Streets is Listing

'Tis the season for yearend lists. I don’t normally do these. But during a moment of day-to-day tedium last week, it occurred to me that there is a ton of stories that accumulate over the course of a year. And while this year, compared to previous years, I’ve been slightly better at getting those stories told via this page (100+ posts in 2011!), the sheer volume of drunken shenanigans practically begs for reflection in the waning days of December.

But the prioritization involved in a “Yearend/Top 25/etc.” list is an especially foolhardy pursuit when you’re dealing with experiences. It’s easy to separate the bad from the good, but how do you deem Good Experience A empirically better than Good Experience B? You may end up with a few really high highs and a few really low lows, but the overwhelming majority of items are going to populate a middle realm where no one event is substantially better or worse than the next. And let’s not forget just how arrogant it is to assign rank to items in a published write. I am one person, and this post will be read by millions hundreds tens of fans; although I may list one event as being better than another, what makes me think that each of those ten readers will agree with the ordering?

This list, therefore, is as random as the life it is fueled by—the items are, however, in chronological order. But no numerical value has been assigned to these moments, so that they may stand as equally brilliant moments of boozy fun I’ve had in 2011. Some of them have already appeared in On the Rocks posts this year, and therefore I didn’t go into too much detail about them here (for the most part). If you want to read more about those specific tales, a link to the corresponding post is provided. For those happenings that are being published for the first time, though, I’ve given a few choice comments.

Here’s to 2012 being a great one.

Top 15 Drunken Moments of 2011

• The Buffalo Trip. Hurley and I drove up to Buffalo, NY—the homeland of GTB [obviously, he’s no longer a “groom to be”, as his wedding took place 2½ years ago; but I’m too lazy to create a new alias] and his crew of boozing all-stars—to join T.C., who was already in town for a business trip, on the second Friday of February. We pregamed at GTB’s house with a few card games, and then headed off to run the town. We bounced from bar to bar to bar, but the only thing I remember clearly is falling in the snow in GTB’s front yard when we got home. The next morning the Pittsburgh boys, all of us enduring massive hangovers, climbed back into our vehicles and crawled back home.
  
• The Pirates’ Home Opener. How do you make a baseball game tolerable to watch? Spend all day getting really, really drunk (and, also, don’t watch much of the game itself). Although we were without our patron saint of home openers, Chief, we boozed at a level that would have made him proud. Beard passed around a handle of Jim Beam until it was completely gone (tradition is tradition); I made out with a shy buxom lass named Kim in the Hall of Fame Club, where we had just met minutes earlier; Baby Joey got kicked out of the same HOF Club for pissing in a bathroom sink; and Dupa molested a female coworker on the McFaddens dance floor. It’s a grand ol’ game.
  
• Four Loko Night. One Saturday in April, Dupa and I decided to go Loko with the case that TJ had bought me for my birthday. As it happened, our buddy Weiner (yes, that’s his real name) was in town with his girlfriend, and they joined the fun. Before long, my apartment was filled with more than ten people, most of us holding 24 oz cans of happiness. Particularly fun to watch was TD, who was consuming her first ever Loko (we only let her have a half a can, being that she was a virgin—and because the can is the same size as her). We later spilled out into the night and hit up Shady Grove. I even performed a lap dance for one of our friends' girlfriends (hey, it was her birthday, and I owed her—she gave me one on my birthday).
  
• Brewski Fest. Beer. Lots of beer. Add in a surprise attendance by BlahBlahBlah, and Tony deciding to leave at 5 am, only to head out the door to the deck and stand there in confusion, and you have something special. And Dupa and I had an idea for a new contest at the annual event: This year, many breweries had stacks of stickers at their booths as part of the swag offered to the Brewskiers. Dupa and I, then, began collecting stickers, applying them all over our bodies. We looked like drunken stockcars. Dupa eventually won by slapping a Full Pint Brewing sticker on his forehead. Now that’s commitment.
  
