Country Grammar

Close your eyes. Now, in terms of the planning details, describe what you would consider to be the perfect wedding.

If you’re a female, odds are good that you just painted a picture that involved a marble-and-gold-trimmed hall filled with thousands of guests, immaculate flower arrangements, elaborate silk gowns, one or more men on horseback, and doves—carrying wreathes of heather woven into hearts—flying in formation to spell out the names of you and your groom, followed by more that spell “Forever”.

If you’re a male, odds are you ignored the exercise altogether. You probably countered with, “Trick question!” Then you cracked open a beer and turned on a playoff game.

And, of course, the guys were right. But for the sake of argument, let’s assume there is such a thing as “the perfect wedding”. I propose that: (a.) the women were still miles off; and (b.) I attended just about the closest thing to it two Saturdays ago.

My boy Ton has always been an original. A 6’1”, 300-plus-pound Ohio farmboy with a heart of gold and the Pillsbury Dough Boy’s giggle, he’s the type of guy who’s more likely to laugh off a stranger’s taunt—and skate circles around him on Heelys in the process—than to crack heads just for the sake of cracking heads. It follows logic then that, when he finally managed to find himself a woman worthy of wearing his ring, their big day would be done a little differently than how tradition might dictate.

This started with the instructions that were included with the invitations. While the decorative pink cardstock and fuchsia calligraphy were straight out of a 14-year-old’s diary [Note: This isn’t a knock on his wife; it’s a knock on women, in general...], they included at least one specific guideline that I had never seen before in an invitation of its kind: “Dress comfortably”. The ceremony and reception, it turned out, would be held at Ton’s house in Ohio. And not just at his house, but in his barn. Guests were invited to either make reservations at a nearby Days Inn…or to camp out on his property.

Dupa and I decided not to be cowboys, and booked a hotel room. On the Monday before the wedding, we discussed the other logistics and details via texts, with jovial bemusement.

Me: “What are you wearing? Invite sounds like people won’t be wearing suits.”
Dupa: “Yeah not a suit, maybe flip flops, shorts and a beater?”
Me: “Well, it IS a wedding. Got to at least add a trucker hat. #OhioFormal”
Me: “Maybe a button down shirt and jeans?”
Dupa: “Jeans? Wtf it’ll be hot”
Me: “Hadn’t looked at a forecast.”
Dupa: “Lock it up!”
Me: “Shit, so we’re really wearing shorts to this wedding?”

We consulted TK, the best man. He said that, really, anything short of assless chaps was fair game; that being said, the groomsmen would still be wearing tuxes. This left quite a bit of leeway. As a result, when we arrived I was wearing a white dress shirt, black dress pants, and dress shoes. My traveling companion had on a dress shirt, dress pants, flip flops, and a rainbow-colored serape (it was Cinco de Mayo, after all).

Ton’s house sits on a road…and that concludes the list of things that makes it comparable to my way of life. The road itself is gravel, and cuts through fields and untamed wilderness in Southeastern Ohio. Looking in any direction from his house, you don’t see any other homes for (literal) miles. So far as I know, he doesn’t own any crops or livestock, but he certainly has the property to do so if he chose. As we parked, approximately 200 people milled about the barn and road, in every combination of attire between the “formal” and “casual” extremes on the dress scale. Almost all of the women wore a dress of some sort. The men, though… Some wore suits, some wore t-shirts; Ton’s brother-in-law wore a dress shirt, tie, cargo shorts, and sneakers. It was actually beautiful to see so much variety and freedom of individual expression.

Lined up outside the barn [which, for my fellow city slickers, looked more like a large garage than a classic “barn”] were coolers filled with cans of Bud, Bud Light, Yuengling, and Yuengling Light. Just inside the first of three garage doors along the face of the structure was a small bar where you could order wine and liquor. The bar was manned by a little old man in a black dress shirt with an orange and red western scene of horses racing freely across a desert plain. Pimpin’.

We were all instructed to find seats among the rows of picnic tables arranged inside the barn, and the ceremony began. As TK and the maid-of-honor two-stepped down the aisle, I heard someone crack open a can of beer somewhere in the room. I finished my first can of Bud Light as Ton and his wife exchanged vows; I considered opening my backup can that was sitting on the table, but I didn’t want to be that guy. Once the groom had kissed his bride as commanded by the minister, I discreetly cracked it open amongst the roar of applause and cheers.

Before dinner was served, we had to send some people to the beer store for a re-up; 21 cases had met their maker. It mattered little to me, though, as I had switched to gin & tonics, a much more suitable drink when wearing dress clothes outside on a warm spring day. And Crazy Horse, the bartender, was pouring a liberal mix into those 8 oz. Dixie cups. I tore through dinner (homemade barbecue!) while laughing with friends at a table on a patio, enjoying the camaraderie and trying not to stare at my boys’ girlfriends’ chests. Some of our group played “Bang, Marry, Kill” using the wedding guests at the table next to ours (Dupa: “I’d bang the younger chick, kill the older chick, and marry the guy.”). Our buddy Kyle made a run to the bar, and when he came back with a new G&T for me, it was in a 16 oz. cup. They had run out of the smaller cups. And yet, it seemed Crazy Horse had still used the same amount of tonic as he had been putting into the 8 oz. versions.

Viva Ohio!

It had only just dawned on most of us the prior night that TK’s role as best man meant he’d be making the traditional toast. This could only mean good things. And, sure enough, he didn’t disappoint. During the speech, he produced a cocktail shaker, shot glasses, cans of Red Bull, and two flasks from a bag; then he mixed together a batch of Vegas Bombs and distributed them to the wedding party. As they raised their glasses, and the rest of the wedding raised ours, TK closed his toast with, “Here’s to heat—not the kind that burns down buildings, but the kind that brings down panties.”

The dichotomy of crowd reactions was unavoidable; everyone 15-45 years old cracked up, and everyone 46 and older sucked their teeth in (unconvincing) disgust. TK gave less than a standard-measure “fuck”. He brought the leftover Vegas bombs out to us as the party resumed following the maid of honor’s speech. A short while later, TK appeared again, this time carrying a fifth of Patron and an air of determination. “We’re finishing this today.” It took all of 15 minutes for his goal to be realized. The bottle was soon dry, after being passed around a group of about five of us. Even Dupa, who had stayed away from tequila since spring break his senior year, took a swig. There’s a certain fearlessness that comes with drinking miles away from all civilization.

