Wifey Material: Tina Fey

Okay, she deserves this status for much more than just this scene. Hell, her verse on Childish Gambino's mixtape ROYALTY alone earned her a Hall of Fame induction. But this is wonderful acting, if for no other reason than it reminded me of me and my sister...if our roles were reversed.

Love Tina Fey for this scene. #ThisIsWhereILeaveYou pic.twitter.com/M0gOZvsAHq

— Mr. Belvey & Ice (@CS_Defi) July 3, 2015

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.

Wifey Material: Lauren Bishop

Meet Lauren. Lauren is beautiful. Lauren is a drinker. Lauren is hilarious.

And, as good as she is on Twitter, she's even better in video.





Seriously, someone give this woman a TV show. Where's Dan Harmon at? You're telling me she wouldn't kill as a recurring character on Community, Dan? You can't show a fellow lover of booze and comedy some love?

[*ahem* Speaking of which, Dan, you haven't returned any of my emails. Has your assistant been getting them to you? Dan? Dan?...]

Okay, I maayyyy be a little biased; I love Lauren. I'd even want to hang out with her if she wasn't hot—that's the male equivalent of true love! I love her so much, though, that I'm starting to get worried; the more I watch her suck down boxed wine, the more I think we might be related.

The Best of That Which Was 2013

I’ve messed with the year-end list concept once before. It got old for me about five minutes after I finished the post. But nostalgia can intoxicate you as well as any bottle of scotch ever could, and the final couple of weeks of every year are full of it (and full of scotch, if you’re lucky). Toasting to the days that passed, awaiting the inevitable tide of ones to come, and such. So, skipping the ceremony and pageantry oft associated with these types of posts, let’s raise our glasses to 2013’s best.


Best Drink
I discovered the Papa Doble. To be more specific, I discovered Simon Difford’s recipe, which calls for four and a quarter shots of booze to two of lime and grapefruit juice. That’s over six shots of powerful, sour fuel charging its way into your veins.

More often than not, I’ve only mixed them up on quiet nights in, where I know I’m the only one I’m endangering with this high octane. Once or twice, though, I’ve kicked off turnt up nights with a couple of Papas. And each time I’ve awoken the next morning wondering why the fuck I did that, while I carefully check the building for bodies.


Best Life Lesson
Stupidity is expensive.

I’ll get to the “What I Learned This Summer” post later [If you thought it would be posted before January…well, then you must be new to the site. Welcome! Have a Papa Doble!], but half of the summer of ’13 was dominated by learning that previous statement. It seems like it should be an obvious concept, especially when you’re 34. But then I ran shin-first into a fire hose fitting.

It seems like it should be obvious…


Best Decision
2013 was the year I finally grew out a beard. And now I don’t know what life would be without it. I started it during the Penguins’ playoff run in May. Of course, that’s also when I learned about “playoff bushes,” so…call it a draw.

Most Improved at the Twitterz
Dupa learned to live tweet his drunken moments, and it’s everything I had dreamt it could be when he first opened a Twitter account. Just read the sequence from the start of his flight to Hong Kong earlier yesterday. (Click on the images to the right; for the Twitter-illiterate, read from bottom-up, beginning with the bottom picture—which, coincidentally, has a picture of a bottom in it. #BottomPicCeption. For the Twitter vets, yes “@CS_Defi” is my new handle.)

That’s pure, 100%, raw uncut Dupa. I’m just mad he didn’t make use of the inflight Wi-Fi to keep the viewing experience going. Now we’ll never know if he took his pants off and danced around the cabin.

…He probably took off his pants and danced around the cabin.



Most Improved Wifeyness
I’ve loved Aubrey Plaza since the first few episodes of Parks and Recreation. But this year she made me mentally propose.

Some say her drunken debacle at the MTV Movie Awards was faked. Some say it was real. Honestly, either way I’m impressed. You’re telling me a beautiful, funny young actress either (a.) got so irreversibly party-drunk that she tried to wrestle an award away from someone onstage, or (b.) did such an incredible job of acting drunk that no one immediately questioned whether or not she was? Sign me up. I love me some Aubrey.

Most Fun I Had Involving Naked Women
Bareoke Night happened for my crew eight months ago. How it hasn’t happened again is completely beyond me. Everything ridiculous and boozily hilarious happens there, and therefore there is where I wanna be.


Best Morning After Meal
DeLuca’s. Madone. Trust me, if you show up hungover and find a line, just wait there in it. You’ll thank me once you’re in a seat with a plate full of amazing in front of you.


