The Sunshine State [Intro and Day 1]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Fuck.



Thursday, May 25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“♫Defi’s a bitch…♫”

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

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

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

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

CJ’s doesn’t have a bathroom attendant.

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

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

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

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

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

Wherever I May Reauxm (Part 1)

It took roughly 54 hours before I sipped alcohol again. Keep in mind, I wasn’t hungover that entire time. Sure, I dueled with the common withdrawal symptom of good ol’ incontinence early Friday evening, but I had quickly shaken the beast. And I wasn’t really concerned for my long-term health. (Well, no more than usual. I mean, come on…) Certainly, I had not been lacking options. Swag invited me to a bar crawl in the South Side (St. Practice Day) on Saturday, and I always keep a modest-but-well-stocked liquor cabinet at home.

So what was it? What made me stay home and dry through an entire weekend, drinking nothing but Gatorade, ginger ale, or juice when I felt an urge to wet my whistle?

Alcohol felt boring.

This is what they don’t tell you about going to New Orleans.


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Let’s rewind to a Thursday morning in mid-February. As I hurried through my office building’s garage, running late for work yet again, my phone buzzed. It was T.C.



I’ve dreamed about visiting New Orleans for most of my adult life. Its vibrant culture, historic streets, iconic bars, and world famous food have called to me through TV screens and magazine pages. The city is booze, culture, parties, food, and music—basically, everything I love—rolled into one chill, unassuming package. NOLA has long been the girl-next-door pinup model in posters hanging on the walls of my mind.

My flight landed late in the afternoon on March 3rd, and like a good 35-year-old son I called my mom from the cab to let her know I’d arrived safely. “And now you’re going to go drink,” she said in a slightly disappointed tone.

“I mean, first I’m going to get cleaned up, but…”

When I got to the room, T.C. was at a work function. I hopped in the shower and washed public air travel off me [no trip has ever fortified my desire to become private-plane-rich more], and was dressed by the time my homie walked through the door carrying two beers.

Our immediate concern was dinner. One of our friends had suggested Mr. B’s Bistro, and its outstanding barbecued shrimp. Expecting it to be a hurricane shack—or a Hurricane shack—we strolled over for a bite. We were instead greeted by a classy five-star restaurant that was filled to the fire code with guests. The bar seating was also full, and the earliest dinner reservation we could get was for 8:30 pm the next night.

“So that’s a ‘no’ on the barbecued shrimp…” Plan B was to find something on Bourbon St. Not bad, as far as Plan B’s go.

In 2015, it’s not only cliché to say there’s a magical feel to a night in New Orleans, it’s cliché to say that it’s cliché to say there’s a magical feel to a night in New Orleans. And it’s easy to be reductive, and assume the “magic” people feel—that I felt, as I strolled towards the shiny street sign that read “Bourbon”—comes from the more lascivious features of Bourbon Street. Yes, getting drunk and seeing boobs both make me happy (…I think this is well documented). But they don’t cause the magic; they’re an effect of it. As you pass the policemen and sawhorses that turn it from street to playground, your mind dances. The air is light. Every face has a smile. Music is playing. There’s laughter. There’s energy. There’s the moment. It’s everything.

I pulled myself back into consciousness, as we had a dining decision to make. A very scientific and well thought out decision, it involved us strolling past Pier 424 Seafood Market and saying to each other, “This sound good to you?”

We settled in and ordered ourselves some eats—including fried alligator—and some drinks. T.C. called for an IPA, while I chose a house concoction that came in a sling glass and tasted like candy. A poor choice, sure, but at least it had Jim Beam in it. Needing my machismo reaffirmed, I was already plotting out a new drink order when T.C. asked the bartender to bring him something “New Orleans” that had whiskey in it. Barkeep, make that two. We soon had two Sazeracs sitting in front of us.

Laissez les bons temps rouler.

