Full Metal Patrick

Tony and I strode down the street towards Shannon’s Mt. Washington apartment at 9:30 a.m. Armed with a 5 Hour Energy in my pocket, a fifth of Jameson in my hand, and my “Irish I was Drunk” tee on my back, I felt like I was walking into combat. It may have been my last shred of sensibility that kept me from saying to Tony, “On my word, unleash hell.” As we approached we met up with Weatherman, who was also just arriving. He dapped me and nodded towards the large gym bag slung over his shoulder. “Case of Guinness.”

I love the smell of Car Bombs in the morning.

Shannon’s the consummate hostess. A table with cups and pong balls was set up on her deck, and the sliding glass doors that you pass through to get there were turned into a sign-up sheet by washable markers. Two coolers full of beer and ice sat near the steps. Trays of food blanketed the kitchen like a fresh snowfall of pepperoni rolls, cookies, and pretzels. Bottles of hard liquor crowded the counter of the portable bar in the living room, and Celtic music wafted from her stereo. Only one blemish appeared on her party-planning performance: she left Entertainer, her boyfriend, in charge of the beer. That meant that her coolers were stocked with Pabst Blue Ribbon Light. My first instinct upon hearing this was to cast various aspersions upon his pedigree. Then I remembered that he and I not only graduated from the same college, but the same high school, too. *sigh*

If you were going to gather the most rabid pack of alcohol-hungry boozehounds that you could imagine, with the sole intention of sicking them on Saint Patrick himself, I think you’d come up with the following lineup: TJ and Rackt, Jay Swag, Mitch Canada, Dupa, Chappy, Affliction, Belle, Prince of Ligonier, Dr. Kelly, Weatherman, Tony, Shannon, Entertainer, and a humble fella by the internet pseudonym of D.E.F.I. Maybe you’d throw in another 30 lovers of the sauce as well—we certainly did. And every last one of us drank like consumption was going to be outlawed at sunup the following day. If you had 24 hours to live, how would you drink? If you had 24 hours to drink, how would you live?

The steps from Shannon’s living room down to the deck were slick from seasonal rains and a moderate accumulation of moss. We may never have known how much of a hazard these conditions can create if it weren’t for Prince, whose ass made contact with Shannon’s deck long before his feet ever did. Rackt and TJ witnessed the tumble; later, when they were telling me about it in the living room, Rackt said, “I felt so bad for him.” TJ shot a look in my direction. “If you had been down there when [Prince] fell, how would you have reacted?” “Well,” I said, “I would’ve asked if he was okay…as I uploaded pictures to Facebook with tears of laughter coming down my cheek.” When Prince and his fractured dignity made it back inside, he showed us the moss green stains on the sleeves of his thermal undershirt. “At least it’s St. Patty’s Day,” we offered. “Otherwise, those stains would look ridiculous.”

By 1:45, several of us had trickled into Redbeard’s. I crossed paths with a project manager from my program at work, and luckily was still coherent enough to say a few words of greeting before plopping down at a table on the patio with TJ, Rackt, Tony, Dupa, Prince, and Weatherman. But it wasn’t much longer before things grew…foggy. I’d done at least three rounds of Irish Car Bombs at Shannon’s, as well as Jell-O shots and beer pong. And all the while I had been steadily drinking cans of PBR Light and Miller Lite, as well as bottles of Point St. Benedicts Winter Ale. My memory and I were on a conference call, and someone on my side had started playing with the mute button.

We left Redbeard’s, intent on taking our campaign to Station Square. As we walked toward the Incline, I jumped on Weatherman’s back for an unrehearsed piggyback ride. That lasted all of .693 seconds, as the big guy lost his balance—seriously, how does someone who’s been drinking all day lose his balance…psshhh—and his resulting struggle to restore stasis launched me feet-first into the street. Thankfully, the approaching minivan’s brakes were up to par. Having defied (or is that “D.E.F.I.’d”?) Death, I laughed and rejoined the march to Station Square.

