there was a little person in a Christmas sweater on the couch. There weren’t very many people in attendance, but there was plenty of cold beer, so I was more than happy to work with it. And I was glad I had when Canada said, “You know, that midget’s my cousin. Or so I’ve been told.” And I was even more glad when a Backstreet Boys song came on the stereo and she and several others started a dance party in the living room.

When Canada introduced me to a girl of plus-sized proportions and she immediately looked at me as though I was a 6’6” 5 Guys double burger, though, I knew getting drunk was not a course of action that would end with me being in any way proud of myself. A little later, as I stood talking to one of Canada’s boys, I overheard him say to Double Burger, “I’d love for you to see my place!” The look on his face when he turned around and saw our grins proved that he clearly didn’t expect anyone else to be listening.

Alcohol is evil. Even on a Monday afternoon. I think I’ll buy some Gatorade on the way home from work.

And another bottle of 1792.

Why I Love Weddings

In honor of my friends’ nuptials this past Saturday, I give you my “Top 10 Reasons Why I Love Weddings”:

#10 – Invitation Only

What can I say? I’m a sucker for being part of anything exclusive. Standing amongst a crowd at the ceremony and reception, I get a small feeling of importance because I belong to a group that others don’t. (Yeah, I’m that lame sometimes.)


#9 – G’d Up, Ho'd Down

Those who know me know that I’m not big on “dress” clothes. My big conformity in my daily work attire is tucking my polo shirt into my jean shorts. But there is something kind of cool about everyone being dressed-to-the-9s at the same time. This is especially true when it comes to the ladies in attendance (which I’ll get to in a minute).


#8 – Hotel Partying

When people talk about weddings, they usually only refer to the ceremony and the reception. But there’s usually a third stage, and (in my opinion) it’s the best of the three. I’m talking, of course, about the afterparty at the hotel where the wedding party and the bulk of the guests are staying—and kudos to Stacy & Bill (this weekend's bride and groom) for holding their reception in a hotel, which eliminated any need for driving. We moved from reception hall to hotel bar to passed out without ever having to worry about getting arrested. Well, at least not for drunk driving.

You have to love the regression that the day takes, too. It begins solemn and adult (ceremony), turns relaxed and college-like (reception), and then ends in a craziness reminiscent of a high school prom (afterparty). The hotel hallways become a maze of alcoholic misdeeds, laughter, and quotes. At one wedding years ago, some friends and I ended up sitting on the floor in the hallway at 4 a.m., eating sandwiches and chips that Shannon had trekked to a nearby convenience store to buy.


#7 – Food

More often than not, weddings are great for eating. I suspect that the biggest fear among brides is that their guests will walk away from the reception still hungry. And though I may be a man of modest proportions, I do enjoy a good bite or twenty. Stacy and Bill knew that their guests would need to soak up an inordinate amount of alcohol, so they kept us surrounded with filet mignon, chicken, salmon, cookies, and cake.


#6 – Good Times

This one is kind of basic, but it’s still worth mentioning: Weddings are a good time. People are usually in good spirits—even before partaking of the good spirits. Women are happy because they’re “celebrating love” (or something silly and sappy like that). Men are happy because…well, because the women are happy (and because there’s free booze). However...


#5 – It’s Not Me

It’s important to remember that NONE of these reasons apply if you are the poor sap actually getting hitched. Weddings are only great when you are a guest. Between the relentless obligations and the coordination required throughout the day (including handling a panicky bride who is dealing with those same obligations and coordination—though she likely believes that she’s the only person going through it) and the sorry truth that you are hitching yourself to one woman for the rest of your natural life, there’s no hope for the groom to enjoy the day’s events. Which, I’m sure, is why the tradition of the “wedding night” has remained so prevalent in our culture—the guy’s got to get something out of the whole ordeal (although it’s likely the same thing he’s had since the third date when she got obliterated on margaritas).


#4 – Skin Is In

Every woman between the ages of 18 and 35 who attends a wedding wants to—in the eloquent words of Mystikal—show you what she’s working with. Single gals want to prove that they’re every bit as deserving of the same “happiness” that the bride is getting, and the coupled gals want to show that they still have “it.” Add to this the fact that a large percentage of weddings take place in the summer, and you get one hell of a show.

Stacy and Bill’s wedding featured some fantastic sights. Tony and I each brought a date (the above right picture is an actual photo—and succinct summary—of my date’s attire), and after the ceremony he glanced around and said to me, “Looks like we brought sand to the beach.”


#3 – Stories

Every wedding worth its salt is going to produce a few good stories (at a minimum). Foremost in my still-recovering mind is this one from this weekend:

Tony’s date drank herself silly at the bar, and had to be helped back to the hotel room (I even threw her over my shoulder and carried her to the elevator) around 1 a.m. We put her to bed, and Tony decided to stay with her. I went back to the bar, but less than an hour later I reached my saturation point and retired for the night, too. My date, however, was in soldier mode, and was hanging out at around 3 a.m. when she finally decided she’d had enough. Not having a room key, though, she knew she had to get either Tony or I to let her in. She called me several times, but I wasn’t waking up. She tried Tony almost as many times before he finally came to and answered. He got up and went to the room where she was partying. When the two of them returned to our room, she gave him an “okay, go ahead and open up the door” look. He gave her a drunken “you have the key, not me” look. In other words, heeding the pleas of someone locked out of the room, he had come to her rescue...without bringing his room key.


