Things to Do in DC When You're Dead

Part I: Friday

Life is cruel. To be more succinct, aging is cruel. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, even the best players eventually lose a step. There are just certain things you can push your body and psyche to withstand when you’re 21 that feel downright insane when you’re 31. But what separates the former all-pro from the future hall-of-famer is this: when age begins to take away the physical blessings that made him so great, the former all-pro never comes to grips with it. He falters, and eventually fades away. But the future hall-of-famer, when faced with the same deterioration of his raw abilities, adjusts his game. He practices harder, he works on his technique and his reads, and he plays the angles that allow him to compensate for his suddenly insufficient body. It’s why Jerry Rice will always be looked at as the benchmark for outstanding wide receivers, and Andre Rison will always be looked at as that guy who had his house burned down by a crazy girlfriend (R.I.P., Left Eye).

And that brings me to this past weekend. On Friday, Steph (no, I’m not insinuating that she burned down any buildings…that I know of) picked me up in her Pittsburgh-sky-gray Hummer H3, and we sped towards Washington, D.C. and the annual love letter to boozing that is Chief’s birthday celebration—or Chiefapalooza, to which it is now commonly referred. Thanks to yours truly, she and I got off to a very late start (she had hoped to leave around 3:30 pm; 2½ hours later we were finally heading towards the highway onramp), and had only reached the edge of Alexandria, VA by about a quarter after ten. A long week of snow, ice, and work stresses had us both eager to blow off some steam (especially Steph, whose road rage was flaring up more and more with every passing second that a drink wasn’t in her hand; there are several people out in the world who don’t know just how close they came to having a 5’4” sorority girl run them off of I-270 with her Hummer). And, booze fiends that we are, we soon began speculating about our first sips of spirits with addict-like enthusiasm. “Maybe I’ll start with a double Red Bull & vodka,” I said wistfully as our eyes scanned street signs, looking for the next turn. “Whatever it is,” I assured, “it’ll be a double.”

After she dropped me off in front of my hotel, Steph sped off towards her own itinerary of adventures in D.C. and I raced to meet up with Chief and everyone else at Theismann’s. I checked in, washed up quickly, changed my clothes, and was walking purposefully towards the hotel elevator as I texted to Chief, “Order daddy a double vodka-Red Bull.”

I arrived to a well-lubricated crowd (Chief, Kim, Esq, Shock B, Esq’s buddy Drew, CJ, Finn, Genoa, Cat, Sam, and Cat’s friend Christy) who were splitting their attention between the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics, the Pitt – WVU men’s basketball game (Go Pitt!), and the various glasses and bottles of alcohol littered around their annexed section of bar real estate. After hugging it out, Chief told me that the bar was out of Red Bull.

Chief: “I was going to get you some Hennessy instead, but I didn’t want to be stereotypical.”
Me: “Psshh, do it up. Double Henny on the rocks!”

Taking the glass in my left hand, I toasted with Chief and had half of the Henny down before my right hand could send Steph a text informing her of what my first libation was. A few rounds of Miller Lite later, our crew—minus the wifeys—moved to Murphy’s, an Irish pub in the middle of Old Town Alexandria. [For one reason or another, I began drinking Coronas shortly after getting there, and the irony just hit me that I switched to a Mexican beer instead of a beer called “Miller” when I got to an Irish pub.] Cat bought Chief a glass of 16 year old Bushmills for his birthday, and when I had a sip it made me rethink my life’s experiences for never having tasted it before that moment. Here I thought I was a man of the world when it came to whiskey; then along came that little tumbler glass of bronze beauty to make me feel like a virgin all over again.

Being that we were in an Irish pub, we decided to get a round of Car Bombs. I could almost hear my liver whimper. More beers, more shots. My liver began sobbing. As the lights came up and the bouncer started pushing us towards the door, I downed the last of my beer, and then had another one shoved in my face by Cat, who didn’t want it to go to waste. My liver began preparing a hara-kiri ceremony.

Standing on the sidewalk outside of the bar, everyone debated their next moves. Esq, CJ, and Finn decided to go back to Chief’s place to drink and play Xbox. I, on the other hand, understood 3 crucial pieces of information:

1. I am 30 years old.
2. It was already 2:30 a.m., and we had a full day of celebration on Saturday.
3. I paid good money for a nice hotel room with a king-sized bed.

