What I Learned This Summer (2014)

“It’s all up in the air, and we stand still, to see what comes down.”

Yes, there’s a good reason why I’m quoting The Fray lyrics. It’s because they speak of hope. They bound across a field of flowers with the enthusiastic hope that we embrace at the start of each new summer. …Or maybe that’s just me. And maybe I just like The Fray. Temecula. [for those who don't get the reference]

To know me is to know that I hold the summer in high regard. Those months of sun-drenched weather are my best of the year. Maybe I’ve never gotten over the anticipation that permeated every last-day-of-school I’ve lived. Maybe it calls me back to the majority of those early years, when summer meant going back to Los Angeles to live with my dad until the school year was ready to begin again. Or maybe the warm weather just reconnects me with that SoCal heritage. Whatever the reason, late-May through early-September is my spiritual center.

As with the previous four editions, this write serves as my lessons-learned report on the summer that was. The idea was originally borne from a need to cope with love lost, but has since grown into a way to find closure with one June solstice and move onto my inevitable love affair with the next.

And in retrospect, the Summer of 2014 was, on the whole, rather mild compared to its predecessors. Old age is mellowing me, and I’ve found my dial is more often set to “turn down” than “turn up”. But there’s still fun to be had—and lessons to be instilled—in a summer, even in limited run. After all, if we as human beings aren’t constantly learning and evolving, then we’re sinking.

Sometimes the lessons are obvious, sometimes they’re gut-wrenching. But each one is important, and improves the man or woman who learns it.

• There’s no way to casually visit a bartender at work. Driving back to my apartment late on a Saturday in July, I decided to stop by Shady Grove to see my boy Jed. He’d just come home from Tales of the Cocktail, and I was eager to hear all about the trouble and drinks he’d gotten himself into. Just one beer, while living vicariously through his stories. That’s it. That was all I’d have, before continuing on my way home. Heck, I might even be in bed before midnight!
  
  Around 3:30 a.m., I dragged myself through my front door. About 11 hours later, my face was in my toilet, vomiting like it was put on this planet to do just that.
  
  
• There’s no way to casually visit Alex at happy hour. On the previous Monday, my company held a happy hour at Eddie Merlot’s downtown. Not long after I’d arrived, my wine loving homegirl texted to tell me she was doing happy hour at Harris Grill. So after I’d tipped back a couple of free Negronis and bs’ed with coworkers, I headed home with the intention of making a quick stop at Harris along the way, to have a drink and say “hi.” Heck, I’d be home before the sun even went down!
  
  Around 11:30 p.m., I dragged myself through my front door. About 11 hours later, my head was on my desk at the office, swilling coffee and aspirin like my bosses paid it to do just that.
  
  
• All good things come to an end. Shannon moved into her Mt. Washington apartment pimp pad in 2006. In the time since, she’s hosted countless days and nights of shenanigans: New Years Eves, summer night house parties, her sister’s pre-wedding activities, rainy-night drinking games, and the best St. Patrick’s Day parties in the city. And, sadly, that all came to an end this past August, when she closed the front door behind her for the final time.
  
  If there had been a camera crew there that day to put together a Real World-final-episode-moving-out montage, every flashback would’ve featured our circle of friends living a fabled moment of our early adulthood. Life goes on, things change. But sometimes memories feel like old friends you’re leaving behind.
  
  
• Jams are international incidents. The summer’s World Cup brought a little bit of the outside world to Shadyside. Standing on the street with Pakistanimal during June’s Jam on Walnut, a flash of bright yellow caught my eye. A crowd of seven or eight Colombians, men and women, were dancing in front of the stage, wearing the soccer jerseys of their nation’s heroes and waving the flag of their homeland.
  
  
• “Schlammered” is the same in every language. Later, as we sat drinking in Shady Grove, one of the Colombianas stumbled upon Pak and me. When the homie raised his glass to Colombia, the wobbly mami happily raised hers as well. When I said I was cheering for Colombia when I wasn’t cheering for the US, she tried to square off with me.
  
  Crazy, drunk, Latina, and cute. I politely erased her number from my phone the next morning. I’ve already been down that road enough for this lifetime.
  
  
• Furries and supercars aren’t mutually exclusive. While basking in the glory that is our annual Furry Safari in July, the men in our crowd of 20+ were soon distracted by the sight of two new fearsome beasts posted up on the block: A Ferrari 458 and drop-top Lamborghini Aventador parked curbside directly in front of our sidewalk seating. I saw a furry pull out his smartphone and take a picture of the cars, in one of the more ironic moments of my lifetime.
  
  
• Whiskey doesn’t judge you when you cry. When I lost my homie Otis in September, I was broken. It’s been a while since I’ve cried that hard. Or that often. Every day for a week or so, as quickly as I felt like no one could see me at my desk, in my car, in my kitchen, wherever, my eyes would instantly well up with memories. Memories of youth. Memories of promise. Memories of a group of friends ready to take the world by storm, and scheming every minute on how we’d make it happen. I’d frequently find myself reciting old R&B songs as I washed dishes (O loved him some R&B, like any child of the 80s and 90s who grew up singing in a church choir), and choked with tears by the time I reached the chorus.
  
  Miss you, O.
  
  
• Murica is the land of the free. The Fourth of July was, as usual, a star-spangled orgy of red, white, blue, and alcohol. Participating in the bacchanalia was TD’s friend from work, a pretty, petite brown-haired chick from Philadelphia. And Philly Brown was expertly filling out a patriotic pair of Budweiser leggings. About 10 minutes after meeting us on Swag and Canada’s back porch, she decided to pose for a picture between TJ and I. Doing a handstand. Budweiser-booty shimmering in the sunlight. Yeah, she fit into our crew almost as well as she fit into those leggings.
  
  
• I mean, REALLY free. The festivities hit their highpoint at Bang’s place overlooking the Pittsburgh skyline. While the cool people—and those we allow in our presence—were floating in and out of Bang’s house in particular, every household on the block seemed to be teeming with revelers. And freedom.
  
  
  
  One reveler was a tiny, sandy-haired gal with a bountiful bosom. Swag introduced us to Four-Foot-D’s (no really, that’s his nickname for her), who quickly found a new fan. TD is my Lil Sis from another mother, and we’re a family that appreciates boobs. And shortly after meeting her, Sis looked FFDs in the eye (let’s just pretend she made eye contact) and said, “Can I motorboat you?” The sequence of 20 action shots I still have on my phone tells me that FFDs isn’t afraid to party.
  
  
• I’m 35. I mentioned that I’ve slowed down this year, compared to last year. And last year I’d slowed down compared to the year before it. One weekend in August reminded me why that regression is necessary.
  
  Over the course of 30 hours, I barhopped, I stalked, I drank afterhours at a bar with the staff, I did lots of shots, I escorted a buddy who’d drank too much, I ducked police, I attended a 40th birthday party, I watched a woman take a selfie while oblivious to everything else around her, I met my wife (pending), I spilled tequila all over Alex, I gave love advice, I followed the party to William Penn Tavern, I worked the door, I did lots of shots, I met a cute girl, I forgot a cute girl’s name, I ditched a cute girl while she was in the bathroom, I walked into a bar solo, I drank afterhours at a bar with the staff (again), I did lots of shots (again), and I—I still don’t know how—came home in one piece.
  