As I finished my shrimp po-boy, T.C. threw his corporate card on the bar and simultaneously ordered a rum & Coke for the road. The man’s a born leader. I fell in line, adding a Makers & Coke (to go) to the final tally, and we were soon back in the warm night air of the French Quarter with cold plastic cups in our hands.

We happened upon Spirits on Bourbon. T.C., a Bar Rescue fan, recognized it immediately. In we went. I haven’t watched much of the show, but I’d assumed the successful business strategy that Jon Taffer imparted to each bar owner was something more shrewd and insightful than “Just talk about how you were on this show once.” TV screens around the room play a 30-second promo clip of the episode on an endless loop. Bar Rescue-themed t-shirts hang behind the bar for sale, along with mugs and other trinkets. Signs saying “As Seen on TV” adorn the taps. It reminds you of that guy who constantly talks about that one touchdown he scored in high school.

The good news: That annoying self-promotion is only born from insecurity, and isn’t a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. Spirits is actually a really good bar, with cool staff and a nice vibe. They just need to learn how to be comfortable in their own skin (that is to say, as a bar they need to learn; the beautiful blonde bartender with the low-cut top straining to hold back her blessings is quite—and well-deservingly—comfortable in her own skin). Act like you belong, and people will think you belong. And Spirits belongs.

After a couple of draughts and the piano player tickling “Home Sweet Home” out of the ivories at T.C.’s request, we strolled out in search of the next bar. Maison Bourbon caught our attention, with a big raucous brass band hammering away inside. What better place for a couple of Miller Lites? Unfortunately, the band was going on break right as we arrived. So after one beer, we were off into the night once more.

The next establishment—or, rather, the next I remember visiting—was Tropical Isle.

Now, if you don’t know much about New Orleans, you’ve probably never heard of this fine NOLA institution. Hell, I hadn’t, and I was infatuated with the town. But, it’s quite likely that you’ve heard of another NOLA institution, that being the beloved Hand Grenade. Well Tropical Isle is the home of the Hand Grenade. “And if anyone tries to tell you differently,” the bartender said, “Tell us. We’ll sue ‘em.”

*sips the delicious nectar*

You got it. Fuck ‘em.

I’m fairly certain the Hand Grenade (and the draught) that I drank at Tropical Isle were my kill shot. Not to get ahead of myself, but the night gets a lot dimmer after that stop. But while we were safely within their walls, the world was bright and colorful.

That included the band on the stage that was rocking the house down. They were even better when you consider that the lead singer was an overweight, middle-aged white woman. Which led to this gem from T.C.: “Is that lead singer from Monessen?” [Okay, you probably have to be from Pittsburgh to get it. If you’re not, just picture a hillside white trash community. Or, you know, just move on. But damn it if it wasn’t funny as hell in the moment.]

The next stop was…uh…well…I have no clue. It was dark. The bartender at the back bar was a very cute, light-skinned (possibly Creole?) girl, who served us beers and said a bunch of words that the in-house band, my overwhelmed consciousness, and time conspired to keep me from remembering.

Wanting to switch up from beer, we asked her to make us another Nawlins tradition: Hurricanes. …Not a wise decision. We quickly realized that Creole Shawty wasn’t manning the Tuesday night shift because of her mixology excellence. Her Hurricane was three parts rum, two parts juice, and five parts lighter fluid. We winced as we tried to work our way through them, before T.C. made an executive decision to toss them when she wasn’t looking. Back out into the night we went.

By now, I was on my feet, but I was off my ass. The five hours I’d spent on Bourbon Street had cornered my consciousness in the prison shower, and were going to town. Innocence had surely been lost. I remember T.C. and I being in another dark, sparsely-populated bar, talking to two hot shot girls. I remember the one trying to sell shots to me, and I remember buying on the condition that I get a kiss along with it. That’s right: I had gone full Namath.

