It's Brewski Fest

^^all day^^

For the uninitiated, click. Get it.

Miller Quest

I haven't even seen this ad on TV. Miller's even turned Questlove into a spokesperson? Goddamn...

Miller Lite Harmony

Miller Lite nails it with this one. Everything's better with when you're Changing with friends.

Social Drinking Excellence: Aubrey Plaza

I'm conflicted; this is ever-so-obviously deserving of a Rummy Award, but I really want to make this post a "Wifey Material". I've had a crush on Miss Plaza for years, and seeing her get ridiculously drunk and stupid...does things to me.

Don't judge me...

The Rummy-winning performance:

Get More:
2013 MTV Movie Awards, Latest Movie News

From the USA Today:

Parks and Recreation star Aubrey Plaza stepped onstage while Will Ferrell was accepting his MTV Golden Popcorn Comedic Genius trophy.

She had #The To Do List, the name of her new movie, written on her chest. Ferrell, who was dressed in a suit made of dollar-bill fabric, had just been speaking of his dreams to make people laugh and "dress like Dennis Rodman," in his acceptance speech.

A barefoot Plaza, carrying a drink, walked up on stage and tried to take the trophy. But Ferrell wouldn't let it go, so the actress, who said nothing, put her head down and scurried back to her seat in the front row, where she spilled her drink and then sat there.

Oh, Aubrey. Let me count the ways I love thee.

1. The look on her face when the camera comes in for a close-up at the end...oh, we all know that one, don't we? That's the look of "I'm the asshole? ...I'm the asshole."
2. Follow Peter Dinklage's eyes from the start of the video. Then try to picture what's going on in his mind.
3. A hypothetical scenario: You're dating a beautiful, up-and-coming Hollywood actress. She invites you to escort her to the MTV Movie Awards. The two of you pregame before the show—of course—and then start making use of the open bar once you get there. By halfway through the event, you've been doing backstrokes in Belvedere for a few hours. You're fine, but your lady? Not so much. You're half charmed by her ultra-goofy drunken alter-ego, and half shocked that you're not the one asking Kim Kardashian if her fetus has had to refute claims of getting ass implants yet. But through all of it you just laugh. Who cares if insecure celebs can't take a joke? Besides, you've got front row seats, and your woman is looking sexy in her dress. And you know she's going to jump you in the limo (hopefully before she throws up and passes out, which are also definitely going to happen). Then, halfway through Will Ferrell's acceptance speech, she pops up out of her chair and heads for the stage. By the time she gets back to her seat, you see security guards headed your way.
   
   
   In that moment when the ushers direct her to the exit, do you (a.) grab her purse, trot out of the theater behind her, and wonder if the limo sex will be even hotter now; or (b.) lean back in your chair, look over to the person sitting next to you and say loudly, "Thank god she's gone. Some people just don't know how to handle themselves..."?
4. ...asking for a friend.



These two feel me.

5. There's the off chance, scripted as this looks in the beginning, that this was supposed to be a bit. But even if that was the case, it still just means that the whole thing got derailed by her being absolutely shlammered.
   
6. Bonus points for being barefoot. No truly epic drunken deeds happen while fully-shoe'd.
7. Was anyone else expecting Leslie Knope to come running up behind her and pull her off the stage?
8. Give her credit for joking about it not too long after on Twitter, although...
9. How did she sober up that quickly?
10. ...Oh yeah—she got kicked out of the awards show. That tends to accelerate your road to recovery.

If I know my girl, she'll shrug it off and keep it moving. In reality, this is all just a bump in the road. What I've read of The To Do List sounds promising, and Parks and Rec just keeps growing in popularity.

Your Rummy's in the mail, Aubrey, along with half of a gold heart pendant—the other half is hanging from a chain around my neck.

The Worst: The Program

[This series of stories explores some of my more embarrassing achievements in the category of "drunken fail". And in every fail in life, there's an ounce of naivety, a pinch of redemption, and a bucket of lessons learned.]