  I purposely stayed home the next weekend. I’m 35.
  
  
• Pay it forward. I spent the second week of July in Chattanooga, visiting my dad (The Admiral) and stepmother, as well as Sis C, who was stateside for the first time in years. It was probably the driest week of my summer. I expected that, since my stepmother is 23-years-sober, and my pops is diabetic. What I didn’t expect, though, was a bottle of Four Roses waiting for me on their kitchen counter—a gift from Step Bro, who had been there the previous weekend. Nothing takes the edge off Chattanooga like a finger of bourbon after dinner.
  
  
• The party doesn’t stop for the weather. At the summer’s second Jam on Walnut, Tony, FGT, and I were posted up at the bar in Shady Grove, when our resident southern belle decided we should walk to The Ave. Never mind that we were holding prime real estate near the epicenter of the night’s action, or that The Ave was a 10-minute walk to the other side of the neighborhood, or that it was pouring rain outside. Yayy…
  
  On the other hand, standing at the bar in soaking wet clothing, drinking beers and not giving a fuck does allow you to accurately measure your drunkenness.
  
  
• “I’ve gotta stop hanging out with white girls.” That’s a direct quote from the following Saturday, when I found myself jogging down a sidewalk behind Alex, through a torrential downpour.
  
  
• There’s no gift like the gift of blackouts sir bourbon. Swag’s birthday was in August, and his girlfriend, Skeets, hosted our crowd of loud and boisterous drunks. I handed the birthday boy a bottle of Woodford Reserve, which he once christened “Sir Bourbon” when finding it in my liquor cabinet (a bottle of bourbon being sealed with a cork was a radical concept to him at the time). Things rapidly deteriorated from there, but I do know I woke up back in my own bed the next morning, confused.

Here’s to the next love affair being as memorable as the last. See you in June, summer.

'Murica

There was a time when three straight days of alcohol-sodden, brain-left-at-home fun was the gold standard for a “staycation” holiday weekend.

If you’re at the beach or on a cruise, all bets are off. You’ll go a week without even stopping to feel the first twinge of a hangover—I’m speaking from experience here. But when you haven’t even traveled out of your area code? Three days is the max. The human body just can’t take more than that without being recharged by ocean air and drunk strangers from other states, who you know you’ll never see again.

That used to be what I believed. Fourth of July Weekend 2013 changed my religion. I have been to the mountaintop.


Wednesday, July 3rd

You gotta get up to get down. How do you get everyone primed for a weekend full of shenanigans and alcohol? Throw a house party—correction: “a small get-together,” according to TD—full of shenanigans and alcohol in the middle of the week.

The location: TD and Boy Toy’s new townhouse. I chose to wait and arrive fashionably late (most everyone else was tweeting or facebooking about drinks as I was still sitting at work). So I wasn’t the least bit surprised by what I found as I carried a case of Canoe Paddler through the front door: a dozen or so people kicking the ever-living shit out of sobriety.

• When I walked in, Mitch Canada and TJ pointed out the half-empty little cans scattered about the kitchen. Apparently the newest product coming to these boozing streets is cocktail-in-a-can. Martinis, margaritas, Cosmopolitans, etc., in small aluminum cans. It appeared the first half of the party had served as an impromptu product test.
  
  
• Marty was awake for about the first 20 or so minutes that I was there. He then passed out while sitting on the couch, and slept the rest of the night. I was told he had started his night by drinking glasses of straight whiskey. People put props on him, people took pictures of him, girls gave him lap dances; none of it had any effect.
  
  
• Jay Swag was drunk. Very drunk. And he was guilt-ridden. Very guilt-ridden. It seemed like every time I tried to engage him in conversation, he’d just look down at the bandaging on my shin and say, “It’s my fault.” I finally had to pull him aside and explain that all of his self-flagellation was ruining the fun I was trying to have busting his balls about the accident.
  
  
• TJ had brought a friend with him: “Fried Green Tomatoes” (FGT), a new coworker who had just moved to Pittsburgh from the South. I'd already met her once before, but this was her first introduction to everyone else; being that she’s blonde, sassy, buxom, and cute, everyone else took notice.
  
  And she’s young—24, to be exact. That night was a crash course, like a rookie backup seeing her first action against all-pros. She was okay when I got to the party get together, but rapidly declined thereafter. At one point she asked for my Twitter handle, followed me, and tweeted to me, “It was nice meeting you” (again, I was the one person besides TJ who had already met her before that night). I tweeted back, “It was nice to meet you, too.” Two minutes later, while still standing next to me, FGT showed her phone to TJ and said, “Look, this person tweeted me—I don’t know who this is!”
  
  Her first night of sitting at the grown-ups table ended with FGT falling down a small flight of steps on her way out of the townhouse, and then sleeping it all off on TJ’s couch.
  
  
• I don’t know when, where, or why this became a thing, but TD and Boy Toy taught us a new ritual. “Slap the Bag” consisted of passing around a plastic pouch filled with punch drink [A cocktail party ball?]. While one person holds the bag in the air, the player smacks it like a john who’s paid extra, and then pours a shot directly into his or her mouth via the built-in tap. Pass the bag, repeat.

Thursday, July 4th

I felt no guilt over being slow-moving that day. The trial-by-fire that I had given my weekend, in hindsight, was probably for the best. But… FUCK. When TD texted me impatiently around 4 p.m. asking where I was, I laughed it off. Fourth of July or not, the simple fact that I was upright and moving was a victory in my eyes.

I pulled up to Swag’s with another case of Canoe Paddler. Let’s go. I found a host of people in the backyard drinking, listening to music, and playing cornhole. Oh, and this was just the pregame. After a couple hours of killing most of the case, we walked up to Belle and Finger Bang’s for the actual Fourth party. Get it.

• I had decided to get festive for the occasion, though I quickly learned the difficulties of writing upside down.
  
  
• My injury is more of an inconvenience than a health concern. Case in point? I can’t run while it heals, which means any gains I’d made in personal health in June bled out with the cut. Combining that with a hilly ten-minute walk through stifling heat and humidity meant I was wheezing and sweating like a Kevin James movie by the time I reached Belle and Bang’s.
  
  
• I cooled off in Belle’s air conditioning, and took in her gorgeous view. I may have to put aside my rule against dating friends just to marry her and bask in that prime real estate. [#TrueLove]
  
  
• One of Belle and Bang’s friends showed up in an American flag cape, with an Uncle Sam top hat and wearing red and blue shorts—and not much else.
  
  This did not shock me. That he showed up with his kid and his baby mama, though, did.
  
  
• Belle & Bang’s neighbors were having a party of their own, complete with beer pong games in the front yard. Boy Toy reportedly ran their table like a boss for most of the night.
  
  
• FGT made a subdued appearance, barely drinking anything despite the mayhem going on all around her. Welcome to the league, rook.
  
  
• I remember drunkenly babbling at Belle and Bang’s parents. I didn’t get slapped by any mothers or chased by any fathers, so I’ll chalk that up as a win, though I have no clue what I may have said to them.
  
  
• …my Wednesday night drunk may have combined with my Thursday drinking. If this seems obvious to you, and you’re wondering why I’m bothering to mention it, the simple answer is: I hadn’t even considered that possibility until just now, as I sit here writing this.
  