As you might have predicted, things started getting out of control from there on.

• Not long thereafter, several rows of tables were removed from the barn to create a dance floor. As things started getting funky, our friend Shafe’s girlfriend convinced Crazy Horse to let her wear his shirt. She then bopped around the dance floor in the shirt comically, winning the heart of every guy around. At one point I leaned over to Kyle and said, “The only woman here that I want to bang right now is Shafe’s girlfriend.”
• When I recounted that anecdote to Dupa during the drive home the next afternoon, he replied, “Buddy, you weren’t alone in that sentiment.”
• As for the Polish madman, he quickly got wild on the dance floor in typical fashion. That led to the mother of the groom pulling him to the side and politely asking him to pull his pants back up, saying bluntly, “There are kids around.”
• We discovered the photo booth. Kyle and I took a series of random, mildly-homoerotic shots; Dupa and two of our other friends did the same. Our boy and his girl snapped a series of shots, after which they sheepishly showed us their clips, saying, “We didn’t know these were going into the wedding book!” In the last of the string of four pics, our friend was clearly groping his girl’s titty from behind, while giving the camera an equally-raunchy smile.

• As good as that was, though, they were outdone by a random couple at the party, whose photo booth pictures were circulated the next day. The first two pics were normal silliness, but in the third the guy lifted up his gal, who supplied the camera with a full-on, panties-full-off beaver shot.
• I awoke early the next morning to a pizza box snuggled close in my hotel bed. Dupa had ordered a pie after we’d (miraculously) gotten back to the hotel, but I was passed out before it arrived. He therefore ate half and tucked the other half in next to me. I tossed it on the ground, stumbled to the bathroom, and then went back to bed.
• A few hours later I awoke, asked Dupa where the pizza on the floor had come from, and then munched on a slice while we gathered our stuff up and checked out.

Those country boys know how to do a wedding.

The Patron Challenge

A few thoughts:

1. This is an incredibly reckless waste of Patron. Any true drinker (especially one on a budget) will be as disappointed as I was to see such a delicious nectar tossed aside so casually.
2. How dedicated of a friend/girlfriend/relative does this chick have to be to sign up for her role? If she's a little sister, she's either repaying a favor or banking on cashing this in for one in the future; if she's a friend, she's trying to become his girlfriend; and if she's his girlfriend, she's trying to become his wife. No other scenarios add up. None.
3. If the fact that they're filming this in a parking garage doesn't register as an omen to you (and there's a special irony in him standing in a handicapped parking spot)...
4. Not sure whether to dub his last words a "Captain Obvious" moment, or an "Understatement of the Year" contender. Almost seems like something can't qualify for both of those at once; but, trust, this definitely does.



Kev with the assist.

Things to Do in DC When You're Dead (The Conclusion)

[When we last left our grizzled veteran, he'd made the wise and experienced decision to head for his base camp—the Embassy Suites in Alexandria, VA—after a long night of travelling and boozing.]

Part II: Saturday and Sunday

I awoke in my plush hotel bed around 10:30 a.m., refreshed and relaxed. The same can’t be said for my compatriots who had gone back to Chief’s the night before. Genoa called to discuss plans for sightseeing in D.C., and informed me that she had just dropped Esq off at the hotel about a half hour earlier. He, along with CJ, Chief, and Finn, had stayed up until almost 5 in the morning. “There’s a wise move.” Chief and Finn were moving slower than Tiger Woods walking the exhibitors’ hall at the Adult Entertainment Expo; by the time they had gotten themselves together and met me at the King Street Metro station, it was after 2.

Everyone found a different way of handling their hangovers that day: Chief, Finn, their better halves, and I spent the afternoon in Chinatown touring the National Museum of Crime and Punishment. Steph helped her girl put together safe sex education packets containing condoms and “warming lube” for Valentine’s Day, all of which came with the promotional slogan “Protect your cupid!” (*smh* Only Steph…) Shock B voyaged off on her own to shop at a mall in D.C.; Esq, however, didn’t make it any further than their hotel bed. Still, despite the downtime, everyone seemed optimistic for the night ahead. Chief assured we’d find some fun “worthy of getting put into the blog.” Genoa, on her first road trip since giving birth to her and Finn’s daughter last fall, was downright vibrant, laughing, joking, and bouncing around. And she seemed to be breathing life into her husband. When she playfully teased me about something in the gift shop, I warned, “You’re no longer with child—I can hit you now.” Finn chimed in appreciatively, “Oh yeah—thanks for reminding me!”

I got back to the hotel around 6:15, and could start to feel myself drag a bit after several hours on my feet. Luckily, the Embassy Suites’ daily happy hour was in full gear, which meant $2 got me a scotch on the rocks (I texted Esq to see if he and Shock wanted to come downstairs and join me; he still hadn’t moved from his bed, and was in no hurry to do so). That drink, combined with a shower back in my room, was chicken soup for the boozehound’s soul. I was firing on all cylinders again.

We soon collected ourselves at the Union Station Capital City Brewing Co. for a late dinner, meeting up with Rob & K., CJ, our boys “Babyface” and Bobby, and various others in the process. The 14 of us caught up on lives, argued about sports, and discussed urban renewal over ribs, fish, French fries, chicken sandwiches, and lots of beer. It had been several years since I’d seen Babyface, and acting on information recently passed along by one of our many mutual friends, I said, “So I hear you’ve got a girl now. Congrats.”

Babyface: *pauses* “Yeahhhh, we’re not together anymore.”
Me: “Ah, my bad. Didn’t y’all just start?”
Babyface: “It’s cool. Yeah, couple of months. But it’s over now.”
Me: “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
Babyface: “It just wasn’t working out, but, uh…*flashes a big grin* Yeah, it’s a GOOD thing.”
Me: *laughing hard*
Babyface: “Yeah. Put THAT one in the blog!”

