Kang like T.I.—But in the Chi? Daffy (Pt. 3)

[Continuing on from where we left Part 2...]

Saturday, March 1st
I awoke after 8:30 and rolled over to see TJ lying on the other half of the air mattress, looking through something on his phone. “They may call off the game, because of the [approaching] storm.” I responded with a barely intelligible “Oh yeah?” I’d almost drifted back to sleep when the meaning of what he’d said hit me. “WHAT?”

Since he was the first one up, TJ cleaned up and then headed out to Wrigleyville to catch up with Weatherman while the rest of us slowly pulled ourselves together. Fire, showing true Chirish hospitality, had coffee and doughnuts waiting for us. And though he didn’t have aspirin or Advil, he had vitamin packs that he said would help replenish our systems. I wasn’t going to question it. In the state I was in, he could’ve handed me a rolled up twenty and said the lines of white powder on a small mirror were a healthy aspirin alternative, and I would’ve accepted it without contest.

Before we left I added a can of Mountain Dew Kickstart and a shot of Milagro Tequila. Hashtag: “Chicago Breakfast.” Leggo!

We cabbed it to Goose Island Wrigleyville, where Tennessee and his girl were with some friends of theirs. A waitress showed us to a table upstairs, and before we had even sat down, TJ, Weatherman, and GG walked in. They hadn’t even known we were there; the synchronicity of booze-loving minds is amazing. Our party of 11 ordered up beers and food. When Swag suggested mimosas, Weatherman and I were game. When the waitress came back over to us, he and I each ordered one. Swag ordered two.

As we ate, drank, and loudly debated various ramblings, Alex texted some of us to tell us she and E-Bomb were on their way. Nearly an hour later, they still weren’t there. When I casually looked over my shoulder in the direction of the stairway to see if they’d arrived, I instead saw a familiar stocky blonde guy in a Penguins tee striding towards us. It was Dupa.

“WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU COME FROM?!”

…When I glanced around at the tables of bewildered diners staring at us, I abruptly remembered that being in public requires a tad more decorum.

My unfiltered reaction, though, was caused by the fact that our Polish homie had kept his planned attendance a secret from everyone but TJ. He’d played it up brilliantly the day before, repeatedly commenting on all of our Facebook check-ins, pictures, and statuses about the trip with the same one-word response: “Stupid.”

Alex and Ed finally caught up with us, and shared their tales of running around Boystown the night before. Among those accounts was one about Alex getting taken to the wrong hotel by her cab driver. I laughed heartily. (Remember that later…) Dupa worked on getting caught up, asking the waitress for a beer and a menu item named the “Black Earth Burger,” which he instead called a “[D.E.F.I.] Burger.” She gave him a blank stare, since she didn’t know my name, and the joke had sailed over her head. I laughed heartily some more. He also asked for poutine style fries; when we got our bill later, the final entry on our list of damages was, “POUTINE THE FRIES.” At that point, Chicago was starting to feel like my spirit animal.

We moved the party across the street to Sluggers. There we met a cute waitress with a spectacular bottom, Fire’s buddy German, and a phenomenon called Old Style. While the rest of us ordered up various drinks of credible pedigree (Vodka Red Bull for moi) and rounds of shots, Dupa ordered a pounder of the Chicago delight that was—and probably always is—on special just down the road from Wrigley Field. The look of anguish on his face as he tasted it was really brutal, as a friend. I almost didn’t laugh at him. …Heartily.

When Swag returned from the batting cages on the second floor (yes, really), we introduced him to a guy in the bar wearing a University of Miami hat. You see, Swag is an impassioned Florida State fan, who bristles at the mere mention of “The U.” So while this guy meant no harm and jokingly chided him about their differing collegiate affiliations, Swag was seething with rage over someone daring to wear Miami gear. You know...here in Chicago, the land of FSU. (Don’t try to find the logic. The rest of us gave up years ago.)

The NHL officially stated that the game would go on as planned, so those of us staying at Fire’s—including Dupa—cabbed it back to that location, so we could fortify ourselves for the weather we were going to endure in the stands. For me, that meant a thermal shirt, Pens t-shirt and tossle cap, gloves, and heavier socks being added to my standard attire. When someone asked Dupa, who had come from 70 degree temps in Houston, what he had brought in preparation, he said, “Ski tech.” I did not laugh heartily; I muttered jealously.

