We're Not For Everyone (Days 3 and 4)

[Click here for Day 2]

Sunday, March 23rd
I didn’t—and still don’t—remember much from the tail end of Saturday night, but I quickly knew food had played a central role. A box from a pizza Hurley had ordered sat on the dresser, two still-wrapped kielbasa sandwiches sat on the floor where MoFo had slept (next to the towel he’d used for warmth), and the Hurley-eating-someone’s-room-service-leftovers story was getting full play in the morning briefing.

Trip informed us that we were each up $150 from betting on tourney games, with Sunday’s games yet to come. You mean I could potentially spend three days drinking myself stupid in Raleigh, and come home richer than I’d left? I felt like Shoeless Joe Jackson emerging from the corn on Ray Kinsella’s farm.

“Is this heaven?”
“No. It’s Raleigh.”

Like the day before, MoFo had left before any of us awoke. But this time, he wouldn’t be striding triumphantly through the door with pizzas. We were left to handle Raleigh without a host for a while. So what do four hungover guys from out of town do on the Sunday morning of a four-day roadtrip/bender? They go to brunch, of course.

We shuffled down the street and into The Oxford, where a cute redheaded hostess looked at us and did her best to stifle a laugh. How dare she? We got ourselves a table and drinks, and then headed toward the buffet to avenge her disrespect with waffles and bacon. And barbecue—sweet, sweet, North Carolina barbecue. Vengeance is delicious.

We also met our waitress, a buxom lass of dark brown curls named Tanya, who had no idea what she was in for when she strapped on her (overworked) suspenders that morning. She was two D-cupped scoops of cuteness, and gave us something to look at and bounce jokes off of as a means of distracting ourselves from our hangovers.

Tanya: “So what are you guys celebrating?”
Me: “Friendship.”

By then MoFo had caught up with us, and all five of us watched Kansas go down in flames, along with our winning streak. So much for going home up on the weekend. Might as well drink it off.

I’d started with mimosas—it was brunch, after all—but had switched to Vodka Red Bulls. Hurley tried to find himself with Captain & Cokes. MoFo and T.C. pounded beers. Sitting to my left, Trip may have looked like he was ahead of all of us, but it was mostly an attempt to rehydrate. In the first 45 minutes that we were there, he seemed to order every drink available on and off their menu, most of them non-alcoholic.

Tanya loved us. Her phone number would be MoFo’s trophy.

We went back to the hotel room to regroup. We knew we wanted to go to the Mercer/Tennessee game that afternoon. We didn’t have tickets, but we’d figure that out once we got to PNC Arena. While we meditated on it all, MoFo ate the two leftover street meat sandwiches.

We hopped into a hotel van, and pointed the driver towards Backyard Bistro. It’s a happy little sports bar & grill, situated (literally) across the street from the arena. We made our way to the bar in the center of the establishment, which was a bigger accomplishment than it may sound. The building was packed with Mercer and Tennessee fans, with a few University of Virginia folks sprinkled about. Each of us ordered a Vodka Red Bull double. The time for fucking around had passed.

Hurley, T.C. and I negotiated tabs and multiple drink orders. While we did, MoFo and Trip found two new blonde friends: Barb and Whitney were two dots of Mercer pride in a sea of U of T illiteracy. Whitney had caught our eyes, and her engagement ring came along for the ride—as did Barb. But fun is fun, and these two southern ladies were fun. They played Heads Up with Trip and MoFo, did shots with us, chanted Mercer fight songs, and kicked it with us for hours.

Eventually, someone amongst us who wasn’t petite, female, and from Georgia made the executive decision that attending the game wasn’t going to happen for those of us who weren’t petite, female, and from Georgia. It might’ve had something to do with us still not having tickets 30 minutes before game time. Or maybe it was because MoFo started beef with Tennessee fans by chanting taunts in response to their fight songs. Maybe.

When Barb and Whitney left us to go witness their alma mater’s moment in the spotlight, we called the hotel van. Did we ask the driver to take us to the Marriott? Never! We had him take us back to Big Mike’s BBQ, and our cute Saturday pal, Jacqui.

We got ourselves a table and some drinks, and fell back into old habits. Drinks, drinks, drinks, shots, drinks, shots, drinks. Standard. Jacqui wasn’t working tables that night, though, and appeared to be off-duty. Eventually, a few of us sat down at the bar, and began BS’ing with the cute blonde bartender. We offered to buy her a shot.

Cute Blonde Bartender: “Thanks, but I’ll pass. We just had a waitress get fired last night for that. She came into work drunk, and then this table full of guys from out of town started buying her shots. She was hammered. She told off the manager, and he fired her ass on the spot.”
Us: “Wha…” *looking at each other*
Cute Blonde Bartender: *looks at us* “…it was you guys, wasn’t it?”

Well, that’s awkward.

I’ve often thought that the whole “the customer’s always right” reasoning was unfair, and here was a sterling example. We offered her free shots, but she got punished, for making us—her customers—happy. That just feels sadistic. [If, by any strange chance, you’re reading this, Jacqui, allow me to apologize for whatever role we played in your change of employment. I hope you landed on your feet. I’ll be happy to cover you for a night of drinking with us if you hit me up in the comments.]

We mourned Jacqui’s career at Big Mike’s by…continuing to drink at Big Mike’s (sorry Jacqui). And before long we had two new party guests: Tanya and her roommate. Our favorite brunch waitress had taken up MoFo on his offer to have a few drinks and let her hair down. She had also let her suspenders down. So, really, I guess that made four new party guests.

Tanya’s roommate was attractive—and insane. I mean, really insane. I tried to listen to one of her stories, and found myself spinning through time like a Twilight Zone inhabitant. She was one of the prettiest women from whom I’ve ever actively tried to distance myself.