When you’re a senior in high school, you think you’re prepared for everything. It’s not that you think you know everything—you’re overly aware that you don’t know everything. From the first bell of the school year on, you’re sliding towards a cliff called “graduation”. And over that precipice is college: a swirling sea of teachers who know what they’re talking about, classmates who know the answers, and girls who know what orgasms are. But regardless of all that you know you don’t know, you know you’re prepared to jump headfirst into that new, unknown world.

One thing I didn't know was booze. (Yeah…let that one sink in for a moment.) I really wasn’t much of a drinker in high school…in that I didn't drink anything. Ever. Sure, I had the occasional half a beer that an older cousin slipped to me at a family reunion, cup of champagne on New Year’s Eve, or few ounces of crème de menthe to sip when Mom was having a nightcap and feeling lenient. But hanging out in the woods pounding cheap beers bought with a fake ID? That wasn’t me.

Then, in the winter of my senior year, college coaches began taking an interest in seeing me line up for their defenses, and thus started inviting me to spend time on their campuses. When a recruit visits a college, he's assigned a host—a member of the team who acts as a guide through this amazing world of liberties. And a host has one job: Make sure the recruit has as much fun as he can have without dying.

Now, if you’re a blue chip prospect being recruited by a D-I school, there are seemingly endless options available for what the word “fun” can mean. But the schools interested in me were D-II at best. The quality and amount of amenities drops significantly with each “I” you add after that dash.

One Saturday morning that January, my mom dropped me off at Washington & Jefferson College. W&J was D-III; by the time you get down to the third “I”, the only real indulgence available in attractive, abundant quantities is booze. Today, that sounds like heaven. 16 years ago, it sounded like trouble.

My host was “Varsity”. Varsity had been the starting quarterback for my high school’s team when I was a freshman. Of course, back in those days we had been a run-heavy offense; in college, therefore, Varsity was a punter. I tried to bust his balls about this while we caught up, but he pointed out that he spent all practice kicking and rarely running, spent games not getting hit, and then spent Saturday nights celebrating wins at the same parties as the rest of the team and—this being D-III—boning girls of the same quality that any other starter was boning. I had nothing in response, and silently vowed to follow his every word like gospel from there on out.

After meetings with coaches and watching part of a wrestling match in the gym, we headed back to Varsity’s dorm room. He was in a fraternity—the prototypical “football frat” on campus. The sound of loud music and the smell of stale beer greeted you from the muddy hallways, as guys still reeking of the previous night’s parties and sexual conquests moved from room to room. Varsity’s roommate was the team’s starting center, a 6’2” block of muscles. “Block” was twice the size of the kids I’d tossed around in high school games, a big ol’ country boy with a dip in his mouth, a hungover grin on his face, and a handshake that almost dislocated my shoulder. Yeah, college was going to be different.

Being a strapping young lad of nearly 18 years, the most prominent thought on my mind in every second of every minute was girls. Varsity, his frat brothers, and other members of the football team all painted the picture of drunk, immoral slores who treated parties like the dick aisle in a supermarket. The abundance of willing females, it seems, was never in question at W&J.

…No, what was in short supply, was physical beauty. In a school of only 1300 students, there were only so many hot girls to go around, and the odds of bedding one were in no man’s favor. And so, when it came to drunken hookups, lowered expectations were the name of the game.

I was learning so much, and this was only my recruiting trip.

To illustrate this concept, at dinner they pointed out “Hulkamania” from across the cafeteria. [Note: This was really one of her nicknames, but it wasn’t actually born until the following September, when one of my friends—a fellow freshman on the team—hooked up with her. During their encounter, she ripped open her own tank top, reminiscent of the old Hulk Hogan move.] She was a sophomore sorority girl who had the build of a pulling guard. She was always a booty call away any time of day, and had already put together quite an impressive resume after only a year and a half of college. Several of the guys on the team, in fact, had been down that (well-trodden) path. I shuddered at the thought.

After dinner we got ready for the night’s parties. Now let’s stop to take in this full picture:

• I was 17-going-on-18;
• I was not a drinker;
• I was about to spend a Saturday night partying with members of the W&J football team;
• …who also happened to be members of the school’s rowdiest and most notorious frat.
  

