Check Yaself Before Your Wreck Yaself

As important as it is, as a bargoing consumer, to take care of the bartenders and servers who are taking care of you, it's equally important not to piss them off. Because, when it comes down to it, they're in the driver's seat. And, most of the time, they're just trying to do their job. And they can make your life very unpleasant if you don't act right.

Thrillist compiled this impressive list of anecdotes offered up anonymously by bartenders from around the US about some of the evilest, craziest things they've seen in their days behind the bar. Here are two of my favorites, but check out "Bartender Horror Stories", because the whole post is one hunnit:

"A club bartender had been stiffed and ordered around by this guy all night. The next drink he ordered, the bartender said he had to go get some limes, but instead he walked to a corner of the bar where nobody could see either side of him, unzipped his pants, and put his [REDACTED] in the guy's vodka tonic. He brought it back to him, and the guy chugged it. He might have chugged a couple of things that night."
-NH

"A guy at the end of the bar was pretty tipsy. He was talking a lot of s**t and threw his glass at the bartender. The bartender turned up the lights and turned off the music. He stood on the bar and said, 'Unless someone kicks this guy's ass, I am not serving a motherf**king drink.' Within a matter of seconds, the ass-whooping of a lifetime started. He was then dragged outside. The lights got lowered, the music came back on, and a round of Jager was ordered for the bar.

God bless Wisconsin."
-AQ

Don't Get Mad, Get Even

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When It's Poured, It Reigns

In my 31st year on this planet, my level of activity is never consistent from one weekend to the next. I’ll spend one Friday and Saturday night in sweatpants, posted up on the couch with DVR’d episodes of Archer on the TV screen, and a week later I’ll be running between multiple events, happenings, and brouhahas that all seem to be going on at once. In February I took a road trip to Buffalo on a Friday afternoon; boozed all over the town that night; woke up the next morning and came back to Pittsburgh; drowned myself in Gatorade and aspirin, took a nap, and then hosted an Anti-Valentine’s night of barhopping in Shadyside with a cast of characters on Saturday night. The weekend after that? I didn’t move from my couch for the better part of 72 hours, hacking and wheezing through a bad chest cold.

The glamour life.

Last weekend I managed to find time for both sweatpants and debauchery. Friday TJ and I kicked it low-key with food, TV, and a few drinks at my place [Dupa was supposed to be a part of this, but he pulled the “blow off your boys at the last minute to see a girl” bitch move; he has been repeatedly chastised by our circle ever since, and deservedly so]. Saturday, though, was packed with three soirees around town—as well as one in Seven Springs that I had to forfeit attending due to the obvious logistics hurdle involved. My friend “Nitschke” was beginning his night of birthday celebrations at Hofbrauhaus, where a get-together for another friend of mine was also taking place. I planned to put in appearances at each of these, and then conclude the night at Tank’s place, where he was hosting a house party.

There’s an innate risk, though, in trying to synchronize this type social event hopscotch; the plan’s choreography is dependent upon each player’s attention to detail and ability to think on his or her feet. And, unfortunately for me, Dupa has the situational awareness of Lenny from “Of Mice and Men”.

He had gone to Hofbrauhaus around 4 to meet up with Nitschke and co. I rolled down around 6, having not heard a peep out of anyone aside from TJ, who said he’d catch up with us when we got to Levelz, a bar on Carson St. in South Side. I tried calling Dupa as I walked up to the Hof, but didn’t get an answer. I shot off a text to both he and Nitschke asking where they were in the crowded German restaurant. When I’d walked around without finding anyone or getting any calls or messages back, I phoned the birthday boy. “Uhh,” he responded after picking up, “didn’t [Dupa] tell you I left? I’m walking into the White Eagle.”

Nitschke said he had specifically told Dupa to alert me to the change of venue before he left Hofbrauhaus. And not only had Dupa—who hadn’t departed when Nitschke did, but had instead trailed behind to look for the other Hof party—failed to inform me that everyone else from the first shindig had already moved onto another bar, but he had neglected to notify me when he left a few minutes later. That’s two kicks to the doorknockers that I owed my Polish associate for party fouls that weekend, and I hadn’t even been in the same building with him yet.

