Double Up

“You my friend are a legend.”

Praise like that from Pakistanimal doesn’t come cheap. Somewhere along the way you pay with your liver and your ability to give a fuck. It was late afternoon on Sunday, August 3rd, and I was laying on my couch, sucking on a Gatorade bottle. I sure didn’t feel like a legend.

I had started the weekend by not getting out of work until around 6:30 Friday night. Nothing screams “Turn up!” like spreadsheets. Despite that, when Pak called after 7, I think I agreed to go out in Shadyside before the question had even left his mouth.

After a quiet couple of drinks at my place, we walked to The Yard for a few more quiet drinks. And some quiet shots. Fireball Bombs—quiet Fireball Bombs. “This,” I thought, “This is right where I need to stay tonight. Quiet.”

After a couple of rounds—and sharing disgust over the Paul George injury with the bartender and other bargoers—Pak suggested we give in to the inevitable and head over to Shady Grove, where our boy Jed was bartending. We were settled in on Grove barstools by 11:45, and things rapidly went downhill from there. To summarize:

• My Twitter buddy Lo agreed to come catch up with us. But as soon as she and her friend sat down on the other side of the bar, and before they could come say hi, a group of guys descended upon them.
• I made whimsical jokes about it on Twitter.
• Jed decided it was a “Let’s start doing shots of Rumple Minze at 1:30” kind of night.
• Lo, her friend, and the guys all disappeared.
• I made less whimsical, increasingly-stalkerish jokes about it on Twitter.
• Fried Green Tomatoes, out on her own nearby, came over and joined us.
• Pak got irrationally angry, to the point where he tried to fight people around us for no reason.
• I awoke Saturday morning with Pak face down on my couch, texts from FGT asking wtf had happened to him, and some tweets that called for an explanation/apology.
  

After that apology, I asked Lo where she and her friend had gone. “I think the bar was closing?” Welp…

I’d already had plans for Saturday, and they would require a tad more decorum. Alex is good friends with Turbo, one of the Grove’s owners, whose wife was throwing him a 40th birthday party at their home. This would be good food, good drinks, and—most importantly—good behavior. …Okay, slightly better behavior.

Alex and a tray of crabcakes got to my place just as a torrential thunderstorm unloaded on Pittsburgh. If you ever want to see a woman with perfectly done makeup and hair run like a lunatic, drop a million gallons of water from the sky as she heads towards her car.

We went to Grove to catch up with Jerry, Lil Mo, and other friends who were pregaming the party. Jed looked at me like I was a ghost. It had only been about 14 hours since I’d been there last. He helped fill in some of the gaps in my memory, since the last thing I remembered clearly was him pouring the shots of Rumple Minze. Pak’s mood swing, hanging with some of the other Grove regulars, being there ‘til 4 am—all of it was news to me.

When we finally walked into Turbo’s house, the weather’s uncooperative nature had forced a few modifications. The event was catered by a barbecue restaurant, and the whole deck had been set up with grilling equipment and tables. The rain meant that those were now abandoned, with the food and booze relocated to the kitchen and dining room. Guests were handed towels as they walked through the door. Thank god Turbo and his wife have a big, spacious house, because 50 people were now confined to the first floor of it.

Once inside and dry, though, standard rules applied. I got myself a gin & tonic, Alex got a glass of wine, and Lil Mo—the smallest person in the place—filled up a plate with grilled meat. We posted up at one end of the living room, some of us sitting along the wall facing the rest of the party like a firing squad of judgment. Jerry and I placed bets on how many pieces of birthday cake one of the older women at the party was going to have, as she hovered around the table on which it sat. Several of us watched a couple go into the bathroom together, and theorized on whether they were fighting, sexing, snorting, or some combination of the three. A beautiful Indian woman, who was clearly feeling whatever it was she’d drank, walked over and retrieved her phone from her purse. We watched in stunned silence from two feet away as she wobbily took a selfie, with a decorative sticker on her arm strategically positioned in the shot. Then, never having looked at or said a word to any of us, she put her phone away and stumbled back off into the party.