Pardon me if I paraphrase, but by now my brownout was only growing stronger. We moved to a bar in Station Square…that I know nothing about. Well, not nothing; it’s across the street from the Hard Rock Café. Beyond that, I’m at a loss. Tony chose it (personally, I think Tony being in charge is a distinct sign of just how irreparably impaired the rest of us were), and not even he knows the name of it. I remember there being girls there—new ones, not the used ones from the party (I kid, ladies). But how well we romanced them, how many times they maced us, how long the restraining orders are in effect…these are all unsolvable mysteries. The only thing I know for certain is we somehow all got to Rumshakers in South Side.

I remember only one moment from my visit to Rumshakers: a still frame of frozen time as I stood at the bar talking to Mary. [You know, the sexy bartender with the huge chest? …From the time last year when I was there and The Ex was in the cut, stalking me? …Wait, I never told you that story. …Damn I’m a lazy-ass writer.] Also, I remember someone handing me a beer. But that’s it; the 8 mm on my St. Patty’s 2011 ends there. When the lights came back up in the theater, I was sitting on the loveseat in my own apartment. In my boxers. Alone. *sigh*

Damage assessment: Total.

The postscript to my memories of the day has been incredible, as nearly every person in my crew who I’ve talked to seems to have had some adventure or two at the close of the night. Wondrous tales abound at every turn:

• When TJ and Rackt decided to call it a night, they walked back towards Station Square and the Incline. Rackt was, by then, in “Angry White Female” mode—a common side effect that can result from a full day of heavy drinking. When she found that a group of guys walking down the street needed to be told that they were acting like idiots, TJ had to do his best to drag her away from the confrontation. As they continued down the sidewalk, he said, “We’ve been with a crew of people bigger than me all day, but you wait ‘til we’re alone to get me into a fight?!”

• As they traveled on, they happened upon Affliction, who we had lost early in the day’s action. He had literally vanished while we were at Redbeard’s. Now, at about 9 pm, here he was in a random part of the South Side, quietly standing at a bus stop.

TJ convinced Aff to come with them; TJ would drop him off at his house on the way home. As they walked, Aff explained where he’d been all day. “I had to take care of something,” he said with a guilty grin. “She was terr—…” He stopped his storytelling as they passed a row house with its front door opened wide. Inside there

was a party going on, with the sounds of people and music spilling out into the street. After they’d passed the house, Aff spoke up again. “I just fucked some fat chick at that party.”

• Jay Swag sent me a text, right around the time I awoke on my loveseat, stating that his face was bleeding and his glasses were smashed. He also sent a picture he’d taken in the mirror; his face looked like he’d gone five rounds before the knockout. I asked him a day later who hit him. “Carson Street packs one hell of a punch.”

• Then you have Tony and Dupa. They left Rumshakers together, and tried to hail a cab. Having no luck, they found Pakistanimal and offered him $20 to drive them up to Mt. Washington. He agreed, and they all started walking towards his car. But when Pak turned back a block or two later to ask them something, both Dupa and Tony were gone. They had spotted Tom’s Diner; getting to Mt. Washington, it seems, would have to wait.

Although they had quit on the day’s boozing—and had eaten, even—the day’s boozing hadn’t quit on them. Their blackouts had rolled on, growing stronger with each passing minute. After they had paid the bill at Tom's, they parted ways as though they had never known each other. Dupa walked straight outside and renewed his search for a cab; Tony walked down the street in the other direction. TK randomly happened upon his roommate, who by this point was standing in the middle of Carson, waving money at passing cars. He pulled Dupa over to the sidewalk and drove him home. Tony, on the phone with K-Man’s wife April, ran into a girl that they both know from work. He handed the phone to Girl-from-Work, who said to April, “You need to come get him. He’s a mess.” April, angel that she is, drove the half-hour-each-way trip into the city and back, dropping Tony off at his house along the way.

• Monday morning I was in the kitchen at work when the project manager from my team walked in and greeted me with a grin. “Just so you know, I saw you almost get killed on Saturday.” I blinked at him in confusion, because I had (and continue to have) absolutely no recollection of almost getting hit by a minivan on the way to the Incline.

In the end, everyone—with the notable exception of Swag—managed to make it home unharmed…sort of. Chappy and Rackt each had to purchase new cell phones due to alcohol-related causes. They may have gotten off cheaply, though. The only way I could begin to sum up my state of mind that Sunday: I felt as though I’d damaged my soul. Dupa expressed similar sentiments, and Tony maintains that we each shaved a good five years off of our lives.