Best Birthday Mayhem
Leave it to TD and Boy Toy; for her birthday party, they put together a huge scavenger hunt across the South Side to be completed by their friends. Six or seven teams raced every which way between bars lining Carson St., getting strangers involved with our tasks. I mean, really involved. After the contest was over, everyone retreated to the home of the birthday girl and her boyfriend, where folks continued drinking themselves senseless.


Best Job of Convincing Me to Do What I Shouldn’t
When it’s 11 pm on a work night and you’re at the bar, you’re inevitably faced with a decision: “Go” or “No Go.” The smart money, of course, is on “No Go.” But the simple fact that you’re faced with the question tells me that you’re not familiar with smart decisions. Which means you’re like me—specifically, like me this past Thursday.

MoFo, Jed, T.C., and Hurley were out at Shady Grove that night. And though I caught up with them expecting to be in my bed by midnight, a few Manhattans and words of peer pressure had me piling into Hurley’s car to head to Cain’s in Dormont. I awoke on Hurley’s couch at 7:42 a.m., texted my manager to tell her I’d be a little late getting in, and spent the rest of the day hating myself and my friends, and all that was life.


Biggest Mystery
Seriously, what the hell happened to my Timb lace?


Salud.

Social Drinking Excellence: Aubrey Plaza

I'm conflicted; this is ever-so-obviously deserving of a Rummy Award, but I really want to make this post a "Wifey Material". I've had a crush on Miss Plaza for years, and seeing her get ridiculously drunk and stupid...does things to me.

Don't judge me...

The Rummy-winning performance:

Get More:
2013 MTV Movie Awards, Latest Movie News

From the USA Today:

Parks and Recreation star Aubrey Plaza stepped onstage while Will Ferrell was accepting his MTV Golden Popcorn Comedic Genius trophy.

She had #The To Do List, the name of her new movie, written on her chest. Ferrell, who was dressed in a suit made of dollar-bill fabric, had just been speaking of his dreams to make people laugh and "dress like Dennis Rodman," in his acceptance speech.

A barefoot Plaza, carrying a drink, walked up on stage and tried to take the trophy. But Ferrell wouldn't let it go, so the actress, who said nothing, put her head down and scurried back to her seat in the front row, where she spilled her drink and then sat there.

Oh, Aubrey. Let me count the ways I love thee.

1. The look on her face when the camera comes in for a close-up at the end...oh, we all know that one, don't we? That's the look of "I'm the asshole? ...I'm the asshole."
2. Follow Peter Dinklage's eyes from the start of the video. Then try to picture what's going on in his mind.
3. A hypothetical scenario: You're dating a beautiful, up-and-coming Hollywood actress. She invites you to escort her to the MTV Movie Awards. The two of you pregame before the show—of course—and then start making use of the open bar once you get there. By halfway through the event, you've been doing backstrokes in Belvedere for a few hours. You're fine, but your lady? Not so much. You're half charmed by her ultra-goofy drunken alter-ego, and half shocked that you're not the one asking Kim Kardashian if her fetus has had to refute claims of getting ass implants yet. But through all of it you just laugh. Who cares if insecure celebs can't take a joke? Besides, you've got front row seats, and your woman is looking sexy in her dress. And you know she's going to jump you in the limo (hopefully before she throws up and passes out, which are also definitely going to happen). Then, halfway through Will Ferrell's acceptance speech, she pops up out of her chair and heads for the stage. By the time she gets back to her seat, you see security guards headed your way.
   
   
   In that moment when the ushers direct her to the exit, do you (a.) grab her purse, trot out of the theater behind her, and wonder if the limo sex will be even hotter now; or (b.) lean back in your chair, look over to the person sitting next to you and say loudly, "Thank god she's gone. Some people just don't know how to handle themselves..."?
4. ...asking for a friend.



These two feel me.

5. There's the off chance, scripted as this looks in the beginning, that this was supposed to be a bit. But even if that was the case, it still just means that the whole thing got derailed by her being absolutely shlammered.
   
6. Bonus points for being barefoot. No truly epic drunken deeds happen while fully-shoe'd.
7. Was anyone else expecting Leslie Knope to come running up behind her and pull her off the stage?
8. Give her credit for joking about it not too long after on Twitter, although...
9. How did she sober up that quickly?
10. ...Oh yeah—she got kicked out of the awards show. That tends to accelerate your road to recovery.

