Grin & Bare It

Headed to a broke down strip club to watch unattractive dancers spin to drunk ppl singing karaoke. Fuck am I doing with my life?
— The D.E.F.I. (@crkstr_defi) April 20, 2013

A few months ago, I challenged that my friends are more fun than your friends. And I was right, of course. Why do I feel so confident in saying that? Easy: my friends are crazy.

A couple of weeks ago, Belle and Jay Swag randomly decided to put together an event night for all of us. The destination? An area strip club called the Tennyson Lodge, for their “Bareoke Night”. If you’re not familiar, this involves fully-clothed customers singing karaoke songs onstage while naked dancers gyrate to the music a few feet away.

Now, I feel the most important detail to this picture is one that’s not readily apparent unless you’re familiar with Western PA strip clubs: There are really only three or four reputable clubs in the area. These are the clubs that get the porn stars doing dancing tours. These are the clubs getting most of the bachelor parties. And these are the clubs where you can expect at least 85% of the talent to be, well, talent. These…are not the Tennyson.

If you go to a smaller, lesser-known club, odds are you’re going to find the B Squad from Van Wilder. Prior to Friday night, the only glimpse inside the Tennyson that I’d ever seen was a picture of a middle-aged, man-faced woman on a stage wearing a bra, panties, and a knee brace.

In other words, you don’t go to the Tennyson to be turned on. You go for the comedy. YOLO!

The following is a rundown of the events that transpired that night—which began with the tweet at the top of the page. I really only captured two notes in the moment, as well as fumbled out a few more tweets. The rest of this blog post is coming from recollection (both mine and that of witnesses who didn’t do as many shots as I did; it took a while to find any, but there were a few). I’ve tried my best to keep it all in chronological order, but I think you can forgive me if I’ve gotten distracted somewhere along the way.

• I arrived at Swag and Mitch Canada’s place in Mt. Washington around 8:30; by then, there was only a cab waiting outside and Belle and two of her gal pals from work waiting inside. My Amazonian blonde friend handed me a ¾ full beer and said, “Chug.” I obliged, crushed the can, walked back outside, and hopped in the cab.

• We were less than five minutes into the cab ride when I was introduced to Belle’s friends. And less than five minutes after that, Friend #1 was telling all of us the story of how, the week before, she and her girls got into a fight in a movie theater with a random chick who disrespected her. I checked my watch; it wasn’t 1997, and we weren’t all in high school.

• Friend #2: “All I know about the Tennyson is from the review I read on Yelp.”

• As it turns out, Belle was at the Tennyson for Bareoke the week prior. After a night of karaoke, dirty strippers, and a barrage of shots, she threw up in the parking lot in front of her date…who hasn’t called her since.

Some guys don’t deserve a penis.

• We finally arrived at our destination and walked in. Well…let’s compare what I saw to what my expectations were:

1.) It was fairly clean. Expectation = exceeded.
2.) The first dancer I saw looked like a Fetal Alcohol Syndrome awareness ad. Expectation = met.
3.) The establishment, on the whole, looked like a slightly-above-average dive bar that someone stuck stripper stages into. Expectation = exceeded.
4.) The next two dancers I saw were fairly cute. Expectation = obliterated.

• The Tennyson has something I’ve never seen at another strip club; they have a solitary pole on a 2½’-by-2½’ platform situated next to the bar, far away from the main stage. Dancers spin there when in-between shifts. It’s like a stripper bullpen.

• Roll call (pt. 1): When we arrived, TD, Boy Toy, Swag, Swag’s girl (“Skeets”), and Canada were on hand. After a short convo I learned that Tony, too, was there; but he had waited until the last minute to eat dinner, and was now up the street at Dairy Queen. That’s just poor planning right there. I had scarfed down a Wendy’s value meal on my way to Mt. Wash; he couldn’t have done the same thing? Who heads off to drink at a D-level strip club and thinks, “Eh, I’ll grab something to eat once I get there”…?

• Roll call (pt. 2): Eventually our friends “MoPaddle” , “Mr. MoPaddle”, “Bobbo”, and Shelly joined us as well.

• Swag was so enthusiastic about bareoke, that you would’ve thought it held some type of religious meaning to him. In increasingly excited tones, he relentlessly explained how much fun I was going to have. After a minute I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Calm down, buddy—you don’t have to keep selling me on this. I’m here.”

• The first round of shots was supplied by TD. Snake Bites, I believe.

• Tony: “I know, from the outside [the Tennyson] looks like a family restaurant!”

• I felt the table vibrate, and checked my phone; no messages. A minute later I felt another vibration and checked my phone. Again nothing. I looked under the table, and then at the floor around us, before feeling the vibration once more. This time I realized that Bobbo was swirling his Miller Lite bottle around on the table, causing the vibration. “I thought that was my phone,” I explained. “When I realized it wasn’t…I didn’t want to know what could be vibrating on the floor here.”

• The second round of shots was supplied by Swag. Rumple Minze—a good deal of which Swag spilled on my sleeve.

• One dancer walked out and I caught myself saying, “Well now…” About 5’7” (in stripper heels, but still…), curly dark hair, cute face, and a well-sculpted set of surgically-enhanced C-cups. TD was smitten.

• One chap, sitting on the other side of the stage, was also a fan. As she laid on her back and put the kitten within purring distance, he leaned forward in his chair. “There’s always one guy who’s too into the girls,” I said. “Look at him, staring at her crotch like he’s watching television.”

• There was a shot girl walking around, with the tray of neon colored water that you usually see at night clubs. Normally, the shot girl is the hottest waitress at a bar or club. This one was short and round. I’ve dubbed this the “Tennyson Effect.”

• A random guy with a tight Affliction shirt and a backwards Affliction cap appeared. Belle was smitten.

Some women don’t deserve a vagina.

• An old woman walked in…with a dog on a leash. I turned to Canada and asked if he had seen the poodle. He thought I meant the guy with the funny haircut who had walked past a short time earlier.

• A bouncer informed me that the old woman with the dog is the owner. Of course she is. She set up shop behind the bar. A doggie gate, situated under the servers’ bridge, kept the resident guard dog penned up.

• I noted to Canada that the owner looked like a female version of Dan Aykroyd in Nothing But Trouble. For the rest of the night, he laughed himself silly each time he saw her.

• The women’s bathroom doubles as the dancers’ dressing room. Of course it does. TD came back from powdering her nose; a dancer had been doing her makeup in the mirror next to her as TD washed her hands. With the excitement of a kid trick-or-treating, she reported, “I told her, ‘I like your ass!’”

• Belle, Swag, Canada, and others in the audience all performed medleys at different times. If you think you know what it would be like to see drunken amateur singing while simultaneously watching slightly-less drunken, slightly-less-amateur stripping, let me tell you now: you don’t. Nothing fully prepares you for that kind of sensory overload, when everything that shouldn’t happen is happening all at once.

• Tony: “I have to go to a baptism, tomorrow. Who schedules a baptism on a Saturday?”
Canada: “What is he, Jewish?”

• It took me a good five minutes before the comedy of Canada’s question truly hit me. Hurray booze!

• Every time I turned around, a different selection of our crowd was at the bar buying shots. Mr. MoPaddle bought some, I bought some, Boy Toy bought some, Canada bought some… It was like we were actively trying to disinfect ourselves as a precaution. Hurray Tennyson Lodge!

• TD asked the deejay if she could sing “Fuck Her Gently”. She could not.

• Near midnight, TD’s favorite dancer—with the fake Cs—was working the stripper bullpen while several of us were gathering at the bar to leave. Tony and I told Fake Cs that our little blonde friend had a crush on her. We then called over said little blonde friend. Fake Cs began grinding on her, trying to seduce her with all she had. Then she motorboated her. Yup.

