Don't Get Mad, Get Even

Revenge is a shot best served with a “fuck you” chaser.

On the first night of my Dirty-30 celebration two years ago, TJ hit me with a death blow in the form of a somewhat improvised shot. He’d wanted to order me a Liquid Cocaine, but the bar didn’t carry Bacardi 151. In its place, he asked them to mix Goldschlager with the Jager and Rumple Minze that come standard. If I remember correctly, I called upon my Czech ancestors to curse his soul then and there. Or maybe it was my Seminole ancestors. Or was it my Creole ancestors? All I know is that I wanted some supernatural being to make him feel the same pain that I felt for the next 15 minutes, as my night dutifully faded to black.

I now owe one (or all) of those ancestors dearly, because my call was answered on April 15, 2011.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. On that night, TJ, his son’s mother (“Glitter”), and her boyfriend went to dinner and a Tom Green show in the Waterfront. Chappy, Tony, Dupa, Jay Swag and I started the night in the South Side for the Pens’ game; we then traveled to Bar Louie afterwards (minus Swag) to meet up with TJ’s trio, as well as Mr. & Mrs. Prince of Ligonier, to celebrate TJ’s birthday. The birthday boy was already showing signs of being tipsy, though it may have just been a Friday night free from responsibility, and not the alcohol, that tilted him. As for Glitter, it was most certainly alcohol that was putting in work. She greeted me with a hug, but it was less old-acquaintances-seeing-each-other-after-an-extended-time, and more giddy-five-year-old-at-Disney-World-squeezing-the-ever-loving-shit-out-of-Goofy. TJ reported that she had been drunk enough to loudly interject during the comedy show earlier in the evening, even causing Tom Green to pause and acknowledge one of her comments. Glitter was clearly in honey badger mode. She really didn’t give a shit.

Not too long after arriving, I noticed a trespasser in our ranks. A slim, tall guy in a tight shirt and product-heavy blonde hair had driven the lane and was now face-to-face with Glitter. Given her state—and that her boyfriend was standing next to her—I didn’t find this news relaxing. And when I saw her boyfriend put his hand on LFO’s chest (Glitter would later make the hilarious observation that he looked like a member of LFO) and push him backwards, I immediately darted into the fray, stationing myself between Glitter’s man and the self-tanner spokesmodel.

I hadn’t been the only one watching this pot boil. One of LFO’s friends arrived on the scene at the same time that I did, and quickly had his hands on his tight-shirted comrade to pull him away. But it was soon apparent that LFO wasn’t overlooking the potential fight that his actions were provoking; on the contrary, he was openly inviting it. Before I knew it, he was back on our side of the bar, inches away from me. As Prince, TJ, and Glitter’s man barked from behind me, I laughed off LFO and tried to talk some common sense into him by saying, “Get the fuck out of here before someone destroys you.”

Oddly enough, those soothing words didn’t seem to calm him down.

Let’s review the situation here: LFO was the most metrosexual man on Earth. He had two friends with him, neither of whom was overly imposing, and neither of whom had the same hard on for fisticuffs that he did. I had TJ, Tony, Prince, Chappy, Dupa, and Glitter’s BF lined up behind me. Even in a one-on-one tangle, LFO would’ve been a light snack for any one of us (aside from maybe Chappy; but he’s just dirty enough to use a bottle or other foreign object to tip things in his favor). But, beyond all that, we also had an ace in the hole: the bar’s manager, Stefani [not to be confused with Steph] is an old friend of Dupa’s. There was no scenario in which any of this ended well for LFO.

Although his buddy had once again pulled him over to their side of the bar, LFO continued to mouth off at us, while most of us did our best to ignore him (Prince, full of beer and childlike glee, was mouthing provocations towards him from our side, only to turn back to us and giggle, all to the disapproval of Mrs. Prince). Eventually LFO walked over to the front doors, yelling for any one of us to join him outside. As he stood there in auto-erotic gesticulation, he felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned around, he found himself face-to-face with the police that Stefani had called. Checkmate.

After a 15 minute conversation with the officers, LFO decided—completely by his own accord, I’m sure—to leave for another bar without any further words or glances in the direction of my crew. With things quieted down, the two female bartenders and a couple of the waitresses came over to share their own encounters with LFO that night. “He was telling everyone that he’s the hottest defense attorney in the city,” reported a waitress. When someone mentioned his two-sizes-too-small shirt, Alyssa—a bartender and Maxim Hometown Hotties contestant—shrugged her shoulders and cracked, “Never trust a man with frosted tips and his nipples out.”

