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.

Poppin' Bottles

Remember being a kid in the summertime, when the best thing ever was your mom pulling a box of popsicles out of the freezer for you and your friends? It's a phenomenon that disappears when you get older, for some reason. Popsicles are still tasty, and still refreshing on a hot summer day. But they have no magic about them anymore.

As with most things in this world, the solution is to add alcohol. Thrillist has compiled a list called, accurately, "Boozy Popsicle Recipes." And it could just be the best way to beat the heat.

What I Learned This Summer (2013)

You know the drill.

This is the fourth one of these posts that I’ve done in the past five years. If two is a coincidence and three is a trend, then four is definitely a standard. Which is ironic, since I’ve often been accused of not having standards. *cough* Moving on…

I love summer, and since my childhood I’ve worshipped it with a reverence typically reserved for favorite grandmothers. Ice cream truck jingles, pickup baseball games, and firecrackers started the romance in my days of innocence. Pool bars, bikinis, and outdoor happy hours have kept the flame alive after all of these years. For me, summer air carries a certain magic with it, be it real or imagined.

My list of memories from the Summer of 2013 feels a little less extensive than in years past (maybe that’s a blessing in disguise, though, given how long some of those posts have been). That may be due to shoddy note-taking (as always); or, maybe, it’s due to fewer shenanigans being had. Working 50 hours a week has worn me down over the past year, and as a result most Friday nights I’m too drained to get turnt up at the bars. I hate it—it’s like I’m being force-fed adulthood—but, unless I hit the lotto or marry a beautiful heiress, that’s life.

So, with no further delay (since it’s, you know, November December January February March [fight me]), and in no particular order, here are my lessons from the physically painful, mentally exhausting, emotionally dulling summer days of 2013 that I would gladly relive if given the chance.

• If a drunk friend runs away from you, let him go; if he comes back, it was meant to be. If he doesn’t…at least you won’t need staples in your leg. Yup. June 22, 2013 will go down in history as the dumbest day of my life. Well…top-5. Who would’ve thought going to a country concert tailgate wouldn’t be the stupidest thing I did that day?
  
  
• Parents always know when you’re being stupid. I limped into my mom’s house the day after the accident, expecting hysterics and motherly lectures. Instead, she reacted with a measured, cool demeanor, and calmly told me she’d dreamt the night before that I was in the hospital. That’s some ESP for your ass. At the same exact moment I was laid up in a hospital bed—in the same ER room, coincidentally, that she’d been in a little over a year before that—getting 16 staples put in my leg, she was having a dream about me being in the hospital. Our bond is tight.
  
  
• Stupidity is expensive. The bills for the ER visit and multiple follow-up doctor appointments were not cool. Perhaps worse, though, was buying more medical tape and gauze bandages every week. Somewhere out there is a mid-level manager at Johnson & Johnson who should shake my hand for sending his or her kid to college.
  
  
• There’s something scarier than 16 staples in your leg: Sobriety. My leg became infected during the recovery period. That meant antibiotics. That meant two weeks of July spent sober, praying PowerBall and modern science would rescue me with an infection-fighting rum that could only be found on a tropical beach populated by beautiful, sexually-adventurous women.
  
  
• Finding the right party means making tough decisions. Armo hosted a pool party in mid-August, but unfortunately it didn’t command the same attendance demographics (see: lots of morally bankrupt people, many of them in bikinis) that similar parties have in the past. Alex suggested, as the night set in, that we all head for life rafts and paddle back to Shadyside, where the season’s third and final “Jam on Walnut” was roaring to life. Armo refused to leave his place, vowing to go down with the ship. He’s a valiant captain. At least, that’s the thought I had as I fastened my life preserver seatbelt.
  
  
• When you’re friends with someone, there’s usually a pretty good reason for it. Alex, Tony, and I were the three mutineers that night. As we walked from her place to Shadyside Saloon, Alex tripped over the uneven sidewalk ahead of me. I began chuckling—fully intending to grow it into a self-righteous LOL—when I felt myself stumbling over the very same sidewalk bump. Just that quickly, my feelings of superiority had turned into dejected realism. As I stopped and collected my shattered self-worth, I heard Tony trip over the bump.
  
  We’re idiots.
  
  
• Only a drunk idiot puts a drunk idiot in charge of pizza. After the bars closed that night, we grabbed a couple of pies at S. Aiken Bar and Grille. For reasons unbeknownst to any of us once the sober hours arrived, I was given the responsibility of carrying the pizzas from there to my apartment. Alex instructed me not to eat any until we got to our destination; that rule might’ve held some weight with someone who hadn’t been drinking for most of the day, but…#drunchies. We weren’t even a quarter of the way to my place when she and Tony turned around to find me with sauce and cheese all over my face.
  
  
• What some call binge drinking, I call efficient packing. Each of the summer’s big three holidays—Memorial Day Weekend (MDW), Fourth of July, and Labor Day Weekend (LDW)—saw my friends and I squeeze three or more days full of crazy into one small calendar entry. As natural as such mini-binges have been over the past 15 or so years of my life, it took until just now for me to realize that those were the only three-day calendar entries of the summer. Far from being a symptom of alcoholic dependencies, those multiday adventures were actually a symptom of adulthood. We’ve found ourselves clinging ever-so-tightly to the windows of liberty shared by our calendars as we’ve grown older (especially as, in turn, those windows have grown increasingly-rare). It’s the life of busy adults trying to get the most out of the infrequent times when they were free from responsibilities.
  