• We thought, of course, that TD was going to love it. As soon as she came back to us, though, she explained why she had not.

“Oh my god—I saw her teeth in the light, and they’re horrible! She started moving her face towards my chest, and I thought I was going to get cut!”

The Tennyson Effect.

• Six of us made our escape—in one cab. Skeets, Swag, Tony, and Boy Toy squeezed into the back, somehow. I sat shotgun, with TD in my lap. And though she’s like a little sister to me, that fact did not stop me from joining Swag and Tony, who were throwing jokes at Boy Toy about me banging his girlfriend.

Me: “Oh damn—halfway in!”
Boy Toy: “Let me out of this cab!”
Swag: “She’s never going to be the same again!”
Boy Toy: “Why is this happening?!”

• Between our juvenile antics cracking him up, the alcohol fumes coming off of the bodies filling every square inch of his cab, and the paranoia of looking for cops when you have six passengers crammed into a standard-sized automobile, I’m shocked the driver didn’t wreck. Kudos to him.

• We were dropped off at Redbeards, where we got a table and drinks. We ran into Entertainer, Shafe, and Shafe’s girlfriend. While the first two were just quietly hanging out, the third member of that trio was emphatically dancing around with a random guy and gal at the bar. Redbeards doesn’t actually have a dance floor, but that didn’t seem to matter to her. Shafe stood there calmly pulling swigs from his bottle of beer while his girlfriend, wearing short shorts and high heels, put it down like she was auditioning for a Jeezy video.

• I think more shots were done, but…yeah.

• We found our way back to Swag and Canada’s, where supposedly there was beer waiting for us. There was no beer waiting for us.

• TD, Boy Toy, and I went back to their house (they live a street over), where TD passed out on the living room couch while talking aloud to herself. Boy Toy and I drank Captain & Cokes while discussing politics, sociology, etc in the kitchen, until well after 5 a.m.

The next morning I shuffled down the sidewalk from TD’s place, past people setting out to begin a productive Saturday; my only goal was to crawl into bed. And with every sideways glance I got, I just smirked.

I love my friends.

The Grinch is a Teetotaller

I’ve been spoiled over the last 10 years: I worked at a company where Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day was a blissful seven-business-day stretch of paid holidays. Every year I left the office on December 23rd—or sooner, depending on where the weekend fell—knowing I wouldn’t be back until January 2nd—at the earliest.

As you might imagine (or might have read, somewhere…), that kind of winter break can give a man ample opportunity to suitably numb himself up. And you would be right. Oh, so right.

I now work for the typically sterile, overly-cautious kind of corporate organization that wants employees to drive through a winter storm to be at work the day after Christmas—just because. Don’t get me wrong; there are, of cour$e, benefit$ to making that kind of tran$ition (especially when you’re not married to a beautiful European duchess—damn you, life goals!). But after 10 years of drinking single malt scotch well past 4 a.m. on Christmas night to wash away any headaches my family had caused in the prior 48 hours, drinking ginger ale and going to bed before midnight is roughly akin to that first Christmas when every gift you unwrapped was some item of clothing.

Long-winded intro short, I didn’t get to drink as much as I wanted to last month. And I have a newfound respect for the words of Joni Mitchell.

But I did drink, of course. I mean, it’s not like my failings as a human being stopped being a topic of family discussion.


Saturday, December 22nd

While I have my atheistic leanings, here’s why there’s a small part of me that believes in not only intelligent design, but intelligent design by a deity who’s a total dick: Esq, soon to move into a big new house, chose this night to be his final “Let’s all black out and fall down” night at the swanky apartment where he’s resided for the past eight years. That Saturday was also the opening night of the NFL’s Week 16, better known as championship week in fantasy football. I had managed to make it into the title game in my most cherished league. My opponent, you ask? Why, Esq, of course. And this meant that I got to hear his shit talk live and in person as Tony Gonzalez scored one solitary point for me, and got the ball rolling towards my second straight year as league runner-up. *sigh*

Fake football aside, the night was a welcomed reward after a long week of work. Chief was in town; and along with Tank, Breitling, Tony, BAL, and “The Greek”, we helped send off Esq’s once bumping bachelor pad in grand fashion. Before we had even finished pregaming, there was gambling, wrestling matches, slices of bread being scattered about the apartment and hallway as people beat each other with loaves, Esq strumming a guitar in a neighbor’s pad, and a warning from the building manager that the police had been called because of the ruckus. We had clearly devolved.

That seemed like as good a time as any to make our way to the bar, so we grabbed roadies and headed out. As we strolled out through the building’s parking lot, a police car rolled in. While the cops went inside to respond to the call, we discreetly dropped our half-full cans of beer into the bushes like eight drunken Keyser Sözes and calmly continued on across the street.

Cabs took us to Barroom, and alcohol took us over the edge. Breitling got a table in VIP, and I played Entourage for the first time in a few years. At some point several of us headed down to the dance floor, where I managed to slip and fall flat on my back while trying to pull off some dance move that I’m 15 years too old to do. I laughed my ass off, grabbed another drink and kept on partying. One of the few joys of being in your 30s: The simple fact that you don’t care anymore.


Sunday, December 23rd

…Well, until it comes time to clean up the messes you’ve made. Pre-treating the stains on my shirt that morning was delightful. And I felt like I’d damaged at least two of the three major ligaments in my left knee. My hangover was of secondary concern.

My friends and their respective hangovers, however, were not on so casual of terms. The doldrums of married life has softened some of them, and as a result their day was especially excruciating. Esq, for one, texted me updates throughout the day.

“Woke up at 1:30. What the hell happened last night?! Too old for this shit!”

“It’s 5 pm and I still feel like hot garbage.”

“8pm, still feeling terrible. How the fuck did we used to do this twice a week EVERY week?!”

By that point I was at Armo’s, putting back drinks with TJ and others. It’s so sad to see people fall off their game.


Monday, December 24th

Christmas Eve, as is tradition, saw TJ joining some of my clan for dinner and drinks at my mother’s house. Wine bottles, beer cans, ham, and weapons-grade-passive-aggressive-vitriol found their customary places at the dinner table. TJ gave me a bottle of 12 year old Glenlivet, which I’m confident will get put to good use. Maybe not quite as early as it would have in years past, but…


Tuesday, December 25th

Before the aforementioned ginger ale and self pity, the day resembled just about every other Christmas of the last 10 or so years. Late morning my mother and I had breakfast, and then opened gifts while sipping spiked eggnog. I got a bottle of something nice among my gifts (this year Jameson; there’s a running debate between that bottle and I over whether or not it’s going to live to see St. Patty’s Day). And we had a few drinks during a quiet dinner, while wistfully remembering Christmases past. Later, I briefly considered stopping by Shady Grove on my way home, before remembering…*sigh*


Wednesday, December 26th

Work, snow, and shitty roads. The City of Pittsburgh gives about the same amount of effort to clearing snow from its streets that Rolando McClain gives to self-awareness. (The answer, for those of you playing along at home, is “zero”.)


Thursday, December 27th

Dupa was back in town, and gathered several of us to join him at Fathead’s. [It occurs to me that even the most loyal and regular “On the Rocks” reader might be confused by Dupa being “back in town”, seeing as how I failed to inform you that early in December he moved to Houston, TX. Seems that would be a fairly obvious blog topic, right? One that would have been discussed at some point in the past month? What can I tell you—I suck.] I downed some He'Brew Jewbelation and doubled my body fat percentage with TD, TJ, Mitch Canada, and Dupa. Then I went home and fell into a beer-and-grease-induced coma.