When I suggested that Alyssa, at 5’2”, should try fighting me just like LFO had, she quickly jumped up on the bar and flexed in my face. The thought that I might get frog splashed by a tiny amateur model in the middle of a bar gave me enough pause to consider just how likely my boys would be to believe that I let her take me down. Not very likely, I’m sure.

I would eventually triumph over the short people, though. Stefani, herself all of 5’nothing”, asked for my help in getting a bottle of whiskey down from a high shelf. When she had taken the bottle back behind the bar, I stepped up for another Miller Lite draught. Chappy, however, had also decided to order another drink, and flagged her down first. When Stefani came walking back over with his bottle of Bud Light Lime, I voiced my displeasure.

Me: “I can’t believe that, after I just helped you get that bottle down, you’re going to serve him first!”
Chappy: *laughs in victory as he reaches for his bottle*
Stefani: *grins* “You know what? You’re right. *pulls back the bottle, which was only inches from Chappy’s hand; turns, and puts it in a refrigerator beneath the bar*
Chappy: “Wha..? Hey!”
Stefani: *to me* “Miller Lite draught?”

Chappy was left to whine in protest until after I’d been served my beer and had walked off laughing.

It soon occurred to me that, even though it was close to midnight, TJ was in great condition. This was just unacceptable. I stepped up to get my homie a birthday shot, but froze for a moment while trying to figure out just what to order. Then a villainous grin swept across my face. TJ, looking at me with his eyebrow cocked, sensed something bad was afoot. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I know exactly what I’m getting you.” And if there was any internal doubt about the sincerity of my desire for revenge, it was likely erased by this: When I called over Alyssa, the first thing I asked wasn’t if she knew how to make a Liquid Cocaine; no, the first thing I asked was, “Do you guys have Bacardi 151?” When she frowned a “No,” she likely felt I was going to be disappointed by that response. Oh, how wrong she was. Instead, I smiled. “Great!” I may even have cackled.

I ordered the Goldschlager/Rumple Minze/Jager blend of hell, and then heard lines from Nas’ “I Gave You Power” in my head as I called TJ over: “He walked me outside, saw this cat, cocked me back, said ‘Remember me?’”

Me: “Remember my birthday a couple of years ago?”
TJ: *ice grills me, knowing he can’t argue his way out of this*

I handed him the shot, and Dupa tapped me on the shoulder.

Dupa: “What did you buy him?”
Me: “The Goldschlager/Rumple Minze/Jager shot he got me for my 30th.”
Dupa: *grinning* “It would be pretty messed up if I bought him the same thing right now, wouldn’t it?”
Me: “Yup. Do it.”
Dupa: “On it.”

TJ, to his credit, tossed back the first shot like a soldier. When he was handed another by Dupa, though, just as the first pains from my shot began working their way through his veins, there was murder in his eyes. He gathered his strength, and after a minute tossed back the second one. When he handed over the empty glass, Chappy handed him a Three Wise Men. I think I heard his soul cry.

Then again, it may just have been his Jewish ancestors being summoned.

Brilliant Insanity: B-Day '09 [Intro and Friday]

Albert Einstein once defined insanity as “doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results.” What does it mean, then, if you do the same thing and you do achieve different results?

Last year, I hosted a birthday party for over two dozen of my friends in Station Square, and suffered one of the most epic fails of my boozing resume. So this year, I wanted to avoid the entire large-scale event all together. I was weary of gathering together a horde of deviant drinkers who were going to turn me into a barely functioning vegetable by 11 pm. Why go overboard? Heck, why even celebrate the day? Despite what one might glean from some of my stories, I’m not big on being the center of attention (well, not all of the time). Why not just have drinks quietly with a few of my good friends at a bar? I didn’t want a big party because it would be a hassle, and because it would mean scores of people trying to pour shots down my throat (and because I was turning 30).

The forces of the universe, however, conspired against me. Early in March, T.C. and I were contacted by the guys we partied with in San Diego last summer. They wanted to make a weekend trip to Pittsburgh for shits and giggles. The Saturday that was the most accommodating for everyone’s social calendars? March 28th; a.k.a. the day before my birthday. Now we had eight booze hounds travelling from Buffalo, looking for a day of the best our city had to offer them. So much for enjoying a quiet night.

T.C. and I then set about working out a dinner plan where we could accommodate 20+ people. Our first idea, Smoking Joe’s, fell through, so Girlfriend took charge and set up a dinner party in Bar Louie Station Square’s private room, along with drunk limo transportation to Carson City Saloon afterwards. I now had a party consisting of 20 – 50 people (almost as many—if not more—of my friends planned to skip the first half of the night, and meet up with us at CC Saloon), a private room, limos, and multiple locations requiring the logistics management of my girlfriend, T.C., and I. Girlfriend cracked that it was my “MTV Sweet 16 party”. It’s always the ones you love the most who can own you the fiercest.

