Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Marcus

One day last week, while I went through my standard morning routine of brushing teeth and shaving before work, my mind wandered off to some of the more fulfilling moments in my life. The ones that have often taken place in dimly-lit nightclubs where music is pumping, alcohol is spilling, and young women are making Susan B. Anthony and Angela Davis cringe. Then I remembered the conversation with Hollywood that I’d had the night before. As we discussed a drunken story from my weekend, I had offered, “When I’m drunk, I think I’m irresistible.”

Now as I stood in front of my mirror, attempting to escape (if only mentally) the daily 7 am tedium, I gave some deeper thought to that comment. It’s a common—and, more often than not, justified—belief that alcohol makes you bolder when it comes to the opposite sex. As I two-stepped through my highlight reel of memories, I realized just how much bolder it has made me at times. They don’t call it “liquid courage” for nothing.

An attractive girl walks through McFadden's on a crowded Friday night in 2007, and accidentally bumps into our intoxicated protagonist near the bar. He looks at her and smiles. Instead of admonishing her clumsiness, he grabs the waist of the pretty stranger. They begin dancing in the very spot, grinding on each other hungrily like two unattended teenagers at the prom. The song ends, as does their dance.

Him: I’m [The D.e.f.i.].
Her: Alexis*.
Him: Alexis, what would you do if I let you suck on my tongue?

Without hesitation, the shy lass pulls him into an impromptu makeout session.

Firstly: Yes, that all actually happened as written. Chief, Haze, and Tony are all my witnesses. Alexis [*I have absolutely NO clue what her name was; I had forgotten it by the next morning] continued on to her original destination after a few minutes of tongue-wrestling. An hour later I spotted a random girl—or, at least, the blurry outline of a girl—nearby, and said, “Alexis?” When she shook her head confused, I resigned, “You’re not the girl I was just making out with, are you?”

Secondly: Yes, my life is heavily influenced by Castor Troy.

Do I always end up with the girl and/or her phone number? Nope. Am I always as suave (stop laughing!) as I was that night in McFadden’s? Hardly. But between sober and twisted, the contrast in my demeanor and approach is stark, to say the least. I go from Clark Kent fumbling with his words and glasses, to Superman…fumbling with his words and glass. But, you know, in a more charming way.

• Sober? I pass by quietly with a smile. Drunk? “You’re really tall.”
• When sober, I respond to the news that a girl has read this blog with something like, "Oh really? What did she think?" After drinking, the first thing out of my mouth is, "How badly does she want me?"
• Sober Me, to Tony: “You are NOT going to tell girls I’m mentally-challenged just to start a conversation.” Drunk Me, about an hour later: “Yeah, do it. I can make it work.” (And I did—hi , Hannah.)
• Sober Me is annoyed by promotions girls passing out shirts and trinkets that no one really wants; Drunk Me livens up their night by making witty remarks about his new flashing Bacardi pin, while he adjusts his new Bacardi hat.
• Sober Me hates the fundamental principle of a strip club (why spend money on a girl you can’t have sex with?); Drunk Me wins lap dances and chills in clubs without even realizing a dancer is sitting in his lap.
• Sober, I hang out with a beautiful senorita in a respectful manner. Drunk, I maul her in front of her coworkers on a couch in the VIP (I’m still amazed she didn’t slap my face and never talk to me again).
• Sober, I remain an engaging, professional presence around attractive female clients. Blacked out? I end up in the women’s restroom in a club, against the door, frantically making out with one when a coworker opens said door into my back.
• When I’m sober and a girl tells me she’s married, I curse in my head and give up any hope of hooking up with her. When I’m drunk, I end up having sex with her in a hotel stairwell while her hubby sleeps in their room down the hall.

And lest any girls out there begin to feel a high and mighty streak coming on, let me point out that your gender is not immune to the “altered ego.” About a year ago, I was at McFadden’s again, this time for TD’s birthday. A girl struck up a conversation with me, but as I didn’t find her attractive, I gave the time-honored “I have a girlfriend” line. She then spent the next hour or so trying to convince me to cheat on my fictitious significant other. She even went to the extreme of writing the following on a bar napkin, and then slipping it into my pocket:

“If you’re ever in the mood to try something different, call me!
Karen xoxo
412-xxx-xxxx”

(Once again, I don’t remember her real name. And no, I never called. But I do admire her moxie, even if it didn’t come naturally.)

I say all of this to analyze and discuss, not to brag (ok, I’m doing it a little to brag). The stakes aren’t always as low as a quick slap & tickle. When drunk, I’ve told lots of girls that they’re exactly the type that I could fall in love with (if I did and you haven’t heard from me since…sorry ladies). But, once when I was deeply in love—quite possibly the one and only time that I’ve actually been in love in the first 29 years of my life—with one particular girl, I couldn’t muster up the courage to tell her so during the sober hours, when it counted. Come to think of it, I didn’t do much better of addressing it when I was drunk, either. One of my most profound alky blunders led to our friendship being more or less demoted to an awkward pleasantness. Over time, I’ve slowly begun to beat myself up less and less for the opportunity I blew. She has since married, and I wish her the best.

Guess you can chalk at least one up for Dr. Jeckyll.

Second Wind

This is a phenomenon that I have only experienced on a precious few occasions. It seems like most of the time my drinking just continues to snowball throughout a day or night, until it falls off a cliff and splats (often comically) at the bottom. It’s a rare moment when I find myself feeling that old familiar feeling of “I need to fall down,” and then manage to pull myself together in time to resume my imbibing. There’s something so rewarding about being on the brink of elimination and playing back from that 3-1 deficit to win the series—sorry, the NHL playoffs started and I’m a little distracted these days.

