I hope all of you are ringing in the New Year with those close to you—namely Mo, Jack, Jim, Cris, Bud, or even that cute little Pauli girl. New Year’s Eve is an On the Rocks kind of night, and as you can imagine TJ and I will be doing it up tonight with our reality TV worthy crew of friends.
Happy 2nd birthday to On the Rocks! Founded December 18th, 2007, our little plot of internet real estate has hopefully become a "favorite" or "bookmark" in everyone's browser. I'm sure I'll be tipping back a glass or twelve tonight, so wherever you are out there, join me in celebrating another year of boozing, debauchery, and shenanigans. Salud.
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.
a 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…”
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!”
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.”
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.
A guy is standing at the bar in a posh nightclub, when the bartender hands him a drink that he didn’t order. Before he can even express his confusion, the barkeep explains that a woman on the other side of the bar has sent it to him. Scanning the crowded establishment, the man spots a stunningly gorgeous woman whose eyes are doing things to him that would make Roxy Jezel blush. He smiles, and graciously lifts the glass in the air to show his appreciation. The smoldering vixen seizes the opportunity and glides over to him. Charismatic small talk ensues, and when the sun rises the next morning the two lovebirds are laying on a hotel bed, wearing nothing but perfectly-placed sheets and a smile.
The four of us—plus Prince’s mother, his wife, and her parents; not to mention various old friends of both he and Dupa’s—drank, joked, laughed, drank, took pictures with “soldiers”, drank, and generally kept things lively. Dupa and an old high school friend left the bar to sneak into the Fort itself and drink with reenactors (roughly 5 minutes after getting in, however, some hardcore reenactor played the role of bouncer and bullied them out the doors). TJ fruitlessly cheered on his Michigan Wolverines as they were dismantled by Iowa; eventually, he resigned himself to boozing away the pain. And then, about halfway through the night… I was about to order a fresh Jack & Coke from the bartender; but when I turned to do so, I found her already standing there with a drink in hand. With a little grin she said, “This is from the woman at the end of the bar.”
Nice guy that I am, I tried to acknowledge the gift and thank her with the textbook raise-of-the-glass-and-nod-of-the-head. Curiously, though, she wouldn’t look my way. As it turns out, she was bold enough to send the drink, but much too shy to engage in any resulting eye contact. I asked the bartender to communicate my thanks for me, then, and went back to my friends (who were, of course, full of new stand-up material centering on this episode). After 15 minutes or so, a cougarish blonde woman approached me. She was a friend of “Bridget,” and was now pulling the high school tactic of intervening for her shy compatriot. The first full question out of her mouth? “Do you want to do a body shot off of her?”
Shots were ordered up, Dupa hopped on the table and pulled back his shirt, and Bridget’s friend went to town (it had probably been a solid 15 years since her lips had touched 28 year old flesh). I looked at Bridget with a grin and said, “My turn!” We had decided, understandably, that I would do the shot from her cleavage (which was ample, as you might expect). She deftly placed the shot, and I went in after it. Like I said earlier, though, body shots done from there can be (physically) awkward. And, sure enough, I spilled about a quarter of it down her shirt. Eager as I was to do the shot and get things over with, I had fumbled with the glass. Bridget feigned displeasure at the alcohol going down her shirt, although I’m sure she was only doing so in the hopes that I was going to personally clean up the mess. Best believe, I was not. TJ, loving every moment of what the night had become, attempted to laugh at me for fulfilling Bridget’s body shot order.
Really, the only thing that has been keeping it under wraps thus far was my “No Snitching” clause. At the time of the story Dupa was over a year into what would eventually be a six year relationship. We were part of an epic group vacation in Ocean City, MD, and his beloved girlfriend was not with us…
Juli. After a couple of hours of $1 glasses of Hulk, our faction caught the bus from Scandals over to Club 24 to meet up with BBB’s group. While the Hulk had ruined my ability to talk, it’d had quite the opposite effect on Dupa. On the back of the crowded bus, with no warning, he began channeling his ancestors by speaking (loudly) in an exaggerated Eastern European accent. He had turned into Borat, long before there even was a Borat. While our friends and I laughed, and numerous confused strangers watched, Dupa began rattling off praise and amazement over the modern wonderments of America, such as the “motorized wagon” on which we sat.
I went to the bar for a drink, and soon found myself inches away from a “Wild On!” segment being filmed for E!. After watching a random vacationing slore do a shot from a bottle nozzle stuck through the dickhole of the bartender’s boxer briefs—all for the cameras, I stopped past the dance floor again to check on my compatriot. There I found him with his tongue in Wagon’s mouth, and his hand down the back of her pants. Chuckling, I returned to the table where everyone else was.
When they got to the beach, they soon returned to the progress that they had been making at the club. Finding a spot of uninhabited (but not in any way hidden to people less than 100 feet away) sand, they laid down and got closer to the end game. And then…
Wagon: “We…can’t. I’m on my period.”