Fire poured us out shots (more Milagro for me), and the seven of us toasted to the night ahead.

The plan was to use the Hilton Chicago, where TJ and Fire’s boy Kerrigan had a room, as a base camp. It was within walking distance of Soldier Field, making it a perfect place to meet up before and after the game. Those of us who had clothing more comfortable to wear in a bar took our bags to the hotel, so we could change following the game. Everyone squared away their (physical) baggage in Kerrigan’s room, and we hit the hotel bar. …Well, most of us did. Dupa made a quick pit stop in a lobby bathroom to vomit. Old Style’d.

Count this as the first—and, in all likelihood, last—time I ever have to wait in line to get into a hotel bar. The place was packed to the limits of the fire code with Penguin and Blackhawk fans trying to numb themselves up before the Lake Michigan winds could. I downed a couple of Miller Lites in an effort to do the same, but it just wasn’t working. Try as I might, I just couldn’t fight off the effects of soberness. I even switched to a Jack & Coke. Nada. Damn it.

It wasn’t helping that we were standing right next to an emergency exit, which people were regularly using to give themselves a more direct route to the stadium. Each time they did, Chicago’s “Windy City” reputation reached into the bar and punched each of us in the balls. Swag was clearly getting fed up, and when a round middle-aged guy in a Hawks jersey headed for the doors, our buddy asked mockingly, “Where ya goin’?”

“Uhh…the museum,” was the smart ass response he got (and probably deserved), as the guy continued on his way outside and met up with a friend standing on the sidewalk. Unable to handle not getting the best of this stranger, Swag fired one last salvo; he cracked open the door, stuck his bald head out into the pounding winds, and yelled, “FUCK YOUR MUSEUM, BRO!”

TJ and a few others had waited until the last minute to throw on their heavier gear, so while they went upstairs to do that, Canada and I each downed a Jack & Coke at the bar. After the drink we wandered out into the lobby, waiting to meet up with everyone. It seems the hotel was hosting a formal event of some sort, as men in tuxes and women in expensive dresses sauntered past us and up to a ballroom. Maybe it’s a good thing I couldn’t get drunk. Otherwise I might’ve let them have it for thinkin’ they were better’n me.

By this point, the blizzard had moved into the area and had put down about a half foot of snow. Our black, gold, and red battalion marched dutifully toward Soldier Field, with Canada bringing up the rear in boots so worn that they had no tread. Not ideal for the conditions, to say the least.

Kerrigan, his wife, Cap, TJ, Dupa, Swag, Canada, and I were all seated together in the next-to-last row of the stadium. The wind was coming from left to right, pelting us with snow and dragging it across our face like icy razor blades. And we were loving it, thanks to our adrenaline—and the hand warmers that Cap passed out. I probably would’ve loved it even more if I had been drunk and not feeling as much of it as I was, of course. But the atmosphere in the stadium was electric, and unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. People weren’t just excited to see their teams play; they were excited about the game. The moment captivated all. Have you ever attained consciousness during a dream, where you understand that it’s just a dream, and felt the calming peace of knowing nothing can harm you, nothing can be taken from you? For at least a brief moment, 63,000 people dreamt that dream together.

After the first period, we had our first casualties. Dupa announced that he was soaked through, and had to leave. Apparently Mr. I-live-in-the-third-world-heat-of-Houston-now had decided against wearing the outer shell of his ski tech. Stupid.

Swag went with him, as they told us they’d wait for us at the Hilton bar. Canada and I got more beers. At the second intermission, more casualties. Tennessee and his girl abandoned their seats on the other side of the stadium, and Canada abandoned ours. I waited in line for 20 minutes to get into the men’s room, and then got more beer.

As the third period got underway, my lack of thermal underwear (not that I don’t own them, I just didn’t bring them; looking back I have no clue why) meant my thighs were frozen. As was my beer, which had turned into a Bud Light slushy. TJ asked if I wanted to bail, too. Hell no. I was the only one of my Pittsburgh brethren still standing. The Pens were being easily handled on the ice, and I knew I was going to have to hear about it for the rest of the weekend. I would’ve amputated my own frostbitten leg before I would’ve handed Blackhawks fans an opportunity to add material about Pittsburghers not being able to handle Chicago weather to their impending stand-up comedy set list.

