"I'm Comin' Home Again"

Homecoming weekend is always a curious affair. When I was still in college, it was just another party weekend. There was really nothing extra-special about it, other than knowing that there would be more people on campus than during a typical weekend. This included recently-graduated friends of mine who were likely to be buying a few rounds at the bar. But in the end, I was guaranteed to be just as drunk and have just as much fun as I did…any other weekend during the school year.

In the first couple of years after I graduated, however, it became the event that it had always been billed as. Being a young alumnus, you’re right in the sweet spot of homecoming partying: You’re still young enough to know most of the kids on campus, and to still be sought after by the girls at the school; but, because you’re slightly older, you can frequent the bars (and have some extra cash in your pocket when you do), you are admired by the younger guys still in school, and you’re really sought after by the younger girls at the school (because you’re supposedly more mature than all of the guys they go to school with—just how silly do you girls feel about that misconception when you finally graduate?). And odds are it is one of the drunkest weekends of your year, now that you actually have responsibilities like work and rent that can eat into your time during the other 51 weekends on the calendar.

After about your 5th year out of college, though, things shift again. Now you’re too old to actually know any of the currently-enrolled students, so drinking on campus is more awkward. You’re still good at the bars, since there’s likely to be quite a few of your fellow “older guys” right there with you. But the girls now see you as less desirable, unless they’ve got gold-digger tendencies or daddy issues.

This past weekend was the 8th Washington & Jefferson College Homecoming that I have attended as an alumnus. T.C., Zach, and I didn’t drive up until Saturday morning, electing instead to go to a friend’s going-away party at Elixir in the South Side on Friday night. Instead of a 48 hour play-by-play, I’ll give you the highlights:

• Our friend, Ryan, turned at one point during the party Friday night to find his mom on the dance floor with Zach. The sheer look of terror that came over him was priceless.
• T.C. does some assistant coach work for one of the area high schools, and came directly to the party from a game. The bar was somewhat
  “upscale,” so how he managed to walk through the door wearing a windbreaker, sneakers, and coach’s shorts is beyond me.
• While he and I stood talking to his sister and her boyfriend, three girls walked past; the girl in trail bumped into me as she walked past, damn near delivering a forearm shiver. T.C. was a little surprised, wondering aloud if she was trying to instigate a fight. “No,” I said, “She just wants attention.” Sure enough, after the three later returned and hit the dance floor, she walked over to us. “Are you going to come dance with us or what?” I assured her that I wasn’t, and when she left T.C. said, “Son-of-a-bitch, you were right.”
• Since I’d driven to Elixir, I planned on pacing myself and going easy throughout the night. Two things worked against this, though: (A.) a bottle of beer cost $4-5, while a gin & tonic cost $6 (again, I’m no math major, but…); (B.) Ashhad showed up, and he can’t stand near a bar without ordering shots—it’s like leaving a young child alone in a room with a fully-stocked cookie jar.
• Ashhad, Zach, and I eventually moved on to Carson City Saloon, and after some beer pong we found ourselves at Mike & Tony’s to close the night. This is a popular South Side gyro shop that has been one of my crew's favorite late-night eateries since 2001. One gyro with everything—hold the sauce—to go, please. Saturday morning I awoke in my bed and, after some thought, texted Zach. “This may sound sacrilegious, but I don’t think I ever ate my gyro last night.” I got up and went out to my car; in the passenger-side footwell sat the crumpled remains of a paper bag and a ball of tinfoil. I stood corrected. I texted an update to Zach, and added, “I’m proud and ashamed all at the same time.”
• Shortly after arriving in Washington (and before drinking anything that day), Zach—still hurting from the night before—asked me to pull over to the side of the road. He hopped out, ran behind some bushes, and pulled the trigger.
• Most of our friends had been tailgating since 9 or 10 a.m., and had set up camp in the parking lot. Zach and I joined them around 1, carrying a case of Miller Lite stadium bottles. We had been there for about 20 minutes when I realized that not far from us stood the mayor of Pittsburgh, who graduated from W&J a couple of years after me (no, that’s not a typo). When we were in school we weren’t tight, but I knew him to see him, and we’re still familiar enough to say “hi” when we run into each other. T.C. and I walked over to do just that, and I said, “So what’ve you been up to? Anything interesting?” “Not much,” he countered. “Just running a major city.”
• I was having a semi-serious discussion with Shannon, when we hit a pause. She cracked a smile and said "I'm HAMMERED right now!"
• Standing at one bar later that night, it struck me that everyone in my immediate vicinity was easily five to six years younger than me. I shot a text to TJ: “I think I’m Wooderson. Son of a…”