While the rest of us did the dinner thing, Steph—who planned to rendezvous with us once we were at a bar—was keeping me apprised of her and her crew’s own activities via text messages. She punctuated the end of one such text with, “Petrons flying!!!” I handed the phone to Babyface, and said, “‘Petron’?”

Babyface: “I guess she means ‘Patron.’”
Me: “Yeah, maybe it’s a typo. I know she knows how to spell ‘Patron’.”
Babyface: “It might depend on how much she’s had.”

Babyface had originally planned on being out with us all night; however, he made a critical error in forgetting to bring his driver’s license with him—and in doing so quite likely became the first person above the age of 24 to ever show up for a night of drinking sans ID. Babyface came up at W&J a couple of years behind me, and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of failure as a mentor; apparently he’s not quite as up on the Boozing Field Survival Kit as he should be.

When we paid the bill and gathered our things, it was almost 11:30. Unfortunately, due to the effects of Snowpocalypse, the Metro—which normally runs until 3 a.m. on Saturday nights—was shutting down at midnight for track maintenance. We all raced off to the station; but Genoa picked that precise moment to go to the little girls’ room, which meant that she, Kim, Chief, and Finn were a minute or so behind the rest of us. The front-runners just barely hopped on a train before it left the station; the remaining foursome had to wait over twenty minutes before the last train of the night brought them to Dupont Circle to meet up with us at Buffalo Billiards.

A large, sprawling, underground sports bar/pool hall, Buffalo Billiards is every partier’s nirvana. Correction: it was most partiers’ nirvana. For Chief, Esq, and Finn, however, it was the scene of an unforeseen epiphany. Sitting at pushed-together tables amid hundreds of drunken people, big screens, and numerous well-stocked bars, three of my most trusted allies were overwhelmed. Instead of jokes, laughter, and ubiquitous toasts—much like the previous night had seen—there were yawns, unattended beers, and looks of defeat. (By the way, the texts from Steph hadn’t stopped; after I informed her of my allies’ state, she responded with, “Omg buck the fuck up. Partys on the way”.) They suddenly seemed to grasp why I’d gone to bed at 2:30 the night before, instead of paying homage to our illustrious past by staying up after 3 to drink and carouse. What you find normal in your 20s….well, in your 30s, it’s a different story.

As for me, I had used my training to my advantage. I’d started with a beer when we got to the bar, but began feeling worn and switched to a Red Bull and vodka to wake me up. I switched back to another beer, but spotted Shock drinking a Long Island Iced Tea, which was beating her ass like she’d tried to steal an ice cube from it. After a sip of it, I winced. “See?” she said, vindicated in her hammered state, “This is no joke.” I quickly put in my first of many orders for one of my own.

Our party crew gradually grew in numbers. Sam, Cat, and two friends of theirs caught up with us. Then, as I stood talking to the guys, I suddenly felt my entire upper body get yanked back and downwards; Steph had arrived, and had jumped on my back to announce such. I turned and said “Hi” to her and her three friends. But before I could be introduced, Friend #2 was making a hurried departure to the bathroom, with Friend #1 in close pursuit. A night of Patron and champagne had caught up to Friend #2, and she was taking it out on a stall in Buffalo Billiards’ ladies’ room. Friend #3 was her gentleman friend, an obvious sugar daddy. Twice Friend #2’s age, and half her level in attractiveness, he monitored her condition like someone watching stock he’d invested in as it took a sudden, but temporary, dive. Once Friend #2 had collected herself, Sugar Daddy was eagerly sweeping her off to his house/adultery hideaway.

Before Friend #2 and Sugar Daddy could get out the door, however, Chief, Esq, Finn, and their significant others all bid adieu. Not even the glass of Jim Beam (his personal ambrosia) that I’d bought for him could revive Chief. The remaining soldiers resigned to closing the bar down. Steph told me how a round of three shots that she’d bought at her first bar of the night had cost her $53 (followed by an impolite comment about D.C.); I countered by buying a round of Grape Bombs for her, Friend #1 and I that cost me about $30. CJ then helped me in drinking every last bit of Long Island Iced Tea that we could squeeze from the bar until the lights came up.

As we all hit the street and parted ways, we weren’t prepared for the frenzy that we were about to walk into. Washington D.C., while having a metropolitan population more than twice that of Pittsburgh, has roughly the same amount of taxis (it would seem). This normally isn’t much of a problem, because they also have the extensive Metro system, which aids in moving said metropolitan population at the end of a long night of boozing. But with the Metro shut down early on this night, and millions of people pouring out of the bars at 3 a.m., the scene could only be described with the words “cluster” and “fuck.” People were on each and every corner and stretch of road in Dupont Circle trying to hail cabs that, more often than not, flew right past them. I slowly moved up the road, scanning the distance for approaching cabs. But almost every time one appeared, there were people already in the back seat, warm and thrilled that their wait had ended.

After about a half hour of this frozen torture, I looked down the road and spotted a familiar face: CJ was standing a hundred feet away, stuck in the same misery as I was. And he only lived a couple of miles away near Chinatown; he likely could have walked home straight from the bar and been there by then. I know that because Steph and her friend, who were going about the same distance, made that very decision. Steph was enjoying a nightcap in her friend’s warm apartment, and laughing at me as I texted my frustrations and drunken hatred of all things taxi. I finally was able to flag down a cab at around 3:45 a.m., and tried to negotiate for him to take CJ to his place first. The driver was having none of it, and as I was finally whisked off to northern Virginia, my friend was left in the battle zone, still trying to get to his relatively-nearby apartment.

The next day was the typical road-trip closing ceremony: buzzing—while still buzzed—along the highway, half-delirious from a mind awash in the previous 48 hours’ anecdotes and the looming responsibilities that await in the upcoming workweek. Add to that fast food, top-40 hip hop from the last two decades, and Steph and I discussing our mutual loathing of Valentine’s Day (this was February 14th, after all). When we stopped at a Wendy’s in Frederick, MD, Steph found herself in a minor quarrel with the woman taking orders in the drive thru. As we pulled off and she asked rhetorically why some of the world’s more “WTF?” moments tend to happen to her, I answered by summing up the weekend as a whole.

“Shit’s crazy, son!”