With five minutes left, the stadium PA alerted all that the north gates—which we’d come through—would be closed after the final whistle while postgame fireworks were set off. That was all the nudge we needed, and the five of us remaining in our group jumped up and headed down the long staircase to the concourse.

Cap, somehow, assumed the role of our group’s navigator as we walked from the stadium. I didn’t realize it at first, but he had not been our navigator when we walked to the stadium. This would be a bit of a problem; we quickly found ourselves in a part of Grant Park that I hadn’t seen three hours earlier. As we began crossing a field with our sights trained on the distant lights of the Hilton’s block of Michigan Avenue, I suddenly felt my foot slip on a hard surface as I planted it in the snow. “Odd,” I thought. “Why would grass be icy?” After a few more steps, I distinctly heard the sound of ice cracking.

“Wait…what are we walking on?” I got no responses. “AYO! ARE WE WALKING OVER WATER RIGHT NOW?!”

TJ: “I mean…technically it’s not water right now…”

Apparently, these four white Chicagoans found my sudden murderous rage very comical. I failed to agree. (The next day, TJ would explain that we had merely been on a retention pond, and the water below us wasn’t more than four feet deep. But for all I knew that night, I was walking across Lake Michigan.)

Once back at the Hilton, we caught up with Weatherman, GG, and their boys in the lobby. The line to get into the hotel bar had doubled, as had Weatherman and GG’s level of intoxication. Once it thawed some I was able to turn on my phone, which had shut down in the cold of the stadium. Swag and Canada finally responded to our texts, informing us that they had gone back to Tennessee’s room at the Courtyard Marriott instead of the Hilton where we were all supposed to be. Yayy… I went up to Kerrigan’s room and retrieved my bag. When I came back downstairs, Weatherman and GG had already departed for the Marriott. TJ, Fire, and the rest of their people were going to go to dinner in the area. I decided to catch a cab to the Marriott.

As we parted ways, TJ and Fire told me to tell the cabbie I wanted to go to “the Marriott River North.” I recited that phrase over and over in my head, as I stood in a very long and slow-moving line at the cab stand. It took almost 45 minutes for me to finally get into a cab. “Marriott River North,” came out of my mouth aboard a sigh of relief.

The roads in Chicago weren’t exactly clear, and even though my cabbie was driving a small SUV, he slipped and struggled in a few places as he carried me across the city. I could just feel the bemused gods toying with the idea of getting the cab stuck in the snow, and stranding me in the middle of a giant, foreign city. When we got to the Marriott I felt my shoulders relax for the first time in hours, and I started putting together thoughts on how to get myself back on the righteous path to drunkenness.

Swag had texted while I was in the cab, and told me he, Canada, Dupa, and Tennessee were in room 1225. I found my way to the 12th floor, but was at a loss when the door numbers on the odd side of the hallway went from 1219 to 1227. I retraced my steps; the rooms on the even side were all there: 1220, 1222, 1224, 1226… The fuck?

I dialed up Swag.

Swag: “Yo.”
Me: “What room did you say you were in?”
Swag: “1225.”
Me: “Why don’t I see it?”
Swag: “What?”
Me: “Man, I’m looking at these room numbers, and there’s no 1225. The rooms go to like 1219, then there’s nothing on that side again ‘til like 1227.”
Swag: “I’m pretty positive it’s 1225.”
Me: “I’m standing outside of 1224.”
Swag: “Well, I’m standing in the hallway looking at 1224, and I don’t see you, sooo…”

I was in the wrong Marriott.

There’s frustration, and then there’s being sober and alone in a new city you know nothing about, with a phone with a dying battery, barely defrosted from three hours of watching your favorite hockey team get embarrassed in an 8°F snowstorm and another 45 minutes of waiting for a cab in an 8°F snowstorm, carrying a duffel bag like you got lost on your way home from a rec league game, wandering through hotel hallways fantasizing about a magical liquid that eases the pain and makes you forget bad experiences, only to learn that the hotel you were dropped off at isn’t the one you wanted to go to.