Around 1:30, I stumbled down Bourbon and back to the hotel, realizing as I got off the elevator—on what I hoped was the correct floor—that I’d left T.C. behind. I texted my apologies, found the room, and fell on my bed.

Bourbon Street’d.

[To be continued...]

We're Not For Everyone (Intro)

Some people deal in absolutes. Never wear brown with black. Always wait an hour to swim after eating. Always let the boss win. Never fake the funk on a nasty dunk. I’m more of a realist. And, as a realist, I recognize that nothing’s black-and-white. Sometimes things go one way, sometimes they go the other. So when someone inevitably tells you “No good ideas are thought of when you’re drunk,” pat them on the head and just smirk.

Last Christmas Eve I stopped at William Penn Tavern on a whim, looking to catch up with my boy MoFo, who I hadn’t seen in years. While I was there, he and Jed mentioned a trip that T.C. and Hurley had cooked up for March. A “guys’ trip,” wherein gents from Pittsburgh would descend upon Raleigh, NC—where MoFo lives—to enjoy a weekend of heavy drinking and NCAA tourney games. I considered it somewhat half-heartedly, knowing I had the Chicago trip coming early in that same month, which was going to bite a serious chunk out of my bank account. A couple of nights later, before I blacked out, T.C. and Hurley pitched the trip to me themselves. Nearby Chapel Hill is always packed with booze and coeds, I’d been promising MoFo for years that I’d visit him in NC, the hotel room would be free (T.C. has rewards points out the ass), and nearby Chapel Hill is always packed with booze and coeds…

“Sure… *sips Manhattan* Why not? *gulps Manhattan* It’s only money! *orders another Manhattan*”

When I sobered up a couple of days later, I guarded against disaster by telling T.C. my participation would hinge on how big of a hit my finances took in Chicago. And so, when I somehow made it home alive from the Chi in March, I tallied up what I’d spent. It was about half what I had expected to drop. I quickly texted T.C. “It’s on.”

The last time T.C., Hurley, and I went on a trip together was Buffalo in 2011; before that was San Diego in 2008. So…yeah. This time around we’d be adding Trip and MoFo to the mix [Jed had to bow out due to family issues]. There’s a network sitcom writer out there somewhere who’s kicking himself for not thinking up a pilot with a plotline based on this gathering of guys in their early 30s, all in different places in their love lives. A summary:

• MoFo – Having married a girl thought at the time to be his soulmate (by him and all around him) in 2005, in the last few years he’s enjoyed the highs of becoming a dad and the lows of a bitter divorce. Now a bachelor, he dotes on his daughter on the daddy weekends and dotes on the ladies on the Who’s yo daddy weekends.
• T.C. – Happily married for 7+ years, the homie is a consummate family man, with two rambunctious blonde-haired boys, a dog, and a beautiful house in the suburbs. Funding the construction of a new house for his clan at the time, he continues to break his back every day to keep everyone happy, healthy, and fed.
• Trip – A renowned playboy in his younger years, our goofy friend has finally met the woman for him, and at the time was engaged to be married to her later in the year. And the transition of his private life mirrored that of his professional one: In the year prior to the trip he had given up his dream career in front of cameras for one behind a desk. Once out there living the public (albeit local) glamour life, he’s now dedicated to a quiet existence with his bride-to-be, focused on long-term happiness.
• Hurley – For quite some time my homie has been a fellow bachelor, doing bachelor things. Several months before that March weekend, however, he’d succumbed to a much younger girl who had locked him down. Newly in love, he had been doing the dance we all do when re-familiarizing ourselves with domestication. You know, avoiding bar sluts, fewer weekend nights unaccounted for… The standard.
• Me – I just don’t give a fuck. As previously discussed.

Ready to roll. Let's go.

Honestly, you couldn’t imagine five friends with more diverse personal lives. And yet we all fit together like pieces of a puzzle. A GMC Yukon was rented, days were called off from work, I listened to “Raise Up” a few hundred times, and we prepared to unleash ourselves upon the South.

