Party Hard

I've heard it said that "to the victor go the spoils." Rarely has that been more true than during the Pittsburgh Penguins' Stanley Cup Championship parade last week.

If you're not a hockey fan, or just live outside of the 412 and weren't privy to the extended coverage that local media gave the event, then you probably don't understand just how much celebrating this team did. Most of them, especially the younger guys like Jake Guentzel (22-years-old) and Connor Sheary (25-years-old) spent a few hours of a steamy, 80+ degree Southwestern PA day pounding beers on the back of pickup trucks that crawled along the parade route. Their resulting dehydration levels were a thing of beauty.

The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette's Sean Gentille did a masterful job the next day of documenting the highlights of the day.

A year after he was caught on camera with a fistful of aluminum Bud Light bottles crammed into his face, Dumoulin had another solid beer-related moment. He bit a can that someone tossed him along the route — Bud Light again — and shotgunned it in the middle of the street.

The best performance was, by far, defenseman Olli Maatta. The pictures and clips cataloging Maatta's day in Gentille's piece are each more spectacular than the one that came before it. And the photo of him being held up on his feet on back of the truck, wearing shades and a sloppy childlike grin that make him look like Anthony Michael Hall in The Breakfast Club [right], is destined to be a new avi or poster or something that I can keep in my life forever.

Though the parade passed less than a block away from my office building, I was feeling under the weather and declined to go out and watch firsthand. Instead, I watched on the 65in flat screen tv in our boardroom. Now I regret that decision. If, FSM willing, the Pens get the threepeat next year, I'm calling off from work, buying a case, and splitting it with the team as they pass by.

Drunks Say the Darndest Things 7

Do you really need the intro? Can’t we just skip the foreplay, like adults? Okay, not like, you know, adults who still care about things. I mean: like married people.

Look, you’re smart people. You know what this is all about. It’s the end of January—the truly savvy amongst you have probably been wondering how much longer they’d have to wait for this to be posted.

Each year I record the best drunken quotes—that I can remember—that my friends and I have slurred, and package up the crème de la blotto crème for the readers. And I usually throw in one or two that are from years past, that I hadn’t written about—or hadn’t remembered—before that posting. Because there’s nothing better than someone thinking the dumb shit they said is dead and buried, only to have it brought back up several years later and enjoyed by all.

• The Saturday dedicated to Swag’s birthday celebration in ’13 had gone pretty much how everyone had expected: Everyone got drunk, except for the man of honor, who got really drunk, and had to be taken home by his girlfriend before midnight. He had piled on multiple gin & tonics and shots at the bar, after multiple beers and shots while we all pregamed at his place. “Slow and steady” was not in his skill set that weekend. He was out to sprint the marathon.
  
  The next morning, the few of us who had crashed at his place sat around his living room, trying to steady ourselves. Swag leapt up from the couch and casually announced, “I’m getting a shot of Fireball.” JL, being the best friend that his hungover state would allow him to be in that moment, called out behind him, “Swag! Water is acceptable, too.”
  
  
• As I’ve stated before, the wild Raleigh weekend that I took part in last March involved five guys in very different places in their social lives. And the one married guy on hand wasn’t making his place look like a place the rest of us really wanted to be in. We were driving back to Raleigh from Chapel Hill, when Trip admitted that his fiancée’s sexual appetite was more than he could handle at times. T.C.’s jealousy boiled over. “Hey,” he cut in from the backseat, “I had to buy a pair of Uggs to get sex the last time!”
  
  
• Later that night, after we’d gotten rid of the two random chicks who tried trolling for out-of-town dick, we all settled in for the night. With five grown men and only two beds, MoFo was the odd man out, and forced to set up camp on the floor. Feeling bad for him, Hurley pulled the comforter off the bed he and Trip were splitting, and tossed it down to MoFo. When Trip protested because he didn’t want to be cold, Hurley countered with impassioned logic. “Trip, we have the sheet!”
  
  
• Christmas Eve, as has become our tradition, saw TD, Boy Toy, and TJ join my cousin, her husband, and I at my mom’s house for dinner, gifts, and lots of wine. While we warmed up with hors d'oeuvres—and lots of wine—in the kitchen, we somehow got onto the topic of pain meds. My mom mentioned that, after all of the cleaning and cooking that she’d done that day, she took a Vicodin to help with her back pain. TD couldn’t hold back her stream of consciousness. “You’re drinking wine and taking Vicodin? You’re a hardass bitch!”
  