Friday, December 28th

For all of my bitching about not having more days off, when Friday night rolled around I chose to stay at home (I would argue, though, that this had more to do with the exhaustion brought about by working that day; had I been home and rested, things may likely have gone differently). Instead of foraging for boobs and drinks out at the bars, I ordered food and did some home bartending while watching Goldfinger on DVD. Don’t judge me.


Saturday, December 29th

TD has recently moved in with Boy Toy in Mt. Washington, and had told us at Fatheads earlier in the week that she wanted to have some people over for a small party. Nothing too crazy, just some drinks, games, and laughter; a low key night. As I went about my Saturday afternoon, she sent a text at 1:57 p.m: “Come on over whenever!” That was followed just a few seconds later by another text reading, “[Swag] said he has Four Lokos.”

“I…but…One fifty-sev…I…”

Thankfully, my schedule (and more shitty weather) meant I didn’t get to their place until after 7:30. TD, Boy Toy, Swag, Mitch Canada, Finger Bang, and Boy Toy’s buddy “Friction” were playing Catch Phrase, wherein each round the members of the losing team had to take down Crown Royal Maple minis (there are thousands stored in TD’s place—a perk of her job). “This is healthy,” I thought. I popped open a bottle of Sam Adams Cream Stout, and was one sip in before being admonished by a slurring Bang, all because I wasn’t drinking Four Loko (mind you, the Loko can she was waving around as she talked was bigger than her face). TJ eventually joined us, and I soon had a can of Loko in my own hand. By 9:30 I couldn’t spell blotto—though I’m sure I could’ve written a 30-page blog/thesis about being it.

Canada and Bang found their way to the South Side, while TD and I walked to Redbeard’s. I don’t remember much of our time there (aside from a convo that was more familial than those that I’ve had with my actual family, and TD asking our cute waitress if she could make out with her). We stumbled back to TD’s, and at 2:30 a.m. I snapped out of a mini-blackout to find her facedown on the living room floor. Friction and I, like any good friends would do, snapped pictures of our fallen amiga like paparazzi seeing a Lindsey Lohan/Amanda Bynes head-on collision.


Sunday, December 30th

When I opened my eyes late the next morning, I was the only one in the living room. The scene was no less damning, though. As I jotted on my phone:

TD’s kitchen looks like something out of Mad Max. Half-empty bottles of Ciroc. Fully-empty airplane bottles of Captain Black and Crown Maple. Miller Lite cans. Sam Adams bottles. A frozen pizza box. A jar of pickles. Four Loko cans. Bottles of water—as though there was innocence amongst the carnage.

I gathered up myself and the bottle of Ketel One that TD had given me for Christmas, and shuffled up her snowy street. New Year’s Eve was only two nights away. But before that, unlike in years past, I had to be at work—no carousing the night of the 30th.

My head throbbed anger at itself for thinking too hard. Maybe I could get used to this more restricted way of life after all.

Grand Opening

I caught the T—Pittsburgh’s light rail system—from Mt. Washington to the North Shore with Jay Swag, Mitch Canada, and a train full of baseball fans at a little after 9 on the morning of the Pirates’ 2012 Home Opener. When a crazy old man pulling a cart loaded with baglady-like possessions sat down by us and started conversing with at Swag about any number of random topics, we all suddenly wished we were a little further along in the day’s drinking. I slid on my sunglasses and looked at the ceiling; in doing so, I snuck a peek at Canada, who had put his head down with his hands over his eyes in the world’s most prolonged and awkward game of peek-a-boo. Swag was left to entertain the ramblings of the vagrant alone. As we passed under the Allegheny River, the man jovially proclaimed that a leak would lead to all of our watery deaths.

In my head: “Why in the hell did I leave my flask at home?”

After leaving the T station on the North Shore, our first stop was at Tilted Kilt to use the ATM. We each decided to have a beer (Bud Light pounders, for the record), and to catch up with our favorite set of booze-hocking boobs, Mary. And Kilt’s employee dress code suited her particular skillset quite well (see right). While we talked, Swag suddenly focused off in the distance and asked, “Why does the girl with the fantastic rump not have to wear a uniform?” Mary explained that the rump belonged to the manager, and stopped it her as it she came walking past.

After being introduced to the three of us, the manager explained how much she loved Mary: “I told her; I want my boyfriend to impregnate her!”

We finally made it to Mudd’s tailgate party, and started hitting the hooch with workman-like precision. As per usual, we were surrounded by a formidable force of familiar faces: TD, Boy Toy, Dupa, TJ, Sloku, Beard, Stef, our boy Garrett, our girls “Cool Boobs” and “Bring It On” (BIO), Chad and his homie, and a sunny concrete sea of other drunken characters. As usual, Mudd had the party hooked up with everything we needed. Tub of iced-down cans of beer? Check. Grill cooking up burgers and hot dogs? Check. Cupcakes, pretzels, chips, pasta salad? Check, check, check, check. Gummy worms that had been soaked in vodka for a week? Yessir...

Unlike in past years, the party was actually a conglomeration of two or three total parties, stretching across two rows of Gold Lot 1, creating a solid territory of six or seven parking spots. The Piss Box was located on the other side of this expanse, between two trucks belonging to affiliates of Mudd that my crew doesn’t know. Mudd assured us, though, that it was there for use by everyone in his party. But when I led TD, Cool Boobs, and BIO over for a quick pit stop (I was going to block bystanders’ view from one side of the “alleyway” between the trucks), the owner of one of the trucks got agitated. “Piss Grinch” bitched about the girls opening the doors to his truck [they planned to use them as an added privacy measure—a practice we had seen others employ] and chased them off. When this was reported to Mudd, he escorted TD over and talked out the situation with Piss Grinch while she took care of business. The whole confrontation had made TD nervous, though; so much so, in fact, that when she felt as though she was taking too long to finish the job, she pulled up her pants abruptly. This resulted in a noticeable wet spot on the back of her jeans. Initially embarrassed, TD—who was already twisted like Janet’s “Poetic Justice” braids when I got to the party—was soon dancing around and telling everyone that she had pissed her pants. *sigh* She’s like the little sister I never had.

The animosity imparted by Piss Grinch had stuck with Cool Boobs and BIO, though, and near the end of our parking lot time the girls were eager to exact some kind of revenge. First, they thought of pouring the contents of the Piss Box onto Grinch’s Escalade. I vehemently advised against that—murder sentences have been lightened for less. As an alternative, the ladies resolved to sit the very full box o’urine on his hood. Again, a bad idea, and I disavowed myself from any involvement. When the two wannabe pranksters ran over to carry out the deed, however, they were shocked to find Grinch relaxed in the Escalade’s driver seat, asleep. They halted their operation and returned to base. “You know what would be great?” I offered. “If someone were to drag the box over to the driver’s side door, so that he’d step in it as he got out of the truck…” The ladies’ faces lit up like watchtower lights, and they ran back to carry out my idea. After they had scurried back, we all decided it was time to head inside. Dupa needed to urinate before doing so, though; a minute later he returned from the Piss Box. “Yeah, he’s definitely awake,” he reported. “I looked over while I was pissing and [Piss Grinch] was staring back at me. I nodded like, ‘What up?’”

We headed into Tilted Kilt. While Swag, Canada, and I ordered ourselves a round of beers from Mary, Dupa ordered a round of shots at the bar. Why walk through the gates of Hell, when you can sprint? As we talked after doing the shots, I quickly learned that not only had Dupa bought shots, but he’d bought a round of Captain & Cokes. Oh…my…gawd. We had polished off four or five cases of beer in the parking lot alone. I could only hope to land softly, wherever and whenever that may be.

