Wifey Material: Hiromi Oshima

Being a refined drinker (shut up), I love nothing more than a fine glass of single malt scotch. And, as those who know me personally can attest, my love for Hiromi is deep—and well-documented. So when I saw this photo of my favorite Playmate working the Glenlivet table at the Playboy Golf Finals...well, needless to say, it just brought a tear to my eye.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Drink up, bitches. I won't be able to toast a glass until later today because of work (and partly because I damaged my soul during Pittsburgh's St. Patty's celebrations this past Saturday...but mostly because the work thing). Cheers.

Keep It Movin'

It’s almost here.

Pittsburgh’s St. Patty’s Day is tomorrow, and preparations are underway everywhere you look. Shannon’s been collecting supplies of food, alcohol, and adrenaline shots for her party, which starts at 8 a.m. Rackt is in town for her first real St. Patty celebration (despite what you may have heard about Tampa’s vast Irish population) and, after some encouragement by TJ, she finally bought herself a t-shirt for the day (most everyone running wild through the streets of Pittsburgh, of course, will have on clever green tees to mark the occasion; it's what St. Patrick would have wanted). Entertainer bought himself a $200+ kilt, and now is busy picking out the thong he’ll wear underneath (I’m kidding…kind of…). As for me, I stocked up on whiskey, both for Shannon’s party and for practicing at home. And I’ll also be buying a bottle of 5 Hour Energy to use as an eye opener tomorrow afternoon.

Aside from all the excitement and mayhem that comes with this day, it raises a potential problem: Chaperones. As in, we’ll be so drunk that we’ll need some. I tried to get Steph to fly in from NYC to take the job of being my personal Sherpa (since she did a miraculous job of it at the Pirates’ Home Opener last year), but she declined. Dammit. And I need supervision more than most do, since I have the bad habit of roaming off when heavily intoxicated. In fact, one of my most fantastic voyages came on St. Patty’s Day in 2004 [cue flashback cutaway...].

It was 11:30 p.m.; I’d been boozing across the city for the better part of about ten hours and found myself at Jack’s Bar with various friends. I was scheduled to share a room at the Holiday Inn Express in the South Side with Tony, K-Man, and five other Irish-for-the-day revelers. The problem I soon perceived—as much as I could perceive anything, given the restrictor plate of beer that I’d installed in my head—was math. Six of the other people in our group were actually three couples; and Tony, the only other single besides me, had run into a jumpoff. That left me in a hotel room with eight people engaged in various forms of romantic entertainment while I twiddled my thumbs.

Now, keep in mind, this is only how I was predicting things would go. It was an assumption on my part, not something more logical like, say, reality. In truth, even the couples in the room would be doing nothing but sleeping. None of them were the freaky type to bone with other people present. And Tony’s jumpoff wasn’t confirmed to be joining us; it was just drunken supposition on my part. Still, the little drunken man behind the curtain in my head had no way of coming up with “4” when putting “2” and “2” together. I told my friends I was going to the bathroom, and stealthily headed for the exit. Halfway down Carson St., though, I realized no cabs were going to stop for me. Home, at that time, was my mother’s house, about eight miles away. Surely I wouldn’t walk that far in a drunken stupor at midnight, would I?

Oh, yes I would. A 4½ hour trek ensued, including:

(1.) Walking a bike trail along the banks of the Monongahela River, since the sidewalk along Carson eventually stops when the street turns into more of a highway;
(2.) Falling asleep as I walked, and awaking to find myself sliding down the embankment towards the river, having stepped off said bike trail;

(3.) Walking along train tracks after the bike trail stopped abruptly (only in Pittsburgh would they build a trail that doesn’t go anywhere);
(4.) Soldiering on as a large, loud freight train blew past on the tracks, about five feet away from me;
(5.) Climbing up and over a fence between those tracks and the access road to Sandcastle, an area waterpark, to avoid any future encounters with trains.