[To be continued...]

Viva Las Vegas: The Intro

I died last week. In Las Vegas everyone dies, at least a little. You can die multiple times, too, depending on how long you're in town. Three of us stayed for three nights, and we each died one of those nights. If we had stayed a week? I'm certain those numbers would've doubled. For one or more of us, it probably would’ve tripled.

Dupa. If you’re a loyal reader of this little piece of internet realty, you know him. And you probably love him. And that’s because you know what he’s capable of: sheer mayhem. So it’s damn near poetic that he would christen the start of his third decade on the planet with a guys’ trip to Sin City. Compared to Dupa, I’m a boy scout. …Okay, maybe a scout leader with questionable morals but a heart of gold under my hard-drinking, slut-loving outer shell. Like Billy Bob Thornton in a follow-up to “Bad Santa” called “Bad Scouts”. But I digress… The point is that I’m easily the tamer of the two of us. So when my 30th birthday turned into a huge production two and a half years ago, the gears in Dupa’s head began turning on how he would make his even grander. When he announced his Vegas plan to all of us earlier this year, well…no one was really shocked. And when he then used words like “hookers”, “cocaine”, and “not coming back” to describe his vision of how the trip would go, well…

In the end, only T.C. and I were able to join him in his quest to send his 20s out with a donkey punch. I was in Las Vegas last year for work, but hardly got to experience a true “Vegas trip”, mostly due to low finances. This time I was eager to at least taste some of the fun that I had watched from afar, like a pauper at the royal gates. T.C. had been in Vegas several years ago, but had been accompanied by Mrs. T.C. and family. The opportunity to breathe in some of the fumes of bachelorhood, while barfighting his Irish liver, was something he relished.

Three very accomplished drinkers. Three days. Three nights. Las Vegas. God, it almost writes itself, doesn’t it?

[Part 1]

Vankoover State of Mind

I find it hard to have sympathy for people whose jobs call for them to travel the globe at a fairly frequent pace. For one, I’ve enjoyed travelling since I was a child. My family—both immediate and expanded—has been spread around the lower 48 for much of my life, and as a result I have been a part of countless snack cart services, interstate rest stops, scenic coastal train routes, and uncomfortable Greyhound seats. So being on the road doesn’t bother me. But beyond that, jobs that call for a lot of travel often take you to big, exciting places. Locations like New York City, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, London, Miami, etc. When you’re being paid to work in San Diego for a day and then you get to party like a rock star in the Gaslamp District that night, don’t look for me to shed a tear on your behalf.

This is all the more so because, on that rare occasion that I get to travel for my job, I get sent to a glitzy location like Vancouver, WA.

That’s Vancouver, Washington, not Vancouver, British Columbia. Hanging out with TJ, Zach, Ashhad, and others last weekend at Shady Grove, they teased me that I was going to a bootleg Vancouver, even suggesting that it was spelled “Vankoover.” I hate all of them.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m sure it’s a great city to live in and raise children (if you’re into that kind of thing). It’s clean, the people are friendly, and it’s close enough to Portland, OR that you can still have some of that big city feel. But when you’re a tourist, it doesn’t really give you anything to brag about to the folks back home.

I flew there for a large company-sponsored workshop, and was primarily confined to my hotel and its immediate area. The opportunities for my own personal debauchery, therefore, were limited. I’m sure I’ve disappointed those coworkers who have enjoyed an up close and personal view of my “On the Rocks”-type antics during past business trips. They were fans of the blog before there was a blog. And that’s not to say that there haven’t been some good boozing tales—it just hasn’t been me in the lead role.