There wasn’t a single person or thing on the planet that I didn’t want to strangle the life out of.

Google Maps was the first to get back into my good graces. If only that cabbie had heard of it. It informed me that the Chicago Marriott Downtown Magnificent Mile, where I was taken, was only 0.3 miles from the Courtyard (Marriott) Chicago River North, where I was going. I started walking, and along the way shot off a text to TJ: “I hate your city right now.”

My rage subsided when I finally reached Marriott room 1225, and found everyone having a quiet conversation while Dupa slept (*sigh* Houston makes you sofff). Weatherman and GG’s room was just down the hall. I stopped by to share my tale and found GG ready for bed, while Weatherman was making himself Makers & Cokes.

Swag, Canada, Dupa, and I formed a new plan. It was around midnight. We’d cab it back to Fire’s, drop off Dupa and my bag, and go get properly drunk in Old Town. We went out to the street to hail a cab. It would be another hour-plus before one finally stopped for us. All I heard in my head while we waited was, “Man, fuck this town.”

Eventually, while we were repeatedly failing to flag down a cab, two cars approaching the intersection collided…somehow. We hadn’t been watching, but they suddenly pulled over across the street from us. A furious young brother hopped out of the trailing car. I can only guess that the other driver had changed lanes into him, maybe. He yelled at the other car as he approached it. I reveled in someone feeling the same anger that I’d felt for most of the night, and waited for a gun to be pulled. Then he yelled for his girlfriend, in the passenger seat, to call the cops. So much for murder. “Man,” I groaned. “I was hoping I’d get to see a homicide. Would’ve made this whole night worth it.”

Back at Fire’s, we shared our various miseries with the Chicago boys, who couldn’t fathom the issues we’d run into with taxi service. They hadn’t had any trouble getting cabs all night. We were all too cold and tired to bother going back out to the bars. I sat in Fire’s recliner sober and angry, and realized I hadn't even had dinner that night.

Man, fuck this town.

[To be continued...]

Happy National Tequila Day

Drink up, bitches.

Drink Responsibly

As TJ (whose dad found this video) would say, "Tequila's the debbil..."

Country Grammar

Close your eyes. Now, in terms of the planning details, describe what you would consider to be the perfect wedding.

If you’re a female, odds are good that you just painted a picture that involved a marble-and-gold-trimmed hall filled with thousands of guests, immaculate flower arrangements, elaborate silk gowns, one or more men on horseback, and doves—carrying wreathes of heather woven into hearts—flying in formation to spell out the names of you and your groom, followed by more that spell “Forever”.

If you’re a male, odds are you ignored the exercise altogether. You probably countered with, “Trick question!” Then you cracked open a beer and turned on a playoff game.

And, of course, the guys were right. But for the sake of argument, let’s assume there is such a thing as “the perfect wedding”. I propose that: (a.) the women were still miles off; and (b.) I attended just about the closest thing to it two Saturdays ago.

My boy Ton has always been an original. A 6’1”, 300-plus-pound Ohio farmboy with a heart of gold and the Pillsbury Dough Boy’s giggle, he’s the type of guy who’s more likely to laugh off a stranger’s taunt—and skate circles around him on Heelys in the process—than to crack heads just for the sake of cracking heads. It follows logic then that, when he finally managed to find himself a woman worthy of wearing his ring, their big day would be done a little differently than how tradition might dictate.

This started with the instructions that were included with the invitations. While the decorative pink cardstock and fuchsia calligraphy were straight out of a 14-year-old’s diary [Note: This isn’t a knock on his wife; it’s a knock on women, in general...], they included at least one specific guideline that I had never seen before in an invitation of its kind: “Dress comfortably”. The ceremony and reception, it turned out, would be held at Ton’s house in Ohio. And not just at his house, but in his barn. Guests were invited to either make reservations at a nearby Days Inn…or to camp out on his property.

Dupa and I decided not to be cowboys, and booked a hotel room. On the Monday before the wedding, we discussed the other logistics and details via texts, with jovial bemusement.