  
• I know we walked back to Swag and Canada’s after the fireworks, though I remember very little for the rest of the night. The one thing I do remember? Well, I’ll get to that. But first…

Friday, July 5th

FURRY DAY, BITCHES.

I may or may not have awoken on Swag’s couch shouting that. After going home for a power nap and a shower, I hopped into TD’s car around 11 a.m. and chugged liberally from a Mountain Dew Kickstart as we headed for our Furry Safari mecca, Tonic.

• While lying on my couch that morning, I’d suffered the sudden memory flash of trying to kiss someone. A few seconds later, the full picture came back. “Well…I owe FGT an apology.”
  
  
• A block from my place, I realized I’d made the mistake of leaving my shades at home. TD stopped at a gas station so I could pick out the finest pair of sunglasses $12 can buy. I rocked it out in my Sunoco Chanel’s the rest of the day.
  
  …I then lost them by the end of the night. And this is why I buy my sunglasses at gas stations.
  
  
• TD and I grabbed a smaller table in the sidewalk seating, our traditional big corner table having been reserved by another party. Our primary goal—well, secondary, when you factor in furry chasing—became the command and conquer of every other table and chair we could get our hands on as other diners left. A couple of hours later we held command over 90% of Sidewalkistan.
  
  
• The first furry I got my picture taken with this year? A black unicorn wearing a kilt. I could’ve retired off that one.
  
  
• I started with Red Bull & Vodkas. After two I switched to Corona, because there was no way drinking vodka while sitting out in the hot sun all day was going to go well for me.
  
  
• Boy Toy started with Bloody Marys. After one, he switched to Bloody Marys with a double shot of vodka. Then he started pounding shots, including those bought for him by a cougar at the bar. His drunk went from 0-60 in 3.4 seconds. He’d eventually recover, with the help of food and glasses of water. But for a while there I kept expecting to look over and see him sleeping on the sidewalk with his arm around a furry.
  
  
• Some among our crew started their day with Molly. Why they chose to snort MDMA before partying with people in animal costumes is something only their future court-appointed psychiatrists can tell you.
  
  
• Special K was our Rookie of the Year. She eagerly chased down furries for hugs and pictures, and grilled them with questions about the lifestyle.
  
  
• A big blue dog with a GoPro camera rigged on his chest hugged TD. From the gallery I observed, “He just got a camera full of boob.”
  
  
• That furry and his furry buddy had a camera crew with them that we hardly noticed. We would find out the next day that the camera crew was from a local news station, and that all of us—minus TD’s cleavage—were in a piece that aired that night. That’s right: Our Furry Safari has now attracted media attention.
  
  
• Dupa made an appearance, albeit three hours later than he was supposed to. He immediately got up to speed by sexually harassing the guys and doing some furry chasing. You can take the drunken W&J grad out of Pittsburgh, but you can’t take the drunken Pittsburgh out of the W&J grad.
  
  
• Half of our crew made a break for the South Side around…well, if you think I spent all day furry watching in the July heat while pounding drinks and still had some kind of grasp on time, you’re at the wrong blog site. Dupa, his lady, TJ, and I hung back.
  
  
• A blonde girl in a trucker cap, shades, and leopard-print stretch pants took residence at the table closest to us, which our friends had recently vacated. She looked like Paris Hilton, if Paris Hilton was the Sidewalkistan ambassador to Furmany.
  
  
• A girl Dupa went to high school with appeared, and sat down with us. After a few minutes, he leaned over to me and said, “We gotta get out of here right now—she’s about two minutes from dropping an n-bomb.”
  
  
• TJ and I headed for Rumshakers to meet up with Belle, Swag, Canada, and others. At some point, the racist chick showed up. And at some point after that, she started dancing at the bar with Belle’s homegirl, a sister who is more “Da Brat” than “Lil Kim.” (…ya follow?) The world I thought I knew was hanging by a thread.
  
  
• After a while we made our way to the White Eagle, where the other refugees from our safari were located. I drank until I just couldn’t drink anymore.
  
  
• I caught a moment alone with FGT and apologized for the night before. She graciously accepted my apology, and then gave me a ride home. I passed out in my own bed for the first time in what felt like six months.

Saturday, July 6th

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Well, he partied on the 3rd; but that was the last workday of the week, so why not? And he partied on the 4th because, well, he’s ‘Murican. And the 5th just happened to be the day of the Furry Safari. He had no choice but to drink all day that day. It was just a scheduling anomaly that he had no control over. But the 6th? He probably just stayed in bed the entire day with an IV of Gatorade, and put it on cruise control. There’s no national holiday or annual celebration of people in animal costumes on 7/6. What could he possibly do to punish his liver on that day?”

Three words: Whiskey. Distillery. Tour.

In June, Alex and I had kicked around the idea of taking Wigle Whiskey’s tour. But July 6th was the earliest set of tickets available. So we did what any sensible-minded adult would do: laughed at the devil and bought tickets to ride into Hell aboard a chariot loaded with dynamite.

• When Alex picked me up, TD, Joel, and Gaelic Gangsta were already in the car. The latter two had not been active (read: shlammered) participants in the previous day’s mayhem, and seemed fine. I loathed them for that. Me? I was a pause away from being declared mentally-handicapped.
  
  
• Have I mentioned that TD is my little sister from another mother? She tried to verbalize a thought, and got met head-on by her inability to form a sentence. A few minutes later, I ran into the same roadblock, proclaiming, “Vehdf floi shfff bnff shffid aookd.” Without missing a beat or showing a trace of sarcasm, TD nodded her head and said, “Mmhm, yup.”
  
  
• We reached an intersection and saw the distillery off to the right. TD pointed at the building and proclaimed to Alex, “It’s right there, on the left!”
  
  
• When you walk into the lobby, they offer you one of three free cocktails, made from either their whiskey or their genever. We managed to get some of each, including an extra drink for free. (Tell me you expected anything less.)
  
  
• The tour is fun and informative. If you plan on being in Pittsburgh on a Saturday afternoon, I highly suggest it. The 128-proof glass of whiskey they gave us at the end was worth the price of admission alone.
  
  
• We were joined on the tour by Alex’s parents and her good friend Jerry. While Jerry had other business to attend to afterwards, the rest of us walked over to the Harp & Fiddle to further wet our whistles. And, being that we were in the Strip District with moist whistles on a Saturday afternoon, TD and I quickly decided an all-day bar crawl was in order. (Tell me you expected anything less.) The other five people had made plans to go to GG’s house for a small party; after two rounds we bid them adieu and ordered ourselves another.
  
  
• Our next stop was The Beerhive. There we grabbed several rounds of beer, as well as some food to help channel the boozy floodwaters. Boy Toy, Under The Porch (UTP), and MoPaddle soon arrived to give us some backup.
  
  
• Next up: Luke Wholey’s. Probably not bad for a business lunch or dinner date, but…nah. One beer and done.
  
  
• Next: A place called Lefty’s. Arguably the least well-known of our destinations that day, its relaxed atmosphere (read: nobody there) made it cozy and welcoming. I mean, how many places advertise $4 Strong Islands? Okay, okay…the fact that the bartender gave us a couple of rounds of free shots may have swayed my opinion. And the fact that they had sex in the bathroom may have swayed TD and Boy Toy’s.
  