  

• Responsibilities are Father Time’s rapey minions. Like many people, I often daydream of winning a huge PowerBall lotto payout. But I’ve come to realize that it’s not necessarily the financial freedom that fuels those fantasies, it’s the freedom itself. No alarm clocks, no project deadlines. No bosses. Just living life as it comes to you each day.
  
  
• Not working can be hard work. Of those three holiday weekends, LDW was arguably the least hedonistic. But it might still have been the shortest on sleep.
  
  We kicked it off with the Oddball Comedy Festival that Friday. TD, Boy Toy, Armo, Weatherman, and several others joined me in some parking lot imbibing (read: pounding beers like they were cheap sluts earning rent money) in the summer sunshine, followed by throwing back tallboys of Heineken inside the First Niagra Pavilion grounds in the summer moonlight. Dave Chappelle, Hannibal Burress, Kristen Schaal, and everyone else killed it, while I killed every beer and shot that came within 10 feet of me.
  
  
• Following your dreams is scary as shit. And I haven’t even done it. But I’ve stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the ground below, and wondered how I could ever fly above it. I have endless respect for those who’ve taken that step forward. I pray I man up and follow you soon, before it’s too late.
  
  
• When you do make a bold decision, don’t half-ass it. In July TD and I, out of the clear blue sky, decided to go on a bar crawl—after a whiskey distillery tour. And when we come at you, we come hard. (Wait…)
  
  
• Life is what you make it. Seriously, we wrecked shop that day. Nine bars. Nine bars AND A WHISKEY DISTILLERY. And we never really broke a sweat. In fact, all of us handled ourselves like all-stars the entire Fourth of July weekend, going strong four days straight. That was one of those moments where you find yourself smiling at all that just took place, as you lay on your couch in agony on Sunday afternoon.
  
  
• LDW is officially fantasy football Christmas. Saturday of LDW—as is tradition—featured the annual W&J draft at Armo’s house. It was one of two that I attended that weekend. Finn, Chief, Esq, BBB, Tony, our friend Keith, and others met to bust each other’s balls and select fantasy teams over lots of pizza and lots of beer. I don’t know if it’s due to football having dominated that weekend for numerous years now, but hearing “LDW” just triggers images of the game in my head, like saying “Fox News” makes you picture a monkey throwing its own shit at a wall.
  
  
• The better you are at something, the more you suffer for your art. This year saw me manage six fantasy football teams of my own, and consult two of my friends’ teams. Every godforsaken day from mid-August through the end of December saw me dividing up the free time I don’t have between fantasy research, eight leagues, and the CS pages. Who needs a love life?
  
  
• Love lives are second-class citizens in a world that’s home to fantasy football. One of those friends who employed me as a consultant was Dupa. He flew into Pittsburgh late on the Saturday night of LDW for his league’s draft, which would be held Sunday afternoon. By early Sunday evening, he was on a plane headed back to Houston.
  
  His girlfriend lives here in Pittsburgh. He didn’t visit her during the approximately 20 hours he was here. …She was not happy.
  
  
• Getting drunk with your homies is like riding a bike. On his one night in town, Dupa dialed the knob to “full turnt.” He drank himself silly on the plane, and then led Tony and me to Shady Grove straight from the airport. In the 20 minutes after we walked through the doors, we consumed a round of Long Islands, a round of Jager Bombs, and a round of Heinekens. By the end of the night I was taking pictures of Dupa sitting alone on a city bench with his arm around a pizza, as he made sex faces at it.
  
  
• Fuck fire hose fittings. Seriously. To this day I feel myself get nervous and twitchy each and every time I walk near a fitting sticking out of a wall or a hydrant on the sidewalk.
  
  
• I don’t know how Pak’s wife does it. For reasons only known to divinities of the universe, I spent three consecutive weekends hanging out with Pak in Shadyside. Week 1 was two homies wanting to drunk; Week 2 was the summer’s second Jam on Walnut; and Week 3 was the annual kickball tournament that turns my friends into booze zombies. Safe to say, Mrs. Pak hated me as much as I hated Pak by the end of that stretch.
  
  
• It’s possible to be a bigger drunken spectacle than Pak. The second of those weeks, the Jam, found Tony in his drunkest form. Pregaming at my place, drinking beers on Walnut St., and downing shots and drinks at Shady Grove did in the homie, who was an irrationally-angry mess—a.k.a. “full-on Irish”—by midnight.
  
  Realizing that his night had reached its peak, I walked him home. Along the way, we passed various random bands of revelers strolling through the neighborhood. And each time someone in one of those clusters would raise their voice in excitement over whatever it was that they were discussing, Tony’s reaction was to accuse them of talking shit on him, and to attempt to dart in their direction.
  
  
• With age comes experience…and shame. The following week—that of the kickball tourney after party—Tony balked at Pak’s and my suggestions that he come catch up with us. He was worried that most of Shadyside would remember him as the blotto fool he had been the previous week. He finally relented when I reminded him that all of the people that had seen him be a drunken asshole that night were, themselves, drunken assholes that night.
  
  
• Fate is a woman. Related: Women are cruel. The postgame partying after the kickball tourney saw some wild sights, including our girl Liz expressin’ herself on the wall at Mario’s East Side. The star of the night, though, was Armo.
  
  It’s rare that we get the Italian Stallion to venture outside the five-mile radius encircling his house (as evidenced by the fifth bullet point of this post); his average is about once a year. On this uncommon night, he met a cute blonde girl at Grove, who talked him up for most of the night. Keith and I watched from nearby barstools, sipping our beers like proud parents. At close, her friends pulled her in the opposite direction from the one our collection was headed in, so Armo and blondie did the whole huddle-on-the-sidewalk-away-from-your-friends-while-exchanging-phone-numbers ceremony. She then made him a tongue-wrestling practice dummy in front of their friends and the world.
  
