We Do This Shit Errday

When it comes to unloading kegs, the folks in Ireland have this shit down to a science.

A New Day

For the first time in seven years, I’m having a few drinks on New Year’s Day. That may be a good thing, or it may be a bad thing. Right now I’m just going to go with “good thing”.

I certainly didn’t slack off last night. For those people who pursue kids and homeownership as a means to giving their lives purpose, Christmas is probably the main event of the holiday season. It certainly was when I was a kid. New Year’s Eve was just the closing bell of the weeklong vacation from school.

Then, when I got a little older, I realized that I didn’t really care about getting gifts. And I discovered NYE parties.

I’ve been a part of some legendary NYE parties. Some highlights:

• One year BBB’s aunt and uncle let him and his cousins throw a party at their Seven Springs condo. Having packed 20+ people and three kegs into the lavish condo on a snowy December 31st, we welcomed 2002 by me blindly walking a few miles through the wilderness to get back to the cabin after a latenight voyage to another party, and several people in our crew watching two party guests have sex on a hallway floor when they thought everyone was asleep.

• A few years later we managed to put together another Seven Springs NYE, though not at a swanky condo. T.C. found a big cabin available for rent, and on the first night I counted 30+ people in attendance. We ran simultaneous games of beer pong and flip cup (on the same table), deep fried turkeys, and chilled in the hot tub. At the end of the night BBB unwittingly cockblocked me in said hot tub; then his little brother, Affliction, wittingly cockblocked me with the same girl inside, as she and I tried to get things going on an air mattress in the living room, when we thought everyone was asleep.
• The following year our friend Cara hosted a party at her apartment in Squirrel Hill. I know there were games of flip cup. I also know that I made out with an Asian girl whose name I never caught. I threw up in the bathroom and passed out not long after midnight. K-Man made out with the same Asian girl, then threw up outside in the bushes. I woke up the next morning while trying to fit all 6’6” of myself onto an ottoman. Cara said that at one point late in the night, all seven of the guests still at the party were either throwing up or passed out.
• Some NYE exploits have already been published, so I’ll just give you a link and spare the recap.

To ring in 2013, Jay Swag decided to throw a blowout at his and Mitch Canada’s home. I braved Mt. Washington streets in a snowstorm with rear wheel drive; when I had arrived and parked safely, I took it as a sign from above that I was supposed to get ridiculously shitfaced that night. I found Swag, Canada, TD, Boy Toy, Belle (who was hammered off her first three beers, after a week of inactivity due to illness), and others inside, racing towards that very same end. We were eventually joined by TJ, Finger Bang, Tony, Shannon, and many more of our fellow lushes—quite the assembly of masters of the alcoholic arts.

I started the night drinking Sam Adams Cream Stout and Sam Adams White Christmas. Once those were polished off, I moved on to cups of Miller Lite from the keg as TD and I repeatedly got mopped off the beer pong table. Throughout the night shots of Crown Royal Maple were passed around. At midnight I popped a bottle of Taittinger brut, and by 12:20 it was gone. I’m not quite sure what I drank the rest of the night, but the Belle & TD dance party that I found immortalized in photo and video on my phone suggests there was no stoppage to anyone’s consumption. I awoke on a couch this morning with a blanket over only half of me, and Tony snoring from a nearby recliner.

Before heading home, I helped Shannon with a family tradition. I stopped by her apartment, and in doing so ensured that she had a dark-haired man walk through her door on New Year’s Day; she then gave me a shot of whiskey and a dollar. God bless those crazy Irish.

2013 is looking like it’ll be a strange, wild ride. Salud.

Dark Country

The muffled bars of Childish Gambino’s “Lights Turned On” broke me from the blackness of unfiltered sleep, and into the bright, balmy late-morning air that filled my bedroom last Saturday.

“Swag…
2:30 and we still makin’ progress,
Talkin’ on Twitter to see where to go next…”

My phone vibrated near my outstretched right hand. I picked it up and forced my eyes to focus on the screen. I didn’t recognize the number, so I hit ignore. I glanced over at the clock. 11:02 a.m. My phone buzzed with a new message; it was a text from the same number that had just called. “Hey are you down here for the tailgate?”