Alright, alright, alright…

Holding Down the Fort (Ligonier)

Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

I have to admit, my blogging has been lacking lately. For starters, I haven’t had much spare time at work to type up stories (I may be the last man on earth who doesn’t have a home computer). But even when I have had the rare moment to put anecdote to page, I’ve been light on material—despite having gone to two alcohol-soaked weddings in the last two weeks. I think my friends may be getting wiser as to what they say and do around me, for fear that the whole world will find out their embarrassing exploits—such as passing out on a bathroom floor.

How, then, can your favorite blogger find inspiration to break him out of his slump? Three words: Fort Ligonier Days.

Ligonier, PA is typical small-mountain-town-America. And every year they celebrate the battle that took place there during the French and Indian War. This meant that Saturday night the streets and bars were packed with people, including battle re-enactors in full costume. It’s not every day that you can see someone dressed like George Washington carrying two pitchers of Yuengling away from a bar. So that’s what it was like to live in 1758.

Dupa (who was born and raised in Ligonier) and I spent Saturday night at Joe’s Bar, an area landmark. It’s owned by the family of Dupa’s best friend, who I like to call “The Prince of Ligonier”: his mother is a district judge, and his late grandfather Joe (founder of the eponymous bar) is a local hero and icon. The Prince was bartending that weekend, to help with the heightened customer flow, which made Dupa and I distinguished guests of the Court. Red Bull & vodkas on the double, peasants!

Of course, after about my fifth one, I felt the standard in-body defibrillation moment that comes with downing inordinate amounts of this concoction. “Okay,” I said to The Prince matter-of-factly. “Time to switch to vodka tonics.”

The Prince’s mom was in attendance for a good while, on hand to ensure that no underage drinkers managed to get through the door [Note: Joe’s does not employ an official bouncer at the door; my take on this is that it is the nightlife equivalent to the cliché small town trait of residents not having to lock their front doors]. And she was enjoying her job: for hours she darted through the establishment like a 5’3” ninja, popping up in front of a random teenager here and there who had nervously attempted the adventure of hanging out at a bar. The highlight of her night, she said, was catching one girl—who apparently was trying to cope with the limited seating—sitting inside of the large glass door cooler that typically holds six packs for sale.

Around 11 pm a group of drummers—in full colonial garb—marched into the bar to a drummed cadence, past inebriated cougars getting hit on by guys in their mid 20s, slores waving cigarettes and spilling beer, a pool table, and the door of the men’s room. It was…surreal. They marched into the back of the bar, where displays of Joe’s Bar’s famed animal collection surround you (the rest of the re-enactors had been back there drinking all night). Dupa and I decided to get our pictures taken with them. Some of them found the image of a 6’6” brother posed amongst them amusing, and decided to add to it by putting one of their triangular hats on my head, and giving me one of their jackets to wear. Fort Ligonier pimpin, baby.

Also in attendance was one guy dressed as…Captain Jack Sparrow? Granted, it’s been quite a few years since my last American history class, but I’m having trouble remembering his involvement in the French and Indian War. A part of me wondered if he had just been driving back from an early Halloween party in the next town, saw all of the re-enactors, and decided to hit up another costume party.

The highlight of the night, though, came an hour or so later. I met an attractive young woman of considerable intelligence while standing at the bar. We made small talk for 15 or 20 minutes, exchanging some mutual flirtation. Things seemed to be going swimmingly. And then, during a discussion about politics:

Me: “I really believe Obama is the kind of leader that we need to fix the country.”
Her: “I just don’t feel that way. But my sister is a huge Obama supporter. And so is my fiancé…*blushes* But it’s not like I would be mad if Obama wins or anything.”
Me: *smiling* “So…You have a fiancé?”
Her: “Uhhh…yeah.”
Me: “Ah. Congratulations.”
Her: “Thanks. It’s still kind of new.”
Me: “You weren’t together long before you got engaged?”
Her: *blushing again* “Umm. Like ten years.”