I’ll be honest; I started browning out around this point. Sometimes it’s best to just let the good times carry you. The memories I do have play like a soundtrack-fueled movie montage, full of scenes like sitting at the bar, and talking to Cute Blonde Bartender; an old drunk mouthing off, to the point where Trip—Drunk Trip, who’s one of the friendliest and most affable people on the planet—raised up and made him leave the bar; and laughing with friends while debating things loudly.

…I don’t know how we got to a strip club, though. Fucking brown outs.

I came back to consciousness as we walked into a club of stripping, the familiar tones of darkened rooms, pulsating music, and soft, neon blue lighting greeting me like I’d stumbled into an old friend in a new town. I was with T.C. and Hurley; we’d left MoFo and Trip with Tanya and her crazy ass roommate. As we found chairs in a giant room filled with small stages and comfortable seating, all I could truly understand was that I didn’t want to be there.

My DGAF had returned.

I’d like to offer some deeply thought out treatise on why I wasn’t the slightest bit enthused about being in a club full of beautiful, naked women. I don’t have one. My boys were into the moment, and eager to watch Raleigh’s finest ply their trade. But all I could focus on was being somewhere else.

I walked out to the front door, and asked the bouncers to call me a cab. Like true homies, Hurley and T.C. were right behind me, sacrificing their night to make sure I wasn’t voyaging off alone in my (obviously) inebriated state. They’re great friends. They’re also stupid. But they’re great (stupid) friends. We cabbed back to the hotel, and I passed out before my head hit the pillow.


Monday, March 24th
If there’s one thing that sucks about a road trip, it’s the last day. Every part of it is a kick to your psyche’s crotch. That’s especially true if a hangover is involved, because it doesn’t really hit full stride until you’re on the road; so, as a result, the anticipation torments you while you’re getting yourself ready to go home that morning. You’d swear you could hear the firing squad load their rifles.

I hated every moment of showering and packing. I didn’t want to say goodbye to Raleigh. It is, after all, part of my family’s heritage. My father was born just down the road in Rhamkatte, and I’ve spent numerous family reunions in the area, taking in the Carolina hospitality and running rampant through the red clay woodlands. Ironically, my pops had called me on Friday afternoon, when we had just reached the city limits. When I told him where I was, he asked if I’d be checking in with any of our family members who live in the area.

Me: “…No.”
Dad: “…Okay then.”

I love my family, but this wasn’t a weekend for anything as responsible as reconnecting with relatives. This was a guys’ weekend: four men on a road trip, casting aside every worry and responsibility that saddles them the other 361 days of the year. Five friends with varying relationship statuses and claims on their personal time, taking hold of one of the few chances we’re given to be young(-ish) and stupid again. This was a time to be selfish, and to revel in that selfishness.

And revel we had.

But oh, that return leg of a road trip. It’s nauseating, even without the hangover. With the hangover, it’s pure hell. No amount of McDonalds, Gatorade, snacks, bottles of water, or reassessments of past decisions can get you to where you’re going faster. The only thing that takes your mind off the travel, for brief moments of respite, is rehashing the tales you’ve just lived in the previous 80 hours. It tricks the mind—however briefly—into thinking the good times are still rolling, that you’re not trapped in an SUV hundreds of miles from your couch and TV.

During one of those moments of postgame analysis, somewhere in Hour Four of the drive, I hit upon a realization: We’d heavily impacted the service industry in Raleigh, for better or worse. Bartenders charmed. Waitresses fired. Pockets fattened. Wet Pussies tasted. Boobs creep-shot. Lives shared. Nerves tested.

With a shake of his head, and a brief pause of self-reflection, T.C. wrapped a bow on it: “We’re not for everyone.”

We're Not For Everyone (Day 2)

[Click here for Day 1, Pt. 2]

Saturday, March 22nd
I hate sunlight.

When I awoke, there were only four of us still in the room. MoFo had left, and I struggled for a moment to remember if he’d followed the annoying chicks out the door before I’d passed out. Before long he returned—showered, shaved, and carrying two extra large pizzas. Game. The fuck. On.

As we worked through the shower rotation, the first three of us were cleaned and dressed by the time Trip had even gone into the bathroom. To show our displeasure with his holding us up (we wanted to get to a bar to watch Pitt’s tourney game), we employed a tactic that both avenged our suffering and tidied up the room a bit.

After grabbing every open beer bottle we could find in the room—and trust me, there were plenty—one-by-one we walked into the bathroom, announced, “Sorry Trip, gotta get rid of these” and poured the stale brews into the tub as he showered. Have you ever been engulfed by rotten, flat beer fumes heated and carried on the wings of choking plumes of steam? The sounds of cursing and gagging streamed out from behind the shower curtain and echoed through the hotel room, where four assholes laughed hysterically.

Still, that didn’t make Trip move any faster. Hurley volunteered to stay behind with him, so MoFo, T.C., and I marched through the downtown streets to The Raleigh Times. We made our homes on three barstools, and were introduced to one of the true natural wonders of this world: Cass, a brunette bartending angel with beautiful, piercing eyes.

As I charged myself up with a Vodka Red Bull and perused a menu, I made the mistake of speculating loud enough for MoFo and T.C. to hear me. “I’m not real hungry, but I should eat…maybe I’ll just have a salad.” This gave my friends the opening they didn’t need to begin disparaging my manhood, and Cass effortlessly joined in. For an angel, she really knows how to shove a pitchfork up your ass.

In an effort to redeem myself in her eyes, I switched my lunch order to a big sandwich, and my drink order to a whiskey soda. In all honesty, it was partly a plea for Cass’ respect, and partly a coping mechanism to handle Pitt’s thrashing at the hands of Florida. Hurley and Trip had finally joined us, and being ahead in our betting—and drinking—was all that brought us any solace. Well, Cass helped too. Especially her Wet Pussy.