I mean, even if you’re drinking along with me as you read this and have already forgotten the story’s title, you’ve still got to be thinking, “Holy shitballs—this will end up in a bad place...”

There’s no slowroll when you’re drinking at W&J. That’s a casual, understood truth for me now, but I was utterly ignorant to it on that January evening. The second a can or bottle is opened, it’s “go time”; whether it be the last night of Carnival, or a random night when you’re babysitting a naïve high school kid.

Pregaming at Washington & Jefferson is equivalent to the two minute drill at a lesser drinking school. A case of beer found its way into the room…somehow. I’m sure I knew of its origin at some point, but not anymore. We cracked open cans of Beast, and my temporary guardians were throwing them back with little care about anything else in the world. I was sipping, they were gulping.

Their boy George joined us, and we began playing “Caps”. The fact that they had a stash of beer bottle caps saved specifically for this pastime unnerved me, slightly—especially since I had never played this game (or any, really) before. I was seated across the floor from Block; as the first bottle cap was about to fly through the air, they informed me that he was the best player in the frat. Maybe even the best at W&J. I might’ve gotten “Wha—” out of my mouth before a cap landed in my cup.

I was told I had to chug.

*in my head*

“This just doesn’t seem fair. I’m new to this shit. Maybe I should say
some—”

Another hit for Block. Another chug for me. Another can of Beast.

“I mean, I can handle this shit. Fuck that, I’ve gotta be a man! Who
are they—”

Another hit. Another chug.

“Fuck! This dude doesn’t miss! Was this one of his daily chores on
the farm where he grew—”

Hit. Chug. New can.

“I…what was I thinking about before?”

Varsity: “You okay?”
Me: “Yeah, I’m cool.”

“You’re NOT cool, dick! You—”

Hit. Chug.

“Make this stop, NOW! How fucking stupid—”

Hit. Chug. New can.

“I…whew…did the room suddenly get spinny?”

Hit. Chug.

“Thas a lots beer...”

Varsity: “How you feelin’?”
Me: “I—”

The vomit hit my shirt before I knew what had happened.

Here’s where I learned something important, though. You see, as an inexperienced kid surrounded by men, you expect a moment of weakness such as that to be met with disapproval, and for shame to be cast upon you. …And it is. But you also expect them to ostracize you, and to alienate you for the rest of the night—if not for the rest of their lives. Instead, those men chuckle at the destruction they’ve brought about and crack open more beers; then Block grabs you a t-shirt out of his closet, Varsity gets you some mouthwash, and you all head out to the quads to start the night’s partying in earnest.

Welcome to adulthood.

We stepped out into a cold night that pulsated with music and a lack of worry. Varsity kept me near his side, so as to prevent me from careening into any real trouble. But he threw everything he could at me full force.

I remember being introduced to girls at parties. Lots of them. At every party. I remember dancing with some. I remember never not having a cup or can in my hand. I remember stumbling back and forth and back again through a maze of sidewalks leading from one fraternity house to another, finally ending up at the Kappa Sig house.

I remember a guy onstage inviting people to chug beers with live goldfish in them. I remember telling Varsity there was no way in hell he was getting me up on that stage, and then watching him shrug his shoulders, go up himself, and down a goldfish. I remember finding myself behind the bar handing out beers for a while, until a Kappa Sig saw me and stopped my bartending career before it got his house thrown off campus. And I remember calling it a night—probably around 11:30-midnight—stumbling to the frat house alone, climbing up to the bunk above Varsity’s bed, and being asleep before my head hit the pillow.

Then I remember the bed giving a slight wobble, and awaking to hear a female voice I didn’t know, accompanied by a male one I did.

Girl: *laughing* “I caaaannnn’tttt…”
Varsity: “Yes you can!”
Girl: “I’m too drunk! Can’t I just stay here?”
Varsity: “You can’t sleep here!”
Girl: “Why not?”
Varsity: “What’re you gonna do if you stay down here?”
Girl: *laughing* “What do you want me to do?...”
Varsity: “Why don’t you…”
*fade away to sounds of kissing, rustling, sucking…*

Thankfully, the alcohol had taken me again.

