Four Times Loko

My Facebook status, as of about 10:30 this morning: “I’m in love. And her name is Four Loko…”

Rewind to yesterday afternoon. My friend Steph was coming back into town late that night, and her first order of business would be chilling at Soba in the ‘Side. Pakistanimal and I decided, therefore, that it would be prudent of us to be there. And if we were to do some pregaming at my place before heading over, well then all the better. And then close to 5:30 pm, Pak called me with a wicked thought.

Pak: “What are we drinking on tonight?”
Me: “Well I was going to pick up some vodka."
Pak: “What about Four Loko?"
Me: *speechless for a few moments*

By now you’ve probably heard the horror stories. The unfortunate deaths of a few college students who were drinking the energy drink with a 12% alcohol content have sent the media into a tizzy. In a few short weeks Four Loko has become the modern day absinthe, with tales of hallucination, danger, and destruction surrounding it at every turn. All of which has led states to start enacting bans on the demon drink. The FDA has even now gone so far as to outlaw any product that combines caffeine and alcohol, and the makers of Four Loko have vowed to change the formula to comply with the new regulations.

All of this, though, didn’t truly make me worry about the effects of the drink. A teenager chugging 24 ounces of Diet Dr. Pepper is going to do harm to himself, and talking heads on news channels love nothing more than to create drama where none is necessary. No, what caused my anxiety was something much more impressive. Dupa and Armo had tested Four Loko out themselves the previous Friday night, and both gave it a harrowing review. “I had two and a few beers,” Armo reported. “I had trouble with thought, vision, taste, and shapes.” When Pak sought Dupa’s advice on Loko, his response was, “One can, and you’ll be nice. Two, and you’ll die.”

A chance to test something this lethal was just too good to pass up. “Let’s do it.”

My buddy Bearcat suggested I do a running diary throughout the night—yet another idea that was just too good to pass up. When I got home from work I fired up my computer, opened a Word document, and began recording history. The following is (most of) my dance with destiny, as transcribed last night, as well as pieces that were pulled from my Twitter feed and text messages.

6:45 – I’m cleaning up my apartment with the fervor of a college freshman cleaning his dorm room before the hot girl from his PoliSci class comes over to study. “Everything must be just right when Miss Loko gets here!”

7:45 – The Loko sisters have arrived. First dinner, then we’ll get cozy. Chick-Fil-A—nothing but the best for our girls.

7:55 – (via Twitter) “Eating some Chick-Fil-A. [Pak]: ‘This could be my last meal.’”

8:06 – Pak cracks open his first one while I’m still shaving. His first words: “Woooooo!”

8:22 – Cracked it open, and smell groped my nose before I could get it to my lips.

8:48 – (via Twitter) “I find it more worrying than reassuring that it says 'We ID' directly on the can.”

8:53 – Pak’s still less than half of the way through his can, and he’s miles ahead of me. I’m drinking with the same level of fear that an old woman drives with. Interesting.

9:29 – Text convo with Steph:

Me: “I’m almost one can in, so that’s probably the last witty thing I’ll be saying tonight.”
Steph: “Can?”
Me: “Four Loko.”
Steph: “Oh good lord.”

9:40 – Each of us finishes his 1st can, and each of us crushes it in triumph. And then…each of us agrees to a slight break before cracking our second. This might be what they mean by the phrase “laughing at the Devil.”

9:47 – Pak: “I’m fucked up! And I don’t even know why I’m fucked up; I just drank an Arizona Iced Tea.”
Me: *laughing* “An Ari-…What is that, mind over matter?”
Pak: *pause* “Exactly.”

9:58 – Broke the seal. Going to be a long night.

10:02 – Cracked second can. Tell TJ in phone call “At the funeral next week, tell my mother I loved her.”

10:31 – Less than a quarter through this can. I’m a pussy.

10:41 – Pak: “I’m not between the ‘L’ and the ‘O’ yet [on the can]. F, my L.”

10:58 – Pak: “Tell ‘em, ‘We didn’t land on Four Loko, Four…Lanko…landed on us…’” *breaks into uncontrollable laughter* God have mercy on our souls.

11:07 – (via Twitter) Pak: “This might be the funnest night I’ve ever had! This might be the last night I’ve ever had!”

11:12 – (via Twitter) “Maybe it’s just me, but…I love Four Loko. This stuff…why would you ever ban this stuff? It’s…it’s just great.”

11:14 – Me: “That was fackin…wait, did I just say ‘fackin’?” Oh my god.

11:15 – Pak: “I’m a little scared what this might do.” Kind of late for that, don’t you think? We still have to make it to the bar to meet up with Steph and Biff. Not very optimistic.

11:18 – Pak [on the phone with Dupa]: “You’ve never even been to Poland!”

11:20 – I crush my 2nd can, Pak, pours the final tenth of his out. I win.

11:25 – My mother calls. Not entirely sure of the full conversation, but I do remember (1.) her laughingly saying to Pak “Fuck you” on speakerphone, and (2.) me making certain to tell her that I love her, just in case TJ forgot.


The rest of the night was, predictably, chaos. Loko treats you like a sadistic torturer: The caffeine keeps you up and on your feet while the alcohol relentlessly pummels you. We stumbled our way to Soba feeling invincible. We found Steph, Bill, Biff, and everyone else in good spirits (it felt somewhat similar to the final scene of Ocean’s Twelve, when everyone is meeting up in the private room for the poker party); they found us reduced to shambles. As I stood talking to Bill, I accidentally touched the head of a woman seated to my right. And then I did it again. And then I brushed the arm of someone else with my left hand. “It’s like I’m on ecstasy. I can’t stop touching strangers.” A round or two of shots were done, and Pak was soon sneaking off to the bathroom to vomit. At about 1 am he and I audibled, heading over to Shady Grove. Along the way I fired off a series of drunk texts, all to the confusion—and, in the end, entertainment—of my friend Maria. I don’t remember much about our time at Grove, but I know I sent a tweet saying “Just toasted to drunkenness. It gets no better, it gets no worse.” We had satisfactorily browned out.

I awoke this morning in my bed, not remembering how I had gotten there. Pak shuffled past my bedroom on his way to the bathroom and casually said, “I hate you.” I reached around the bed for my phone and instead found a nearly-full bottle of Gatorade snuggled next to me.

Me: “Have you seen my phone?”
Pak: “I was just about to ask you to call MINE.”

Eventually I e-mailed TJ and asked him to call our phones. Mine was under my bed, for no discernible reason; Pak’s was dead and still MIA. A thorough search of my living room and phone calls to Grove and Soba didn’t reveal anything, and to this very moment it has not been found.

I guess this Four Loko stuff is deadly after all.

A Bitch in the Matrix

“A déjà vu is usually a glitch in the Matrix.”
—Trinity

This past Friday saw an unusual uptick in the level of bitchy behavior exhibited by female bar-goers in Shadyside. In my “vast” experience of boozing in my neighborhood, the people you meet while barhopping around The ‘Side—girls in particular—tend to be a little more laidback and friendly than those who you encounter in other areas of the city. And I really can’t offer up either a scientific explanation or a witty joke to back up this theory. It is what it is.

Early in the night I escorted my mother to the yearly Christmas party thrown by the department with whom she used to work. It has become an annual tradition for us: I’m the DD, and she’s tossing back glasses of scotch, wine, etc. It’s one of those rare moments when I’m the responsible, sober one, and she’s the can’t-stand-up-without-holding-onto-the-valet-attendants’-podium one. The comedy of watching my mother struggle to keep her balance on the perfectly-level ground floor of Lidia’s (a very nice downtown Italian restaurant) alone is worth the sacrifice of sobriety. Plus I get free drinks (limited as I was in my consumption, I did get to enjoy a glass of 18 year old Glenlivet) and a free dinner. That’s a tough deal to beat.