…okay, I may need to explain that.

After a few rounds, Hurley was in search of something new to try. Cass offered up a specialty cocktail she had created. It was sweet and frothy, with a hint of peach, and guaranteed to satisfy. She called it a…okay, I think you’re caught up now.

We all took turns tasting Cass’ Wet Pussy…*pauses…thinking*…as we learned more about her. She was originally from New Jersey. She had a dog. She also worked at Cornerstone. She’d be slangin’ drinks down there that night, in fact. We stored that last tidbit in the back of our minds for future use, and thanked her for her…as we headed out the door.

Next up was Flying Saucer. Between the lively Saturday afternoon crowds, line of taps that stretched across the room, ceiling covered with plates featuring witty comments, and busty bartender whose neighborhood had been robbed of all bras that morning, we found plenty to keep our attention.

I started with a draught, and settled in at the bar. But Saucer was running a special on Moscow Mules, which led to T.C. babbling about them like a vacationing soccer mom. Expert mixology connoisseur that I am (shut up!), I schooled him on the “so yesterday-ness” of the latest drinking trend to hit your local T.G.I.Friday’s. And to give him a tangible example of how passé the Moscow Mule is, I asked Tits McGee to make me its Latin cousin.

The Mexican Mule is basically the same recipe as a Moscow Mule, but the tasteless vodka is replaced with flavorful, full-bodied tequila. The exquisite mixture dazzled my taste buds, but when I let T.C. try a grown man’s drink, he balked at tasting alcohol for the first time in his life. Whatever. I enjoyed the best drink in the house while I watched Hurley try to sneak a creep shot of Tits McGee, who remained so elusive that I’m convinced she knew what he was up to.

Trip had ended up seated at the bar next to a nice—albeit lonely—guy in his late 20s from Montana, named Derrick. And so, for the third time in 24 hours, Trip + booze + talking to strangers = “We are faaammmily…” When we decided to find another bar—which became a 10 minute walk across town—Derrick was along for the ride. Still, he was a lot more fun to talk to than the Clinger Sisters from Hibernian.

We parked ourselves at Big Mike’s BBQ next. A cute brunette named Jacqui came by to take our table’s drink orders, and immediately won our support with her smile and chill attitude. I pounded a few whiskey sodas and MoFo pounded some mouthwatering barbecue, while we held court and watched the comings and goings of this little bar/restaurant just down the street from Cornerstone.

…Why were we near Cornerstone, you ask? Oh, no reason. We weren’t, like, waiting for Cass’ shift to start or anything. *cough*

Besides, who needed Cass, when we had Jacqui taking care of us? A little firecracker, she entertained us with amusing remarks and made sure our glasses stayed full. And when my phone battery had neared its bottom, she took me up to the waitress’ station to plug it in. She was just an all-around cool chick.

Later, while checking my charging phone, I noticed Jacqui was visibly irritated as she totaled up the bill from another table. She said the bartenders and her boss were getting on her nerves. While I may not be a doctor, I do know of one surefire cure for stress. (Well, two, but…) When I offered her a shot…well, she didn’t say no.

The one caveat, she told us, was that waitresses weren’t allowed to drink while on duty. They still did, of course. But when they did shots, they snuck into the DJ booth in the corner, ducked down where the security camera couldn’t see them, and tossed it back. After she came back with a round of shots, we laughingly toasted to our “absent” waitress as we watched her crouch in the booth, several feet away. We did another round or two with her, even bringing in another cute waitress on duty for one; each time the people punching timecards hid in the DJ booth and then emerged looking more relaxed than they had when they walked in.

When we rolled out of there, quite a few hours after we’d rolled in, MoFo had Jacqui’s number saved in his phone and a promise from her that she’d catch up with us once her shift was over.

We piled into Cornerstone—minus Derrick, who had reached his full capacity for alcohol and high jinks in only a few hours of hanging with us (shocking). It didn’t take long to find Cass, who was hunkered down behind the bar on the deck, with thirsty frat bros yelling drink orders at her. My boys felt a little disrespected that she didn’t run up and embrace us. I’m not sure what they expected; personally, I was just happy that she seemed to recognize us, and gave us a quick smile before turning back to the frat bros.

Not that I would have been capable of understanding who was recognizing me at that time. I remember seeing Jacqui, briefly, when she caught up with us. But aside from that, I was browning out badly. By some unsubstantiated accounts (it takes more than four people to substantiate, dammit), yours truly was sleeping on his feet while standing at the bar. I could point to the sleep deprivation to which I’d exposed myself in the previous 48 hours, the six or so hours of sleep I’d countered it with the night before, and the copious amounts of alcohol that Cass, Jacqui, and others had poured for me that day as justification for catching a little shuteye (while not falling over or spilling any drinks, by the way), but I’ll politely digress.

What I do remember is feeling one of those “I need to strike out on my own” moments, and heading out into the North Carolina night. My goal was finding the hotel, but it was going to take the help of Google Maps before I would reach my destination. I think I found every junkyard in Raleigh along the way. I was so lost, in fact, that Hurley left 15 to 20 minutes later than me and was texting me from outside of our hotel room while I worked my way home. Seems I had a room key and he didn’t. Sucks to be him. I had Raleigh junkyards to tour!

At some point I found my way back to the main strip, where our hotel was. When Hurley sent me another text asking where I was, I snapped a picture of a kabob stand and sent it to him. He responded by saying that he’d just eaten the remains of the burger someone had left on their room service tray, outside of their room. Check, and mate.

[To be continued...]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU COME FROM?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I dialed up Swag.

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

I was in the wrong Marriott.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Man, fuck this town.

[To be continued...]

Mixology: A Cocktail Castor Could Drink for Days

Diddy announced a new drink recipe via Twitter that features his vodka line's newest blend, Ciroc Peach. And, never one to miss a marketing opportunity, the name is inspired by his latest viral Ciroc ad.