Nitschke said he would only be at the Eagle for one quick drink, and that I might as well head to Levelz, which would be their next destination. Since TJ was also heading there, I abandoned my plan to stop by the other Hof party and drove over to Carson St. And after I’d gotten to the bar and ordered a beer, I shot TJ a text to see what his ETA was. His response: “We’re at the White Eagle.”

I hate my friends.

I sipped on my bottle of Sam Adams for another ten minutes, while daydreaming of kicking justice out of my boys and wishing I’d worn heavier boots. Nitschke and some of his friends were the first (well, second, third, fourth, etc.) to arrive. He loaded up the jukebox with Clipse and Mos Def songs while we waited for everyone else. “You know,” I remarked to him, “You’re probably the first white boy in a V-neck sweater to ever play ‘Grindin’ on a jukebox.”

Eventually Dupa, Mitch Canada, Jay Swag, and TJ came through the door; after I dished out some verbal abuse, the party as a whole relocated to the tables in the back of the bar to watch the Penguins/Leafs game. Reaching your 30s has a definitive effect on your party behavior. In our 20s, we would’ve been loud and rambunctious, propositioning female bartenders, spilling drinks, and making management nervous. Instead the 15 of us relaxed in chairs, calmly talking sports, music, and life. One thing that hasn’t changed, though, is our conversations inevitably turning towards the topic of sex.

Jay Swag: “I could hate-fuck something right now.”
Me: “Isn’t that kind of redundant, though? I mean, knowing you, I can’t picture any of your fucking being anything but hate-fucking.”

Swag informed us that he has, in fact, engaged in “love sex”—twice. Every other time was angry and ginger.

I made my way to Tank’s around 10:30, cruising with a slight buzz and The Black Album bumping on my stereo. When I walked into a house full of familiar tipsy faces, Chief gave me the beverage menu. “Beer’s downstairs, or *pointing to bottle* we have Beam.” I eagerly went with Plan B [The odds of me ever using that phrase again? Yet another mile marker of being 30something]. I poured myself a glass and looked for a mixer, to no avail. Noticing my unsuccessful search, Chief said, “Yeah, we’re drinking ‘neat’ tonight.”

Drinking glasses of straight Jim Beam after several hours of polishing off bottles of Boston Lager during the game? I saw no good coming of this.

And, of course, none did. As a collective, we circled the drain gradually, but with certainty. Finn and I narrowly lost to Chief and Sloku on the beer pong table. Sipping from a tumbler of bourbon in between chugs of beer from felled cups was poetic illustration of the balancing act we’ve found at 30. One moment urbane and sharp, discussing the politics of the Middle East and the pitfalls of marriage; the next youthful and crude, cracking jokes about body parts and each other’s sexualities. And yet it all contributed to the whole and finished product that we had become: very, very drunk.

• One of our friends, Clay, yelled, “Meat! C’mere, Meat!” TD watched in shock as his four year old daughter came walking in from another room. “You call your daughter ‘Meat’?” Clay, however, didn’t see anything strange in it. “What? She’s my little meathead,” he said affectionately.
• Hollywood and Chief stumbled into the type of mini-feud so commonly suffered by two guys too inebriated to know what language they’re speaking. Jokes led to sack taps; sack taps led to wrestling; wrestling led to a fishhook; a fishhook led to someone’s finger being severely bitten. And, of course, that bite led to rage and a momentary disruption of the party.
• Tank, Esq, and I lit up cigars on the back porch (a terrific idea for someone recovering from a bad chest cold, by the way). Tank, typical of married people who have some alcohol in them, became convinced that finding me a girlfriend was somehow necessary for my survival. “You don’t want a girlfriend?” “I’m just not concerned with it, man. I’m not saying I don’t want one, but I'm not going to break my back to make it happen.” This wasn’t satisfactory for him, though. Seeking backup, he turned to Esq, who had been more engrossed with bringing the radio outside while we smoked. “Don’t you think he needs a girl?” Esq is engaged, and certainly in no hurry to see others go through the same headaches that he does. “Not really. Let him enjoy it while he can.”