  
  That Monday he texted her to see if there were flames to fan. She mentioned that she has a boyfriend. A boyfriend with whom she lives. Armo considered that maybe once-a-year was too often to venture out into the world.

The Summer of 2013 may have turned into November December January February March [fight me] as quickly as it appeared, but we’ll always have the memories.

…And the scars.

Spin to Win

Q: How do bros open beer?

A:

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.

What I Learned This Summer (2011)

[Note: I started writing this collection of tales in September, but was soon distracted by life’s various other comings and goings. These anecdotes—and the collection as a whole—were something I really wanted to get published, and as such I made sure to complete this write as soon as I found some free time. So even though it is now nearly Winter 2011, I am publishing this in full. Hell, I’m just happy I got it up before Summer 2012. Brace yourselves, this is a long one.]

Summer of 2011…I barely knew thee.

Time is cruel—this is well-known and well-documented. But, for my money, its most sinister trick is this: The older you get, the slower your internal clock moves. When I was a kid and my mother told me to wait 20 minutes, I endured what felt like two weeks before those 20 minutes expired. A day was a year. A year equaled a lifetime. But, now that I’m an adult, everything has turned around. A year goes by in a day, and a day is merely a blink of the eye.

Two years ago—though it feels like a week—I wrote a post about the Summer of 2009’s various episodes and shenanigans. It served two purposes for me: It helped me cope with the heartache I was feeling over The Ex, fresh as our breakup was; and it gave me a fairly simple and clean way of dumping all of the various untold drunken stories from the previous three months on you, the reader. A summer’s worth of alcohol-fueled absurdity wrapped up neatly into one narrative. Easy.

The Summer of 2011, thankfully, didn’t feature a tortuous love story. But once again it was full of small tales and anecdotes that have yet to be shared here at On the Rocks. While I saved my heart the anguish of a doomed romance, I wasn’t nearly as kind to my liver. Or to my pride. But life still happens; as such, there is one note in particular from this summer that plays more “Landslide” than “Where the Party At?” And so, in no particular order, I give you the various lessons on life and the pursuit of alcoholic perfection that I gathered through the fleeting days of my favorite season.

• If you’re drinking a milkshake that isn’t 75% alcohol, you’re just not doing it right. One humid night in August, TJ introduced me to a crew of beautiful sluts: BRGR’s “spiked shakes”—most notably the Salty Caramel. The combination of the juvenile glee you feel when drinking a milkshake and the juvenile behavior you exhibit when three sheets to the wind is life-affirming. Stated. 

• Don’t let the fact that it’s not your pool stop you from throwing a great pool party. One Friday in July, Armo and I talked about the weekend ahead. Neither of us had much of anything planned, though our buddy Tea Bags would be in town and hanging out at Armo’s house the next day. Owning nothing but my balls and my word, I suggested to Armo that he turn his Saturday of quiet relaxation into a full-fledged pool party. Surprisingly, no further convincing was needed. Each of us shot texts and phone calls around the Pittsburgh area, and the next day a bevy of guests rocked out in his backyard with food, drinks, sun and fun.

• Lemonade-vodka is the debbil. This one is more of TJ’s lesson than my own. On that bright summer day at Armo’s, the vast majority of the party was drinking Landshark and various other beers; since he doesn’t drink beer, TJ brought a bottle of Sweet Carolina Lemonade Vodka. By about 8 pm, he was a lost soul. He fell asleep at the table on the deck. He slurred words as though his tongue was glued to his cheek. And, when Rackt tried to gather him up to go home, he took off running into the house, making ungodly noises from the bathroom as he emptied his stomach of any food he’d eaten since high school.

• Stairs are bad for your back. More specifically, sliding down a flight of stairs is bad for your back. Full of beer and cheer, I managed to slip while heading down Armo’s basement stairs on a bathroom break at the same pool party. Each step hit me like a bag of bricks as I fell for what felt like an hour. Gooney goo-goo.

• Know how to leave anything in 30 seconds when you feel the heat coming. TK decided to make a better life for himself by moving to Tampa, FL. So on the Friday of Fourth of July Weekend, some of his coworkers held a going-away happy hour for him at Sammy's on Liberty and 9th. After getting confirmation from TK that The Ex wouldn’t be there (ironically), I stopped by to share a few cold ones in celebration. Of the coworkers who were in attendance, one in particular stuck out of the crowd; she was middle-aged (whereas everyone else was no older than their early 30s), overweight, frumpy, and had that look of being slightly “off”. I could almost sense the story approaching. Sure enough, I was soon informed by TK and the others that she was “that” woman in their office, the strange bird who was always saying or doing something to make them mouth the letters “w”, “t”, and “f”. And, as if to help initiate me into this circle of work friends, she soon provided a glaring example of this insanity.
  

She found a moment to pull TK aside for a one-on-one conversation, and minutes later we saw him abruptly turn and head out the door of the bar. We asked the crazy coworker what had happened, but she was as shocked as the rest of us to see him go. When he hadn’t returned 15 minutes later, she left for the night. TK finally reappeared a good half hour after that, at which point he explained why he had bolted. “She told me, ‘You don’t know how many internal orgasms I’ve had sitting next to you for the last few years.’”