"Only the dead have seen the end of war."

Sweet Dreams are Made of These

Sleep, in the immortal words of Nasir Jones, is the cousin of death. But it’s the BFF of drinking. Spend enough time with booze in your hand, and soon you’ll have your head on a pillow. Or a floor. Or a dog.

As you probably can imagine, my crew of grizzled drinking veterans have had plenty of falling-down-drunk moments. And while in sports—and in life in general—it’s not about whether or not you fall down, but how fast you get back up, in boozing the falling down itself is often the truest testament to a performance.

• In the fall of 2001, BlahBlahBlah and I traveled to Thiel College for their homecoming celebrations. We spent a wild day boozing in a hangar, riding in back of a U-Haul truck with 20 other drunken revelers, defeating all challengers at beer pong while each opposing team had half the student body rowdily cheering behind it, doing 90 mph down country roads in Sales Machine’s Jeep Cherokee, irritating rednecks in Wal-Mart, and just being us, in general. We crashed at Sales’ off-campus apartment, and by about 4 am only BBB, Sales’ Rottweiler, a friend of Sales’ girlfriend, and I were still awake. As we sat in the living room talking, BBB abruptly got up from his chair and announced, “Fuck this—I’m out!” Saying that, he dove to the floor immediately next to the dog, threw an arm over the poor pooch, and cuddled up for the night.

• BBB, however, is not the only canine Casanova amongst our ranks. In 2004, Rocky threw a raucous pool party at his parents’ house while they were out of town. The next morning I woke up to a reoccurring whimper. As I came to, I gathered information piece-by-piece. “I’m on a couch. I’m facing the back of the couch. Oh yeah, I’m at Rocky’s. In the living room. That whimper is somewhere behind me. I think it’s the dog.” Putting all of this together, I surmised that the family’s dog, Nine [don’t ask me about the name; she was their dog, not mine], needed to be let out to go to the bathroom. I rolled over to take care of it—or, hopefully, to find someone else around who could do it instead—and found the dog only about three feet away from me. Laying on the sofa bed. With Dupa’s arm slumped over her. The man was spooning the dog. And the dog was whimpering because she couldn’t make it stop.

• One morning last year, I woke up and walked to my bathroom. When I came out to head back to bed, I glanced into my living room. There on my couch laid Dupa, in nothing but a pair of tighty-whities; lying on his side with one leg up over the back of the sofa, he looked as though he had fallen asleep mid-pubescent-couch-grinding-thrust. I returned to my room and got my camera phone to snap a picture. The Ex, half-awake, asked what I was doing. “You’ll see in a second,” I said, as I giddily tip-toed back out to the living room.

• My living room has been the scene of other great moments in pass out history. Exhibit B: After we returned from a night at the Shadyside bars with a pizza in 2008, LRG promptly passed out while sitting on one half of my loveseat, his head rolled backwards and his mouth wide open. Next to him, occupying the other half of the loveseat, sat the open box with half of a pizza still inside. From the positioning of his arm, it looked as though LRG had passed out while reaching for another slice.

Exhibit C (as shown below right): After a night of boozing later that year, Tony and I went back to my place to call it a night. After going to my room to throw on sweats and grab him some pillows, I returned to the living room to find Tony dead asleep, facedown in the same loveseat that had claimed LRG. For his part, however, Tony did not appear to have gone down without a fight; it looked as though he had dove over the arm of the couch, face-planted the far cushion, and been knocked out cold upon impact—an impact that had folded his right leg behind him at the knee, adding to the comedy of the scene.

• Esq has long had a terrible track record of being the first to fall asleep, to which the end of his 4th of July two years ago attests. Often he has been unable to even make it back to the safe haven of a house, apartment, hotel room, etc. before succumbing to the Sand Man. As a result, I have numerous pictures of him passing out at a variety of bars and eateries across the greater Pittsburgh area. One night, while he, Tony, and I ate at Tom’s Diner, I looked up from my 3 a.m. meal to find him sound asleep across the table. I took out my phone and snapped a picture, and then sent it to Tank with the accompanying text, “Have you ever seen a large man in a pink shirt sleeping at Tom’s Diner?”