Now, I’m no saint. Anyone who’s read any of my stories that have appeared on this page knows that. But I would like to think that if I had dated someone for 10 years, and then gotten engaged to them, that I wouldn’t be actively flirting with a stranger at a bar. (Unless it was an open relationship, which would just be awesome. I need a Trina Decker in my life. But I digress…) Miss Monogamy left for another bar a few minutes later with her friends, and suggested that Dupa and I meet them. Needless to say, we closed down Joe’s instead.

Dear karma,

Years from now, when I’m engaged and my beautiful fiancée is out of town with her friends…please remember the night of Saturday, October 11, 2008. Thanks.

The D.E.F.I.

Defi And I Have New Heroes

In lieu of any recent stories from us, we offer you our new role models, gentlemen who will be included in the inaugural class of the On The Rocks Hall Of Fame, if and when we ever create such a thing.

Stories courtesy of the Associated Press:

JACKSON, Mo. -- Curtis Lemons was supposed to report for jury duty in a drunk driving case. Instead, according to authorities, the 50-year-old Cape Girardeau man skipped the jury duty so he could drink himself.

Lemons received a summons to appear as a prospective juror in the case. When he didn't show up on Monday, a bailiff called his house. Lemons told the bailiff he was too busy to come to court.

Associate Circuit Judge Scott Thomsen instructed officers to bring Lemons to the courthouse. Deputies say they detected a strong odor of alcohol on him. Lemons was held in custody while the DWI trial went on.

Authorities say Lemons told the judge he had been drinking rum in the morning. Thomsen found Lemons in contempt of court and fined him $250.

PROVIDENCE, R.I. -- A man who state police said had a blood alcohol level more than six times the legal limit when he was arrested in July has pleaded no contest to drunken driving.

As part of a plea deal, Stanley Kobierowski was sentenced Friday to one year probation, a $500 fine, 40 hours of community service and a one-year loss of his driver's license.

The 34-year-old Kobierowski was arrested after driving into a highway message board on Interstate 95. Authorities said he had the highest blood alcohol level ever recorded for anyone in Rhode Island who wasn't dead.

Police said Kobierowski registered a .489, then a .491, breathalyzer tests. The legal limit in Rhode Island is .08.

Nothing to Report?

Saturday was a night I had been looking forward to for quite some time: my boy Chief’s bachelor party. Booze, breasts, and a varsity squad of buddies: a recipe for the perfect “On the Rocks” post, right? A formula, one might say, for the quintessential hilarious-night-of-drinking story?

Only one problem: Alcohol, when consumed in large quantities, seems to cause memory loss. (Was anyone else aware of this? Wait—was I aware of this? *scratches head*)

There are so many parts of Saturday night that are shrouded in a deep, dense fog in my brain that extracting the good stories is almost impossible. I’m fairly confident, however, that in the coming weeks some of that fog will be cleared with the help of my friends. Chief’s wedding is Friday, and I’m sure there will be several anecdotes tossed back and forth during the day that had previously been rinsed away by shots of tequila. There are more tales out there; the sheer amount of alcohol, beer pong, and characters involved guarantees it.

There are at least two, though, that I can provide you with now:


The Party Crasher

The night began at my boy Finn’s home. His basement is set up as a game room, and it opens out into his driveway in back of the house. Games of asshole and beer pong raged inside, and set up outside on the edge of the driveway were two iced-down kegs and a table—on top of which sat fifteen or so pizzas of various topping combinations. You know, just some light refreshments.

After a few hours had passed by, I noticed a guy near the keg talking with one of my friends. I asked another friend, Bobby, who the stranger was. He said, “I don’t know; I think he just walked in.” Apparently “Seth”—if that was indeed his real name—had been walking down the street when he heard the party going on and decided to join the fun. And this was in a very suburban neighborhood, not in the city where a random person coming into the fray wouldn’t be quite so unusual. None of us knew him, he was rolling solo, and he was hammered. Even though he had just arrived, he was already slurring words. Standing next to Finn and his wife, “Genoa,” I decided someone had to do something about it. “[Genoa], this is your place; kick him out!” She looked at me, then over at her 6’1” 260 lb hubby, and said, “Why the f**k are you asking me to do it?!” (The next day at lunch, when the question was once again put to me, I answered her with, “Because I go to the people that are going to get s**t done—and we all know who wears the pants in your household.” She found it hard to argue with my logic.)