  
• In case you were questioning my pedigree, my dear mother got hers later in the night. TD said she was too full to eat dessert, and with a twinkle in her eye Mom replied, “Yeah, ‘cause you’re a skinny little bitch.”
  
  
• Last week, Armo, TJ, one of TJ’s buddies from work, and I were at the Penguins/Blackhawks game, having a drink between periods. A stunning blonde standing at the bar quickly became the subject of our conversation, as she talked to her girlfriend and scrolled through her iPhone. When Armo offered, “She looks healthy,” I countered, “She looks…like she takes dicks to the face.”
  
  
• I missed the first night of Trip’s bachelor party, but from all accounts it was a night of drunken stupidity befitting a party thrown in Trip’s honor. At dinner that night, some of the bridegroom’s closest friends took turns standing in front of the room to tell a few stories about him and sing his praises. Then his old man stood up. “I went out one Saturday, got drunk while playing 36 holes, and then went home. Nine months later, this little bastard was born. The moral of the story: Play 54.”
  
  
• My Lil Sis, TD, has more game than an Xbox. One night, during a recent trip to New York City, she fell in lust with a cute brunette bartender. While telling me about it over text messages the next day, she reported, “I just texted her and said I have Molly in my tits to motorboat.”
  
  
• Under The Porch (UTP) and Four-Foot-D’s (FFDs) hit it off swimmingly at the Fourth of July party, and were all over each other at the end of the night. I was standing on the porch, doing keg stands with some guys, when we looked over and saw the lovebirds making out in a chair. “Haha,” one of the guys—who was one of FFDs’ friends—blurted at UTP, “You’ve got Chlamydia on your face now!”
  
  
• One night during my oft-referenced beach trip to OCMD in 2003, we watched as one girl’s bad decision-making imploded her vacation.
  
  A group of us had gone to Brass Balls Saloon for their beer pong night. After Armo and I finally got knocked off a table, we sat down at the bar and watched a pretty redhead flirt with our buddy as he played on his table. She was in her early 20s, like us, and she was pleasantly hammered. And she was making it very clear she wanted there to be further hammering.
  
  After 20 minutes or so of her shameless sloring, a guy in his mid-30s appeared in front of her. Without saying a word, he yanked her purse out of her hand, rifled through it, pulled out a room key, and then threw the purse back at her. Muttering, “Have fun,” he stormed off.
  
  Our friend and Little Red Riding Slore left the bar together. When the rest of us got back to the house we’d all rented, one of the bedroom doors was shut and familiar noises were coming from the other side. Uncle Paulie had been at another bar that night, and when he got back we filled him in on the story. Giggling like a schoolboy, he ripped his shirt off, flung open the bedroom door, and ran in announcing, “I’m here for the gangbang!”
  

[A bonus postscript: A couple of nights later, a few of us were in line for calzones at the pizza place around the corner from the house. We soon noticed a familiar face behind us in line, a few people back: Little Red Riding Slore. And she was with the older guy from Brass Balls. Seeing us, and the shit-eating grins on our faces that made it obvious we recognized them, they left the line and the pizza place without placing an order. I can only imagine the rest of their trip went just as well.]

Kang like T.I.—But in the Chi? Daffy (Pt. 2)

[Before picking up where I left off in Pt. 1, I want to take a moment to thank my good friend Nitschke. A Pens season ticket holder, it was through his generous help that many of us, including TJ, Swag, Canada, and I, were able to buy tickets to attend the Pens/Blackhawks game. And without his assistance, this trip would not have happened. Nitschke knew right away that he wouldn't be able to make the journey himself, due to other personal commitments. But he didn't let that stop him from helping his friends in obtaining tickets. That's just the kind of guy he is. I did a great disservice to him by not including mention of this in Pt 1., and I'm humbled by this blatant oversight. He's a good man and a better friend, and he did a great thing by enabling our participation in this once-in-a-lifetime event. From the bottom of my heart: Thanks homie. I'm eternally grateful.]

