I Now Pronounce You "Drunk" and "Convenient"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That can’t be said for everyone, however.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meet the Head of Our Legal Team

I think I need to step my game up; even middle-aged lawyers in Indiana are partying harder than me these days. The photo to the right is authentic, and the gentleman you see snoozing is a new hero of mine.

A southern Indiana lawyer says he's embarrassed and has apologized for being found asleep headfirst in neighbor's trash can after a night of drinking.

No charges have been filed against Larry Wilder, who is the Jeffersonville City Council's attorney.

Bravo, Mr. Wilder. Bravo. The full article can be found here.

Hungover Weekend

Sometimes life imitates art. Friday night a few friends and I went to see the hilarious new film “The Hangover”. Sunday morning I was nursing a raging hangover on one of those “how the hell did we get here?” mornings.

“The Hangover” is, to put it simply, brilliant. The concept—a Vegas stag party gone wrong—may sound basic and predictable, but the plot is executed flawlessly, providing enough shock to keep things moving along quickly. And the dialogue between the characters is spectacular. Almost all of my friends—even those who saw the flick with their respective girlfriends or with other groups of friends—have been tossing quotes back and forth since Friday night, nearly jamming up Facebook with rapid-fire wall posts, status updates, and comments. Most enjoyable, at least for me, is the sense of familiarity you feel while watching three guys try to piece together their night. All of us have had those bad, blackout-riddled binges, and there is an instant connection built between the audience and the characters because of this. On the way home that night, Chappy and I started talking about personal “WTF?” mornings that were in some way comparable to the one in the movie (the first thing that came to mind for me was my Sunday morning at Ohio University several years ago).

Saturday Tony, Dupa, Chappy, myself, and others congregated at South Side 86 in the South Side to watch what was supposed to be a definitive Penguins victory in Game 5 of the Stanley Cup Finals. Unfortunately no one seemed to tell the Pens that there was a game, and we had to endure watching a 5-0 scraping. Maybe we had a premonition of what was going to happen; during the first intermission, most of our large party moved up the street to Rumshakers for $2 shots. The first round was a double round of Grape Bombs (grape vodka and Red Bull). Mitch Canada handed them out two at a time, and no one could pretend any of this was going to turn out well.

As we were arriving earlier, the male bartender was tossing a guy out onto the sidewalk. The tossee, a middle-aged man who seemed to be a live preview of how drunk the rest of us would soon be, had received fifty cents in change after paying for a beer. Feeling generous, he announced to the two bartenders, “THIS one is for you, and THIS one is for you!” while sliding one quarter in each of their directions. Neither of them was amused by this, and moments later he was flying across the sidewalk.

One of our boys, “Jay Swag,” had inexplicably come to the South Side dressed in a white tee. Normally you won’t get through the door at Rumshakers in this attire, but the place was still empty and the bouncers were being lax (hence the bartender removing the aforementioned drunken philanthropist himself). The bartender went into the back and brought out a green Rumshakers t-shirt leftover from St. Patty’s Day, and gave it to Swag to wear. Feeling jealous, I asked if he had any 2XLs in the back. He disappeared into the back room and then came back with one. It was quite possibly the best $10 I spent all night.

LRG eventually joined us, which just meant more rounds of shots being bought and handed out. During one round, he pointed towards the female bartender working that night, and made it known that he was impressed by her…measurements. This is a standard drunken pastime of LRG’s, so I decided to cut through the rigmarole. I called her over:

Me: “Excuse me, but do you have a boyfriend?”
Her: *a little stunned* “Uh, no.”
Me: “Okay, my buddy right here *pointing at LRG* is a little shy, but he thinks you’re really hot, and would like to meet you.”

I then shoved LRG towards the bar, and walked away chuckling as they shook hands.

Soon we were stumbling our way back down the street to Jimmy D’s, and then to the White Eagle Inn. At the Eagle we caught up with our friend “Belle”. About 5’7” with long blonde hair, Belle may look like a girly-girl, but she’s one of the boys. She drinks, parties, and curses as hard as the rest of us; all of which made it that much funnier that she had caught the bouquet at a wedding earlier in the night. But—in true “On the Rocks” style—Belle turned this symbol of trite-tradition into a prop, bringing it with her to the bar for the noble cause of sheer humor. Wearing a sleek black dress and high heels, and armed with a beer bottle in one hand and a wedding bouquet in the other, she rocked out in a dive bar full of cigarette smoke and gruff looking guys with paint and sweat stained blue collars.