• Life is a highway, especially when you’re drunk at 3 a.m. Later that night, I found myself on Mt. Washington with Jay Swag and others. And I was obliterated. Like my father’s fond of saying, I “couldn’t find my ass with two hands and a flashlight.” Pak had been involved in the night; as I’ve explained on numerous occasions, his presence means shots. And, as I’ve also made abundantly clear in the past, hiking is one of my favorite drunken pastimes. Something inside of me decided I needed to get to my car. It was, however, parked in the lot of Esq’s apartment building downtown [parking during nights and weekends is free, and it’s near Sammy’s], which was two miles of steep hillside, bridges, and city streets away. I didn’t give this much serious consideration however, because…well, because I wasn’t giving anything serious consideration (see the word “obliterated” above).
  

The first thing I remember clearly is finding my path obstructed by a concrete structure. I climbed over it, and proceeded on. I was then in a valley of concrete. It was everywhere. The hills that surrounded the valley, the valley floor…everything was concrete. “What a strange land. Though I feel like I’ve seen it before…”

Yup, I was standing in the middle of Interstate 579. I’m infinitely grateful that no cars or semis were on that stretch of highway at that moment—although I’m sure it would’ve clued me in a little faster. As you might imagine, I wasted little time scurrying the rest of the way across the highway and up over the embankment.

• The house party didn’t die with Kid ‘n Play’s careers. I had the pleasure of being introduced to a previously-unchartered group of TD’s friends, and these people understand how to party. I attended two of their house parties: the first featured beer pong rules diligently explained in chalk on the driveway—including one involving streaking; the second, a “Xmas in July” party, featured a pope hat made out of a Miller Lite case, and a nativity scene that would make a West Boro Baptist freak’s head explode.

They held at least four or five parties over the course of the summer; the invitation for one even led to a “Wifey Material” post. These are some new friends that I definitely cherish.

• Sometimes you’ve gotta make your own fun. I awoke on my living room couch the day after the Xmas in July party. TD had dropped me off the night before, and that’s pretty much all I remembered. Due to water damage that my landlord did such a wonderful job of fixing, paint on my bedroom ceiling had been peeling off in large swaths for the previous couple of months. But on this particular morning, when I walked into my bedroom, I found that the paint was no longer hanging from the ceiling; it had now been relocated to the floor. And my bed. And my dresser. And any other horizontal surface in the room. Paint chips littered the landscape of the room for as far as the eye could see.

I fought through my cloudy recollection of the previous 12 hours, searching for an explanation. Finally, I managed to recall the memory I was looking for: In my drunken stupor, I had decided to play a new game called “Swat the Paint”. And when I play, I play to win.

• Boobs are better than Visa cards. On the Sunday of Fourth of July Weekend, TJ, Dupa, and I attended a small barbecue at our friend’s house. “Enzie”—as she and her siblings have nicknamed her drunken alter ego—was preparing pitchers of mojitos all day, and they were disappearing just as rapidly as she was making them. As the night set in, though, a day of drinking outside in the heat was beginning to overwhelm her. She wanted to go swimming, but the fact that she doesn’t own a pool was a bit of a setback. When we mentioned that Armo has one, Enzie implored us to ask him if we could all come over to swim. I texted him to see if he was home; he was, but he said that he had been drinking all day, and was going to call it an early night.

I relayed this information to the group, but Enzie struck upon an idea. Squeezing together her ample chest in her tank top, she told me to snap a picture of her cleavage and send it to him. A few minutes after I’d hit “send”, Armo responded with, “Well, I guess I can stay up for a little while longer. How long ‘til you guys get here?”

• If you don’t have boobs, pay with vodka. TD wanted to pregame at my place and then hang out in Shadyside one Friday in August, but I was reluctant to host people since my apartment was in serious need of a thorough cleaning. She then offered to act as my maid that afternoon, and to help prepare my place for guests. All she asked for in return was to drink. The price was right; I picked up two bottles of Clique on my way home from work, and TD soon arrived with a bag of Wendy’s with which to fortify her bloodstream. My little blonde friend then dusted and vacuumed in a black and white dress until my place was sparkling clean, all while tossing back drinks.

• Too much success can go to your head…especially when you’re being paid in vodka. TD and I were both annihilated later that night. As she and I sat with Pakistanimal and others at Le Mardi Gras, I found myself desiring a little stroll. I ducked out—under the pretense of taking a phone call—and was soon back at my apartment, in my bathroom with the lights turned off, hurling into my sink. Not long after that, the little blonde Tasmanian devil came looking for me with Pak in tow. They were, of course, locked out of the building; and, since my phone was in the other room, I wasn’t answering it. TD’s keys were on my dining room table though, which launched her into a furious rage. She circled outside of my basement apartment shouting and cursing at me, she kicked at the metal bars on my windows, and she screamed at my neighbors when they stuck their heads out of their windows—all while using hurtful language that’s quite unbecoming of a lady.

When I was finally able to clean myself up a little and get to my phone, I texted Pak to let him know I’d open the door if they were still there. Fuming, TD stormed into my apartment, pushed past me, grabbed her keys, and then marched back out the door. She later told me that, as she drove home, she decided she wanted pizza. She stopped at a place in Oakland—by herself—and bought a whole pie. Halfway between there and home she pulled over to the side of the road to talk on the phone with her friend and have a slice. She woke up the next morning with a headache, a half of a pizza sitting in a box on her coffee table, and a laundry list of questions.

• You don’t have to be the VIP to party in VIP. One Saturday found me at Hofbrauhaus with BlahBlahBlah to celebrate his birthday. We drank litre stein after litre stein of beer with his cousins Joel and Jay, retelling for their enjoyment (and ours) some of our more treasured drunken tales (like the Virginia crackhouse story)—though only while safely out of earshot of Mrs. BBB. One of his cousins, Jay’s little brother, couldn’t make it out that night because he had to work at Diesel. He told BBB to bring the party down to the South Side nightclub; he would make sure the birthday boy and all of his guests had a table and complimentary bottle service. But BBB is a parent of two young kids, and is—by definition—lame. So around 11 p.m. he and his wife called it a night, heading straight home from Hofbrauhaus. Joel, Jay and I, however, are not lame; we also are not too bashful to make use of the generous VIP gift that had been offered to BBB. We found our way to Diesel, were escorted to our table by the club’s hottest young hostess, and partied as though it was our birthday.