A short while later, the party bus came to take us to Mario’s in the South Side. Haze, the best man, was collecting the $40/person fee from each of us as we boarded. We figured that the party fee would prevent Seth from continuing his interloping. But, though he thought hard about it for a moment, he finally handed over the cash to Haze and climbed onto the bus. By the time we had reached Mario’s, I was beginning to think that we weren’t going to get rid of him. Our party filed past the bouncers, who checked our IDs as we did. When Seth’s turn came, however, he stumbled and fell—right into the bouncer.

If you were wondering if there is a surefire way to be denied entry into a bar, this would be just what you’re looking for. I’m not a religious man, but I’d like to think that, if there is indeed a God, it was his hand that nudged Seth toward his fate.

Thanks for the $40 though, Seth. The shots that your donation bought were terrific.


The Morning-After Victim

Sunday morning, Finn’s house was a broken battlefield, complete with fallen warriors everywhere. At around 10 a.m., six of us were gathered in the TV room, nursing our hangovers with SportsCenter and episodes of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.” One of our friends, “Butters,” emerged from the living room where he had been sleeping on the couch. Groaning, he shuffled into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

Ten minutes later, we began to crack jokes as to his activities inside. Thirty minutes later, we yelled, “You okay in there, buddy?” No response. After about an hour, I finally decided to take a peek into the bathroom. I opened the door, and found him curled up on the bathroom floor (completely-clothed, thankfully). Finding him like this, I did what any good friend would do—I laughed my a** off while snapping pictures with my cameraphone (yes, that’s actually him above).

The flashes and laughter awoke him. He sat up, and then crawled out into the TV room before collapsing on the floor. Then, about fifteen minutes later, he got back up onto his hands and knees, and determinedly crawled back into the bathroom. The retching sounds that emanated from within were brutal. When the rest of us finally left to go to lunch, Butters was back on the living room couch. I have yet to hear anything from him since, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he was still laying there.

War is hell.

Lose Yourself ... In This Story

I'm making these extended breaks from On The Rocks far too common, and I apologize. But this time I had a good reason, as Defi alluded to in his last post. Let's just say I recently discovered my soldiers indeed march.

So I got a little throwback for you, but be warned, it's a long one. It goes back to my first days in Appleton, almost six years ago now. This was also right about the time I discovered my knack for getting in good with strip club bouncers and bartenders and earning untold amounts of free cover, unlimited access and hundreds of gallons of booze simply for being ... well, me, I guess.

There's really no downside to such benefits. Sure, every once in a while you have to run to the store for somebody or, in extreme circumstances, fill in at DJ, but for the most part, they're a win-win situation for me.

Unfortunately, part and parcel with those newfound powers came my gift and my curse: my uncanny ability to game strippers.

I discovered this dastardly ability when I first hooked up with Jackie (not her real name, or her stage name, but appropriate given her affinity for whiskey). Jackie was a brunette dancer who was one of the more selective (read: less ho-ish) employees at my regular spot. She and I started dating in the fall.

On Nov. 6, 2002, "8 Mile" was released in theaters. I was looking forward to seeing it. Unfortunately, I also had a minor medical issue at the time - I know what you're thinking, and it had absolutely nothing to do with my genitals, I swear - so I was in some discomfort and on medication that day. Some new friends wanted to go catch the movie in a group, and I invited Jackie. She was bartending at the club that day, but told me she'd be off before the movie started and to come pick her up.

So I cruise by, and she comes out looking all kinds of good: jeans, heels, tight top, just smokin'. She hops in, and I immediately notice she's buzzing. I also hear lots of glass clinking inside her goosedown coat. She turns to me, says "Voila!" and produced six bottles of Smirnoff Ice that she'd boosted from the bar to bring to the movie for the crew. Not exactly a fifth of Absolut, but still cool of her. We roll off to the theater to meet my peoples.

We get there just before the movie started, so the theater's packed. Turns out our group of eight or 10 has to break into couples to find seats. She and I find seats and she proceeds to hammer through the coolers all by herself.

I'd mentioned she was already tipsy when I picked her up. By the time we walked out of the theater, she was positively drunk. At one point, she was piggybacking me across the parking lot.