Me: “What are you wearing? Invite sounds like people won’t be wearing suits.”
Dupa: “Yeah not a suit, maybe flip flops, shorts and a beater?”
Me: “Well, it IS a wedding. Got to at least add a trucker hat. #OhioFormal”
Me: “Maybe a button down shirt and jeans?”
Dupa: “Jeans? Wtf it’ll be hot”
Me: “Hadn’t looked at a forecast.”
Dupa: “Lock it up!”
Me: “Shit, so we’re really wearing shorts to this wedding?”

We consulted TK, the best man. He said that, really, anything short of assless chaps was fair game; that being said, the groomsmen would still be wearing tuxes. This left quite a bit of leeway. As a result, when we arrived I was wearing a white dress shirt, black dress pants, and dress shoes. My traveling companion had on a dress shirt, dress pants, flip flops, and a rainbow-colored serape (it was Cinco de Mayo, after all).

Ton’s house sits on a road…and that concludes the list of things that makes it comparable to my way of life. The road itself is gravel, and cuts through fields and untamed wilderness in Southeastern Ohio. Looking in any direction from his house, you don’t see any other homes for (literal) miles. So far as I know, he doesn’t own any crops or livestock, but he certainly has the property to do so if he chose. As we parked, approximately 200 people milled about the barn and road, in every combination of attire between the “formal” and “casual” extremes on the dress scale. Almost all of the women wore a dress of some sort. The men, though… Some wore suits, some wore t-shirts; Ton’s brother-in-law wore a dress shirt, tie, cargo shorts, and sneakers. It was actually beautiful to see so much variety and freedom of individual expression.

Lined up outside the barn [which, for my fellow city slickers, looked more like a large garage than a classic “barn”] were coolers filled with cans of Bud, Bud Light, Yuengling, and Yuengling Light. Just inside the first of three garage doors along the face of the structure was a small bar where you could order wine and liquor. The bar was manned by a little old man in a black dress shirt with an orange and red western scene of horses racing freely across a desert plain. Pimpin’.

We were all instructed to find seats among the rows of picnic tables arranged inside the barn, and the ceremony began. As TK and the maid-of-honor two-stepped down the aisle, I heard someone crack open a can of beer somewhere in the room. I finished my first can of Bud Light as Ton and his wife exchanged vows; I considered opening my backup can that was sitting on the table, but I didn’t want to be that guy. Once the groom had kissed his bride as commanded by the minister, I discreetly cracked it open amongst the roar of applause and cheers.

Before dinner was served, we had to send some people to the beer store for a re-up; 21 cases had met their maker. It mattered little to me, though, as I had switched to gin & tonics, a much more suitable drink when wearing dress clothes outside on a warm spring day. And Crazy Horse, the bartender, was pouring a liberal mix into those 8 oz. Dixie cups. I tore through dinner (homemade barbecue!) while laughing with friends at a table on a patio, enjoying the camaraderie and trying not to stare at my boys’ girlfriends’ chests. Some of our group played “Bang, Marry, Kill” using the wedding guests at the table next to ours (Dupa: “I’d bang the younger chick, kill the older chick, and marry the guy.”). Our buddy Kyle made a run to the bar, and when he came back with a new G&T for me, it was in a 16 oz. cup. They had run out of the smaller cups. And yet, it seemed Crazy Horse had still used the same amount of tonic as he had been putting into the 8 oz. versions.

Viva Ohio!

It had only just dawned on most of us the prior night that TK’s role as best man meant he’d be making the traditional toast. This could only mean good things. And, sure enough, he didn’t disappoint. During the speech, he produced a cocktail shaker, shot glasses, cans of Red Bull, and two flasks from a bag; then he mixed together a batch of Vegas Bombs and distributed them to the wedding party. As they raised their glasses, and the rest of the wedding raised ours, TK closed his toast with, “Here’s to heat—not the kind that burns down buildings, but the kind that brings down panties.”

The dichotomy of crowd reactions was unavoidable; everyone 15-45 years old cracked up, and everyone 46 and older sucked their teeth in (unconvincing) disgust. TK gave less than a standard-measure “fuck”. He brought the leftover Vegas bombs out to us as the party resumed following the maid of honor’s speech. A short while later, TK appeared again, this time carrying a fifth of Patron and an air of determination. “We’re finishing this today.” It took all of 15 minutes for his goal to be realized. The bottle was soon dry, after being passed around a group of about five of us. Even Dupa, who had stayed away from tequila since spring break his senior year, took a swig. There’s a certain fearlessness that comes with drinking miles away from all civilization.