If I know my girl, she'll shrug it off and keep it moving. In reality, this is all just a bump in the road. What I've read of The To Do List sounds promising, and Parks and Rec just keeps growing in popularity.

Your Rummy's in the mail, Aubrey, along with half of a gold heart pendant—the other half is hanging from a chain around my neck.

The Worst

The worst night, ever.

I’m rarely far from random hyperbole. To an extent, it’s just part of the gig. Booze, in those moments when it has hold of you, usually makes things bigger and bolder. And when you’re writing about the moments when booze has had hold of you, well… But I’m also a product of the society in which I live. And in today’s social-media-infused, live-tweeting day-to-day, each new moment is the funniest/saddest/most exciting/profoundest known to mankind. Ever.

But my worst drinking night—or, better yet, nights—ever? That, young Skywalker, is what you call “real talk”.

I began thinking about the topic while writing my hangover post.
Three tales immediately jumped to the forefront in my mind.
None of them has been published in its entirety before now, though certainly not for lack of entertainment value. And, while I’ve had terrible nights that have been broadcast at On the Rocks—like, say, my birthday in 2008—I rank these three higher on the overall list. Maybe that’s because all of them happened back when the therapy that comes from writing about my debacles just wasn’t available. Or maybe, by subconscious tally, I’ve determined these to be the three tales I reference most at parties and other moments with friends. Whatever the reason may be, these are the crème de le crème of my boozing fails.


[Coming Soon...]

Dreams

I may have just invented the signature drink of the Cocktails & Dreams bar @missstephanieb and I will open in the Bahamas one day.

— The D.E.F.I. (@crkstr_defi) January 2, 2013

Life would be so much simpler. (And if I could get a 25-year-old Elisabeth Shue, too...that'd be great.)

Wifey Material: Joy Glass

I'm not a big fan of PBR, as I've documented before. But Joy could change all of that. What up, guhl...

Happy #friskyfriday everyone! Drink PBR and get Naked! Responsibly of course! xo @playboydotcom @pabstblueri instagr.am/p/QsKUC8KwPc/
— Joy Glass (@TGHJoyGlass) October 12, 2012

Rise and Shine

I’m not what you might call a “morning person”. In fact I’m the complete opposite of that. Going to bed before 1 a.m. and getting out of it before 10 a.m. feel equally unnatural to me. If I owned a bar, this wouldn’t be a problem—me being broke from drinking my entire inventory would be a more likely hurdle, were that the case. But as a member of the 9-to-5 sector of society, these tendencies of mine are a bit of an interference, and have resulted in me sliding into my own personal 9:45-to-5:45 sector.

That’s not to suggest that I sleep until 9 a.m., either. I’m typically awake—using that term loosely—by 7:30, as I was today. But then I meander through a morning routine of breakfast, Facebook, Twitter, showering, drinking a glass of juice, Facebook, Twitter, shaving, and dressing that fill up the ensuing two hours. Sometimes, like today, I skip the shaving portion; but, instead of this allowing me to arrive at my office at a more reasonable time, this “found” time is applied towards other unproductive pursuits. Today those pursuits included a discussion with Dupa, who posted an article on my Facebook wall about a new bourbon brand being distilled in Houston. This, of course, made me question if they were permitted to call their product “bourbon”, since it is being made outside of Kentucky. This conversation, along with other various activities, resulted in me walking into work at 10 a.m. today.

Clearly, I have my priorities in order.

My office sits directly across the hall from that of my Program Manager; he lives in Maryland, though, and therefore is rarely around to see me saunter in at an advanced hour. This week, however, he’s in town. And as I sat down at my desk and logged into my computer, I found him walking towards my door.

Uh oh.

He poked his head in my door, and I smiled while mentally preparing myself for a scolding.

“Hey, I just wanted to tell you: You can still call it ‘bourbon’ when it’s made outside of Kentucky. There’s a Virginia bourbon that I’ve tried…”

Wifey Material: Jenny Mollen

We all know I'm a sucker for a Maker's-Mark-drinking-gal with a firm grasp on life.

Jenny's that rare mix of beautiful, destructive, and hilarious that every guy covets. Unfortunately for the rest of us, Jason Biggs got to her first. ...Well, definitely not first. But he was the one who finally tamed her, and to the victor go the spoils.

Following her on Twitter is like looking through the shower peephole in Porky's—but instead of seeing girls' naked bodies, you get an unadulterated view of girls' naked thoughts. Which is no less sexy, but a whole hell of a lot scarier.