• The Jim Jefferies Show. When Jefferies announced that he would be coming to Pittsburgh for a weekend of performances in May, my crew quickly made plans to be there. The Aussie comic is one of our favorites, and each of us can recite “I Swear to God” by heart. Hurley and I got boozed up during dinner at Rock Bottom, and then met up with Dupa, Shannon, Stef, and Entertainer at the Improv, where we proceeded to get even boozier during the raucous show. Afterwards we all headed back to Rock Bottom for more drinking, and were eventually joined by others—including Jim Jefferies himself. Best line of the night: Jefferies telling Enzie he wanted to fuck her, kill her, and toss her body in the river.
  
• Redbeard’s Happy Hour Night (post). I've already spoken on how great the random Friday night in June was. Proof that, in life, it’s often the unplanned moments that turn out the best.
  
• Furry Safari (post). Friends, fun, and fur. Plus lots and lots of booze. And an uninvited guest. And then lots and lots more booze.
  
• Armo’s Pool Party (post). Easily the best party of the summer. An entire day and night spent in perfect July weather with beer, lemonade vodka (to TJ’s detriment), bikinis, and craziness.
  
• Xmas in July (post). Hallelujah.
  
• The Admiral’s 75th (post). Say what you will about my family, but we know how to throw one hell of a party. Big Sis tearing down the house at the afterparty, Step Bro hitting on everything in a skirt without a care, the Sunday barbecue carrying on into the wee hours of the night, and a Mason jar of moonshine making the rounds. Yessir.
  
• Esq’s Bachelor Party. In September we gathered for our homie’s last hurrah. Beer pong, scotch, and hookup horror stories at Breitling’s estate, a bus ride to Station Square, and copious amounts of boozing. When walking into Buckhead, I managed to smack my head off a low hung light, causing me to crumple to the ground, and making several cute girls nearby shriek, “Oh my god, are you alright?!”
  
• Dupa’s Dirty Thirty in Vegas (post). Yup. [And yes, the third installment is going to be published…eventually.]
  
• Halloween. Enzie, Chappy, his fiancée, and I helped TJ and Glitter take their son (as well as his friend, who was escorted by his mom—Glitter’s friend Jenn) around Chappy’s neighborhood. And along the way Chappy and I worked on the case of Sam Adams Oktoberfest that was in TJ’s backpack. As the night went on, we had to dig through the candy his son had been collecting to get to the bottles; in other words, we had to find our way through the treats to find the trick.
  
• Whisky Fest. Thanks to TD and her sister Green Pants, I finally got to take part in this coveted November affair. Heinz Field’s exhibition hall was filled with every premium spirit one could ever hope to sample, from Johnnie Walker Blue Label (which was tasted-dry by attendees within two minutes of each bottle being opened) to Courvoisier Rose. Boy Toy and I spent three finely-attired hours working our way around to every table that we could, while growing more and more functionally dysfunctional.
  
• The Ugly Sweater Party (post). The first time I’ve ever enjoyed helping friends move furniture.
  

The Ohio University Halloween (Pt. 2)

[The conclusion of my Ohio U. Halloween story (read Part 1). When we left our fearless explorers from W&J (T.C., Tony, and yours truly), they were at an off-campus house party, sober and in civilian clothing, when they made the executive decision to forge off on their own, to Court Street.]

Court Street is effectively the Ohio U. version of New Orleans’ Bourbon Street. It is a straight, wide street lined with bars, and for Halloween they block it off at either end of a mile-long stretch. Oh yeah.

T.C., Tony, and I waded through the inebriated masses of skin and costumes, and I suddenly remembered that I had come armed with a cameraphone. I decided to get some good use out of it, and snapped a few pictures as we walked up the street. After a block or two, we chose the nearest bar. It was a typical, nondescript college pub, with booths along the right wall, a large bar running the length of the left wall, and TV sets in a few different locations. We sat down at the bar, and ordered six shots of Jaeger. It was business time.