Tank responded, “Yes, I have,” and included a picture that he’d taken months prior. In the photo sat Esq—wearing a completely different pink dress shirt—sleeping in a booth at Tom’s.

• On the morning of the Pirates’ Home Opener in 2003, Swing Low began the day by opening a fifth of Beam with Beard. An hour later the bottle was dry. Then they went tailgating.

Early that evening, Swing opened his eyes to a bright light. It was a female police officer’s flashlight. Scanning his surroundings, Swing found himself in a random front yard in Beechview, a mile or so from home. He looked up at the officer and said, “I’m that guy, aren’t I?” When she offered him a ride back to his place, a still-drunk Swing countered, “Oooh no—I know what that means!” He then scrambled to his feet and began to run away; but, given his state, his running was more of a lumbering stumble in slow motion (I often imagine it to look something like Bigfoot running underwater). The policewoman followed behind him in her squad car until he got home, to be sure he didn’t endanger himself or anyone else during his “getaway.” To this day, he’s the only one of my friends who can claim to have gotten a police escort home from a day of drinking.

• In fairness to my friends, I’ll share one of my own pass out violations. I occasionally have the bad habit of roaming during my drunken slumber. Sometimes I get confused when returning from a journey to the bathroom while half asleep, and other times my subconscious decides that I need a change of scenery. And sometimes I haven’t the slightest clue what leads to it.

On one such occasion in 2002, several of us had been out on the town running amok. At night’s end we returned to the Mount Washington house where BBB lived with two female friends of his from high school. Tony, Irish lothario that he is, had been invited by one of the roommates (“Triple A”) to sleep in her bed. I had chosen my favorite resting place, the couch in a sun room adjacent to Triple A’s room. I loved that room, as it looked out on downtown Pittsburgh, which was directly across the river (this also made it a preferred hook-up room amongst our friends, even a few who didn’t live in the house; sadly, I never took advantage of it myself). Many a Saturday and Sunday morning found me waking up in there. Early the next morning, however, I did not awake in my familiar nook. When I opened my eyes, I was laying on the edge of a bed, facing a wall. Triple A’s wall. I rolled over and looked behind me. There was Tony with his back to me, and on the other side of him Triple A. The next quick check was down my torso, to make sure I was still clothed. I was. Thank god. I gingerly got out of that bed of intrigue as fast as I could, and returned to my sun room with a head full of questions that still haven’t been completely answered.

Here’s to everyone finding sweet dreams this weekend, whenever—and wherever—they may come. Salud.

"Shit Me, I'm Kiss-Faced"

The king is back.

Forgive me for feeling boastful. But the feat of lasting over 12 hours on St. Patrick’s Day is fairly impressive for anyone; for someone with my recent St. Patty’s Day history, it’s a borderline miracle.

Pittsburgh’s St. Patty’s Day Parade was held this past Saturday; every year, the city erupts into a boozer’s paradise on this day of revelry. Despite thinking that I had somewhat redeemed myself for my 2007 performance by lasting until around 8 pm last year, I received a steady flow of teasing, jokes, and pessimism (i.e.—hating) from friends in recent weeks. In the end, though, I outlasted damn near all of them. To quote Stewart Gilligan Griffin, “Victory is mine!”

We began at Shannon’s apartment on Mt. Washington, as has become tradition. TJ was in attendance and in the zone for his first St. Patty’s Day in Pittsburgh—even though he was taking pulls from a bottle of Parrot Bay, and nothing else. Not from the multiple bottles of Jameson on hand, not from the Smithwick’s that T.C. had brought with him, not from the chilled cans of Guinness; not even from the keg of beer with a tap set up on the deck railing. He may be from Chicago, but sometimes the guy is a little more South Beach than South Side. He did manage to throw back a Jell-O shot, but…

When we walked in around 10 a.m., the kitchen was full of people hoisting the day’s first round of Irish Car Bombs in the air. The traditional shot apparently kicked in pretty quickly for the party’s hostess, and this was ever so apparent as she prepared another round. Car Bomb vets will tell you that the “bomb” is one part Jameson and one part Bailey’s Irish Cream in a shot glass, which is then dropped into a glass of Guinness. Shannon, however, was pouring the Jameson directly into the glass of Guinness, and then pouring a full shot of Bailey’s to drop. When I and another person attempted to correct her, she paused; then, in a measured, chilly rhythm reminiscent of Hannibal Lecter, she responded, “These are…Irish Bombs…this is how I make them.”