“Wait…” I said, picking my head up off the pillow. “I’m supposed to be at a country music tailgate right now…”

A little over a week before that, my friend Bill was once again attempting to persuade me to come to the tailgate party he and his boys throw each year for the Kenny Chesney concert. The show is a huge event in Pittsburgh every summer, and it brings in country music fans from as far away as western New York and Michigan. Bill, Steph, and others had petitioned me for years to come to the party. I flatly refused each and every time, usually countering by naming another activity I’d rather do than sit through a country music concert. Like…solder my tongue to a bus.

As we sat in Bossa Nova at a friend’s birthday party [Note: Their caipirinhas are still magical.] that Friday night, Bill finally won me over with a simple clarification. When I reminded him that I love nothing less than country music, he laughed it off. “I hate it too! I don’t actually go into the concert; I just go to McFadden’s once everyone else goes to the show.” Now he had my ear. And so, when he then reminded me—for the 5,309th time—that the tailgate is always packed with scantily-clad tail, I finally saw the wisdom in exploring this local tradition. You know, for the blog. Yup. *sips drink*

As the week had went on, Dupa and Jay Swag were convinced to join me. Armo decided to have a pool party that same Saturday, and the forecast of temps in the mid-90s indicated that making our way to his place to end the day would be in our best interest. I made preliminary plans to meet up with Dupa and Swag on Mt. Washington around 11 a.m…

…Well, that part was going to have to be amended. I climbed out of bed, exchanging texts with each of them as I looked for my phone charger. My Droid's battery was at less than 20%; which, for a smartphone, means it was running on fumes. When my charger wasn’t in its usual place, I remembered having put it in the gym bag I’d taken with me the night before—I had gone to Dupa’s to pregame by his pool before catching “Ted” on its opening night [absolutely hilarious film, by the way]. And my bag, more than likely, was still in the trunk of my car. I grabbed my keys and stumbled out to my garage, hitting the trunk button along the way. When I didn’t hear the normal sound of the trunk unlocking, I looked up: My garage was empty. What…the…fuuuuuuccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkk?…

11:21 a.m. text to Swag and Dupa: “Ok, got a whole new problem. My car is missing.”

Part of me felt I should call the police. Another, much more logical part of me felt that my propensity for drunken foolishness may be a more likely culprit than a thief. I threw on a shirt and some sneakers, grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, and trudged up the sidewalk. I could only guess that maybe I had, for whatever reason, parked on the street instead the night before. Then, about halfway up my block, a memory jolted awake inside of me: On my way home from Dupa’s place, I had met up with Pakistanimal at Shady Grove. And I had parked near the bar. It seemed probable, then, that I had never moved my car from that spot. The fact that I had no clue if I had, indeed, left my car at the bar—and barely remembered being at the bar at all—made me all the more thankful that this scenario was the most likely one. I found my Bavarian chariot exactly where I had parked it the night before, now with a fresh parking ticket tucked under one of the wipers.

By 1:10 p.m. I was at the Wendy’s drive-thru, picking up some spicy chicken fortitude and receiving confirmation from Dupa that my sunglasses weren’t at his place, which meant I had, indeed, lost them the night before. The very same sunglasses that I’d bought less than two weeks before, to replace the pair I’d ruined at the Furry Safari. Which were purchased in March to replace a pair Dupa stole from me the day after the Super Bowl…

There’s a reason I buy my shades at Target.

I met up with Dupa at his place, parked my car in his apartment building’s garage for safekeeping (I wasn’t going to risk losing it again), and rode with him to Swag’s house. Once Swag had made some quick modifications to his facial hair (see right) and we’d done a shot of Dr. McGillicuddy’s Mentholmint, the three of us set off for the nearby T station. Dupa had brought half a case of Miller Lite with him, but by the time we were boarding the train there were only three cans left. And since Swag is continuing to obey the open container laws while on probation, that damage was done entirely by Dupa and me.