After dinner I dropped off my thoroughly-soused mom at her home several miles outside of Pittsburgh and then headed back to my place in town. On the way I spoke with Pakistanimal, who along with TJ was at Chappy and Toe’s house pregaming. Pak’s girlfriend had given him—as he himself put it—“a hall pass for the night,” and he was therefore eager to get his drink on. The problem, however, laid in the terms and conditions of the partying contracts that our fellow crew members were willing to sign that night. Dupa was in the South Side, and wanted all of us to meet up with him. But TJ vetoed this idea out of respect to his own girlfriend: Dupa was hanging with a jumpoff whose girl has chased after TJ since the summertime; and, now that he’s involved with a girl of sound mind and body, TJ has done his best to shake this slutty pursuer. As for Chappy, he didn’t want to come out unless Yum was going to be in attendance, which wasn’t likely to happen. Apparently the concept of “bros before ho's” is lost on the guy (not that Yum is a ho; but “sweet girl you have a kindergarten crush on” doesn’t have the same rhythmic nature to it…). By the time I got home, I was disenchanted with my friends’ antics, and decided I was staying on my couch the rest of the night. I even tried to ignore a phone call from Pak, but he quickly followed it up with a text message telling me that he and TJ were already on their way to my place. “Son of a…”

We walked to Shady Grove, but found that it was packed both downstairs and up. We tried William Penn Tavern instead, and again found a bar teeming with people. We maneuvered our way to the back patio, and luckily found a few seats at the bar. As TJ and I watched Kobe school the Heat, Pak struck up a conversation with a guy next to him. Eventually we saw them do some shots, and joked with each other about the guy putting the moves on Pak—who happens to be one of the most homophobic people we know. After the stranger walked away and Pak returned his attention to us, I asked if he was waiting two minutes before following his new friend to the parking lot to “make things look less suspicious.” In a poor attempt to wave off our jokes, Pak responded, “Nah—he’s married.” I think he realized the error in his phrasing about three seconds into the uncontrollable laughter that followed. Or maybe it was after the various texts he received from Dupa and other friends of ours to whom we told the story over the next 48 hours.

After an hour or so of drinks and shots, the three of us found ourselves at Doc’s. As we secured spots at the bar, we noticed that a coworker of Pak’s happened to be directly across the bar from us with her posse. This was the second time that night that we’d happened upon her by chance. The first time was as we walked up Walnut Street from my apartment. Lost in our own conversation, we suddenly heard someone blurt, “Is that [Pakistanimal]?” from a porch that was obscured by trees and bushes. It speaks volumes about my friends that someone can randomly hear a boisterous voice and instantly recognize one of them.

Pak ordered up three shots (as I’ve mentioned before, he orders rounds of shots almost more frequently than he orders rounds of regular drinks), but TJ emphatically declined the one offered to him because he didn’t want to get too sauced that night. I pointed it out to TJ that he was the very same person who had blatantly ignored my wishes only one week prior, when I wanted to avoid getting wrecked. That night he had responded by buying multiple rounds of shots and calling me hurtful names—similar to what Pak and I were now doing. TJ’s frustrated response: “…I-I don’t care…kiss my ASS, son!”

Little did we know it, but the estrogen level at Doc’s was boiling like magma deep inside of Mt. St. Helen’s. With an extra shot now available, Pak offered it to a small Asian girl standing next to us. She gave him a strange look and walked away. Okaaayyy… He offered it to two other girls at the bar, who each reacted as if he’d asked them to make out while he took pictures. Ironically, this helped feed Pak’s suspicions that they were, in fact, lesbians. He and I decided to split the shot, and move on with our night. Pak also had a speculative theory about the Asian girl: she probably didn’t speak English, which led to her rejecting his offer. But then ten minutes later, with “Cupid Shuffle” booming from the juke box, we spotted her amongst a small crowd of girls who were doing the line dance. And she wasn’t just dancing; she was rocking it like a little Asian J-Lo. (“A-Lo”? …nevermind.)

Pak soon decided to buy another round of three shots; this time, he had the 3rd sent to Coworker. She happily toasted with us from across the bar and then downed the gift. I noticed, however, that she had a cute redheaded friend sitting next to her at the bar. And while Coworker was surrounded by about four guys who I would have to assume are “fans” of Abercrombie & Fitch’s Facebook page, the petite redhead was sitting off to the side, seemingly unnoticed. “Look at the poor little ginger girl,” I said, calling TJ and Pak’s attention to her. “She looks so bored and lonely.”

I decided, then, that I should take it upon myself to help cheer her up. I ordered a round of Washington Apples, which are strong enough to knock you backwards but still sweet enough for girls to like them, and had the third sent to Ginger. Expecting an appreciative smile and a toast, such as Coworker had given, Pak and I lifted our glasses to her as the bartender sat the shot in front of her. But to my bewilderment, Ginger looked down at it, and with a look of disgust pushed it away while shaking her head. She didn’t so much as look over to us and say a polite, “Thanks but no thanks.” Coworker, who was obviously the fun one, swooped in like a vulture. She quickly grabbed the blocked shot [*sigh*…Puns are like the literary version of the token slut at the bar: cheap and easy, and you know should stay away…but sometimes you just can’t help yourself. And you’re always left feeling dirty about it the next day] and slammed it, and thanked me while toasting the empty glass.

The miserable attitudes of all these women, however, paled in comparison to the night’s final encounter. We stopped by Shady Grove, which by now had seen the crowd die down, to get the last few drinks of the night. When we walked up to the bar, though, we quickly found ourselves in the line of fire from a blonde girl seated to my left. As I talked with Pak, who by then had succumbed to the night’s excesses, Bitchy McBitcherson began running her mouth. I tried to politely ignore her, though Pak was incapable of doing the same. When he responded to one of her I’m-funny-because-the-losers-that-are-trying-to-have-sex-with-me-laugh-when-I-say-things insults, I advised her to “do you.” Her witty retort was, “One of you has bad breath!” I shook my head and brushed it off. As I debated with Pak over getting a drink or just leaving to get pizza—TJ, who since the argument over shots had easily become the night’s “kid brother,” wanted pizza and was on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum—Bitchy McB. spoke up again. [It’s worth noting that, while I easily remember her petulant manner and the snide style of her comments, I cannot remember most of the specific things that she said. I think this is due to my brain’s “Annoying-Bitch Blathering Filter” kicking on early and preventing most of her from intruding upon my consciousness. “ABBF”—don’t leave home without it.] After I again advised her to search for someone who cared, she looked at me and said, “It’s you. Your breath smells!” Tired of her nonsense, I inhaled deeply and then blew in her face. I then explained one last time, for clarification purposes, “I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck. About it, or about YOU.” Pak, eager to come to my aid, began slurring something at her as well. Trying to return his attention to the beer/pizza decision again, I reminded him, “Please stop talking to her. Nothing she has to say matters…about anything. Focus.” I think Bitchy McB. was still talking at that point, but I had turned my back to her and turned up my ABBF so high that she no longer existed. Figuring it was a good idea to remove Pak before he Jersey Shore’d her, though, we headed off into the night, in search of food.

We never did find any food, though. I should’ve just stayed on my couch.

I Hate Pak (...and Myself)

Some years ago, I started a recurring joke on Twitter, tweeting “#IHatePak”. “Pak,” of course, is my homie Pakistanimal. Loud, audacious, calamitous… And that’s when he’s stone sober. Get him hammered—or, more often than not, sit back and watch him get himself hammered—and those personality traits ratchet up to unsafe levels.