We didn’t push the issue any further.

One of my friends (we’ll just go with the alias “Gaelic Gangsta”, or “GG”, for him) was on hand without his significant other, who had to work. She had, however, bought him his own personal 375 ml bottle of Jameson to bring, and given him only one instruction for the day: “No fighting.” Now, to look at GG—replete with spiky blonde hair on top of a round face that’s adorned with glasses, and his wacky, boisterous laugh that resonates off walls at all hours of the day—you may think his dear fiancée to only be joking. Surely you would assume that this fun-loving 5’9” man of modest physical conditioning, wearing a green, white, and black argyle sweater vest, is not someone who is likely to get to swinging.

Alcohol is a hell of a drug.

GG, who allowed me frequent swigs of his Jameson bottle, had a pair of green gloves with him, and I borrowed one of them. Wearing it and a pair of sunglasses that used green plastic shamrocks for lenses, I strolled down to Station Square looking like an Irish Michael Jackson. Well, a mid-80s Irish Michael Jackson.

At Steelhouse GG, T.C., Mrs. T.C., and I met up with Mrs. T.C.’s sister, their cousin, LRG, Toe, Nate, and NGF. Somehow, and at someone’s suggestion, GG, T.C., and I began double-fisting beers. GG deftly held both of his beers in one hand while he boogied with a random cute girl nearby; Toe entertained us with some amateur auteur work; Nate, T.C. and I drank ourselves further down the rabbit hole; Mrs. T.C., who’s three months pregnant, watched all of us, silently shaking her head—good times. After an hour or so, we decided to move to Saddle Ridge, which is two clubs over—but accessible through an internal series of doorways. Our group stopped just inside of the country-western-themed club to discuss something. Though I was standing near GG, I was glancing in another direction when I felt the tension point that anyone who has ever been in a fight knows. It’s that sudden fraction of a second when you can feel the air turn. It’s almost intangible; an involuntary reflex that pulses from the back of your neck and puts your head on a swivel and announces, “GO TIME!”

When I looked back, a fat gorilla of a guy had one hand on GG and the other cocked back, and my buddy was engaged in trying to fuse his fist with Gorilla’s face. I got between them, putting GG behind me, and T.C. was Johnny-on-the-spot, grabbing Gorilla from behind and tying up his arms. A bouncer, who must have felt that same ethereal warning that I had, grabbed GG and attempted to move him towards the front exit. GG broke free—I still wonder how—and proceeded to throw another two jabs into the face of Gorilla, who was still being restrained by T.C. I expected this large, hairy, imposing guy to try to retaliate physically; but instead, he complained to the bouncer. I couldn’t help but laugh. Someone hits you in the face while you’re being held back, and you don’t even struggle to get free? You just cry to Teacher?

Funny as it was that GG had embarrassed a large crybaby while breaking the only rule that his fiancée had given him, we now found ourselves in the parking lot instead of inside where all of the tasty, tasty beer was. We hailed a cab, and luckily the first one to appear was Henry, a Dominican cabbie who T.C. and Mrs. T.C. have known for a few years. He dropped us off at 1311 Tavern in the South Side. We caught up with some of our friends with whom we had originally walked down from Shannon’s, and got back to the business of drinking. And drinking. And drinking. And—you guessed it—drinking. I think I could hear my liver slosh around when I moved.

When I noticed that one of my thumbnails had split (probably during GG’s scuffle), I grabbed the female bartender’s attention and said, “Can I get a band-aid? I broke a nail.” The look on her face was…probably similar to the one on each of yours right now. Smirking, she handed me a couple from behind the bar, and I patched myself up. I’s a manly man, I yam.

