The Sunshine State [Day 4 and Outro]

Sunday, May 28

I had once again awoken before my roommate, and once again posted up on the couch in the living room with River Monsters. Why fix what ain’t broken?

And I wasn’t broken—not quite. Close, but not quite. Tall pina coladas, seven or eight margaritas, two cigars, and an untold number of beers had given it their best shot. There was even a swig or two of Hypnotiq in there somewhere. But other than the cigar residue in my mouth and mild thumping in my head, I’d survived.

I wasn’t entirely sure my homie had until I got a text at 11:15.

Dupa: “There’s food in the fridge, playboy.”
Me: “The hell you say”
Dupa: “Yeah, you’re welcome.”

I opened the refrigerator to find most of an extra-large pizza and a calzone. There are worse ways to get the taste of cigars and hangover out of your mouth.

We strolled down the street to the newlyweds’ apartment, stopping to buy bottles of Gatorade that we had each drained into our depleted bodies by the time we knocked on their door a few minutes later. Inside we found our disheveled crew, each looking like they’d been beat about the head by alcohol (Tide even looked a little shorter). Ton, to his credit, was fighting back, taking swigs of vodka and Sprite out of a large wine glass.

The updates about the prior night were many. Tiger Blood had outlasted Shafe in their battle for the alone time that Tide’s sister wasn’t offering; he walked her back to her hotel, but didn’t quite get the hint until she literally pushed him back onto the elevator. Tide recounted a story about Grunts, and in doing so dropped a flawless impression of him, noting that he rarely seemed to string together more than a few intelligible words. Shafe had nearly vomited in the bed of a random pickup truck in the Daq Shak parking lot, long before he'd pursued his love jones.

Ton’s postscript, however, topped them all. He had come back from the bathroom at the bar to find that everyone—even his wife—had left to go to the strip club. His phone had died, which made ordering an Uber impossible. Reminiscent of his days in Shadyside, he then walked two miles back to his hotel. Along the way he took a wrong turn at a fork in the road; he then “accidentally” kicked open a hole in the fence separating him from the stretch of highway that led back to his hotel, and crawled through it.

We hit the beach (minus Ton and Mrs. Ton, who had to get on the road), enjoying cold Coronas and the warm Gulf waters. Standing on a sandbar about 200 yards out, drinking a beer and staring out into the endless expanse of water, I found peace. At least until I remembered all the episodes of River Monsters that I had watched in the previous 48 hours.

A relaxing day of sun, friends, and laughter, our Sunday Funday tied a perfect bow on the weekend. I didn’t get drunk—really, I don’t think it would’ve been possible by that point in time; I was drinking beers for much the same reason Greenpeace pours buckets of water on a beached whale. But recuperating with ocean air and stories (and the pizzas TK’s mom brought down to the apartment after we’d packed up and moved back inside at sunset) was what the soul needed, after three straight days of celebration. Three straight days of indulging in food, drink, and fun without repercussion. Three straight days of Florida.

I needed a day to run a diagnostic check on my sanity. I had to make sure I hadn’t gone full Florida. I had breathed the air for three days. I needed a measured day of calm to reassure myself that I hadn’t succumbed to the contagion, that I wasn’t walking nude through a liquor store or chewing on someone’s face.

Of course, if I did either of those things within the first 24 hours of returning to Pittsburgh, I’d have an excuse. 



Outro

Weeks before the wedding, Tide and I were talking about the planning, and I noted that she didn’t seem to be suffering the stresses that normally come with the task. She replied, “I honestly am more concerned about everyone being like ‘that was fuckin fun/ awesome’.” It’s safe to say she surpassed that goal.

Most weddings are fun. The good ones are awesome. This one sits in the upper echelon of legendary.

Tide and TK treated their friends and family to 72 hours of blissful mayhem. Lots of us hadn’t seen each other in years, even some among those who still lived in Pittsburgh. The simple act of getting everyone together in one room was, itself, worthy of praise. Making sure we were drunk, fed, and happy while it happened was just the whipped cream on top.

Strip clubs, beer, Hooters girls, the beach, cigars at sunset, tequila, dancing fools, grouper sandwiches, bachelorette parties, and calculated hits using Smirnoff Ice. Life comes at you fast. But it slows down for brief stretches. When you pack the present full of laughter and freedom of spirit, every second resonates. And those stretches of time, saturated with joy, become a part of you, something that you carry forever.

It’s customary at a wedding to wish a lifetime of happiness to the bride and groom. In a small way, the bride and groom had bestowed a lifetime of happiness upon the rest of us.

They even got me to blog again. Florida's air is no joke.

The Sunshine State [Day 3]

Saturday, May 27

I stumbled out to the couch and turned on the tv. An hour or so later Dupa experienced déjà vu, as again he shuffled out to the living room to find me watching River Monsters (*shrug*...it was a marathon weekend).

After watching Jeremy Wade swim with tigerfish in the Okavango Delta, we strolled down the street to Screwie Louie’s for lunch. Sipping Coronas on their deck, watching tourists and locals pass by in various states of dress and consciousness, was the purest expression of beach life that you can find.

There’s something intoxicating about it. Even with all my objections to living in Florida—and there are many—I can fully appreciate the appeal, living at your own pace and holding onto each gust of warm ocean air. It was just this siren call that lured TK away from the life of a corporate drone in Pittsburgh. And it led him to the love of his life, who he’d be marrying a few hours later. Hard to argue with those results.

Ah yes, there was a wedding to get to. The open-ended dress code led me to an easy decision: a 90-degree day on a Florida beach? Shorts, short-sleeved button down, and boat shoes, baby. Watching my friends sweat in suits, dress pants, and long-sleeved shirts, I patted myself on my back all day [much credit is also due to my personal stylist, Alex, who helped me in shopping for my wardrobe prior to the trip].

Beauty like this is perfect...for drinking.

My esteemed associate, Dupa, however, chose a tailored white linen suit, blue pinstriped shirt, and sandals. I cannot, in good conscience, hate on that decision.

The location for the ceremony was beautiful, with blue skies and blue-green waters serving as a backdrop. The one thing it lacked was alcohol, and I kicked myself for not following through on my idea to bring a cooler full of beer.

A grounds crew hastily assembled the archway that would serve as the altar; while we stood watching, someone pointed out that there was a beachside bar about 500 yards away that sold drinks in large, reusable cups. Dupa and I looked at each other, nodded, and headed off in that direction. We returned just before groomsmen began ushering parents and others down the aisle. I sipped on a tall cup of piña colada, while snapping pictures of groomsmen sweating out booze and a beautiful bride joyously striding across the sand towards her destiny.