Once we reached the North Shore’s parking lots, where container laws don’t apply, Swag joined us in killing the remaining beers. We waded through thick 95 degree air and thicker swarms of people, many in cowboy hats and little other clothing. The attire for this tailgate has always been described to me as “slutty casual”, and those reports came in years where Pittsburgh wasn’t suffering through a record heat wave. With the sun burning away any fucks that people might otherwise have given, nary a Chesney fan in this land—male or female—hid behind stitched modesty. While surveying this landscape, we walked right into Bill’s party, completely by accident. Even the drunken squirrel finds a nut. They had cornered a large section of Gold Lot 2; here we found music pumping (mostly hip-hop, I believe), kegs tapped, a buffet of food set up, and red plastic cups a-tippin’.

We stopped only briefly, as we each needed to hit an ATM, and had other people we wanted to catch up with first. We walked along the river, taking in the sight of hundreds of boats docked with people partying and dancing everywhere, many of those people being young, tanned women in bikinis. I mentioned I was doing all of this strictly for the blog, right?

Swag broke off to catch up with Belle and her posse, while Dupa and I found Shannon and her girls crowded under a 5’-by-5’ blue canvas tent, tucked in amongst a hundred others like it, a broad ocean of asphalt, sweat, and beer away from Gold Lot 2. They fed us cans of Labatt Blue while we hung out, and we appreciated the cold sustenance and familiar faces.

Occasionally I looked around to find an inquisitive eye staring at me from a pickup truck or tent in the wilds beyond Shannon’s plot of land. Let’s face it, a Kenny Chesney concert tailgate isn’t the well-trodden domain of my people; when I did happen upon a fellow person “of color”, we gave each other knowing nods, as if to say, “The world done changed, homie.” Yet, what struck me more than how many people stared at me, was how many people didn’t stare at me. The overwhelming majority of revelers seemed indifferent to the fact that a 6’6” half-Black man was walking amongst them at a country music concert. The world done changed, homie.

Dupa and I journeyed off to Bill’s party once more. Upon arriving we found Swag, Belle, and the other gals, including Stacks and “AIDS”. [Note: This nickname is real, though it is hardly based in reality. The story, in a nutshell: Upon meeting this cute blonde friend of Belle’s for the first time some years ago, Swag thought it would be charming and/or clever to tell her that she looked like she had AIDS. Needless to say, it didn’t win her heart.] While her girls wore shorts and little t-shirts, AIDS went all-in with a little pink cowgirl hat, a tiny blue bikini, and cowgirl boots. “I told you,” she reminded us, “I don’t really like wearing clothes.”

By around 6 p.m. Dupa, Swag, and I were ready to switch things up, since everyone else (save for Bill and a few of his boys) was heading into the concert. The three of us flagged down a cab, and headed for Diamond Market Bar & Grill in Market Square. I know I ate while we were there, but all I really remember consuming was Moscow Mules. Swag disappeared mid-meal, and was gone a long while. Just when we had begun formulating plans for moving on without him (and eventually exacting revenge upon him for ditching us), he reappeared with a look of pure glee on his face. He had gone outside to smoke a cigarette; while out there, he ran into the ex-WWF wrestler Virgil. Twenty minutes of conversation and an autograph later, Swag was like a kid that had just met Mickey Mouse. He was so giddy, in fact, that he volunteered to pay the bill. All plans for revenge were scrapped.

We caught another cab; Swag, being averse to all things swimming pool, had us drop him off at his second home, Rumshakers. Dupa and I continued to his car on Mt. Washington, and then found our way to Armo’s. My Polish homie was soon snoring from an inflatable raft as the breeze gently pushed it to every corner of the pool. I occupied the rest of my night swimming, eating burgers from the grill, and kicking it with TJ and other party guests. I awoke the next morning to Armo poking my arm, for no other reason than his sheer desire to not be the only one awake. For a solid five minutes I puzzled my mind around how I had even gotten there. A short time later, as Armo drank a Bloody Mary to kick off his Sunday Funday and Dupa moaned like an orgasm-faking porn star from the kitchen for no reason whatsoever, a thought popped into my mind.