This brings us to my haziest part of the day. It was only about 6:45 pm, and we decided to leave 1311 for another nearby bar that was several blocks off of Carson St. But what it was, why we went there, and how we got there are all a mystery to me. Some of our group had packed it in (most notably the T.C.s), while others like Shannon and Dr. Kelly had gone to Bar Louie in Station Square. While I remember our brief stay at the mystery bar, my next clear memory is walking down Carson, carrying on a mental debate over whether to catch a cab or hoof it to Bar Louie (given that catching a cab would be next to impossible). It was about 7:30 pm, I was all alone, and I had lost my shamrock sunglasses. Luckily, The Prince of Ligonier called me as I approached the corner of 18th. He was a street away with his wife and their friends, so I hooked a left when I reached 17th and we ended up at a small bar called Dish.

I was still throwing back beers, but my drunk seemed to almost be going backwards; each sip brought with it a touch more sobriety. Prince’s wife wasn’t in the same boat; she was twisted like braids in Jamaica. She frequently found herself hugging someone—whether it were Prince, one of their friends, or even me—merely as a means of keeping herself upright.

We moved on to Intermission Lounge on Carson, collecting Girlfriend (and a green fez) along the way. By about 10:30, though, I had clearly hit my saturation point. I was fairly sober, and could not physically put more beer down my esophagus. Girlfriend and I made our way to Tom’s Diner to soak up some of the booze before heading home. Shortly after our food arrived, TK made an impromptu appearance with some friends of his. Spotting my unattended plate of pancakes, he plopped down in front of them and began ferociously chopping and tearing at them with a fork. There have been kills in the Serengeti that weren’t as gruesome. A female friend of TK's, who seemed to be charged with babysitting, looked on with a mixture of pity, humor, and disgust that I’ve never seen before.

Well…that I’ve never been consciously aware of.

We got back to my apartment well after midnight, and I woke up Sunday morning feeling fresh and clean. Where are all the haters at now?

More Fun at Club E.

What can I tell you? Sex sells.

I’ve gotten a lot of positive feedback from my last post, which really isn’t that surprising. Bring beautiful women—some of whom are naked—and a hint of lesbianism into the fold, and suddenly people’s ears (or, in this case, eyes) perk up. Some of the comments fell along the lines of those offered by “TD,” Baby Joey’s girlfriend, in an e-mail last week:

“So…. After reading your newest blog, I could not help but think about just how I really thought I was a cool, down to earth girl but then came to realize that I may need to step up my coolness level.

WOW!!!!”

Then there was the convo I had with my dear, sweet mother:

Me: “Did you read my blog?”
Her: “Yes, I did. *sighs* Was that [Rock Star]?”
Me: *chuckles* “Yeah.”
Her: “Hmm.”
*pauses (as she prays, undoubtedly, that she won’t someday have to hear the story recounted at a wedding of said girl and her only child); shakes her head and leaves the room* “No wonder you’re broke.”

More common, though, has been this question: “How come you never wrote about that time when [insert random, crazy story about some friends and I at Club Erotica]?” Typically, the answer is: “Because I’m not a snitch.” Sometimes it’s best to look at Club Erotica like Las Vegas: it can be a lot of fun; it can be really expensive; and, more often than not, what happens there stays there. (Even now, I can sense some of the girlfriends and wives out there looking at their men from out the corners of their eyes. All I will say, ladies, is that if you trusted your man before you read this, then you can continue to do so. Because if he is the type of guy bold enough to do something unsavory at Club E. while he is with you, then it’s safe to say that you knew that long before I ever put these words to page.)

That said, there is one adventure that I was reminded of last week, that I think is safe for posting.

It was early in May 2007. The now-extinct Margarita Mama’s, a booming club in Station Square, was its typical Saturday night cauldron of booze, boobs, and beats. Haze, Tony, and I met up with “Party Fouler” [pretty much the only identity that I’m going to have to overprotect—at his request] at the back bar, where J-Dizzy was serving up mean drinks. Her boyfriend, as was his M.O., was hanging out at her bar and generously passing out shots for us. At one point he looked at Haze and I and said, “You guys like Patron?” He ordered the premium tequila, and J-Dizzy served up three liberal shots in small Dixie cups. Boyfriend then poured out the contents of his cup evenly into the other two cups, and said, “I don’t like this stuff—drink up.” I think the sentence in my head that was trying to find its way to my lips was, “One of those nights, huh?”