The best glimpses into Jenny's in-a-still-socially-acceptable-way insanity are found in the blog she writes for The Smoking Jacket. Any woman who can, in one moment, write about soaking the expensive white couch in an A-list Hollywood producer's office with period blood; in another, methodically act out a twisted revenge plot against a star-fucker who dissed her for her husband; and, in yet another, tell the tale of trying to find a Vegas hooker for a threesome with Biggs... Well, that's a special lady.

Jenny, since Biggs has already won your heart and I have no shot in that department, I have an alternative request: Can you interview each new girl in my life before I date her? I think you'll know just what level of crazy is good for me. And any applicants that score over that level can go onto a list of potential menage candidates for you and Jason. Two birds, one stone.

*thinking* And if you use that last line as the title of your next threesome tale, I want royalties.

Sharing is Caring

Excuse me, but might you assist me in the procurement of some brewed hops?





Spotted on Sex, Cigars and Booze's Twitter feed.

Wifey Material: An Instruction Manual

I don't know who the gal below is, but I love her. And she needs to teach classes. Ladies, in case you're wondering if you're wifey-worthy, ask yourself two things:

1. Did you ever think about sharing some Beam with your man?
2. Did you think you needed a glass to do so?

From Sex, Cigars and Booze's Twitter feed.

Wifey Material: Jenny Johnson

If you're not on Twitter, chances are you've never heard of Jenny. But she's easily one of the funniest women around (at least on Twitter). And, as the tweet below shows, she knows how to get it in.

You know when you make a drink that's too strong and instead of pouring it out, you drink it and then you smell colors? Blue smells round...

— Jenny Johnson (@JennyJohnsonHi5) February 11, 2012

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: Fear & Loathing

The first day of the trip (10/5) was, in fact, Dupa’s birthday. Our 6:20 a.m. departure had us groggily trudging through the Pittsburgh International Airport with a muted sense of anticipation. Really, how excited can you get for an orgy when you’re barely able to keep even your eyelids up? “If we look like this now,” I thought, “what the hell are we going to look like when we come back?”

Thankfully it was a direct flight. While T.C. snoozed a few rows back, Dupa and I alternated between states of reading, sleeping, and shrinking patience. By 9 a.m. Pittsburgh time we were nearly at our destination; Dupa looked at me and said “Jack & diet?” Why not? He pushed the flight attendant call button, and shortly thereafter we each had a surprisingly-strong plastic cup of party on the tray table in front of us. As we snapped pictures of our respective drinks (right), the older guy in the aisle seat next to me muttered, “That’s trouble.” Oh, if you only knew sir.

Once we were on the ground, the giddy schoolchildren inside of us took over. Facebook and Twitter updates were launched, announcing our arrival. Jokes were cracked back and forth as we claimed our bags and waited for a shuttle to the Planet Hollywood Resort & Casino. Suggestions about where to go for breakfast, where to gamble, and where to lose all hope of ever going back to Pittsburgh were all tossed around. We were kids in the admission line to an amusement park, competing over which rollercoasters we were going to ride first.

We arrived at the hotel around 8 a.m.; being well ahead of the check-in time, we left our bags with the bellhop and headed to Pampas Brazilian Grille for a steak and egg breakfast. Dupa washed down his breakfast with a Bloody Mary, which was one of the restaurant’s two morning drink specials. I chose to go with their other special: a mimosa. I was on vacation, after all. And feeling fancy, damn it. …Fight me.

As we wrapped up the meal, we each ordered a Shock Top draught for the road, drinking them down as we strolled through the Miracle Mile Shops. [If only all malls were void of open container laws. Can you imagine how much greater Christmas shopping would be? Black Friday would be one big kegger. Picture handing your mother a box on Christmas morning, and neither one of you has any clue as to what might be in there. Is it a blouse? Is it a piece of Sbarro pizza with a bite taken out of it?] We thought about cruising the Strip, but the unseasonably cool weather (low 60s) and overcast skies encouraged us to limit our exploration to the lands within the Planet Hollywood. And there was plenty to see. The casino floor is a purple, pink, and black playground, with slot machines, blackjack tables, roulette wheels, and TVs playing promos for Holly Madison’s “Peepshow” everywhere you look. Cocktail waitresses and “Pleasure Pit” dealers, dressed in bustiers, hot pants, and thigh high boots, patrol the grounds to catch any male eyes still standing after that onslaught, before they can stray towards the elevators. The poker room—really just a roped-off section of floor real estate—was the closest the PH came to disappointing me, but even it beckoned like a half-naked siren.