By around 5 we were at Fire’s, filing into his one bedroom apartment. His place is a great bachelor pad…when only one bachelor lives there. When you add four more? Not so spacious. But where there are drunks, there’s a way. We moved a dining room table and other furniture out of the way, inflated two air mattresses, and headed to the bar.

We strolled down the street to the Old Town Burger Saloon and grabbed ourselves seats at the bar. Business was quickly gotten down to (Stella draughts for me); after about an hour or so of hanging out, we realized each of us had already bought a round.

Five rounds in about an hour? I guess things just move a little faster in the big city.

Before long, Fire’s sister, Weatherman, and GG each joined us. There may have been shots at some point…okay, who am I fucking kidding? There were definitely shots.

Our growing state of blotto can best be described by two separate anecdotes.

• The wall behind us was all mirrors. As I sat on a barstool facing that wall, talking to GG and Weatherman, my eyes caught a glimpse of a beautiful woman. Judging by the angle of her reflection, she seemed to be walking right towards our group. Just as I began forming the thought “Who the hell is THAT?” and my eyes began unzipping her jacket, my ears heard TJ and others yell Tennessee’s name. I had been eyeing up his girlfriend.
  
  
• Not much later, Weatherman looked at his watch. “You DO realize it’s only 8:30, and we’re smashed?” “Buddy,” I replied, “You forgot to change your watch to Central time. It’s 7:30.”
  

Someone—a truly wise individual—reminded all of us that we needed to eat dinner. We moved our gathering down the road to Old Town Pub. Seeing our large collection of mouth-breathing, slurring, drunken ingrates stumble our way into their establishment must’ve been something of a “Come to Jesus” moment for the wait staff.

…But then again, this is Chicago. We probably looked like their weekly Sunday brunch crowd.

I don’t remember what I ate to go along with the beer I guzzled down, but it was miraculous, because it halted my oncoming blackout in its tracks. I was still drunk, of course. But my memories start becoming sharper from about halfway through that meal.

From there we moved on to Declan’s Irish Pub. By this point, it was somewhere in the 10:30 – 10:45 timeframe. On a Friday in Pittsburgh, the bars are just hitting their optimum levels at this point in the night. And, from everything the Chicago natives among us had been saying all night, Declan’s was no hole in the wall. The first four or five of us—being a minute or two ahead of the rest in transitioning, for whatever drunken reason—walked in expecting to see men, women, and rowdy drunkenness as far as the eye could see. Instead we just saw…men.

The…fuck…?

Maybe 30 people were in the bar, and 98% of them were guys. Weatherman and I looked at each other, and GG voiced our shared thought: “Ohh…I see what’s going on in here.”

It took another 20 minutes before one of us mentioned something to Fire, who looked at us like the idiots we were and said, “What? This isn’t a gay bar!”

And yet…not the dumbest thing I would do at Declan’s.

(It’s only fair that I give some back-story to help explain my mindset going into this moment. You can judge all you want after that, but at least have all the facts first…

In recent months, I’ve realized that I’m beyond the games. I don’t mean that in the way a 31-year-old woman with emotional issues who just got dumped by her fiancé because he caught her blowing his brother means it, as she slurps down a mojito at a T.G.I. Friday’s before a 9:30 showing of the latest Katherine Heigl film. What I mean are the “I-don’t-like-you-unless-you-like-me…No-I-really-don’t…What’s-that? …You-like-me? ...But-I-don’t-like…Oh-you-really-like-me-like-me? …Ok-maybe-I-really-do… Nope-just-decided-I-don’t-like-you…unless” games. I’m beyond those. Fuck those games in their ear.

…I’m aware I sound bitter right now. Let me tell you, this realization wasn’t reached after a bad experience of my own. It was reached while watching two other people interact. So it’s not bitterness, it’s enlightenment.

In summation, I’m just not in for the cutesy flirtation games with strangers. I don’t care what you’re here to do, I’m doing me. Period.)

It started quickly and subtly. I don’t even remember who noticed it first. But I was being hunted. The waitress saddled with the task of fetching drinks for my crew was a tall, beautiful blonde named Ashley. And Ashley, bless her heart, had her “fuck me” eyes trained on yours truly. The first time I saw it, as she took an order from a few of us, I figured my blotto mind was exaggerating the situation. But, a short while later, she walked past us to attend to another group of bar patrons; Ashley stared me dead in my eyes as she went from one side of the room to the other.