Jerry, Mo, and some of the other guests departed, but Alex and I decided to hang out a little while longer before breaking for the bar. Thank god we did, because it gave me an opportunity to meet my future wife.

Nicole, a longtime friend of Turbo’s wife, is awesome. Greek and Italian, she’s hilarious, pretty, full of life, and can drink with the best of them. And she loves whiskey; she was drinking it on the rocks. She told us the tale of how, when a guy was getting menacingly close in a bar some years ago, she reached behind her, broke a beer bottle on the bar, and threatened to stab him.

I literally got down on one knee in front of her on the porch.

By this point, I was sipping on a wonderful tequila one of Turbo’s friends had brought to the party as a gift. And just when I thought it was time to stop drinking and head to the bar, Alex grabbed my cup and went back inside for refills. A drink at the bar, a few gin & tonics, and now a few glasses of tequila on the rocks. This could only go to good places, right?

Alex and I, as well as Nicole and several people from the party, saddled up and headed to William Penn Tavern. We got a table, we got drinks, and a brilliant strategist among us got a basket of fries for the table. In our group was the pretty Indian selfie connoisseur, who I talked to for a few minutes. I don’t remember what that conversation was about, or what her name is. I don’t even think I remembered a few minutes later, when Alex and I walked off to the bar’s patio area. She seemed like a sweet girl, though.

On the patio we spotted the bouncer, who I’ve seen around Shadyside for years working at different bars, including Grove. We bullshitted about the drunken people and the stupid shit they were doing…rather meta of me, I know. At one point, he had to make a run inside to use the men’s room. So like a good friend, I stood at the entrance, and eyed up an ID or two while he was gone.

Here’s where things get blurry. From what I can remember, Alex ordered a round of shots. At some point, while standing at the bar after the shots, I began chatting up a cute brunette. She was cool and smart, and interested in what I had to say, which just made her cooler and smarter. After 15 minutes or so, I had started browning out (i.e., coming in and out of consciousness). I suddenly “woke up” to find myself talking to this girl, with no clue who she was or what we were talking about. So, when she excused herself so she could go to the ladies' room, I did what anyone would do: I finished my beer and walked straight out of the bar.

Yup. Not a single fuck given.

I walked over to Grove and sat down, for the third time in 24 hours. Who I talked to (other than Jed), what we talked about, etc., I was too blacked out to ever remember. The next thing I know for certain, I was waking up Sunday morning on my couch to the sound of my phone buzzing with texts from Alex.

Being a legend is a good way to die young.

Grin & Bare It

Headed to a broke down strip club to watch unattractive dancers spin to drunk ppl singing karaoke. Fuck am I doing with my life?
— The D.E.F.I. (@crkstr_defi) April 20, 2013

A few months ago, I challenged that my friends are more fun than your friends. And I was right, of course. Why do I feel so confident in saying that? Easy: my friends are crazy.

A couple of weeks ago, Belle and Jay Swag randomly decided to put together an event night for all of us. The destination? An area strip club called the Tennyson Lodge, for their “Bareoke Night”. If you’re not familiar, this involves fully-clothed customers singing karaoke songs onstage while naked dancers gyrate to the music a few feet away.

Now, I feel the most important detail to this picture is one that’s not readily apparent unless you’re familiar with Western PA strip clubs: There are really only three or four reputable clubs in the area. These are the clubs that get the porn stars doing dancing tours. These are the clubs getting most of the bachelor parties. And these are the clubs where you can expect at least 85% of the talent to be, well, talent. These…are not the Tennyson.

If you go to a smaller, lesser-known club, odds are you’re going to find the B Squad from Van Wilder. Prior to Friday night, the only glimpse inside the Tennyson that I’d ever seen was a picture of a middle-aged, man-faced woman on a stage wearing a bra, panties, and a knee brace.

In other words, you don’t go to the Tennyson to be turned on. You go for the comedy. YOLO!