I don’t truly hate the man. He’s one of my closest and most trusted friends. But I do hate how every single night at the bar with him turns into one of the worst hangovers I’ve ever experienced the next morning. And that’s not exaggeration for hyperbole’s sake; I cannot name one single, solitary instance when, the morning after he and I were hanging out at a bar, I didn’t feel like a bus full of overweight circus clowns had hit me. Because shots.

So, I hate Pak. Blah, blah, blah, I’m a grown man, and can choose not to participate in the bukkake of Fireball shots, blah. Whatever. I hate Pak.

I hate him even more because one Saturday in August, as I lay on my couch at 20 after nine, content with a boring, stay-at-home night, his name appeared on the screen of my ringing phone. And because he wanted to go out drinking. And because, when I said there was a Jam on Walnut happening up the street from me, he said, “I’ll be there by 10.”

An hour later, we dapped each other up on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building. The pause was brief—long enough for him to hand me his car keys for the night—as we then began striding purposefully in the direction of the Jam. Halfway along that journey, we met Annie.

To be more accurate, Annie met us. She was a cute, younger blonde girl of medium height, walking in a group of people ahead of us on the sidewalk. As Pak and I bs’d, she abruptly spun around and said, “Mi—oh. Hi, gentlemen.” My Pakistani friend’s voice, she said, sounded just like that of someone she’d met earlier in the night, and she thought it was him walking behind her.

Smiling and bubbly, Annie was fresh from Grand Rapids, MI. As in, she had just moved to Pittsburgh that morning. So when she realized that the voices behind her were two large, unknown brown men, she didn’t hastily retreat. Instead she introduced herself and hugged each of us. Annie just wanted as many new friends as possible.

As we accompanied her up the sidewalk, she asked for pointers about living in Pittsburgh, and in Shadyside specifically. While giving her a few tidbits to hold onto, I looked down and caught sight of her shaky footwork. Annie was struggling. With every step of her right foot, she stumbled over the low walls, stones, fences, shrubbery, etc. that delineated front yards from public walkway. She somehow kept her balance and happy demeanor, despite the constant bumbles.

And, let’s remember: she was walking towards the Jam. We caught up with her friends and then moved on without Annie.

Late August is a time of renewal in my neighborhood, as twentysomethings starting grad school or their first adult jobs have moved in, replacing the residents who’ve moved on to the house with a white picket fence in the suburbs. A big, new world is opening up for these fresh faces, faster than they know what’s happening, and the fear and excitement is alive in their eyes. Pak and I slowly waded through the high tide of youth and freedom, past the games of cornhole and beer pong, past the beer stands and sleeveless bros, past the band on stage rocking out in front of a sea of Annies.

The one main criticism that can be made about the Jams on Walnut—it’s the one you’ll hear repeatedly when talking to people who choose not to bother with them—is that the crowds in the bars are suffocating. This is where you tend to find the age 28 to 40 segment of partiers, who’ve chosen the comfort of air conditioning as an escape from the 24-year-olds and head bands. No matter how big the crowd out on the street, you can guarantee at least as many people are inside at the bar. When Pak and I walked into Shady Grove, we got as far as two feet past the door.

After ten minutes or so of flowing with the surging throng, we ended up standing behind a guy sitting at the bar with his friend. He then turned around, looked up at me, and made it clear he didn’t want any problems, by announcing, “I don’t want any problems.”

[Side note, white people: You don’t have to automatically fear every black person you see.]

I reassured him that we didn’t either, and after some slurring and clumsy daps, he offered us his and his friend’s seats, since they were leaving. As soon as we’d sat down, Pak was ordering shots. *sigh*

We were also flagged down by our buddy E. Bunnies, who quickly cheered from the corner of the bar, “I’ve got my mom with me!” A cute, tiny woman in her 50s poked her head through the crowd and waved with a big smile. A few minutes later, they’d made their way over to our spot at the bar.

“You motherfuckers meet my mom!”

Weak, Pak and I pointed out the ironic hilarity of that sentence to Bunnies. “Well, you’re not fucking my mom.”

Can’t. Even.

After a few minutes, they migrated out of Grove, headed towards another bar. As Pak and I talked with our friends behind the rail, we felt a little nudge between us. I turned to find one of the most strikingly beautiful women I’ve ever met, who was trying to get in position to catch a bartender’s eye.

She was petite. She was half-Japanese. She was genuinely funny, and wholly unpretentious. She had big, soft brown eyes that dazzled when trained on you. She was from Cali. Her name was…well, that part’s not important. Nor is the rest, really. Because she was also engaged.

“Of course,” I thought, as she mentioned her fiancé. I should’ve predicted that one. But she did buy us shots. So, you know…there’s still hope.

The best thing about the Jams, without fault, is the sheer volume of women out to enjoy a summer night of music and fun. Pak’s wedding ring and my lack of fucks seemed to be attracting attention frequently. Maybe older men got it going on. Or maybe we just reminded them of their favorite uncles.

A blonde, who seemed nice enough, though she failed to meet the more shallow prerequisites that so many others were acing that night, asked to make room between us to order herself a drink. Pak and I may be superficial, but we’re still gentlemen. We yielded the breach, and I called over my boy Jed—who was bartending—for her.

When she’d gotten her drink and walked off again, Jed stopped by while filling another order. “I know who’s here, what’s going on. Don’t flag me down for her.” I assured I meant nothing by it, was just trying to be helpful. “She’s ordered three times now without tipping,” he explained. "Her friends too. Don’t help them.”

A cute friend of the blonde stepped up between us. Brown curls. Glasses. A mischievous danger in her eye.

In my head: “Hmm, this is going to get delicate.”

Pak offered to buy Cute Chick a shot (he really just wanted more for us; she just happened to be in the line of fire), and they struck a deal: She’d buy a round for her friends and us, and then he’d buy a round. As a bystander looking at getting two more free shots while in the presence of a good looking woman, the arrangement sounded like a win-win.

Her round was poured and distributed. We toasted and threw them back. Pak’s round was poured and distributed. We toasted and threw them back—well, most of us did. Cute Chick, instead of doing the shot, tossed it on the ground.

The fuck?

Pak was angry, but showed restraint by walking off to the men’s room. Laughing it off, she tried to explain to me that she didn’t want to do the shot.

Me: “So you couldn’t hand it to someone else? Or hand it back to him?”
Her: *shoulder shrug and giggle*
Me: “You need to fuck off.”

The blonde eventually came over and tried to defend her friend’s actions. But she was quickly flustered by her own inability to suspend logic to the point where pouring out a shot that was bought for you, after you asked for it, wasn’t childish and inconsiderate. She gathered Cute Chick and the others and moved off.

Sadly, with them went my recollection of the rest of the night. The shots got me. How ironic—brought down by the very thing I’d fought to defend.

I woke up the next morning with Pak standing in my bedroom doorway, asking for his keys. Judging by my cash-less wallet and the pain in my head, we didn’t go out quietly. But we made it home in one piece. I can only hope Annie was as lucky.

I hate Pak.

Holiday Seasoned

The last week and a half of December is like a drinker’s March Madness. It ends a long and arduous year; you face seven or eight contests, the last of which is the grandest and most-hyped; then, once that’s over, you start preparing for the next year—recruiting, scouting reports, press junkets…

...Or maybe that’s just me.

I feel that some of my recent posts have been of the long-winded variety, so add, “Wrap that shit up, B!” to my list of New Year’s resolutions. I’ll try to focus on getting right into the meat of my tales and drunken rants this year. If you’ve been visiting this page specifically for those superfluous ramblings, I apologize. And you’re clearly drunk. …Which means you’re also now scratching your head at the word “superfluous”. Salud.