And I felt…well, guilt is too strong of a term. But I def felt like I was leading her on. This beautiful creature—not knowing I was in an advanced state of drunkenness and a very advanced lifestyle of lacking fucks to give—surely expected me to be up for some fun flirtation and possibly a romantic rendezvous. I was not up for either. I wanted to drink in her bar, and then leave there and drink some more in a different bar.

When we called for our tabs, she brought mine with a smile that offered an unspoken invitation to settle it one-on-one someplace quiet. I felt like I’d be a dick if I just flatly ignored the interest in me that she was making painfully obvious. So, in an attempt to give a “Thanks, but no thanks,” I wrote on the bill, “Excellent service.”

*sits back and sips his drink while you—understandably—laugh at him*

In my hazy mind, this was a smooth way of saying, “I think you’re hot, and I’m flattered. But I just don’t give two fucks about chasing tail, or hungry-eyed waitresses who live in cities 500 miles away from my home. So take this compliment and understand that it’s not you, it’s me.”

*takes another sip while he waits for the laughter to die down again*

Everyone dispersed to their various shelters for the night, with Fire leading Canada, Swag, TJ, and I back to his place. The consensus, it seemed, was that Saturday would be a long day of barhopping, sightseeing, tailgating, watching outdoor hockey in arctic temps, and then more barhopping, so resting up would be the best way to go about things. Canada and I still had itches to scratch, though, and called an audible as we got to Fire’s door. He handed me his keys and wished us luck as the two of us turned around and headed back out into the night.

What do two young (shut up) pups do when facing the world alone? They go to what they know. And since neither of us had ever been to Chicago before that day, what we knew was Old Town Saloon. We went back to nearly the very same barstools we had occupied seven hours earlier, and ordered some beers.

By this hour of the night, the bar was a motley crew of dysfunction. Loud music played while a strangely diverse age range milled about. There really weren’t more people than had been there when we left. But they all looked worse, like they’d all collectively given up on life at the same time.

Without warning, a cute chubby brunette was in my face. It seems that she and her friend, a cute blonde, were being pursued on the other side of the bar by a light-skinned brother who looked like a broke Honey Badger (Tyrann Mathieu). To throw him off their scent, they told him that Canada and I were their boyfriends.

Involuntary participation in a cock block. Yayy…

We played along, as the girls seemed cool enough. Chubby Brunette (CB) had chosen me as her fake beau, and while we chatted at the bar, Canada and her friend went outside to burn some cigarettes. CB was good people, and we cracked each other up as we hung out. After a few minutes, though, Canada and the blonde returned, and as soon as they had my homie was tugging at my sleeve. “Let’s fuck off. …Now.”

When we got outside, Canada explained. “That chick might be the most racist garbage I’ve ever met.” Every other word out of her mouth, it seems, had been the n-word. Well then…

We set off in search of another bar, but had some trouble in locating one. We stopped some random guys walking past and asked them where to go, and they pointed up a street, saying that there were several bars up that way. We headed up that way, but soon decided—in our drunken stupors—that there were no bars up that street, and turned around. Never mind that we had only walked about a block and a half; we felt that was more than enough evidence that those strangers had no idea what they were talking about.

After another 10 minutes of wandering down streets we had already walked (and Canada repeatedly suggesting that a closed nail salon was a bar, simply because there were neon lights in the windows—lights which, of course, spelled “N-A-I-L-S”), we renewed our faith in the guidance we’d received from the two guys, and headed back up the suggested street. This time we went two blocks, instead of one and a half; that turned out to be the key. Because after two blocks the street turned into a roiling caldron of drunkenness, with bars lining both sides of the street and hammered people spilling out of each.

We stopped at The Snuggery for a couple of beers. It was a nice enough place, staffed by some very attractive waitresses and bartenders, but it was almost 2 a.m. when we got there, and our full day of travel was catching up to us. By 2:15 we were heading out the door, and back to Fire’s.

[Pt. 3 coming soon...]

Kang like T.I.—But in the Chi? Daffy (Pt.1)

I’m genuinely surprised to be typing these words right now.