A short while later, my Polish homie was standing in front of me with an unknown female friend.

Dupa: “This is [seemingly random girl’s name]. She lives in West Mifflin.”
Me: “Oh really? What part?”
Girl: *pause* “I live next door to your mother.”
Me: “Huh? How so? [‘L.’] lives next door to my mom.”
Girl: “I am ‘[L.]’…”
Me: *pause* “[L.]!”

Did I mention I’d been drinking? Not only have I known L. from being my mother’s neighbor for the past few years, but I’ve actually known her for the majority of my life. When we were kids, I hung out with her brother all of the time. Alcohol’s a hell of a drug.

Also making an appearance at Kilt was my homie B-Rush. B grew up in Pittsburgh, but moved to Vegas in 2004. Family matters had him back in his hometown for the week, and a free afternoon meant I could get him day drunk, as thanks for getting my boys and me hammered during Dupa’s dirty-thirty trip to Vegas. Within seconds of arriving, B had a Captain & Coke in his hand. The poor bastard never saw what hit him.

We moved to Dirty Harry’s, a dive bar in Station Square. Looking back on it now, I remember lots of us hanging out with (lots of) beer, games of darts, and laughter. But I don’t remember one intelligible conversation. In my head, the scene resembles a foreign film with no subtitles. Everyone in it knows what’s going on, but the audience watching at home is completely lost. And there really was no recovering from that point on. The end of the night found B, Swag, Canada, L., some others, and I at Rumshakers, capping the night with still more beer (and a minor case of heartburn for me, most likely from skipping dinner).

The next afternoon, as I nursed from a Gatorade bottle, I got a text from B. “I’m hungover. It’s all ur fault”.

Me: “Haha. It’s what we do.”
B: “Whatever n***a. I’m hungover as shit.”

Drunks Say the Darndest Things 3

I may be the only one who loves these quote posts so much—and I don’t care. I’m totally fine with the fact that this is all for me.

Pulling these together is never as easy as it would seem. There’s a wealth of material, sure; but often I neglect to make note of quotes as they happen, and therefore don’t have it at the ready when writing out the story (it may be shocking to read, but sometimes I tend to forget things when I’ve been drinking). Of those I do remember, I try to save some for a DSTDT post, but inevitably a lot of quotes are told as parts of other narratives. Typical of this new age of social media, though, I did manage to collect a couple from my friends’ Facebook status updates (that’s right folks—nothing’s sacred anymore). And, as usual, I have also included one of the many random moments of brilliance from years past that have sat in my crew’s vault, dusty and unpublished—until now.

• During our pre-Brewski, Friday-night-on-the-town in Johnstown last April, Dupa was in rare form. He put on a one-man show, dancing with the girls, wearing Shannon’s earrings, and spitting out zingers left and right. Far more than the alcohol, though, what seemed to inspire his verbal mastery on this night was our favorite doctor’s revealing attire. During one pause in the group’s convo, he turned to Dr. Kelly and—saying, “Let’s pretend I’m an ostrich and your cleavage is a sand pit”—buried his face in her chest.
  
  The best of his best, however, came not much later. The girls and guys had momentarily dissolved into separate conversations, and during a small break in ours Dupa looked over again at Dr. By then he was merely the dummy to the booze’s ventriloquist act, and didn’t seem to realize that his thoughts weren’t being restricted to his head. Barely loud enough for her to hear, he said, “I’m BP, and you’re the Gulf Coast; wanna see my oil spill?”
  
  
• The following night at Seven Springs, after a long day of Brewski pregaming, Brewski Festing, and Brewski after-partying, our cast of characters found themselves pushed to their limits. By the end of the night we were a broken and battered platoon administering battlefield triage throughout the sprawling mountain resort. When he dragged himself over to the bar to get a beer at last call, Entertainer found LRG standing there alone, finishing a drink.
  
  Within seconds they were approached by a bouncer who was visibly unhappy. Pointing at LRG, the bouncer barked, “He’s cut off!” Entertainer, stunned, assured the bouncer that he would keep LRG from causing more trouble. “Look, it’s last call, so he’s not drinking more anyways,” he argued. The bouncer relented, and walked off. Despite the confrontation, LRG had remained decidedly unfazed.
  
  Entertainer: “What did you do?"
  LRG: “I don’t know. Kicked a table? Hit a girl? *shrug*”
  
  
• My manager may be a grandmother, but that doesn’t mean she can’t hang. I’ve seen this firsthand on a few business trips; the years, however, may finally be catching up to her. Last month her daughter got married, and among the dessert items at the reception were cannolis filled with a cream made with three different kinds of liquor. And it seems the baker used a liberal amount of each alcohol in the creation of these On the Rocks-worthy pastries, to the point where my manager told me, “I didn’t drink much at the wedding; but then when I went to bed…the ceiling fan wasn’t on, but it was moving.”
  
  
• Last Memorial Day, TD was out of hand. She bounced around without stoppage at her and Baby Joey’s annual party, dancing, yelling at people randomly, and kissing her girlfriends in true barsexual spirit. Late in the night, she and her friend Leah were the subject of a fantastic picture, in which Leah sat in shock as her friend performed an impromptu lap dance on her. Leah’s facial expression as TD’s sundress is thrust at her in the photo is priceless. After I showed them the picture, TD summed up the moment captured by the digital eye. “Everything Leah does with her face, I do with my crotch.”
  
  
• One weeknight last spring, her girl 2Ls popped up in my Facebook news feed with a quick message to a dear friend. “hangover, I'll meet you in the morning, 8am, give or take... until then, have a good night..”
  
  
• How in the name of Jack Daniels do you ever begin a serious drinking session knowing you haven’t eaten within the last several hours? I just can’t imagine another drinking rule as clear-cut and painfully obvious as “drinking on an empty stomach will destroy you”. And yet, one recent Tuesday morning I had the following conversation with a friend who had been sending me drunk texts at 6 pm the day before.
  
  Me: “So how you feeling today?”
  Him: “All good. A little lightheaded this morning, but I think that's because I haven't eaten in 24 hours. I puked twice, and I should not have driven home last night.”
  Me: “So, explain to me exactly how you say to yourself, ‘I haven't had any food all day. I should ingest some alcohol.’"
  Him: “Silly... I didn't start talking to myself ‘til drink #8 or so.”
  
  
• Pakistanimal’s birthday was last June, and we decided to keep it somewhat reserved. TJ, Dupa, and Pak pregamed at my place, and then we all hit the ‘Side to make the blurry happen. We were soon joined at the William Penn Tavern by a murderer’s row of LRG and a few of his homies, Jay Swag, and Mitch Canada. After several rounds of birthday shots and various drinks, Pak was dazed, and found himself in a moment of defiant truthfulness while staring at a random bar slore nearby. “Yeah, I’m fucked up,” he announced to her, “and I’m looking at your tits.”
  
  
• A few days before St. Patty’s Day 2010, my buddy Weatherman was looking for a pair of smiling Irish eyes on Facebook. “Any Irish girls want to hang out? I'm drunk off Captain, and we could make one hell of an Irish pirate.”
  
  
• A couple of Fridays ago, several of us took part in a bar crawl organized by one of TD’s friends. TJ and his girlfriend, who was in town visiting, were in attendance. Since “Racktacular” (TJ’s own turn of a phrase, not mine) lives in Tampa, it took until that night for her to finally be introduced to TD. It wasn’t long, though, before she and the crazy little blonde girl had become good buddies. At the second stop on the tour, a moment of beer-fueled jubilation took hold of TD, as she said to Rackt, “We just met—let’s bump boobs!”
  