Dupa: “Hey, I don’t care. We’re here on the beach. Let’s just do it.”
Wagon: “Okay.” *reaches into her shorts and pulls out a large maxi pad, and sails it Frisbee-style into the ocean*
If you’re a fan of this blog, then you know the standard rote of my stories is anything but somber. Bawdy, and at times both self-depreciative and full-on arrogant, I try to focus on the lighter side of things when presenting you glimpses of my life. More “Welcome to the party,” less Sylvia Plath. But after seeing me use “rote,” “somber,” “bawdy,” and “self-depreciative” in the first two dozen or so words, you probably already know that this post is going to be a little different.
me. My time spent at watering holes and social events dropped to about an eighth of what it normally was, including a solid month where I stayed away from nightlife all together. I missed a raucous celebration at Barroom for Baby Joey’s birthday, a drunken “Jam on Walnut” concert in July, South Side shenanigans, guys’ nights at strip clubs, and much more, all while alternating between trying to piece together my love life and trying to piece together my sanity.
Tequila is a bitch–and I’m not talking about Tila. Although I’m sure Shawne Merriman wouldn’t disagree if I were. Shots of Patron were inexplicably made a key part of Chappy’s birthday celebration one Saturday in late August. The next day sunlight felt like lasers being beamed through my retinas. A week later, at TK’s birthday party, I was guilted into doing two shots of Cuervo. I ended the night relatively sober, but still felt like I was going to die the following morning. Maybe it’s just a sign of my age—I used to drink the stuff (ironically) on the rocks. But now it’s liquid H1N1 to me.
60 percent of the time, it works EVERY time. LRG made a faux pas of his own: too much cologne. When he walked into the living room after getting ready, a Chernobyl cloud of musk engulfed all of us.
game clock ticked “00:00” were sheer mayhem. Beer sprayed in every which direction inside of the bar, and a deafening roar felt like it would blow out the windows. In an instant I was standing in the middle of Carson Street, still screaming my lungs out. People, almost all of whom were complete strangers, were shouting with me, high-fiving, dapping, hugging. Looking back at the doors of CC Saloon, I saw Pakistanimal standing on the steps, screaming and pointing back at me. Dupa and Shock B. joined six or seven other people in climbing atop a Dodge Durango that had the misfortune of being at the stoplight as revelers poured from every doorway and collided in a wash of jerseys, mock Stanley Cups, and uncontrollable exhilaration. Even Sheldon Ingram, the WTAE sports anchor who had been filming live on location, sat on the roof of the Durango, reporting the bedlam to a rolling camera.
There’s a fanboy (or girl) inside all of us. Dupa, TJ, and I caught the midnight release of Transformers II: Revenge of the Fallen in June (after dinner and drinks with Pakistanimal at Bar Louie) in a packed-to-the-exits, under-air-conditioned theater. While waiting for the lights to dim, I updated my Facebook status to one that confessed my inner geek. Quickly friends of mine from all around the country chimed in to say they were either at multiplexes too, or planned to be in the next several hours. One female friend and her husband were even at the same Loews, a couple of theaters down the hall.
the two expensive tables (which had been pushed together) in the carpeted dining room area. Kegs sitting on the finely-tiled kitchen floors, sans tubs, with ice melting into water puddles that flooded the kitchen and created footing so treacherous that you were guaranteed to slip when walking across it. No food on hand, leaving guests to fend for themselves, some of us ordering pizza while others made Mickey D’s runs. And the tequila to which I referred earlier was the only bottle of liquor on hand.
Most of the photos look as though they were captured at the same pool, even in the same exact spot. It’s almost as if the hotel has a prom photographer set up in a designated poolside location taking a never-ending series of the prerequisite “girlfriends” pictures. [Not that I’m complaining, ladies. Now that I’m a single man again, it’s a welcome distraction during my workday. Keep ‘em coming.]
It quickly occurred to me that this had all the ingredients necessary for me to act like a Tucker Max type of asshole. I’m typically a nice guy, but I had no real reason to hold my tongue when it came to SD. I’d been there and, literally, done that. There was nothing to lose. A guy who hadn’t slept with her before might have tolerated her stories about pop songs and irritating coworkers, in the hopes of getting some tail when the night was over. I, on the other hand, didn’t care. So, as she prattled on about the cute new underwear she had bought that day at Victoria’s Secret, I simply grinned and said, “So is that why you wore that skirt—to show off your panties?” 
Taking an educated guess, and knowing Dr. as well as I did, I headed to a nearby after hours club where she was a member. When I reached the doors, a long line stretched down the sidewalk. Many of the people in line were Black, but both the bouncer and Dr. Kelly were white. I asked the doorman if he’d seen Dr. “Yeah, she walked in like five minutes ago. *waiving me in* Go ahead.” Seeing this, some of the people waiting in line began voicing protest. Before walking in I turned to them and said, “Sorry—it pays to know white folk!”