As you might have predicted, things started getting out of control from there on.

• Not long thereafter, several rows of tables were removed from the barn to create a dance floor. As things started getting funky, our friend Shafe’s girlfriend convinced Crazy Horse to let her wear his shirt. She then bopped around the dance floor in the shirt comically, winning the heart of every guy around. At one point I leaned over to Kyle and said, “The only woman here that I want to bang right now is Shafe’s girlfriend.”
• When I recounted that anecdote to Dupa during the drive home the next afternoon, he replied, “Buddy, you weren’t alone in that sentiment.”
• As for the Polish madman, he quickly got wild on the dance floor in typical fashion. That led to the mother of the groom pulling him to the side and politely asking him to pull his pants back up, saying bluntly, “There are kids around.”
• We discovered the photo booth. Kyle and I took a series of random, mildly-homoerotic shots; Dupa and two of our other friends did the same. Our boy and his girl snapped a series of shots, after which they sheepishly showed us their clips, saying, “We didn’t know these were going into the wedding book!” In the last of the string of four pics, our friend was clearly groping his girl’s titty from behind, while giving the camera an equally-raunchy smile.

• As good as that was, though, they were outdone by a random couple at the party, whose photo booth pictures were circulated the next day. The first two pics were normal silliness, but in the third the guy lifted up his gal, who supplied the camera with a full-on, panties-full-off beaver shot.
• I awoke early the next morning to a pizza box snuggled close in my hotel bed. Dupa had ordered a pie after we’d (miraculously) gotten back to the hotel, but I was passed out before it arrived. He therefore ate half and tucked the other half in next to me. I tossed it on the ground, stumbled to the bathroom, and then went back to bed.
• A few hours later I awoke, asked Dupa where the pizza on the floor had come from, and then munched on a slice while we gathered our stuff up and checked out.

Those country boys know how to do a wedding.

'Tis the Seasoning

Here's another one on the ol' Xmas List. Tequila shot glasses made of salt. Yup.

From Salt Therapy at Home's product page:

This beautiful and functional set will be the perfect conversation starter for your party or decorative accent for your home. The set of six tequila shot glasses and tray are an elegant work of art that will grace any sideboard or tabletop. Carved from naturally beautiful Himalayan pink crystal salt, the lovely striated pattern perfectly complements any decor. The naturally anti-bacterial surface requires minimal maintenance, and your long-lasting carved salt glasses will add elegance and fun to many a friendly shot or business deal! You'll be amazed how the rich taste of Himalayan crystal salt enhances the flavor of your favorite tequila like table salt never did!

This is a great idea, but one with a couple of drawbacks. First, these shot glasses have a limited use. If you're not drinking tequila, then I doubt you want salt interfering with the drinking experience. And, second, I would imagine they have an expiration point. They say long-lasting, but that's vague; and, certainly, they won't last as long as their glass and plastic counterparts.

But, in the end, if you're someone who takes pride in his or her personal bar, and who enjoys tequila, this is a must-own. Just don't leave it where your pet moose can get to it.

Anatomy Studies

From the Twitter feed of Sex, Cigars and Booze.

The Patron Challenge

A few thoughts:

1. This is an incredibly reckless waste of Patron. Any true drinker (especially one on a budget) will be as disappointed as I was to see such a delicious nectar tossed aside so casually.
2. How dedicated of a friend/girlfriend/relative does this chick have to be to sign up for her role? If she's a little sister, she's either repaying a favor or banking on cashing this in for one in the future; if she's a friend, she's trying to become his girlfriend; and if she's his girlfriend, she's trying to become his wife. No other scenarios add up. None.
3. If the fact that they're filming this in a parking garage doesn't register as an omen to you (and there's a special irony in him standing in a handicapped parking spot)...
4. Not sure whether to dub his last words a "Captain Obvious" moment, or an "Understatement of the Year" contender. Almost seems like something can't qualify for both of those at once; but, trust, this definitely does.



Kev with the assist.