When I awoke the next day, my entire physical being had been shred apart. I may have had more impressive hangovers in the years since, but you always remember your first. Varsity’s visitor had since left, and he wore the carefree shame of a man willing to own his mistakes.

Varsity: “That was [Hulkamania]…”
Me: “What?!”
Varsity: “Hey…”

As I gathered my stuff, Block walked in with his typical shit-eating grin.

Block: *to Varsity* “How did your night end up?”
Varsity: “What?”
Block: “I brought her back here for him *points at me*…”
Me: “Wait—WHAT?!”
Block: “…but she was too drunk and fat to climb up to the top bunk. So I just told her to climb into bed with [Varsity].”
Me: “Thank god!”
Varsity: “I was wondering where the hell she came from…”

Is it any wonder I enrolled the following summer?

The Worst: Probie'd

[If you missed my earlier post: This series of stories will explore some of my more embarrassing achievements in the category of "drunken fail". And if you're wondering what "probie'd" means...you must not watch NCIS.]

There’s a bit of a contradiction to this story: Of the tales in this series, it occurred most recently, and at a time when I had already cemented my status as a star in the drinking game. In fact, it’s the only one that took place post-college. And yet, it all happened because I was young and naïve. …And stupid, basically (though that particular characteristic is sure to be a running theme throughout these stories).

It was the fall of 2005, and work had brought me to sunny San Diego. This was the fourth business trip of my young professional career, and by now I had earned the trust of customers and coworkers, having shown myself to be someone who could hold both his booze and his tongue. Most of them were either married, respected within the professional community, or—in many cases—both. If you have ever watched Mad Men or House of Lies, then you know that those are precisely the type of people that get the craziest after business hours, especially on the road.

But they were also old. Now, in fairness, I was 26 at the time; back then, anyone over 35 had one foot in the grave. At my current age, I see things a little differently. But the plain fact was that almost all of my coworkers and customers were on the other side of 40. And now that they had let me into their circle, surely I’d easily prove my superiority. Hell, I’d rise through their ranks and take the throne! Yeah! I could out-drink them with one liver tied behind my back!

*draws an arrow back to the earlier part about being stupid*

On Tuesday, the second day of the five-day conference at the Omni San Diego Hotel, we held an evening reception for attendees on the outdoor terrace. San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter is magical at night from an elevated vantage point (as I would further confirm in 2008); when you add in the perfect weather and the glasses of 12-year-old Glenfiddich I was swimming through, it was damn near euphoric. Want to know the best part about being the most junior person at a business party? Everyone else is buying. Corporate credit cards were still warm, dry blankets of financial irresponsibility back in ’05. And there was plenty of room for a 26-year-old “kid” to curl up under one like a stray cat brought in from the rain.

After the party, a coworker (we’ll call him “Work Unk”) and I moved downstairs to McCormick & Schmick's, where the rest of our cool table—the bad boys and bad girls of the professional development conference—were to meet up. It might have occurred to me that my dinner had consisted only of several neat glasses of scotch and a few appetizers, but that didn’t stop me from waving off the bartender’s offer of a menu. No need, my man—I already know my order: scotch!

We were joined by Ms. Purple. She was a punk scene party girl in her earlier years; but now, in her 40s, she had “quieted down.” Now she focused on being an industry professional by day and dedicated mommy by night. But the wildchild gene was still in her blood, and on business trips she was dangerous. She had begun treating me like a little brother (to this day, in fact, she calls me “Little Bro”), and was now about to do the most “big sister-y” thing to me she could: Set me up for an epic fail, all for her amusement.

She bought a Buttery Nipple for Work Unk, who refused to take the girlie shot. Ms. Purple had barely motioned the shot glass in my direction before I was removing it from her hand and tossing back the concoction like a damn man…well, a man drinking a Buttery Nipple. Unk’s refusal to do the shot earned the kind of derision from Ms. Purple that was only to be expected. When pushed far enough, he defended himself by planting his foot in the turf and stating that he could go shot-for-shot with her all night.