When the NHL announced that the Penguins and Blackhawks would be playing a Stadium Series game at Soldier Field on March 1st, TJ quickly contacted every Pens fan he knew. Here was an opportunity for him to bring together his current world—Pittsburgh—and the one that birthed him—Chicago. This couldn’t possibly end well.

I was immediately onboard with the plan. Tennessee confirmed that he’d be there, along with his girlfriend. Swag and Canada required very little convincing before they were in. Weatherman soon notified us that he, too, would be at the game. He’d be travelling with some of his peoples, and Gaelic Gangsta (GG) would be among them. Alex, who doesn’t know hockey and sports exist, eventually informed us that she had made plans to be in Chicago that same weekend (why, I still don’t know); our buddy E Bomb would be vacationing with her. Also planning to be in the Chi that weekend: a friend of TJ’s from college, who now lives here in Pittsburgh. And a college pal of mine. And a girl from my graduating class in high school. Not to mention a few friends of mine who grew up around here but now live in Chitown. And AIDS, who also now lives there. And all of TJ’s friends and family who still live around greater Chicago…

There’s no WAY this ends well.

One of those friends—“Fire,” who lives in Old Town—agreed to let TJ, Canada, Swag, and me crash at his place. Everyone else found hotel rooms. Game and plane tickets were purchased. The “battle stations” alarm was sounded in Hell. Destiny was handed a shot of whiskey and told to pucker up.

And I thought to myself over and over again, “Yup…I’m gonna die.”


Friday, February 28th
Even if there was no destination to write about, simply putting TJ, Canada, Swag, and me into the same automobile for a 7½ hour stretch would be a story. We’re all assholes by nature, and you’re just not going to set the world in a good direction by putting us in a small space that’s traveling through the boredom of Ohio and Indiana.

Some quick highlights from the drive, since the Chitown activities are the real focus here:

• About 1:40 into the trip, Swag erupted. Canada was driving, TJ was sleeping, and I was daydreaming from the front passenger seat. From behind me Swag offered, “What if we passed someone, and I was just jacking out a batch?” As he said that, we passed a small van driven by a squirrelly-looking guy in glasses who glanced over at us; that mixture was enough to ignite Swag. Tear-laced, high-pitched sounds came from him as he died from hysterics in the backseat. Canada and I soon laughed ourselves into tears as well, though purely from hearing and watching Swag’s random fit of uncontrollable laughter.
  
  
• At 11:55 a.m. the shuffle on TJ’s iPhone, which we had plugged into the stereo, queued up “Homecoming.” I couldn’t even look at him, but I felt his cheesy grin beaming behind me.
  
  
• An hour and a half later we stopped at a rest stop to gas up and grab lunch. While we stood in line at Burger King—or “Da Kang,” as he calls it—Swag, who had been drinking heavily the night before, looked at me and said, “Gotta go throw up.” And with that, he casually walked off towards the restrooms.
  
  
• The rest of us watched the world’s oldest pimp in action. A woman in her 80s walked towards the soda machine with a coffee cup, when suddenly her equally 80-year-old husband exploded. “THE COFFEE’S RIGHT THERE, GLADYS! WHERE ARE YOU GOING, IT’S RIGHT THERE! FOR GODSAKE! WHERE’S YOUR HEAD AT?!”
  
  Sharing awkward stares with strangers: What road trips are all about.
  
  
• Swag was legitimately annoyed at me. I’d been an hour late in meeting up with everyone that morning, which meant we were an hour behind schedule—which meant we didn’t have time to stop in South Bend so he could take a dump on a floor/field/desktop on Notre Dame’s campus. …Seriously.
  
  
• As we passed a small SUV, I took in an eyeful of the MILF behind the wheel. After a few seconds of ogling, my eyes glanced over to the passenger seat, and saw her teenage son staring at me.
  
  
• …about ten minutes later they passed us; this time the kid held up a Penguins jersey.
  
  
• Swag’s summation of northern Indiana: “It’s just random piles of shit, everywhere.”
  
  
• Weatherman tweeted me that, within 1/64ths of a mile from their hotel, and within sight of the parking garage, he hit a pothole and blew a tire.
  

[To be continued...]