In the last year, Dupa has nurtured a blackjack obsession, starting with online play and then moving to the Rivers’ video blackjack games and low stakes tables. He found a $15 table on the PH floor that seemed to have his name on it, and changed in for $300 worth of chips. T.C. and I watched a few hands before realizing that neither of us planned on joining him at the table; T.C. suggested we find two open seats and video blackjack games at The Heart Bar, and I readily agreed. Free booze while you play—suck it Pennsylvania and West Virginia gaming laws! $20 in a machine meant we were drinking on the house, and my vodka tonics were like little reminders coming every ten minutes to say, “Hey, good for you; you made the right choice. You are very intelligent, and an exceptional human being. And have I told you how charming and handsome you are?” …Did I mention I was going through one every ten minutes?

After a short while, T.C. wandered off to the men’s room, but soon came back with Dupa. “Cashed out; I’m up $700,” the birthday boy said, grinning from ear-to-ear like a Cheshire Cat.

We played a bit more, slugging drinks and blinkingly taking in our surroundings, still in shock to be in Vegas. I took repeated breaks from the electronic blackjack cards to watch a sugar daddy across the bar who was seated with a hot woman. He was pushing 60; she was in her mid 20s. She pretended to find everything he said to be hilarious, and he kept shelling out money for drinks. Ah, the American Dream. As for this American, such pay-for-pleasure pursuits are just that—a dream; I cashed out at $10, down $50 to that point, slurping up the last of my drink as we finally made our way to the front desk to check in.

Every room in the PH is based on a different movie. The three of us were given the Forrest Gump room. It just felt…right. We made a quick trip to the ABC Store in the mall for supplies. T.C. bought a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black; I picked out a bottle of Belvedere and grabbed some cans of Red Bull. Happy birthday, Dupa. We also purchased two gallons of bottled water. This wasn’t our first rodeo.

Back in the room, Dupa decided he needed a nap. Why he also felt that he had to be naked to take said nap, I’ll never know. I can only hypothesize he felt it poetic to be in his birthday suit on his birthday. Then again, this is Dupa; taking his clothes off in public is as common as a handshake. (And, ironically, it’s also the next step for him in the course of an introduction.) Before he could climb into his bed, there was a knock at our door—the rollaway bed we had ordered was being delivered. Dupa jumped up to answer the door, but T.C. stopped him, and told him to go to bed. Thankfully he did, because when T.C. opened the door a cute girl in her early 20s pushed in the rollaway bed. Sexual harassment lawsuits – 0, Three Drunk Guys – 1.

After an hour or two of rest, we got ourselves together again. Showers, shaving, and Johnnie Walker on the rocks prepared us for our short walk down the Strip to O’Shea's. We grabbed a quick meal of traditional Irish cuisine at the in-house Burger King, and then found a $5 blackjack table to call home. Cheap blackjack, free drinks, and a bounty of skin populating the nearby beer pong tables. It was like a yinzer paradise. We soon learned the names and bedside habits of just about every dealer the casino employs, as we didn’t leave our seats for the better part of four hours. Unfortunately, they don’t hire from the same headhunters as Planet Hollywood. Nice people, all of them, but… Not that my boys or I cared, as long as they kept flipping over 23s to our doubled-down 18s.

One dealer (“Raw Deal”), who took over our table early in the night, reinforced my theory on O’Shea's “We don’t need hot, half-naked women to keep people playing” policy. Though, to be fair, I didn’t go any lower than her face. Dupa and T.C. stated that she had a very large rack that was eager to be freed from her uniform’s blouse. I don't remember that myself, but I highly doubt it could have salvaged anything for her.

[*pauses* God I’m an asshole.]

I asked the guys where the bathroom was; when T.C. pointed off in the distance, I couldn’t see anything. After leaning over and looking around Raw Deal, who was directly in my line of vision, I spotted the elusive men’s room sign.

Me: “Ah, couldn’t see around [Raw Deal].”
RD: *teasing* “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Me: *slightly embarrassed, trying to save face* “No, I mean, your beauty was just so overpowering, how could I possibly look anywhere else?”

This obvious (I thought) instance of back-pedaling bullshit managed to win the moment, as we all laughed and returned our attention to the blackcrack. And that was pretty much the only winning I did that night. But, I bought in at $100 and managed to play that same Benjamin all night. Not so fortunate was T.C., who made a trip or two to the ATM. Dupa, though, was actually up (call it birthday luck). Alcohol, however, was up on all three of us. To the point that, as a new dealer began at our table late in the night, I managed to spill my beer all over him, the table, and the deck of cards. “FLOOR!” [I vaguely remember joining him in yelling, “Floor!” As if I wasn’t the drunk that had caused the problem to begin with?]