“Wait...I was at a country music tailgate yesterday…”

Organized Chaos

I have a lot of friends. And not just in the Facebook sense of “I once shared an elevator with this person, found out that we both play Farmville, and now we’re ‘friends’-slash-‘neighbors’.” No, I actually know a lot of people. And a lot of the people I know also know a lot of people. This means that I meet a lot of the people that they know. And that means I end up knowing a lot more people.

And with all of that, you would think I’d have a much more exciting dating life. But that’s neither here nor…anywhere, frankly.

I say none of this to brag, of course (especially not that last part). Instead, I bring it up as evidence that I’ve been exposed to many types of people. And I think most can be narrowed down into one of two styles of friendship:

1. There are those who refuse to leave a man behind. If they walked into the club with six other people, you better damn well believe they’re leaving with those same six (or they will at least have a reasonable amount of confidence that any buddy left to go his own way is going to end up someplace safe and/or advantageous…and/or disease-free). 
2. On the other side of the coin you have those guys who don’t really give a fizzle where or how anyone gets anywhere at the end of the night. This doesn’t mean that they’re less of friends; if they feel you’re in any real danger, then they’re in the saddle, guns blazing. But short of seeing you blacked out and walking down the middle of a busy freeway, they’re going to leave you to your survival instincts after a long night of boozing—typically because they, themselves, are relying on their own survival instincts.

I’m tempted to say that there’s a third group, one comprised of people who straddle the line dividing the first two. People who, on some days, will fight for the good of the team; and who, on other days, will do for self, and worry about sorting out the details of everyone else’s well-being in the morning. People like…me. But the more I think about it, the harder I find it to put myself anywhere but in that second category above. The truth of the matter is, 95% of the time I’ve got only my survival in mind. I love my real friends, and will fight for them against any adversary. But I’m also what they call a “grown ass man”; all things being equal, if I associate with you on a friendship level, then I expect you to handle yourself as competently as I do. If you’re in true peril I’ll assist; but if you’re just acting a fool, I’ll catch you on the next one.

If you’re wondering where all of this is coming from, let me get to the point: Tank’s bachelor party took place last month.

Ahhhh…all starting to make sense now, isn’t it?

Ladies, you may not quite be up to speed, but I know that the fellas reading this are already with me. [Feel free to skip ahead a couple of paragraphs to get to the action, guys; I’m going to take a moment to assist the women.] I think most of the fairer sex is somewhat misinformed as to what goes on when guys get together for bachelor parties. In telling the tale of GG’s stag party last year, I explained how the party’s traditional involvement with exotic dancers isn’t quite as scandalous as you might have pictured. But with or without ladies of the pole-spinning arts, there’s a fundamental rule about bachelor parties that guys tend to accept as unspoken law: Coordination is a fool’s errand.

Sure, you can expertly lay out plans for the night’s start; but the levels of booze and testosterone are each steadily building in everyone’s bloodstreams throughout the event. Each is strong enough on its own; when mixed together, you have an incredibly powerful hallucinogenic. 15+ deranged guys are not going to stick to an itinerary. No, they’re like a rack of billiard balls. And anything—be it woman, whim, or other distraction—can come rocketing in like a cue ball at any moment.

Tank’s little brother, BAL, was in charge of putting the party together. Around 20 or so of us gathered at Tank’s house in Dormont that afternoon for beer, food, and college football. Tank’s kitchen and dining room were overrun by snacks and hors d'oeuvres, as well as burgers and hot dogs fresh off the grill; his game room was equipped with two large flatscreen TVs and fine Cuban cigars; his laundry room was converted into a beer pong arena and stocked with Irish Car Bomb ingredients; and his patio, where the kegs were located, became a beer garden/smoker’s shelter. A table for beer pong—complete with pong balls, cups, and pitchers—had also been set up on the patio; but with temperatures in the upper 40s, it remained dormant. The man of honor drank from his very own black chalice with the word “PIMP” spelled out in glittering (albeit fake) diamonds. A DD limo would be coming after 8 pm to take people to Station Square. With that, a loose framework was created for the day’s shenanigans.