The parents and the bridal party formed a receiving line afterwards, leading up to the edge of the beach. I told Tide’s parents how lucky we all felt TK was. I told TK’s parents I was friends with Dupa, but I was the good one. “That’s what we’ve heard,” his mom confirmed.

I complimented Tide on the silver and blue color scheme she’d chosen for the groom and groomsmen, but suggested one change. “The ties,” I explained while tracing my finger across TK’s navy-blue neckpiece. “They should have orange stripes running across them.” The bride lunged at me, connecting her tiny fist hard on my arm (and I really think she was aiming for my face, but was just too short to reach it).

War Eagle.

Our buddy “Grunts,” was following me in the line. After he congratulated TK, he pulled back from their hug to add, “I’ve got a present for you in my back pocket.” He leaned forward to reveal a bottle of Smirnoff Ice.

TK: *incredulous* “Did you just Ice me?” *grabs the bottle, cracks it open, takes a knee, chugs it down*

The wedding photographer was Johnny-on-the-spot, kneeling opposite TK to get an action shot of the icing.

Shafe was several people back from us in the line. When he got to the end and gave the bride a hug, he added, “I’ve got something in my pocket for you.” Then he leaned forward and revealed a bottle of Smirnoff Ice. Badass bride that she is, Tide took the bottle, cracked it open, took a knee, and chugged.

Have I mentioned that these two were made for each other?

While the wedding party did the photography portion of the day, the W&J demographic of the guest list piled under deck umbrellas at the beachside bar where Dupa and I had gotten the pre-ceremony drinks. Shafe yelled “Play Hall & Oates!” at the musician playing live on the deck, Billy’s girlfriend explained to me the difficulties of being a young teacher on the beach in the age of social media [“I can’t be out here with my tits out.”], rounds of drinks were bought and drank, and Mrs. Ton [“I’m allowed to look—I’m married, I’m not dead.”] and I scoped out the talent coming in off the sand.

Just as we were preparing to leave for the reception, Dupa struck upon an idea. He asked the bartender if they sold six packs. They did. He looked back at us with a grin, then ordered up a sixer of Smirnoff Ice to go. In one swift moment, he had just turned the wedding reception into a warzone.

The wedding’s second stage was held at the local Elks Lodge. Located right on the bay, the hall featured a deck with a beautiful view of waterside mansions, perfect for smoking the hand-rolled cigars that were available to all guests. The space was beautiful and yet still unpretentious.

And when the groom made it to his seat after his first dance with his bride and a dance with his mom, he found a cold bottle of Smirnoff Ice waiting for him. He sighed, cracked it, kneeled, and chugged.

A friend’s fiancée came back to our table with a margarita in a large glass, and I knew what my next order would be. Dupa got one as well, but soon decided he needed to be mobile, which could be awkward and troublesome with a large, heavy glass. He grabbed his large plastic cup from the beachside bar, poured his margarita into it, screwed on the lid, and began circulating. When he was due for a refill, he asked the bartender if she’d make a margarita directly in his travel cup. She happily accommodated him, and I wanted to hug her. But instead I restrained myself and handed my own travel cup forward for my next margarita.

Meanwhile, Grunts returned to his table after visiting the buffet. A Smirnoff Ice was on his chair. Another victim.

I filled myself up with delicious chicken parm, roast beef, veggies, potatoes, and more. It felt less like indulging in fine dining and more like packing sandbags against the rising river of margaritas flowing through me. It was needed fortification.

During his best man speech, Ton recalled a story from their college days, when TK had insisted they buy a bottle of Hypnotiq for a party. So, to christen the occasion, Ton motioned to TK’s sister, who walked a bucket of ice with two bottles of Hypno up to the front of the room and sat it in front of the bride and groom. Ton cracked open a bottle, and they each took a swig of the awful fruit juice/cognac mixture.

Wanting revenge later, TK called Shafe over and said two words: “Get Ton.” So, as we all stood at the bar talking, Shafe walked up, tapped Ton on his shoulder, and pointed down to his hunting boot. Ton found a bottle of Smirnoff Ice looking up at him. Crack, kneel, chug.

The dancefloor was active all night, whether Billy was performing N’Sync’s “Bye Bye Bye” routine, which he’d learned in middle school, or Dupa was posing in the middle of it with his shades on, his shirt mostly unbuttoned, and his arms outstretched like a bird of prey swooping down from the heavens. And when Cheap Trick’s “I Want You to Want Me” came over the speakers, Grunts looked at me and lost himself in the tune.

Me: “You’re so white.”
Grunts: *laughs* “I may be a white guy, but I still hate Trump!”

One of TK’s groomsmen, “Insider,” was a former Super Bowl champion, a hulking man with arms like bridge support beams. He was the sage, measured voice of wisdom most of the weekend, the old head offering advice from someone who has seen and done it all. But even sage Super Bowl champs can get Iced, especially when the groom orders the hit. Another chug.

The reception wrapped at 10 pm; TK and Tide said goodnight to the parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, as one after another Ubers pulled up to the Elks Lodge like choppers to a Saigon rooftop. Everyone was instructed to head back to Daiquiri Shak.

When we got there, though, I helped the bride and groom drop off some things at their apartment, which was walking distance from the bar. I gazed out over the Gulf from their beachfront balcony, while Tide took a moment to relax and TK put away the items we’d brought back. They were both ready to cut loose and truly celebrate the day without pretense. Or, as TK put it when Tide paused to ask if she should take her ID: “If they ask for my ID, I’m gonna whip my dick out. *nodding to me* And you can quote me.”

There’s something amazing about watching a bride walk into a bar in her wedding gown. The looks on people’s faces were somewhere between shock and joy. Everyone congratulated her, as heads snapped around from every direction. Tide had to feel like a celebrity; I felt like part of her entourage.

We headed for the deck, and were soon joined by various wedding guests who had been drinking inside. As I stood at the bar ordering us a round, I struck up a conversation with three strangers: a couple and a cute friend of the wife. [It’s really amazing how frequently this happens, and each time it begins with some unsolicited question/comment about my height.] Before my beers had even been served, I was posing for a picture with them. Later in the night they would get Ton in on the act, too, as the cute friend requested that my buddy pick her up for a photo.

The bride, too, was beloved by cameras. My favorite picture of the weekend came while she stood at the railing of the deck, a lit cigar dangling between her fingers, a Bud Light within arm’s reach, and an air of confidence radiating from her as her eyes lock on something in the distance. In another picture, she leisure poses while being held aloft by the arms of TK, Ton, and me.

Inside the bar, madness reigned.