My friends decide they want to head to a bar downtown. Jackie and I agree, and jump in my car to meet them there. However, once we got to the door, Jackie realized she didn't have her ID on her. She says she can head down the street to a bar where she knows the bouncer and thus won't need it. I offer to go with her, but she insists I stay with my friends. But I'm not a complete asshole; this girl was already wobbling and she was hot. I wasn't going to let her loose in a nightlife district on a Saturday night by herself. So we stroll down to the spot.

Park Central is one of those "six bars in one" type places. It's a big building, two stories, with central hallways and multiple bars leading off them on each floor. Jackie announces we're going to the karaoke bar - lucky me - so we trudge upstairs. At this point, I'm tired, in pain and developing a headache. Yet I soldier on.

We get a table in the karaoke bar and chill for a while, her with a drink and me with water. She's yammering about doing a song onstage. At some point, I doze off, head dropping down to my chest. I come to a bit later, I don't know how long, and notice Jackie's missing. I figure she's gone to the bathroom and doze back off again.

A bit after that, I wake up again to see a bouncer picking up her coat and purse from her chair. I say, "Yo, that's my girl's stuff, dog." He looks at me and offers this gem: "The police said I had to come get her coat."

I look around and see no police. The bouncer points toward the central hallway. I walk out there to see Jackie in handcuffs, cursing out a group of three officers and alternately threatening to sue them and kick their asses. I walk up very slowly and ask a policewoman talking to another bouncer what's going on.

Apparently, Jackie saw some girl at the bar she had some kind of beef with and threw a drink in her face, then slapped her, although Jackie claimed the girl shoved her first. Brilliant. When the cops show, they run her name and discover she has a warrant for missing a court date. Even more brilliant. The bail is $300, and Jackie only has $150 in her pocket.

By now, it's after 1 a.m. I tell the cop I'll be at the station with the rest of the money. After hitting the ATM, I head over to the department. (For those who don't know, I HATE the police. Not in a "it's cool, it gets you street cred" kinda way, but in a HATE way. For good reason.) I'm almost doubled over in pain. I fill out the paperwork. Jackie eventually comes strolling out, a bit more sober, eyes streaked from crying. She's still threatening to sue everyone.

I indicate we should leave without saying anything. As we walk outside, she's still running off at the mouth, then suddenly says, "What, you don't have anything to say? You don't have my back?" I quietly and politely observe that getting into a barfight when you've got a warrant isn't all that smart.

"Oh, well, f*** you!! Just shut up!!" She storms off in the other direction. After 2 a.m. on a November night in central Wisconsin, in heels. Ten miles from her house.

Once again, the 1 percent of me that's chivalrous overrides the other 99 percent. I get to the car and drive down the block to where she's walking, roll down the passenger window and tell her to get in. She's ignoring me. I pull into a driveway to cut her off and ask her to just get in so we can go home and go to sleep. She stops, looks at me for a minute, then gets in.

To get home, I had to take the main drag through Appleton's downtown, College Avenue. At this point, it's fairly empty because the bars are closed. It's crawling with cops looking for drunk drivers and the like. The speed limit is 35 mph.

I'm rolling down College at a perfect 35 mph, not saying anything, per Jackie's request. Of course, she's absolutely insane when she's drunk, which I was about to find out.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" she asks. "You can say something." I reply that she had just requested that I shut up. "Well, you can at least get my back." Once again I reply, very politely, that I can't get her back when she does something as stupid as what she'd done, and that bailing my girl out of jail at 3 a.m. while I'm sick and in pain is not high on my list of fun things to do.

Her response was to go completely and utterly batsh*t.

I wish I could repeat what she was yelling at me, but I'm not even entirely sure it was English. She's ranting and raving and flailing her arms around and screaming and jumping in the seat and DID SHE JUST OPEN HER F***ING DOOR?!?!?!?

Why yes, yes she did. And she was now trying to jump out of my 1996 Neon that was rolling along at a brisk 35 mph on a four-lane, well-lit road with half the local police department currently patrolling it. I am not making this up.

With my right hand, I reach out and grab for something, anything that will keep me from catching a vehicular manslaughter case. I get a good hold of her goosedown and yank her back in the car, HARD. The door slams shut as she gets pulled back in. She turns to me and continues to flip out, only now she's swinging her arms at me.

Please realize, I'm still trying to drive in a proper manner lest Johnny Law take notice of my car. So my eyes are on the road. All I see is blurry threatening movement very near to my face. I figure she's taking a swing at me. I reflexively swing my right arm up to block the expected blow.