  
• It was getting dark, and the decision was made to move the crawl to the South Side. UTP drove us over, but then made up an excuse and dipped after dropping us off at Rumshakers. Boy Toy theorized that his homie had left to hook up with a girl he’s involved with. Is that really what the new generation [he’s 25] of drinkers does? Lie when they are getting ass? Really?
  
  
• Everyone at ‘Shakers seemed subdued. Even the homie Joe. I tried chatting with some girls there for a birthday, and the room stayed lukewarm. Given my history with Rumshakers, it felt like I’d stumbled into the Twilight Zone. After a couple of rounds we got the fuck out.
  
  
• Next, The Smiling Moose. I grabbed some dinner to go along with a few more beers. MoPaddle, on the other hand, highlighted her time there by sitting her purse too close to a candle burning on the bar. Did you know leather was flammable? Thankfully she caught it pretty quickly, and the damage was minimal. But if you think a drunk girl is going to be calm about her Coach bag getting singed, well…
  
  
• Stop #8: Casey’s Draft House. This crawl had suddenly become segregated by gender. Distraught over her purse, MoPaddle had a moment, and had to be chased down by TD. They would end up at Primanti’s. While that was going on, Boy Toy and I got ourselves beers and shots at Casey’s and talked about the world, being really, really good looking, and other deep, philosophical things.
  
  
• I don’t remember what possessed either of us to suggest Skybar as our next destination, though I do remember Boy Toy reconsidering when we got to the doors. That the South Side’s latest attempt at having an “ultra lounge” expected us to pay a cover charge to get in wasn’t too shocking; it was the fact that they wanted $10 a piece that made us pause. My response, though, was “Fuck it. I’ll gladly pay $10 now for the experience, and to be able to say I did.” And I did. I probably never will again. But I can always say I did.
  
  Look, it’s not that the place is all that bad. Once you’re inside, Skybar is a good time, especially if you have money to throw around recklessly, and/or you’re an inexperienced drinker under 25. But this is Pittsburgh, and the environment will never support their business model for multiple years of existence. Ultra lounges in this town are the bastard children of the overly ambitious, and the naïve who think this is a city as into “scene” as a New York or L.A. Pittsburgh doesn’t want a “place to be seen”—the blue collar heritage is too deep.
  
  Hell, I’ve seen Pittsburghers bitch over having to pay a $3 cover at bars and clubs. If you’re a tourist, Skybar probably seems like a great night out on the town. But, as a resident…nah. One-and-done.
  
  
• We rendezvoused with the girls, and went to Jack’s Bar. I don’t know if I caught a contact high off a roofie’d drink at Skybar, or if 12 straight hours of drinking was just finally catching up to me, but I have very limited recollection of the tenth and final stop on our path of (self-)destruction. I had a beer, but shortly thereafter we were back out on the street, hailing a cab.
  
  
• Once back at the townhouse, Boy Toy, MoPaddle, and I called it a night and went to bed at 2 a.m. like somewhat-sensible adults cracked open a handle of premixed cocktail (some kind of fruit punch, though we appropriately christened it “Red Drank”) and didn’t stop ‘til it was gone, close to 4 a.m. It felt like a poetic close to a maniacal weekend that had started there.

The next morning TD drove me home. I climbed out of her car with bright red lips and a bright red tongue, shuffled into my building, and fell face-first into my couch. That’s the problem with reaching the mountaintop: It’s all downhill from there.

What I Learned This Summer (2012)

[Note: Shut up. Yes, this should have been posted last fall. I started writing it in September. Then I put it aside for the Tampa write. Then I put both of them aside to deal with the hectic November and December I had as I switched jobs. Let’s be realists here; me being me, getting this posted anytime before halfway through the summer of 2013 is (sadly) rather impressive.]

This wasn’t my first rodeo.

When you’re a kid, summer lasts forever. Everything does, to one extent or another. But summer—cool blasts from vents in dashboards, cannonballs into glistening pools, rhythmic murmuring of crickets, sundresses fluttering in a warm breeze, beads of sweat on your forehead—is inherently visceral. Your five senses are forced to compete for control over every second of every bright, humid, bikini-clad minute.

The sad part, though, is that once you’re an adult, responsibility jumps into the fray. When you focus on your taste, smell, sight, touch, and hearing, everything slows down. The world is broken down piece by piece, and your attention dances from one sensory impulse to the other. But responsibility? That bitch nags you about every little unfun detail of your life. Bills, interviews, cleaning, repairs, performance reviews, healthcare… And when you focus on those things, life starts blowing past at warp speed.

The only solace I take from responsibility’s involvement in my adult life: It makes booze that much sweeter. (And easier to afford.)

So the fact that the Summer of 2012 came and went faster than a Mitt Romney political stance didn’t surprise me. I knew it was going to happen. Just like I knew that I would do another one of these “What I Learned” posts (and maybe get it posted before December this time). [Update: Shut up.] I tried to take mental notes of every barbecue and cannonball—because, as I've proven before, taking actual notes isn't really a strength of mine—along the way, so that I could share it in this inevitable post.

As always, these are in no specific order, and no one instance holds more significance than the other. They’re all equal parts of the brief, beautiful moment that was the Summer of 2012. Salud.

• It’s more fun when it’s forbidden. Prince of Ligonier and Mrs. Prince decided to have a house party in late June. A decent number of guests kicked it throughout the day, but by midnight only three of us remained, playing beer pong and cracking wise with our two hosts in the garage of their townhouse. I don’t know who it was that suggested we go swimming, but I know his or her idea was met by two immediate roadblocks: (1.) The swimming pool in Prince’s housing plan closes around 9 pm; and (2.) Those of us who didn’t live there did not have access to swimwear. I don’t know who solved these two roadblocks, but I know that he or she used the same answer for both: “Fuck it!” Before long, five drunken 30-year-olds were splashing around in the community pool, some in their underwear.

• If it worked once, it’ll work twice. In the summer of 2011, I convinced Armo to take his day of hanging with a friend from out of town and turn it into a big pool party. The result was one of the best days of the year, with tons of booze, boobs, sunshine, bikinis, and shenanigans. And TJ KO’d by Lemonade Vodka. So, of course, I did it again in 2012.
  
  Armo had planned to host a quiet night with some old friends one Saturday in July, but I suggested he make it more of a “Pour-champagne-on-a-ho” party. He reluctantly relented, though no one got Mother Nature’s go-ahead (leave it to Western PA to have a 60-degree day in mid-July). Despite the unseasonably cool weather, we gathered a respectable crowd (Alex, Shannon, her date Brad, Hurley, TJ, “Special Friend” and her girlfriend, in addition to the seven or so friends Armo had originally planned for). We all stayed away from the pool (aside from TJ, who dove in expecting others to follow, then had to shiver in a towel by himself), and had a blast kicking it on the deck with lots of food, lots of drink, and lots of hilarious conversation well into the night.
  

• Women wingman harder than men do. Armo was a marked man that night. I was preoccupied with my own bedtime maneuvers, so I was oblivious to my friends’ shenanigans; but, to my shock, Alex was sitting on the living room couch with a big grin as Special Friend and I emerged from the guest room the next morning. When I gave her a lift home, Alex revealed that Shannon had helped her scheme on Armo in his own home. Their mission had involved covert meetings between the two DGs throughout the night, as they strategized Alex’s way into Armo’s bed.

