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Drunken Recollection… The Empire Snuggies Back

Posted on April 22, 2009 by sgottahurt

In the middle of the night, a strange cough – that sounded distinctly male – startled me awake. I was passed out in a queen-size bed with my cousin Steve. We were in a hotel in New York City recovering from a long day of travelling and a longer night of drinking.

…And we were each wearing a Snuggie.

EPISODE V
THE EMPIRE SNUGGIES BACK

The pub crawl on which the trip was focused was starting at noon. It was ten when we started moving. Steve kept mentioning how well he felt; I kept quiet about how much I was not. We had set our sights on getting back to East Village by noon, but our first mission was to stop at the store to buy a vital item.

Steve called them safety pins; I referred to them as diaper pins. Steve thought we could find them at Staples; I thought that was funny. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure if they were still made. Was there a need for diaper pins anymore? (Safety pins? Maybe.) And why did we need them? We each had grown fond of our Snuggies and didn’t want to ruin them. (Oh, and we ended up finding some at Walgreen’s. They weren’t by the baby supplies, but amazingly, condoms were. Hmm.)

We had a plan to carry the three Snuggies we possessed in a backpack, and to don them as required (the third was Mike’s – another friend that was coming in from DC for his birthday). It was New York though, and we probably could have worn them the entire way from Midtown, but… well, I don’t have a clever excuse. I guess we weren’t 100% convinced the Snuggie Pub Crawl was real, and didn’t want to be left out in the cold heat (it was such a nice day… 70+ degrees).

Our first stop was the sign-up location. We had purchased four tickets in advance (even though we thought it might not be real we used credit card information on the web… go figure), and on the train ride over, Steve verified the first bar stop on those four tickets. When we arrived at the sign-up, Steve checked his pockets.

“I have some bad news.” Apparently, somewhere between checking them on the subway and walking to this bar, the printed up sheets fell out and blew away. We weighed our options. We thought of alternatives. They guy told us we needed tickets, and we didn’t want to have to purchase them again. Luckily, he accepted viewing the receipts on my iPhone, gave us four tickets and four cups (Tim from Episode IV would be also joining us), and we arrived at our first official spot:

Bar None: The Fun Begins

Now properly attired in our blankets with sleeves and with full crew in tow, the drinking began. The three of them were off in a mad dash, but I was limping. Mike put it best:

The days that start off slow very often end in a hurry.

Now I’ll let some pictures do the talking.

Needless to say – some drinks were poured, some drinks were spilled, some conversation was had, and the Yankees got blown out by the Indians! All-in-all, the crawl was a success. But the night was not yet finished…

———————————————————————–

Over the course of the day, I had received information about a secret place. The specifications were these:

It was a hot dog joint in Manhattan.
This hot dog joint had a “secret bar” located within it.
To access this “secret bar” you had to enter a phone booth and pick up the receiver to enter.
The location I was texted stated: 113 St Marks Pl

Here’s where my hubris caused an issue (and maybe drinking… maybe). I thought I understood the lay the island, and I took the location to mean “113 St. @ Marks Place”… not what it said. And the little torn brochure map I carried with me cut off around 110 St. at the the top, so how could I be wrong? Birthday boy Mike passed out at Tim’s place (near East Village), and Steve, Tim, and I made our drunken way out to the fictional 113 St. and Marks Place.

The taxi driver didn’t even correct us, and brought us to 113 St. and Broadway, way up on the west end. As I approached the waterfront, I stumbled into a closing bakery.

“Excuse me, do you know where Marks Place is?”

The confused baker answered, “He probably lives down by the river.”

As we brewed and stewed and reviewed my mistake, something caught my eye down the road. It wasn’t a wasted trip after all! This is where we had a late night burger before returning to home base (to pass out in our dirty Snuggies in a queen-size bed):

"Doo doo doo doo, doo doo-doo-doo..." - Suzanne Vega / "Tippy toes, tippy toes, tippy toes!" - George Costanza

Drunken Recollection… A Canadian, A T-Shirt, A.I., And Some Bars

Posted on April 17, 2009 by sgottahurt

It’s been awhile since I’ve had a Drunken Recollection. It’s not so much that I have no Recollection. It’s moreso that I haven’t been Drunken (or I give it all up to Twitter – damn!)

This past night was an odd collection of Items to Note:

Note 1) Our live trivia host sounded identical to Norm MacDonald.

How cool would it be if the pic on the mug was holding a picture of Norm holding a mug?

And that wasn’t a bad thing. It was simply strange, because the guy looked more like this:

Not to be confused with Kris Kross.