• Tiger Blood and Shafe were vying for the attention of the maid of honor, Tide’s sister, who wasn’t interested in either of them. It was like watching two salmon race each other up a frozen stream.
• Insider was dying to break free from the confines of his tuxedo, and removed everything but his pants and the Nike Pro tank top he was using as an undershirt.
• Balls’ bachelorette party friend had come out yet again, and she seemed entertained watching the chaos around her.
• Tiger Blood got a lead on someone who could sell him some coke, and asked me if I “party.”
• Grunts’ wife, all of 5’5” and 100 lbs, put on Insider’s tux vest—which fit her like a dress—and danced around.
• Insider, meanwhile, arm-wrestled all comers, including Tiger Blood and the maid of honor.
• Tiger Blood explained, "You've never really done coke until you've done it off a stripper's ass."
• Grunts’ wife climbed up on a pool table to dance around, to the horror of her husband, who pulled her back down.
• Tide and TK made an early exit, to get to the final wedding tradition. Or, as the groom so finely put it, “She’s gonna be shorter in the morning.”
  

Absent from all of this was Dupa. By all accounts he had been in the bar when everyone first arrived, and Mrs. Ton even managed to get a picture of him standing near the pool tables with his pants around his ankles. But not long after, he pulled an Irish goodbye. Gone without a trace, before the bride and groom had even appeared.

In the end, it seemed like a perfect tribute to the day. There really can’t be a better gift for the bride and groom than the knowledge that their wedding was too much for Dupa to handle.

The Sunshine State [Intro and Day 1]

I’ve come to learn that, in life, a little success is a dangerous thing.

Five years ago, I attended the wedding of my friends Ton and Mrs. Ton. The occasion, as I said in the ensuing blog, was as close to perfect as I’d ever seen a wedding get. The presence of an insane amount of alcohol and zero amount of dress code, in a barn deep in Ohio farmland, meant the dial was cranked to “lit”—maybe the only time that’s ever been true of a barn.

That blog enjoyed a brief moment of fame. The happy couple shared it with their relatives and friends, and On the Rocks’ page hits soared to a level rarely seen without the involvement of a half-naked Playboy Playmate.

The best man at that wedding was TK. The following year he met a beautiful, charismatic little maniac of his own. He brought her to Pittsburgh that summer, and seconds after being introduced to “Tide,” she and I were best friends. Despite her being an Alabama grad, and me a lifelong Auburn fan. Despite us not being in the same location again until the night before their wedding, four years later. Homies. 4. Life.

In planning her wedding, Tide took cues from the stories she had heard about Ton’s. The location would be unconventional: on the beach in St. Pete, where the couple met and lived. The abundance of alcohol would be measured, targeted, and then intentionally exceeded. The dress code would be non-existent, and she encouraged Dupa to let his creativity take the wheel. And she ever-so-subtly hinted that she wanted me to blog about the event.

I did my best to casually dissuade her from expecting the dust to be blown off my keyboard. Life had moved me away from the carefree days of scribing tales of drunken adventures. Respectability had crept up my walls and rendered me unrecognizable behind tangled, ivy-like swaths of adulthood. I spent my workday combing through business plans, not internet articles about blotto Rummy Award candidates. I was out of the game. A ghost. A minor footnote on a long-forgotten page of a book buried in a time capsule.

Then, as TK and I tossed back shots at his bachelor party, he said he wanted my wedding gift to be a blog about his nuptials.

…Fuck.



Thursday, May 25

I landed in Tampa for the first time since 2012 (ironically, the year of Ton’s wedding). A couple from my flight, who had seemed perfectly calm until that point, took five steps out into the humid air outside of baggage claim and began yelling at each other, while strangers like me watched. Florida’s crazy is an airborne virus.

I texted Dupa, my roommate for the weekend, as my Lyft ride cruised away from the airport. He had landed an hour or so before me and was, of course, already at the bar. So, when I got to the condo we had rented on Airbnb, I dropped my bag, changed into a pair of shorts, and headed out to catch up. A frozen margarita with a Modelo Especial floater was waiting for me when I arrived at the waterfront location.

After dinner, we found Ton—who was returning the favor by serving as TK’s best man—and two other groomsmen at Hooters, just up the boardwalk. Before long the man of honor and Balls, another groomsman, arrived to officially kick off the bachelor party. We caught up in the way old friends with new lives do, cold beer and big laughs punctuating each sentence. A beautiful brunette by the name of Svana, wearing innocent glasses over I-might-be-crazier-than-you-think eyes, was our beer concierge. She provided us with a steady supply of Corona and Modelo buckets, walking up to our table seemingly each time someone in our group was finishing a highly contextualized sentence.

One of us: “…and I get a text from him saying, ‘Be right back. Just tore my ass.’”
Svana: *stands there blinking*

Some members of the party were Cavs fans, intently watching Game 5 of the NBA Eastern Conference Finals. Others, such as myself, were Pens fans, intently watching Game 7 of the NHL Eastern Conference Finals. With the latter headed towards a late finish and Hooters closing, we moved our collective to a bar called CJ’s on the Island.

The Pens fans gravitated towards a giant projection screen in the back of the bar. There we found that the game was being closely followed by a bachelorette party, a lively group of 20-something gals from Pittsburgh. One of them had even graduated from the same high school as I did—albeit 10 years later. *sigh*

I’d reached that special stage of the night, when you’re never without a drink in your hand, but you have little to no idea what you’re drinking, or how you obtained it. I do know that at one point, as my head swam with (beer and) euphoria and relief from the Pens’ overtime win, I stood at the bar talking to someone when a voice called out over the speaker system.

“♫Defi’s a bitch…♫”

I turned to find Dupa smiling at me from a nearby stage, with a mic in his hand and five bachelorettes in pink shirts crammed around him and a karaoke machine.

I shook my head and returned to my regularly-scheduled drunk.

I took comfort in not being the drunkest among us, though. Our boy “Hemsworth” had been rocked from about an hour into our stay at Hooters. At one point, he appeared before Ton with a lollipop in his mouth.

Ton: “Where’d you get the sucker, buddy?”
Hemsworth: “The nice man in the bathroom gave me this.”

CJ’s doesn’t have a bathroom attendant.

Our next stop was Mermaids, a strip club (because of course). But how we transitioned there is a question I can’t answer, since I remember none of it. Not the conversation about going, not leaving CJ’s, not the Uber ride. And I don’t remember feeling queasy upon arrival. But I do remember unceremoniously hunching over and hurling in the club’s parking lot.