Two Mondays ago the Pittsburgh Pirates had their Home Opener, an annual holiday for my friends and me. It’s one of those marathons that starts at 8:30 a.m. and ends whenever the cop wakes you up. And if you think 8:30 a.m. is too early to start drinking, consider the fact that we weren’t the first ones to the stadium parking lot. Some other friends of ours had already been there for a solid hour or two by the time we arrived. That, my dear reader, is dedication.

Esq, Chief, Esq’s boy “CJ,” and I piled out of a cab with two 30 packs and went to work. There were already burgers and sausages hot off the grill, awaiting their fate alongside chips, pretzels, and other foods. Slowly but surely fellow known suspects started appearing on the horizon, heading in our direction from across the stadium lot: Tony, Esq’s brother (“Baby Joey”) and his girl, our friend Davis, etc. Around 9 we headed over to 222 (or, unofficially, “The Triple Deuce”), an older bar that is positioned across the street from the parking lot. It’s a typical old Pittsburgh bar: narrow, dark, and dingy, with barstools whose upholstery is often badly cracked, if not stripped altogether. I wouldn’t be surprised if my grandfather had tossed back some glasses of whiskey in there in his heyday. Above all else, though, it’s cheap. Buying a round of Beam shots is much more affordable at the Deuce than at any of the newer, trendier bars and clubs that surround PNC Park.

Much of the Deuce’s patronage has the same gritty, “old-fashioned” feel, with “old-fashioned” views on society. An example: Esq (who is Black) walked out of the mensroom and was stopped by two random guys (both white) who asked if he was scalping tickets to the game. Ah, Pittsburgh. Can’t you just taste it?

Back at base camp, some guys set up a beer pong table about 100 ft from us. Bad idea. Before long, they let Tony and Chief play against a couple of them. Worse idea. Ten minutes later everyone around the table was from our tailgate party; the owners of the table watched from the sidelines and occasionally made a feeble attempt at beating whichever pair of us was the current champion. I felt bad—I did—but I kept playing. They had to be taught a lesson.

As anyone who has ever tailgated will tell you, if you stand in a parking lot drinking beer for long enough, sooner or later you will have to break the seal. My friends were prepared for this, however: they set up a large metal box, approximately 2’ x 2’ x 3’ and lined with garbage bags, alongside one of their SUVs and eloquently christened it the “Piss Box.” We were at the far edge of the lot, and a large concrete wall was stretched out in front of our parking spaces, so you were given quick and sufficient privacy when you needed to release your spent beer. All of the time which would have been wasted on walking to and from restrooms was therefore left for more drinking. Brilliant.

Before long, I found myself in Mullens Bar and Grill, a new bar across the street from PNC Park, with Tony and our friend Cara. I only vaguely remember walking over there, because this was near the bottom of my snowball’s descent (which looked to be headed straight through the gates of Hell; after all, this was my first big drinking session after my birthday, and you already know how that ended). What I do remember, though, is the look on Cara and Tony’s faces as my eyes periodically opened back up and I felt myself jolt back into consciousness. I was fading fast, and luckily they kept me from dropping out altogether. After 15 minutes or so, the episode passed and I was wide awake again. I was treading water, but I was still alive.

Not too long after that, I returned to the Deuce. My friend Nate had showed up, and we headed over for some beers (the base camp was dry by this point). We found Chief, CJ, and some others from our party over there. Early that morning, Chief had laid out his game plan: he had to be at work in D.C. the next afternoon; so he decided he was going to get really drunk really fast and black out early—so that he could get some sleep. Well, sitting at a bar stool obnoxiously spilling beer and shots of Beam around, he was definitely sticking to the script. I got a beer, but it wasn’t going down the hatch like it should. My throat was seizing up involuntarily, and it felt like I was trying to drink peanut butter.

The Deuce, being a solid 20 years behind the curve, didn’t have any Red Bull. CJ had decided that he desperately needed a Red Bull & Vodka, and he must have sensed the same desperation in my eyes. “Come on, we’re going down the street,” he announced. “Red Bull’s are on me.” So Nate and I followed him to Bubba’s Ugly. The RB & Vs were just what I needed; I had to stop myself short of licking the inside of the glass. Bacardi promotions girls were walking through the bar, handing out novelties. They must have been having trouble unloading them, though, because they made three or four passes, and each time they gave us something new. I felt a little ashamed of the other people in that bar; if you’re not greedily accepting free stuff, you’re just not drunk.

Decked out in a Bacardi wristband, a flashing Bacardi pin, and an all-black fitted Bacardi cap, I walked back to the Deuce to check on Chief. This is usually Esq’s duty, but he had already returned home and was in bed for the night. The bartender informed me that Chief had left 20 minutes before that; I called him, but got no answer. Fantastic. After briefly considering calling animal control to report a drunken bear on the loose, I returned to Ugly instead. We called around until we finally hit pay dirt: Davis and he were across the street at SoHo. We found them sitting in a booth, disheveled. A fight had been had (unfortunately, I still have not had an opportunity to get the full details about this from Davis), and afterwards they had come here to recoup. All of the plates, condiments, and utensils, as well as the centerpiece from their table sat on the seat directly across from Chief in the booth. Davis pointed to them and said, “I had to do that to keep Chief from hurling them across the bar.”

CJ and I got him back to Esq’s apartment, where all of us were staying. Esq isn’t the easiest person to awake from a slumber, however; it took approximately 50 calls to both of his phones (cell and home), as well as 10 minutes of pounding on his door before he finally answered it. Chief, who had been sleeping on the floor in the hallway throughout most of this, hopped up, pushed his way past Esq, and belly-flopped onto the couch. Mission accomplished.

As for me, I walked out of Esq’s at around 11:30 p.m. feeling fresh, but still tired enough to head home. I woke up the next day without so much as a hangover. Victory.