“New from Mattel, it’s ‘Pittsburgh Barbie’! Whether squatting behind a car parked off of Carson Street, devouring a ‘Cap with egg’ at Primanti’s, or dancing on the bar at Calico Jack’s in a miniskirt, this girl is all Burgh! ‘Pittsburgh Barbie’ comes complete with her own Steelers jersey, IC Light bottle, and public intoxication citation!”

I have not yet been able to confirm that we took more shots at the White Eagle, but I feel certain that we did, based on the following:

• The Eagle is renowned amongst the area’s drinkers for selling Rocket Fuel by the pitcher;
• My memory of the evening has large holes in it, beginning soon after we arrived at the Eagle;
• No matter how accomplished and intelligent any particular one of us may be while sober, when we drink we replace the thought “I should slow down” with “I’M STILL STANDING! MORE BOOZE!”
• I don’t remember, but have video evidence of, Dupa and Belle dancing; he would cast out an imaginary fishing line, and she would get “hooked”, cupping her hands on either side of her face and flaring them out to mimic fish gills. He would then reel in the imaginary line as she danced towards him, wriggling like a freshwater bass.

At bar close we walked to Mike & Tony’s for gyros (I choked down two in about the same space of time that it would take most people to eat only one), then caught a cab. For some never-to-be-determined reason, we told the driver to take us back to Dupa’s apartment instead of mine, which was closer. Sunday morning I awoke facedown on one of his couches, without much recollection of anything past the gyros.

I did, however, have a green Rumshakers t-shirt.

It's Like "What If On the Rocks" Went to Vegas

If you don't know where I'll be tonight, then you just haven't been reading this blog. Only daddy-duties are keeping TJ from joining Dupa, Chappy, myself, and others from going to see this tonight. Giggity.

Making Memorial Day Memories

Ahh, Memorial Day. Does anyone besides me find it at least mildly ironic that, as a result of celebrating a holiday dedicated to remembrance, people usually can’t remember a damn thing the next day?

Last year TD and Baby Joey hosted a Memorial Day shindig at their house for the first time. We were only about halfway through the day (and three quarters of the way through the kegs) when it was decided that the party should be a yearly event. And so, this past Sunday saw their 2nd annual drunken tribute to summertime’s unofficial start.

This was Girlfriend’s first time partying at TD & Joey’s. How well does she fit in with my friends? The first keg wasn’t even on ice yet when she asked me to pour her a cup of beer. That’s my baby. And although storm clouds and heavy rains had rolled in about mid-afternoon, the sun miraculously came out from behind the clouds the very instant that we got the keg on ice. “It was a sign from above,” Joey said later.

People and food steadily streamed into the house. TJ made an appearance, but had to work that night and thus left after a couple of hours. I think he has been frequently repeating the phrase “fuck my life” since the moment he got into his car to leave. He left even before Dupa—slowed by the South Side debauchery he had engaged in the previous night—was drug through the door by the proverbial cat. The end of Dupa's Saturday seemed to perfectly summarize his state on Sunday: Late in the alcohol-soaked night he had a moment of spontaneous clarity, and found himself freaking a 52 year old cougar on the dance floor. Along with him were his friend “Mitch Canada”, and two more cougars. He looked around at the scene, said “peace” to his boy, and walked straight out of the bar.

When Esq appeared at the party, he was rocking a pink polo shirt. In this day and age of fashion-forward thinking, that act alone doesn’t merit much hazing from your peers; but wearing an ensemble that matches your girlfriend’s does. And therefore when Shock B. walked in behind him, dressed in a flawlessly-matched pink shirt, cackles were heard from every corner. Hollywood, in tribute, ran out to his car to change into a golf shirt that nearly matched 1L’s top.

Dupa made a mistake of another nature: he crossed Girlfriend’s path while holding a hamburger that was smothered in mustard and ketchup. My lady had developed quite a buzz by this point in the night, and she stopped him long enough to hungrily take two bites out of the burger. She then wiped her hands—mustard doused, as they were—with his blue Tommy Hilfiger polo shirt. When Dupa brought it to her attention that she had left two giant yellow stains on his shirt, Girlfriend said, “Deal with it!” and ran off mischievously. Joey offered to loan a top to him, and took him to his closet. When they found a pink polo identical to the one Esq was wearing, Dupa began shaking with joy. He put it on, and ran out into the living room to stand beside Esq, who was only mildly amused.

Tony and I spotted a large table out in the yard that had been left vacant; we quickly picked it up and carried it over to the porch, nearly shoving fellow partygoers out of the way as we declared a start to the night’s beer pong matches. Soon ping pong balls were flying through the night air, and I was chugging down beer four times faster. I really need to shake some rust off of my pong game.