Here’s what happened over the course of the next 97 seconds, in precise order:

1. 
   Purple accepted Unk’s challenge.
2. Purple ordered up two shots of Jager.
3. Purple reminded us that she was the only one with a rental car, and was therefore the night’s designated driver by default.
4. Purple announced—without my warning or approval—that I would be taking her place in the challenge.
5. Purple let loose an evil cackle from atop the cliff while watching me sail towards the ground below, with a fresh bootprint on my back.

Before leaving the hotel bar, another two rounds of Jager shots were done. They would not be the last of the evening. It was like the Jagermeister Hunger Games. Ever hear of immersion therapy? Well this was that in reverse. I didn’t fear Jager before that night, but now I flinch like a battered woman any time a bottle of it is raised in the air.

We eventually met up with the rest of our group: Papa, in all of his grinning glory; a sassy, cougar coworker (“High Heels”); a sassy, cougar customer (“Cowgirl”); and a quiet-but-funny customer who was openly gay (“Turtle”). The only thing anyone seemed to know (or would tell me) about the club we were going to was that Ms. Purple had picked it out. A wise man would have considered that more than enough information with which to draw up a few theories; but a wise man also would not have gotten into a shot-taking contest on an almost empty stomach after drinking scotch for a few hours.

The seven of us squeezed into Ms. Purple’s rented Toyota, Cowgirl sitting on either Papa or Unk’s lap [I just don’t remember anymore] in the backseat, and High Heels sitting on my lap in the front seat. I should probably take this moment to note that High Heels would, several years later, become my manager at my previous employer—more specifically, my team manager, who repeatedly reintroduced me to her husband in St. Petersburg last fall. Back in ’05, we’d worked together for over three years, but really hadn’t spent much time around each other. Now she was in my lap. As unusual as it all was back then, when the memory pops into my head now, it’s flat out surreal. The woman who signed my timesheets and conducted my performance reviews once sat in my lap in the passenger seat of a cramped midsize rental car while I was obliviously screaming towards my drunken fate like Major Kong. Life’s something, ain’t it?

We made a stop on the way to the club…at a sex shop. I was merely a passenger at this point—in both the car and the night in general. Ms. Purple had a specific purpose for stopping, but I (a.) didn’t want to know, and (b.) didn’t ask. …Though I think it involved nipple clamps. The rest of us toured the aisles of dildos and whips like tourists in a fuck toy hedge maze. I’m fairly certain Ms. Purple made a purchase before we left, but… That’s one of the rarely-acknowledged benefits to booze: Selective memory becomes that much easier—and merciful.

When we finally walked into the nightclub, things seemed...dull. It was hazy (could’ve been a smoke machine, could’ve just been my accelerating inebriation—flip a coin) and music was pumping, but that’s about it. There were some people, but if attendance numbers were in the double digits, I’d be shocked. And the chicks that were there…woof. They were rough-looking. They were the face “rough-looking” makes when it smells a really bad smell. They were a train loaded with ugly traveling south at 30 mph colliding head-on with a train loaded with butts that's traveling north at 27 mph. They were…men?

They…were…men…

I tried to process everything I was relearning about the world. To that point in time, I had never been in a gay bar. Mind you, I wasn’t against gay bars, or homosexuality. I’m a cheerleader for gay rights, actually (the more guys that are into other guys, the more chicks there are for me! …oh, and basic human decency, equality, blah, blah, blah). There was a gay bar a couple of blocks from the apartment I lived in at the time, and I always wanted to check it out. But I had no gay pals back home, and I was far too much of a pussy [ironic phrasing] to go in alone.

The people in this establishment fit into one of two categories: either men dressed as women, or men dressed as themselves, their selves being men who had no interest in women. I was in the “men staring at women” category. Make that “woman”; as in Ms. Purple, who was with Turtle at the bar, the both of them laughing their asses off at me.

I knew they were interpreting my expression as me being uncomfortable about being in a gay bar. Keep in mind, my customers—and many of my coworkers—at that time were computer nerds, systems and software programming geeks, etc. A lot of them were nice people, don’t get me wrong; but these were not men and women with varsity letterman jackets collecting dust in their closets. So me being a big, towering, former college athlete, obviously I was in some way homophobic, right?