While the Andre Risons tried to hail a cab, Jerry Rice peaced out and strolled down King Street to his hotel.

[To be continued...]

See-Ya Week Pt. 1: Cruisin

Hmm…words. On an electronic page. It feels so…strange; but yet, familiar. It’s been…so long.

I’m sure On the Rocks’ legions of followers have noticed how quiet the page has been in recent weeks. It’s been 21 days since anything new has appeared here, and it’s been even longer since a story of drunken revelry has debuted. The answer, quite simply, is that it’s been that long since I have engaged in any revelry. [Or, at least, it had been that long—I was rudely reintroduced to the blackout arts this past weekend. But that’s for another post.] Most of those close to me know the reason for my absence from the World of Pourcraft (*bows*…thank you, thank you), and I won’t be going into it much right now. I’ll just sum it up by quoting something I said to my cousin during a recent conversation about life: “It’s a lot easier to fall in love with someone than it is to fall out of love with them.”

I’ll climb back onto the wagon soon enough; in the meanwhile, I’ve decided to write up a series of quick tales to help soothe the ache that my absence has caused. This being August—with “back to school” sales being pitched from every angle and Ikeas, Walmarts, and Targets all teeming with college students and their parents looking for the right personal touches for this fall’s dorm rooms—lately I’ve been thinking about my college days. This, inevitably, led me to reminisce on our Senior Week.

Senior Week is a spring tradition common among colleges (and even some high schools) across the country. It’s a way for the outgoing class to end their undergrad careers with a bang (or with several of them). Mine, in particular, was well-constructed. Our student council had planned several worthwhile events, including a river cruise around Pittsburgh and a Pirates game at PNC Park (which was brand new at the time). The week was seemingly non-stop—just when you had fallen asleep at 5 a.m. after a long night of post-event partying, you were getting a phone call at 10 a.m. to get ready for either an event or pre-event partying. No rest for the wicked, I suppose. I have long since forgotten at least 40% of the proceedings. The highlights that haven’t been slowly erased, though, will be recounted here in several installments. Starting with the booze cruise.


River Cruise

The inaugural school-sanctioned event of our Senior Week drew a remarkable crowd of W&J’s finest, dressed to impress for a night of dining, drinking, and dancing on the rivers of Pittsburgh. Esq and his roommates hosted a pre-event party at their off-campus apartment, which meant almost all of us were rocked by the time we gathered at the Student Center to board chartered school buses. The ride to Station Square would take about 45 minutes, so most of us brought beer and other drinks onto the bus with us, stashed away in various purses and pockets. In anticipation of the trip—not to mention the high price of mixed drinks on the boats—I brought along a flask-sized bottle of Hennessy. You only graduate once, right?

One of us, however, had gone one step further in his preparations. “Lab Rat” managed to get his hands on a large plastic pickle jar from the snack bar in the Student Center. This was due, in part, to him being ridiculously drunk/high and craving some dill deliciousness. However, he had also understood that this would be a long bus ride for approximately 400 people who were full of beer and liquor; bathroom “facilities” would be a vital need. Lab made use of the pickle jar first, and it quickly became a popular commodity, traded up and down the aisle of the bus for beers and good faith.

Esq then called for his turn. The jar was passed to him, and he made use. However, the container had quickly become nearly filled, and we were only about halfway to our destination. If you’re on a school bus that’s barreling down the freeway, though, where are you going to pour it out? Esq is one of the smartest people I know—you don’t graduate from a top law school and get hired by a top law firm by accident. But the booze had gotten the best of him, and that intelligence was null and void. His thinking had reverted to primitive form: “Jar full. Bad. Need empty.” And the only option he had was the window.

A quick physics lesson: If a bus is moving at a speed greater than 35 mph and you send something out one window, it’s likely returning through one of the windows further back. This is a concept that, if he knew of it at the time, Esq couldn’t quite grasp at the moment. Anyone who rode a bus in grade school could see what was coming next. Unfortunately, the girl sitting two rows back from Esq didn’t.

He extended the jar out of the window, and turned it over, with an instant wash of briny, yellowish-green fluid spraying out of it…and in through the window of our ill-fated friend, “M.C.” Sitting by the window, she was treated to a faceful of horror. She was doused by the pickle juice/urine mixture in an impromptu golden shower.

You know, if one of the pickles left in there had come in and smacked her across the face too, it probably would’ve been strangely poetic.