It was as though I’d stepped out of the car and found God waiting there to sucker punch me in the stomach. Ton patted me on the back while beer, margarita, shots, and my self-respect evacuated me under the dim street lights. Then I stood up, took a breath, and into the club we went.

I was, as one might imagine, not in the best frame of mind for a strip club. I tried my best to participate, swigging back a few beers while trying to shake off my advanced state of “wrecked.” Mrs. Ton seemed to materialize from out of nowhere, and she and others tried to nurse me back to health. Our buddy, “Tiger Blood” [he was the Charlie Sheen-est thing since Charlie Sheen that weekend, as you’ll soon see], handed me a wad of 20 fresh $1 bills to make it rain on a dancer. I threw them without loosening the wad first, and the bulk of the bills smacked her in the rib with a thud. I think that was the moment when I decided I needed to leave.

As my Uber pulled away from Mermaids, I got a text from TK. “I just made it rain!”

It’s a minor miracle I guided the driver back to the correct location. And another one that I remembered the security code to the front door. Dupa had disappeared while we were at Mermaids; as I stumbled through the condo in the direction of my bedroom, I saw his closed bedroom door and let out a “Ha!” Then I crashed into my bed and gave in to the darkness. Day One in Florida was a wrap.

Relationship Goals (Part 2)

I really want to like these two. They both seem like amazing people, and look like they're really meant for each other. But I'm seething with jealousy that I didn't get to do this first.

...Actually, I'm really just jealous of Justin. Jill is beautiful, cool as hell, drinks whiskey, and...SHE HAS THE WORD "SIP" RIGHT IN HER LAST NAME! Justin, man, please tell me you took her name!

Fire in the Hole

...no, I'm not seething with jealousy because someone else thought of this, even though I have a friend named Swag who is the world's biggest Fireball connoisseur. Nope. *pounds forehead on desk* Nope not jealous! *throws keyboard*

I also don't know how it took me seven months to finally see this video. *sigh*

Some Men are Lucky

I've been meaning to post this for over a year now. In May 2012, I wrote about having attended the perfect wedding. My boy Ton and his blushing bride threw a boozy, comfortably-attired bash in the wilds of Ohio. The blog post quickly caught their attention, and spent a week being passed around on facebook by their various friends and family. Then, later that year, I got their thank you card:

To the end, Mrs. Ton is beauty, grace, and cool as hell. Cheers to the lucky ones who actually marry the gals made of wifey material.

Social Drinking Excellence: Michael Mitchko

When I read this article, I was shocked...that I don't know either Mr. Mitchko or Mr. Hopkins. I have no idea how I'm not writing about this story from the perspective of an eyewitness.

From Deadspin*:

You know how this goes: The reception's over and everyone in the wedding party is slowly but surely getting their shit together to get on the hotel shuttle, where the party will likely continue. But Saturday night, just south of Pittsburgh, a couple of Yinzers had other ideas.

According to the Observer-Reporter of Washington (Pa.), the groom, 24-year-old Michael Mitchko, and one of his groomsmen, 27-year-old Ian Hopkins, "decided it would be fun" to swipe a golf cart from the country club hosting the reception and just drive that to the hotel instead. Because, of course.

Hopkins's and Mitchko's commute required getting on a stretch of highway, but that didn't deter them. The Observer-Reporter said they "didn't get very far" before a cop driving in the other direction noticed them puttering along in the shoulder of the road and pulled them over. Hopkins, the driver, somehow passed a field-sobriety test and was cited for disorderly conduct and driving an unregistered vehicle. Mitchko, the groom, was charged with disorderly conduct and public drunkenness. The country club chose not to press theft charges because the golf cart was returned.

*Deadspin has a video—shot by some of the duo's friends—of the two joyriders motoring down the road in the golf cart. Unfortunately they don't provide any embed code or link, so you'll have to go there to view it.

Given my history with wild wedding shenanigans, I feel more-than-slightly qualified to provide some completely unsolicited snark in-depth analysis to this story:

• First and foremost, how in the HELL did Hopkins pass the field sobriety test? Weddings automatically mean a heavy dosage of alcohol; but when you're actually in the wedding? I served as a groomsman once, and by the end of the reception I couldn't see a foot in front of my face. You're drinking the second you leave the church. I either want to shake this guy's hand for showing impeccable fortitude, or revoke his man card for not doing his brotherly duty of drinking as hard as the groom.
• Speaking of the groom... You may wonder why I've singled him out for this Rummy. Why not make Hopkins a co-winner? Well, there's a couple of reasons for this. First, this is Mitchko's party (ok, so it's technically his wife's party; but once he's kissed her at the altar, what's his is hers, and what's hers is his...); that means, as host, it's his responsibility and his guests' honor. They get to cut loose, but he's got to exercise some modicum of control. Hopkins has every right—aside from a legal one, I suppose—to get blitzed on Jack Daniels and decide to get his Michael Schumacher on in a golf cart. But the groom has to refrain.

• ...Which brings me to the second reason why Mitchko has no co-d on this one: It's HIS wedding. If you know me, you know I'm more than a little skeptical of the whole marriage thing. And you also know I love me some drunken stupidity. But not even I would leave my freshly-wed bride behind at our wedding reception to engage in a drunken stunt. If you're a married guest at the wedding and you do that, you've got a long conversation ahead of you when you and your wife are reunited. If it's your wedding? Her wedding ring may already be in a pawn shop display case by the time you get released.
• Assuming his wife hasn't flushed the ring yet, just how awkward is that first dinner at the in-laws' house going to be?
• For all of the bad-mouthing of Mitchko that I've done thus far, I'll show him a little love for one thing: He has further reinforced my belief that no one should marry before the age of 28. When you're 24, you're still looking to be wild and crazy, and neither of those words belong anywhere near a married man. Consider this a PSA: If you're a guy age 22-27, and your girlfriend (or boyfriend, in the few non-oppressed states in our union) gives you the "We need to get married now" ultimatum, tell them to hit the bricks. She or he will thank you in your thirties, after she or he has had an opportunity to actually enjoy the precious days of early adulthood.
• Some quick Facebook research has yielded two fun facts: Mitchko is friends with Specs, and Hopkins is friends with my homie Chappy. We need to get these two to a party this summer to share the tale.
  

When we do, Mr. Mitchko, I'll hand you your Rummy in person. It weighs 100 lbs and has a heavy chain connecting it to an ankle bracelet; Mrs. Mitchko gets the key.

Country Grammar

Close your eyes. Now, in terms of the planning details, describe what you would consider to be the perfect wedding.