• The only three still awake by 4 a.m.: Hollywood, who watched old sitcom reruns in the living room; Tank, who microwaved frozen snack food; and me, who ransacked the remaining buffalo chicken dip that Tank’s wife had made.

Like I said, the glamour life. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to Archer. Danger zooonnnnne.

Social Drinking Excellence: Franck Lebrun

Sometimes the stories, well...sometimes they just write themselves.

From CNN.com:

During the flight, the crew suspected that someone had been smoking cigarettes in one of the lavatories. Other passengers said it was Lebrun, so the crew confronted him once, and then a second time when he again headed for the bathroom. Lebrun looked intoxicated and smelled of cigarettes and alcohol, according to the complaint.

He then approached a flight attendant "in an aggressive manner" and pushed her away, according to the complaint. When she told him not to touch her, Lebrun pushed her away again, court papers say.

After more tense moments, a federal air marshal identified himself to Lebrun and told him to return to his seat.

As Lebrun walked toward the back of the plane "he continued to shout and waive [sic] his arms in an excited manner," according to the complaint.

Two other air marshals identified themselves to Lebrun and asked him to show his passport.

Lebrun continued to scream and yell expletives and then "aggressively positioned himself toward one of the federal air marshals in a fighting stance," court papers say. The marshals then handcuffed him and seated him in the back of the plane.

"Lebrun continued to verbally abuse individuals around him, yelling in substance 'I'm French, f*** you!'" according to the complaint.

Where do I begin? Rude, drunk, arrogant, chain-smoking—Lebrun is so stereotypically French that I can practically smell the B.O. I wish they'd included his mugshot in the article, because without one I can't help but picture him as Jean Reno.

Air travel can test your patience, even when you're just taking a quick Atlanta-to-Savannah connecting flight. A trans-Atlantic flight? The airline should give you free booze and a happy ending just to endure 7+ hours in the sky. All of which excuses Lebrun for his attempt to be the first person since the shoe bomber to smoke on an airplane. But once he's been caught and warned, that's where drunken stupidity takes over. You're locked in an aluminum tube in the sky with the same 500 people—the flight attendants aren't exactly going to forget your face. Then, after three different air marshals have identified themselves and joined the fray, Lebrun actually squares up with them? I know a US Air Marshal; trust me, these are not the guys you want to fight. And a 1-on-3 rumble with them is just suicidal for anyone short of a Special Ops commando. [You have to love the stereotypical Frenchness continuing: Lebrun takes his "fighting stance" and is immediately subdued without an actual fight. I'd almost swear this was written by the folks at Funny or Die.]

So how did Reno Lebrun get so mind-erasingly hammered to suddenly think he was the French Jason Bourne?

After Lebrun was detained, the crew found a one-liter bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream liquor in his carry-on bag that was almost empty, according to the complaint.

He was drunk off of Bailey's Irish Cream? Are you serious? Lebrun's just gone from Léon to Pepe Le Pew. I rarely advise sobriety, but... If you can't handle Bailey's, then you might want to stick to Evian.

Franck, your Rummy's in the mail. It comes with a secret compartment filled with Zima, if you want to try something a little more manly next time.

Fade to Black

Last Friday night I experienced what I would later dub on Twitter, “the world’s safest blackout.” On what was intended to be a low-key, low-dough night with the boys, TJ, Dupa, “Armo”, and I kicked back with a bottle of Belvedere, dinner, and some DVDs. And right about the time that “The Professional” ended, I experienced my preferred means of time travel, jolting awake the next morning. I felt like I hadn’t moved from the exact spot on the couch where I’d been watching the movie. If anything, I’d just sort of fallen over and then gotten right back up, only to now find myself in the Saturday dawn.

No bars full of strangers. No “How did I get there?” No losing my credit card. No losing my driver’s license. No losing my cell phone. No strange numbers on my phone. No drunk dials or texts. Well, no damning ones; I did manage to call TJ’s girlfriend in Tampa and wake her up, though in my defense it was only about 11:30 (that’s right, I was fully blacked out by 11:30—fight me). No unexplainable bodily harm (save for a small cut on my thumb that was more likely the result of fumbling with my zipper in the bathroom than me carrying out and/or thwarting a surprise ninja attack). I had blanked my memory of much of the night, with no possible consequences to bear the next morning. Win.