Prominent among the revelers in this bar, was a girl wearing a Hooters girl costume. And she was wearing it convincingly (i.e., she was blessed with large “chesticles,” as Tony likes to call them). She and a friend (who was dressed as a female devil) came over to the bar and sat to the left of me. I felt a tap on my left shoulder, and turned around to find the Devil-Woman smiling at me. “Hey!” she slurred. Pointing to her friend, she said, “Put your face in her cleavage and go ‘bbbrrrbbb!’” I was speechless. This girl, without any provocation, had just asked me to motorboat her friend. I looked at Hooters Girl, who seemed uneasy about her friend’s sudden desire to see a complete stranger stick his face between her breasts in a crowded bar. “Do you want me to do that?” I asked. She said, meekly, “Um…not really.” I really am too nice when I’m sober.

They were fun girls, though, and I continued talking to them. Seeing that I had a cameraphone, they decided to give us a mini performance. Devil-Woman grabbed a cherry from the bartenders’ caddy on the bar, and held it in the air between them. From either side of it, they each leaned forward and shared it in a messy kiss as I snapped a picture. God bless modern technology.

We downed a few more drinks, and then made our way back out into the street. The scene was like nothing I had ever experienced before. An endless river of people flowed past, wearing a never-ending variation of costumes. And there were costume teams everywhere. More cheerleaders. More hookers. A powder puff team of girls wearing football jerseys, short shorts, ankle socks, cleats, and eye black danced in the street. Naughty cops. Naughty witches. Naughty nurses. There was even a group of naughty chefs, who were dressed in chef hats, tight white tops, short skirts, and had aprons around their waists. Why don’t girls dress like this the other 364 days of the year?

We decided to start bouncing around to different bars along the street. We entered one, and found a spectacularly-bosomed girl checking IDs at the door while wearing a low cut fairytale princess dress. I had her pose for my cameraphone; as drunk as I was getting, the picture probably looked clear as day to me then. Looking at it now, though, it’s like looking through pond water. I guess modern technology just wasn’t advanced enough for her rackage.

Being that I was drinking—beers and shots were ordered at just about every place we stopped in—my memory starts to fade in and out around this time. I know I’m forgetting more than I’m remembering, but what I remember is vivid. In one bar, I found myself sitting next to two cute, petite chicks dressed as…naughty sluts? I was unconcerned at that point. I mentioned to them the cherry show that had been performed at the first bar, but they were not impressed. “That’s nothing,” the brunette one said, as she grabbed her blonde friend and engaged her in a lingering kiss for my camera. It’s a small miracle that alcohol dulls the senses. Otherwise I might have shown them just how much I enjoyed that photo-op. It really is the ultimate compliment, ladies.

We were walking through another bar, when a random girl grabbed T.C. Being that he had a girlfriend back at W&J, I began formulating different cover stories in my head. But it turned out that she had gone to high school with him, and was now in her junior year at O.U. “Little A.” (this one is for protecting anonymity) took us downstairs to hang with her friends at the basement bar, which was a laid back scene. Dim lighting (or at least I remember it as dim), music, tables and chairs, as well as a bar with stools around it in the far corner. I vaguely remember there being couches, too, but don’t quote me on that. We drank there until last call, at which point Little A. invited us back to her and her friends’ house. This concludes my recollection of that night (save for one memory which I will get to in a moment), but not the night itself. Hello, darkness—we meet again.

I awoke around 9 the next morning, still drunk. On a floor. In a room. Alone. I looked around, and was quite certain I had no idea where I was. It seemed to be a girl’s room, complete with pink decorations, various pictures of people I didn’t know, and female clothing strewn about. I could hear male voices on the other side of the door. They seemed to be rehashing the events of the night before; I figured it was just T.C. and Tony. I turned my attention to my phone; I didn’t have my phone. “What the f...?” It wasn’t in my pocket; it wasn’t on the floor. It wasn’t on a desk or a chair. “Man,” I thought. “I hope my boys know where it is.”