Friday, December 23rd

TK came into town for a day, so we joined him in the South Side for Christmas Eve Eve festivities. Tony, Pakistanimal, TJ, LRG, and I were among those who caught up with the Tampa resident at Mario’s. Most of us, of course, had pregamed in the hour(s) leading up to the get-together. I was enjoying a smooth little buzz myself, and looked forward to methodically building a solid drunk. I didn’t want to rush into things and risk ending up like I did last Christmas Eve Eve (throwing up in a bathroom sink just doesn’t make for as festive of a holiday tradition as you may think).

Shortly after arriving, though, Pak opened a tab with our waitress and asked for a round of shots. When she asked what kind he wanted, he replied, “Surprise us!” What a dick. The waitress came back to the table with Redheaded Sluts; I went from cursing Pak to praising this angel for choosing something so tame. For the next round, she came back with Crown Royal. She was accused of treason. For the third round, she brought out Buttery Nipples. Now I couldn’t tell if she was a traitor or a confidante. Or if she was hitting on us. Or if I was talking to the coat stand.

Our crew soon relocated to Finn McCool’s, where we continued our sloppy antics. We bumped into Hurley, who was up to his own holiday celebrations, and who was so drunk that he couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear. He looked like a drunk cartoon character. I was rapidly making up ground on him, though; as Pak’s handiwork kicked in, things were becoming fuzzier and fuzzier. Eventually, I was at Jimmy D’s circling the dance floor with Pak, LRG, and Tony, looking for potential baby mamas true love slores. Finding none to our liking (and being that we were each very wobbly), Pak, Tony, and I parted ways with LRG and headed off to our respective comas.


Saturday, December 24th

Hangovers hurt; lying on your couch hungover while watching your fantasy football team lose in the championship game—thanks in part to Tony Romo’s fragile right hand—is excruciating. That pain carried over into the night, as my cousin Jump (along with his family), TD, TJ, and I convened at my mom’s house for Christmas Eve dinner. While everyone else poured glasses of wine, I sipped at a glass of ginger ale, which led to some chastising from TD (who stared at me with a disappointment akin to that of someone watching Santa urinate on their Christmas tree). I would eventually down two cans of Miller Lite after dinner, but that was as close to the battlefield as my wounded body would drag me.


Sunday, December 25th

As per tradition, I drank spiked eggnog while opening gifts with my mother, and then later had a glass or two of wine with dinner. I stopped by Jay Swag’s afterwards to catch the second half of the Bears/Packers game with him and TJ, though his household was a dry one, as per court orders. Back at home later that night, I cracked open the bottle of 12 year old Glenfiddich that my mom gave me. But, on the whole, my drinking on Christmas day was purely light cardio; I barely broke a sweat. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all.

My final gift tally for the holiday, by the way: The bottle of Glenfiddich, an airplane bottle of Jameson, and a bottle of extra-strength aspirin from my dear ol’ mum; tumblers and a bottle of Ketel One from TD; a bottle of Crown Royal from Jump; and a huge cocktail recipe book from TJ. As I said to my mother that night, “I’ve got all of the tools and materials for a home bar, except for the bar itself.”


Monday, December 26th

Mofo was in town, and demanded that I join him, Hurley, T.C., and others in South Side that night. But after the previous several days of booze, food, holiday commotion, and fantasy football heartbreak, I needed a night of chilling at home. Besides, I knew what would be coming in the next few days, so I took a rain check.


Tuesday, December 27th

Since some of us haven’t really seen each other in some time (at least since Esq’s wedding in September, though much longer in some cases), Chief organized a get-together among some of our W&J family. Finn, Genoa, Tony, Dupa, Smashley, Chief, Kim, T-Bags, Armo, Sloku, our boy Milhous, and others caught up with each other while polishing off liter steins of Hofbrauhaus’ various biers. We would eventually move to The Claddagh to finish the night, and then, well…Then I browned out and came to once again while watching TV in my place. Apparently all of the German and Irish elixirs detonated my central nervous system right about the time I got to my car. I’m not proud of this, mind you. Damn those Europeans. [Note: Just this morning I took a look at the shirt I had been wearing that night; large beer stains ran from top to bottom across the front of it. It seems that, in addition to my memory of my drive home, the European Union owes me a Tommy Hilfiger polo, too.]


Wednesday, December 28th

I met up with Pak and our friend Ruby at Rivers around 8:30 that night. We bs’d over a few beers at the bar and then moved to a craps table. I watched them play for 15 minutes or so, trying in vain to figure out how the hell you play the game. Soon I decided, though, that my time and money would be better served in the poker room. I found Esq at a 1-3 table and joined him, playing for a few hours. For the record, I was fairly card-dead, and never really got anything going. My night ended when some donkey sucked out 6s-up against my wired Qs. Felted and sober, I headed home and poured myself a few Crown & Cokes to ease my pain.


Thursday, December 29th

I originally had dinner plans with Steph and others, but they were cancelled when the woman of honor had to scrap her travel plans and stayed in NYC. Thankfully, Armo reminded me via text that on Tuesday several of us had asked him to hold a bar night at his house. I joined Finn, T-Bags, and Dupa in Armo’s man cave to watch sports—college bowl games and the Pens/Flyers game—while eating pizza and drinking copious amounts of beer. A night of low-key, low-dough, highly-fattening, and highly-inebriated fun with my peoples. Basically, a snapshot of the holiday season.


Friday, December 30th

The day being Entertainer’s 25th birthday, Shannon planned a party for her boo at Picsi’s in Munhall. Pak, Tony, TJ, and I each made an appearance, and got twisted while delighting in the Munhallian exchange rate. My tab, which contained a round of shots and various rounds of drinks, came out to $25 (had we been in the South Side, for example, that same bill would have been nearly twice as much).

Pak, Tony, and I headed back to Shady Grove around midnight. As soon as I walked in, I had a Long Island Iced Tea in my hand; I sensed doom for me and my consciousness. We ran into my favorite Grove waitress, “Lil Mo”, who was off duty and off-her-ass drunk. When Pak made a joke to tease her, she slurred back, “Fuck you, motherfucker! I’ll fuckin…suck your dick! Wait…no…that’s not what I meant.” While the rest of us cracked up, she slowly caught up to what she had just said and began laughing as well. Though it was just a flub, and she obviously had no intention of following through on her “threat”, Pak still took it as an ego boost. Suffices to say, Lil Mo is now his favorite Grove waitress too.


Saturday, December 31st

The Championship Game—also known as New Year’s Eve—was played out at the house that TJ and TD rent. The place was filled with guests, many of who (such as yours truly) jumped on the beer pong table in the garage. The table was draped in a Captain Morgan shower curtain, and the beer being poured into the twelve cups on top of it was from the keg of Sam Adams Winter Ale on the back porch. Beer pong with Sam Adams…ohhhh, us. TD passed out Jell-O shots as well as Fluffed Vodka shots, and no one even considered the possibility that we all wouldn’t blackout. When the ball dropped, I popped the cork on my bottle of Moet and got my New Year’s kiss from Belle—not a bad way to start a year. I passed my bottle around, and tried some of TD’s, which was a special 2002 bottle of Moet. God I hope the rest of 2012 is as ballin’ as the first four hours of it was.

I awoke mummified in a sleeping bag on the living room floor the next morning. As I gathered my belongings, I surveyed my surroundings and typed the following into my Droid:

New Year's Eve is a microcosm of a drinker's year: everything you could ever want will come and leave you, all before your eyes.

And you don't want to look at anyone you were drinking with the night before. At all.

My 2012 is perfectly summarized by what sits before me: a molested bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. People were doing shots of it last night. It was like watching Miss America get raped on stage.