The four of us were well beyond tipsy by the time the lights came up at 2 a.m. A suggestion was made by someone (likely Party Fouler) that we go to Blush, a premium strip club in downtown. By that point in the night, it wasn’t going to take much persuasion to get the rest of us in agreement (it’s quite likely, though impossible to confirm, that PF’s whole sales pitch consisted of asking, “Titties?”). We piled into his car and headed over, only to be met by the sad realization that Blush closes at 2 a.m. (whereas some other such establishments in the area are open until 3 a.m. or later). Standing outside of the darkened club, PF dejectedly said, “Man—I just want to see some tits!” A girl sitting on the sidewalk by the doors while she waited for a bus overheard, and announced, “I’ll show my breasts for a dollar.” Almost instantaneously, four $1 bills appeared in front of her. She backed up her claim, and we thanked her for the impromptu exhibition.

Far from satiated, though, we then drove to Club E. This is where Party Fouler was about to earn his new alias. He offered to get Tony and me shots. I distinctly remember saying “No,” though it may have come out more like “Nnnnnnn.” He didn’t listen, though, and soon came walking over to us with two shot glasses and a dastardly grin. We threw them back like soldiers, and then began choking; he had bought us shots of the cheapest, most bottomshelf rum he could find, and was now giggling like a little child at the ruse.

After a few minutes of the main room’s dancers, PF and I went upstairs to get lap dances. [**Note: Club E. has a special set-up: the first floor is the main room, which is comprised of about three or four different stages, each with at least two girls (on a busy night) dancing; the second floor consists of a large room filled with recliners, where you can get a lap dance for $20, and the private rooms, where Tiny Dancer supposedly wanted to take Rock Star and me for a threesome.] When the girl at the cash register told him it was $125 for a private room, though, PF decided to audible. I told him I wasn’t paying for a room, but he quickly waved away my argument by saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll cover it.” One private room, coming right up.

When you buy a private room, you are given a bottle of champagne and any drinks that you want, all of which is “complimentary.” Sitting on the couch with a naked dancer in front of me, a Jack & Coke in one hand, and a glass of champagne in the other, I was grinning like a Cheshire Cat…and about to black out. PF told me only recently that, during at least part of that short blank in my memory, I was passed out. Sometimes booze overrules being in a dimly-lit room with a beautiful naked woman—to which, I’m sure, most guys out there can attest.

When I came to, I was in the backseat of PF’s car again, as we rode to Tom’s Diner in the South Side. At the restaurant, we had been seated for all of 5 minutes when that old familiar song came from my gut—“Get thee to the bathroom, it’s time to let goooo”. I went to the bathroom, which is only a small, unisex room with a toilet and a sink in it (like a bathroom in a private residence). How long I was standing at the sink vomiting, I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that eventually I heard the door open and close behind me. When I looked to my left, a random guy had come in and sat down on the toilet. “Really?” Without even glancing at me, he was calmly dropping bombs while, less than two open feet away from him, I spit remnants of cheap rum, Patron, champagne, Jack Daniels, and whatever I had eaten for dinner.

That reality served as a quick and sad commentary on my life, and sobered me up more than any regurgitation ever could.

More of the Same

Another double dose-weekend of boozification. I really think I need to slow it down. My bank account can’t take this, not to mention my liver. Actually, that’s an exaggeration; my liver’s been dead for years now. I’m basically just dragging it around like “Weekend at Bernie’s” by now.

Friday wasn’t as bad as it could have been—for me, at least. Dupa and I had planned to start early, but by 6:30 he had notified me that he would be changing the plans. He was at happy hour with a new friend, and figured it might extend further into the night. On my couch half-dead at 8:15, I was resigned to calling it a night. Then I got a call from Dupa. Speaking calmly and coherently, he told me that he had parted ways with the friend, and still wanted to hit some bars in The ‘Side. His demeanor on the phone seemed to indicate that he was sober, because “calm” and “coherent” aren’t two words you can use about this man after 30 minutes at a bar. Sure enough, when he showed up at my place a little over an hour later, he had completed his transition to "Dupa Drunk". Apparently he had skipped dinner, which is always a wise choice when drowning yourself in happy hour cocktails. He dropped a bookbag on my table with a thud. Pulling two cold bottles of Bud Light Lime from it, he said, “I figured I could bring a change of clothes, or I could bring beer. I chose beer.” I really couldn’t argue with that decision.