#2 – Bridesmaids

Jeremy Grey: We are gonna have tons and tons of opportunities to meet gorgeous ladies that get so aroused by the thought of marriage that they'll throw their inhibitions to the wind.
John Beckwith: And who's gonna be there to catch them?
Jeremy Grey: Grab that net and catch that beautiful butterfly, pal!

Ah, what would a wedding be without the allure of the bridesmaid? Prior to and during the ceremony, the maid (or matron) of honor has specific responsibilities, and all of the groomsmen work as ushers. But what do the rest of the bridesmaids do? Their only real purpose is to be a sacrificial offer to the groomsmen and single male guests.

Stacy’s bridal party featured some outstanding talent. And, as per tradition, I had one in particular in my sights—and, as per (my) tradition, I got so drunk that I completely forgot about her. Oops. I’ll rectify that mistake some other time, I’m sure. But that brings me to…


#1 – Booze

Lest you forget that you’re at “On the Rocks,” let me remind you: alcohol trumps all. And when it’s an open bar (the greatest two-word phrase in the English language), everything is right with the world.

Stacy and Bill’s reception was an Olympic pool of alcohol, and I was Michael Phelps. I effortlessly breaststroked my way through Tanqueray, Beefeater, Smirnoff, Beam, Captain, Michelob, Yuengling, and even Coors Light. They closed the bar for the wedding party’s entrance and the first half of dinner, but that didn’t stop my friends and me. We knew the pay bar in the hotel was still open, and people at our table took turns sneaking out and coming back with more drinks and beers. By the end of the reception, our table was littered with beer bottles (I counted about 25 or so); no other table in the room had more than three on it.


Congrats to Stacy & Bill. Now who else can we sacrifice for the sake of having a grand ol' time?

The Festival that is Brewski

It’s over, and I feel like a kid on December 26th. I’m already looking towards next year, and the chance to relive the joy, the anticipation, the laughter, the food,…the beer. The glorious, glorious beer.

I arrived around 3:45 pm, with a 30-pack of Miller Lite in hand. While I was waiting for the doors of the packed lobby elevator to close, T.C.’s sister and her boyfriend appeared. I said, “Don’t let them on, they’re trouble.” They laughed as the doors closed, and a guy standing next to me said, “I’m not going to argue with a guy holding a case of Miller Lite.”

Rocky (my friend who I was splitting the hotel room with) and I got settled in, and then I had to run a parking voucher out to my car. Rocky had brought a cooler, but he left it in T.C.'s car; I tasked him, therefore, with retrieving and filling it with ice and cans from the 30-pack while I was out. [In the parking lot, I ran into Shan and her girl Alex, who each were carrying enough luggage for a two week furlough.] When I got to the room (with Toe and LRG, who I had collected along the way back from the parking lot), I was greeted by Rocky’s rare display of ingenuity: too lethargic to walk out to the car to get his cooler, he realized that the small waste bin was laced with a fresh garbage bag—so he filled it with ice and beer. It has been said that necessity breeds invention; for the beer drinker, though, it’s often laziness that does it.

Armed with our trash can cooler, we joined several others in some pregaming while watching the NFL draft in LRG and Toe’s room. Nick showed up with a cooler (a real one) filled with bottles of Sam Adams, Michelob, Miller Lite, Yuengling, and Guinness Stout. His cousin, Sean, brought bottles of Jameson and Bailey’s, which meant there were going to be some Irish Car Bomb attacks. Add LRG and Toe’s handle of Captain Mo’ to the equation, and you have a formula for a black out. Or, as we W&J alums like to call it, “a Saturday afternoon.”

The event, on a whole, was fantastic. A lot of good beers (Sam Adams Boston Lager, Labatt Honey, New Castle Brown Ale, Atwater Vanilla Java Porter, Franziskaner Heffe, and Pilsner Urquell were favorites), a lot of great food, and a lot of cute booth girls—Hi L-…wait, I never did get her name; “tall blonde wearing the tight white t-shirt”? Several of the girls in our 21-member army, including Shannon and Dr. Kelly, made the mistake of skipping dinner and going straight into the beer hall. How did they make this mistake, you might ask? They simply got into the wrong line. Apparently, the line leading to the two large banquet tables covered in food seemed less like the dinner line than the one leading towards the stairs. I forget sometimes that my friends, despite being cultured graduates of an academically-renowned college, are still, at their core, blondes.

Nick managed to taste each of the 67 brews, and he drug Sean—a rookie—along for it. Halfway through Sean had a look on his face similar to that of a female lead in a horror flick who has just realized that someone drugged her drink. Eyes half-open and glazed, he swayed slightly, and seemed to be trying to mouth the word “No.” But there was no help coming. Nick was in his happy drunk mode, which is comparable to a small child’s demeanor at Disneyland.

After Brewski Fest ended at 11 p.m., we headed over to the Matterhorn, a large bar in the resort, where we continued the assault on our livers. Eventually someone bought a round of Jager Bombs, and that was the one that sunk me. My memory begins slowly fading from that point on, until total blackness at around midnight. I jolted awake around 6:30 a.m., lying facedown, fully-clothed, on top of my bedcovers. Apparently, I had a text message convo with Dr. Kelly somewhere after midnight about pizza and its importance in the grand scheme of things; amazingly, she was the one speaking in defense of pizza.

At breakfast the next morning, one of the first questions tossed across the table by one of our disheveled, groggy crew was, “When do tickets go on sale for next year’s Brewski Fest?”

Not soon enough.