• People tend to overestimate their inner circle’s coolness. In saying this, I may sound hypocritical or delusional to any reader out there who hasn’t met my friends. But I challenge any doubter to spend a night around our crazy cast of characters and come away from it thinking me to have misrepresented them. On the other hand, there were a few occasions this summer when I spent a night as the guest amongst a large group of people who think they are the newest Rat Pack, and went home thoroughly unimpressed. I’m not saying my crew is the most entertaining (besides, we’re probably more “Brat Pack”), just that we hold up our end of the bargain.

• If you’re in a pool and you’re not playing beer pong, you’re doing it wrong. I arrived at Dupa’s 4th of July party with a little surprise: a red, white, & blue inflatable beer pong table. Without question, it was the best $40 I spent all summer. When our crew hit his apartment building’s pool and set everything up, we were instantly the day’s winners. All of his neighbors and their guests loved it, and started signing up to play. Even the lifeguard on duty was impressed, and chatted with us while watching our pong matches as the party thumped on into the night.

• Sexual tension is contagious. One Friday in June, TD had once again agreed to help me clean my place. This time, however, instead of paying with vodka, I offered to buy her dinner. And since that meant we were going to be hanging out in Shadyside, we decided to bring some friends in on it. Strangely, most of those friends were women—not that I was complaining. Bring It On (BIO), Tony, Alex, and Lotus joined us at Harris Grill for dinner, drinks, and political dialogue slurred words. After dinner we moved a few doors down to the Shadyside Saloon, and continued to wax poetic until close.
  
  At that point, we bought some six packs and (minus Lotus) retired to my apartment. BIO’s and my flirtations had been building for a few months, and when I walked her to her car, we were soon making out in the middle of the street like two clumsy teenagers. As I walked back into my apartment building and texted TD (who by then had headed home), an amusing thought popped into my head: What if Tony and Alex, left alone in my place, had started going at it? Chuckling at the random thought, I opened my apartment door...and was met by Alex’s pink-panty-clad-booty arched up in the air above the couch—and Tony. I lol’d as I walked past them and straight back to my bedroom to pass out.

• Also contagious: blue balls. I, of course, was disappointed that my night had ended with a makeout session instead of, “Let me get you a towel.” But I felt a little better the next day when Alex informed me that she had not given Tony any more release than BIO had given me. In fact, he had it worse. Embarrassed by me catching them, Alex decided to head home immediately—and made Tony drive her there. Not only that, she made him stay the night and cuddle, but refused to have sex.

• A friend with bourbon is a friend indeed. Armo was a tad inexperienced when it came to drinking bourbon. Understandably, he sought tutelage from the foremost expert he knows—me. Always one to help out a friend, I agreed to split a bottle of Woodford Reserve one Saturday in August. We tested recipes while watching flicks and growing progressively dysfunctional.

• If you’re going to have a hangover, there’s no better place to be than Armo’s. The next morning—as is the case on any morning when I’ve awoken at Armo’s house with the Ghost of Bottles Drank rattling chains in my head—when I stumbled out of the guest room, I was handed a cup of coffee and a bottle of water. I was then offered breakfast, refuge on his couch…and science. As the damage we’d done to ourselves with bourbon was slowly repaired, we distracted our aching brains with several episodes of Mythbusters (hi Kari).

• Country music concerts are great—so long as you don’t go to the concert. In June Dupa, Swag, and I toured the sweaty cowboy hat bacchanalia that is the Kenny Chesney concert tailgate in Pittsburgh. And I think I can speak for all of us when I say it exceeded our (admittedly low) expectations. Next year, we’ve got to find a way onto one of the boats docked along the shore. “Large half-Black man on yacht at country music concert” is a box on my bucket list that’s just dying to be checked off.

• There are some hot women in Pittsburgh. A trip to Tennessee in 2011 made me fully appreciate Shadyside’s spectrum of beautiful faces, but it wasn’t until my friend Connie’s birthday last June that I realized Pittsburgh, as a whole, is home to a fair percentage of gorgeous ladies. I just haven’t been privy to their secretive meetings. [If you’ve seen the Seinfeld episode that explains this phenomenon, then you feel me. Sadly for the rest of you, my YouTube searches for this clip have come up empty.]

• Water is an acceptable choice at 3 a.m. I left Connie’s party fairly early, but went directly from there to a party at Shannon’s—with a quick stop at a six pack shack along the way. Operating on a significant caipirinha buzz, I walked into her Mt. Washington apartment to find almost everyone there in worse shape than I was. When in Rome… I was soon crushed, and by 3 a.m. I’d polished off the beers I had brought—and any other beer that had previously existed within the confines of Shannon’s apartment. Sounds like the perfect time to start drinking Jack, right? Ugh… When I awoke the next morning (at 7 a.m., no less), Hell sounded relaxing. I swore off all booze forever. “Forever”, in this case, meaning “until that night”.

• Water is never really an acceptable choice when you party with Irish chicks. Shannon, like several of my friends, finally made it into the “Grown Ass Man/Woman Club” in 2012. Although her birthday is actually in June, she planned her day of celebration for early July. The day was broken down into three segments, each of which was saturated with booze.
  
  It started early in the afternoon with the birthday girl, her sister (Dr. Kelly), Dupa, and I drinking heavily while beating the mid-90s heat in Dupa’s pool. We even inflated the beer pong table and ran a few games. The second act was dinner down the street from Dupa’s at the Grandview Saloon, where about twenty more friends joined us to enjoy good food and good drink, and to toast to our favorite tiny Irish lass. The grand finale came in Station Square, where we all partied at Buckhead and continued to drink ourselves ridiculous. There was even a small encore, in which Shannon, Special Friend, our boy Wu, and I all hit Redbeard’s before close to put a cap on the night.

• If you’re going to add beer pong to a marathon drinking day, then you’d better win. Shannon and Dr. Kelly left Dupa’s pool late in the afternoon so they could start getting ready for the dinner party. Dupa and I, however, chose to play one-on-one beer pong instead. And unfortunately for Dupa, I’m better than him. By the time he and I made it over to the Grandview Saloon, he was a slurring mess. He was “Dupa Drunk”, which burns bright, but isn’t sustainable. He seemed to be sobering up somewhat by the end of dinner; when we all moved to Station Square, though, he was nowhere to be found. The next day he told me he had snuck off after paying for dinner, walked straight back to his apartment, and gone to bed.

• What’s wrong with six? Everything.

• Anthrocon is the true Magic Kingdom. The 2012 Furry Safari…wow. I would’ve loved to have put together a full post like in 2011, but I—of course—didn’t get around to it. I spent most of that day partying at Tonic, as per usual, and was joined by Chappy, TJ, TD, Boy Toy, Shannon, Armo, Wall Street, Dupa, Entertainer, Jay Swag, Alex, BIO, and more over the course of the day. BIO and Wall Street were rookies, and while observing them, I reached a realization: Watching a first-time safari participant is (I’m guessing) like taking your kids to Disney World to see Mickey for the first time. The giddiness and glee that they exude throughout the day just warms your heart like (I’m guessing) a proud parent. The countless hours of booze helps with the warming, of course…

• There’s a slutmuffin in all of us. Alex had an eventful summer (as you’ve probably noticed). Dupa jokingly called her “slutmuffin” on Twitter one day, and somehow the endearing pet name stuck. When she suggested in August that she and I start a special subgroup/“club” (strictly for the purpose of getting indignantly drunk at happy hours and feeling special), our discussion on the club name quickly landed on “Slutmuffins”. It then bounced to “Pretty Little Liars”, “Dirty Rotten Scoundrels”, and then back to Slutmuffins. We may have trouble agreeing on a club name, but you can’t argue that our theme hasn’t been consistent.