• Sunday night three female coworkers and I went to a small Italian restaurant for dinner. Midway through our meal, Lady Friend called me. I walked outside and took the call while standing on the sidewalk. A few minutes later a short, chubby older guy came stumbling down the way. I was the only other being around, and he decided to stop and chat. I’m not sure how many of me he was seeing, but he seemed to be conversing with all of us, patiently waiting for his turn to talk—despite the fact that several seconds had gone by since I had finished my last sentence. When I asked if he was ok, he said, “Ahm shahray—Ahm druhk.” He wobbled in a circular motion, perhaps imitating the straw that had been mixing his drinks a few minutes earlier. My little drunken buddy quickly tired of the chitchat, and decided to move on down the road. His feet weren’t quite up to the task, though, and he soon lost his balance and barreled shoulder first into the restaurant window. As luck would have it, my coworkers were seated at that very window, and spun around to see what the booming thud had been. The drunk guy shuffled back from the window, and looked up to see my friend Michele looking out the window at him in sheer confusion. In earnest, he said, “Ahm shahray, baaaybee!”
  
  When I finished my phone call and returned to my table, one of my coworkers said, “Did you push that guy into the window?!?”
• On Monday night I came back to the hotel from dinner, and decided to see who among my friends were hanging out at the bar. Finding a few coworkers, I stopped and talked for a few minutes. However, it wasn’t exactly a good ratio of managers / plebes, so I decided to make it an early night and headed back to my room. About ten minutes later, I was seated at my laptop checking e-mails when my room phone rang. I picked it up, and a frat boy voice said, “Dude, you don’t know me, but I was hanging out down here at the bar, and saw you talking to those people. You look just like this guy I went to college with—did you go to school in Massachusetts?” I assured him that I hadn’t, and he said, “Okay man, my bad” and hung up. The next day I talked with the manager from whom the mystery caller had found out my name (a girl at the registration desk told me that he then used my name to have the hotel operator patch him through to my room phone). She said that he was a Jet Blue flight attendant. She didn’t say that she had told the whole story to my project and team managers, who then proceeded to bust my balls over it for the remainder of the trip, insisting that the guy had been a homosexual fan/stalker. There were also insinuations as to the lascivious things I would do for free plane tickets. And while I’m not above degrading behavior for cheap airfare, I can say with 100% certainty that I would only perform them with members of the opposite sex.
• Tuesday I found myself being hunted by a cougar. Unfortunately, this wasn’t exactly Mrs. Robinson, or even Mrs. Cleary. No, this was a less-than-desirable customer in her late 40s who inexplicably put the hit out on me—during business hours. She started by asking a project manager on my team about my marital status. Later that morning, during a general session, she and a co-conspirator asked one of my female coworker friends for my cellphone number. Thankfully, my friend didn’t give it to her.
  
  That evening was the traditional Workshop reception. A cash bar stocked with top shelf bottles is always present, and everyone tends to use it as a launching point before hitting bars and clubs afterwards; which means the majority of all the week’s craziness goes down that night. Uh oh. I stood at a table with Michele and some customers, when Co-Conspirator approached. Pulling me aside, she handed me a small piece of cardstock while saying, “This isn’t from me, and this isn’t about business.” Sure enough, it was Cougar’s business card. Michele, a lightweight and in essence my big sister at work, was one rum drink in and ready to go after Cougar in my defense; luckily, she refrained. Being only two gin & tonics into my night, I had the sense to simply stay away from Cougar throughout the rest of the reception. When she moved to one location within the large hotel ballroom, I moved to one on the opposite side. Near the end of the event, Co-Conspirator found me again. “I hope you don’t hate me for delivering that message—I’m just the messenger.” I assured her that I wasn’t mad at her (though I sort of was), but in a flash I saw a way to put it all to an end. I showed her a picture of Lady Friend that I keep on my phone, saying, “I’m not a fool.” Caught off guard, she said, “Wow—no, no you’re not.” That was the last I heard from either Cougar or Co-Conspirator on the subject for the rest of the week.

Now I’m back in the ‘Burgh; I have a blissfully-full glass of E&J and Coke in my hand and a blissfully-empty calendar between now and Thanksgiving Eve. Strength and honor.