Note 2) There was a guy that was very proud of his t-shirt that read, “My Giveadamner Is Broken.”

I couldn’t find the exact t-shirt he had, but there are plenty of varities out there. Apparently, I could have cared less, so I guess my giveadamner was broken, too.

Note 3) The American Idol judges saved someone?

This was playing in the background on the TV, so I have an excuse. Okay, I really don’t have an excuse because I watched the show the day before, and I thought local-yokel Matt Giraud didn’t perform that great.

More "grating" than "great."

Albeit, I would listen to him for 100 years before listening to Adam Lambert sing Born to Be Wild ever again. Or anything, for that matter. (I hope Allison wins, or maybe even Anoop!)

Note 4) CBGB stood for Country, Blue Grass, & Blues?

ZOMG! It's closed!

CBGB’s, as far as I knew, was the place where hardcore punk was born, not country, blue grass, and blues?

This topic brought up conversation about the Fillmore in San Francisco, and how there’s one here in Detroit since Live Nation gobbled up the State Theater and renamed it.

I tried bringing up the historic place in Detroit, where groups like the MC5 got their start, but no one knew. So I had to research it.

Found it:

ZOMG! It's abandonned!

I was thinking of the Grande Ballroom.

………

That’s all I got. I already mentioned my giveadamner’s broken.

Drunken Recollection… Supercalifrag-Religion-Expialidocious

Posted on April 8, 2009 by sgottahurt

Religion would not seem to be a great topic of conversation while imbibing libations, but in my group of friends… well, you can only tell so many bathroom horror stories.

Since all of us (pretty much) were born and raised Catholics, all of us (pretty much) are no longer. So topics about what we are, where we’ll go, and how many blue cars there are come up often. One of the common ones – which bands are religious and claim/pretend not to be.

Recently, it was brought up about this band, and this album, and the song Shine:

Whoa... heaven let your light shine down.

Does it mean they are religious? Quite the opposite. From their Wikipedia page:

Ed Roland was reading Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead and came across the phrase “collection of souls.” Although author Ayn Rand actually uses the phrase in a negative connotation, using the “collective soul” as a threat to the main character’s sense of individualism, Ed is quick to point out, “…we’re not preaching Ayn Rand, objectivism, egoism, or anything…we just dug the name…” and “it [the band’s name] could’ve come out of a Motorcycle Magazine.”

There have been other bands we’ve accused, such as Vertical Horizon (because their name describes a cross, but they seem like a basic college band), The Fray (made up of non-proselytizing Christians), Lifehouse (started as Christian band called Blyss, but they’re no longer that way) , and Switchfoot (name comes from surfing, but they have played Christian rock concerts). It’s interesting that none of them claim to be 100% Christian Rock bands (because how else could they sell to the masses, so to speak).

I just think they’re afraid to be associated with this kind of stuff:

(via the incredible Everything is Terrible)

And in the same way, could I say I enjoyed their music if they were considered CCM (Contempory Christian Music)?

Why OHIO? Why not YMCA?

Drunken Recollection… More Or Less Than Jake

Posted on March 22, 2009 by sgottahurt

Let me begin with this: last night I saw Less Than Jake in concert at St. Andrew’s Hall in Detroit, and I. Had. A. Blast.

It was quite possibly one of the best concerts I’ve been to in a long time, and I’m pretty sure it can be attributed to going with my brother, Scott, and my cousin, Steve, the fact that I’ve been a fan of LTJ since their Losing Streak album came out in 1996, and lots and lots of draft beer.

I swore to try to remember as much of the highlights as possible. So here I go:

We started at the casino. Scott and Steve had been drinking prior to, and I was playing catch-up (I think Steve was playing mustard). Scott was recounting how at one concert he was hit in the head with a full water bottle and got knocked out for a bit. This will play out later.
Having only one phone between us, we decided we should make our way to the show so as not to miss LTJ. We got there in time to see the Flatliners (not the Julia Roberts/Kiefer Sutherland pic). We were glad not to miss any of the main act, but we wished we could have gambled more. Especially once I realized they had Star Wars penny slots. May the force be with the 30-line spin!
We laughed at a woman wearing Mom Jeans and her man that looked like Tom Cruise circa The Firm. Steve would end up befriending them and giving them high fives later, but still…
I thought of a pickup line. Then I thought it might work as a pickup line to ask if the pickup line would work as a pickup line. I was going to ask one girl but her man came back. So I turned to another girl who was way too crossed-eyed to be so snotty in my opinion, and I said, “I heard your brother’s the drummer in the band.” Her response, “If my brother was in the band, I’d be backstage, duh. But nice try on the pickup line.” Steve returned from the restroom or a beer run, and he heard the ending. He thought I asked about the line, but I informed him that I just used it as is.
A gaggle of older dudes (my age) started moshing at the back during the second opening act, which was the more more accessible band called the Expendables. One dude bumped me more than once which caused me to spill beer on Scott’s phone. I turned to face them and the dude’s friend apologized. What I said to appease him, I want to put on t-shirts:

: Like this, but better… not much better, though.