I’m sure On the Rocks’ legions of followers have noticed how quiet the page has been in recent weeks. It’s been 21 days since anything new has appeared here, and it’s been even longer since a story of drunken revelry has debuted. The answer, quite simply, is that it’s been that long since I have engaged in any revelry. [Or, at least, it had been that long—I was rudely reintroduced to the blackout arts this past weekend. But that’s for another post.] Most of those close to me know the reason for my absence from the World of Pourcraft (*bows*…thank you, thank you), and I won’t be going into it much right now. I’ll just sum it up by quoting something I said to my cousin during a recent conversation about life: “It’s a lot easier to fall in love with someone than it is to fall out of love with them.”
student council had planned several worthwhile events, including a river cruise around Pittsburgh and a Pirates game at PNC Park (which was brand new at the time). The week was seemingly non-stop—just when you had fallen asleep at 5 a.m. after a long night of post-event partying, you were getting a phone call at 10 a.m. to get ready for either an event or pre-event partying. No rest for the wicked, I suppose. I have long since forgotten at least 40% of the proceedings. The highlights that haven’t been slowly erased, though, will be recounted here in several installments. Starting with the booze cruise.
One of us, however, had gone one step further in his preparations. “Lab Rat” managed to get his hands on a large plastic pickle jar from the snack bar in the Student Center. This was due, in part, to him being ridiculously drunk/high and craving some dill deliciousness. However, he had also understood that this would be a long bus ride for approximately 400 people who were full of beer and liquor; bathroom “facilities” would be a vital need. Lab made use of the pickle jar first, and it quickly became a popular commodity, traded up and down the aisle of the bus for beers and good faith.
He extended the jar out of the window, and turned it over, with an instant wash of briny, yellowish-green fluid spraying out of it…and in through the window of our ill-fated friend, “M.C.” Sitting by the window, she was treated to a faceful of horror. She was doused by the pickle juice/urine mixture in an impromptu golden shower.
I woke up with an impressive hangover—and let’s be honest: if you wake up the day after partying with furries, and you don’t have a massive hangover, then you’ve made a major mistake somewhere along the way. Girlfriend insisted that she hadn’t been that drunk the previous night, and that all of her silliness had been a direct result of hanging with TD. I reminded her that TD wasn’t around when she did the Thriller dance. The subject was quickly dropped.
If you’re a loyal “On the Rocks” reader—or if you’ve ever walked past one of us on a Saturday or Sunday morning as booze leaked from our pores—you know that we are enthusiastic about alcohol and the game of “drink”. But TJ and I look like devout Mormons compared to the blessed souls behind the 4th of July cookout that we attended on Saturday afternoon. My friend Jed and his family played host, and the text messaged invite that he sent a couple of days prior read as follows:
I partook of the ice luge early, to the utter delight (read: contemptuous disdain) of Girlfriend. Aside from that and some cups of rape juice, though, the day was more relaxed than one might expect. The weather was not your typical Pittsburgh July steam room, and instead a mild day in the low 70s. This seemed to put some of us in a lackadaisical mood (or maybe our party thresholds were just too high after watching a grown man in a puppy costume lay on his back and kick his legs in the air as Sherif rubbed his tummy). T.C. stopped by with Mrs. T.C. and their golden lab, Tank and Katie eventually made an appearance in time to catch the large fireworks display set off from the neighborhood park nearby, Dupa kept his pants on…all very subdued, grown-up, coupley stuff. With one very notable exception.
Jed, or one of his family members hosting the party, struck upon a brilliant idea in the form of a piñata. Now, the Fourth of July doesn’t exactly scream piñatas; nor does a party composed almost entirely of people over the age of 12. But piñatas are always a good source of audience participation, and the comedy of arming a blindfolded drunk with a wiffle ball bat and a “seek and destroy” mission is too good to pass up. To make it all more adult-relevant, therefore, the piñata was filled with:
My boy (“Sales Machine”) and his wife hosted a cookout at their house, and Girlfriend and I made the trek out to Freedom, PA to check it out. It was another relaxed day, with lots of food and drink. BlahBlahBlah was on hand—sans wife, which meant we got the regular BBB, not BBB Light. He was already playing beer pong when we walked into the backyard, giggling and tossing cups of beer down his throat. He and I would win a cornhole tournament that night, scoring $30 a piece—to the delight of Girlfriend, who had earmarked the loot for a mani-pedi before the first toss of the tourney had even been made.
Machine wasn’t truly upset—after all, it was a simple mistake. But if you know brothers, then you know what was about to happen. Ad was standing over by the beer pong table, a good 40 ft away, with a guilty but cocky smile on his face. Machine fired one of the cornhole beanbags at the table, nailing the six cups filled with beer that were sitting in front of his little brother. Red Dixie Cups erupted into the air like bowling pins, soaking Ad with beer. I nearly fell out of my chair in laughter.