That passage, and the fact that I was still drunk until about 3 pm that day, is all I need to say about the quality of the party. And, for that matter, of the close of 2011. Now it’s on to 2012. Chiefapalooza, St. Patty’s Day, the Pirates’ Home Opener, and Brewski Fest loom large in the approaching months.

Time to start going through those scouting reports.

Kicking and Screaming

As Grandma Klump would say: I walked over, but I limped back.

Well, to be more realistic, I stumbled back. I’m guessing. I mean, I was about 85% blacked out. And I was in a hurry—the curtain was falling fast on that final 15%. I was in the wilds of Shadyside on a Saturday night, and the pathway to my apartment—and to safety—was quickly disappearing. Not that the streets and sidewalks were going away—just my ability to see them. It was a race to the finish; I fell through the doorway of my apartment building just as the darkness closed in around me.

I awoke the next morning lying facedown, perpendicular across the top of a made bed. Thankfully, it was my bed. I was wearing an undershirt and boxers. My Tommy Hilfiger polo was on a couch in the living room. My cargo shorts were on the floor in my bedroom. So was the silver string of plastic, star-shaped beads. My socks were missing in action. What caused all of this cataclysmic destruction, you ask?

Kickball.

More specifically, it was a charity kickball tournament. One in which Pakistanimal, Mrs. Pak, TJ, Alex, Shannon, Jay Swag, Mitch Canada, Belle, and others had all taken part last Saturday. I, like any sensible adult on a humid, 90°F August day, stayed home. And when I did leave my place, it was just to go to the barbershop. My friends, in all of their wisdom, began drinking around 9 a.m. in the muggy misery of Pittsburgh summer. Then they ran, sweated, and injured themselves…playing kickball. And they tried to argue that I was being the silly one.

After the tournament, all of the aforementioned suspects (aside from TJ, who was on Daddy Duty) headed to Mario’s Eastside Saloon in The ‘Side. I finally walked over to join them at a little before 5 p.m. But, while I was just beginning my day’s imbibement, I was a solid eight hours behind the rest. Given the wide range of behaviors, intoxications, and events to discuss—not to mention several significant gaps in my memory—I’ll just bullet point the highlights:

• Jealous that I was freshly showered, several of the Gym Class Heroes tried to hug their sweaty nastiness onto me when I arrived. I came oh-so-close to swinging away like Ashtray in Don’t Be a Menace.
• Alex jumped up and down dancing for a moment. When she saw me pause and fixate on her quite ample chest, which was active in her shirt, she seemed to learn for the first time that big boobs bounce. “Wow,” she said, continuing to jump up and down with her eyes glued at a downward 90 degree angle. I’m not quite sure how she didn’t end up with two black eyes.
• When I met up with the group, they were on the deck upstairs, which was a sauna. Why they thought this was acceptable is as unknown to me as why they felt it worthwhile to play kickball. Canada, Swag, and I soon led a migration to Shady Grove, where there was air conditioning.
• After the tournament, our buddy “Wall Street” was the only one sensible enough to get a full shower. While he did so at Alex’s apartment, her cat pushed open the bathroom door; this gave anyone who walked past the bathroom—including a suddenly prudish Shannon—a full view of him in the glass-walled shower. When Mrs. Pak (who was successfully tanked) later learned of this anecdote, however, she was aghast that neither girl took the opportunity to check out Wall’s goods. She (repeatedly) explained in no uncertain terms the ogling, fondling, etc. that would’ve taken place had she been in their shoes. Nodding towards Wall, I said, “I think [she] just added you to her ‘Exceptions’ list, man. ‘George Clooney’…‘Brad Pitt’…‘[Wall Street]’.”
• Pak was…well, Pak: Drunk, audacious, chain-smoking, boastful, etc. And loud. After an hour or so at Grove, our bartender—sensing me to be the voice of reason soberest member of the group—asked me to keep him under control. It seems that, though he was only spending about half of his time standing near me, Pak had provoked four separate groups of diners to move from the tables in the dining area on that side of the bar.
• Being as far behind in the pickling process as I was, I decided that my drink orders would be liquor instead of beer. Earlier that week I had come down with a minor head cold, and had taken to drinking bourbon—and, in most cases, Manhattans—as a home remedy. Therefore I decided to continue improving my health with the bourbon, vermouth, and bitters mixture. I’m not sure exactly how many I put away, but…well, refer to the opening paragraphs above.
• Midway through the night Alex produced three strings of plastic beads: one red, one silver, one blue. They had been accessories of hers to the Olympics Opening Ceremony party she and I had attended the week before, and were now stowaways in her purse. I vaguely remember snatching the silver strand out of her hand and throwing it around my neck. I've always found boozing to be a patriotic experience.
• While others soon departed (Swag and Canada had a bachelor party to attend; Pak and Mrs. Pak are married, and therefore cannot be out after sundown; Belle and the rest left to pursue various acts of depravity), Alex, Shannon, Wall Street, and I held firm. Despite our advanced state of blotto, we each had the good sense to order dinner. Hindsight being 20/20, I can only imagine the carnage that would have resulted had we not made that experience-taught move.
• Shannon’s aforementioned prudishness melted away as she drank. With no provocation from the rest of us, she took the uneaten tater tots from her meal and some dipping sauce, and made a work of art. (Clearly, Mrs. Pak wasn’t the only one questioning her refusal to prey on Wall Street’s earlier state of vulnerability.)
• This is an excerpt from a text conversation I had the following Wednesday.
  
  Me: “I don’t remember leaving, but I vaguely remember pretending to be on a phone call as I walked down the street. Which leads me to believe I was running away.”
  Me: “It’s a standard drunk tactic of mine.”
  Me: “Wait, who wasn’t wearing pants?”
  Alex: “Ahha I will remember that.”
  Alex: “I wasn’t wearing pants…I found them in front of my kitchen sink the next morning.”
  Me: “LOL. Totes…”

Getting Old(er) Sucks

“How so,” you say?

Saturday night at around 1:20 a.m., when I should’ve been either (a.) embarrassing myself by drunkenly trying to talk to amateur models at a modeling contest at Carson City Saloon, or (b.) embarrassing myself by drunkenly trying to talk to…any females at Bill and Steph’s house party, I was instead sitting at home, cracking open my third 32 oz. Gatorade of the day, as I continued to recover from Friday night’s assault on moderation.

What’s happened to me? When did I become that guy? I can’t blame it entirely on age—hell, I’m still only a spry ol’ 30. And I still have plenty of all-star performances in me (one took place just two weeks ago, and will likely find its way onto the page eventually). But there’s no denying that I’ve lost a step. Five years ago I would’ve sucked it up and hit both parties, and then hit afterhours. And I’m not saying that my choice to stay in was purely physical exhaustion; no, a lot of it is definitely mental lethargy. Because while a 25 year old says, “Fuck it,” pulls himself up off the stool, winks at the ring girl, and ignores his fatigue as he strides out of his corner for the next round, a 30 year old says, “Fuck it,” and picks up the TV remote.

It’s also worth noting that Friday night wasn’t exactly a slow night. Pakistanimal and Dupa convened at my place after work, and had drinks in their hands before I’d even gotten into the shower; they were on their second or third round by the time I was dressed and finally had my first. And those of you who’ve done your homework probably already figured out that Pak + bar night = shots with a side of shots, chased with shots, and then all of it washed down with shots. We did a round of Jager Bombs before we even decided where we were going to go that night. And to think, every time his girlfriend asks who he’s rolling out with, and he answers, “[The D.E.F.I.],” her standard response is, “Oh god.” As if it’s MY fault. I feel unjustly accused.