• We Dirty Pretty Slutmuffin Liars are some Rotten Little Scoundrels. The initial five club members were Alex (co-president), TJ, TD, Swag, and me (co-president). For our first happy hour, we chose to meet at Finn McCool’s after work on August 30th. Although he had initially agreed to the terms, Swag balked at the last minute. Since TD had brought along Boy Toy (some people just don’t understand that membership in a fake club is a privilege), he was given Swag’s spot. Knowing this wouldn’t be the most effective way to exact revenge for Swag’s treason, though, we decided to take things one step further. After a couple of drinks each, we moved our meeting down the street to our pale friend’s self-described “Mecca”: Rumshakers. Once there, we took pictures of the bar and ourselves, and then flooded Facebook, Twitter, and his text message inbox with them. Suddenly Swag was fervently requesting us to come pick him up (he still didn’t have his license). We laughed, ignored him, and returned to toasting to our club’s success.

• I need tinted windows. On my way to Finn McCool’s that night, I pulled up to a red light on Carson St. As I came to a stop, in my peripheral I noticed a woman who was waiting for me to pass so she could continue crossing the street. When I glanced over…it was The Ex. I spun my head forward, gripped the steering wheel, and prayed I didn’t hear a knock at my window.

• TD is my LSFAM (Little Sister From Another Mother). When I walked into Finn McCool’s that night, she took one look at my face and said, “Uh oh.” She then bought me a shot of tequila to help numb my short-term memory.

• Our crew is only growing bigger. Steph gave birth to a beautiful baby boy—Maximo—in July. His pimp cup is locked in a case with a sign reading, “In case of 18th birthday (or twins), break glass.” Chappy got married in September, thus laying to waste all of our bets that he’d screw it up with a woman waaayyy out of his league before she was on record as saying, “I do.” Dr. Kelly got married in October; her wedding was a fantastic weekend of drinking, reminiscing, and partying (the only reason I didn’t cover it in this post is because it wasn’t technically in the summer). BBB and his wife welcomed their third child into the world in June; I can’t wait ‘til I get to sit in his luxury box in whatever NFL stadium his sons play in.

That day’ll be here before we know it. Hopefully, we’ll occasionally get to stop and enjoy the summers we pass along the way.

Drunks Say the Darndest Things 4

Oh, it’s that time again? Well then, let’s get to it.

A quick note first, though, so that I may pat myself on the back: Over the past year I’ve made a point of doing a better job at recording quotes as they happen (not that I’ve been flawless at this)—or, at least, as the stories have randomly come to mind. As such, I have kept a running journal that by now is fairly full. I actually had to pare down the list when writing out this post. Who says I’m a useless drunk? Ha! I’m a useful drunk!

• One Sunday last June, TD was scheduled to be guest-bartending at her favorite South Side watering hole, the Birmingham Bridge Tavern. When I arrived, however, I found her on the customer side of the bar, along with a grand total of six other people—four of whom were Jay Swag, Dupa, Tennessee, and Dupa’s roommate. And everyone, especially the little would-be bartender, was crushed. When we decided to relocate to Rumshakers, TD squeezed into the backseat of my two-door coupe, which apparently was in need of some detailing. From behind me I heard her scoff, "Your backseat is dusty! Don't you ever have sex back here?!"
  
  
• TK booked a hotel room the night of his going away party in July, since the lease on his apartment had ended the day before that. This only added to his one-night-in-town-break-out-or-be-clowned—“carpe diem”, for those untrained in 90’s hip-hop—sort of mood. At one point in the night, he and I stood in Sammy’s having the following conversation:
  
  TK: “I'm taking a bath tonight.”
  Me: *pause* “I've never heard a drunk person say that.”
  TK: “Well, it's the Westin. I'll probably masturbate in a pillow case!”
  
  
• Late on St. Patty’s Day—well, after 4 p.m.; keep in mind, we started around 9 o’clock that morning—in 2010, I was at Rumshakers with a cast of characters. Belle was one of said characters, as was a tall, brunette friend of hers. At some point I turned from a conversation with others to find Belle’s friend with a mouthful of Polish tongue. With a chuckle I brought this display to our friends’ collective attention. Dupa had become the day’s drunk slut, making out with random girls at the bar.
  
  A little later he pulled himself away from his disappointing public display to wander off elsewhere in the establishment. I engaged in some small talk with Belle’s friend; but, as I was easing into a brownout, I cannot say with any certainty just what we talked about. What I can say with certainty, unfortunately, is that not long thereafter she had a mouthful of half-Black-half-amazing tongue. Realizing I had become what I had just clowned Dupa for being, I shot off a text to him: “Why am I cleaning up your mess?”
  
  
• I caught up with TJ, Prince of Ligonier, and others for a Friday happy hour at Tilted Kilt to celebrate Mrs. Prince’s birthday last June. Her good friend, Danielle, was dutifully by her side in the race to go from “sober” to “hammered”. After it was pointed out that she had misread a menu item, Danielle shook her head and picked up her glass of green cocktail, resigning, "I'm going to drink until it makes sense."
  
  
• During a random email conversation with Dupa one workday this past summer, he bemoaned the effects of his recent boozing. And I, in return, was full of sympathy.
  
  Dupa: “Four Loko is ruining my insides.”
  Me: “That’s kind of like accusing Hitler of ruining Hell.”
  
  
• Our 2011 Furry Safari was our best yet, comprising a full day of drunken revelry and plush costume pageantry. The day’s festive spirit may have been best vocalized by TK (who very nearly made me spit Corona all over Tonic’s sidewalk seating area with this comment, which came forth completely unprovoked and without warning): “I'd like to get a handjob from someone wearing a stuffed animal.”
  
  
• On Baby Joey’s birthday, Esq, Tank, and I joined him for some drinks at Mario’s in the South Side. Esq’s upcoming nuptials were never far from his mind, and this showed during a discussion about some of the more scandalous moments of our pasts. After taking a long pause, Esq’s face suddenly dropped, and he exclaimed, “Oh god—the next married woman I bang will be my own wife!”
  
  
• Steph attended the Steelers’ season opener in Baltimore; and, unlike me, she was not pleased with the outcome. Piling onto her misery the next morning was a massive hangover that had resulted from a full Sunday of heavy drinking and tailgating. When I asked if she had made it home to Queens yet, she texted back, “I’m still on a bus. I need a new soul right now.”
  
  
• With plans to go to a friend’s surprise birthday party on the upcoming Saturday night, Hurley and I texted back and forth to nail down the final details one day in June.
  
  Hurley: “You bringing anything outside of your good looks and charm?”
  Me: “Nope. I figure that alone is more than most women can handle.”
  
  
• The Sunday morning after Brewski Festival 2011—just like the morning after every previous Brewski Fest—was painful. Dupa and I decompressed in my car as we buzzed through the Western PA backwoods on our way to his parents’ house for a cookout. As I went about the standard day-after mental and emotional inventory check, I mentioned my failure to make use of the bottle of 5-Hour ENERGY that I had brought with me for Saturday’s fun. After a moment of quiet contemplation, Dupa proclaimed, "One of those and a Viagra, and I'd kill a bitch!"
  