The following is a rundown of the events that transpired that night—which began with the tweet at the top of the page. I really only captured two notes in the moment, as well as fumbled out a few more tweets. The rest of this blog post is coming from recollection (both mine and that of witnesses who didn’t do as many shots as I did; it took a while to find any, but there were a few). I’ve tried my best to keep it all in chronological order, but I think you can forgive me if I’ve gotten distracted somewhere along the way.

• I arrived at Swag and Mitch Canada’s place in Mt. Washington around 8:30; by then, there was only a cab waiting outside and Belle and two of her gal pals from work waiting inside. My Amazonian blonde friend handed me a ¾ full beer and said, “Chug.” I obliged, crushed the can, walked back outside, and hopped in the cab.

• We were less than five minutes into the cab ride when I was introduced to Belle’s friends. And less than five minutes after that, Friend #1 was telling all of us the story of how, the week before, she and her girls got into a fight in a movie theater with a random chick who disrespected her. I checked my watch; it wasn’t 1997, and we weren’t all in high school.

• Friend #2: “All I know about the Tennyson is from the review I read on Yelp.”

• As it turns out, Belle was at the Tennyson for Bareoke the week prior. After a night of karaoke, dirty strippers, and a barrage of shots, she threw up in the parking lot in front of her date…who hasn’t called her since.

Some guys don’t deserve a penis.

• We finally arrived at our destination and walked in. Well…let’s compare what I saw to what my expectations were:

1.) It was fairly clean. Expectation = exceeded.
2.) The first dancer I saw looked like a Fetal Alcohol Syndrome awareness ad. Expectation = met.
3.) The establishment, on the whole, looked like a slightly-above-average dive bar that someone stuck stripper stages into. Expectation = exceeded.
4.) The next two dancers I saw were fairly cute. Expectation = obliterated.

• The Tennyson has something I’ve never seen at another strip club; they have a solitary pole on a 2½’-by-2½’ platform situated next to the bar, far away from the main stage. Dancers spin there when in-between shifts. It’s like a stripper bullpen.

• Roll call (pt. 1): When we arrived, TD, Boy Toy, Swag, Swag’s girl (“Skeets”), and Canada were on hand. After a short convo I learned that Tony, too, was there; but he had waited until the last minute to eat dinner, and was now up the street at Dairy Queen. That’s just poor planning right there. I had scarfed down a Wendy’s value meal on my way to Mt. Wash; he couldn’t have done the same thing? Who heads off to drink at a D-level strip club and thinks, “Eh, I’ll grab something to eat once I get there”…?

• Roll call (pt. 2): Eventually our friends “MoPaddle” , “Mr. MoPaddle”, “Bobbo”, and Shelly joined us as well.

• Swag was so enthusiastic about bareoke, that you would’ve thought it held some type of religious meaning to him. In increasingly excited tones, he relentlessly explained how much fun I was going to have. After a minute I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Calm down, buddy—you don’t have to keep selling me on this. I’m here.”

• The first round of shots was supplied by TD. Snake Bites, I believe.

• Tony: “I know, from the outside [the Tennyson] looks like a family restaurant!”

• I felt the table vibrate, and checked my phone; no messages. A minute later I felt another vibration and checked my phone. Again nothing. I looked under the table, and then at the floor around us, before feeling the vibration once more. This time I realized that Bobbo was swirling his Miller Lite bottle around on the table, causing the vibration. “I thought that was my phone,” I explained. “When I realized it wasn’t…I didn’t want to know what could be vibrating on the floor here.”

• The second round of shots was supplied by Swag. Rumple Minze—a good deal of which Swag spilled on my sleeve.

• One dancer walked out and I caught myself saying, “Well now…” About 5’7” (in stripper heels, but still…), curly dark hair, cute face, and a well-sculpted set of surgically-enhanced C-cups. TD was smitten.