My liver hates Pak. Not only were shots on the menu, but he had bought a handle of Three Olives on his way over to my apartment; he then decimated a bottle of Simply Limeade and a bottle of cranberry juice with a bartending freestyle session, concocting tall glasses of a pink mixture that tasted like Kool-Aid mixed with lighter fluid. When Dupa begged off finishing his fourth (Fifth? Hell, all of us had lost count by then) of the night, because he had to drive us to the South Side, I took the glass and began assisting like any good brother-in-arms would; and, of course, I expected Pak, the mad scientist behind these liquid IEDs, to do his share of the lifting. Instead, he said, “No way, dude,” and walked towards the door. I slammed the rest of it back, as an “F U!” to his act of treason. Then, just before it got washed away by the tsunami of lighter fluid punch bearing down on it, my common sense reminded me who I had really doomed by doing that. “Son of a…”

Most of the rest of the night is, obviously, tough to recall. Shots and beers with Jay Swag and MG at Rumshakers, followed by more shots and more beer with LRG and Chappy at Carson City. Dupa bailing on us, unannounced. Pak and I, back in Shadyside, getting out of a cab and walking into Shady Grove. And waking up around noon the next day back in my bed, with a Pakistani buzz saw carving up logs out in the living room. All of those scenes play in my head back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back, with no clarifying moments of transition between them. When Pak finally woke up, the following was hoarsely shouted from bedroom to living room and back:

Me: “I blacked out after we left the South Side.”
Pak: “We were in the South Side?”

Liver. Hates. Him. Almost as much as I hate being 30. But, just like this day was inevitable, so too is the next Saturday night where I find myself bruised and bleeding in the corner of a ring, faced with a decision: stand, fight, and live; or sit, zone out, and order a pizza.

Let’s just hope Pak’s not my cutman.

Welcome to the Grown-Ass Man Club

I turned 30 in March ‘09. And one of these days I may finally make peace with it. In the meanwhile, I’ve found some comfort in watching most of my friends endure the milestone. My standard text message/Facebook-wall-post on these occasions has been, “Welcome to the Grown-Ass Man Club. We meet on Saturdays. Bring scotch.”

This month saw the induction of two new club members: T.C. and Alex. T.C.’s birthday was on the 16th; his family, Hurley, and I did a little dinner in the South Side that night, complete with a cake shaped like a stein of beer. While the night was fun, it was relatively non-alcoholic (Hurley and I indulged in a couple of drinks each, just because we’re us). Everyone deserves to get ass-on-the-floor drunk in celebration of his or her 30th, though, and T.C. wisely formed a plan to do so.

He was assisted in this by the timing of Alex’s Dirty-Thirty party. Her birthday falls eight days after T.C.’s, and her friends would be holding a bash for her at Whim in Station Square the Saturday between the two days (5/19). T.C. decided he’d start that night with Alex’s soiree, and then move onto one of his own in Shadyside. Since The ‘Side is my turf, I was appointed second-in-command. O’Captain, my captain…

With so much fun scheduled for Saturday, I planned to relax on Friday and conserve my energy. What I didn’t plan on, however, was Pakistanimal getting a “hall pass” from his wife that night. He called me shortly after I’d come home from the barbershop, with designs on getting a whole different kind of fade going.

Me: “I’m staying in tonight.”
Pak: “I’ll be at your place at 8:30.”

*sigh*

He brought a bottle of Kraken with him, and was barely inside my apartment door before he was mixing together two cups of Kraken-&-Coke. While I wasn’t thrilled about having my night hijacked, I couldn’t let that delicious spiced rum go to waste. And then, strangely, I found my agitation being slowly washed away with each sip. For my second round, I abandoned the Kraken and made myself an Elder & Wiser (bourbon, St-Germain, and apple juice). And I soon forgot that I had ever considered not partying that night.

We hit up William Penn Tavern, which had a healthy Friday night crowd buzzing inside. Pak ordered himself a Captain-&-Coke, and I told the bartender that I wanted a bourbon-&-Coke. He handed us a Captain-&-Coke and a…?

Pak: “Is that a bourbon-&-Coke?”
Bartender: “No—I thought you said a ‘bourbon-&-soda’!”
Me: *blank stare*

A bourbon-&-soda? The fuck? I was more than a little disturbed by the lack of hesitation he showed in taking what he thought he’d heard and making it a reality. I know Shadyside attracts a slightly more refined crowd than say, the South Side; but are people around here really ordering that concoction? And at such a rate that he doesn’t even raise an eyebrow when he “hears” it?

He offered to take the drink back and get me a bourbon-&-Coke, but once again I wasn’t interested in wasting liquor. Now that Daddy had gotten a taste, I wasn’t letting any of it get away. I drank the misbegotten mixture as Pak and I lost convincingly at darts to two random guys. When it was time for a re-up, I stepped back up to the bar and gave the same order Pak and I had placed earlier. And once again, the bartender came back with one Captain-&-Coke and one bourbon-&-soda.

I was starting to take this shit personally.

A cute girl sitting in front of us at the bar was Johnny-on-the-spot; she noticed the error before even I could. She took the drink from me, called over the bartender, and told him to fix my order. The take-charge attitude, the Lisa Loeb-vibe her eyeglasses gave, and her pretty face had me falling hard. Before I could start contemplating names for our future children, though, another curveball was thrown, this time by Hurley.

Hurley [via text]: “Come to [Diesel] and call my name. I got bottle service.”

Uh oh.

My nerd-hot love would have to wait for destiny’s next entanglement. Pak and I got to the South Side as fast as we could, and found…pretty much what we expected. Hurley was obliterated, as was his boy who co-signed the bottle service. They had a few random people in their VIP room that they’d pulled in from the passing throng; girls mostly—hot ones, when at all possible. Three bottles of Grey Goose stood on the table with cranberry juice, Coke [“Sure,” I thought. “NOW I have unlimited access to Coke…], and orange juice, daring me. I filled up a glass with Goose and cran, and then took a sip and realized I had grabbed the carafe of Coke by mistake in the dim room. Oh, the irony… The mix still went down smooth. “Yup,” I thought, “I’m definitely drunk.”

We drank and charmed ‘til closing time, doing our best to find hot girls to come share in the Grey Goose bounty laid out before us. And, as the lights in the club were coming up, the lights in my blotto mind were going down. Blacked-to-the-out. I awoke with the usual “What-the-fuck-was-just-happening?” startle on Saturday morning, snug in my bed sheets. I drifted back to sleep with the cloudy foreshadowing of a hangover, and the slightly-more-painful understanding that I had an even bigger night still ahead of me.

I arrived at Whim that night as the party began gathering steam. Alex’s friends had reserved a roped-off section of the club, adorned it with special napkins and balloons, and arranged a champagne toast. It was the typical elaborate, thoughtful, but-a-touch-too-ambitiously-austere party that girls tend to naively plan. It was sweet of them, and I’m sure Alex—being that she’s a girl—loved it. As a guy, well…trust me, no man wants a coronation ceremony after losing his twenties. For all the bad that went on during my relationship with The Ex, I’ll always be grateful for the job she did in planning the party for my 30th birthday. It was elaborate, sure, but it never carried that overwrought I’m-a-big-girl-now feel that women usually build into their big parties. In other words, it was fun.

Earlier in the day, Entertainer had made it known that he wanted to join T.C. and I in adjourning to Shadyside for the second half of the night. But now, as Alex’s party got into gear, it was ever-so-obvious that he was already too drunk to make the transition. T.C. and I were taking it easy, and drank only two beers apiece while biding our time until we could escape. Entertainer, on the other hand, was slamming shots and drinking full cups of vodka. Youngins… When T.C. and I kissed the girls goodbye and headed towards the parking lot, we had to leave our comrade to the care of his girlfriend, Shannon, all of us understanding that trying to do the Shadyside portion of the night would likely kill him.