What I Learned This Summer

If you’re a fan of this blog, then you know the standard rote of my stories is anything but somber. Bawdy, and at times both self-depreciative and full-on arrogant, I try to focus on the lighter side of things when presenting you glimpses of my life. More “Welcome to the party,” less Sylvia Plath. But after seeing me use “rote,” “somber,” “bawdy,” and “self-depreciative” in the first two dozen or so words, you probably already know that this post is going to be a little different.

To be cliché, the summer of ’09 was an emotional rollercoaster for yours truly. It started on the high that comes with true and devoted love, and the implicit freedom of spirit that summer brings. It ended…well, south of there. But not before going through loops and twists, screeching dives and nerve-melting climbs.

My less-than-prolific writing for the page in the last couple of months has had everything to do with my relationship with Girlfriend dying a valiant but painful death. I’ve never written a country song, so heartache and beers don’t go together well for me. My time spent at watering holes and social events dropped to about an eighth of what it normally was, including a solid month where I stayed away from nightlife all together. I missed a raucous celebration at Barroom for Baby Joey’s birthday, a drunken “Jam on Walnut” concert in July, South Side shenanigans, guys’ nights at strip clubs, and much more, all while alternating between trying to piece together my love life and trying to piece together my sanity.

When I finally did manage to put the woes of my personal life aside for a night here and there, my friends did their utmost to make sure that I—and by extension, On the Rocks—was provided with quality happenings and material. The catch is that the next day I was always right back in reality; nursing a hangover in both my heart and my head, and uninterested in scribing about the sights, sounds, and laughs that had been had.

Now, after two months, I’ve decided to gather those random anecdotes that have been sitting dormant in my memory banks while I’ve let my wounds heal. And, given the change of the season and the self-reflection that comes with saying goodbye to another summer—not to mention, that which comes with saying goodbye to someone incredibly special to me—I’ve put it all into a list of lessons that the summer of 2009 has taught me. I’m not abandoning humor altogether, of course. Nothing helps cure pain better than laughter; but forgive me for expressing a bit more sentiment than one might come to expect from a typical “On the Rocks” writing. So, in no particular order…