The Boozing Field Survival Kit

Every adventurer knows that specific tools and equipment are vital to his or her safe voyage through lands unchartered and escapades unpredicted. The youngest of us learn to “always be prepared” in our boy (or girl) scout days, and that motto should serve as an important lesson for us as drinkers in our adult years. Alcohol is good for bringing about the unexpected—that’s one of the many things we love about it. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t crucial to be ready for some of the obstacles that will get thrown your way.

The items on this list are essential for smooth navigation of the good times, and should be considered standard gear for any true enthusiast.

Bottle Opener

You don’t have to carry around a large steel one like most bartenders keep handy (although I’ve always found something rather sexy about female bartenders who work with one sticking out of the back pockets of their jeans…but I digress). A simple keychain opener is usually enough (that’s mine to the right). I’m sure that 90% of your beer drinking (if you’re of similar finances as me) involves pop-tops and screw-caps. But few things are more frustrating than being handed a cold Heineken, Corona, Sam Adams, etc. at a party, and having no way of quenching that all-encompassing thirst. And nothing says “knight in shining armor” like being able to come to the rescue of a cutie who is facing that same frustration.


Camera

This one hardly needs to be said, since these days even the cavemen in the Geico ads have camera phones. And the cyclical popularities of digital cameras and social networking sites like MySpace and Facebook has turned every 20-something girl out on the town into Annie Leibovitz, snapping away as her gal pals vogue with glee. But there is some honesty to the intentions; capturing the moment becomes all the more important when you’re unlikely to have any personal recollection of that moment the next day.


Cards

Raise your hand if you have ever been gathered at a friend’s house, apartment, dorm room, etc, with beers in hand, but at a loss for conversation or entertainment. More than likely, your solution was the same that my friends and I have employed on numerous occasions: a deck of cards. There are an infinite number of drinking card games, and they usually require little more than a coffee table to set up.


Pong Balls

On my way to a party a few years ago, I got a call from the hostess, who asked me to stop by a store and pick up some pong balls for the beer pong table. As I stood in the sporting goods store that day, a revelation hit me: “I should keep a pack in my car for emergencies.” I bought one and threw it in my trunk, and was instantly impressed with my cleverness (of course, that could just mean that I’m easily impressed…but I digress). When I told some of my friends about this, I received the skeptical jokes and laughter that I expected. But when the hosts of a party held not long thereafter found themselves with beer, table, cups, and eager participants, but no beer pong balls, the jokes and laughter ceased.


ID Card/License

This item would seem to be a no-brainer. Bars and clubs across the country require proof of age—often even before you can enter. Yet time and time again, plans get stalled by the dreaded “Dude, I forgot my ID.” Maybe I’m just a creature of habit, but I never leave home without my driver’s license. Especially since it’s always in my wallet, which is something you kind of need when it comes to purchasing alcohol in a bar or store.

I have noticed, though, that occurrences of this error have lessened with age and experience. Now that my friends and I have grown a little older, we rarely (if ever) find ourselves hindered by a missing ID card. For those readers out there who are still early in their career, however, heeding this advice can save you the aggravation and time that experience costs.


Gatorade/Powerade

I really can’t remember when or where I learned about the merits of drinking Gatorade to chase a hangover. I know it was some time after graduating college, but by now it feels like I’ve been doing it all my life. I typically keep one or two 32 oz. bottles (or “morning after pills”) in my refrigerator, chilled and ready for action.

Most drinkers are aware that water is a more than suitable substitute for fending off the day after’s misery; some even chug water before going to bed after a night of imbibing. Personally, I find it easier to throw back something that has some flavor, but to each his or her own. Some form of hydration is necessary, though, all the more so to assist in the use of…


Aspirin

If religious zealots the world over had their way and drinking disappeared tomorrow, companies that make aspirin would probably go out of business the following day. That is, unless you can get a headache from boredom.


Flask

The classic hip flask isn’t necessary for your day-to-day, typical night-on-the-town boozing. No, this is for special occasions, like weddings and road trips (if you’re a passenger), when there is a need for discretion. At the risk of sounding somewhat hypocritical, though, this is the one item on the list that I do not personally own—yet. I am determined to attain one by the end of 2009.