Things seldom go so well. Rarely is the fan turned off when the shit hits it. I’ve used the metaphor of a snowball in the past to describe professional drinking, especially if said drinking is done in celebration of holidays and special occasions, when it starts early in the day with the intention of rolling on through the night. And that imagery is more than appropriate, because not only does the size of your drunkenness grow exponentially, but so does the speed of this giant snowball of intoxicated idiocy—and your inability to control where it goes.

Several of my blackouts have already become On the Rocks greatness. Stories like my Halloween at Ohio U., Steph’s going away celebration last month, and a Friday night out with the boys two Februaries ago are now familiar seasoning in the l-o-l stew that is my recreational activities. But many more—for one reason or another—have yet to be published. Like last Thanksgiving Eve, when Pakistanimal, his girlfriend [now his fiancée—congrats], and her sister joined Tony and I in a night of Shadyside boozing. After pregaming at my apartment, the five of us were soon slamming Batman shots at Shady Grove, and then I was casually strolling up a street eight city blocks away, alone and dazed. And Tony was standing in front of my apartment building fuming, because three hours earlier I had left him at the bar without a way of getting into my place. That bar, though, would be William Penn Tavern, and my departure was a good hour after my last recollection of anything, when we were still partying like rock stars at Grove. Just like that, a fun night with friends had turned into W-T-F-? Tony said that when I finally ambled up to the building, I slurred something about having been at a party. And now every day I fully expect someone to approach me on the street and say, “Hey, you were that tall random guy at that party last Thanksgiving!”

[Note: Given the fact that my family—and my parents, even—read this blog, it has suddenly dawned on me that I probably should have been masking these stories as something some friend of mine did. “Then my friend…uhh, 'Dave'…got really drunk on Batman shots and…” Oh well.]

Thanksgiving Eves have proven fertile ground for this sort of thing. In 2004, that particular night of the year was, dare I say, epic. Dupa, T.C., and I had hit the South Side to drink and revel. Then, at about 4 a.m. or so, I found myself leaning against a front door, slowly knocking on it. I stopped my fist just before it barreled into my mysterious wooden resting post once more, and stood upright to take in the scene. I was on a porch…that I had never seen before. The house was dark, and to this day I wonder if its owner had been peeking from behind the curtains, terrified. I walked down the steps and out to the street. I was in a suburban area, but it all looked so unfamiliar. I began walking down the street, deciding that the one thing I absolutely needed to do was get away from that house; to hear sirens at any moment would have been “game over”. As I came to the next intersection, it suddenly hit me: I was in T.C.’s neighborhood, and his house was on this street. I had met him and Dupa there at the start of the night. I quickly found my way to T.C.’s, and got myself on a couch to sleep it all away.

Over the next week or so details of the missing hours began surfacing. The last thing I remembered was being at the upstairs bar in Smoking Joe's Saloon. That had been around 11 (fight me twice). After that came stops at a couple of other bars, including Jack’s. There I found myself momentarily separated from my boys as I waited in line for the restroom. Some random jackasses brought static, and fists were soon cutting the smoke-filled air. From across the room, Dupa had quickly spotted me, cornered and surrounded, and charged into the fray with T.C. close behind. According to reports, my boys and I proceeded to bring the ruck, soused though we were, until bouncers could finally break it all up. I was so in the zone, in fact, that when one bouncer first stepped in to intervene, I swung on him. Luckily it was just a grazing shot, because—I’d later learn—he was our friend Jed’s cousin (I ran into him again a few months later and apologized, but he understood; as drunk as I was, I probably couldn’t see, let alone discern between attackers and bouncers). Pakistanimal, who had been out with other people, said he walked up to the door at Jack’s that night, but was told they couldn’t let anyone in until they cleared out a fight that had just taken place. Just then, Dupa, T.C., and I stumbled out the door laughing. “[Pak], what up? We were just in a fight!”