So much took place that weekend, however, that I feel writing a detailed play-by-play would take at least three blog posts. I will instead try to condense the highlights for your time-killing enjoyment (and this is a long one, so I’ll break it into two parts):

• Since TJ had to work Saturday night, he set about annihilating me on Friday night. He, “Pakistanimal” (no real need for an alias, but he’s been crying for the past few months that he doesn’t have one, so hopefully he’ll shut up about it now), Dupa, and I hit The ‘Side for a booze smorgasbord. I promptly blacked out before midnight, yet somehow made it home in one piece and without vomiting.

• That last part is all the more notable when you consider the birthday shot that TJ bought me. He and his peoples have a tradition of doing a Liquid Cocaine shot—a potent combination of Bacardi 151, Jager, and Rumple Minze—on birthdays. The bar at Shady Grove, however, didn’t have 151 on hand (I mean, of the three, how is that the ingredient they don’t carry?), so TJ’s ingenious solution was to replace it with Goldschlager. Ouch.

The best way to describe this shot is to compare it to the electromagnetic pulse (EMP) weapon that is used to kill the sentinels near the end of “The Matrix”. The mixture hits your stomach and explodes, sending out shockwaves that shut down everything in your central nervous system.

• Pakistanimal ran into a blonde girl he knew from W&J. The last time he had seen her, some years ago, she (1.) mistook him for a friend of ours nicknamed “Black Sean” because…well, his name’s Sean and he’s Black; and (2.) told him the only reason that he (Sean) had made it into law school was because he’s Black. So, on this night, Pakistanimal decided to address this previous encounter. After first snapping a picture with her, he then reminded her of her comments. “First of all, I’m not Sean; and second of all, I’m not Black, I’m Pakistani, you racist!”

As a tear began its trail down her cheek, she responded, “I’m not a racist—I work for the ACLU!!”

To be continued...

Intern-al Affairs

This story actually picks up right where the last one left off.

As I mentioned then, my first weekend of freedom involved my boy Ray-Ray's birthday party. Me and Ray-Ray have become fast friends since I switched jobs in June, and he demanded I come out for the celebration. However, I didn't know any of his other friends, so I was kind of taking a risk. For all I knew, they could be massive tools. Hence me getting my buzz on at the strip club before meeting them out.

The dinner and party, coincidentally, happened to be at a restaurant and pool hall/nightclub, respectively, literally down the street from my crib. Thus, I could plan on getting as blitzed as I wanted to since I only had to stumble a few hundred yards to get home. I arrive at the restaurant - a trendy little Tex/Mex-influenced joint - just after 8 and meet up with Ray-Ray and a couple of his friends who are already there. I dap everyone and proclaim, "So I've been drinking since 4, who wants to do shots?"

To say everyone looked at me like I had set myself on fire would be an understatement. Ray-Ray says, "You're white, a former Marine and you just spent five years in Wisconsin. We're all Asians, man. We can't keep up with you." (Hey, I just tell it like it happened.) And right on time, another of his homeboys shows up who happens to have been a Marine as well, and we quickly plan to drink everyone under the frigging table.

I mixed mojitos and Capncokes as I absolutely destroyed a steak, and Ray-Ray was trying to pace himself between dinner and the shots that kept ending up at his table. People were showing up in twos and threes, and each group naturally felt obligated to get him a drink or shot as soon as they got there. We ended up about 25 strong, so do the math. And they weren't screwing around; Ray-Ray was knocking back shots of Four Horsemen, among others, while he struggled to get through his meal.

Dinner's over, and we pile into the rides and head across the street to Peabody's about 10, 10:30. Peabody's is an upscale sports bar and pool hall - think $15 an hour for a table on the weekend - that mines the local university for the very best of its female talent to hire for bartenders and servers. The joint's motto is "Get Racked," and they mean it.

We grab a table in the corner and immediately put the waitress to work. Ray-Ray's already rolling, and I realize that if he doesn't slow down, it will be an exceptionally early evening for him. I make my way over, put an arm around his shoulders and ask how he's doing. I believe his response was, "I'm feeling no pain, bro." He also mentioned that he'd invited a couple of the interns from work out, only one of whom I knew. I'll call her Abby, because she looks like she's straight out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad, only she's of Indian heritage - dots, not feathers. (Turns out she actually is a part-time fashion model, but I didn't find this out til the next day. Needless to say, she's hot.) I'd spoken to her once or twice; she was from the Midwest like me, but she was the total "20-year-old spoiled suburban preppie girl" stereotype.