• Tailgating ain’t just for sports and concerts. When Rackt made plans to fly up from Tampa for a visit, TJ came up with a masterful plan. She would be going from work to the airport to Pittsburgh on Friday, July 8th, which also happens to be her birthday. Due to the fact that she wouldn’t be landing until about 11 p.m. and the amount of time that it takes to pick up baggage and drive into town, she wouldn’t be left with any real time to get to the bar for a drink on her special day. For Rackt, who is as big of a boozehound as the rest of us, this was depressing news.

TJ, dedicated boyfriend that he is, then decided to bring the drink—and party—to her. He gathered Chappy, Dupa, TD, Belle, and I, filled up a cooler with beer, and set up shop in the Pittsburgh International Airport’s short-term parking lot. While the rest of us drank beers in the parking lot, he went inside to greet the birthday girl, and signaled us via text to hide when they were heading out. When we jumped out from behind our parked cars yelling “Surprise!”, Rackt dropped her suitcase and ran in terror, TJ fell over laughing, and families loading cars nearby looked on in complete confusion.

• If you spent money on a ticket, you probably shouldn’t blackout during the movie. Tony, Dupa, Chappy, and I caught the midnight release of “The Hangover 2” on the Thursday night before Memorial Day Weekend. We had dinner—though it was mostly an excuse to enjoy a few drinks—at Bar Louie Waterfront before heading over to the theater. As charged as we were, a table of ladies near us on the patio was above and beyond that. Well, at least one gal in particular was. She was unequivocally shitfaced, in fact. She frequently burst out in song, wailing horribly off key as her friends tried to muzzle her. She couldn’t stay seated, often getting up and stumbling around their table. And sure enough, as we walked into the Loews, we saw the four girls heading towards a theater showing Hangover 2. I wish I’d looked for her when the lights came up after the movie; I would’ve been shocked if she was still awake by then.

• There’s a reason they don’t call it “Bangkunt”. *shivers*

• Gravity is not your friend. The next day TJ and some fellow young professionals with whom he works met for happy hour at Kelly’s in Shadyside. He sent out the bat signal, and was soon joined by Pakistanimal and yours truly on the patio with mojitos. Kelly’s is an older bar, and their deck furniture is what you might call “vintage”; it seems that people of the early 1940s weren’t quite of Pak’s proportions. As we all sat around talking, he leaned back with a cigarette. He leaned…WAY back. Hearing a crash, we looked over to see the back of his chair resting on the ground, parallel to the base of the chair. And still seated in it—as though the world had shifted and not his seat—was Pak, who casually lit his cigarette and stared up at the sky.

• Sometimes you really do need an excuse to go to a strip club. And Tony and I stumbled onto a pretty good one on a Friday night in August. As we rode in a cab to Villa to get down for Dr. Kelly’s birthday, an unfamiliar song came over the radio. A female emcee began spitting what, to be honest, sounded like very amateur rhymes. The cabbie said that the song was by a local group, and that the emcee’s “day job” was dancing at Cricket, a strip club in Oakland. As you might imagine, this tidbit caught our attention. Later in the night Tony and I decided to leave Villa early, and caught a cab to Cricket in search of a naked lyricist. We had no luck, however; she wasn’t working that night (if she even works there at all). We reluctantly accepted the consolation prize: watching the naked girls who were working while we drank a few beers. It’s a tough life.

• There’s “sloppy-drunk”, and then there’s “Enzie-drunk”. Enzie’s birthday party was a one-woman clusterfuck. I met up with her and her crew around 10 pm on a Saturday in July, as they walked from Bar Louie Station Square to Barroom. She was already slurring her words, which were forming sentences that rapidly sped off on random tangents. Once inside Barroom, she kicked it up a notch. She pounded Captain & Cokes like a poisoning victim being given cups of the antidote; she was barefoot before midnight, her red pumps relegated to a bar stool; and she darted back and forth between the dance floor and the bar, under the watchful eye of her friend, Kara. Entertainer, Russ, and I drank and watched with wonder as she careened towards a bad end.

Then, while next door at Saddle Ridge (…fight me), that end finally came. Enzie wanted to dance again, and again dragged Kara out to the dance floor. I turned my attention towards the bar, trying to find Russ, who had walked over there a few minutes prior. Then I heard a thud. I spun around to find Enzie sitting on the floor in a heap near my feet. She had come running over to where I was—still barefoot—and slipped in the process, going down hard [the following week a doctor would diagnose her with a separated shoulder, caused by bracing herself as she fell]. In running from the dance floor, she had somehow managed to elude Kara’s observation, and I now had to signal her to come over and assist our drunken Italian friend. I helped her get back up on her bare feet; Kara decided it was best to quit while Enzie wasn’t ahead, and to take her back to her house in Mt. Washington for the night. I agreed, saying goodbye to them and finishing out the night at the bar with Russ and a group of bachelorettes.

A half hour later, as I walked to my car, I got a call from Enzie’s phone. She wanted me to come pick her up from Kara’s, and to take her back to her own house. I agreed to help, and when I pulled up in front of Kara’s place, Enzie was lying on her back on the sidewalk, looking up at the stars.