T.C. and I found our way to Shady Grove, where we met up with Tony, Nate, two of Nate’s boys, and our buddy Trip. Beautiful Coors Light girls patrolled the premises, as did a multitude of attractive women who weren’t being paid to flirt with the bachelors among our ranks. T.C. and his wedding band, when not watching on in amusement, did their flirting with shot glasses at the bar. Eventually our friend “Lotus” made her way to the bar, adding a touch of feminine charm to our drunken male banter. Any charm I was adding, however, came straight from the Elder & Wisers I was putting away one after another.

Several drinks and shots had been thrown T.C.’s way by the time she got there, but that wasn’t good enough for Lotus. “You’re not drunk enough,” she protested to T.C. “I’m buying you a shot!” An hour or so later, she looked over at T.C. and said (with a noticeable slur), “He still doesn’t look like he’s drunk!” “Trust me,” I countered, having spotted the telltale signs—talking loudly, eyelids dropped slightly during regular conversation and squeezed completely shut when placing emphasis on a particular point, etc.—that T.C. was feeling it. “He’s crushed.”

We fit in another couple of rounds of shots—and a round of drinks—as 2 a.m. came calling, and then all headed out into the night. Tony, T.C., and I did the gentlemanly thing and walked Lotus home. About halfway there, though, her own drunken “tell” raised its head: stubbornness. Despite being an intoxicated, attractive woman walking along a dark city street, Lotus objected to being escorted. She stopped dead in her tracks and refused to walk any further if we continued to follow her. We negotiated for a minute, and finally she agreed to move on with just me chaperoning her, while Tony and T.C. headed straight back to my place. [Don’t bother asking what kind of sense this makes; I assure you, it makes none.] Once she was safely in her place, I headed home and caught up with the boys as they reached my block. Lotus sent me this the next morning: “Omg what did u guys do to me last night? Haha the path to my room looks like a tornado came thru!!”

T.C.’s night ended with less spinning winds, and more spinning rooms. He hugged my toilet for about 20 minutes, as Tony and I tried to talk over the awful retching sounds coming from behind the bathroom door. When he had finally emptied himself of all that he could force out, he stumbled out to the living room shirtless, and plopped down awkwardly on my loveseat, passing out in mere seconds.

No one said becoming a Grown-Ass Man was pretty.

Playing Catch-Up

My fellow seasoned veterans in the drinking game know that few things in this world are tougher to do than to come in late on a boozing session. This is especially true when the friends you are trying to catch are drinking with the reckless abandon of a Kamikaze pilot riding inside of a dynamite-laden snowball that’s rolling down Mt. Everest.

As you probably guessed, I’m going somewhere with this. A few Fridays ago, my night started with a birthday dinner for my mother, and I was the designated driver (she and my aunt wished to sample the restaurant’s wine selection). This meant that I was forced to ignore the happy hour starter’s gun that sent my fellow crew members Dupa, Pakistanimal, Jay Swag, and Mitch Canada racing towards the same promised land of inconsequential actions and euphoric thought that I, too, wanted so desperately to visit. Shortly after I had come home from dinner and my DD duties (which were severely needed; when I left them at my mother’s house, the ladies were discussing the idea of having me drop them off at a strip club so they could see male dancers for the first time in their lives), Tony came through and picked me up so that we could join the regularly-scheduled programming, already in progress.

I understood what we would be walking into; about two hours earlier, I had received a phone call from Swag. While he explained that Dupa was already a blacked-out mess, I noticed that a subtle amount of slurring was developing in Swag’s speech patterns. I asked him if he had spoken to Pak—only because, not long before that, Pak had texted me to ask what the night’s plans were. Swag, however, then took it upon himself to state for the record that he didn’t care about Pak, or where he was. That’s not to say that he didn’t like the guy. “He’s alright,” Swag clarified. “But if someone asks me whose back I’ve got, then that’s [Dupa], you, and [TJ]. You guys are my family, you know?” Although the parlance was different, I instantly recognized the infamous—if not downright clichéd—“I love you, man” drunken speech. And I was very aware of the fact that I was receiving it at almost 9 pm. When Tony and I finally walked through the doors of Rumshakers, I silently thanked Swag for the warning that he never realized he’d given me. By this time his drunkenness had fully matured into a robust, disillusioned arrogance. He had become Tony Montana, laughing off anyone who dared point their finger at the bad guy. And yet, Swag wasn’t the spectacle amongst us. No, that “honor” belonged to Dupa.

Ladies and gents, I’ve known Dupa for almost ten years now. I’ve fought alongside him in the VIP-lounge-trenches and beer-pong-battlefields, against liquids of all nationalities and bottles of all sizes. I’ve seen him do a naked starfish on the living room floor of girls he hardly knew, randomly channel the spirits of his Polish ancestors while riding in a bus full of strangers, and tempt the interests of swingers. But I have never, in all of those years and all of those adventures, seen him as irreversibly annihilated as on this night when he stood swayed in the center of Rumshakers. And I tell you this next anecdote with no designs on exaggeration (and, honestly, I don’t have the luxury of overstating what took place; it was just too incredible to allow for artistic license): Dupa had lost the ability to talk.

Let’s be clear, here: I don’t mean my friend spoke a mush-mouthed swirl of mismatched syllables and sentence fragments, like one might expect from a man in the throes of a blackout. No, he literally did not possess the physical ability to speak. His brain seemingly had endless thoughts and feelings that it wanted to convey; but, tragically, it was forced to detour them through his body movements, as gestures and head motions were his only available means of expression. And I had become Timmy, trying to learn the news Lassie so badly wanted to share. When I greeted him upon my arrival, he silently directed his pointer fingers toward the bar. I glanced at it, and then back to him.

Me: “You want a beer?”
Dupa: *half nodding, while emphatically patting his chest with both hands*
Me: “You want to buy the round?”
Dupa: *nods excitedly, gives a thumbs-up, and walks toward the bar*

Tony and I promptly tossed back shots and beers in the hopes of making up ground. We most certainly, however, did not want to go as far down the rabbit hole as Dupa, who was now creepily hovering over and grinding on girls near us, including Swag’s friend “Finger Bang” [Note: This is her real nickname, as given by Swag; I’ll let your mind fill in the back-story there—just as mine has, since neither he nor Mitch will tell the tale to me]. As she nervously looked to the rest of us for help, Dupa wrapped his arms around her from behind and began dancing, playfully lifting up her skirt ever-so-slightly before she stopped his hand. She remained a good sport, thankfully—which is a level of coolness you almost have to expect from a girl who allows guys to refer to her as “Finger Bang”. She weathered the storm with a smile, and when Dupa eventually got lost in the crowd while trying to make his way back from the restroom, she made her escape to S Bar.

Dupa needed to call it a night. I knew it, he knew it. Hell, even Swag Montana knew it. Isolated from our group, I spotted him 15 feet away, typing on his phone. I caught his attention and waved him over. He shook his head “no” with a knowing smile, as if to say, “It’s too late for me, my friends—save yourselves.”

Despite this defeatism, though, he briefly regained hope. The patronage of Rumshakers at this point in the night was heavily slanted in the “urban, non-Caucasian” direction. Dupa, losing himself in whatever Top-40 song was rumbling the speakers, became a one-White-man dance island on the dance floor. Arm in the air, he bopped to the music and occasionally glanced back at me, almost as if he was seeking approval. Naturally, this caused the intrigued eyes of twenty or so brothers and sisters who had been watching Dupa to scan back to me. And all I could do was shake my head and take another swig of my drink.