I opened the door, and found myself face-to-face with two guys I had never seen before in my life. They were sitting on two couches in a living room, and seeing a 6’6” man emerge from the room caught them a little off guard. Thankfully, though, they were relaxed cats, who understood that I was as confused as they were. I found out that neither of them lived there. They were visiting a friend of theirs who lived in the house. Neither had seen a phone lying around, nor did they know my boys. I decided that I was never drinking again. Ever.

I used the house phone and tried dialing my phone, but heard nothing. No ringing anywhere. The two guys were about to hit the road, and couldn’t offer me much help. They could give me a ride, but to where? Pittsburgh? I had no idea where my peoples were, so it would have been a pointless exercise. I thanked them, and continued to try to remember anything I could about the night before. I walked into the kitchen, and looked out into the backyard. Suddenly, I remembered sitting on the back porch by myself in the dark (yeah, I worry about me sometimes, too). I walked outside, and tried calling my phone again. I heard a Nas song faintly playing nearby, and rescinded my earlier pledge of future sobriety. I called again and tracked the sound, until I found my phone sitting in the middle of the yard, on the other side of some lawn furniture. There were 16 missed calls and 10 text messages, all from the night before.

I tried calling T.C. and Tony, but got nothing from either. I walked back to T.C.’s car in the parking lot on the other side of campus, hoping they had slept there. But it was empty. I didn’t have a key, so I sat on the ground next to it for 20 minutes before my phone rang. T.C. said groggily, “Where the f*ck are you?”

As he and Tony trudged back to the parking lot, he filled me in on the end of their night:

• When we got back to Little A.’s, there was a raging party. We were drinking, when I suddenly disappeared. T.C. and Tony had no idea where I was, and tried calling me because they were heading back up to campus with some people. But they called and called, and couldn’t find me. How you miss the 6½ foot tall biracial kid in the backyard is beyond me. But it’s not like they were drinking water while I was throwing back the shots, so I cut them some slack on that point.
• They finally gave up on finding me, and walked up to campus. The people they were with got separated from them, for whatever reason. Tony, being in his “obnoxious drunk” stage of the night, decided to start dropping flying elbows on car hoods. He would run at the car yelling something like, “You think you can destroy me, bitch?” and then leap, slamming down on the hood. I think he said that, at one point, he was even standing on one hood. Fantastic judgment, that one has. He and T.C. then decided to retire to the frat house, where they found two couches in a chapter room and passed out.
  
• Tony woke up without a $50 bill in his pocket that he had begun the night with, and decided that one of the frat brothers had pick-pocketed him in his sleep. T.C. had to drag him out of there before he started shit with anyone. It took years before he finally conceded that he likely had just spent it. Crazy drunken Irishman.
  
• I found out, when I ran into Little A. months later, that it was her bedroom floor that I had slept on. She had ended up somewhere else, and didn’t even know that I had been in there.

That Sunday was a rough one. I drove half the way home, and then slept the second half while Tony drove. T.C., whose car it was, slept for the entire drive. We vowed to return the following year with more people, but never did. The damage from the night was best summed up in a conversation I had with T.C. a couple of weeks later. I had eventually gone through the pictures of the trip that were on my phone, and came to one of a beautiful blonde girl, wearing a 1920s “flapper” outfit; complete with a tight, low cut top that showed off the ample blessings that nature had bestowed upon her chest. I didn’t recognize her, so I asked him if he did.

Me: “I don't know who she is, but I love her.”
T.C.: “Buddy, that’s Little A.”
Me: “Who?”