Furry Safari

I think they thought I was kidding.

When asked, in the weeks and days leading up to the Anthrocon 2011 conference in Pittsburgh, what time would I be going downtown to watch the furries, I replied, “I don’t know…11 [a.m.]? 11:30?” The friend or coworker asking would usually chuckle and then proceed on with the conversation. Sometimes, though, he or she would pause to utter an expression of trepidation. Those were the precious few people who really know me, and who realized I wasn’t fucking around.

Two years ago, my friends and I had a life-changing experience. It was a balmy Thursday night in July, and—spurred by The Ex—we’d gathered at Bossa Nova for caipirinhas, mojitos, and salsa dancing. Then, overwhelmed by the first two and bored with the latter, a casual and spontaneous suggestion was made: Anthrocon was in town—we should go look at furries. Up to that point, furries were a nearly mythical subculture to me. My closest encounter with one had been watching Drama help a squirrel find a nut on “Entourage”. But, by the end of that night, we’d had so much fun that we knew furry hunting would be an annual event.

Last year we designated the Friday of the conference to be our day of safari. I met up with Dupa and “Hostess”, an old friend of his from high school, at Tonic Bar & Grill for a late lunch at around 2:30. Tonic is Furry Ground Zero; located on the corner of Liberty Avenue and 10th Street, it sits directly across 10th from the Westin Hotel, which more or less becomes a kennel the weekend of Anthrocon. All of us having taken a half-day off from our respective employments, we grabbed a spot in Tonic’s sidewalk seating and spent hours watching the herds pass, occasionally stopping one or more of them to take pictures with us. Throughout the rest of the day we were joined by just about every one of our brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, some of whom carried the party on through the night.

How can you possibly improve upon that type of impressive showing? Well…you start three hours earlier the next time.

I was the first to arrive at Tonic on Furry Friday this year, and I locked down a large table right at the corner while I awaited my comrades. Hostess was there within minutes, and after another ten Dupa was pulling up in a cab. All of us soon had mojitos, plates of food, and cameras with the safeties off in front of us.

Over the next couple of hours we drank and ate—and drank some more—while mingling with furries, fellow gawkers, and random friends who happened upon us as they walked to or from their lunch break destinations. Chappy eventually became the fourth member of our party, pulling up a chair after calling off work for the afternoon. Armo, too, made a similar executive decision to forego work for a seat in the eye of the furricane. TK, who worked in a building adjacent to the Westin, made frequent visits. He had recently decided to move to Tampa, and was now finishing off the first of his final two weeks in town. His senioritis had kicked in, and although he was to spend his remaining time with the company training his replacement, he found himself distracted by the warm weather, cold beers, and furry fun going on outside his skyscraper window. And so, about once every hour, we found TK strolling across the street in our direction, looking for a few sips of Corona and some fun.

Early on, Dupa made it known to us that he had set a goal for this year’s event: He wanted his picture taken lying across the outstretched arms of three or more furries. In other words, the ultimate leisure pose. When a group of four furries dressed as various cats and dogs stopped for us to take photos, Dupa’s face lit up with the anticipation of a dream coming true. That gleeful smile soon turned to a disappointed smirk when the pack of critters denied his pose request, claiming that the lack of grip in their hands paws would make it too difficult to hold him. Not much later, however, our friend struck gold: three more furries (also dressed as various animated canines) stopped for pictures, and they happily agreed to his pose idea. Dupa beamed in ecstasy as he laid awkwardly in their arms while our cameras clicked.

Last year, a large group of furries (as well as a mix of civilians) gathered in front of the Westin to play vuvuzelas in tribute to the ongoing World Cup. This, in turn, caused me to exclaim, “The furries have vuvuzelas! THE FURRIES HAVE VUVUZELAS!!!” as I sprinted through traffic and fumbled with my camera phone. This year, another demonstration of sorts took place. A long, white stretch Chrysler 300 limousine pulled up in front of the hotel, and out climbed five or six furries. I regret not heading over to get to know these particular fur-lovers better. They could have been the key to me pulling a Johnny Drama.

Now, I think I speak for the rest of the guys in my crew when I say that sex with a furry isn’t very high up on the ol’ bucket list. But if the opportunity—and a reasonably attractive female furry—presents itself, I’m certainly game. TK had been approached by a furry earlier in the week; she even went so far as to say, “You would be hitting on me if you could see what I look like under this costume” (when he asked if he knew her, she quickly walked away without an answer). And then, for the first time in our furry-hunting years (that we know of), we actually happened upon a woman worth consideration. A small fox (irony noted), running with a pack of plain-clothed handlers, sat down at a table near ours. When the costume head came off [remember, this was late June in Pittsburgh; temps hovered in the mid 80s with a healthy dose of humidity for much of the afternoon, which isn’t very kind to those wearing large, heavy, fur-covered outfits], we found a cute, petite girl in her mid-to-late 20s wiping sweat from her face and matted-down hair. But, at the risk of disappointing my dear readers, I have to report that none of us actually played “Tony” to this Anthrocon “Maria”. We all just admired from a distance, too wrapped up in the numerous platonic attractions going on around us.

When one furry wandered near our table, holding a staff and dressed as a creature that resembled a lion with horns, we snapped several pictures. Later, a heavyset guy in civilian clothing came strolling past, carrying a bag from a nearby sandwich shop and the same staff with which the lion had been walking. When asked, he confirmed that he was, indeed, the same person. I inquired about the lavish costume, and he revealed that it cost him about $3000. And the maker, a specialist in Boston, had undercharged him. “She probably could have asked for about $5000 for a costume like that.” “Lionel” (heh…) had brought another costume designed by the same woman with him to the conference as well. In all, he had brought four different getups for the weekend. He assured us that, after he had gone inside and eaten his dinner, he would be back as one of the other three characters.

The weather, though, soon prohibited that. As bad as heat and high humidity are for furries, the inevitable result—a summer rain shower—isn’t any better. It also doesn’t work for civilians on safari, watching from uncovered sidewalk seating. Our posse (which now included Jay Swag, Mitch Canada, TD, and her sister, “Green Pants”, among others) moved inside Tonic, to the upstairs bar and lounge area.

It was now after 5 pm, and downtown office-dwellers, fresh from the workweek, began pouring into the bar. A large percentage of those people were coworkers of Dupa and TK; had my brain not been on a Corona-and-furry high, I would have recognized this as a bad sign. Among the thousands of local men and women in that particular corporation’s employ, is one person who is guaranteed to suck the fun out of my Furry Safari: The Ex. In the nearly two years since our breakup, we’ve taken careful measures to avoid running into each other—at least I have; some of hers have been described as more “stalker” than “dodger”.

I was sitting at the bar talking to TK, when I saw a look come over his face as he stared towards the top of the stairwell behind me. He leaned over to me and said, “It just got bad.” Sure enough, as I glanced past him, I saw a familiar head of brown hair bounce by on its way to a table across the room. My reaction, in true Neil McCauley style, was to immediately turn and head downstairs.