If you’re a female, odds are good that you just painted a picture that involved a marble-and-gold-trimmed hall filled with thousands of guests, immaculate flower arrangements, elaborate silk gowns, one or more men on horseback, and doves—carrying wreathes of heather woven into hearts—flying in formation to spell out the names of you and your groom, followed by more that spell “Forever”.

If you’re a male, odds are you ignored the exercise altogether. You probably countered with, “Trick question!” Then you cracked open a beer and turned on a playoff game.

And, of course, the guys were right. But for the sake of argument, let’s assume there is such a thing as “the perfect wedding”. I propose that: (a.) the women were still miles off; and (b.) I attended just about the closest thing to it two Saturdays ago.

My boy Ton has always been an original. A 6’1”, 300-plus-pound Ohio farmboy with a heart of gold and the Pillsbury Dough Boy’s giggle, he’s the type of guy who’s more likely to laugh off a stranger’s taunt—and skate circles around him on Heelys in the process—than to crack heads just for the sake of cracking heads. It follows logic then that, when he finally managed to find himself a woman worthy of wearing his ring, their big day would be done a little differently than how tradition might dictate.

This started with the instructions that were included with the invitations. While the decorative pink cardstock and fuchsia calligraphy were straight out of a 14-year-old’s diary [Note: This isn’t a knock on his wife; it’s a knock on women, in general...], they included at least one specific guideline that I had never seen before in an invitation of its kind: “Dress comfortably”. The ceremony and reception, it turned out, would be held at Ton’s house in Ohio. And not just at his house, but in his barn. Guests were invited to either make reservations at a nearby Days Inn…or to camp out on his property.

Dupa and I decided not to be cowboys, and booked a hotel room. On the Monday before the wedding, we discussed the other logistics and details via texts, with jovial bemusement.

Me: “What are you wearing? Invite sounds like people won’t be wearing suits.”
Dupa: “Yeah not a suit, maybe flip flops, shorts and a beater?”
Me: “Well, it IS a wedding. Got to at least add a trucker hat. #OhioFormal”
Me: “Maybe a button down shirt and jeans?”
Dupa: “Jeans? Wtf it’ll be hot”
Me: “Hadn’t looked at a forecast.”
Dupa: “Lock it up!”
Me: “Shit, so we’re really wearing shorts to this wedding?”

We consulted TK, the best man. He said that, really, anything short of assless chaps was fair game; that being said, the groomsmen would still be wearing tuxes. This left quite a bit of leeway. As a result, when we arrived I was wearing a white dress shirt, black dress pants, and dress shoes. My traveling companion had on a dress shirt, dress pants, flip flops, and a rainbow-colored serape (it was Cinco de Mayo, after all).

Ton’s house sits on a road…and that concludes the list of things that makes it comparable to my way of life. The road itself is gravel, and cuts through fields and untamed wilderness in Southeastern Ohio. Looking in any direction from his house, you don’t see any other homes for (literal) miles. So far as I know, he doesn’t own any crops or livestock, but he certainly has the property to do so if he chose. As we parked, approximately 200 people milled about the barn and road, in every combination of attire between the “formal” and “casual” extremes on the dress scale. Almost all of the women wore a dress of some sort. The men, though… Some wore suits, some wore t-shirts; Ton’s brother-in-law wore a dress shirt, tie, cargo shorts, and sneakers. It was actually beautiful to see so much variety and freedom of individual expression.

Lined up outside the barn [which, for my fellow city slickers, looked more like a large garage than a classic “barn”] were coolers filled with cans of Bud, Bud Light, Yuengling, and Yuengling Light. Just inside the first of three garage doors along the face of the structure was a small bar where you could order wine and liquor. The bar was manned by a little old man in a black dress shirt with an orange and red western scene of horses racing freely across a desert plain. Pimpin’.

We were all instructed to find seats among the rows of picnic tables arranged inside the barn, and the ceremony began. As TK and the maid-of-honor two-stepped down the aisle, I heard someone crack open a can of beer somewhere in the room. I finished my first can of Bud Light as Ton and his wife exchanged vows; I considered opening my backup can that was sitting on the table, but I didn’t want to be that guy. Once the groom had kissed his bride as commanded by the minister, I discreetly cracked it open amongst the roar of applause and cheers.

Before dinner was served, we had to send some people to the beer store for a re-up; 21 cases had met their maker. It mattered little to me, though, as I had switched to gin & tonics, a much more suitable drink when wearing dress clothes outside on a warm spring day. And Crazy Horse, the bartender, was pouring a liberal mix into those 8 oz. Dixie cups. I tore through dinner (homemade barbecue!) while laughing with friends at a table on a patio, enjoying the camaraderie and trying not to stare at my boys’ girlfriends’ chests. Some of our group played “Bang, Marry, Kill” using the wedding guests at the table next to ours (Dupa: “I’d bang the younger chick, kill the older chick, and marry the guy.”). Our buddy Kyle made a run to the bar, and when he came back with a new G&T for me, it was in a 16 oz. cup. They had run out of the smaller cups. And yet, it seemed Crazy Horse had still used the same amount of tonic as he had been putting into the 8 oz. versions.

Viva Ohio!

It had only just dawned on most of us the prior night that TK’s role as best man meant he’d be making the traditional toast. This could only mean good things. And, sure enough, he didn’t disappoint. During the speech, he produced a cocktail shaker, shot glasses, cans of Red Bull, and two flasks from a bag; then he mixed together a batch of Vegas Bombs and distributed them to the wedding party. As they raised their glasses, and the rest of the wedding raised ours, TK closed his toast with, “Here’s to heat—not the kind that burns down buildings, but the kind that brings down panties.”

The dichotomy of crowd reactions was unavoidable; everyone 15-45 years old cracked up, and everyone 46 and older sucked their teeth in (unconvincing) disgust. TK gave less than a standard-measure “fuck”. He brought the leftover Vegas bombs out to us as the party resumed following the maid of honor’s speech. A short while later, TK appeared again, this time carrying a fifth of Patron and an air of determination. “We’re finishing this today.” It took all of 15 minutes for his goal to be realized. The bottle was soon dry, after being passed around a group of about five of us. Even Dupa, who had stayed away from tequila since spring break his senior year, took a swig. There’s a certain fearlessness that comes with drinking miles away from all civilization.

As you might have predicted, things started getting out of control from there on.