• Tequila is a bitch–and I’m not talking about Tila. Although I’m sure Shawne Merriman wouldn’t disagree if I were. Shots of Patron were inexplicably made a key part of Chappy’s birthday celebration one Saturday in late August. The next day sunlight felt like lasers being beamed through my retinas. A week later, at TK’s birthday party, I was guilted into doing two shots of Cuervo. I ended the night relatively sober, but still felt like I was going to die the following morning. Maybe it’s just a sign of my age—I used to drink the stuff (ironically) on the rocks. But now it’s liquid H1N1 to me.
• Chappy’s a clever little rascal. The morning after his birthday partying, I awoke to a voicemail from him on my phone. “Hey buddy. I hid a bottle of Gatorade in your kitchen so [LRG] and Toe wouldn’t drink it, but I forgot about it. If you want it, it’s in the cupboard above your fridge.” I went to the cabinet and, sure enough, there was a delicious blue “morning after pill” (a 32 oz. bottle of Gatorade) tucked away next to the microwaveable popcorn. I was thoroughly impressed—I didn’t even think the diminutive guy could reach all the way up there.
• Cleverness, however, does not translate into fashion sense. After making his final wardrobe preparations for a birthday spent hitting the Shadyside bars, Chappy emerged from the bedroom of my apartment wearing a tight, military gray button down shirt with straps on the shoulders.
Me: “Hey look, it’s Pat Benatar!” TJ: “Dawg, Fidel Castro is in Shadyside!” Me: *everyone’s laughing* “Don’t listen to them, Chappy. Love is a battlefield.”
• 60 percent of the time, it works EVERY time. LRG made a faux pas of his own: too much cologne. When he walked into the living room after getting ready, a Chernobyl cloud of musk engulfed all of us.
TJ: “Go easy on the ‘Sex Panther,’ son!”
• There may never be another icon in music as big as Michael Jackson. In these fast-paced, bottom line-driven days of Twittering-induced media frenzies, stress-induced burnouts, and substance abuse-induced rehab stints, no one man or woman is capable of standing as a polarizing pop idol. The global scale of the mourning, and the number of impromptu public memorials that took place within 24 hours of Michael’s passing were mind-blowing. And this was after the last 20 years of his life, which were fraught with accusations, oddities, and controversy that tainted many people’s perceptions of him. Love him or hate him, each and every one of you ultimately knew his name and his songs. What other human being has ever been that famous? There are foreign countries where you can say “Elvis Pressley” and be met with a blank stare; or mention Jay-Z’s name, and no one even notices. But all of them—every last one of them—knew who Michael Jackson was.
• Beer pong has come to the hood. Not that you’ll be seeing Game and Kanye playing in a video anytime soon. But when I went to Baltimore for my cousin’s wedding in May, I found myself playing the sport of frat boys on the front porch of another cousin’s row house, while a world that the majority of my fellow W&J alumni have only seen on The Wire buzzed on the streets and alleys all around me.
• Tigers love pepper. But they hate cinnamon.
• Streets were made for dancing, not driving. About 15 to 20 of my friends and I were at Carson City Saloon for Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals to watch our Penguins win it all. Watching the game itself—a packed bar; live news coverage with one of the local sports anchors on the scene; beers, shots, and food with friends; and nothing but black and gold Pens shirts and jerseys as far as the eye could see—was exciting, but the moments after the game clock ticked “00:00” were sheer mayhem. Beer sprayed in every which direction inside of the bar, and a deafening roar felt like it would blow out the windows. In an instant I was standing in the middle of Carson Street, still screaming my lungs out. People, almost all of whom were complete strangers, were shouting with me, high-fiving, dapping, hugging. Looking back at the doors of CC Saloon, I saw Pakistanimal standing on the steps, screaming and pointing back at me. Dupa and Shock B. joined six or seven other people in climbing atop a Dodge Durango that had the misfortune of being at the stoplight as revelers poured from every doorway and collided in a wash of jerseys, mock Stanley Cups, and uncontrollable exhilaration. Even Sheldon Ingram, the WTAE sports anchor who had been filming live on location, sat on the roof of the Durango, reporting the bedlam to a rolling camera.
• It’s never too early for a good frozen margarita. Pakistanimal and I went downtown for the Penguins’ victory parade the following Monday morning. While we waited for Chappy to meet up with us, we each decided to order a drink at Easy Street to pass the time. I soon had a new favorite breakfast food.
• Even though two people love each other, that doesn’t mean that they should be together. We often overlook the wrongs that our significant others do, focusing instead on the good. But sometimes it’s the person you care about the most that can cut you the deepest, and everyone has a limit.
• Experience can trump youth. At TK’s party, Tony and I stepped up to the beer pong table expecting a battle, as we were two of the oldest people in attendance. Some of our opponents would be less than a year removed from college. In the end we went 6-0, though, only facing one serious challenge where the game was taken into overtime.
• Alcohol can trump experience. The quote of the day on Chappy’s birthday belonged to LRG, as he tried to persuade Toe to approach two plus-sized girls with him. “They’re fat, but we’re drunk. That equals…happiness.”
• You can get drunk off of meat. Brazilian grills—such as Green Forest Cafe in Penn Hills, PA—are godsends. Girlfriend, Sherif, Dupa, and I made a trip to Green Forest one Saturday in early July, and I wobbled away three hours later feeling woozy.
• There’s a fanboy (or girl) inside all of us. Dupa, TJ, and I caught the midnight release of Transformers II: Revenge of the Fallen in June (after dinner and drinks with Pakistanimal at Bar Louie) in a packed-to-the-exits, under-air-conditioned theater. While waiting for the lights to dim, I updated my Facebook status to one that confessed my inner geek. Quickly friends of mine from all around the country chimed in to say they were either at multiplexes too, or planned to be in the next several hours. One female friend and her husband were even at the same Loews, a couple of theaters down the hall.
• If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.
• Germans know how to party. Hofbrauhaus, a new German restaurant and microbrewery in the South Side Works, has quickly gained accolades from the area’s professional drinkers. They serve their “biers”—all of which are delicious—in litre glass steins. And, on a good night, the place is packed with people, loud music, and singing. Prince of Ligonier held a birthday party for his wife there one night in June, giving Dupa, TJ, and I our first experiences with this new arena. At one point I turned to our group and said, “I just saw an Asian girl standing on a table in a German restaurant, singing Neil Diamond. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I like it!” That night we also had our first experience with a shotski…
• Shotskis are like your friend’s little sister: tempting and fun, but dangerous. TJ’s friend “Yum” recently moved into the region, and came to a cookout at Chappy’s equipped with a shotski from the bar where she works. A few rounds of those had our collection of scoundrels woozy; and, it being my first night of drinking following the aforementioned month on the sidelines, I sped towards a blackout.
• There’s a reason he’s called “Pakistanimal”. As bad as I was, he was worse. By 11 pm he was vomiting in the middle of the street in front of Chappy’s house, which sits in a very quiet, respectable suburban neighborhood. Not long after that he was shirtless—prominent brown belly glistening under the streetlights—and challenging all comers. Thankfully his girlfriend was on hand to take him home before he could even try to accompany the rest of us to the bar.
• Misery loves company. When my friend Sales Machine invited me to his house for some poker this past weekend, I accepted. My prime motivation was hanging out with Machine, who lives a pretty fair distance from Pittsburgh and has a family—and, thus, rarely comes out on weekends. On top of that, it was a chance to play cards. But also, beyond all, was my desire to once again put my personal trials out of my head for at least a few hours. Unfortunately, I soon learned that night that Machine and his wife are going through an increasingly worse rough patch of their own, and that it had spurred his interest in my breakup all the more. I wanted to concentrate on how to play my wired 7s from middle position, and he wanted to drink cognac and talk about why I wasn’t able to work things out with my ex.
• If you’re throwing a party and want it to be classy, have girls plan it; if you want anarchy, let boys plan it. Over three and a half years ago, a group of our female friends (Mrs. T.C., Heather, and Abbie being prominent among them) threw a “Black and White Party” in the pool house/ event center in Heather’s apartment complex. The center is elegantly decorated, with a large flat screen TV in the living room section, a kitchen with sinks, a dishwasher, refrigerator, dishes, and anything else one would need. And the girls made sure that they had the place perfectly prepared for a “formal” party, with rows upon rows of liquor bottles ready to go in the kitchen, beer pong on a folding table set up in the linoleum-floored hallway, and a plentiful menu of party foods and appetizers. Dupa and TK now live in the same apartment plan, and chose to use this same event center for TK’s birthday. The result? Beer pong set up on the two expensive tables (which had been pushed together) in the carpeted dining room area. Kegs sitting on the finely-tiled kitchen floors, sans tubs, with ice melting into water puddles that flooded the kitchen and created footing so treacherous that you were guaranteed to slip when walking across it. No food on hand, leaving guests to fend for themselves, some of us ordering pizza while others made Mickey D’s runs. And the tequila to which I referred earlier was the only bottle of liquor on hand.
• Jealousy is toxic. It can poison and destroy even the strongest of loves. It may seem like a minor glitch, an insignificant speck on an otherwise spotless bond. But when deep insecurities are feeding into that jealousy, the situation will only get worse, regardless of what you try to do to fight it.
• Caipirinhas are magical. Unfortunately, living in Pittsburgh significantly decreases their availability to me. But from now on, when I can find one, I will seize the opportunity.
• There is a special deal going on with travel agencies booking trips to Las Vegas. And, apparently, only girls know about it: Groups of four or more get a discount on rooms and flights if they take pictures at the hotel pool, and someone from the group then posts them on Facebook. Now admittedly, this is just a theory of mine. But no less than six of my female friends—all from different circles of friends—went on “girls’ trips” to Vegas with their various gal pals this summer. And every single one of them has produced a series of group pictures taken at the extravagant Vegas hotel pools. Most of the photos look as though they were captured at the same pool, even in the same exact spot. It’s almost as if the hotel has a prom photographer set up in a designated poolside location taking a never-ending series of the prerequisite “girlfriends” pictures. [Not that I’m complaining, ladies. Now that I’m a single man again, it’s a welcome distraction during my workday. Keep ‘em coming.]
• Jay Swag may be the funniest drunk I know. August was the month of birthdays, and we celebrated his with a South Side bar crawl that never crawled anywhere. TJ, a friend of his from out of town, and I met up with Swag and his party posse at Rumshakers around 7 pm, and none of us left there before 12:30 am. Resigned to being a drunken mess that night, he refused to hold his tongue. Handing a female friend a fine cigar he’d been given that day, he told her, “Put it where you want me to goo later.” Smiling, she deftly slid it into her cleavage. And at various other times throughout the night, we would cast a glance in his direction and catch sight of him standing behind the very same girl, mock-humping her like a terrier on a leg.
• My friends can drink. Not that I didn’t necessarily already know this; hell, I’ve made repeated boastings of it throughout the history of this page. But on a few occasions this summer, this point was convincingly reaffirmed for me. And not only my friends, but also their wives and husbands, in-laws, and assorted acquaintances. When we’re gathered in a crowd, it’s impressive to look around and realize that no one is slacking.
• Loving someone more than you love yourself is frightening. You feel at once invincible and precarious; standing high above the rest of the world, yet one slip and you’re going to crash back to earth.
• Life never stops; no matter what you may be going through, the world keeps spinning. In the past 4 days alone, both T.C. and Finn have become fathers. Finn and Genoa welcomed a beautiful baby girl into the world on Monday evening, and just yesterday Mrs. T.C. gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Congratulations go out to all of them, and here’s to their new families enjoying long, prosperous lives. May there always be better days ahead. Cheers.