Then Ray-Ray says, very bluntly, "You know she's bi, right?"

This should have been my first signal that the night was going to take an "On The Rocks" turn, but I was still trying to process what had happened at the strip club, so it went right over my head. Ray-Ray goes on to explain that she's pretty open about it, and has actually said she prefers girls to guys.

A drink or two later, Abby shows up. Abby is looking ridiculously sexy. TJ starts wondering what his company's policy is when it comes to fraternizing with interns.

After another drink or two (and some fairly innocuous flirting), Abby grabs my hand, looks me straight in the eye and says, "Let's go find some hot girls." I may have been drunk, but I'm not stupid. We head back around to a rear hallway that leads to a neighboring nightclub adjoining the pool hall. We stroll through real quick, with my key observation being, "They didn't have go-go dancers the last time I was here." I don't know who was staring harder at the booty-shorted, go-go booted, onstage women more, Abby or me. However, the club itself was rather empty at that point, so we bounced back to the pool hall.

That's when I effectively killed Ray-Ray for the evening. My homeboys and I have a birthday tradition: shots of Liquid Cocaine. I introduced Ray-Ray to this tradition without telling him what it was until he had choked it down. Unfortunately, I didn't know that someone else had just given him a shot I don't remember about 10 minutes earlier. He later told me he didn't even remember doing the Liquid Cocaine.

The entire crew decides it's time to migrate to the nightclub, where everyone else was suitably awed by the go-go dancers. I'm pretty sure I handed Ray-Ray a wad of singles to tip them with. Typical club-like activity then ensues: dancing, drinking, dancing, drinking, flirting and so on. During this period, I dance with Abby and the other intern, as well as take pics - at their request - of them dancing together. Also, Abby and I start scoping out chicks and debating their merits. I try to do this while not being distracted by Abby's cleavage.

At about 12:30, I look over at Ray-Ray, who was done with his drink and his two-step and was now semi-slumped over in a barstool at a corner of the dance floor we'd carved out for ourselves. I get him a water and order him to start drinking it, while telling his boys that he's in no shape to continue. They take one look at him, agree that I'm right, and proceed to take funny pictures of him in his near-comatose state. Not what I had in mind, but that's what friends are for.

Until, of course, he begins leaking vomit. The bouncer comes over and, quite understandably, tells us people aren't allowed to puke on the dance floor and that we'd have to get him squared away. This involved three of us all but carrying Ray-Ray outside and leaning him up against a newspaper machine - which led to more photos being taken, since it was one of our subsidiaries. A nice stream of bile traced our path out. I drop the bouncer a $20 and apologize for the hassle. Then I offer to drive Ray-Ray down the street to my crib and dump him on the futon with bottles of water and a bucket. His friends say don't sweat it, we'll take care of him. I soon discover this means "we're going to dump him in the back seat of his SUV in the parking lot and go back inside."

By now, I'm starting to hit my tipping point from drunk - when I'm on a roll but still conscious of my actions and in relative control of myself - to hammered, where chaos begins. And in a wicked bit of karma, that's when Abby grabs me by the shoulders and shouts, "SHOTS OF LIQUID COCAINE!!"

(Note to self: Do not cap off nine hours of drinking with shots of Liquid Cocaine at 1 a.m.)

Abby buys, and we pound the shots before heading back out to the dance floor. This is where things get blurry. To give you an idea of how blurry, the next day Ray-Ray's boy is hosting a "sober up" cookout before the second night of debauchery and I ask Ray-Ray, "Why is it that I think Abby's a good kisser?" Answer: Because Abby grabbed me on the dance floor and started making out with me. (I confirmed this a couple days later when I showed up to work and discovered that not only had someone taken a pic of us entwined, but Abby was actually showing it to people in the office, which was officially not cool.)

I do remember Abby suddenly vanishing, which I suspect the male cousin who had accompanied her had something to do with after seeing her jump me. After that, the next thing I can come up with is waking up in my bed alone and checking my phone to see I had texted and made calls to numbers I didn't recognize. I also have no recollection of actually driving home, which was amazing since I must have gotten so hammered I'd forgotten I was within crawling distance of my front door.

Ray-Ray had it even better. After we closed the club down, someone drove his truck along with the convoy to Steak 'n Shake, where the crew had a raucous late-night meal while he dozed in the parking lot. After that, they all went back to one guy's house to crash and left him in the back seat of his SUV in the driveway all night. He woke up the next morning in the truck with no idea how he got there, covered in his own vomit.

Liquid Cocaine is a hell of a drug.