• Not long thereafter, several rows of tables were removed from the barn to create a dance floor. As things started getting funky, our friend Shafe’s girlfriend convinced Crazy Horse to let her wear his shirt. She then bopped around the dance floor in the shirt comically, winning the heart of every guy around. At one point I leaned over to Kyle and said, “The only woman here that I want to bang right now is Shafe’s girlfriend.”
• When I recounted that anecdote to Dupa during the drive home the next afternoon, he replied, “Buddy, you weren’t alone in that sentiment.”
• As for the Polish madman, he quickly got wild on the dance floor in typical fashion. That led to the mother of the groom pulling him to the side and politely asking him to pull his pants back up, saying bluntly, “There are kids around.”
• We discovered the photo booth. Kyle and I took a series of random, mildly-homoerotic shots; Dupa and two of our other friends did the same. Our boy and his girl snapped a series of shots, after which they sheepishly showed us their clips, saying, “We didn’t know these were going into the wedding book!” In the last of the string of four pics, our friend was clearly groping his girl’s titty from behind, while giving the camera an equally-raunchy smile.

• As good as that was, though, they were outdone by a random couple at the party, whose photo booth pictures were circulated the next day. The first two pics were normal silliness, but in the third the guy lifted up his gal, who supplied the camera with a full-on, panties-full-off beaver shot.
• I awoke early the next morning to a pizza box snuggled close in my hotel bed. Dupa had ordered a pie after we’d (miraculously) gotten back to the hotel, but I was passed out before it arrived. He therefore ate half and tucked the other half in next to me. I tossed it on the ground, stumbled to the bathroom, and then went back to bed.
• A few hours later I awoke, asked Dupa where the pizza on the floor had come from, and then munched on a slice while we gathered our stuff up and checked out.

Those country boys know how to do a wedding.

I Now Pronounce You "Drunk" and "Convenient"

Ah, weddings; such blissful occasions. Sacred celebrations of love and commitment, they bring out the best in us as humans, revealing each of us to be a creature in search of affection and long-term companionship. …

…Well, maybe for the two dupes standing at the altar. For everyone else in the room, the event means two things:

1. Drink ‘til you fall down.
2. When you fall down, try to make sure you land on something—or someone—soft.

Nearly four years ago, on a sunny Saturday afternoon in July, my friend Mo-Fo married the love of his life. And their ceremony, as beautiful and revered as it was (choreographed entrances by bridesmaids in bright pastel-colored dresses and groomsmen in dapper black tuxes, a picturesque stretch of land alongside a pond in a large park, and a pretty bride resplendent in her white gown—which, for once, was actually appropriate), also ushered in one of the craziest 24 hours of drunken shenanigans to ever be logged by my friends and me.

And, to add to the back-story, let me just include this fact: The bars at the reception served only beer and wine. The bride and groom had purposely prohibited liquor from being supplied to guests; both had stopped drinking it in years past due to the effect it had on them. In other words, they didn’t want wedding guests to consume liquor because they didn’t want us to get too wild. [Try to keep that one in the back of your mind as the tale progresses.]

I arrived at the ceremony with my date, and quickly surmised the storm brewing: Dupa was rolling stag, having left his grating girlfriend at home; T.C. and Eric were the best men; most of the guys and gals in attendance (including my date) were high school buddies of theirs, and were all as talented at the boozing game as we were; my date and I were going to be sharing a hotel room with Eric and his date; and, though I hadn’t yet been shown his full capacity for craziness, Gaelic Gangsta—brother of the bride—was also in the wedding party, his signature laugh ringing through the hills of the park while guests were being seated. Somewhere inside my liver a siren blared, and the word “BATTLESTATIONS!!” came screaming out of loudspeakers.

The reception was simple yet graceful. The bride and groom danced into the hall as T.I.’s “Bring ‘Em Out” bumped over the speakers. T.C.’s little sister—who was 20 years old at the time—threw back cups of beer at our table, but only after checking to be sure her parents weren’t watching from across the room; not so much because they would have been upset about her drinking underage, but because she was their designated driver (and they needed one—both of them were getting twisted). My date, meanwhile, was going through glasses of wine at an impressive clip, matching the pace of her friends “Curls” (a cute, tall brunette) and “Red” (an attractive redhead). The only problem was that Date and Red had been maintaining their tolerance levels as of late, while Curls had been slacking (who lets something as minor as training for a job with the FBI interfere with their partying?). So although Date was slurring by the time the reception ended, both she and Red were still fairly well-composed. Curls, on the other hand, was wiped out. She poured herself into the backseat of Red’s car, which Date and I then followed from the reception hall to the hotel. Halfway there the car unexpectedly pulled over to the side of the road. Curls’ head came out of the rear passenger side window, and her night’s dining was projected out onto the ground.

Once we had reached the hotel, Eric checked in at the front desk. Date, Red, a few guys, and I, however, “escorted” (read: carried) Curls to the room where she and Red were staying with their friend, “Ice Cream Maker” (ICM). …Now, you may be asking yourself, “Why would he possibly christen a young lady ‘Ice Cream Maker’?” The answer is very simple: During Mo-Fo’s bachelor party the week before, a story about her was offered to our intrigued ears. It seems ICM, who was to be a bridesmaid in the wedding, had once indulged in a little afternoon delight on top of an ice cream making machine while working at a Handel’s. My fellow bachelors-in-arms and I all knew right then and there that she would be a prime target at the wedding.

When we got Curls to the room, we “placed” (read: dropped) her onto a bed. In doing so, however, her breasts fell out of her shoulderless dress. The guys and I, considering it a fair trade for transporting her to the room, laughed and left as Red and Date rushed to cover her and tuck her into bed.

After changing into more casual attire, everyone assembled in the hotel bar, loudly passing out shots and clinking glasses. The moratorium on liquor ceased once the reception ended, and some of us quickly made up for lost time (Jack & Coke? Yessir…). At about 11:30 we were told that the bar would be closing at midnight. Loud protests—after all, we had just left the reception at 10—and a sizeable pooling of money, though, led to an hour’s extension to last call. And that was just the first of as many as four such extensions, depending on who you ask. I, however, can’t be asked to provide an accurate number, because I was easing into a lovely blackout.

As it neared, I found myself one-on-one at the bar with none other than ICM. Sensing my window of opportunity to be the night’s trophy winner, I began driving towards the end zone. Funny joke – 5 yards; compliment – 14 yards; charming story – 10 yards; pretending to listen to…whatever it was she was saying – 25 yards. I was in the red zone, but the clock ticked to “0:00”; I was fully blacked out. I came out of it an hour or two later, back in my room hanging out with Date and Eric (his date had left during the reception). I have no idea what happened, whether I threw a Hail Mary, fumbled, or what. I do know that I landed on something (my bed), not someone.

That can’t be said for everyone, however.