Except she wasn't swinging at me, she was just flailing her arms. And my intended block became an unintended uppercut that glanced off her jaw.

FREEZE

She stops cold. Stops screaming, stops moving, stops everything as she stares at me with eyes the size of golf balls and her jaw hanging loosely. Meanwhile, my testicles are trying to crawl back into my abdomen as I ponder the fact that her brother has served time in prison and is so casually violent that I once saw him stroll across a bar and punch a stranger straight in the face, breaking his nose, for what he, the brother, said were inappropriate looks at his sister. (I guess the fact that his sister was a stripper, and thus depended on inappropriate looks to pay the rent, never occurred to him. But what more can you expect from a guy who hangs out a strip club where his sister works?)

"You hit me." "No, I didn't. I - " "You just f***ing hit me in the face." "Jackie, no, I - "

Cue more insanity.

I drive another block before finding an empty parking lot across from a pizza restaurant to pull into. I park and lean over and try to gently hug Jackie to calm her down. She ain't havin' it. She breaks free and gets out of the car still screaming, and my Midwestern and Northern peoples know how sound carries through cold air. She heads over to a bus stand and sits down to wait for the bus. At 3:30 a.m.

I get out of the car and walk over, trying to reason with her. At this point, I just want to go home. I tell her to get in the car. She doesn't have to look at me, talk to me, acknowledge I exist. Just get in the car. Jackie refuses and screams at me some more, right as two guys are locking up the pizza restaurant across the street. They look over their shoulder to see a pretty girl screaming at some random guy and telling him to stop hitting her.

Guess what kinda reaction that got.

I see them start to walk toward us and consider that leaving this crazy trick might be my best course of action. Right then, however, she comes to her senses and realizes it's about 20 degrees out. So she starts walking down the street in the opposite direction of me to begin what I figured was the 10-mile stroll home. No, really.

I get back in the car before the pizza twins make it over and drive down the street the way Jackie was walking. I pull into the first sidestreet ahead of her, pull a Uey and wait for her to walk by, pleading out the window with her. "Just get in the car, I'll take you straight home." She walks by without even looking at me.
I figure there's a 50-50 chance I'm a dead man once her brother hears about me "hitting" her, but if I leave her out in the cold in the middle of the night, that knock my chances of survival to zero. So I pull out again, go up to the next sidestreet and wait.

This process repeats itself a couple more times before she finally relents and gets in the car. I drive her home without a word between us, and she gets out without even looking at me.

The next morning, as I'm calculating whether or not to buy a gun and whether or not that would be enough to stop Jackie's brother, I get a call from another bartender at the club. Turns out Jackie talked to her that morning and told her what all had happened. However, since Jackie had sobered up by then, she had returned to her normal, sweet disposition and told a fairly accurate version of what happened: she'd started a fight, I hadn't hit her, I was trying to be a gentleman, I was right, etc. On top of that, she had left $150 with this friend for me to cover the half of her bail I had paid.

Needless to say, that night pretty much ended our relationship. Worst part? I never even got to hit it.

Which is why when I ran into her again four years later, I made sure my 1 percent of chivalrousness was rewarded. With interest. :)

The Tequila Willie’s Shootout

Things have been a bit boring around here lately. Only one post in the past two weeks, and that was just me musing on all of the unimpressively impressive ways I’ve voyaged into tawdry, unfulfilling, often hedonistic “relationships” that have added no meaningful value to my life—aside from some juvenile locker room bragging rights.

*leaves to go read his last post again…giggles*

“Ohhh…me.”

So aside from that poetry, things at On the Rocks have been sparse. TJ has been AWOL down in Tampa [not entirely true: he’s got some stories from the last couple of weeks, but they’re not exactly fodder for the page]. And, due to financial responsibilities, I’ve restricted my—to quote my dear old mum’s comment yesterday—“carousing”. As a result, all around the blogosphere there are emoticon smileys shedding pixilated tears into half-empty beer mug jpegs.

Or, you know…people have just read something else.

To ease your pangs of longing, I’ll give you a quick story from several years ago.