AWOL

It appears that I’ve hit another lull in my drunken exploit chest-thumpingchronicling, and I really can’t offer up a legitimate excuse for it. I’d like to blame it on the heavy increase in work that has been heaped upon me at the office as of late. But since last December I’ve had a shiny new Dell—complete with all of the MS Office bells and whistles—sitting in my apartment, and that instantly negates the “lack of free time in front of a computer” defense. I could tell you that the slow down has been a result of a concerted effort to scale back my drinking and carousing, but…well I’m sure you would find that only slightly more believable than Ben Roethlisberger wearing a purity ring.

In reality, tons of drunken days and nights have come and gone this year without the slightest mention on the page thus far. Even renowned drinkers’ holidays like New Years Eve, St. Patrick’s Day, the Pirates’ Home Opener, and Brewski Festival have eluded narration in 2010. What can I say? I’m a slacker.

To try to get myself back into the swing of things, I’m going to give a few quick stories from some of my social dealings in recent months (ahh, bullet point formatting; my crutch-away-from home...).


Pirates’ Home Opener

• The entire event was one prolonged, blissful blur. About midway through the day, I found myself in that interesting state known to drinkers as “half blacked out”. It really is an interesting phenomena that only true drinkers can appreciate; if you’ve never spent a random morning trying to weave together the previous day or night’s storyline from various pieces of memory that are separated by chunks of complete blackness, each about 15 to 45 minutes in length, then no words on a computer screen are going to do it justice. My recollection of the day goes from tailgating to McFadden's, to walking into the T station downtown with Steph, to boarding the Incline, to eating calamari at Redbeard’s, to sitting in Steph’s living room watching “Zombieland”. All of which covers several miles of Pittsburgh real estate, spanning from the North Shore to downtown to Station Square to Mount Washington.

If scientists ever determine the exact amount of drunk you have to get for you to be “half blacked out”, television producers could create one hell of a reality-TV game show. Picture a camera crew following around a sloshed, unknowing contestant; then, in the studio the following day, the hungover person has to correctly deduce what in the fizzuck happened to him or her.

Player: “Bob, I’m going to say I vomited behind the McDonalds, then went inside; ordered seven Happy Meals—and a shake; drunk-texted that girl at work I have a crush on; and then fell asleep in the backseat of my buddy’s car.”
Host: “And that’s your final answer?”
Player: *nods while wincing, and then takes a swig of Gatorade*
Host: “Okay—judges, let’s see the tape!”

• After the movie, I had recovered quite nicely. It was only about 8 pm or so, and I decided to resume my inebriation. The boys had all convened at Redbeard’s, and beckoned me to join. It’s about a ten minute walk to there from Steph’s house, and as I finally rounded the corner onto the street where the bar sits, I saw a minivan taxicab parked up ahead. Outside of it stood Jay Swag, Pakistanimal, and MG, who were loading Dupa into the back. He had, it appeared, reached his limit a little earlier than expected. They had almost closed the sliding side door on him when, giggling, he hopped out and ran around the back of the van, and then climbed into the front passenger seat—even though he was the only one taking the cab.

• One of the bartenders at Redbeard’s was Asian-American. Pakistanimal—who had long ago that day throttled past “civilized drinker,” and was now barreling along at a very dickish mach-3-drunk—decided that the best way to endear himself to this gent was to address him as “Jackie Chan.” Want to guess how well that one went over? Approximately ten minutes after I’d gotten to the bar, Pak was being shown the door.

• Earlier in the day, while hanging out at the large tailgate party thrown by Steph’s company, I met a woman who used to work for the same corporation that employs Dupa…and The Ex. While exchanging small talk, I mentioned to her that my ex-girlfriend also works for said corporation.

Her: “Oh really? Who?”
Me: “[The Ex’s real name].”
Her: “Oh—she’s crazy!”
Me: *choking on my beer*
Her: “But I guess that’s why she’s your EX-girlfriend!”

Brewski Fest Eve

• The night before the grandest of beer drinking days found Dupa, our boy “The Entertainer”, Shannon, Dr. Kelly, her friend “Fist of Fury” (FoF), and I drinking ourselves silly in Johnstown, where Dr. Kelly is a surgical resident. Johnstown surely wasn’t prepared for the party that Dupa, Entertainer, and I bring, and we quickly made an impression on Dr.’s boss, an attending doctor who was seated at the bar near us. After about 20 minutes of our typical unfiltered social commentary, the attending got up and walked clear around to the other side of the bar, trying to find a seat as far away from us as he could.