ICM, perhaps decimated over not adding me to her resume (I know, I know…), eventually found herself a new friend. One of Mo-Fo’s boys took her back to her room when the bar finally, mercifully, closed. Curls, awaking after her wine-induced nap around 3 a.m., opened her eyes to find ICM’s booty in the air on the room’s other bed, as Mo-Fo’s friend went to work on her in plain view. She rolled over in shock and disgust, and pretended to go back to sleep as the night’s victor got his spoils. The next morning, “Victor” rolled out of bed and began getting dressed. When ICM made a comment hinting that she wanted to see him again, he said, “I don’t think my wife would like that too much.” ICM was mortified as Victor strolled out of the room chuckling to himself.

He has never been married; he didn’t even have a girlfriend at that time.

The hotel pool saw a fair share of its own action. Although it was well past posted swimming hours, GG led a group of adventurous souls on a raid. They splashed and frolicked without much opposition from hotel staff for some time. That is, until GG decided that he should do a cannonball from the pool bar’s roof. In calculating the stunt, however, he neglected to account for a tree that stood nearby, with overhanging branches situated between his launch point and his destination. He smacked into the branches, scraped himself up, and floundered into the pool. And thus concluded the evening’s water events.

Meanwhile, Dupa had caught wind of the pool party, and decided to join in the fun. He headed to T.C.’s room (where he had made arrangements to crash on the floor) to change into swimwear. On his way, he found a girl who he recognized from the wedding reception and the bar sitting in the hallway. She had changed into her swimsuit, but had subsequently gotten locked out of the room. Ever the one to help (himself to) a damsel in distress, Dupa offered her asylum in T.C.’s room. When he began to change into his trunks, he decided—in true Dupa fashion—to get naked right in front of her, instead of using the bathroom. When she didn’t flinch, he knew things were going to get good. They returned downstairs just in time to learn that the pool was now closed, thanks to GG’s impromptu “Jackass” audition. Running low on options, and with this lass still locked out of her room, they walked back up to T.C.’s room, where T.C. and Mrs. T.C. were sound asleep, post-coitus. Maybe the day’s wedding had put love in the air; maybe, with the multiple hookups going on, sex was in the air; or maybe both Dupa and this girl were both just drunken sluts; whatever the cause, they were soon doing “God’s work” on the floor of the room. Amen.

The sun arose on a broken and battered lot of lushes that Sunday. Slowly but surely, we all dragged ourselves into a nearby Eat ‘n Park. T.C., Mrs. T.C., Dupa, Date, and I piled into one booth. Since we were near the entrance, we got to talk to each pocket of survivors as they entered and/or exited. GG stopped by and showed off the large scratches that stretched across his chest where a tree had reminded him of the laws of physics. Mo-Fo and Mrs. Mo-Fo walked in gingerly, having consummated their relationship for the first time; Mo-Fo couldn’t stop grinning, while Mrs. Mo-Fo looked like she had crawled out of a running clothes dryer.

T.C. mentioned hearing Dupa and his new acquaintance’s activities going on at the foot of his bed, which led to Dupa telling his tale. One thing was tripping him up, however: he couldn’t remember the girl’s name, and his description of her was so lacking in detail that none of us could assist in figuring out her identity. This had been par for the course, though. When the slap-and-tickle was over, she asked Dupa if he even knew what her last name was. Unflappable, he shot back, “What’s my FIRST name?” She had no response.

Curls soon showed up and joined us at our booth. She had only been seated a short while when her phone rang. It was Red, who was playing the same game of catch-up as the rest of us. As the five of us discussed some random topic, Curls broke away from her phone conversation to grab our attention:

Curls: *laughing* “Oh my god…Guys—[Red] said she ended up hooking up with some random guy on the floor of a hotel room last night, and she doesn’t even know who he is!”
Dupa: *raising his hand in exuberance* “THAT WAS ME!”

Random Wedding Bliss

I got wrapped up in the top-ten list, and didn’t get a chance to tell some of the better random stories from the Saturday that was.

• Among the “talent”-laden field was a slender brunette (SB) with curly hair and a younger look to her. She was cute (my opinion contrasts with some of my female friends, who thought she was “really hot”), and dressed rather conservatively—for the ceremony. After checking into the hotel, though, she made a wardrobe change and walked into the reception lobby wearing a skintight so- short-you-have-to-pull- it-back-down-when- getting-up-from-your-seat-to-keep-from-flashing-your-panties- to-the-entire-gathering black sequin dress. Another guy and I noticed her and complimented her (to ourselves) on her choice of attire, and were quickly reprimanded by my date for “checking out an underage girl.” I countered that she wasn’t underage, and the seeds of debate were sewn.

As fate would have it, SB was seated a table over from ours at dinner. Eventually I heard Bucket and his girlfriend involved in a discussion about her age, which had spread amongst the couples on that half of the table. Several people felt she was around 16; a couple of guys and I contested this, saying she was easily 19 or 20. The issue remained a hot topic well into the night. I finally took it upon myself to ask Bill about her during the after party at the bar, because we figured that she was related to him. But, in fact, she was a cousin of Stacy’s. So Bill called over Jesse, another of Stacy’s cousins, for an official answer. And while I felt vindicated to find out that SB was actually 19, I still had no designs on her. When you’re surrounded by hot 25-28 yr olds, who cares about a 19 yr old? The debate over her age was enough to scare Jesse, however, who spent the rest of his night standing next to SB, guarding her “innocence.”

• One of the bartenders for the reception was a hot little blonde chick, who bubbled with personality. When we asked for shots, she informed us that, since the alcohol wasn’t being served in an actual bar (she and her colleague were set up in the reception hall’s lobby), she wasn’t allowed to pour shots. The hotel’s workaround, then, was to add an ice cube or two to each glass; this made them “small drinks” instead of “shots.” Hot Bartender argued, though, that the rule was silly, because now people were in danger of choking on ice. And every time we would do a round of shots, she’d ask—with a twinkle in her eye—if anyone was choking.

Me: “I think you actually want me to choke.”
Her: *smiling* “Well, yeah.”
Me: “That’s so hot.”

• I was talking to someone at the reception when a bridesmaid came up from behind me. She had started to put her arm around my waist, but stopped, saying “You’re not my boyfriend!” Apparently, the back of his head and mine look similar. A little later I was at the bar doing a shot with her boyfriend, and she walked over and pinched both of our butts at the same time, saying, “Two for one!”

• At the after party, I was talking to two friends when two cute girls walked past.

Friend 1: “Look at them!”
Friend 2: “They’re underage, man.”
Me: “Yeah, they definitely ain’t 18.”
Friend 1: “Let’s ask them. *motioning for me to follow him* Come on.”