On a Friday night in 2002, some friends and I were hanging out at Tequila Willie’s in the Strip District’s Boardwalk complex. The Boardwalk was a series of clubs located on the shore of the Allegheny River, which were connected by a boardwalk that featured outdoor bars and boat docks. At the time, it was a thriving spot for nightlife in Pittsburgh. Willie’s was relatively new, and was always packed on weekends—especially on Fridays, when they had dollar drinks from 10 to 12. Ah, the dollar drink special. Some people mourn the passing of the $1.20 gallon of gas; I mourn YOU.

We arrived at around 10 p.m. after sufficient pregaming at my boy BlahBlahBlah’s Mt. Washington home. We sat down at the bar and started ordering cups of booze (rum & Coke for my boy, bourbon & Coke for me) two at a time. Never one to waste an opportunity to challenge someone at the game of “Drink,” BBB started taunting me for being behind by a cup.

Me: *chugs* “Oh yeah? F**k you! Bartender! Two more!”
BBB: *snickers, finishes his drink* “Me too!”
Me, in my head: “Wait…”

I squeezed down my 10th as he polished off number 11, and declared a cease-fire. “Okay, time for beer.” It was, after all, almost midnight; the special would be ending soon. And, as all established drinkers know, if you spend most of your evening throwing back hard liquor, you have to soften the blow with beer at the end of the night. You all know the rhyme: “Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear; beer before liquor, never been sicker.” BBB, for certain, was well aware of this time-tested proverb. But instead of agreeing with me, he looked at his watch, pulled out a fiver, and said, “Two more each!” I wanted to choke him, but I saw three or four of him in front of me, and I felt outnumbered. Two more bourbon & Cokes (which, after a couple of hours of tipping the bartender, were only “Coke” in name and not in spirit) were put away, along with my hopes of the night ending well.

Our friend Mere, who was the DD that night, later told us that at around 1 a.m., BBB, our friend Billy, and I were standing side-by-side-by-side at the upper-level railing, looking out onto the dance floor. BBB’s eyes were closed, my head was in my hands, and Billy—who was wearing a cast on his leg and walking with crutches—stood in place, doing all of his dancing with his upper body, arms gleefully shooting up to the sky. I don’t remember that, but I do remember this: my digestive system was angry at me, and was about to take its revenge for bourbon & Cokes 11 and 12. I walked, ever more hurriedly, towards the bathroom. About halfway there, I covered my mouth, to little benefit. Vomit sprayed out from between my fingers as I broke into a full-on run towards the men’s room. I reached a stall and finished the job, and then washed up in the sink while the bathroom attendant chuckled (like he didn’t see it every night?). As I walked back out into the club, avoiding eye contact with anyone nearby who may have been caught in my drive-by, I fully expected to be greeted by bouncers looking to remove me. It turns out, however, that they were busy.

When I got back to where my friends had been, only Mere remained. Before I could ask, she said, “Come on—[BBB] just got kicked out.” While I was gone, he had meandered off into the crowd in search of a beer, and gotten into a shoving match with a 5’5” d bag. After being separated by bouncers, the guy tossed something (by some accounts a shoe) at BBB, who then tried to go after him. Security removed him—though, at 6’4” 260, they didn’t do it easily—and Mere was collecting the rest of us to leave. We got to her car and, in an attempt to pinpoint his location in a very large parking lot, I called BBB.

Me: “Where are you right now?”
BBB: “I don’t know…I’m by a big f***in light!”

During the ten minute drive to his house, Mere twice had to pull over so that BBB could lean out of the door and throw up. The next morning, I awoke in the guestroom to him shaking me as he stood next to the bed. Startled, I responded, “What??”

“Hey,” he said with a big, clueless grin. “So what happened last night?”

Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Marcus

One day last week, while I went through my standard morning routine of brushing teeth and shaving before work, my mind wandered off to some of the more fulfilling moments in my life. The ones that have often taken place in dimly-lit nightclubs where music is pumping, alcohol is spilling, and young women are making Susan B. Anthony and Angela Davis cringe. Then I remembered the conversation with Hollywood that I’d had the night before. As we discussed a drunken story from my weekend, I had offered, “When I’m drunk, I think I’m irresistible.”

Now as I stood in front of my mirror, attempting to escape (if only mentally) the daily 7 am tedium, I gave some deeper thought to that comment. It’s a common—and, more often than not, justified—belief that alcohol makes you bolder when it comes to the opposite sex. As I two-stepped through my highlight reel of memories, I realized just how much bolder it has made me at times. They don’t call it “liquid courage” for nothing.