T.C.’s little sister picked us up from the South Side and took us to a party her friends were throwing. After that? Well, after that I played the world’s slowest game of “Ding-Dong-Ditch”. That’s really all any of us know, because by the time the fight ended, all three of us were at some level of blackout. Only Dupa has any memory of the brawl, and not even he remembers the party.

Luckily, blackouts aren’t frequent (not for me, at least). The anxiety that comes with waking up the next morning is enough to make you nauseous, without the aid of the hangover. This is especially true if you wake up on the floor of an unknown bedroom in Ohio (see “Halloween at Ohio U.” above). But even when you find yourself in your own bed—where, you could argue, you should feel the absolute safest in the entire world—the prior night’s mental abandonment can be waiting to pounce. When I blacked out during the first night of my birthday weekend last year, I had been with my boys at Shady Grove. When I woke up the following morning, I was laying in bed next to The Ex. She was sitting up with her back against the headboard, her folded arms looming like storm clouds over my aching head.

Her, through clenched teeth: “So, do you remember last night?”
Me, in my head: “...fuck!”

Whiskey.Tango.Foxtrot.

Alcohol’s a hell of a drug.

On the last Saturday of February, I set out for Dupa and TK’s place with a firm agenda for the night. Three separate birthday celebrations were taking place (Gaelic Gangsta’s, Hollywood’s, and one for my friend “Nitschke”); we had put together an elaborate game plan, wherein Dupa would drive all of us first to GG’s party in the South Hills, and then over to the South Side where the other two parties were to be located. It wasn’t until I awoke on a couch the next morning that I realized I hadn’t been to any of the three parties, or even to the South Side. What kept me from honoring the promises I’d made to the hosts of each party? Well…

When I arrived at Dupa and TK’s apartment armed with a case of Labatt Blue, the gents were playing a game of dominos. Their living room was sans-TV at the time, and to fill the entertainment void they were using dominos, cards, the radio, and—of course—booze. Dupa was drinking the last of a bottle of Belvedere, while TK mixed together tequila and Red Bull…

*sigh*

At his suggestion, I tried a bit of this new concoction; I have to say, it wasn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be. True, it tasted like gasoline, which is what I expected; but it was more of a midgrade 89 octane, instead of a regular 87. If a mixologist were to use a top shelf tequila, like Patron, I imagine the mixture might even push the 93 octane envelope. Halfway through a game of “Up and Down the River,” as the drinks and chugs became more plentiful, TK’s common sense finally kicked in; he abandoned his new booze blend for the cans of Labatt that Dupa and I were now polishing off in quick succession.

The card games—we followed “Up and Down the River” with several rounds of “Asshole”—were having an unforeseen consequence, though: Dupa, our driver, was losing at everything, and was therefore crushed. My car was wounded, and I was keeping the mileage to a minimum until it was fixed; as so, I had been quickly working myself into a stupor as well. And TK? Well, seconds after we called an end to the cards, TK announced that it was time for him to do a Stuntman Shot…

*sigh*

He even asked that I get it on camera, in hopes of making it onto Tosh.0. As the camera rolled, he snorted salt, tossed back a shot of tequila, and squeezed lime juice into his eye (these are my friends…). Dupa and I roared with laughter, as the realization that squirting lime juice in your eye really isn’t such a great idea seemed to come over TK, who nearly doubled over in pain. For your viewing pleasure, click here.

And all of this was just the pregaming. With all three of us sufficiently soluble, we changed our means of transportation: we hopped on the T (Pittsburgh’s light rail transit) with the few cans of Labatt left stashed in our pockets, and headed to Station Square, where a fourth birthday party was in progress—this one being held for our friend “Wildcard.”

We joined up with Wildcard and his entourage at Buckhead [a birthday party at Buckhead? It all feels so familiar…], where the birthday boy was already three sheets to the wind. Wildcard isn’t the largest guy in the world; in fact, he’s often one of the smallest in the room. So watching him bound around the club, drunk off his ass on birthday shots, he bared a striking resemblance to a leprechaun. He was hardly an imposing figure…which may be exactly why he came oh so close to sparking a fight.