• A pwning is always in the last place you look for it. Early in June we all descended upon Hofbrauhaus, this time to celebrate Pak’s birthday. I arrived with TJ, but when we reached the front doors he was turned back for not having his ID. And while I’ve noted before that this is a fairly rookie mistake, TJ had actually physically lost his license a week earlier. He figured it wouldn’t affect his bar night, though, since he’s well past the years of being confused for 20. The Hofbrau bouncers were not, however, in a generous mood; they flatly denied his entrance, despite our appeals to their common sense. Flustered and angry, TJ caught a cab home, cursing out the German restaurant on Facebook and Twitter.

A week or two later, I received a text from him saying that he’d found his license. When I asked where, he paused and sheepishly replied, “In a different part of my wallet.”

• Sometimes life is like a beer commercial. One Friday in June, several of us decided to meet up at Redbeard’s for happy hour to start the night. I arrived shortly after TD and a few of her girlfriends, who were seated at a table on the patio, and was followed thereafter by a steady stream of familiar faces. Our party eventually featured nearly 20 people, including a bevy of crew members like Pak, TJ, Tony, Dupa, Smashley, Jay Swag, Mitch Canada, and TK. Surrounded by my peoples, and with both booze and heavy laughter flowing in the warm night air, the scene was as perfect of one as you can experience in a random and impromptu moment of your youth.

• A drunk Dupa = a sadomasochistic Dupa. Unfortunately, our buddy was a little too full of liquid mirth to fully appreciate the abstract beauty of that night. In the short hour or so that he was hanging with us, he managed to: (1.) Smash his toe, leading to a steady river of blood from a broken toenail, which then stained both his sandals and the patio concrete; and (2.) pose for pictures in which he first used his belt to choke himself, and then used it to choke his boy “Tennessee”.

• Time not only leaves quickly, but it takes people with it. Despite the cheery picture that my various tales about this past July may have painted, it was a tough month for me. I lost my Aunt Barbara, who had been my godmother and a pillar of my mom’s family; Mrs. T.C. lost her cousin Michael, who I had also known from our time at W&J together; and Tony lost one of his closest friends, Jeff G., who I had been friends with for the last ten years.
  
  Aunt Barbara and I were close at times, and at other times butted heads, but the love and respect between us never diminished. Her death was difficult, but I was at least comforted by knowing that she had enjoyed the luxury of living a long and eventful 80 years of life. The same could not be said for Mike (29) and Jeff (37), though, and that made their deaths that much more difficult. Both were outgoing guys who had accumulated many more friends than enemies in this world, and the families of each are both still feeling the sting. Jeff left behind a daughter who will never know firsthand just how much fun her old man was to be around. May they all rest in peace, and have a cold drink waiting for me when it’s my turn to join them. R.I.P.

Appreciate the people around you who appreciate you back. Drink responsibly—as in, get sloppy and take a cab. And always tip your bartenders and waitresses. If I’m around come Summer 2012, I’m meeting it with shades and a caipirinha.

Salud.

What I Learned This Summer

If you’re a fan of this blog, then you know the standard rote of my stories is anything but somber. Bawdy, and at times both self-depreciative and full-on arrogant, I try to focus on the lighter side of things when presenting you glimpses of my life. More “Welcome to the party,” less Sylvia Plath. But after seeing me use “rote,” “somber,” “bawdy,” and “self-depreciative” in the first two dozen or so words, you probably already know that this post is going to be a little different.

To be cliché, the summer of ’09 was an emotional rollercoaster for yours truly. It started on the high that comes with true and devoted love, and the implicit freedom of spirit that summer brings. It ended…well, south of there. But not before going through loops and twists, screeching dives and nerve-melting climbs.

My less-than-prolific writing for the page in the last couple of months has had everything to do with my relationship with Girlfriend dying a valiant but painful death. I’ve never written a country song, so heartache and beers don’t go together well for me. My time spent at watering holes and social events dropped to about an eighth of what it normally was, including a solid month where I stayed away from nightlife all together. I missed a raucous celebration at Barroom for Baby Joey’s birthday, a drunken “Jam on Walnut” concert in July, South Side shenanigans, guys’ nights at strip clubs, and much more, all while alternating between trying to piece together my love life and trying to piece together my sanity.

When I finally did manage to put the woes of my personal life aside for a night here and there, my friends did their utmost to make sure that I—and by extension, On the Rocks—was provided with quality happenings and material. The catch is that the next day I was always right back in reality; nursing a hangover in both my heart and my head, and uninterested in scribing about the sights, sounds, and laughs that had been had.

Now, after two months, I’ve decided to gather those random anecdotes that have been sitting dormant in my memory banks while I’ve let my wounds heal. And, given the change of the season and the self-reflection that comes with saying goodbye to another summer—not to mention, that which comes with saying goodbye to someone incredibly special to me—I’ve put it all into a list of lessons that the summer of 2009 has taught me. I’m not abandoning humor altogether, of course. Nothing helps cure pain better than laughter; but forgive me for expressing a bit more sentiment than one might come to expect from a typical “On the Rocks” writing. So, in no particular order…