Dupa and I were one of the first teams on the table; but, by the time we’d lost that first game, the signup sheet was ten teams deep. Relegated to the spectators’ gallery for the time being, I checked in with Girlfriend, TD, and others in the dining room. Girlfriend was getting along splendidly with TD’s friends, particularly 1L and “2Ls”. When a song came on over the stereo and struck TD’s boogie nerve, she began giving an impromptu lap dance to 2Ls, who was seated to my right at the table. Girlfriend, who had been sitting in my lap, sprung up and began freaking 1L against the opposite wall in response. And me? I grinned like the Cheshire Cat…and snapped a few action shots. When the dance-off subsided, 1L walked away. But Girlfriend responded by grabbing Shock, throwing her into a chair, and climbing on top of her for a lap dance (more grinning; more camera flashes). I turned back towards Esq, who was in the living room, and called his attention to our better halves. With a smile, he gave a slight shake of his head and said, “Ain’t nothin wrong with that!”

Though action like this is typically right up Hollywood’s alley, he was suspiciously absent. A short while later I walked out into the backyard to check on the beer pong action. I found him seated in a folding chair near the keg, eating from a bowl of fruit—fruit which had all been marinating in vodka for the previous day or two. The party’s music was coming from a “docked” iPod that was located near Hollywood’s seat. When Shock walked over to change the song, she bent over directly in front of him. We looked up to see a giant, sloppy grin on his face, which was less than a foot way from Shock’s booty. He almost seemed to be leaning his head towards it, as though he was going to put his ear against the seat of her short-shorts. “[Hollywood], it’s not a seashell,” I reminded. “You can’t hear the ocean.”

As the night moved on, the party’s numbers began to dwindle. Hollywood, who had hidden his keys in the house earlier in the night to prevent himself from driving home drunk, managed to find them and disappear. Tony announced “I’m out,” and said goodbye to everyone before heading into the house. Someone asked, “Is he leaving?” “No,” I replied, “He came over with me. He’s just going to sleep.” Sure enough, we saw him find his way over to a living room couch, plopping down and tapping out.

The hardcore revelers remained well into the night, mostly parked in the backyard playing and watching the beer pong battles. Girlfriend got her first taste of the action, eagerly tossing shots at cups with a mixture of curiosity and earnest competitiveness. Our friend Tank was on hand, and he had brought something special with him (other than his fiancée, Katie). Tank had won the championship in a fantasy football league started by Chief and Tony last fall. The team he beat in the title game belonged to Esq, who was none-too-pleased to see Tank produce the trophy from his car. The cup looks like a 1:10 scale model of the Stanley Cup, complete with the winner’s name etched into the side. Tank handed it to Joey, who swiftly took it over to the keg and began filling it with beer. Esq cursed as the cup was passed around for people to take sips.

Girlfriend and I soon called “No mas” as well, crashing on a futon in the spare room. The last of us stayed up until well after 3 a.m., finishing off the third and final keg. The next morning Tony, Joey, and I all awoke well before either TD or Girlfriend, who had planned on cooking us breakfast (Girlfriend had even brought eggs, bacon, and other supplies with her the day before). Finally, around noon I called TD’s cell phone—from her living room. It rang three or four times before a hoarse, depleted voice responded, “Hehhlo?”

Me: “Hey there. There are three hungry guys out here, and we were wondering if you were getting up anytime soon.”
TD: *pause* “I feel like I’m gonna die.”

Absinthe of Judgment

This New York Times article is actually one of TJ's finds—and a great one at that. But he has limited writing and posting time these days, and hinted ever-so-subtly for me to put it up in his stead.

How many of you boys and girls have heard of absinthe? And how many of you have heard of the mythical lore surrounding the effect that "the Green Fairy" has on those who drink it? Stories abound of the once illegal alcohol producing every manner of unwanted side effect, from hallucinations to makeout sessions with your sibling (ala “Eurotrip”). This well-written piece, however, debunks all of those tall tales.

Consider the cast of mythological absinthe drinkers: the vulnerable painter and poet, too sensitive for this mean old world; the tormented soul, unable to snap out of his self-loathing; the rakish hedonist, seeking one big, lurid rush; the wealthy dilettante, dipping a toe in bohemia; and of course, all manner of willing women.

But now absinthe is legal again, and the romance of belle époque naughtiness must give way to what’s in the glass. Pull over, you disillusioned dreamers: with no laws to break, no frissons of danger, let the mystification stop right now.

The authors, in their infinite “generosity” (yes, I’m more than a little jealous), have not only set the record straight regarding absinthe’s magical powers, but have also taste-tested 20 different brands (seriously, how can I apply for this job?), offering a review of the top ten in value.

The NY Times: “Absinthes to Go Mad Over”

Next Time, Stick to the Six Pack