Brilliant Insanity: B-Day '09 [Saturday]

[The conclusion of the 48 hour booze race...]

• While I was still fighting through a raging hangover the next afternoon, T.C. called to inform me that the Buffalo boys had already began drinking in the South Side. It was only 2 pm. I showered and shaved, and then rolled out around 5, stopping at a convenience store to pick up a bottle of Gatorade (for hydration recovery) and a can of Monster (for sleep deprivation). I slammed the bottle of Gatorade before I reached the Wendy’s drive-thru for a chicken sandwich (the only food I had eaten to that point in the day) and a milkshake (to coat my stomach prior to that night’s onslaught). I had finished my sandwich and shake by the time I caught up with the guys at 1311 Tavern.

• The Buffalo boys were crushed. When they stumbled out the door a half hour later, one of them (Pete) ran into the doorframe, bouncing off and onto the sidewalk without even realizing it.

• Dupa had met up with us a little late, and only had time for one quick drink before we left for the Sheraton in Station Square, where Girlfriend had booked a room. His choice? A pitcher of cherry vodka and Diet Coke. Granted, it was about half the size of a standard beer pitcher, but it was still large enough for him to need T.C. and I to help him kill it before we departed.

• T.C. walked to the nearby Holiday Inn, where the Buffalo Boys were lodged. Dupa and I took my car over to the Sheraton. In navigating our way over there, we happened to approach an intersection as T.C. crossed it. As we blasted past him, Dupa shouted, “Get out of the way, you Irish fuck!” With both of us nearly in tears from laughter, he looked at me and said, “It’s going to be a good night!”

• Girlfriend went all-out for the occasion. Not only did she book the room so that she and I had somewhere near the action to crash, but she stocked it with a case of Miller Lite, a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label, and a bottle of Patron. She’s pure wifey material, folks.

• Unfortunately, to go to any of the guest floors of the Sheraton by elevator, you have to first swipe a room key. This meant that I had to go downstairs and escort anyone coming up to meet us. I first did so with Hurley, and then made a second trip to collect T.C. and the Buffalo boys. The hotel was swarming with girls age 5 through 17 that day, as a large dance competition was being held in the convention hall. Boarding the elevator with T.C. and the boys, we found ourselves sharing it with a girl, about 12 years old, and her chaperone. The chaperone was a heavy woman who appeared to be closer in age to us. As the elevator lifted off, she cracked that her charge was too young for us.

Me: *blinks* “Ooookkkkkaaayyyy”

We politely laughed at the unnecessary joke. We reached the girls’ floor, and as they parted through us to exit, Chaperone said, “We don’t want any perverts!” We were all stunned and confused for a split second. But before the doors closed, T.C. chirped up, “Yeah—and we don’t want any fat chicks!”

• At Bar Louie we discovered that for $15 per hour in the private section, you could purchase an all-you-can drink special featuring top shelf alcohol. Bang. 17 of us signed up for two hours of Jack Daniels, Grey Goose, and Ketel One. With tip, the bill for the alcohol came out to about $600 at the end of the special. The waiter said, “You guys drank over $1000 in alcohol tonight—you just made $400 on us.”

• Pakistanimal spotted a plump woman out on the main floor wearing a blueberry-colored jogging suit. He noted to us that she looked like Violet Beauregarde in the original "Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory". Dupa walked downstairs for a closer look; upon returning to our lounge, he announced, “Oh my g—I just came in my pants!” Laughing, all I could say was, “Dude,” while pointing at my friend Michele, a coworker who was seated with her husband on a couch 3 feet away from him, cracking up. Realizing his level of inappropriateness, Dupa countered, “I immediately regret saying that!”

• Dupa “found” a pair of white-framed sunglasses on the bar, and rocked them for the rest of the night. The look led to me saying the next day, “You looked like a chubby Scott Storch. You’re ‘Scott Starch’!”

• Pete and T.C. began an ice cube war, tossing them halfway across the large lounge. Hurley and I, seated near Pete while we ate our dinner, joined on his side. Cubes were raining down on T.C., to our giggling delight. At one point, Pete fired a shot that landed flush against the side of T.C.’s head. Before he could react, a second volley came from Hurley; it hit the small table next to T.C., and then bounced up and smacked him in the face.

• There were a few bachelorette parties at Bar Louie that night, and one of them soon found their way over to our private lounge. The 20+ guys we had gathered for the party quickly swooped in, chit-chatting and helping the girls achieve their bachelorette party tasks (getting bench-pressed by a guy, getting a lap dance from a guy, etc.). Dupa, in pure heaven, took several pictures with the ladies, including a series in which he picked the bachelorette up into his arms, and then began swinging her around into different positions, as if performing a figure skating routine. Later, as we were leaving, he tried to get a picture while holding up two of the girls—one in each arm. He promptly fell backwards, and the camera flashed as all three lay on the floor of the lounge in pain, embarrassment, and laughter.