• All of us were sufficiently hammered by the time the bar closed, and we retired to Dr. Kelly’s house. As soon as we arrived, the three girls all ran upstairs to put on t-shirts and sweats. Standing in the kitchen, we guys decided to make ourselves more comfortable as well. So when FoF, Shan, and Dr. came back downstairs, they found all three of us guys just as we had been before—minus our pants. Dupa cooked up frozen pizza rolls, I mixed myself a Gatorade & vodka, and Entertainer air-guitared to 80s music, all in our polo shirts and boxers.

Rocky’s Bachelor Party

• My buddy Rocky will be kissing his freedom away blushing bride at the altar soon, and last weekend roughly 30 of us gathered at Wheeling Island for his last hurrah. Fairly early in the night, one of Rocky’s friends found himself up $500+ from the blackjack table. He decided, in true gambler spirit, to place a $500 chip on “red” at the roulette table. Our crowd of drunken Pennsylvanians watched with baited breath as the little white ball spun around and around, finally landing on…red. A roar went up like Wheeling’s never seen before. The brave soul collected his two $500 chips and went straight to the cage, and then to the bar to buy a round of tequila shots.

• Rocky’s fiancée, beautiful and virtuous, has only one flaw: her utter distaste for anything stripper-related. Therefore, unlike Gaelic Gangsta’s stag party at Wheeling Island last year, there would be no shaming of the groom-to-be at the hand of Godfathers’ maniacal exotic dancers. I don’t think Rocky was even allowed to look in the club’s direction from across the casino’s parking lot. The rest of us, however, had no doubt that we’d be visiting at some point. The plan, therefore, was to get the bachelor as stupid-drunk as we could early in the night, so that we could put him to bed and then head over for a dance or two. But around 12:30, it became clear that Rocky—true to his namesake—wasn’t going down without a fight. No matter how many shots and cocktails we poured into him, he wouldn’t fall.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and Rocky’s cousin, a police officer, formulated a new plan: members of our party were to peel off inconspicuously two at a time and head for Godfathers. As we stood talking and laughing a short while later, and with Rocky up at the bar, “Po-Po” looked at Dupa and I and ordered, “Alright, you two—go.” We looked at each other, shrugged, and walked off through the casino towards the doors. About five minutes after we arrived at the club and got seats at the bar, two more people arrived from our group. And then two more. And then two more. Eventually about 16 to 18 of us were enjoying performances by West Virginia’s best. I’m not sure if Rocky ever figured out where half of his party had gone. Hell, I can’t be sure he even figured out that we had gone.

• I recently became a part of the Twitter craze (right at the cutting edge of that trend, I know), and decided to do my best to give play-by-play to the bachelor party’s proceedings. The following is a portrait of 18 hours of madness:

6:00 PM May 15th: “On my way to Rocky's bachelor party on the Island. This...is...going...to...get...ugly.”
8:43 PM May 15th: “Dinner buffet: conquered.”
9:52 PM May 15th: “Dog races and vodka gimlets.”
11:18 PM May 15th: “Middle-aged white man on stage singing ‘My Prerogative’. Oh...my...fuck...”
11:35 PM May 15th: “If you were up $500 on the night, would you throw it all on red on the roulette table? Our buddy did. Tequila shots all around.”
12:43 AM May 16th: “Shots and gimlets flying. This is starting to feel like Savannah.”
1:21 AM May 16th: “Strip club. No bachelor. Weird? Not for our crew.”
7:52 AM May 16th: “5 hours of poker followed by getting locked out of a hotel room. Feels pretty standard by now.”
11:18 AM May 16th: “At Perkins in Wheeling, and looking at our waitress...I think I see where Tiger was coming from.”
12:23 PM May 16th: “Bachelor party was successful. Quote of the weekend: ‘You go home, tell her you love her, touch her where she pees, and it's all good.’”

That’s all for now. I need a bottle of Gatorade and some sunlight. But I promise to have more soon. Salud.

Always Get a Last Name

Because you wouldn't want your pimping to lead to any...awkward moments.

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.