Luckily, some brands of liquor can be bought in small flask-like bottles. One of the events during my Senior Week in college was a dinner cruise on the rivers. Pittsburgh’s Gateway Clipper Fleet sells alcohol on their boats (at inflated prices), and therefore doesn’t permit you to bring any onboard. Little did they know, however, that I had two small pocket bottles of Hennessy tucked into my coat. For the better part of the night I deftly ordered only plain Cokes from the bartenders and waitresses, and yet found myself pleasantly twisted by the time we returned to the dock.


Hopefully, most of you out there in the trenches of the war on sobriety are well aware of the importance of each item on this list. If not, then your next move should be to properly arm yourself. Then add alcohol and ice, and stir. Salud.

Lost Weekend (and the Ocean City Fumble)

Things didn’t quite go according to plan.

Last Friday I was supposed to travel to Washington, D.C. to take part in the annual brain-marinating that is otherwise known as “Chief’s birthday.” A rogue pack of viruses had different designs, however, and instead I spent most of the week on my couch half-dead, coughing and wheezing. My friends set sail on Friday without me, and my only taste of the fun was a slurred, rambling, incoherent 12:30 a.m. voicemail, which started with Kim (Chief’s fiancée) saying, “Remembrur when you came down here lash year, and you sthrew up in that cab? *pause* That was classy!” This was followed by Chief and my friend Finn getting on the phone to say that Kim wanted to have phone sex with me, then calling me an impolite name, and hanging up. My friends are gems, ain’t they?

As a result, cash that had been earmarked for the trip is still sitting in my bank account, and my need to make a grandiose fool of myself has not been properly satiated. These wrongs must be righted immediately, lest someone mistake me for being responsible. Or mature. *shivers*

Friday looks like it could be promising. A friend of mine will be appearing on Wheel of Fortune, and has invited some of us to watch the episode at her father’s bar. Start my Friday night by going to a bar at 7 p.m.? Yes, please. I only hope that I remember that her parents are in attendance, and don’t shout anything like “Gee, your breasts look great on TV!” My friend Bill has said that he intends to be around this weekend as well, and he’s always handy at tracking down a good time. So hopefully Saturday I’ll have a hangover and a new great story for On the Rocks.

In the meanwhile, I’ll open up my archives once more to leave you with a quick example of what I am capable of when incapable of much:

In 2003, some friends and I took a weeklong trip to Ocean City, MD, that has become a treasured piece of our sacred lore. That vacation was to our legacy in the pantheons of booze what Tootie was to “The Facts of Life”: the show would’ve gone on without her, but it just wouldn’t have had the same flavor. So many stories came out of those 8 days that I did a special write-up/chronicle of the adventures, and a year later I gave copies to all those who partook.

The first night that we were there, we visited a fantastic bar called “Scandals.” [Note: Scandals is no longer there, having gone under sometime in 2004 or 2005; I light prayer candles in remembrance every August.] Shortly after arriving, I was introduced to two things of wonder: (1.) a beautiful, brunette bartender named Juli, and (2.) shots of Incredible Hulk. Apparently, when you mix Hennessey and Hypnotiq, the shot appears green under a black light. And when you drink it, you feel like your body itself is a black light. You get really warm, your eyes flicker a little, and everyone around you looks really weird.

To say that this shot damaged me would be putting it mildly. Nevertheless, when we returned to Scandals a few days later, on “Dollar Anything” night, my friend Dupa and I had a brainstorm: “Let’s order Hulks by the glassful.” Yes, let’s.

Two hours later we decided (and by “we,” I mean the other nine people in our group—Dupa and I were no longer qualified to make any decisions that night) to head to another bar. We had spent our entire Scandals visit at the bar in the back; on our way out, we passed the bar near the front, where Juli worked. When she saw me, she waved me over to her and the following conversation took place:

Juli: [frowning] “Are you leaving already?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Juli: “How come you didn’t come over here to see me?”
Me: “Well, we all went to the bar back there & shnid sdd fpp.”
Juli: [laughing] “Okay, just go.”

Yes, that is all typed correctly; I actually spoke everything as it appears. I suffered, it seems, a momentary lapse in my ability to form words. I stumbled away and caught up with my friends as they headed to the parking lot, my mind distracted by whatever they were saying at the moment. The reality of what had just happened, and of the chance that I had blown, didn’t really sink in until a week or so later, after the trip was only fond memories.

I may not always sweep them off their feet, but at least I leave them with a smile on their face.