  
• Tony, also taking part in the crawl (by the way: all proceeds were going to charity, so it would’ve been socially irresponsible of us to not get sloppy drunk that night), found himself engaged in conversation with two random guys at one of the bars. After he finally pulled himself away from his new fan club, Tony then had to deal with TJ, Dupa, and I, who of course made many comments and unfounded insinuations about his true sexual orientation and the intentions of the two strangers. His immediate response, though, did little to halt that line of thinking. Waving off our jokes, he countered, “Dudes fucking love me.”
  
  
• One night several years ago, BlahBlahBlah, myself, and a few others met up at Hooters in Station Square (which has since closed) for happy hour drinks and food. The Hooters Girls were running a sports trivia game, wherein each table competed against the others to be the first to correctly answer questions. Midway through the contest, the sexy waitress in charge of it read aloud a question involving Earvin “Magic” Johnson. BBB found himself unable to hold back his mouth, instantly (and quite audibly) shooting back, “I’ll give you a ‘magic’ Johnson.’”

Holiday Spirits

The holidays. What is it about this time of year that just makes you say, “I want to lose all consciousness as quickly as possible”?


Wednesday, Dec. 22nd

I went to an S&M shaming at the Consol Energy Center, otherwise known as the Penguins’ 5-2 manhandling of the Florida Panthers. As I sipped on my beer (at $7.75 per 12 ounce draught, I savor every drop of Miller Lite at Pens games like it was a snifter full of Remy Martin's Louis XIII), my friend—and Crooked Straight fan—Maria asked what “D.E.F.I.” stood for. I explained that it really doesn’t stand for anything, and was just me being cute with my former stage name, “Defi” (or “Defiance”).


Maria: “Oh. We should come up with something that it can stand for.”
Me: “Ha. *sip*”
Maria: *after a full 2.69 seconds of thought* “I’ve got it! ‘Drunk Enough For Intercourse’!”

Early in the night I received a text from Mo-Fo, who was back in town with his lovely wife for the holidays. He informed me that they would be drinking with others at Shady Grove, where our boy Jed bartends, so I decided to stop by on my way home from the game. About 90 seconds after I walked in, Jed had a Long Island Iced Tea in my hand that could degrease an engine. I snapped a picture of it and sent it to Dupa, who responded, “*like*.” Jed was full of his quotable effervescence, the bar was packed with a solid crowd of people, and I got to catch up with Abbie and GG (neither whom I had seen since this summer); all in all, a cool little night with old friends.

The event’s highlight, though, came from our buddy “Trip”. A friend of ours for some years now, Trip is a boozing jokester who sees more rear than a car mirror—if you know what I mean. His goofy charm is reminiscent of Jack Tripper from “Three’s Company”; little did we know that he was capable of Jon Ritter-esque slapstick, too. He attempted to smack the ass of a female acquaintance, but timed it just as she was about to lean forward towards the bar. He whiffed, and injury was then added to the insult when his hand’s momentum carried it through a crushing blow to his own junk. Trip doubled over in pain as the rest of us cracked up at him for hitting himself in the balls.


Thursday, Dec. 23rd

The third annual Xmas Eve Eve, a night of boozing in Shadyside, had been anticipated by all for weeks. TJ, Pakistanimal, and Dupa all pregamed at my apartment with Belvedere, Captain Morgan, Woodford Reserve, the Penguins/Capitals game, and various innuendo involving each other’s sisters, mothers, and loved ones. TJ had to work the next morning, and therefore cut out early; the rest of us moved the fun to Shady Grove, where Tony soon met up with us. I began with another of Jed’s vicious LI Iced Teas, but halfway through it—and after rounds of Jager Shakes and Batman shots—I had the realization that I was heading up Shit Creek sans paddle. If there was any hope for my survival, the next round had to be beer. Unfortunately, I found a brand new LI Iced Tea sitting in front of me before I could form the word “beer” with my lips. Uh oh.

We left the bar around 1 a.m. (Tony says it’s because I had begun to pass out at our table; I don’t remember that, therefore he’s a dirty, dirty liar) and headed back towards my place. Along the way we passed a drunken Indian guy who was babbling about random topics. Pak decided, though, that this guy had insulted his heritage; thus began an India vs. Pakistan tribal showdown. The centuries-old border war in Asia was reignited by two sloshed idiots screaming at each other on a sidewalk in the middle of Shadyside.

We dragged Pak away and avoided any escalation to the conflict. From there on, though, my night is sketchy to say the least. I remember lying on my apartment floor for a while, laughing at myself and nothing all at once, but not much more than that. The following morning I awoke and shuffled to the bathroom. While washing my hands I noticed that the sink seemed to have specks of some foreign substance on it. “Ugh,” I thought to myself, “One of those assholes threw up in here last night.” I had just climbed back into bed when a memory came to me of my own face being buried in that sink. “Wait…did I throw up last night?”


Friday, Dec. 24th

When I finally got out of bed for good that day (around 1:30 p.m.), I found nothing but chaos. A snack mix that had been in my cupboard was raided, and pieces of peanuts, raisins, and chocolate were scattered about my living room. No more than five people had been in my place the night before, yet somehow 11 or so dirty glasses and cups littered my coffee table and kitchen counter. A skillet with the residue of scrambled eggs sat on my stove. The air smelled of stale bourbon and flat cola, and a bottle of sorely-needed Gatorade was missing from my fridge. I dashed off a text message to all those responsible: “I hate you guys.”

Christmas Eve, mercifully, was a toned down affair. TJ and I had dinner at my mom’s house with my cousin Jump, his fiancée, and her son. Various bottles of wine were uncorked and poured, but I was more partial to the bottles of PowerAde that my mother keeps handy for me. Who knows you better than your own mom, after all? Shortly after dinner TJ and I received a text from Dupa that included a picture from the night before; in the picture, Pak was taking a joyride on the tricycle belonging to the seven year old daughter of the family living in the apartment next to mine. The only words that I could muster were sent back to Dupa in a text: “My neighbors hate me.”

When I got home around 11 p.m., I poured a glass of Woodford and tried out my Christmas gift from TJ: whiskey stones. The little cubes of genius worked beautifully, as the chilled fine bourbon massaged my consciousness. At 12:30 a.m., I figured it was time for me to begin wrapping gifts (why do two weeks ahead of time what you can put off until the very last minute?). At 12:31 a.m. I realized, though, that I didn’t have any wrapping paper (oh, that’s why…).


Saturday, Dec. 25th

As has become our tradition, my mom and I unwrapped gifts—well, I unwrapped gifts; she merely had to pull hers out of their bags and boxes—Christmas Day while sipping from glasses of Pennsylvania Dutch Egg Nog. If you’ve never had it, I suggest picking up a bottle during the holidays. It’s real egg nog that has been pimped out with rum, brandy, and blended whiskey. In other words, it’s egg nog that comes out of the bottle spiked. Merry New Year!

Some of my gifts this year: A Chivas Regal gift set (a fifth of Chivas Regal 12 Year Old and two tumblers) and an airplane bottle of Grey Goose from mi madre; a fifth of Crown Royal from Jump; and a liquor store gift card from my aunt. Add those to the whiskey stones from TJ and the 375 ML bottle of Goose that my manager bought me, and there seems to be a theme here…


Sunday Dec. 26th

If you play fantasy football, then you know what the 16th Sunday of the NFL calendar means: championship. By the 1 p.m. kickoff, TJ and I had glasses of Captain & Coke and Belve & cranberry, respectively, in our hands and NFL Red Zone in HD on the screen. Tony (my opponent in one of my championship matchups this year) and LRG eventually joined us as we drank, ate pizza, and screamed at Reggie Wayne, Josh Freeman, and others.