St. Patty’s Day 2010 saw another bit of unexplainable travel on my part; this time much less dangerous—though just as curious. Early in the evening I was again in the South Side, this time at Rumshakers with Dupa, Tony, Prince of Ligonier, Mrs. Prince, Belle, Jay Swag, Mitch Canada, and various others. After an hour or two, Prince walked down the road to another bar with his squad (consisting of his wife and two of their friends) and Dupa. According to Prince, I was still at Rumshakers when they left. I have no personal recollection of this, though, because I was painstakingly blacked out. When I came out of my walking sleep, I was at Prince’s apartment in the North Hills (which is roughly eight miles in the opposite direction than that which I had traveled in 2004). More impressively, though, I was still drinking, a good 14 hours after starting that morning. The next day, Prince and the others filled me in as best they could:

After some time at the other bar, the five of them decided they wanted to head back to Prince and Mrs. Prince’s place to eat and drink away from the crowds. They tried to hail a cab, but if you’ve paid attention to any of my past stories involving taxis in Pittsburgh, then you know just how difficult that can be—especially on a huge day like St. Patty’s. It took them quite a while to get a cab to stop for them. And when one finally did stop, they eagerly began piling in one by one. Then, suddenly, they were joined by a new companion: me. No one knows

where I came from—hell, not even I know that, and I lived it. But, as if by puff of smoke, I appeared and nonchalantly climbed in alongside them. [If only MTV or some other network would start reading this blog; a camera crew following me around would mean finally getting some answers when I wake up in the morning.]

Reading these stories, you might think that I only go on these unplanned adventures when I’ve been drinking green beer, but there are plenty of other tales of me hiking across Pittsburgh after a night of boozing that take place during other times of the year. So the calendar date isn’t the common denominator. No, the culprit seems to be the South Side.

Last summer, TJ’s boy Cap came to Pittsburgh one weekend, and a night on the town was launched to celebrate. We started at Hofbrauhaus and soon moved onto the South Side. But, although I was drinking beer by the litre at Hofbrau, I soon found Entertainer shoving multiple Jack & Cokes—prepared by a bartender that he went to high school with, so you can guess just how much Coke was actually in them—in my direction when we stopped at a bar on Carson. We soon moved to Jimmy D’s, but the next thing I remember unquestionably is me walking through Oakland around 2 a.m., headed towards my place. Confused though I was to find myself far, far away from where I’d last remembered being, I decided to continue my journey home, sleep it off, and sort things out in the morning.

After a few more paces, though, a thought awoke in my head: My car was still parked in a parking garage…by Hofbrauhaus. Fuuuuuucccccck. I hung a right and headed back towards the South Side. It was another sobering hour plus of walking before I reached the garage, and another 20 more minutes before I was safely in my bed.

Saturday could get ugly. I’m hoping the 5 Hour Energy will be just the kick I need to keep myself in line and off of bike trails throughout the night. If not, then it’s all Steph’s fault.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler!

To all my alkie peoples on Bourbon St. today: get right, and have several for me. Yet another Mardi Gras has come and found me stationed hundreds of miles away from New Orleans. The only thing I can take solace in is that the closest thing Pittsburgh has to Fat Tuesday, our St. Patty's Day Parade, is coming up this Saturday. We have just as much booze, beads, and buffoonery; but, at 50°F, there's a lot less bare boobage (and that's really the best of the "B's").

Maybe next year I'll get to dance on Bourbon St. with a Hurricane in my hand and a cutie like the one below on my hip? A man can only dream. Again and again and again.

Beer Ninja

"The force is strong in that one..."

From Deadspin:

David Goldman of the AP caught this magical snapshot on Friday at the Jays-Braves game in Kissimmee. Mitch Davie is the Gators fan with the quick hands, protecting his seatmates and protecting his drink. Props to him for stepping up and preventing something like this, and props to the Braves for serving Red Stripe tall boys.

Well done, Mr. Davie. Well done. TJ with the assist.

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.

Hit Me with Your Best Shot

Boozing is like war: A fight to the finish between you and anyone who poses a threat to that which you hold dear. And, as warriors in the boozing game, we hold our ability to triple our vision more dear than any other liberty.

From Pat Hanavan's Tumblr.