The Ohio University Halloween (Pt. 1)

It’s a Wednesday, and I’m sober. So I’m going to delve into my archives for story time (sit back, this will be a long one):

In October 2003, my good friend (we’ll call him “Tommy College,” or “T.C.”; not so much to protect his identity, but because it really pisses him off) called me with an idea. He had heard about Ohio University’s annual costumed Bacchanalia, which O.U. students and alumni downplay as a “Halloween party.” Now, I am going to assume that you’re like me; when you see the term “Halloween party,” you think “a relatively small gathering—maybe 20 to 40 people, some of whom are in costume, consuming alcohol and relaxing while music plays.” A reasonable supposition, but let me shatter it with a fact that T.C. dropped on me during that phone call: O.U.’s Halloween party is the 3^rd largest public celebration in the country, behind Times Square on New Years Eve and Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I went into involuntary spasms at the realization of what we were about to get ourselves into.

At the time, T.C. was president of his frat, which has a chapter at O.U. His idea was to call the president of O.U.’s chapter, tell him that he was coming through with some guys for the party, and graciously accept the unmitigated hospitality that would be offered by the O.U. frat brothers: beds, booze, hookers, liver transplants the following day—whatever we wanted. We’re W&J guys, after all: we would be received as liberators. I now have a sneaking suspicion that T.C. was working with the Bush Administration’s Iraq War advisors.

Tony was the only other friend of ours who we could convince to ride out with us. Some had other commitments that day. Some lacked what my high school defensive line coach called “intestinal fortitude.” Even Tony took some convincing. He didn’t commit until a friend of his, who had heard elsewhere about the famed party, said he’d be crazy not to go.

On the Saturday of the party, Tony, T.C., and I made the 3 hour drive out to Athens, Ohio. If you have ever made a trip across any stretch of Ohio, then you know just what kind of torture it is. It’s similar to the scene in Starship Troopers, where the bug drains the guy’s brains to read his mind. Ohio wanted to know what our plans were, and after 2½ hours our skulls were bone dry.

Athens is a typical college town, in that there’s more college than town. At night, the O.U. campus sits on a plateau like a glowing oasis amid the pitch black nothingness of, well...Ohio. And as we drove into the light, our jaws dropped. Block upon block of off-campus apartments and houses, teeming with people. And, especially, with girls scantily-clad in “costumes.” Girls on the porches. On the sidewalks. Sticking out of windows. Drinking on rooftops. On campus it was more of the same, every single block crawling with people. Drunk people. In costumes. God bless America.

The three of us had decided not to get dressed up, and as we walked from the parking lot to the frat house, we realized that we stuck out like sore thumbs. When I say everyone was in costume, I don’t mean “everyone” in a generic sense. I’m speaking literally here. EVERYONE. Except for the three W&J guys.

T.C. called the president to notify him of our arrival, and we stood outside of the frat house while we waited for him to come meet us. A foursome of attractive girls dressed as naughty girl scouts strode up the walkway (I still say in movie-like slow motion). One stopped to offer us some of the goodies in her “cookie box,” a shoe box which had been modified to match her outfit. She opened the top and revealed a large assortment of condoms. Tony and I each took one, and she smiled at us as she departed, catching up with her friends as they walked into the house and up the stairs. The look on Tony’s face was that of a man who had found heaven.

This was my first exposure to team costuming, but certainly not my last. After Frat Prez came down to get us, he took us upstairs to a hall party where groups of cops, cheerleaders, and hookers walked to and fro. He introduced us to his girlfriend, who herself was part of a group of…well, it was never made quite clear what their costumes were. Fedoras, pinstriped dress shirts, miniskirts, thigh-high stockings with garters, and high heels; kind of a cross between hookers and ‘30s gangsters. Whatever it was that they were going for, they achieved it beautifully.

They took us to an off-campus house party, but the fact that we knew no one aside from Frat Prez was readily apparent. And he was distracted by his friends, which left us as the un-costumed unknowns crashing the party. Not an easy conversation starter. Plus we were all sober. We had been handed beers at the house party, but they were the first drops of alcohol we had touched all night. We decided to journey directly to the epicenter of the craziness: Court Street.

(to be continued...)