In This Diary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

drafts. Mo. quote”

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

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

Know the Barchetypes

When it comes to drinking, I like to consider myself to be rather erudite (or as it would be put in my old neighborhood, "I know my shit"). I've drunk many a beer, wine, and spirit, in many a setting. But if there is one thing that has limited me in improving my knowledgebase, it's money. Or, to be more specific: a distinct desire to not be thrown out into the street with my few meager possessions. Tossing back drinks with abandon at watering holes requires a healthy amount of burnable funds. Strangely, though, it seems the more I hang out at bars and indulge in alcohol, the less money I seem to have. Weird.

I’d like to think, though, that with more financial backing, I could expand my range of bars beyond the confines of city, state, and national borders. I could add to my booze resume a breadth of knowledge only gained with time spent in foreign lands full of exotic women and untested waters. I could drink with matadors after running with the bulls in Pamplona. I could sip fine single malts poured fresh from one hundred year old casks in Scotland. I could…get paid to do all of these things and then write about them. (*looking at The Hero* No? Nothing? *sigh*)

One man, however, does have this exclusive life of which I dream. He calls himself, “The Imbiber”. And if his life didn’t already sound wet-dream-on-a-summer-night-good, then let me add this one last detail: his employer is none other the legendary Hugh Hefner.

Life just isn’t fair.

Perhaps one day I’ll realize my true calling, and find myself sipping a rum drink on a beach in Thailand on the company dime, while chatting up one of my company's dimes. But in the meanwhile, I’ll have to settle for living vicariously through The Imbiber. And that includes this read, an interesting study on the ten genres of pouring arenas that exist in this cruel, cruel little blue and green ball of ours. Grab yourself a drink and get your learn on.