Breitling arrived in a new, all-black International MXT. As he parked on the street in front of Tank’s house, he blew the horn; the blast that resulted boomed through the quiet neighborhood and rattled windows up and down the street. An elderly woman came out of her house yelling “fucking asshole!”, and was intercepted by Chief.

Chief: “I’m sorry about that, ma’am! He was just having a little fun.”
Woman: “Well tell him he’s an asshole! What is that thing?”
Chief: “I think it’s a train!”

While every guy in my alcoholic family adds a distinctive and pleasing flavor to a gathering, it’s my W&J brothers that always deliver the best return on my drinking investment. This is true down to the smallest of interactions. For instance: As I stood on the patio with Chief and Finn trading all of the familiar insults, degradations, and aspersions that are by now customary and as warm as a brotherly embrace, a pause eventually came to our banter. Chief, never to leave a moment free of mischief, reached over and picked up a pong ball from the table. He then sized up Finn’s cup—sitting on the table less than two feet away—and fired a shot directly into it with a playful chuckle. Finn, unfazed, picked the ball out of his beer, shook it off, and began taking the measure on the cup in Chief’s hand, again less than two feet away. Cocking back his hand, he snapped off a shot with everything he could muster—directly at Chief’s forehead.

That was likely the last time that day that a pong ball was thrown in jest, though. The games inside quickly took on more and more importance, as the competitiveness in the air was ratcheted up by the sudden (but not unexpected) introduction of cash to the table. Ten, twenty, fifty, and even one hundred dollar bills were soon being tossed on the table by gladiators and spectators alike (which for me quickly brought to mind my experience at the W&J frat party several years ago). Being low on funds, I only made one bet, putting $20 on Esq and Baby Joey to beat Chief and our buddy, “Sloku” [for those of you curious about the genesis of that alias: his spiked hair reminds me of the DragonBall Z character, Goku—he even dressed as him one Halloween—and he speaks with a slow, deliberate tone]. When I lost that to Butters, I thought better of risking anything further. At its peak, the day’s wagering featured a battle in which each of the four men on the table put up $100 of his own money—small change for a Vegas craps table, but nearly unheard of in middle class Pittsburgh beer pong. Baby Joey has long maintained a much more modest income than his older brother Esq, a young hotshot lawyer. But having recently found a lucrative new career path, Joey was unexpectedly covering his sibling with the laundry room’s impromptu beer sportsbook. “I’m into Joey for $150,” Esq said incredulously. “The world’s coming to an end.”

Though two limos were supposed to move the party to Station Square at 8, it was after 10 by the time we were ready to be moved. I had intended to only attend the first half of the day’s events, and to therefore go easy on my bank account by skipping the club-hopping. By this point in the night, however, Chief and others were well lubricated by the high of beer pong glories and the…beer…of beer pong defeats (not to mention by a few rounds of Irish Car Bombs done in toast to the groom-to-be), and I was told that I would be insulting them by not staying out at their cost.

So my choices are (1.) go home and fall asleep on my couch watching Chappelle Show reruns, or (2.) smoke cigars in a limo ride to Station Square and party with my boys…for free? Well, I guess I could stay out a little longer—for Tank’s sake.

We hit Steel House a mangled, slow-moving, low-laying cloud of 15 or so drunks, speaking loudly in coarse terms, ordering rounds of shots and apologizing to anyone nearby who wasn’t as inebriated as us—which was everyone. I’m quite certain that by this point I was no longer standing and/or walking, but instead floating; I was being carried along by my own piece of the cloud, a cushy haze that enveloped my comprehension and speech patterns. Soon we had spread into Barroom, onto the dance floor and throughout the surrounding lounge areas. Then there were kielbasa sandwiches from the vendor on Barroom’s deck, and then…well, somehow I was walking through the front doors of Rivers Casino with Butters, our friend Dirty, and Joey.