I haven't tried Ciroc Peach yet; but I find it hard to believe it's good enough to replace my favorite kind of peach. Though, with his smooth demeanor, wouldn't a remake of the "Face/Off" scene—with Diddy playing Castor Troy and Aziz Ansari playing Pollux—be Ciroc's best viral marketing ad yet?

Viva Las Vegas: Ocean's Three

I jolted awake in my bed around 12:30 p.m., though I’ll never really know why. Maybe my subconscious had tricked me into thinking I was going to roll over and see Raw Deal. Thankfully, my bed was a party of one. I did a quick scan of the rest of the room. First I checked the rollaway bed; T.C. was slumbering purposefully. Then I looked over to the other twin bed. It was empty. No light or sound was coming from the bathroom. Dupa, it seemed, was unaccounted for. T.C. stirred and looked over at me, most likely performing the same status check of the room.

Me: “You see [Dupa] this morning?”
T.C.: “Nope. Not since O’Shea’s last night.”
Me: *chuckles* “Awesome…”

I found my phone on the night stand and checked my messages and calls. None were from our missing soldier. Likewise, T.C.’s phone was absent of clues. I decided to text him.

Me: “You ok, buddy?”
Dupa: “Freeeeedom!!!!!!!!!!”
Me: “Where are you?”
Dupa: “Freeeeedom!!!!!!”
Dupa: “Ummm yeah…”
Me: “Should I repeat the question?”
Dupa: “Viva”
Dupa: “LAS VEGAS!!!!!!!”

Satisfied to know he was still alive and had access to his phone (which meant he wasn’t in jail), T.C. and I set our sights on finding some lunch. We dressed and then dragged ourselves to the elevators, as I told T.C. about my difficulties in finding these elusive transportation devices the night before. We hit Earl of Sandwich, conveniently located just off the casino floor.

The two of us sat at our table tearing at sandwiches like starved dogs and recapping some of the previous night’s highlights. We were gradually coming back to life, but it was a slow process. And staring at a Sugar Factory in the mall with a Kim Kardashian ad prominently displayed was oddly therapeutic. T.C. asked if I’d gotten anything new from Dupa. I hadn’t, so I checked in on him again.

Me: “Eating at Earl of Sandwich. Care to join us?”
Dupa: “Viva!!!!!!”
Me: “Kim loves Sugar.”

T.C. and I returned to the room around 3. While I made a quick trip to the bathroom, I heard our room door open, followed by someone lurching through the doorway. The birthday boy had returned. He walked in with his phone clutched in his mouth. T.C. asked if he was still drunk; Dupa mustered a head nod. He had never left O’Shea’s, logging a healthy 14 straight hours at their blackjack tables. And he was a couple of hundred up. Within three minutes of returning to home base, our blathering Polish comrade was slumbering in his bed, naked and barely kept decent by his strewn bed covers. As for me, I felt it was time to make myself a Red Bull vodka. When I cracked open the Red Bull can it was like a starter’s pistol going off.

We snapped pictures of Dupa’s debauched state, sent a few of them to our friends back in Pittsburgh, and then headed out. Our plan was to walk around the town a little, maybe find ourselves some trouble. The sidewalk was clogged with Occupy Vegas protesters, though, and the weather was still only in the mid 60s. We turned around after a block or so, and headed back towards PH. Along the way, we were confronted by a female protester; her anti-banks message was wasted on T.C., though. When she explained that she was protesting because she had lost her house in the mortgage crisis, he countered with a smirk, “The bank didn’t put a gun to your head to make you sign a mortgage that you couldn’t afford.”

We found our way back to The Heart Bar. After positioning ourselves in front of two video blackjack machines again, we repeated our prior day’s agenda of pounding drinks. My Red Bull vodkas were strong—at least, I’m guessing they were, based on the fact that my memory of the rest of the afternoon has some serious holes in it. A receipt and a later text message indicate that T.C. and I ate at Earl of Sandwich again. (Right about that time, I got a text from Dupa: “Who’s Kim? I’m so fucking hungry”.) I do remember walking to PBR Rock Bar with T.C. I also remember drinks and shots. …Well, I at least remember a sense of doom after putting an empty shot glass back on the bar. I don’t remember the following text convo with Dupa (though I do remember him eventually joining us):

Dupa: “Yeah, just showered, gonna eat at Earl’s, where’s Rock Bar?”
Me: “Across the mall from Earl’s.”
Dupa: “Ok you’re in the mall not PH?”
Me: “Across the hall, homie.”
Dupa: “Ohh, ok, I died a little last night”
Me: “Ok”

The brownout took hold of me. The next thing I remember clearly is sitting on my bed in the room, probably two hours later, in different clothes than I’d been wearing earlier. Dupa and T.C. were also changed, and had drinks in their hands. It was dark outside our window, though I remembered there being daylight outside the mall doors when we were at Rock Bar. My primary concern, then, became whether or not I had showered. I certainly couldn’t remember showering. “You came upstairs before we did; when we came back, you were in a towel,” T.C. offered. “I hope that means you took a shower.” But I wasn’t convinced. As we walked out to the Strip and headed towards Ellis Island, I sniffed the skin on my arms a few times, trying to pick up the scent of Axe body wash.

Since he was unencumbered by the same weight of uncertainty that was resting on my shoulders, T.C. was free to take in his surroundings during the walk down Flamingo Road. He soaked in the camaraderie of a Vegas trip with his boys, and the moment was clearly overcoming him. As I took a break from once again trying to remember the feeling of shower water on my skin, I rejoined his and Dupa’s conversation to hear T.C. say, “You know… Not to gay it up, but tomorrow night we should all go to the rooftop bar at the Rio to watch the sunset.”

A good laugh at your buddy’s expense can make you forget all about your own issues.