After the afternoon’s last NFL games, we went to Cappy’s Cafe on Walnut to watch the Pens and continue laughing in the face of sobriety. Eventually some fool (*raises hand*) had the bright idea to order Jager Shakes. Before long LRG, Tony, and I found ourselves at Grove yet again (TJ had to be at work early the next day); more beers, more shots, more delusions of grandeur. The last thing I remember clearly that night is asking Tony to call my phone around 2 a.m. as we stood in my apartment, because in the ten minutes that we’d been back there I had managed to lose it. As you might imagine, I had a long, uninterrupted sleep that night. And to all, a good night.

When I dragged myself out of bed the next morning, I found a pair of sneakers sitting on my living room floor. They looked like Tony’s, but he had already left. I texted him about the shoes, eagerly anticipating a story about him leaving my place in his socks. About five minutes later, though, he responded in confusion, saying that he had his shoes with him. I looked again at the pair in my living room; they were small, probably a woman’s size. I realized that they probably belonged to the mother of the family next door. But that opened a new round of questions. How, exactly, did her shoes end up in my apartment? Unfortunately, that question still has yet to be answered. But one thing’s for sure: that family hates me.

I can’t wait for New Years Eve.

Brewski Fest 2009: Tasters' Choice (Part 1)

Brewski Festival. A mountain resort. A buffet of gourmet food. 46 breweries, 105 beers. Mmm-mmm-MMMM.

This was my 4th Brewski Fest—Dupa and I are the “Brewski O.G.’s” among our circle of friends. In each of the two previous years, our numbers had grown considerably, due in large part to the word of mouth and stories that began spreading the second we had returned from the annual beer tasting festival. T.C. and Toe have been to the last three; LRG has been to the last two, and so on. However, this year the trend reversed. When dates were announced and initial planning began, well over 30 people said they were at least interested, and more than half of those 30 said they would definitely be there. But over the months between then and April 25th, that original projection of thirty participants was thinned by prior commitments (most commonly weddings and wedding-related dealings). And others just didn’t seem to believe me when I told them that tickets would sell out quickly, and missed the boat (tickets went on sale in late November; by mid-January they were sold out). So Saturday, when we had all assembled at Seven Springs, a grand total of seven of us actually held a pass to the fun.

However, while we had fewer troops this year, we did come armed with a new weapon: team t-shirts, complete with names and numbers on the back. We weren’t the first to think of it; for years now we’ve seen groups of people at Brewski Festivals rocking shirts custom-made for the day. So this year we threw our hats in the ring. I designed a shirt, took orders, and we showed up properly outfitted at gametime.

While only seven of us—Dupa, Chappy, Toe, LRG, T.C., his brother-in-law (“J Sun”), and yours truly—would be going to the Brewski Festival, there were 10 of us gathered at the resort. The wifey squad—Girlfriend, Mrs. T.C., and “Mrs. J Sun” came to the hotel, but chose to pursue ventures other than Brewski. Mrs. T.C. is pregnant, and therefore settled for relaxed activities like watching movies in the room. Mrs. J Sun, happy just to have some “her time” away from her kids and hubby, joined her in the relaxation. Girlfriend, on the other hand, was feeling her not-just-inner debutante; she went horseback riding early on, and then later got a massage.

The menfolk, on the other hand, gathered in Toe’s room with a few beverages to watch the NFL Draft and the Penguins/Flyers playoff game. Thanks to the room having a rather unique floor plan—wherein one large hotel room is split into two separate bedrooms, with a bathroom and short hallway between them—we were able to have both broadcasts on at the same time on two different flatscreen TVs. We would occasionally migrate back and forth to catch the latest on either screen, all while polishing off a case of Miller Lite and the better part of a fifth of Captain Morgan Private Stock.

J Sun, who is Mrs. T.C.’s older brother, was a first-timer to Brewski Fest. In fact, it isn’t often that we get to hang out with him at all, and he was now surrounded by some of the drinking world’s heavy hitters. As the other six of us fired back and forth inappropriate stories and comments, he sat quietly smiling and shaking his head. After one particularly strong comment by Toe, I looked over at J Sun, who almost seemed to be wincing.

Me: “You taking this all in, J?”
J Sun: “You know, I’ve been married for eight years now, and have two kids. I’m just sitting here, soaking all of this in and thinking, ‘I remember those days…’”

Around 6:30 pm we gathered for a few “before” photos, our band of 7 Brewski brothers showing off the tees on our backs and the giddy anticipation on our faces. Then we headed to dinner. Each of us quickly inhaled a plate of gourmet food from the buffet, laying down a solid foundation for the monument to intoxication that was about to be built. At 7 pm the doors to the Foggy Goggle (Seven Springs’ ski lodge) were opened; we tightened our laces, gripped our complimentary Brewski Festival sampling glasses, said a quick prayer for our success and safety, and entered the arena.

Dupa has recently become somewhat of an aficionado on Belgian beers (or, at least, he knows a lot more about them than the rest of us do), and within 5 seconds of entering the Goggle I lost him. I made a few stops, and when I finally glanced down towards where the Belgian companies were, I spotted him tipping back his glass like a toddler with a sippy cup.

We tasted, tested, and tasted some more. Beer was all around, and much of it was delicious; personal favorites, among those I was trying for the first time, were Brouwerij Van Steenberge N.V.’s Gulden Draak, Leinenkugel Brewery’s Summer Wheat, and New Holland Brewing Co.’s Dragon’s Milk. The Erie Brewing Company was giving away temporary tattoos, and one of their reps happily helped Dupa, Chappy, and I each apply one to our respective bodies. Being modest (shut it), I asked her to put it on my right bicep. Dupa, being…Dupa, had his pressed onto his stomach. Chappy joked, “I should get a tramp stamp.”

Dupa and I *simultaneously*: “DO IT!”

A few minutes later, Chappy was proudly sporting his love of Erie Brewing on the small of his back.

As in past years, some of the breweries used “booth bunnies”—young, attractive women who probably knew as much about the beer they were hawking as they did about quantum physics. Often I would find one or more of our squad’s single gents coolly chatting-up a young lass from the other side of a countertop tap, likely not taking a moment to think and realize that she’s not going to fall in love with you while she’s on her grind. At one point, while the remaining five of us stood around a counter talking, we noticed that LRG and Toe had disappeared. I walked around a corner, and found them standing at the Labatt table, where a pretty brunette in tight white shorts was stationed. I walked up, got myself a glass of Summer Ale, gave the two of them a “you horndogs” grin, and walked back to the others.

One particular girl earned more proclamations of love from the boys than any other. She was working for Peroni; petite, with brown hair, personality, and an intriguing smile, she was pleasant eye candy. She bewitched Toe in particular, as he repeatedly bemoaned to us how he would love her deeply and truly. If the kid could’ve gotten his hands on any kind of ring that night, he would’ve dropped to his knee for her. Her partner at the brewery’s tap was a cute blonde, whose “Peroni”-emblazoned t-shirt found itself struggling to keep her ample chest modest. As TJ said when I later showed him a picture of the girls and mentioned the brunette’s charming personality, “Shee-it. The blonde's got two personalities.”