Buckhead is far from a dive, and I don’t want to sound like a snob. That being said… A wedding party was there that night, complete with the bride in her gown and the groom in his tux. “Classy with a capital ‘K’,” as Dupa would say. The math on this one seems fairly obvious, especially if you know my friends and/or me. Drunken birthday boy + wildly-out-of-place wedding party = a bride getting freaked from behind by a leprechaun. Wildcard’s drunk had manifested itself into a bit of ADD, though, and shortly after he began dancing with the bride, he was bouncing off again across the bar.

Enter the night’s wannabe tough guy. “Wannabe” was a smaller guy with the wedding party, in his mid-to-late thirties, about 5’9”, and far from muscular. In fact, pudgy and wearing glasses, he more than likely would have been the least threatening male around, if it weren’t for the magical slurring leprechaun with ADD who was running around the club. And, as this was likely the closest he’d ever come to being the “Alpha male,” Wannabe decided to take advantage of the situation.

Unfortunately for him, though, his lack of experience in wearing tough guy pants was readily apparent, especially when it came to his tactics. If, in a club full of people, there is only one guy that you feel like you can intimidate and/or beat in a fight, you don’t wait until he has wandered off to talk shit. And, in his absence, you certainly don’t talk your nonsense to me, who is much more clear-headed (and, let’s not forget, much larger).

Wannabe accused Wildcard of saying something derogatory to the bride before he left. When I asked him what Wildcard had said, though, he couldn’t come up with an answer. All he knew was that Wildcard had somehow offended the bride and groom. Our words—his consisting of, “Fuck that” and the like, and mine consisting of, “Just shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of my face”—gradually got louder, and attracted the rest of the wedding party. While some of their friends pushed Wannabe back, the bride and groom themselves came over to talk to me.

Groom: “What’s going on?”
Me: “Did my friend do anything to offend either of you?”
Bride: “No, not at all.”
Me: “Thank you. Tell your friend that. Congratulations on the wedding.” *turns around and walks off*

While all of this was going on, my friends had found another source of entertainment in the forms of three older blonde women at the corner of the bar. All three seemed nice enough, though only two of them were truly MILFs. Of those two, the shorter one was a favorite of Dupa and Wildcard, especially when they found out that she was going through a divorce. While the boys applied their charms—Wildcard’s ADD was still in full effect, but he would stop to dance with “Divorcee” when he came past—I opened up a tab at the bar and ordered myself a drink.

As the bartender was handing me my gin & tonic, Wildcard swept by on one of his laps, and started randomly dancing in front of some girls who were walking past. Their lack of amusement was evident, especially to the bartender and me. I looked back at him, and could see in his eyes that he was calculating how much drunker he was going to allow my friend to be before he called over the bouncers. “You know what,” I said, rethinking the likelihood that I’d be in the club all the way to closing time, “I’m going to close that tab after all.” He agreed that it was likely a wise move, and brought me my receipt.

Amazingly, though, Wildcard managed to keep himself from catching the proverbial hook for the rest of the night (though he did catch a literal one when, spotting him making a beeline towards the bride on yet another pass, I reached out and yanked him over to the bar with the rest of us; he looked at me momentarily bewildered, and then ran off in another direction, grinning sloppily yet again). As the lights came up we were still chatting up the First Wives Club, I having found the taller of the two MILFs to be more my speed. I shared some of my tales of woe from my embattled relationship with The Ex, and she listened with a mixture of pity and astonishment. She showed no signs of wanting to stray from her husband, though—such a waste. She and her friend also gave me a quick heads-up when Divorcee was out of earshot: her soon-to-be ex-husband is a powerful man in the area—powerful enough for me to have heard of him—with serious mob connections. When I found a moment alone with Dupa, who was still entertaining thoughts of ringing her back into the world of singlehood, I quickly passed along this information. “So what you’re saying is ‘Don’t get myself killed’? Gotcha.”

As we departed from the bar and our new cougar friends at close, Tall MILF and the non-MILF gave me words of encouragement, telling me how I deserve a great girlfriend [Note: this is what my life has become; instead of taking women home, I get pep talks from them about how I deserve some OTHER great woman…*sigh* fml].