I really don’t remember how we got there, though I think it was via limo. We found Breitling and another guy from the party at a Pai Gow table. After some further searching we found Esq alone at a blackjack table. And after talking to other various party refugees found strewn around the casino floor, we learned that Tank and BAL were in the poker room. Chief was first said to be somewhere at a craps table, but subsequent reports placed him heading for the doors and—hopefully—a cab to Tank’s house.

Rivers being a PA casino, last call for alcohol comes around 1:30 am. Great; dry and broke in a casino. Now that’s living. The next few hours were spent touring the floor with Butters and Joey, watching our scattered crew play their chosen games of chance.

• Blackjack: Esq was losing badly, but stubbornly kept throwing more money on the table, against our advice. 
• Pai Gow: Breitling spoke in loud, obnoxious streams of profanity and bravado (standard) as he built up a $5000 stack of chips in front of him. While walking past this vivid display of the rich getting richer, Butters paused, looked at me, and said, “I hate him.”
• Poker: On our second stop to the poker room, we found a Tank-less BAL. The groom-to-be had, it was theorized, headed home. The younger of the two brothers was committed to staying on the table for the long haul, having just invested another $200 buy-in. The early end to drink service didn’t seem to have hindered his inebriation much, as he looked as though he could pass out in his chair at any moment. Sometimes you simply leave a man to die the death that his dignity desires.

We found Dirty and, all four of us being sober and exhausted, grabbed a cab back to Tank’s house at 4:30 am. His drained fiancée, Katie (a saint of a woman, really), opened the door for us. She assured us that Tank had, indeed, found his way home, and was sleeping it off in their bedroom.

Just like we’d planned.

Making Memorial Day Memories

Ahh, Memorial Day. Does anyone besides me find it at least mildly ironic that, as a result of celebrating a holiday dedicated to remembrance, people usually can’t remember a damn thing the next day?

Last year TD and Baby Joey hosted a Memorial Day shindig at their house for the first time. We were only about halfway through the day (and three quarters of the way through the kegs) when it was decided that the party should be a yearly event. And so, this past Sunday saw their 2nd annual drunken tribute to summertime’s unofficial start.

This was Girlfriend’s first time partying at TD & Joey’s. How well does she fit in with my friends? The first keg wasn’t even on ice yet when she asked me to pour her a cup of beer. That’s my baby. And although storm clouds and heavy rains had rolled in about mid-afternoon, the sun miraculously came out from behind the clouds the very instant that we got the keg on ice. “It was a sign from above,” Joey said later.

People and food steadily streamed into the house. TJ made an appearance, but had to work that night and thus left after a couple of hours. I think he has been frequently repeating the phrase “fuck my life” since the moment he got into his car to leave. He left even before Dupa—slowed by the South Side debauchery he had engaged in the previous night—was drug through the door by the proverbial cat. The end of Dupa's Saturday seemed to perfectly summarize his state on Sunday: Late in the alcohol-soaked night he had a moment of spontaneous clarity, and found himself freaking a 52 year old cougar on the dance floor. Along with him were his friend “Mitch Canada”, and two more cougars. He looked around at the scene, said “peace” to his boy, and walked straight out of the bar.

When Esq appeared at the party, he was rocking a pink polo shirt. In this day and age of fashion-forward thinking, that act alone doesn’t merit much hazing from your peers; but wearing an ensemble that matches your girlfriend’s does. And therefore when Shock B. walked in behind him, dressed in a flawlessly-matched pink shirt, cackles were heard from every corner. Hollywood, in tribute, ran out to his car to change into a golf shirt that nearly matched 1L’s top.

Dupa made a mistake of another nature: he crossed Girlfriend’s path while holding a hamburger that was smothered in mustard and ketchup. My lady had developed quite a buzz by this point in the night, and she stopped him long enough to hungrily take two bites out of the burger. She then wiped her hands—mustard doused, as they were—with his blue Tommy Hilfiger polo shirt. When Dupa brought it to her attention that she had left two giant yellow stains on his shirt, Girlfriend said, “Deal with it!” and ran off mischievously. Joey offered to loan a top to him, and took him to his closet. When they found a pink polo identical to the one Esq was wearing, Dupa began shaking with joy. He put it on, and ran out into the living room to stand beside Esq, who was only mildly amused.