The occasion really is a one-of-a-kind experience. A reggae band played as hundreds of people from different walks of life rubbed elbows while holding little glasses full of a variety of ales, porters, stouts, ciders, and lagers. Our rookies, Chappy and J Sun, seemed to be patting themselves on the back mentally for heeding those who had convinced them to buy a ticket. Our shirts drew appreciation from vendors and fellow event goers alike—although several asked if we were a Brewski Fest softball team. We collected shirts, stickers, bottle openers, and other giveaways along with our servings of nectar. Dupa even purchased an apron with a brewer’s name printed on it. Eventually 11 pm came around, with each of us grabbing the last drops of beer from the nearest table we could find.

To be continued...

"Play Ball!"

[this past Tuesday]
My mother: “Are you still alive?”
Me: “Yesterday was a long one.”
My mother: “The game was actually pretty good.”
Me: “There was a game yesterday?”

The Pittsburgh Pirates’ Home Opener; it has become a yearly tradition for my friends and me. And it is quickly growing into one the city’s biggest annual events. I’ve gone to three of them now, and each year the crowds seem larger than those of the year prior.

We were surprised to hear, at around 8 a.m. that Monday morning, that our traditional tailgating location was closed due to construction. While this didn’t spell doom (most of Pittsburgh’s “North Shore” is a series of parking lots surrounding Heinz Field and PNC Park), it did mean that we were not going to be anywhere near our beloved 222 (the “Triple Deuce”), the dive bar that we pile into every year for rounds of cheap shots of Jack and Beam.

On the plus side, however, we had nearly doubled our numbers over last year’s party. The larger number of people and the change in location led to the new logistical headache of trying to coordinate everyone. TJ and a work buddy got to the parking lots around 8:30 a.m., a full two hours before I finally arrived. In between those two points in time were:

• a stop for me at a grocery store to pick up burger buns and cheese;
• me sitting in my car in the parking lot outside of Esq’s very upscale apartment building, taking swigs of Johnnie Black Label from my monogrammed hip flask [thank you, baby] as I awaited the arrival of my traveling group;
• a dozen relayed text messages and phone calls between myself, Dupa, Chief, Baby Joey, and an increasingly agitated TJ.

Dupa met up with TJ while I was en route in a cab, and called to ask if anyone from our crowd was already down there. I told him that our friend Mudd had gotten down there early and set up camp; but, because neither he nor TJ had met Mudd before, I had not tried to coordinate their forced introduction to each other from my remote location. In passing I added, “He’s a large Black man in a cowboy hat.” 45 seconds later I got a text from Dupa: “We found Mudd, we’re at the spot.”

TD, Baby Joey, and I walked into a beauteous scene: our party stretched about five parking spots wide, and was flanked in every direction by others of similar sizes. Music was blasting from one of the SUVs in our section, and a large table next to it was filled to the edges with food, plates, utensils, drinks, and cups. Grills churned out smoke, games of beer pong raged on two tables that had been set up side-by-side, and everyone everywhere was tipping back some form of nectar. It was downright spiritual.

Pakistanimal, who was at another party nearby, stopped by with a friend of his for a little while. When they had left to go back to their party, someone said about the friend, “I don’t like that girl.” I responded, “I don’t hate her, but I don’t really care about her either. I nothing her.”

My boy, “Beard”, was on hand, which meant a bottle of Jim Beam was, too. Beard is a great character: muscle-bound but quiet and easygoing, he maintains a calm and steady presence, no matter the situation—and no matter his style of the moment. Two years ago, he showed up for the Home Opener with a thick Fu Manchu mustache and beard, and when I spotted him he was chewing on a turkey drumstick while wearing a t-shirt and sunglasses in 40 degree weather. This year he wore a wool ascot cap and shades, and had grown his beard into that of a cartoon devil’s, replete with a streak of gray running the length on either side.

He handed me the fifth of Beam, and as I took one long chug from it, I turned back towards TJ and his boy from work. TJ cracked up, and his friend had a look on his face like, “Who are these people?” And if that image wasn’t enough to freak him out, then the sight of Mudd, standing in the bed of his pickup—cowboy hat and all—popping and locking to some random song, had to be the tipping point.

Familiar faces from all around were gathered for the festivities. Tony arrived, as did Stacy and some of her girlfriends. Nate eventually joined us, as did Shock B. (who had slept through much of the morning). CJ made it for a second year in a row, rocking his routine guise of an overcoat, a cigarette, and hilarious sarcasm. We all ate, drank, and took turns knocking each other off the beer pong table. Chief roamed the party wearing a large pirate-like eye patch. I successfully haggled a guy selling Pirate gear down to $10 for a fitted cap marked at $31. Hollywood made an appearance, although he seemed much more reserved than usual—possibly to avoid repeating the embarrassment of some of his recent exploits. Dupa lifted girls into the air—including TD and her sister, who posed on his shoulders simultaneously—with drunken glee. Pakistanimal, having returned from the other party, inhaled a couple cups of Captain & Coke before deciding he wanted to wear a nearby traffic cone as a hat. Mudd bounced around with a special concoction in a large apple juice bottle, making sure everyone took multiple chugs, but refusing to reveal the recipe. As intoxicated as our shenanigans were, however, none were more ill-conceived than those of a certain girl at the party.

About midway through the day, I noticed a new partygoer. I don’t know whose guest she was, and I had never seen her before, not even earlier that day. She was a blonde of average height and well-above average weight. She seemed to be somewhat in denial about her dimensions, as she wore a t-shirt that was a couple of sizes too small. All too often it revealed her ample midsection and back—sprawled across which was a large tribal tramp stamp. An enterprising guy in our group (I don’t know him personally; I think he was part of Mudd’s extended crew) decided to make use of her self-esteem, which was almost as low as her alcoholic tolerance. I glanced over to the opened hatch of the SUV where he was reclined, receiving a…mouth hug…from Miss Stamp. As this was taking place in plain view of our entire party (and anyone else—including cops—walking past through the parking lot), she reneged shortly after beginning, and it seemed like that outrageous story had come to an end.

But this just wouldn’t be an “On the Rocks” party if it did. About ten minutes later the two of them had moved to the SUV’s passenger side door. She danced and grinded on him while he sat facing out of the open door. A couple of minutes later, she was back at work, her head bobbing up and down in his lap. Suddenly it seemed like everyone had a camera in their hand. People snapped action shots from any angle they could find, all while staying discreet enough to prevent Stamp from realizing that she was on Candid Camera. I stationed myself on the other side of Mudd’s pickup truck (which was next to the SUV) and got a couple of pictures, with Recipient looking directly at me and smiling for the camera. Dupa, approaching from a 90 degree angle, managed to get a much more XXX capture. After several minutes, Stamp came up for air, and in doing so noticed someone near the hood snapping photos. She called it a day—as though she had any dignity left to save.

Unlike in past years, the police set a sort of curfew, coming around not long after the game had begun to shoo away any tailgaters remaining in the lots. We packed up and headed across the street to Calico Jack’s. CJack’s almost always has scores of girls dancing on top of their bar. But there was a lack of female patrons doing it on this day, so some of the staff—most of whom wore black short-shorts and revealing Pirate-yellow tank tops—danced on top of the bars to compensate (right).

We partied at CJack’s for a while, and then moved to McFadden’s. My memory takes a sharp down-spike about this time, and since Pakistanimal was with us, I’m guessing shots were to blame. We lost Nate, Tony, and most of the others over time; eventually Pakistanimal, Dupa, and I were dining by ourselves at Hyde Park, toasting glasses of wine. Picturing our slurring, likely loud and inappropriate antics, I keep flashing to the restaurant scene in “Belly” where DMX toasted the slumped body of his soldier LaKid.