To be fair, T.C. drank at the Rio while watching the sunset with his wife, sister, and brother-in-law during his previous visit to Las Vegas. Apparently, pregaming with Black Label had clouded his understanding of the inherent differences between proposing such an idea to his loved ones and proposing it to his boys.

We supped at Ellis, drinking 22 oz draughts of the Hefe Weis and Amber beers that they brew onsite. With a solid base of beer and food laid down, we began the night in earnest. We caught a cab to the Bellagio; after that one mile drive, the cab’s meter read about $4. T.C. handed the driver a 5 dollar bill, to which she contested, “No, its $11.” We laughed mockingly as we got out of the cab and walked through the Bellagio doors, her yelling and cursing slowly being drowned out by the sounds of people and slot machines.

During that previous trip to Vegas, T.C. had also enjoyed the famous Bellagio fountain show from the terrace of a small, modest lounge at the luxurious casino. As he led us through the maze of table games, he suggested we do the same this time. There was only one problem: that quiet, unpretentious lounge was now a trendy, velvet-roped nightclub. T.C. was now 0-for-2. Yet another fond memory of his prior Vegas visit had been drinking something called a “Cable Car”. We walked to a bar just off the main gaming floor, and T.C. ordered three of these concoctions, determined to save some face. That determination turned to surrender when the bartender brought back $40 worth of drinks that looked more like appletinis than the drinks from T.C.’s memories. We walked off sipping from our glasses, Dupa and I blowing up our homie yet again.

Me: “I feel just like ‘Carrie’ in ‘Sex and the City’!”
Dupa: “I’m more of a ‘Samantha’ than a ‘Carrie’.”

We toured the casino while drinking daintily from our glasses. We made jokes about Danny Ocean and Terry Benedict. We looked around in the Botanical Gardens, knowing full well that it was the most cultured thing we would be doing that week. And, while we were appreciating the ornate floral art, Dupa spotted a man with a huge face tattoo, becoming momentarily entranced by it. These were easily twenty of the more surreal minutes of my life.

Once we were done with our foofoo drinks, the three of us sought out a bartender’s advice on finding a “locals” place where we could refresh our buzzes without killing our credit scores. He suggested Tommy Rocker's, adding that it’s “behind Caesars Palace.” Given that Caesars is one of the biggest properties (in terms of acreage) in the Western Hemisphere, I replied, “Utah is behind Caesars Palace.”

A cab—this time appropriately-priced—took us to Tommy Rocker's, a sports bar far enough off the Strip that we were probably the only tourists to walk through their doors all day. It was now after midnight, but the place was far from jumping. Ten other people, at the most, were on hand. Some, like the hot chick sitting near us at the bar, were off-duty casino workers. Thankfully, she was seated nearest to T.C., who fell right into our standard three-man act of letting the married, “harmless” guy disarm the girl with his charm, while Dupa and I remain a hidden threat, lurking in the bushes. If you’ve ever seen the velociraptors work their predatory strategy in “Jurassic Park”…

Dupa drank Jack, and T.C. and I worked on draughts of beer. We listened to war stories that the pretty Paris Hotel blackjack dealer and her friends all shared, as they competed to top each other with tales, each stupid tourist even more idiotic than the previous one. Very quickly, though, I realized I was in trouble. For some reason, I was suddenly circling the drain. That familiar lightheadedness knocked me to the canvas, like a stiff left from Manny Paquiao. Apparently the gods of the Cable Car ancestors were striking me down for my derisive jokes and defiant laughter. When the bartender came back by, I ordered a glass of ice water, knowing it was my only road out of this situation. I sucked it straight down via the straw and ordered another. Manliness be damned: This velociraptor was declawed, but—mercifully—still alive.

We had the bartender call us another cab; this time we got dropped off at Caesars, at around a quarter to 2. We walked in through the art gallery wing of the sprawling landmark, and paused to window-shop some of the works on sale. Okay, so they were sports-themed pieces…fight me. Once we found a bar (which only took rounding a couple of bends), I ordered us three beers. Dupa, between sips of his beer, downed the better part of a bottle of Maalox. Apparently the ancestors of whatever he had drank during his O’Shea’s stint were now putting in work on him. We tried to find the birthday boy a table that suited him, but he soon resigned to all of us just going back to the Planet Hollywood. As we found our way to the Strip and strolled back to home base, I believe there was a joke or two about me breaking off to find Raw Deal. And I’m sure the language I used in responding to said jokes was nothing family-friendly.

Fucking assholes.

Back at PH, T.C. and I grabbed beers from Heart Bar while Dupa fed his blackcrack addiction. It was now 5 a.m. All of the sitting around watching other people win money was starting to eat at me, and I finally buckled. I went to an ATM and took out $100, intending to lose it to some fellow night owl poker players at a low stakes table. I shuffled/stumbled back to where T.C. was sitting, intent on bidding him farewell, at the risk of becoming the one sitting at a table gambling for 14 straight hours. When I got to him, though, Dupa was standing there. Having taken a hit at blackjack, he was ready to pocket the rest of his bankroll and call it a night. I read the tea leaves that the gambling gods had provided, and packed it in myself.

Besides, I wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to have someone else find the elevators for me.