• One chap, sitting on the other side of the stage, was also a fan. As she laid on her back and put the kitten within purring distance, he leaned forward in his chair. “There’s always one guy who’s too into the girls,” I said. “Look at him, staring at her crotch like he’s watching television.”

• There was a shot girl walking around, with the tray of neon colored water that you usually see at night clubs. Normally, the shot girl is the hottest waitress at a bar or club. This one was short and round. I’ve dubbed this the “Tennyson Effect.”

• A random guy with a tight Affliction shirt and a backwards Affliction cap appeared. Belle was smitten.

Some women don’t deserve a vagina.

• An old woman walked in…with a dog on a leash. I turned to Canada and asked if he had seen the poodle. He thought I meant the guy with the funny haircut who had walked past a short time earlier.

• A bouncer informed me that the old woman with the dog is the owner. Of course she is. She set up shop behind the bar. A doggie gate, situated under the servers’ bridge, kept the resident guard dog penned up.

• I noted to Canada that the owner looked like a female version of Dan Aykroyd in Nothing But Trouble. For the rest of the night, he laughed himself silly each time he saw her.

• The women’s bathroom doubles as the dancers’ dressing room. Of course it does. TD came back from powdering her nose; a dancer had been doing her makeup in the mirror next to her as TD washed her hands. With the excitement of a kid trick-or-treating, she reported, “I told her, ‘I like your ass!’”

• Belle, Swag, Canada, and others in the audience all performed medleys at different times. If you think you know what it would be like to see drunken amateur singing while simultaneously watching slightly-less drunken, slightly-less-amateur stripping, let me tell you now: you don’t. Nothing fully prepares you for that kind of sensory overload, when everything that shouldn’t happen is happening all at once.

• Tony: “I have to go to a baptism, tomorrow. Who schedules a baptism on a Saturday?”
Canada: “What is he, Jewish?”

• It took me a good five minutes before the comedy of Canada’s question truly hit me. Hurray booze!

• Every time I turned around, a different selection of our crowd was at the bar buying shots. Mr. MoPaddle bought some, I bought some, Boy Toy bought some, Canada bought some… It was like we were actively trying to disinfect ourselves as a precaution. Hurray Tennyson Lodge!

• TD asked the deejay if she could sing “Fuck Her Gently”. She could not.

• Near midnight, TD’s favorite dancer—with the fake Cs—was working the stripper bullpen while several of us were gathering at the bar to leave. Tony and I told Fake Cs that our little blonde friend had a crush on her. We then called over said little blonde friend. Fake Cs began grinding on her, trying to seduce her with all she had. Then she motorboated her. Yup.

• We thought, of course, that TD was going to love it. As soon as she came back to us, though, she explained why she had not.

“Oh my god—I saw her teeth in the light, and they’re horrible! She started moving her face towards my chest, and I thought I was going to get cut!”

The Tennyson Effect.

• Six of us made our escape—in one cab. Skeets, Swag, Tony, and Boy Toy squeezed into the back, somehow. I sat shotgun, with TD in my lap. And though she’s like a little sister to me, that fact did not stop me from joining Swag and Tony, who were throwing jokes at Boy Toy about me banging his girlfriend.

Me: “Oh damn—halfway in!”
Boy Toy: “Let me out of this cab!”
Swag: “She’s never going to be the same again!”
Boy Toy: “Why is this happening?!”

• Between our juvenile antics cracking him up, the alcohol fumes coming off of the bodies filling every square inch of his cab, and the paranoia of looking for cops when you have six passengers crammed into a standard-sized automobile, I’m shocked the driver didn’t wreck. Kudos to him.

• We were dropped off at Redbeards, where we got a table and drinks. We ran into Entertainer, Shafe, and Shafe’s girlfriend. While the first two were just quietly hanging out, the third member of that trio was emphatically dancing around with a random guy and gal at the bar. Redbeards doesn’t actually have a dance floor, but that didn’t seem to matter to her. Shafe stood there calmly pulling swigs from his bottle of beer while his girlfriend, wearing short shorts and high heels, put it down like she was auditioning for a Jeezy video.