• I had a steady flow of Red Bull and Vodkas coursing through my veins. I routinely double-fisted, occasionally with a third drink warming up “on deck”. As the last minutes of the special ticked away, someone in the party—a saint amongst men—told the waiter to make all drinks doubles.

• The night was well documented photographically, by both me and Dupa. He recently purchased a new digital camera. It’s waterproof, a fact he displayed by repeatedly dunking it into his drinks. Standing in line for CC Saloon, he accidentally fumbled it. Our gasps were met with the unruffled demeanor of Dupa.

Dupa: “It’s shockproof, too. See?” *drops camera onto the concrete intentionally*

• Girlfriend paused to take a picture with the cop standing outside of CC Saloon. She put her hands out, wrists together, and he pretended to put his handcuffs on her.

Me: “You mind if I borrow those later?”

• The scene in Carson City was crazy, with approximately 40 – 50 of my friends packed into the area surrounding the main bar, dancing, drinking, and laughing.

• I was in remarkably good condition, largely because I refused shots all night. After Friday night, the thought of doing a shot made me gag. Pakistanimal bought me a Jager Bomb, which I politely sipped at for about 20 minutes, until Girlfriend grabbed it off me and tossed it back like a pro. A few minutes later Baby Joey alerted me that he would be buying me a shot. He asked what I wanted; “Water.” He wouldn’t agree to that but sensed my plight , so he bought me the girliest drink he could think of: a Redheaded Slut. I did the shot—it’s more or less like drinking Kool Aid—with ease, but I was spotted by Pakistanimal, who thought the embargo was lifted. He bought another Jager Bomb, which I handed to GG.

GG: “This is yours, I don’t want to do it.” Me: “Look, I can’t do it. So either you do it, or I’m pouring it out.” GG: “Well, in that case…*takes cup and throws it back*

• Hollywood came to CC Saloon straight from a wedding, and was three sheets to the wind the second he walked through the doors. He wore a jacket, dress shirt, and tie; all three were nearly danced off him by TD, Shock, and Girlfriend. I put on his jacket, which quite-obviously did not fit me, and paraded around the bar. While doing this, though, I missed out on the following action: TD accidentally tripped and fell into a random tall blonde standing near our group; the bitchy Amazon shoved TD backwards before any kind of apology could be made; Hollywood jumped to his friend’s defense, pushing Bitchy. A scuffle ensued, and Hollywood was booted. I escorted him outside, where he proceeded to yell challenges to a guy standing nearby who, though he had been in the bar, had nothing to do with the altercation. I told Hollywood to shut up and clean himself up, noting that his wifebeater (tank top) had gotten ripped during the fight. He was too gone to hear me, though. Releasing a primal growl, he ripped apart the wifebeater and spiked it to the ground in a display worthy of his “Gay Hulk” nickname. After a few more minutes of standing around, he suddenly took off running (in a manner Girlfriend described as “like a duck”), disappearing into the alleyway behind the bar. We later found out that he tracked down the kid he had been yelling at, swung at him, missed, and tackled him to the ground. A cop nearby, who knows Hollywood, pulled him off of the kid and told him to get the fuck out of there. How he got back home safe is a mystery to all of us, including Hollywood himself.

• Girlfriend negotiated for a minivan taxi, already inhabited by Chappy and two females who I had never met before, to take us back to the Sheraton. The girl sitting in the front seat of the taxi was attractive, and seemed to know both Chappy and the driver. When we reached Station Square, she opened her door to leave. Chappy, in a last-ditch effort, said, “Why don’t you come up to Mt. Washington with me? We’re going to drink some more and hang out.” The girl barely glanced at him, then hugged the cabbie and said, “Ok, bye” before hopping out and trotting off.

Girlfriend and I woke up the next morning, exhausted. She had been the drunker of the two of us at the end of the night, and her head was pounding out its revenge. My ban on shots had worked beautifully, and I was actually able to look at sunlight without wincing.

Who’s the insane one now?

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.

Working Hard Over Labor Day Weekend

The booze. Oh the booze.

Friday, Saturday, and Sunday were a marathon tag-team wrestling match: in one corner were me and my common sense; in the opposite corner were beer and liquor. I’d say we won, but I’m not really sure if there is a winner in that kind of battle. I started the weekend downing Patron straight from the bottle at a birthday party. I ended it facedown on a futon in Baby Joey’s computer room. In between were some stories (of course), but my consistent incoherence will only permit me to remember a few of the many. I’ll go over them to the best of my ability.


Friday

I kicked off the weekend with my friend TK’s birthday party, which featured about twelve rowdy guys and…two girls. You’ve got to love those 6 to 1 odds. Correction: 11 to 1 odds (two of the people at the party were a couple). It’s not like I ever put women before booze, though, so it really wasn’t that big of a deal to me. And it didn’t seem to slow down anyone else, either. When I arrived, Dupa and another guy were heading out to pick up a second keg. After I walked into the apartment, I was immediately directed to the ice luge—oh yeah. Some of the guys chugged beer out of a boot-shaped glass named “Das Boot.” My boy Cap [not TJ’s Cap] ran outside after tangling with the Boot, bent over in TK’s front yard, and pulled the trigger, unleashing a torrent of digestion. Then he went inside, washed his hands and face, and filled up Das Boot again.

Eventually, our group made it over to the Saloon of Mt. Lebanon—much to the dismay of the people in the bar. The birthday boy drank directly from his own pitcher, one of our buddies decided to drink while standing with his pants around his ankles, and we all took turns sexually harassing the only female in our group (the couple left before we got drunk enough to try to drive a wedge between them). To put it succinctly: good times.


Saturday

I started the day still drunk. Of course, it wasn’t until I got to the barbershop that my inebriation really hit me. My barber probably needed to chug some water after inhaling alcohol fumes for 20 minutes while doing my fade.