No, my stare wasn’t about being in a gay bar, it was about someone feeling I needed to be tricked into being in a gay bar. Purple never bothered to ask if I’d be interested in going, she just assumed I wouldn’t be; and, therefore, she conspired to win some kind of comedic victory fueled by self-righteousness. The irony, of course, was that she was being closed-minded by assuming that I was closed-minded. But whatever. I walked over to them and began hacking away at her smugness. “This is awesome! I always wanted to check out a gay bar!” I watched the feeling of satisfaction drain from Purple’s face a bit, before she called to the bartender, “Two shots of Jager!”

Fuck…I forgot she could do that.

I remember at least one more round of shots while we were standing at the bar. Then, at some point after that, I remember standing with Cowgirl, Papa, and Unk as we watched something happening out on the dance floor. What we were watching, I don’t know—thanks again, booze-induced selective memory. Though at that point of the night, my memories aren’t just selective, they’re mostly erased. I was blacked-to-the-out.

It wasn’t even 10:00 pm. *sigh*

I do, for whatever reason, remember stumbling through the hotel hallway, towards the door of my hotel room. Everything for hours before and after that, though, is gone. My alarm somehow went off the next morning, and my Wednesday…well, you’ve already read that part.

While Unk, Purple, and the like had a healthy arsenal of jokes that they threw my way for the rest of that trip, the postscript, on the whole, was fairly tame. Sure I had blacked out—early—at a gay bar with customers and coworkers; but I hadn’t vomited, I hadn’t gotten lost or arrested, and I hadn’t pulled a “Bangkok”. On the whole, those results weren’t bad.

Then, a few weeks later, a new story finally reached my ears. It went like this:

At some point late in the night, I had disappeared. Not for real long, but for long enough for it to be noticeable. Amidst this, High Heels went to the ladies room. When she opened the door, it slammed into someone on the other side. When she leaned into the bathroom, she saw me, standing with Cowgirl, with a guilty, sloppy grin on my face.

How can I say this?…


Let me see if I can put this into perspective for you: I, the most junior person on my team, had just gotten caught making out with an older female CUSTOMER, in the women’s room of a gay club, by a coworker of significantly higher rank who (at that point) had absolutely zero loyalties to me, all while blackout drunk.

You know that unshakeable little touch of paranoia that eats at your soul for the 24 hours immediately after you awake from a bad blackout? Well for the next couple of weeks, I began updating my resume every time senior management walked past my cubicle. I saw something different in High Heels’ eyes when she looked at me. You could say it was newfound respect for my virility, but I’d dated her secretary the year before that—my virility wasn’t on trial. No, this…was power. This was, “I know something that could jeopardize your ability to pay next month’s rent.”

I didn’t relax, really, until a few months later. Cowgirl emailed me for the first time since the San Diego trip. The topic was a work-related issue, but once we’d resolved that our conversation became more casual. Summoning courage, I admitted that I had heard “the story”, and apologized for my actions.

“Oh, no,” she replied, “You don’t need to apologize! I dragged you into the bathroom!”

The Worst

The worst night, ever.

I’m rarely far from random hyperbole. To an extent, it’s just part of the gig. Booze, in those moments when it has hold of you, usually makes things bigger and bolder. And when you’re writing about the moments when booze has had hold of you, well… But I’m also a product of the society in which I live. And in today’s social-media-infused, live-tweeting day-to-day, each new moment is the funniest/saddest/most exciting/profoundest known to mankind. Ever.

But my worst drinking night—or, better yet, nights—ever? That, young Skywalker, is what you call “real talk”.

I began thinking about the topic while writing my hangover post.
Three tales immediately jumped to the forefront in my mind.
None of them has been published in its entirety before now, though certainly not for lack of entertainment value. And, while I’ve had terrible nights that have been broadcast at On the Rocks—like, say, my birthday in 2008—I rank these three higher on the overall list. Maybe that’s because all of them happened back when the therapy that comes from writing about my debacles just wasn’t available. Or maybe, by subconscious tally, I’ve determined these to be the three tales I reference most at parties and other moments with friends. Whatever the reason may be, these are the crème de le crème of my boozing fails.


[Coming Soon...]