In It for the Long Crawl

It may surprise you—considering how large and popular a part of boozing culture they are—to learn that very few bar crawls have found their way into the On the Rocks archive. And, to be clear, I’m not talking about the random act of barhopping. Everyone has those episodes where you start the night at a rooftop bar in Shadyside and end it asleep on a set of steps in the South Side…

[*looking around for the link* What the…? Wait… I never wrote about that night. Damn I’m lazy…]

…No, a true bar crawl is fairly organized, with a predetermined itinerary of bars and a time limit set for imbibing at each stop. I’ve taken part in a handful over the years, but they normally aren’t reported. Not for lack of material, mind you; I think lack of memory is a more likely culprit. Because a bar crawl, when done properly, is almost more of a punishment than a privilege. A gregarious terrorist could likely use one to torture top-secret information out of a hostage. There’s just no way to abide by the rules of “drink as fast as you can in 15 – 20 minute intervals for six straight hours” and not lose all control over any and everything you hold dear. I went on a bar crawl with Mrs. TC’s family in July of last year; and, while I can tell you where I slept that night, I honestly don’t remember how or when I got there. And I have a sneaking suspicion that her parents’ dog now knows the PIN to my ATM card.

So when they invited me back for this year’s crawl, was there really any question as to whether or not I was going?

The Route 837 Bar Crawl is the brainchild of TC and his brother-in-law, J Sun. Route 837 is an at-times-industrial, at-times-rural stretch of road that meanders along the Monongahela, through Western PA’s river towns and backwoods. Mrs. TC and her siblings grew up just a few turns away from this road, and one day six years ago her brother and then-boyfriend decided that they should explore some of the many dive bars that dot this innocuous line on the map. In fact, why not make it a bar crawl? They determined which watering holes to visit and recruited some family members; before they knew it, a tradition was born. This year’s crawl was nearly 50 people strong, and featured “Sons of Anarchy” themed t-shirts (considering that some of these places are frequented by actual bikers, though, I’m not sure many “outsiders” got the joke).

To start the night, I met up with the “gang” at Pit Stop. But, because I was late and had to temporarily leave the bar to drop my car off at Mrs. TC’s parents’ house, I only got to enjoy two Miller Lite draughts before J Sun was whistling us to attention and motioning towards the door.

J Sun and his wife are the parents of three adorable little boys. As you might imagine, then, an event like this is a beautiful oasis on their calendar; a rare opportunity to take a break from the kids and be their old selves again for a few fleeting hours. But as J Sun’s sister (Jacqui), his cousin (“LL Cool K”), and I climbed into the couple’s Dodge Caliber to head to the next bar, the infrequency of their bar nights was beautifully illustrated. I took the front passenger seat, Jacqui grabbed the seat behind me, and LL Cool K sat behind J Sun. Mrs. J Sun? Well, she sat in the backseat between the other two ladies…perched in her infant son’s car seat. In their haste to start the night’s activities, she and J Sun had neglected to unlatch it. A grown woman, in a child’s car seat. And we’d only been to one bar. Here we go.

Next on the tour was Scotty's Bar & Lounge. It had been the favorite watering hole of Mrs. TC, Jacqui, and J Sun’s late grandfather; for years, when his shift at the steel mill down the road ended, he would park on one specific stool at the bar, flanked by his oldest friends. In tribute, J Sun added Scotty's to the list of stops last year. Drinking shots of whiskey and rounds of Stoney’s (their grandfather’s favorite drinks) in a toast to “Pap” have now become an annual tradition.

If you wanted to find a picture-in-the-dictionary example of a dive bar, Scotty's is it. When we showed up last year, they were about to close up for the night—at 9:30 on a Saturday. This year was quite the contrast. It was positively jumping with activity, with no less than seven customers on hand. And one dog. Our bar crawl flooded the establishment in a sea of black t-shirts, increasing the lone bartender’s revenue sixfold. She seemed less-than-thrilled, though. In fact, she was…how you say, a tad bitchy? After ordering six shots, J Sun attempted to explain that his grandfather had been a regular; the bartender quickly cut him off with an “I know who you are.” Her dad, as it turns out, is a friend of J Sun’s parents. But she was not the least bit interested in extending the families’ friendliness to the next generation. In fact, she didn’t so much as attempt a smile the entire time we were there. Apparently, we ruined her Saturday night with all of our money, and expecting service and such. How selfish of us.

We were only at Scotty’s for about 30 minutes, but I managed to down a Miller Lite, a shot of whiskey, and a half a Stoney’s (which is a half a Stoney’s more than any human should ever consume) before we were off to our next bar, Beer Belly's Bar & Grill. This was one of the larger establishments on the tour, and one of our longer stops. Since it’s also the midway point, it carried the feel of China Beach, with our people spread out among various forms of R&R. Most of our platoon stationed itself at various barstool-posts around the large bar, while a small group played games of pool and others mingled with locals. I found myself sitting between Dupa and “Smashley”, having my innocence shattered (only these two could have a conversation about anal sex packed with so much gusto and detail that it makes me blush). J Sun eventually wandered over by our seats. We joked about his and Dupa’s bromance, which eventually made me ask, “Where is your wife?” After a brief search for Mrs. J Sun, he replied with a head nod, “Over there, playing the naked photo hunt game.”

Me: “Look how focused she is!”
J Sun: “That’s my lady.”

Since arriving at Beer Belly's, I’d been putting away Red Bull & vodkas; I had been up until 4:30 the night before, and now felt myself dragging. The beauty of drinking at dive bars, though? Each RBV cost about $4. They say that, in the land of the blind, the man with one eye is king. Well, on 837, the man with a $50 bill is a god. A very drunk god.

After another couple of rounds—and an unsuccessful attempt by TC and I to get the cute bartender to join our caravan in relocating—we made the move to Tim’s Corner Bar. TC and I tossed back Duquesne Pilseners while talking to Rocky’s dad, who had spotted some drunk young tough guys who had tried to start a fight with him at Scotty’s earlier that night. Uncle Donnie is hardly a fighter; he’s more Jack Tripper than Jack Bauer. So the fact that two drunk, skinny hicks in their mid-20s tried to bring static to his front door was simply hilarious. And when they saw us standing next to him at Tim’s, laughing in their direction…they left the bar.