• I think more shots were done, but…yeah.

• We found our way back to Swag and Canada’s, where supposedly there was beer waiting for us. There was no beer waiting for us.

• TD, Boy Toy, and I went back to their house (they live a street over), where TD passed out on the living room couch while talking aloud to herself. Boy Toy and I drank Captain & Cokes while discussing politics, sociology, etc in the kitchen, until well after 5 a.m.

The next morning I shuffled down the sidewalk from TD’s place, past people setting out to begin a productive Saturday; my only goal was to crawl into bed. And with every sideways glance I got, I just smirked.

I love my friends.

Don't Get Mad, Get Even

Revenge is a shot best served with a “fuck you” chaser.

On the first night of my Dirty-30 celebration two years ago, TJ hit me with a death blow in the form of a somewhat improvised shot. He’d wanted to order me a Liquid Cocaine, but the bar didn’t carry Bacardi 151. In its place, he asked them to mix Goldschlager with the Jager and Rumple Minze that come standard. If I remember correctly, I called upon my Czech ancestors to curse his soul then and there. Or maybe it was my Seminole ancestors. Or was it my Creole ancestors? All I know is that I wanted some supernatural being to make him feel the same pain that I felt for the next 15 minutes, as my night dutifully faded to black.

I now owe one (or all) of those ancestors dearly, because my call was answered on April 15, 2011.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. On that night, TJ, his son’s mother (“Glitter”), and her boyfriend went to dinner and a Tom Green show in the Waterfront. Chappy, Tony, Dupa, Jay Swag and I started the night in the South Side for the Pens’ game; we then traveled to Bar Louie afterwards (minus Swag) to meet up with TJ’s trio, as well as Mr. & Mrs. Prince of Ligonier, to celebrate TJ’s birthday. The birthday boy was already showing signs of being tipsy, though it may have just been a Friday night free from responsibility, and not the alcohol, that tilted him. As for Glitter, it was most certainly alcohol that was putting in work. She greeted me with a hug, but it was less old-acquaintances-seeing-each-other-after-an-extended-time, and more giddy-five-year-old-at-Disney-World-squeezing-the-ever-loving-shit-out-of-Goofy. TJ reported that she had been drunk enough to loudly interject during the comedy show earlier in the evening, even causing Tom Green to pause and acknowledge one of her comments. Glitter was clearly in honey badger mode. She really didn’t give a shit.

Not too long after arriving, I noticed a trespasser in our ranks. A slim, tall guy in a tight shirt and product-heavy blonde hair had driven the lane and was now face-to-face with Glitter. Given her state—and that her boyfriend was standing next to her—I didn’t find this news relaxing. And when I saw her boyfriend put his hand on LFO’s chest (Glitter would later make the hilarious observation that he looked like a member of LFO) and push him backwards, I immediately darted into the fray, stationing myself between Glitter’s man and the self-tanner spokesmodel.

I hadn’t been the only one watching this pot boil. One of LFO’s friends arrived on the scene at the same time that I did, and quickly had his hands on his tight-shirted comrade to pull him away. But it was soon apparent that LFO wasn’t overlooking the potential fight that his actions were provoking; on the contrary, he was openly inviting it. Before I knew it, he was back on our side of the bar, inches away from me. As Prince, TJ, and Glitter’s man barked from behind me, I laughed off LFO and tried to talk some common sense into him by saying, “Get the fuck out of here before someone destroys you.”

Oddly enough, those soothing words didn’t seem to calm him down.

Let’s review the situation here: LFO was the most metrosexual man on Earth. He had two friends with him, neither of whom was overly imposing, and neither of whom had the same hard on for fisticuffs that he did. I had TJ, Tony, Prince, Chappy, Dupa, and Glitter’s BF lined up behind me. Even in a one-on-one tangle, LFO would’ve been a light snack for any one of us (aside from maybe Chappy; but he’s just dirty enough to use a bottle or other foreign object to tip things in his favor). But, beyond all that, we also had an ace in the hole: the bar’s manager, Stefani [not to be confused with Steph] is an old friend of Dupa’s. There was no scenario in which any of this ended well for LFO.