I can’t imagine, though, that this is the first time they’ve had this happen at O’Shea's. Bellagio, Wynn, Caesar’s Palace—at those casinos, a couple of guys in colored blazers probably tap you on your shoulder and point to the doors when you soak a dealer, table, and cards (the trifecta!) with beer. At O’Shea's, they just walk your party over to another blackjack table, and call over a waitress to replace your drink.

Around 4 a.m., T.C. called “no mas” and stumbled out the doors. I hung on for another half hour or so, finally losing the last of my chips to a dealer’s 20. As I bid Dupa adieu and began following T.C.’s footsteps, I felt a tug at my arm. I turned to find Raw Deal, smiling at me. “Uhhhh…oh fuck.” [I mean, that’s what I said in my mind. I wouldn’t say that out loud, of course. …Then again, it was closing in on 5 a.m. and I’d been drinking all night. I can’t guarantee that I didn’t.] I gave a quick smile back, said a hurried and awkward “Be safe,” and power walked out the door.

Here’s the fun part. Ever have that dream where you’re stuck in a maze, disoriented in a haze of sleep, taking turn after turn that leads you right back to where you just were? Get sloppy drunk and stumble into the Planet Hollywood from the entrance on the Strip. I promise you, it’s the closest you’ll get to living that nightmare. I knew our room was on the 38th floor, and I knew that there were two sets of elevators—ones that went past the 23rd floor, and ones that didn’t. When I finally found a set of elevators after wandering through the casino floor, they were the wrong ones. I walked back out, and circled the floor again. Finally, I found a set of elevators. I hopped on one, and looked at the buttons; nothing higher than 23. Fuck! Another voyage out onto the casino floor, another set of elevators located. I peeked inside of one; nothing higher than 23. Fuck!

I took the escalator back down to the lobby and check-in counter. I knew we had gone up to the room from there that afternoon, and I remembered the elevators being down a hallway off to the left of the counter. I staggered past people just arriving from—or just leaving for—their what-happens-in-Vegas sin stories, and got to the elevators. I stepped onto one, feeling triumphant…only to see no buttons above 23. FUCK!

When I walked back out to the hallway, I wondered how hard the clerk would laugh at me when I asked for help getting to my room. Then a thought hit me. I had walked in from the left, where the lobby was. I turned and looked towards the right. Down the hall I saw a sign reading “Elevators: Floors 24 – 52”.

*sigh* Day One was officially in the books.

Wifey Material: Jessica Burciaga

This was inevitable. Loyal readers know I'm a huge fan of Jessica. She may even be the one for me—THE future Ex. Mrs. D.E.F.I. And this is true, deep, and mature devotion—her flawless beauty has nothing to do with it, I swear.

Okay, a little to do with it. ...A lot to do with it.

But my schoolboy crush obsession love isn't based solely on shallow, sexual infatuation. No, this is a true pairing of soulmates. My evidence?

From her Twitter feed:

Love ya, Jess. Holla at ya boy.

Get with the Clique

Here's a new ad for Clique Vodka, which is brought to you by Pittsburgh's own Premier Innovations Group.




I know a few people who know a few of the people behind Clique's marketing efforts, and decided to test it out late last year. Being a start-up, and costing only $15 for a fifth, I didn't set my expectations too high as I poured my first glass of it. After taking my first sip, I waited for a bitter floor cleaner taste to seize my tongue. Instead, I was greeted by a pleasant surprise: the vodka was smooth, with a fresh, clean taste. So smooth and clean, in fact, that I had to check my receipt again to be sure I had only paid $15 for it. Amazing.

Check their website for locations where Clique is sold. If there's one near you (and with every passing day that becomes more and more likely), I highly suggest you get to the store and pick up a few bottles. It's great on the rocks or with mixers (which guarantees the ladies will love it too). Their savvy marketing team has, of course, also blitzed Facebook and Twitter in an attempt to help get the word out.

Well boys, consider this the official On the Rocks—and Crooked Straight—endorsement. If you folks at home need any further encouragement, though...