We all squeezed another couple of rounds in before J Sun whistled one last time. We were pointed towards our finish line, the Elrama Tavern. The final two hours would be spent here, and we got down to the business of making those two hours count. Our troops were quickly ordering themselves food, doing rounds of shots, posing for celebratory group photos, and jabbering drunken nonsense in every corner of the establishment.

Several of the married guys who live in TC’s neighborhood were out for the crawl, and were now gathered around a table with J Sun’s attractive, 21 year old female cousin. While she politely laughed and humored them, they worked hard to keep their chins free of drool and relive their college days—back when they actually had a chance.

As a thank you to our fearless leader, I ordered J Sun a “bear fight” [for the uninitiated, a bear fight is an Irish Car Bomb followed in rapid succession by a Jager Bomb], and upon learning of this he gave a bear-cub-fierce growl and clawed up the empty air in front of him. Then he grabbed the shots and tossed each back decisively, and without hesitation.

I’ve never been prouder of the guy.

His wife, meanwhile, was having fun messing with a drunken TC. She pointed out to him that a high school flame of Mrs. TC's was there at the bar. As Mrs. J Sun sat at the bar less than a foot away from the both of us, laughing heartily at TC’s look of annoyance over being teased, TC looked at me.

TC: “Hey, you know [Mrs. J Sun]?”
Me: “Yeah…”
TC: “FUCK [Mrs. J Sun]!”

With the crawl at its end, participants started dropping like flies. Even Dupa and Smashley called it a night earlier than most and drove back to TC’s house to crash. Eventually TC and I climbed into Cool K’s mother’s SUV; the passenger seating being full, though, I jumped—by all accounts, voluntarily—into the storage space in the back. I curled up my 6’6” frame and lay there, growing more and more disoriented by the truck’s rear wheels bouncing over bumps (not to mention all of the alcohol in my system). Shortly after the bouncing stopped, Cool K’s mom opened the hatch. After another beer or two in TC’s driveway with him and the boys from his neighborhood, I finally passed out on a couch in his TV room, muttering to his dog (something about ATM cards, I think…).

When he finally shuffled down the steps the next morning, TC found me alone in the kitchen, charging my phone (Dupa and Smashley had disappeared earlier in the morning like ninjas). When I reminded him that my car was at his in-laws’ house, TC paused. “Well, then we have a problem, because I’m pretty sure my car’s there, too.” He called J Sun, who was at that location, to see if anyone could come and pick us up; as he talked, he walked outside to see what kind of cleanup was necessary. About three minutes later he came back inside, letting out a slight chuckle as he did. “We’re fine. My car’s in the driveway.”

Bar crawls, man.

A Fond Farewell

If “Cooley High” and Boyz II Men have taught us anything, it’s that it’s so hard to say goodbye. On the other hand, though, alcohol has taught us that if you don’t remember it, it didn’t happen. So if a dear friend is moving on in life, but she throws herself a going away party so sadistically drenched in alcohol that you wake up at 5 am the following morning without the slightest clue how you got in someone’s living room, then you never said goodbye and she hasn’t left, right?

Steph—oh she of the wondrously foul mouth and generous pour, packed neatly within a demure “girly-girl” exterior—recently came to a realization: Like others before her who are high on talent, personality, and ambition, she has finally accepted that Pittsburgh is no place to waste her life away. And so, eager for opportunity and a better life, she has decided to move to New York City. [Note: If anything in the prior two sentences came across as sarcasm, let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth; the tone is meant to be more of a seething jealousy.] Ever the enabler, last Friday she christened her departure by hosting a party that also broke the proverbial champagne bottle over the bow of my belligerent inebriation.

I started the night by meeting Dupa on Mt. Washington. Each of us parked our car near Jay Swag’s house, with the hopes of falling down either there or somewhere near there when all was said and done. Dupa arrived a good 20 minutes later than me, having had a minor fender-bender while in transit. Some clown with a less-than-agile right foot had not hit his brakes early enough, and as a result slid into the back of Dupa’s car as my friend sat idling at a red light. The two drivers pulled off to the side of the road to inspect their respective bumpers; luckily no real damage had been done.

Dupa: “He said, ‘My bad man, I’m kind of in a hurry.’”
Me: “Did you exchange insurance?”
Dupa: *completely serious* “No, I told him, ‘Go fuck yourself,’ and got back in my car.”

We made our way to Station Square via a rectangular blast furnace on rails that the Port Authority of Allegheny County has the nerve to call the Monongahela Incline. Air conditioning and the Incline have yet to meet, and on Friday it was 92°F with humidity somewhere in the mid-90th percentile—at 7:30 pm. And that was the outside air temperature; inside the small, enclosed rail cars, you could double each of those numbers. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the Station Square bars pay the Incline operators to pump heat into the funiculars just to ensure that customers go searching for cold beverages when they get to the bottom.

Round 1 of Steph’s party kicked off at Bar Louie Station Square with dinner and drinks in the VIP area, thanks to a friend of mine who hooked us up [astute readers will note that this is the very same VIP area that hosted my 30th birthday celebration last year; Dupa almost looked out of place without a bachelorette party participant perched on his shoulder]. I, of course, made use of the $34 all-you-can-drink-top-shelf special that my friends and I have looked back upon fondly since last year. Chelsea, a wonderful princess of a waitress, made it her duty to have a new Red Bull and Ketel One ready for me as I finished each previous one. And the party’s attendance count grew as quickly as my drink count did. Bill, Shannon, The Entertainer, and even Hurley joined the throng of people bidding adieu to Steph’s life as a Pittsburgher. And my friend “Biff” arrived after pulling together an impromptu—yet well-executed—prank.

