Party Hard

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yo, Ho ... Ho! Get Me A Bottle Of Rum"

There are times when a man is challenged by something that overwhelms his sense of self, when his finite perspective cannot grasp the enormity of the task before him. And yet, despite this alienating sense of disproportion, the man who is brave will step up and courageously accept this challenge and devote all his will, all his energy - indeed, all his being - to conquering it.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Gasparilla.

I never heard of it til I got to Tampa. It's basically a pirate-themed Mardi Gras. The legend, in short, is that a pirate named Jose Gaspar once sailed into Tampa Bay and laid siege to the city, despite the efforts of local sailors to feebly attack his ship.

So every year, this invasion is commemorated by a reenactment, where an actual goddamn pirate ship sails into Tampa Bay, surrounded by a fleet of local boaters.

The crew of the ship, who are dressed in detail like pirates, down to makeup, then "storm" the docks and demand the key to the city from the mayor, who hands it over. Then they launch a parade through the city.

OK, now that the official explanation is done, let me explain what Gasparilla REALLY is.


It's beads, beeyotches and booze, folks. It's keg stands, Ketel One and krewes. It's sun, sluts and sex. More than 400,000 people are expected to be at the shindig. And that's just the MORNING parade. Yes, this party has gotten so out of hand over the years that they now hold a Kids' Gasparilla Parade the week before, so that no one feels obligated to bring them to this thing, which is definitely PG-13.

And in the afternoon, when it's over, we get crackin' with the Night Parade, which goes through Ybor City (picture a Latin version of Bourbon Street; it's the city's nightlife district, where it's just as likely you'll end up in a threesome with a pair of Cubanas as getting stabbed on a side street by a 12-year-old). That has been described to me as "the X-rated part of the celebration." When the booze really starts flowin', the beads start goin' and the boobs start showin'.

Needless to say, I'm diving right in. I have an invite to a friend's 10 a.m. party a couple blocks off the parade route. After that, who the hell knows. I'll be in text contact with all my peoples, so God help me if I lose my phone. I'll try to bring back what stories I can, but I make no promises, people.

After all, I'm walking the plank.