• Tequila is a bitch–and I’m not talking about Tila. Although I’m sure Shawne Merriman wouldn’t disagree if I were. Shots of Patron were inexplicably made a key part of Chappy’s birthday celebration one Saturday in late August. The next day sunlight felt like lasers being beamed through my retinas. A week later, at TK’s birthday party, I was guilted into doing two shots of Cuervo. I ended the night relatively sober, but still felt like I was going to die the following morning. Maybe it’s just a sign of my age—I used to drink the stuff (ironically) on the rocks. But now it’s liquid H1N1 to me.
• Chappy’s a clever little rascal. The morning after his birthday partying, I awoke to a voicemail from him on my phone. “Hey buddy. I hid a bottle of Gatorade in your kitchen so [LRG] and Toe wouldn’t drink it, but I forgot about it. If you want it, it’s in the cupboard above your fridge.” I went to the cabinet and, sure enough, there was a delicious blue “morning after pill” (a 32 oz. bottle of Gatorade) tucked away next to the microwaveable popcorn. I was thoroughly impressed—I didn’t even think the diminutive guy could reach all the way up there.
• Cleverness, however, does not translate into fashion sense. After making his final wardrobe preparations for a birthday spent hitting the Shadyside bars, Chappy emerged from the bedroom of my apartment wearing a tight, military gray button down shirt with straps on the shoulders.
Me: “Hey look, it’s Pat Benatar!” TJ: “Dawg, Fidel Castro is in Shadyside!” Me: *everyone’s laughing* “Don’t listen to them, Chappy. Love is a battlefield.”
• 60 percent of the time, it works EVERY time. LRG made a faux pas of his own: too much cologne. When he walked into the living room after getting ready, a Chernobyl cloud of musk engulfed all of us.
TJ: “Go easy on the ‘Sex Panther,’ son!”
• There may never be another icon in music as big as Michael Jackson. In these fast-paced, bottom line-driven days of Twittering-induced media frenzies, stress-induced burnouts, and substance abuse-induced rehab stints, no one man or woman is capable of standing as a polarizing pop idol. The global scale of the mourning, and the number of impromptu public memorials that took place within 24 hours of Michael’s passing were mind-blowing. And this was after the last 20 years of his life, which were fraught with accusations, oddities, and controversy that tainted many people’s perceptions of him. Love him or hate him, each and every one of you ultimately knew his name and his songs. What other human being has ever been that famous? There are foreign countries where you can say “Elvis Pressley” and be met with a blank stare; or mention Jay-Z’s name, and no one even notices. But all of them—every last one of them—knew who Michael Jackson was.
• Beer pong has come to the hood. Not that you’ll be seeing Game and Kanye playing in a video anytime soon. But when I went to Baltimore for my cousin’s wedding in May, I found myself playing the sport of frat boys on the front porch of another cousin’s row house, while a world that the majority of my fellow W&J alumni have only seen on The Wire buzzed on the streets and alleys all around me.
• Tigers love pepper. But they hate cinnamon.
• Streets were made for dancing, not driving. About 15 to 20 of my friends and I were at Carson City Saloon for Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals to watch our Penguins win it all. Watching the game itself—a packed bar; live news coverage with one of the local sports anchors on the scene; beers, shots, and food with friends; and nothing but black and gold Pens shirts and jerseys as far as the eye could see—was exciting, but the moments after the game clock ticked “00:00” were sheer mayhem. Beer sprayed in every which direction inside of the bar, and a deafening roar felt like it would blow out the windows. In an instant I was standing in the middle of Carson Street, still screaming my lungs out. People, almost all of whom were complete strangers, were shouting with me, high-fiving, dapping, hugging. Looking back at the doors of CC Saloon, I saw Pakistanimal standing on the steps, screaming and pointing back at me. Dupa and Shock B. joined six or seven other people in climbing atop a Dodge Durango that had the misfortune of being at the stoplight as revelers poured from every doorway and collided in a wash of jerseys, mock Stanley Cups, and uncontrollable exhilaration. Even Sheldon Ingram, the WTAE sports anchor who had been filming live on location, sat on the roof of the Durango, reporting the bedlam to a rolling camera.
• It’s never too early for a good frozen margarita. Pakistanimal and I went downtown for the Penguins’ victory parade the following Monday morning. While we waited for Chappy to meet up with us, we each decided to order a drink at Easy Street to pass the time. I soon had a new favorite breakfast food.
• Even though two people love each other, that doesn’t mean that they should be together. We often overlook the wrongs that our significant others do, focusing instead on the good. But sometimes it’s the person you care about the most that can cut you the deepest, and everyone has a limit.
• Experience can trump youth. At TK’s party, Tony and I stepped up to the beer pong table expecting a battle, as we were two of the oldest people in attendance. Some of our opponents would be less than a year removed from college. In the end we went 6-0, though, only facing one serious challenge where the game was taken into overtime.
• Alcohol can trump experience. The quote of the day on Chappy’s birthday belonged to LRG, as he tried to persuade Toe to approach two plus-sized girls with him. “They’re fat, but we’re drunk. That equals…happiness.”
• You can get drunk off of meat. Brazilian grills—such as Green Forest Cafe in Penn Hills, PA—are godsends. Girlfriend, Sherif, Dupa, and I made a trip to Green Forest one Saturday in early July, and I wobbled away three hours later feeling woozy.
• There’s a fanboy (or girl) inside all of us. Dupa, TJ, and I caught the midnight release of Transformers II: Revenge of the Fallen in June (after dinner and drinks with Pakistanimal at Bar Louie) in a packed-to-the-exits, under-air-conditioned theater. While waiting for the lights to dim, I updated my Facebook status to one that confessed my inner geek. Quickly friends of mine from all around the country chimed in to say they were either at multiplexes too, or planned to be in the next several hours. One female friend and her husband were even at the same Loews, a couple of theaters down the hall.
• If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.