Although his buddy had once again pulled him over to their side of the bar, LFO continued to mouth off at us, while most of us did our best to ignore him (Prince, full of beer and childlike glee, was mouthing provocations towards him from our side, only to turn back to us and giggle, all to the disapproval of Mrs. Prince). Eventually LFO walked over to the front doors, yelling for any one of us to join him outside. As he stood there in auto-erotic gesticulation, he felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned around, he found himself face-to-face with the police that Stefani had called. Checkmate.

After a 15 minute conversation with the officers, LFO decided—completely by his own accord, I’m sure—to leave for another bar without any further words or glances in the direction of my crew. With things quieted down, the two female bartenders and a couple of the waitresses came over to share their own encounters with LFO that night. “He was telling everyone that he’s the hottest defense attorney in the city,” reported a waitress. When someone mentioned his two-sizes-too-small shirt, Alyssa—a bartender and Maxim Hometown Hotties contestant—shrugged her shoulders and cracked, “Never trust a man with frosted tips and his nipples out.”

When I suggested that Alyssa, at 5’2”, should try fighting me just like LFO had, she quickly jumped up on the bar and flexed in my face. The thought that I might get frog splashed by a tiny amateur model in the middle of a bar gave me enough pause to consider just how likely my boys would be to believe that I let her take me down. Not very likely, I’m sure.

I would eventually triumph over the short people, though. Stefani, herself all of 5’nothing”, asked for my help in getting a bottle of whiskey down from a high shelf. When she had taken the bottle back behind the bar, I stepped up for another Miller Lite draught. Chappy, however, had also decided to order another drink, and flagged her down first. When Stefani came walking back over with his bottle of Bud Light Lime, I voiced my displeasure.

Me: “I can’t believe that, after I just helped you get that bottle down, you’re going to serve him first!”
Chappy: *laughs in victory as he reaches for his bottle*
Stefani: *grins* “You know what? You’re right. *pulls back the bottle, which was only inches from Chappy’s hand; turns, and puts it in a refrigerator beneath the bar*
Chappy: “Wha..? Hey!”
Stefani: *to me* “Miller Lite draught?”

Chappy was left to whine in protest until after I’d been served my beer and had walked off laughing.

It soon occurred to me that, even though it was close to midnight, TJ was in great condition. This was just unacceptable. I stepped up to get my homie a birthday shot, but froze for a moment while trying to figure out just what to order. Then a villainous grin swept across my face. TJ, looking at me with his eyebrow cocked, sensed something bad was afoot. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I know exactly what I’m getting you.” And if there was any internal doubt about the sincerity of my desire for revenge, it was likely erased by this: When I called over Alyssa, the first thing I asked wasn’t if she knew how to make a Liquid Cocaine; no, the first thing I asked was, “Do you guys have Bacardi 151?” When she frowned a “No,” she likely felt I was going to be disappointed by that response. Oh, how wrong she was. Instead, I smiled. “Great!” I may even have cackled.

I ordered the Goldschlager/Rumple Minze/Jager blend of hell, and then heard lines from Nas’ “I Gave You Power” in my head as I called TJ over: “He walked me outside, saw this cat, cocked me back, said ‘Remember me?’”

Me: “Remember my birthday a couple of years ago?”
TJ: *ice grills me, knowing he can’t argue his way out of this*

I handed him the shot, and Dupa tapped me on the shoulder.

Dupa: “What did you buy him?”
Me: “The Goldschlager/Rumple Minze/Jager shot he got me for my 30th.”
Dupa: *grinning* “It would be pretty messed up if I bought him the same thing right now, wouldn’t it?”
Me: “Yup. Do it.”
Dupa: “On it.”