It being after 2 a.m. on a Saturday night, it was time for that great game played around the city of Pittsburgh each weekend: Can You Catch That Cab? TK, Dupa, and I spread out at Station Square’s main entrance, trying to optimize our chances of hailing a cab. After 5 minutes, though, I had already started having flashbacks to the end of my Saturday night in DC a few weeks prior. Frustration had begun to set in for TK as well, as he laughingly commented, “I need help!”

Enter “Blankman”. A random guy standing near us grabbed TK’s arm, and started pulling him towards the Sheraton. As I watched with a look of confusion matched only by the one on TK’s face, Blankman announced to some friends of his, “Hey, this guy said he needs help!” Dupa and I ran over to reclaim our boy, explaining to Blankman’s friends that we were just trying to find a cab. As we walked off to another spot to continue our taxi hunt, Blankman began following us all the more urgently, insisting that TK—who was now cowering behind us, afraid of his would-be hero—was in trouble. The other guys finally stopped Blankman and dissuaded him from his caped crusader ways as they dragged him back towards the hotel.

TK: “What’s going on?”
Me: *arm up, focusing on approaching cab* “He thinks we’re trying to rape you.”

Dupa spotted a jitney cab driver, and negotiated for him to take us back to the apartment. We were barely out of Station Square when we amended the terms to include a stop at McDonalds along the way. The next morning I awoke on the couch, staring at the scene in this picture (above right), which I took in an attempt to wrap my aching head around the total WTFness of the prior 12 hours. [Note: I just now noticed the question "What's the secret?" written on the side of the bag, which is just so perfectly appropriate.]

It’s been over a month now, and I still can’t quite figure it all out. Tequila, dominos, a Stuntman, a drunk leprechaun, a wedding party, a confrontation, MILFs, the mafia, TK being “rescued”, and stopping at Mickey D’s at 2:30 a.m. in the back of a jitney.

*sigh*

And this…is what we do.

The Night That Never Happened

Ever have one of those nights? Or do you think you may have had one of those nights, but can’t remember a thing?

In 2002, I had a lot of those nights. I had graduated from college the previous year, but still hadn’t found a “real” job yet. To get by, I worked temp stints for the shipping and receiving department of a local university. And in between those stints, when I wasn’t hopelessly seeking full-time employment, I was drinking my face off at bars with my friends. It didn’t help, either, that some of my friends were themselves bartenders. Most were only working bartending jobs for the time being, though. Some of them were just like me, waiting for real life to start; others were doing it to pay for college and a brighter future. Either way, they kept me sloshed, and I loved them for it.

One such enabler friend was Steph. Beautiful, funny, and ruthlessly energetic, we always knew that if she was at the bar/party/concert/etc., then we were going to have a damn good time—regardless of whether she was behind the bar or in front of it. And so, when Steph informed us one Monday in the spring of ’02 that she would be guest-bartending at Tequila Willies that night, there was little debate as to whether or not those of us not saddled with a j-o-b on Tuesday morning would be in attendance. You know, to offer moral support to our friend, not to get drunk and obnoxious. Who, us? Naaaahhhhh...

Breitling, Butters, “Swing Low”, and I arrived around 9, ready to get crazy. Tequila Willies, however, wasn’t quite as ready. As we walked through the doors, we quickly calculated that our group of four represented approximately one tenth of the establishment’s clientele for the night. Normally that might be cause for making a change of venue; but, with Steph pouring us liberal servings of booze, we decided to tough it out. You know, for her sake. Yep. *cough*

Butters was newly separated from his first wife, and eager to find any feminine comfort he could (what better place than a nightclub on a Monday night, right?). Breitling was DD, and therefore kept his imbibing to a respectful minimum. As for me, I wasn’t necessarily minimizing my intake, but I didn’t have the pedal to the floor, either. This was because I understood the circumstances in which we found ourselves: Swing Low’s drinking sometimes kicked into a special gear, wherein the police and/or knuckles could be involved. As so, the more aware I was of what was going on around us, the better. And it didn’t take long for this strategy to prove sensible.