Mitch Canada and Jay Swag left for S Bar, and Tony and I hailed a cab for Dupa. As he climbed into the back of it, he looked back at me confused.

Dupa: “You’re not coming with me?”
Me: “No, buddy. It’s only 12:30. We're still drinking.”
Dupa: “Ohh…”

Tony and I met up with Swag and Canada at Folino’s (Mitch’s wardrobe had prevented their admittance into S Bar), where we were eventually joined by Pak. The rest of the night was spent drinking bottles of Miller Lite on Folino’s improvised “patio” (a section of sidewalk that had been roped off from the river of people walking up and down Carson Street) and insulting each other’s sensibilities. But, try as we might with rounds of shots, Tony and I never achieved the level of intoxication that had taken hold of our friends. At closing time Pak led Tony and I on a 45 minute expedition through the backstreets of the South Side in search of his car, which ended with the two of us walking back to Tony’s car and leaving a stubborn Pak to his dogged search. Just before we reached it, however, I got a call from Pak, who asked if we could pick him up on our way home.

Early the next evening I talked to Dupa, who had finally come into some reasonable form of consciousness. I asked him what, if anything, he remembered about the previous night.

“Leaving work at 3:30.”

Double Up

“You my friend are a legend.”

Praise like that from Pakistanimal doesn’t come cheap. Somewhere along the way you pay with your liver and your ability to give a fuck. It was late afternoon on Sunday, August 3rd, and I was laying on my couch, sucking on a Gatorade bottle. I sure didn’t feel like a legend.

I had started the weekend by not getting out of work until around 6:30 Friday night. Nothing screams “Turn up!” like spreadsheets. Despite that, when Pak called after 7, I think I agreed to go out in Shadyside before the question had even left his mouth.

After a quiet couple of drinks at my place, we walked to The Yard for a few more quiet drinks. And some quiet shots. Fireball Bombs—quiet Fireball Bombs. “This,” I thought, “This is right where I need to stay tonight. Quiet.”

After a couple of rounds—and sharing disgust over the Paul George injury with the bartender and other bargoers—Pak suggested we give in to the inevitable and head over to Shady Grove, where our boy Jed was bartending. We were settled in on Grove barstools by 11:45, and things rapidly went downhill from there. To summarize:

• My Twitter buddy Lo agreed to come catch up with us. But as soon as she and her friend sat down on the other side of the bar, and before they could come say hi, a group of guys descended upon them.
• I made whimsical jokes about it on Twitter.
• Jed decided it was a “Let’s start doing shots of Rumple Minze at 1:30” kind of night.
• Lo, her friend, and the guys all disappeared.
• I made less whimsical, increasingly-stalkerish jokes about it on Twitter.
• Fried Green Tomatoes, out on her own nearby, came over and joined us.
• Pak got irrationally angry, to the point where he tried to fight people around us for no reason.
• I awoke Saturday morning with Pak face down on my couch, texts from FGT asking wtf had happened to him, and some tweets that called for an explanation/apology.
  

After that apology, I asked Lo where she and her friend had gone. “I think the bar was closing?” Welp…

I’d already had plans for Saturday, and they would require a tad more decorum. Alex is good friends with Turbo, one of the Grove’s owners, whose wife was throwing him a 40th birthday party at their home. This would be good food, good drinks, and—most importantly—good behavior. …Okay, slightly better behavior.

Alex and a tray of crabcakes got to my place just as a torrential thunderstorm unloaded on Pittsburgh. If you ever want to see a woman with perfectly done makeup and hair run like a lunatic, drop a million gallons of water from the sky as she heads towards her car.

We went to Grove to catch up with Jerry, Lil Mo, and other friends who were pregaming the party. Jed looked at me like I was a ghost. It had only been about 14 hours since I’d been there last. He helped fill in some of the gaps in my memory, since the last thing I remembered clearly was him pouring the shots of Rumple Minze. Pak’s mood swing, hanging with some of the other Grove regulars, being there ‘til 4 am—all of it was news to me.

When we finally walked into Turbo’s house, the weather’s uncooperative nature had forced a few modifications. The event was catered by a barbecue restaurant, and the whole deck had been set up with grilling equipment and tables. The rain meant that those were now abandoned, with the food and booze relocated to the kitchen and dining room. Guests were handed towels as they walked through the door. Thank god Turbo and his wife have a big, spacious house, because 50 people were now confined to the first floor of it.

Once inside and dry, though, standard rules applied. I got myself a gin & tonic, Alex got a glass of wine, and Lil Mo—the smallest person in the place—filled up a plate with grilled meat. We posted up at one end of the living room, some of us sitting along the wall facing the rest of the party like a firing squad of judgment. Jerry and I placed bets on how many pieces of birthday cake one of the older women at the party was going to have, as she hovered around the table on which it sat. Several of us watched a couple go into the bathroom together, and theorized on whether they were fighting, sexing, snorting, or some combination of the three. A beautiful Indian woman, who was clearly feeling whatever it was she’d drank, walked over and retrieved her phone from her purse. We watched in stunned silence from two feet away as she wobbily took a selfie, with a decorative sticker on her arm strategically positioned in the shot. Then, never having looked at or said a word to any of us, she put her phone away and stumbled back off into the party.

Jerry, Mo, and some of the other guests departed, but Alex and I decided to hang out a little while longer before breaking for the bar. Thank god we did, because it gave me an opportunity to meet my future wife.

Nicole, a longtime friend of Turbo’s wife, is awesome. Greek and Italian, she’s hilarious, pretty, full of life, and can drink with the best of them. And she loves whiskey; she was drinking it on the rocks. She told us the tale of how, when a guy was getting menacingly close in a bar some years ago, she reached behind her, broke a beer bottle on the bar, and threatened to stab him.

I literally got down on one knee in front of her on the porch.

By this point, I was sipping on a wonderful tequila one of Turbo’s friends had brought to the party as a gift. And just when I thought it was time to stop drinking and head to the bar, Alex grabbed my cup and went back inside for refills. A drink at the bar, a few gin & tonics, and now a few glasses of tequila on the rocks. This could only go to good places, right?

Alex and I, as well as Nicole and several people from the party, saddled up and headed to William Penn Tavern. We got a table, we got drinks, and a brilliant strategist among us got a basket of fries for the table. In our group was the pretty Indian selfie connoisseur, who I talked to for a few minutes. I don’t remember what that conversation was about, or what her name is. I don’t even think I remembered a few minutes later, when Alex and I walked off to the bar’s patio area. She seemed like a sweet girl, though.

On the patio we spotted the bouncer, who I’ve seen around Shadyside for years working at different bars, including Grove. We bullshitted about the drunken people and the stupid shit they were doing…rather meta of me, I know. At one point, he had to make a run inside to use the men’s room. So like a good friend, I stood at the entrance, and eyed up an ID or two while he was gone.

Here’s where things get blurry. From what I can remember, Alex ordered a round of shots. At some point, while standing at the bar after the shots, I began chatting up a cute brunette. She was cool and smart, and interested in what I had to say, which just made her cooler and smarter. After 15 minutes or so, I had started browning out (i.e., coming in and out of consciousness). I suddenly “woke up” to find myself talking to this girl, with no clue who she was or what we were talking about. So, when she excused herself so she could go to the ladies' room, I did what anyone would do: I finished my beer and walked straight out of the bar.

Yup. Not a single fuck given.

I walked over to Grove and sat down, for the third time in 24 hours. Who I talked to (other than Jed), what we talked about, etc., I was too blacked out to ever remember. The next thing I know for certain, I was waking up Sunday morning on my couch to the sound of my phone buzzing with texts from Alex.

Being a legend is a good way to die young.