Wifey Material: Angela Yee

Angela Yee, I think I love you. From her Twitter feed:

"You ever be at work and you just need a drink? #morebelve"

Four Times Loko

My Facebook status, as of about 10:30 this morning: “I’m in love. And her name is Four Loko…”

Rewind to yesterday afternoon. My friend Steph was coming back into town late that night, and her first order of business would be chilling at Soba in the ‘Side. Pakistanimal and I decided, therefore, that it would be prudent of us to be there. And if we were to do some pregaming at my place before heading over, well then all the better. And then close to 5:30 pm, Pak called me with a wicked thought.

Pak: “What are we drinking on tonight?”
Me: “Well I was going to pick up some vodka."
Pak: “What about Four Loko?"
Me: *speechless for a few moments*

By now you’ve probably heard the horror stories. The unfortunate deaths of a few college students who were drinking the energy drink with a 12% alcohol content have sent the media into a tizzy. In a few short weeks Four Loko has become the modern day absinthe, with tales of hallucination, danger, and destruction surrounding it at every turn. All of which has led states to start enacting bans on the demon drink. The FDA has even now gone so far as to outlaw any product that combines caffeine and alcohol, and the makers of Four Loko have vowed to change the formula to comply with the new regulations.

All of this, though, didn’t truly make me worry about the effects of the drink. A teenager chugging 24 ounces of Diet Dr. Pepper is going to do harm to himself, and talking heads on news channels love nothing more than to create drama where none is necessary. No, what caused my anxiety was something much more impressive. Dupa and Armo had tested Four Loko out themselves the previous Friday night, and both gave it a harrowing review. “I had two and a few beers,” Armo reported. “I had trouble with thought, vision, taste, and shapes.” When Pak sought Dupa’s advice on Loko, his response was, “One can, and you’ll be nice. Two, and you’ll die.”

A chance to test something this lethal was just too good to pass up. “Let’s do it.”

My buddy Bearcat suggested I do a running diary throughout the night—yet another idea that was just too good to pass up. When I got home from work I fired up my computer, opened a Word document, and began recording history. The following is (most of) my dance with destiny, as transcribed last night, as well as pieces that were pulled from my Twitter feed and text messages.

6:45 – I’m cleaning up my apartment with the fervor of a college freshman cleaning his dorm room before the hot girl from his PoliSci class comes over to study. “Everything must be just right when Miss Loko gets here!”

7:45 – The Loko sisters have arrived. First dinner, then we’ll get cozy. Chick-Fil-A—nothing but the best for our girls.

7:55 – (via Twitter) “Eating some Chick-Fil-A. [Pak]: ‘This could be my last meal.’”

8:06 – Pak cracks open his first one while I’m still shaving. His first words: “Woooooo!”

8:22 – Cracked it open, and smell groped my nose before I could get it to my lips.

8:48 – (via Twitter) “I find it more worrying than reassuring that it says 'We ID' directly on the can.”

8:53 – Pak’s still less than half of the way through his can, and he’s miles ahead of me. I’m drinking with the same level of fear that an old woman drives with. Interesting.

9:29 – Text convo with Steph:

Me: “I’m almost one can in, so that’s probably the last witty thing I’ll be saying tonight.”
Steph: “Can?”
Me: “Four Loko.”
Steph: “Oh good lord.”

9:40 – Each of us finishes his 1st can, and each of us crushes it in triumph. And then…each of us agrees to a slight break before cracking our second. This might be what they mean by the phrase “laughing at the Devil.”

9:47 – Pak: “I’m fucked up! And I don’t even know why I’m fucked up; I just drank an Arizona Iced Tea.”
Me: *laughing* “An Ari-…What is that, mind over matter?”
Pak: *pause* “Exactly.”

9:58 – Broke the seal. Going to be a long night.

10:02 – Cracked second can. Tell TJ in phone call “At the funeral next week, tell my mother I loved her.”

10:31 – Less than a quarter through this can. I’m a pussy.

10:41 – Pak: “I’m not between the ‘L’ and the ‘O’ yet [on the can]. F, my L.”

10:58 – Pak: “Tell ‘em, ‘We didn’t land on Four Loko, Four…Lanko…landed on us…’” *breaks into uncontrollable laughter* God have mercy on our souls.

11:07 – (via Twitter) Pak: “This might be the funnest night I’ve ever had! This might be the last night I’ve ever had!”

11:12 – (via Twitter) “Maybe it’s just me, but…I love Four Loko. This stuff…why would you ever ban this stuff? It’s…it’s just great.”

11:14 – Me: “That was fackin…wait, did I just say ‘fackin’?” Oh my god.