Halfway through the night, Swing found himself in a heated confrontation with another bar-going gent. I was a few feet away talking to someone at the time, and missed what had sparked all of the animosity. When the raised voices and commotion caught my attention, a guy of hardened facial features was face-to-face with Swing, with his friends assembling behind him. As the two of them jawed back and forth, I took off my watch and my chain and put them in my pocket, thinking, “Here we go.” But Swing wasn’t quite “Swing Drunk” yet, and therefore still had his charm about him.

Swing: “What’re you gonna do?”
Guy: “Motherfucker, I don’t play that shit—I’m from Clairton! I’ll—”
Swing: *interrupting* “Wait, you’re from Clairton?”
Guy: “Hell yeah!”
Swing: “You know Jaron [M.]?”
Guy: “Yeah, he’s a friend of mine.”
Swing: “That’s my boy!”

A few minutes later, Swing’s adversary was buying us shots. I kid you not.

This man-of-the-people version of Swing wouldn’t last forever, unfortunately. As we neared closing time, I found myself standing alone while watching Butters’, completely riveted by his actions. He had found a girl, and was now behind her, enthusiastically grinding on her booty. Not that this girl was, how you say, chaste. In fact, she was a certified dirt bag. The whole scene was hilarious. But something I spotted off in the distance quickly distracted me—Swing was surrounded by a posse of bouncers.

*sigh*

I walked over to find out what the problem was. Swing, standing in the raised section of the club, had leaned over the railing and poured beer onto some of the people below on the dance floor. “Well, shit…” Typically, I will argue my friends’ case for staying in the bar until I’m blue in the face. But there really wasn’t much defending this one. I could say he did it by accident, but Swing’s childlike giggling clued me in that it was anything but accidental. The boys in dress pants and tight black shirts were determined to remove Swing from the premises, and all we could do was acquiesce. Breitling went off to the parking lot to get his truck; I called Butters over and told him what the situation was. Now you, like I in that moment, might expect him to have abandoned his chase of the aforementioned skank and come to his friend’s aid. But, drunk and newly single, Butters chose instead to return to said skank and petition her for her phone number—ignoring the fact that she was now being grinded on by some other guy dancing behind her. Telling him to “hurry the fuck up,” I returned to Swing, as he was being escorted out.

One bouncer in particular, who was a 5’8” douche bag, had run his mouth and gotten Swing charged up. My boy unleashed a “fuck your mother!” The next thing I knew, fists were flying. D-bag Bouncer launched a right into Swing’s jaw while he was still being restrained by other bouncers; I lunged at D-bag Bouncer, but quickly crashed down onto the Boardwalk steps, under the weight of two other bouncers. Seeing the melee move out into the parking lot, I threw an elbow into one of the bouncers on top of me, and struggled my way free. When I got to Swing, some of the bouncers had pulled him away from the fray, while another one held back D-bag. Breitling had arrived, and together we gathered Swing into the back of his Escalade, as Butters came running out to the parking lot. Hopping into the back next to Swing, Butters showed us the new number in his phone and asked, “So what happened?”

Breitling dropped the rest of us off at Butters’ house in Beechview, where Swing Low lived at the time. Before he made it inside, however, Swing decided that he wanted to drunk dial his girlfriend. He was, however, rather sleepy. The happy compromise, therefore, was for him to lie on the sidewalk in front of Butters’ house as he talked. And of course he did this directly next to a drainage grate. And of course, as he wrapped up his conversation, he closed his phone and dropped it right down the grate. Unconcerned, he climbed to his feet and stumbled off into the house and up the stairs to his bed. Butters and I then set about trying to get the phone out of the grate, which he finally accomplished (rather impressively) after fashioning a hook out of a wire clothes hanger. The phone, however, had landed in a puddle, and was ruined.

The next morning I awoke on the living room couch. When I passed his bedroom on the way to the bathroom, I found Swing lying in his bed awake.

Me: “Good morning, asshole.”
Swing: “Hey. *feeling his face* Why does my jaw hurt?”

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?

"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?