Tony and I spotted a large table out in the yard that had been left vacant; we quickly picked it up and carried it over to the porch, nearly shoving fellow partygoers out of the way as we declared a start to the night’s beer pong matches. Soon ping pong balls were flying through the night air, and I was chugging down beer four times faster. I really need to shake some rust off of my pong game.

Dupa and I were one of the first teams on the table; but, by the time we’d lost that first game, the signup sheet was ten teams deep. Relegated to the spectators’ gallery for the time being, I checked in with Girlfriend, TD, and others in the dining room. Girlfriend was getting along splendidly with TD’s friends, particularly 1L and “2Ls”. When a song came on over the stereo and struck TD’s boogie nerve, she began giving an impromptu lap dance to 2Ls, who was seated to my right at the table. Girlfriend, who had been sitting in my lap, sprung up and began freaking 1L against the opposite wall in response. And me? I grinned like the Cheshire Cat…and snapped a few action shots. When the dance-off subsided, 1L walked away. But Girlfriend responded by grabbing Shock, throwing her into a chair, and climbing on top of her for a lap dance (more grinning; more camera flashes). I turned back towards Esq, who was in the living room, and called his attention to our better halves. With a smile, he gave a slight shake of his head and said, “Ain’t nothin wrong with that!”

Though action like this is typically right up Hollywood’s alley, he was suspiciously absent. A short while later I walked out into the backyard to check on the beer pong action. I found him seated in a folding chair near the keg, eating from a bowl of fruit—fruit which had all been marinating in vodka for the previous day or two. The party’s music was coming from a “docked” iPod that was located near Hollywood’s seat. When Shock walked over to change the song, she bent over directly in front of him. We looked up to see a giant, sloppy grin on his face, which was less than a foot way from Shock’s booty. He almost seemed to be leaning his head towards it, as though he was going to put his ear against the seat of her short-shorts. “[Hollywood], it’s not a seashell,” I reminded. “You can’t hear the ocean.”

As the night moved on, the party’s numbers began to dwindle. Hollywood, who had hidden his keys in the house earlier in the night to prevent himself from driving home drunk, managed to find them and disappear. Tony announced “I’m out,” and said goodbye to everyone before heading into the house. Someone asked, “Is he leaving?” “No,” I replied, “He came over with me. He’s just going to sleep.” Sure enough, we saw him find his way over to a living room couch, plopping down and tapping out.

The hardcore revelers remained well into the night, mostly parked in the backyard playing and watching the beer pong battles. Girlfriend got her first taste of the action, eagerly tossing shots at cups with a mixture of curiosity and earnest competitiveness. Our friend Tank was on hand, and he had brought something special with him (other than his fiancée, Katie). Tank had won the championship in a fantasy football league started by Chief and Tony last fall. The team he beat in the title game belonged to Esq, who was none-too-pleased to see Tank produce the trophy from his car. The cup looks like a 1:10 scale model of the Stanley Cup, complete with the winner’s name etched into the side. Tank handed it to Joey, who swiftly took it over to the keg and began filling it with beer. Esq cursed as the cup was passed around for people to take sips.

Girlfriend and I soon called “No mas” as well, crashing on a futon in the spare room. The last of us stayed up until well after 3 a.m., finishing off the third and final keg. The next morning Tony, Joey, and I all awoke well before either TD or Girlfriend, who had planned on cooking us breakfast (Girlfriend had even brought eggs, bacon, and other supplies with her the day before). Finally, around noon I called TD’s cell phone—from her living room. It rang three or four times before a hoarse, depleted voice responded, “Hehhlo?”

Me: “Hey there. There are three hungry guys out here, and we were wondering if you were getting up anytime soon.”
TD: *pause* “I feel like I’m gonna die.”