It was simplistic in nature and origin: Early in the night, Dupa sent a text to Biff to ask if he was on his way. Biff, feeling saucy, decided to respond with “Who is this?” Dupa showed us the text, and then responded with, “The guy you met in the bathroom at Elixir last week.” While he did that, I quickly shot off a text of my own to Biff: “[Dupa]’s almost buying it. Keep going.” And so began our dance (forgive my paraphrasing, but neither Dupa nor Biff gave me a transcript, and I was a good four or five Red Bull and Vodkas in by this point).

Biff to Dupa: “This is [Biff]’s mother. He has a new phone with a new number, and he gave me his old one.”
[Dupa begins to bite, but is still skeptical. He asks around the party if anyone knows of Biff changing his cell number. All along the way I’m behind him mouthing the words “SAY YES!” to everyone. At Bill’s suggestion, he sends…]
Dupa to Biff: “Prove it—show me your breasts.”
Biff to Dupa: “That’s highly inappropriate. If you want to talk to [Biff], his new number is 814-xxx-xxxx.”
[Dupa is stammering. Steph, Bill, and the rest of us are laughing hysterically. Dupa recognizes the “814” as a Johnstown area code, and suspects it to be the phone number of Biff’s buddy, Pete.]
Me to Biff: “You almost had him, but he figured it out when you used an ‘814’ instead of a ‘412’.”
Dupa to Biff: “That’s a Johnstown area code, so I know that’s not his number.”
Biff to Dupa: “That’s his work number. His personal cell phone is 412-xxx-xxxx.”
Biff to Me: “Don’t worry, I fixed it.”
[Dupa’s really worried now, as the added depth to the story—and the added alcohol he had consumed as time went on—was now convincing him that not only had he just told his friend’s mother that her son had picked him up in a public restroom, he had also asked her to show him her boobs.]
Dupa to Me: “Fuck! *thinks* I should text [Baby Joey] and ask him if [Biff] changed his number.”
Me to Dupa: “Probably worth a shot.”
Me to Biff: “He’s going to text [Baby Joey]!”
Biff to Me: “Don’t worry, I took care of it.”
Dupa to Joey: “Did [Biff] change his cell number?”
Joey to Dupa: “Yeah, the other day.”
[Dupa crumples into a ball, fully expecting an ass kicking in his near future.]

When Biff finally walked into Bar Louie chuckling, Dupa was more relieved than angry. I think it’s safe to say that finding out your friends have been messing with your head is a far better alternative to finding out that you’ve brazenly asked your friend’s mom to sext you.

The party moved to Buckhead at about 10. We had not planned on going there, but given its location (across the street) and the temperature (Bar Louie’s air conditioning was turned off, inexplicably), it just made good sense. Despite the lack of forewarning that Buckhead’s staff was given, Steph was able to negotiate free admission for everyone in her party (good luck pulling that one off in New York).

Things rapidly got hazy, for all of us. Dupa was “iced” by Entertainer, while Shannon and I openly wondered why we even associate with them. Steph pinballed between the four or five clusters of partygoers that had formed around the club’s main bar—and did shots at each stop. Biff held court in one of the huddles, with several of the party’s beautiful women around him; this led him to say to Dupa, “You see this? You see all of these girls? I look like the man right now, right? Nah. None of them want me. I’m deep in the ‘friend zone’.” And Hurley and I, each armed with an open tab of our own, caused me to tweet, “Hurley and I might have the most violent friendship in history. We literally will spend any amount to kill each other with shots.”

Legitimately twisted, he and I followed Steph’s bar crawl to its third location, Whim; Dupa, Entertainer, and Shannon, however, all set off for Jack’s Bar in South Side. This was my first time being inside Whim since its previous life as my beloved Margarita Mama's. It has a very Studio 54-ish feel to it; that’s not necessarily a good thing, but it’s not a deal-breakingly bad thing, either. I’d only recommend it for those times when one finds himself in precisely the same circumstances in which Hurley and I found ourselves that night: part of a group that featured a high percentage of females, in high spirits, and floating towards a blackout, with no real agenda for the rest of the night.

After a beer or two—and possibly more shots (my ability to memorize was seriously hindered by that point, but I certainly wouldn’t rule out our sadistic game of “Last Man Standing” following us to Whim)—my boy and I finally bid adieu to Steph and the remaining partiers, deciding to cab our way over to Jack’s. When we found our three fellow refugees from the party at the back bar, they were engaged in the same activity as before: championship boozing. Some of our friends who hadn’t been a part of Steph’s celebration had also joined up at Jack’s, and they were no less enthusiastic than the rest of us to order more rounds of shots and drinks. I can—and more or less have to—sum up the rest of my bar night with the following two simultaneous conversations that took place the next morning.

Me to Dupa (in person): “Where did you lose me last night?”
Me to Hurley (text message): “Where did I lose you last night?”
Dupa to Me: “I think when you left Jack’s to go to Rumshakers.”
Me to Dupa: “We were at Jack’s?”
Hurley to Me: “Too many shots. I don’t know. Maybe Jack’s?”
Me to Hurley: “No, you were with me at Rumshakers.”
Hurley to Me: “We were at Rumshakers?”

I woke up alone in a living room, sitting upright on a couch. I wasn’t wearing my shirt or my shoes. The TV was on, and with a random infomercial playing on the screen. I looked around some more. I was in Jay Swag and Mitch Canada’s living room. But it had been weeks since I’d seen either of them. At least I thought it had. Had I met up with Swag somewhere last night? How else would I have gotten into their living room? Did I break in? I began looking around the room for my shirt and shoes. Nothing. I carefully made my way up the stairs to the guest room. There were my shoes sitting neatly in the corner, with my wallet and watch stashed in them. And draped over a chair was my shirt. I laid down on the bed, content to sleep for another few hours, when one last thought made me jump up. Opening my phone and using the light from the screen, I checked inside my wallet. Debit card? Check. Credit card? Check. License? Check. I exhaled and fell backwards onto the mattress.

As I drifted off, I thought to myself, “Did I see Steph last night?”