When we left the restaurant, Pakistanimal caught a cab home. I know that I walked across the 6th Street Bridge; Dupa swears he was with me, though I remember being alone. But the next thing he remembers after that is waking up naked on the couch in his apartment in the middle of the night, and hurling all over his bathroom, so I don’t know how well I trust his recollection. As for me, I ran into Baby Joey, CJ, and Chief just down the street from the bridge. I hopped into a cab with them, and we went to Primanti Brothers in the Strip District. We bought sandwiches and then went back to Esq’s, where Joey stealthily disappeared into the spare room and passed out under a blanket on the floor—next to a fully-inflated air mattress. After eating for a second time in less than two hours (don’t judge me), I regained some comprehension and headed home, another Home Opener conquered.

The 4 Guys

I have to say, the strategy employed in this new TV commercial from Captain Morgan is rather genius. I'm almost tempted to test it out with some friends one of these days.


The 4 Guys - Captain Morgan Funny Commercial - More free videos are here

Con-text Clues

Last night I was driving home from dinner at my mother’s house, when I got a text at a little past 9. TJ had been at “The Club” for most of the night, and by now the Captain & Cokes had begun to take hold of him. I’m sure it hadn’t taken this long into the night for him to see naked flesh; but his message said, quite succinctly, “TITTIES.”

I’ve been drinking (professionally—I just can’t, in good conscience, consider my St. Ides Special Brew days as anything more than training in the minors) since around the start of my freshman year in college. I’ve been text messaging since about a year after that. So, by now, both are second nature to my friends and me. Each can be dangerous on its own, which means combining them is simply inviting tragedy. But, as is usually the case in life, along the road to tragedy you’ll pass an awful lot of comedy.

From a few nights ago…
Hollywood: “operation foreigner is in effect…im looking for someone exotic looking”
Me: “Lots of asian dudes in Oakland. That’s probably your best bet.”
Hollywood: “bitch”

Later…
Hollywood: “holy hoes down nakama”
Me: “I’m guessing they’re not all that holy.”
Hollywood: “affirmative”

I can’t say for sure just how his night ended, but I can say this: his MySpace status the following day spoke of a hangover, but nothing of meeting a future-Mrs. Hollywood-with-an-accent.

Granted, I was sober during those exchanges. But I have done plenty of damage from the other side of the fence. The following are messages sent during a weeklong business trip in March ’07.

Tuesday morning…
Me (to TJ): “Let's recap last night: san-diego-women's-rm woman has a gorgeous les daughter with even hotter gfs; her engagement is failing; and she wants me badly”
Me (to TJ): “Note: the mother is the one with the failing engagement who wants me. I actually told her that her daughter sounds like a porn fantasy...and she agreed.”

Early Tuesday evening…
Me (to TJ): “I'm playing poker against hot chicks from Cali and computer geeks. I own this place.”

Later that night…
Me: “You don't know the party i'm at right now.”
TJ: “Explain.”
Me: “Picture a high school house party. In a huge house in Texas. Only, instead of teenagers, it's 80+ software engineers. From all around the world.”
TJ: “So geekfest 2007?”
Me: “That's half of it. But there's also cute foreign chicks. Brazilians even.”
TJ: “Here's the part where I hate you.”

Later still, I sent a quote from L-Boogie…
Me (to TJ): “My son will be president of the United States. And yes, he will get head; and he'll admit to it.”

The following morning…
Me (to TJ): “So I got a number from a girl last night who has a bf, and I now have a little asian cutie from san diego on it. And I won a cowboy hat.”

Thursday morning, discussing my plans for celebrating my birthday upon returning home…
Me (to Shannon): “Thanks hon. Nothing concrete. I believe compromising my judgment, vision, and ability to walk in a straight line will be involved, though.”

Friday afternoon, in the cab home from the airport, talking about events of the previous night…
Me (to my project manager at work): “Not the first time, and probably not the last time, that I drink alcohol from a woman's cleavage. Talk to you on Monday.”

Maybe it’s just me, but sometimes the best (although it’s occasionally the most painful) part of my morning-after is scrolling through my text messages to see what I sent. Irritated cursing, paranoid accusations, sloppy come-ons…it all reminds you of the ramblings of a blind man who has been handcuffed to a mechanical bull for five hours.

At his request, last year I kept a record of all of the texts between TJ and me during his birthday weekend (he was in Appleton, WI). The following highlights from that weekend, if nothing else, serve to show why “On the Rocks” was an inevitable necessity.

Early Friday night…
TJ: Is it too early for patron? No, no its not.
Me: Don't forget to get some pictures of titties. Makes every birthday that much more special.
TJ: I dont do pictures, son. Lawyers advice. Reduces the chances of conviction.
Me: No man's ever been convicted of getting birthday boob.
TJ: I just did a shot called chocolate cake. Wtf is going on.
Me: You're becoming a woman, that's what. I had that shot once, but the chick had to promise head first.
TJ: Well, it was free. And i just killed six stuffed potato skins. Oh, its gonna be bad night.
Me: You're going for "sloppy bitch" drunk, aren't you?
TJ: Man... I already lost feeling in my extremities.

Later…
TJ: If i bone dea [Sage], its like both our presents.
Me: lol@her waking up with the star of david on her ass tomorrow. Tell her she owes ME a damn gift. She's two weeks late on it already.
TJ: At the club. Safe. On familiar ground.
Me: TELL HER THAT S**T!
TJ: WHEN I SEE HER I WILL N***A BREATHE
Me: Good boy. Now do a shot of beam.
TJ: I hate you.
Me: That's your thirst talking.
TJ: Jody lookin yum.
Me: A picture's worth a thousand drunk texts.
TJ: I got no flash on the celly. ill see what i can do. Why do you sound sober?
Me: Smoking Aces on dvd tues. I WILL be copping.
TJ: DRINK U P***Y

Even later…
TJ: Ok, im signing off. I got four shots sitting between eight titties. If i die, keep keepin on, man.
Me: Stand and fight, man. Stop talking like a dead man.
TJ: HOLY F**K
Me: Welcome to the land of the dead.
TJ: Tijies and tequika niga
Me: Strength and honor.
TJ: N***A IM RTILL ALIVE
Me: The measure is the a.m. hours.
TJ: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY F****D UP ASS N***A

Saturday…
TJ: Fifth hour of drinking. I'm a dead man.
Me: *steps out onto the battlefield* let's do this
TJ: If i die tonight, u can be a pallbearer.
Me: Your lightweight ass would only need two of them.
TJ: Lightweight my ass. I been on the battlefield for six hours now. Also, i want yall to cripwalk with my casket.
TJ: 4 f*****g dancers? For MY bday? F**K THAT
Me: You're drunk and seeing double. There's only 2.

Later…
TJ: Way to tell im drunk. Im jammin to rob zombie.
Me: Way to tell i'm with white girls: we're listening to bow wow.
TJ: Eeny meeny miney mo, usin game to catch a ho.
Me: Chubbly chick loving me.
TJ: Roflz, U bangin a chubbly would be the best bday gift.
Me: "that's what friends are forrr"
TJ: Ok. Theres a world class psycho stripper here. Shes also a 9.5. And my bac has to be 0.25 at this point.
TJ: Hmmm ... Puking rally?
Me: That's my dog.

Even later…
TJ: TITTY OVERLOAD
TJ: SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS MAKE THEM STOP
TJ: Restaurant owner kust gavd ne free certificates.
Me: You're not a man until you hit double digits.
TJ: Doble di4ts on hos or drinks? Cvz I done already killed a bottle of cap.

The final two messages of the night, sent at well-past 4 a.m.…
TJ: Pun2tuatin for the evening. In the emergency room with a broke hand and fat lip. F***k.
TJ: F*****g doctors.