• Germans know how to party. Hofbrauhaus, a new German restaurant and microbrewery in the South Side Works, has quickly gained accolades from the area’s professional drinkers. They serve their “biers”—all of which are delicious—in litre glass steins. And, on a good night, the place is packed with people, loud music, and singing. Prince of Ligonier held a birthday party for his wife there one night in June, giving Dupa, TJ, and I our first experiences with this new arena. At one point I turned to our group and said, “I just saw an Asian girl standing on a table in a German restaurant, singing Neil Diamond. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I like it!” That night we also had our first experience with a shotski…
• Shotskis are like your friend’s little sister: tempting and fun, but dangerous. TJ’s friend “Yum” recently moved into the region, and came to a cookout at Chappy’s equipped with a shotski from the bar where she works. A few rounds of those had our collection of scoundrels woozy; and, it being my first night of drinking following the aforementioned month on the sidelines, I sped towards a blackout.
• There’s a reason he’s called “Pakistanimal”. As bad as I was, he was worse. By 11 pm he was vomiting in the middle of the street in front of Chappy’s house, which sits in a very quiet, respectable suburban neighborhood. Not long after that he was shirtless—prominent brown belly glistening under the streetlights—and challenging all comers. Thankfully his girlfriend was on hand to take him home before he could even try to accompany the rest of us to the bar.
• Misery loves company. When my friend Sales Machine invited me to his house for some poker this past weekend, I accepted. My prime motivation was hanging out with Machine, who lives a pretty fair distance from Pittsburgh and has a family—and, thus, rarely comes out on weekends. On top of that, it was a chance to play cards. But also, beyond all, was my desire to once again put my personal trials out of my head for at least a few hours. Unfortunately, I soon learned that night that Machine and his wife are going through an increasingly worse rough patch of their own, and that it had spurred his interest in my breakup all the more. I wanted to concentrate on how to play my wired 7s from middle position, and he wanted to drink cognac and talk about why I wasn’t able to work things out with my ex.
• If you’re throwing a party and want it to be classy, have girls plan it; if you want anarchy, let boys plan it. Over three and a half years ago, a group of our female friends (Mrs. T.C., Heather, and Abbie being prominent among them) threw a “Black and White Party” in the pool house/ event center in Heather’s apartment complex. The center is elegantly decorated, with a large flat screen TV in the living room section, a kitchen with sinks, a dishwasher, refrigerator, dishes, and anything else one would need. And the girls made sure that they had the place perfectly prepared for a “formal” party, with rows upon rows of liquor bottles ready to go in the kitchen, beer pong on a folding table set up in the linoleum-floored hallway, and a plentiful menu of party foods and appetizers. Dupa and TK now live in the same apartment plan, and chose to use this same event center for TK’s birthday. The result? Beer pong set up on the two expensive tables (which had been pushed together) in the carpeted dining room area. Kegs sitting on the finely-tiled kitchen floors, sans tubs, with ice melting into water puddles that flooded the kitchen and created footing so treacherous that you were guaranteed to slip when walking across it. No food on hand, leaving guests to fend for themselves, some of us ordering pizza while others made Mickey D’s runs. And the tequila to which I referred earlier was the only bottle of liquor on hand.
• Jealousy is toxic. It can poison and destroy even the strongest of loves. It may seem like a minor glitch, an insignificant speck on an otherwise spotless bond. But when deep insecurities are feeding into that jealousy, the situation will only get worse, regardless of what you try to do to fight it.
• Caipirinhas are magical. Unfortunately, living in Pittsburgh significantly decreases their availability to me. But from now on, when I can find one, I will seize the opportunity.
• There is a special deal going on with travel agencies booking trips to Las Vegas. And, apparently, only girls know about it: Groups of four or more get a discount on rooms and flights if they take pictures at the hotel pool, and someone from the group then posts them on Facebook. Now admittedly, this is just a theory of mine. But no less than six of my female friends—all from different circles of friends—went on “girls’ trips” to Vegas with their various gal pals this summer. And every single one of them has produced a series of group pictures taken at the extravagant Vegas hotel pools. Most of the photos look as though they were captured at the same pool, even in the same exact spot. It’s almost as if the hotel has a prom photographer set up in a designated poolside location taking a never-ending series of the prerequisite “girlfriends” pictures. [Not that I’m complaining, ladies. Now that I’m a single man again, it’s a welcome distraction during my workday. Keep ‘em coming.]
• Jay Swag may be the funniest drunk I know. August was the month of birthdays, and we celebrated his with a South Side bar crawl that never crawled anywhere. TJ, a friend of his from out of town, and I met up with Swag and his party posse at Rumshakers around 7 pm, and none of us left there before 12:30 am. Resigned to being a drunken mess that night, he refused to hold his tongue. Handing a female friend a fine cigar he’d been given that day, he told her, “Put it where you want me to goo later.” Smiling, she deftly slid it into her cleavage. And at various other times throughout the night, we would cast a glance in his direction and catch sight of him standing behind the very same girl, mock-humping her like a terrier on a leg.
• My friends can drink. Not that I didn’t necessarily already know this; hell, I’ve made repeated boastings of it throughout the history of this page. But on a few occasions this summer, this point was convincingly reaffirmed for me. And not only my friends, but also their wives and husbands, in-laws, and assorted acquaintances. When we’re gathered in a crowd, it’s impressive to look around and realize that no one is slacking.
• Loving someone more than you love yourself is frightening. You feel at once invincible and precarious; standing high above the rest of the world, yet one slip and you’re going to crash back to earth.
• Life never stops; no matter what you may be going through, the world keeps spinning. In the past 4 days alone, both T.C. and Finn have become fathers. Finn and Genoa welcomed a beautiful baby girl into the world on Monday evening, and just yesterday Mrs. T.C. gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Congratulations go out to all of them, and here’s to their new families enjoying long, prosperous lives. May there always be better days ahead. Cheers.