Then it was off to a live draft for one of my fantasy football leagues. The 2008 season for the “Playa Haters” can go either way—on the one hand, I stocked up on some pretty decent talent; on the other, a lot of that talent plays for the Colts. One good cocaine-&-hooker party in Indy, and my season’s done for.

I had a couple of beers at the draft, but by the time I got home that night I was half-certain that I wanted to take it easy until the next day’s cookout. And the thought of saving some cash was appealing, since I have a bachelor party of epic proportions coming up at the end of the month (Chief’s). And it’s not like I could find a place to get obliterated on a Saturday night without spending much money, right?

Wrong. My boy Nate called me from his girlfriend’s apartment, which is in The ‘Side, and said that he was thinking about hanging out in my hood that night. This made me remember that a friend of ours now works at one of the better bars in Shadyside. Oh f—… Several rounds of Long Island Iced Teas, Red Bull & Vodkas, shots, and beer later, the three of us had a combined tab of around $45. Nate’s girl (NGF), who is all of 5’2” 0lbs, was silly-drunk. As he and I sat at the bar talking, she would be on the other side of him giving a thumbs up like Borat. I’d laugh, he’d snap his head around, she’d stop and giggle; he’d turn back around to continue the convo, and she’d do it all over again. During the walk home, he and I often paced out ahead of her. We’d turn around to check on NGF, who was usually laughing hysterically at everything or nothing, and then slow down so that she could catch up. Once, when we looked back to see what her laughter was for, we found her laying on her side in a front yard after losing her balance and falling. The next afternoon, I sent Nate a picture of her Borat pose; he responded, “Yeah, she’s feeling it today.”


Sunday

The weekend’s centerpiece, its marquee event, was the now-annual Labor Day Party at the house of Baby Joey and his girlfriend TD. Kegs, Jell-O shots, young pros at this drinking business, and… a Chihuahua? (I’ll explain shortly.)

Joey and TD haven’t been chronicled all too heavily in this blog. But, just in case you have any question about their ability to party, I call your attention to the picture to the right. That’s the actual welcome mat that greets you as you walk up the steps into their house.

And Joey’s pedigree, in particular, is impressive. He is the little brother of Esq (whose comments and exploits have found their way onto this page in the past), and a son of a woman (“Delightful”) more than capable of holding her own in a conversation. Delightful is white, but Joey and Esq are each half Black. While talking to a group of us early in the evening, Delightful paused, looked at Joey, and declared, “You could’ve been Obama!”

Our friend (“Hollywood”) does some landscaping, and adorned Joey’s backyard with a dollar sign (right) for the occasion. And that’s not just a random nickname crafted by yours truly—he was actually calling himself “Hollywood” last week. This is hilarious to me, because: (a.) it reminds me of Meshach Taylor’s character from “Mannequin”; and (b.) I already tease him about his metrosexuality on a consistent basis. He advised Joey’s 10 year old niece to tell her baseball coach that she didn’t want to play catcher anymore, because it’s inherently bad for the knees. My retort—though I had to say it low enough that only Hollywood, and none of the minors running around, heard—was, “Yeah, you should listen to him; he’s been a ‘catcher’ his whole life.”

Speaking of questionable orientations… Ashhad was in attendance—rather, a shell of what used to be “Ashhad” was in attendance. When I arrived, he was seated at a table next to his girlfriend, who was holding a little Chihuahua puppy…in a pink and blue dress. You just can’t make that up. I later looked over and found him holding the dog, and I nearly tripped over myself running over to snap a picture. Just about every one of our friends now has a copy of it. And Ashhad absolutely hates me for it. Hey, it wasn’t my choice for him to show up at a Labor Day party looking like a Pakistani Mugatu. And women wonder why I’ve avoided getting into a serious relationship over the past few years. What guy wants to end up like that?

Early in the evening, though, I came to a realization. This is the third party that I have attended at Baby Joey and TD’s house, and at each the first half of the day has been a “family” segment. Little kids run to and fro while the adults make a futile effort to curb their language and drunken mannerisms. My suggestion (with absolutely no consideration towards the hosts’ finances, time, and effort) is that they hold a family party on Saturday and the adult party on Sunday. Need further evidence that this would be a good idea? Joey’s aforementioned-10 year old niece tossed a frisbee around with another child. She eventually threw it when her playmate wasn’t looking, and the toy sailed straight into the face of a much younger child standing behind him. Hollywood, Ashhad and I watched it happen, all wincing and stifling laughter. When the toddler began crying hysterically, and the older party guests all asked who threw the frisbee, the ten year old turned and pointed at me. And despite the fact that the toss had come from about a foot below my arm reach, adults all around the yard began chastising me for beaning a little girl in the face.

As the night wore on, we slowly polished off the better of two kegs and all of TD’s Jell-O shots. Tony and I played some inspired beer pong, and reaffirmed our place among the top duos in the game. With Joey and Hollywood down to their last cup in one match, I declared, “This is over!” and sank the shot. Then I walked into the house, and on my way to the restroom announced to the guests gathered in the living room, “I am the greatest beer pong player EVER!” Did I mention that I drank a lot of beer and Jell-O shots?

Hollywood persuaded Baby Joey and I to make a run down the street to the bar for shots of tequila. I think his eloquent sales pitch consisted of, “C’mmooonnnn.” After tossing back the first one, I wondered why I hadn’t just stayed at the party. Then Tony, TD, and several other girls from the party walked in, upset that we had gone without them. And I remembered that I run with drunks; staying at the party was never really an option.

Another round or two of shots went down, and we all returned to the house. One of TD’s friends, “1L,” was drunk enough that she had to lie on her back on a couch while talking to the rest of us, who were all standing. TD, who is by no means a large girl, packed away the last of a dessert dish. Hollywood, who had brought an overnight bag and a change of clothes, waited until none of us were looking and stumbled off to his car, peeling off down the street on his way home (he made it there safely, amazingly). And if the level of a person’s intoxication can be measured by how out of character his or her actions are, then the award for “Most Hammered” goes to Baby Joey, who stood at the sink, casually washing the dishes.

And with that, goes the summer. It’s been an interesting one, to say the least. Now I have to brace for months of cold, snow, and ice. I’m taking a bottle of Glenfiddich to a cave—someone wake me in May.