Also, the dude that made me spill my beer wanted to get punched in the face… he told me so. I said I would, but he had to punch me too, kinda like a Rocky/Apollo Creed freeze frame kind of thing. His friend told us to wait until after the concert. I agreed.
Once LTJ started, the mosh pit was incredible. Being one of the taller guys, I’m usually asked to lift people to body surf, but not as many people were willing to for some reason. At the end of the regular show, I decided to go. The bouncer that flipped me over told me I was too big to be doing this. I agreed.
When the encore was in full swing, some of the kids that helped me up before wanted me to do it again. I told them I was yelled at last time, which only spurned them on more. So I went up again, and the bouncer repeated the fact that I was too big to be doing this. If I did it again, I was going to get kicked out. I didn’t go back by those other kids again.
It was about this time that Steve was high-fiving Tom Cruise and Mom Jeans. Scott had been hit in the head, but by something other than a water bottle. This little kid appeared out of nowhere as the main floor cleared, and he was picking up who-knows-what off the floor. I saw the friends of the dude I was supposed to punch, but they lost him. They informed me that if I saw him, I should swing for his right eye, because his left eye was already bruised. I agreed.
Scott was going to sleep in the car while Steve and I would gamble more. We parted ways at the garage. As we were wandering around in the casino, we ran into Scott. He couldn’t find the car. It was amazing to stumble across each other because only Scott had a phone. Lucky!
I lost ten bucks in the Star Wars penny slots. I would have only lost five, but a woman asked me to watch her spot so she could run to the restroom. I only had thirty cents left, so I threw in another five. More or Less Than Jake, it was a good night.

Drunken Recollection… Drips Ahoy!

Posted on March 16, 2009 by sgottahurt

There has been a Drunken Recollection I’ve been meaning to get to for awhile, but the moment has passed and the recollection is fuzzier than it ever was. My notes on the matter:

Frois grois was typed as a note in my phone, which is actually foie gras… it was a conversation I had with my sister, Tammie, about how ducks and geese are force-fed to fatten up their livers. I never heard of it, but apparently it’s getting banned in various states courtesy of animal activists. I have no opinion or witty quip on the matter now – if I did then, consider it “pissed away.”
Another thing my sister brought up was an artist she knows that wrote the saying, “War leads to Poverty, Poverty leads to Peace, Peace leads to Greed, Greed leads to War.” Man, were we in a bummy mood that night.*
The only light highlight was a comment from my observant sibling. On Friday, I missed out on homemade macaroni and cheese at my old grade school because they ran out. On Sunday, I missed hanging out with an old friend downtown at a place that serves the best homemade macaroni and cheese. Tammie said, “This was your Mac and Cheese Denial weekend.”

Now onto the most current D.R. It occurred at a private boat club in Wyandotte, where the usual crew set out to play an exclusive game of trivia. There were cash prizes to be had – $50 for 1st, $30 for 2nd, and $10 for 3rd.

I arrived first, and its location reminded me of a scene in a movie where people that need to exchange a suitcase full of money, a nuclear warhead, or “whatever’s-in-the-trunk” would meet.

Inside, I had to knock on the port door to be let in. Then I had to sign a book. All the old regulars surrounded the bar, and all they served was beer in cans that had that faint odor of old ice. I ordered my can and sat my can at the table near the window overlooking Lake Erie.

The others arrived and we decided to split into two teams (the better to win more money – which we did, natch!) We quickly learned that the regulars weren’t too fond of us being there, and, oh yeah – there was a certain spot at the bar you had to order from. The bartender could look right at you standing anywhere else and he’d look through you.

We ended up drinking enough to build a beer can pyramid, a.k.a. a beeramid, which made the regulars mad. We each walked out with an extra five bucks each and our tab paid back. All-in-all, I will never return there again. Maybe.

In closing, I also learned that cenosillicaphobia meant “fear of an empty beer glass” and that I am cenosillicaphobic.

Not pictured: our beeramid. This is based on a true story.