An attractive girl walks through McFadden's on a crowded Friday night in 2007, and accidentally bumps into our intoxicated protagonist near the bar. He looks at her and smiles. Instead of admonishing her clumsiness, he grabs the waist of the pretty stranger. They begin dancing in the very spot, grinding on each other hungrily like two unattended teenagers at the prom. The song ends, as does their dance.

Him: I’m [The D.e.f.i.].
Her: Alexis*.
Him: Alexis, what would you do if I let you suck on my tongue?

Without hesitation, the shy lass pulls him into an impromptu makeout session.

Firstly: Yes, that all actually happened as written. Chief, Haze, and Tony are all my witnesses. Alexis [*I have absolutely NO clue what her name was; I had forgotten it by the next morning] continued on to her original destination after a few minutes of tongue-wrestling. An hour later I spotted a random girl—or, at least, the blurry outline of a girl—nearby, and said, “Alexis?” When she shook her head confused, I resigned, “You’re not the girl I was just making out with, are you?”

Secondly: Yes, my life is heavily influenced by Castor Troy.

Do I always end up with the girl and/or her phone number? Nope. Am I always as suave (stop laughing!) as I was that night in McFadden’s? Hardly. But between sober and twisted, the contrast in my demeanor and approach is stark, to say the least. I go from Clark Kent fumbling with his words and glasses, to Superman…fumbling with his words and glass. But, you know, in a more charming way.

• Sober? I pass by quietly with a smile. Drunk? “You’re really tall.”
• When sober, I respond to the news that a girl has read this blog with something like, "Oh really? What did she think?" After drinking, the first thing out of my mouth is, "How badly does she want me?"
• Sober Me, to Tony: “You are NOT going to tell girls I’m mentally-challenged just to start a conversation.” Drunk Me, about an hour later: “Yeah, do it. I can make it work.” (And I did—hi , Hannah.)
• Sober Me is annoyed by promotions girls passing out shirts and trinkets that no one really wants; Drunk Me livens up their night by making witty remarks about his new flashing Bacardi pin, while he adjusts his new Bacardi hat.
• Sober Me hates the fundamental principle of a strip club (why spend money on a girl you can’t have sex with?); Drunk Me wins lap dances and chills in clubs without even realizing a dancer is sitting in his lap.
• Sober, I hang out with a beautiful senorita in a respectful manner. Drunk, I maul her in front of her coworkers on a couch in the VIP (I’m still amazed she didn’t slap my face and never talk to me again).
• Sober, I remain an engaging, professional presence around attractive female clients. Blacked out? I end up in the women’s restroom in a club, against the door, frantically making out with one when a coworker opens said door into my back.
• When I’m sober and a girl tells me she’s married, I curse in my head and give up any hope of hooking up with her. When I’m drunk, I end up having sex with her in a hotel stairwell while her hubby sleeps in their room down the hall.

And lest any girls out there begin to feel a high and mighty streak coming on, let me point out that your gender is not immune to the “altered ego.” About a year ago, I was at McFadden’s again, this time for TD’s birthday. A girl struck up a conversation with me, but as I didn’t find her attractive, I gave the time-honored “I have a girlfriend” line. She then spent the next hour or so trying to convince me to cheat on my fictitious significant other. She even went to the extreme of writing the following on a bar napkin, and then slipping it into my pocket:

“If you’re ever in the mood to try something different, call me!
Karen xoxo
412-xxx-xxxx”

(Once again, I don’t remember her real name. And no, I never called. But I do admire her moxie, even if it didn’t come naturally.)

I say all of this to analyze and discuss, not to brag (ok, I’m doing it a little to brag). The stakes aren’t always as low as a quick slap & tickle. When drunk, I’ve told lots of girls that they’re exactly the type that I could fall in love with (if I did and you haven’t heard from me since…sorry ladies). But, once when I was deeply in love—quite possibly the one and only time that I’ve actually been in love in the first 29 years of my life—with one particular girl, I couldn’t muster up the courage to tell her so during the sober hours, when it counted. Come to think of it, I didn’t do much better of addressing it when I was drunk, either. One of my most profound alky blunders led to our friendship being more or less demoted to an awkward pleasantness. Over time, I’ve slowly begun to beat myself up less and less for the opportunity I blew. She has since married, and I wish her the best.

Guess you can chalk at least one up for Dr. Jeckyll.