I agreed to go along with him, because I could already sense that comedy would be had. Catching up to the two of them, he called out, “Excuse me! How old are you?”

Without flinching, Cute Girl 1 announced, “Oh, we’re young!”

• Tony, his date, my date, and I all went to Eat'n Park for breakfast the next morning. While trying to repair ourselves with eggs, bacon, and hash browns, the following exchange took place. We had gotten onto the subject of ethnicities, and Tony’s date was still feeling the effects of her boozing:

Tony: “What are you?”
My Date: “Italian and German. But the German side is actually part Austrian, too.”
Tony’s Date: “Wait, you’re Austrian? You mean, like, from Australia?”

Why I Love Weddings

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

#10 – Invitation Only

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


#9 – G’d Up, Ho'd Down

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


#8 – Hotel Partying

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

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


#7 – Food

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


#6 – Good Times

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


#5 – It’s Not Me

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


#4 – Skin Is In

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

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


#3 – Stories

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

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


#2 – Bridesmaids

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

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

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


#1 – Booze

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

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


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

To the Bride and Groom

Weddings are to drinkers what Friday nights are to high school football—game time. And when the groom is one of my friends, it’s like a state championship game in central Texas. This weekend featured just such an event. My boy Nick, who I mentioned in the Benitos story, married his fiancee Holly yesterday. And, god bless them, they made sure that none of us could see straight as it was happening.

Things got kick-started on Friday night with the rehearsal dinner. My fellow groomsmen and I were the first people to make it from the church to the restaurant, and we had been seated for all of five seconds when we placed our drink orders with the waitress. I had a gin & tonic in front of me before the grandparents were seated. Magnificent. My friend Finn’s wife had a dirty martini in her hand at the same time. I wasn’t kidding when I told him that he married up.

After dinner, most of the groomsmen and Nick headed over to his brother-in-law’s house, where we were staying for the night. We changed into casual clothes and prepared for a night on the town in McKeesport (yeah, back at it again) with beers and a shot of Crown Royal XR, which Nick had saved especially for this weekend. The stuff tastes like liquid gold. $150 well-spent, my friend.

Then we were off to Todd’s By the Bridge, which is my favorite watering hole in The Port. Hot shot girls, hotter bartenders (hi Lauren), and a young, diverse crowd (see “thugs in attendance”). And of course, pool tables. I think Nick’s idea of the perfect bar would be one where the pool tables themselves serve you the drinks. I was quickly recruited as his teammate, and though I wanted to protest—I could feel my drunk—I decided to man-up. This was Nick’s weekend, and if he wanted me to do a lap around the place in nothing but my Timbs I would have (hi Lauren). Our first opponents were of the “young and diverse” sort, and one was the scariest type of thug: a big fat white guy. I laugh when white people tense up around black guys, especially those on the thuggish side of things. For my money, the big fat white guy in the crew is always the most dangerous. Dave Chappelle said it best: “there's no telling what kind of crazy shit they've done to get them black dudes respect.”

One of his buddies was a skinnier white guy, with tattoos all over his arms and neck, and a t-shirt that said “No Snitching.” He didn’t really talk much, and didn’t play pool. He just sat at a table near where we were playing and stared at the girls on the dance floor. But even with all of that, I had a hard time finding him threatening, because he bared a striking resemblance to Freddy Prinze, Jr. It was kind of like seeing a dog dressed up in a Halloween costume. I sent TJ a text message about this, and he responded “Please punch him.” Yeah, I’m the jaded one.

We ran through the competition, winning 4 or 5 games straight. Around 1 am, Nick decided to call an audible: he wanted to go to Beamers.

Beamers, in a previous life, was another McKeesport restaurant/bar that some of my friends and I would hit up for cold alcoholic beverages. On a couple of occasions, my friend K-man’s rock band played there. Business, however, must not have been that great for them, because about two years ago they decided to change the format. It is now a strip club. And I cannot, for the life of me, understand how they are making any more money than they did in that previous life.

To say that the dancers were “subpar” is being polite. And since I’m an asshole, I’ll tell you that they were flat-out disappointing. A couple of them were cute, but still kind of average. And one was, well…let me put it this way: have you ever been to a strip club and prayed to yourself that a dancer didn’t take her clothes off? Neither had I before Friday. Chubby, pasty, unattractive, and missing teeth. And the ones that she did have were black. She spotted Brandon, one of the bride’s brothers, and I sitting at the bar, and made a beeline towards us. She got one word out before I blatantly turned around, got up, and walked away. I could feel the daggers that Brandon was staring as they lodged into my departing back. But I didn’t turn around. Sometimes it’s every man for himself.

It turns out that I know the shot girl at Beamers (her cousin is one of my best friends from high school; and even though she was by far the hottest female in that establishment, I breathed a deep sigh of relief when she said she was just a shot girl). She said that one of the dancers was new, and had been caught providing some fellaish in the private dance room earlier that night. I remembered seeing the dancer arguing with the manager, and I suddenly wished I’d listened to her side of the story. I can only hope it contained the reply “Well if I DON’T give the customers head, how are we ever going to get repeat business?”

The night then concluded with a stop at McDonalds. We ordered three sacks of food (not an embellishment) and feasted at Brandon’s. Now I can’t see a Mickey D’s sign without getting nauseous.

The nine of us each had our own “Supersize Me” moment of clarity the next morning. This meant that none of us could manage to eat anything before the ceremony. So when we climbed into the limousine bus that was stocked with champagne, beer, bourbon, and vodka, the communion wafer in each of our stomachs was left all alone to fight off the impending doom. I contemplated this as I chugged down an I.C. Light “hand grenade.” Ten minutes later I was right back to where I’d left off the night before. Forty-five minutes and a stop for six-packs and chips later, we arrived at the reception hall. That was, quite possibly, the hardest I have ever had to concentrate on not tripping. Escorting my assigned bridesmaid to the wedding party’s table felt roughly like walking a fishing line tightrope. To celebrate my triumphant arrival at the table, I told the waitress “Beam & Coke, and a Miller Lite.”

The rest of the night was, literally, a blur. I know I had about 6 or 7 deep, philosophical, meaningful conversations at that reception, but I have no idea what was said. What I remember are more Beam & Cokes, cigars, shots of Wild Turkey, and darkness. And a dance floor full of white women doing the Superman (if I could go back in time, I would videotape that). At the hotel we set up beer pong in my room. I awoke this morning to the smell of stale beer and a keg sitting in my hallway. I was actually more surprised that it wasn’t sitting next to my bed, with the tap spout in my mouth. Oh well. I guess that can wait until the night of my own wedding (hi Lauren).