11:15 – Pak: “I’m a little scared what this might do.” Kind of late for that, don’t you think? We still have to make it to the bar to meet up with Steph and Biff. Not very optimistic.

11:18 – Pak [on the phone with Dupa]: “You’ve never even been to Poland!”

11:20 – I crush my 2nd can, Pak, pours the final tenth of his out. I win.

11:25 – My mother calls. Not entirely sure of the full conversation, but I do remember (1.) her laughingly saying to Pak “Fuck you” on speakerphone, and (2.) me making certain to tell her that I love her, just in case TJ forgot.


The rest of the night was, predictably, chaos. Loko treats you like a sadistic torturer: The caffeine keeps you up and on your feet while the alcohol relentlessly pummels you. We stumbled our way to Soba feeling invincible. We found Steph, Bill, Biff, and everyone else in good spirits (it felt somewhat similar to the final scene of Ocean’s Twelve, when everyone is meeting up in the private room for the poker party); they found us reduced to shambles. As I stood talking to Bill, I accidentally touched the head of a woman seated to my right. And then I did it again. And then I brushed the arm of someone else with my left hand. “It’s like I’m on ecstasy. I can’t stop touching strangers.” A round or two of shots were done, and Pak was soon sneaking off to the bathroom to vomit. At about 1 am he and I audibled, heading over to Shady Grove. Along the way I fired off a series of drunk texts, all to the confusion—and, in the end, entertainment—of my friend Maria. I don’t remember much about our time at Grove, but I know I sent a tweet saying “Just toasted to drunkenness. It gets no better, it gets no worse.” We had satisfactorily browned out.

I awoke this morning in my bed, not remembering how I had gotten there. Pak shuffled past my bedroom on his way to the bathroom and casually said, “I hate you.” I reached around the bed for my phone and instead found a nearly-full bottle of Gatorade snuggled next to me.

Me: “Have you seen my phone?”
Pak: “I was just about to ask you to call MINE.”

Eventually I e-mailed TJ and asked him to call our phones. Mine was under my bed, for no discernible reason; Pak’s was dead and still MIA. A thorough search of my living room and phone calls to Grove and Soba didn’t reveal anything, and to this very moment it has not been found.

I guess this Four Loko stuff is deadly after all.

Running on Empty

I commented on Twitter several weeks ago that I may be America’s laziest writer. But that’s not entirely accurate. Fairly accurate? Sure. Mostly accurate? Perhaps. About two Nicole Ritchie-sized snacks from being nail-on-the-head, spot-on accurate? Check ya tone, boy…

No matter how reclusive a maestro is, though, he still needs inspiration to guide the pen that writes his masterpieces. And for me, that means bottles pouring adult beverages into glasses almost as quickly as I’m pouring them out of glasses and down my throat. To make this booze distribution system—or, as I like to call it, “fluid sociological dynamics”—sustainable, a steady supply of fuel must be available to trigger the process. The most commonly used accelerant is a flimsy green and white (and sometimes purple) form of paper which is most often mined from computer slots in the external walls of banks. And in my case, well…let’s just say I’d be better off if I had to use plutonium to buy out the bar.

The 2008 economic downturn has finally caught up with me, a full two years later. This means that I’ve had to cease all frivolous spending for the foreseeable future—save for a case of Sam Adams’ Harvest Collection a month ago (I mean, if I’m not going to spoil me, then who is?). And so weekend after drunken weekend has passed without participation by moi. I’m not happy about it, but it’s my reality for the time being. Hell, just last week I was in Las Vegas—the Mecca of loose purse strings and alcohol-induced tales of epic proportions—for a business trip, and through the first five nights I consumed a grand total of ten drinks. That, compared to my standard of inebriated debauchery, is basically an Amish tea party.

The last day of the trip was a little different. I finally had time off, and I decided to do a little mild gambling during the day at the Wynn (which, on the whole, was a fail; but, on the bright side, I was able to put some money in the pockets of Steve Wynn, and we all know that poor pauper could use some financial assistance), where I got free Jack & Cokes. Then that night I got to see my boy B Rush for the first time in years, and we did it up with half yards of beer at the Yard House and then cheap draughts at Ellis Island. But even at the end of my booziest day in town (which still saw me back in my hotel room before midnight), I was still only mildly tipsy. Sad stuff, really.

But for a man with a limited budget, it’s my only hope for climbing out of my current hole. Otherwise I’d have to sell most of my possessions and live under the bar at Shady Grove.

*thinking* Hmmmmmm… No, no, nevermind.