On the way to the bar, we happened past a hot dog vendor, and Dupa’s eyes lit up like Xenon headlights. He threw back a dog in about 5.8 seconds, and off we went to the spot. The bar wasn’t crowded, but there was a high percentage of good looking women. Two vodka tonics—here we go. My bartender friend then walked over with three glasses and began preparing a round of shots, without any provocation on our parts. Is it any wonder why I love this place?

Dupa quickly noticed a girl sitting at the bar who he had met at happy hour. She was with a guy who didn’t seem too pleased that we so easily commanded her attention. Dupa and I had barely shared a couple of words on a strategy for removing him, when the lothario made a smart move: He collected the girl and ghosted. Neither of us saw them leave. They just disappeared. I can only assume that the guy is every bit the douche bag that he appeared to be, and that he has lost easy targets in similar situations in the past. He learned from those past mistakes—pulling her out of the bar was a veteran move. (If only he’d just learned not to be a douche bag instead.)

Returning our attention to drinking, it was rapidly becoming obvious that Dupa wasn’t going to last too much longer. The lone hot dog in his system was up against an army of vodka and shots, and it soon gave way. Our friend Jed had arrived with a cute coworker, and Dupa was all over Jed. Cute Coworker looked at me, bewildered, as her boss was getting playfully molested by a longtime friend in the middle of a nice bar. All I could say was, “We’ve got to go get some food into him.”

It was only about midnight, but we made our way to a pizza shop where Dupa repaired himself (somewhat) with two gyros. The next day he told me, “I sent a text message to [T.C.] this morning that said, ‘I think I got to 2nd base with Jed last night.’”

Saturday started with beers in my boy Nick’s pool. It ended with me nearly jumping out of a moving SUV. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After an afternoon of relaxing in Nick’s pool and drinking beer, Tony and I headed out to Station Square. “Breitling” had a table in the VIP area at Barroom, a new club. My buddy Chief was in town from D.C., and we (BAL, Haze, Chief, Breitling, Tony, myself, and others) got ourselves thoroughly sloshed while watching attractive women in short skirts dance all around us. There’s nothing quite like standing with one foot on top of the wall between VIP and the dancefloor, while looking out over a crowd of girls trying dance their way into your heart—and your table. Of course, if they had known that Breitling was the moneyman, and that I was merely benefiting from his generosity, I doubt a single eye would have been cast in my direction—yeah, I wasn’t going to tell them s**t. Some girls climbed up on a small platform alongside the wall, to give us (and the rest of the club) a better view of their skills. [That’s two of the lovelies to the right. God bless.]

At close Tony and I headed outside to catch a cab, when an old “friend” of mine hit me up. She and her two girls, P and M, were out nearby. They pulled up, and Tony and I climbed into the backseat on either side of M. As we rolled down Carson St., though, Old Friend and I quickly got into an argument, and then P joined in on her friend’s side. I looked at M, and said, “Is she serious?” M shrugged her shoulders and said, “I don’t know what her problem is.” At about that point OF said something that pushed me over my limit. [Note: Since waking up Sunday morning, I have not yet been able to remember what it was we were fighting about; neither can Tony. Broads.]

“F**k this s**t! Let me out of this f***ing truck.” She didn’t slow down, so I unlocked my door and pulled the lever. We screeched to a halt and I hopped out, casually muttering something about “stupid f***ing c**ts” as I slammed her door. OF nearly peeled out as she stepped on the gas and took off up the street.

As I strolled to the sidewalk, it dawned on me that Tony was still in the truck. I looked down the street a few blocks, and saw him getting out and trotting down the sidewalk towards me.

Tony: “Dude, you got out, and they were saying, ‘We got his boy! We got his boy!’ I was like, ‘Uh, you can’t kidnap me.’”
Me: “F**k them.”
Tony: “Yeah. Tom’s Diner?”
Me: *turning around to see it a few doors down* “Sure.”