TJ, to his credit, tossed back the first shot like a soldier. When he was handed another by Dupa, though, just as the first pains from my shot began working their way through his veins, there was murder in his eyes. He gathered his strength, and after a minute tossed back the second one. When he handed over the empty glass, Chappy handed him a Three Wise Men. I think I heard his soul cry.

Then again, it may just have been his Jewish ancestors being summoned.

Brilliant Insanity: B-Day '09 [Intro and Friday]

Albert Einstein once defined insanity as “doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results.” What does it mean, then, if you do the same thing and you do achieve different results?

Last year, I hosted a birthday party for over two dozen of my friends in Station Square, and suffered one of the most epic fails of my boozing resume. So this year, I wanted to avoid the entire large-scale event all together. I was weary of gathering together a horde of deviant drinkers who were going to turn me into a barely functioning vegetable by 11 pm. Why go overboard? Heck, why even celebrate the day? Despite what one might glean from some of my stories, I’m not big on being the center of attention (well, not all of the time). Why not just have drinks quietly with a few of my good friends at a bar? I didn’t want a big party because it would be a hassle, and because it would mean scores of people trying to pour shots down my throat (and because I was turning 30).

The forces of the universe, however, conspired against me. Early in March, T.C. and I were contacted by the guys we partied with in San Diego last summer. They wanted to make a weekend trip to Pittsburgh for shits and giggles. The Saturday that was the most accommodating for everyone’s social calendars? March 28th; a.k.a. the day before my birthday. Now we had eight booze hounds travelling from Buffalo, looking for a day of the best our city had to offer them. So much for enjoying a quiet night.

T.C. and I then set about working out a dinner plan where we could accommodate 20+ people. Our first idea, Smoking Joe’s, fell through, so Girlfriend took charge and set up a dinner party in Bar Louie Station Square’s private room, along with drunk limo transportation to Carson City Saloon afterwards. I now had a party consisting of 20 – 50 people (almost as many—if not more—of my friends planned to skip the first half of the night, and meet up with us at CC Saloon), a private room, limos, and multiple locations requiring the logistics management of my girlfriend, T.C., and I. Girlfriend cracked that it was my “MTV Sweet 16 party”. It’s always the ones you love the most who can own you the fiercest.

So much took place that weekend, however, that I feel writing a detailed play-by-play would take at least three blog posts. I will instead try to condense the highlights for your time-killing enjoyment (and this is a long one, so I’ll break it into two parts):

• Since TJ had to work Saturday night, he set about annihilating me on Friday night. He, “Pakistanimal” (no real need for an alias, but he’s been crying for the past few months that he doesn’t have one, so hopefully he’ll shut up about it now), Dupa, and I hit The ‘Side for a booze smorgasbord. I promptly blacked out before midnight, yet somehow made it home in one piece and without vomiting.

• That last part is all the more notable when you consider the birthday shot that TJ bought me. He and his peoples have a tradition of doing a Liquid Cocaine shot—a potent combination of Bacardi 151, Jager, and Rumple Minze—on birthdays. The bar at Shady Grove, however, didn’t have 151 on hand (I mean, of the three, how is that the ingredient they don’t carry?), so TJ’s ingenious solution was to replace it with Goldschlager. Ouch.

The best way to describe this shot is to compare it to the electromagnetic pulse (EMP) weapon that is used to kill the sentinels near the end of “The Matrix”. The mixture hits your stomach and explodes, sending out shockwaves that shut down everything in your central nervous system.

• Pakistanimal ran into a blonde girl he knew from W&J. The last time he had seen her, some years ago, she (1.) mistook him for a friend of ours nicknamed “Black Sean” because…well, his name’s Sean and he’s Black; and (2.) told him the only reason that he (Sean) had made it into law school was because he’s Black. So, on this night, Pakistanimal decided to address this previous encounter. After first snapping a picture with her, he then reminded her of her comments. “First of all, I’m not Sean; and second of all, I’m not Black, I’m Pakistani, you racist!”

As a tear began its trail down her cheek, she responded, “I’m not a racist—I work for the ACLU!!”

To be continued...