All of ten seconds after I’d stopped in the downstairs bar to take a deep breath and consider my exit strategy, TD came chugging downstairs to my aid. “I couldn’t understand why you left—then I saw her!” After a few minutes of kvetching, I once again located my testicles and went back upstairs. Once there, I posted up at the bar with my back turned to The Ex’s side of the room, did a shot of American Honey with TD and Green Pants, and then gathered our crew and moved the party to August Henry’s.

Despite the last-chopper-out-of-Saigon-like retreat from Tonic, we had actually been planning on heading to August Henry’s (just not quite so early). The decision had been made hours earlier, when we learned that they would be hosting “Furrioke”—a.k.a. karaoke featuring furries. We found a table and ordered ourselves some dinner, and I fought off a newfound paranoia that made me look around every few minutes to see if we’d been followed. Tony soon joined us, and started tossing back beers and shots to catch up. Unfortunately, hardly any furries were there, making my daydreams of watching someone dressed as a wolf sing “Life is a Highway” feel somewhat unrealistic.

After a seemingly innocent trip to the bathroom, Dupa admitted to us that he’d thrown up in a urinal. And he was still rocked. Every experienced drinker knows that—sometimes—vomiting will clear your mind, freeing you up for another few hours of boozing. That didn't happen for Dupa, and he fully understood the gravity of that fact. He bid us adieu, walked outside, and caught a cab home.

And it wasn’t even dark outside yet.

The rest of the night came at me fast and furiously. Swag, TD, Tony, Mitch, and I eventually found our way over to Rumshakers, where our standard fare of beers and shots took on a much more sinister tone after a full day of drinking. A blackout had finally taken hold of me, and I was more than happy to relinquish command of the ship. My next clear thought came as I strolled along Grant Street alone—I was downtown again. After sleeping off some more of my drunk in my parked car, I came home and flopped onto my bed like I was shielding friends from a grenade. When I awoke the next morning, I was a little surprised there wasn’t a squirrel costume on the floor next to my bed.

There’s always next year.

God Bless America: Part 2

Friday

I woke up with an impressive hangover—and let’s be honest: if you wake up the day after partying with furries, and you don’t have a massive hangover, then you’ve made a major mistake somewhere along the way. Girlfriend insisted that she hadn’t been that drunk the previous night, and that all of her silliness had been a direct result of hanging with TD. I reminded her that TD wasn’t around when she did the Thriller dance. The subject was quickly dropped.

Though all of us laid low that night, I did have the following text exchange with TJ:

TJ: Anything going down?
Me: Not sure. [Dupa] wants to go to the South Side and hunt furries.
TJ: Oh Christ.


Saturday

If you’re a loyal “On the Rocks” reader—or if you’ve ever walked past one of us on a Saturday or Sunday morning as booze leaked from our pores—you know that we are enthusiastic about alcohol and the game of “drink”. But TJ and I look like devout Mormons compared to the blessed souls behind the 4th of July cookout that we attended on Saturday afternoon. My friend Jed and his family played host, and the text messaged invite that he sent a couple of days prior read as follows:

“Big things my place the 4th; 5 barrels, 30 cases, 5 malt cases, Jager fountain, ice luge, and 2k worth of booze. No charge, just be in it to win it. Right on the T line.”

If your lip just quivered as you read that, don’t worry. Mine did too, as the words leapt from the little LCD screen of my cell phone, through my eyes, and into my heart on that Thursday afternoon. In addition to those wonders listed in the invite, the party was equipped with:

• a large cooler filled with punch that was affectionately referred to as “rape juice”. It was mixed with grain alcohol, and was so perfectly blended that it tasted like pure punch.
• a jar of maraschino cherries that had soaked in vodka for about a week. These cherries came with a rule, though: Whoever ate the very last cherry had to then drink the entire jar of vodka juice left behind. I had a couple of cherries early on, but I wasn’t going near them later in the day. I’m not sure who eventually ate the last cherry, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he or she were still in a coma today.
• lots and lots of food. I made two trips to the buffet line, but that was only in the interest of being polite. I could easily have feasted all day long.

I partook of the ice luge early, to the utter delight (read: contemptuous disdain) of Girlfriend. Aside from that and some cups of rape juice, though, the day was more relaxed than one might expect. The weather was not your typical Pittsburgh July steam room, and instead a mild day in the low 70s. This seemed to put some of us in a lackadaisical mood (or maybe our party thresholds were just too high after watching a grown man in a puppy costume lay on his back and kick his legs in the air as Sherif rubbed his tummy). T.C. stopped by with Mrs. T.C. and their golden lab, Tank and Katie eventually made an appearance in time to catch the large fireworks display set off from the neighborhood park nearby, Dupa kept his pants on…all very subdued, grown-up, coupley stuff. With one very notable exception.

Jed, or one of his family members hosting the party, struck upon a brilliant idea in the form of a piñata. Now, the Fourth of July doesn’t exactly scream piñatas; nor does a party composed almost entirely of people over the age of 12. But piñatas are always a good source of audience participation, and the comedy of arming a blindfolded drunk with a wiffle ball bat and a “seek and destroy” mission is too good to pass up. To make it all more adult-relevant, therefore, the piñata was filled with:

• scratch-off lotto tickets;
• cans of Skoal;
• Mardi Gras beads;
• airplane bottles of various liquors; and
• condoms

As contestants swung away at glory, a girl would yank on a rope, lifting the target out of harm’s way. Finally, on the (ironically) 4th go at it, a young woman connected with the neck of the beast before it could make its vertical retreat. The body of it fell to the ground, and a scramble ensued. Because it was still mostly intact, not much of the contents had spilled out. “Rip that bastard open!” came ringing across the yard, and soon someone had done just that. Prophylactics, alcohol, and beads went flying everywhere. I made it out with a bottle of Jose Cuervo, a bottle of Seagrams 7, and a bottle of Bailey’s (I obviously had a single-minded purpose amid the scrum). The whole thing was caught on video by yours truly; I had been recording each challenger’s turn with the bat, but completely forgot that I was holding a running camera when the piñata broke. Click here for your viewing pleasure.


Sunday

My boy (“Sales Machine”) and his wife hosted a cookout at their house, and Girlfriend and I made the trek out to Freedom, PA to check it out. It was another relaxed day, with lots of food and drink. BlahBlahBlah was on hand—sans wife, which meant we got the regular BBB, not BBB Light. He was already playing beer pong when we walked into the backyard, giggling and tossing cups of beer down his throat. He and I would win a cornhole tournament that night, scoring $30 a piece—to the delight of Girlfriend, who had earmarked the loot for a mani-pedi before the first toss of the tourney had even been made.

The highlight of the evening, however, came as Sales Machine was playing cornhole earlier in the day. His brother, “Ad Sales”, was drunker than anyone, and made an innocent mistake in reaching out to hug a departing friend. As Mrs. Machine reported to Sales Machine, “Your brother was trying to hug [sic], and accidentally grabbed my boob!”

Machine wasn’t truly upset—after all, it was a simple mistake. But if you know brothers, then you know what was about to happen. Ad was standing over by the beer pong table, a good 40 ft away, with a guilty but cocky smile on his face. Machine fired one of the cornhole beanbags at the table, nailing the six cups filled with beer that were sitting in front of his little brother. Red Dixie Cups erupted into the air like bowling pins, soaking Ad with beer. I nearly fell out of my chair in laughter.

If you have to waste beer, then at least do it in style.