*Okay, I was completely (well not completely) off on the quote. It’s from a folk song and her fiancé’s uncle wrote it down and framed it:

ALL IN A NUT SHELL

War begets poverty
Poverty peace
Peace begets wealth
Wealth beget pride
Pride is war’s ground
War begets poverty

So the world goes round

Drunken Recollection… Dressed To Kill (This Is A Funny Title… Trust Me)*

Posted on March 7, 2009 by sgottahurt

At night at the bar does not always provide teachings, but last night, I learned two things:

Sometimes, to get the girl, a guy’s gotta wear a zip-up fleece and corduroy khakis. I’m not a zip-up fleece and corduroy khaki kinda guy, so I would never get the pointy shoe and $100 blue jeans girl – not that I would want to. Introduce me to the girl in Target jeans and Keds anytime.
Is this not possibly one of the greatest movies of all time?!
I just ordered it on DVD, so I’ll be sure to let you know. Brian DePalma made this in 1974, a year before Sisters and two before Carrie. It played on a background TV out of earshot, behind the couple from Hell Hell Bean. I’m still not sure which display was more frightening.

*check out #18 on this list

Drunken Recollection… Bible Thumping, Veggie Trumping, And Movie Pumping

Posted on March 4, 2009 by sgottahurt

Some of the conversations the crew and I have had over brews lately make me feel like I should be running my sister’s sister-site, SomethingKnew. On her page, she goes over all the new things she learns every day – mine are things I learn over every beer.

Which Testament of the Bible has more books (at least according to what us Roamin’ Catholics were taught)? We honestly had no idea, but courtesy of the TripleDoubleU on my new iPhone, there are 46 books in the Old Testament vs. 27 books in the New Testament. The number I have heard of from both? Maybe 30 (I didn’t feel like counting). The number I have read? Zero.
Carotene is found in carrots. Carotene? Carrots! Is there bananatene in bananas? Does Ovaltine come from ovals (sorry about the Seinfeld rip)? Perhaps teenatene is what causes youngsters to turn emo (because it’s like the stuff in onions that makes you cry)? Okay, I’m done.
Teenatene was first discovered by German scientists.
What is the longest running film series? I didn’t want to include James Bond because I figured it was automatically the longest at 22 films. Research lead me to this: a lot people argue about this. Some consider the length to start from the first in the series; some count every incarnation. Many webheads reference different foreign film series that are unknown to me, so I’ve decided the second longest series is this:

Part 14 will be “roaring” into stores this year.

And the third longest is this:

Part 10 will be “pulling your strings” soon!

(Friday the 13th could be argued for hitting 12 films, but that series is dead to me.)

Drunken Recollection… Politically Incorrect Answer

Posted on February 25, 2009 by sgottahurt

Last night at trivia, we blew it. We blew it big time. Out of a possible 73 points, we had 65 – and that’s a rarity (high 50’s are usual). We could have actually scored higher if I would have went with my gut instincts of Applebee’s (“Where did Plaxico Burress say he shot himself?”) and goat (“From what animal does cashmere wool come from?”), as opposed to Denny’s and sheep.

But the last question… it’s all political correctness’ fault.

Prior to President Barack Obama, who was the last African-American to be recognized as Time Magazine’s Man Person of the Year?

Person of the Year? As opposed to alien?

We put: Nelson Mandela.

We even thoughtIdi Amin.

We didn’t think of this guy, because we didn’t go back in time that far:

mlktime

But in reality, African-American has become so synonymous with Black in this country, we didn’t even consider the American part.

Oh well. We didn’t win even though we were in first place before the final question (you wager your points à la Final Jeopardy). But I did steal a cool NFL glass from the bar. It had all the team logos covering it. Suckas!*

*KARMA SIDENOTE: When I was dropped off at home, I realized my wallet was missing. I figured I had left it at the bar. Since I planned on taking the glass pretty early in my drinking, I focused mostly on that task, and found it fitting I abandoned my Billabong billfold at the scene of the crime. Turns out I dropped it in my friend’s car. But for a second, I learned my lesson.

Drunken Recollection… When Someone Offers You A Free Piano, You Take It!

Posted on February 22, 2009 by sgottahurt

I was watching the first episode of “How I Met Your Mother” and there’s a scene where Robin (Cobie Smulders) quotes (what they consider) an obscure line from “Ghostbusters.”

The line, courtesy of Winston Zeddemore (Ernie Hudson):

Ray, when someone asks you if you’re a god, you say “YES”!

For whatever reason, it caused a flash in my brain pan of a conversation I had with my cousin Steve last night. He was telling me about a Craigslist entry he read. In it, someone was giving away an upright piano for free. The catch: you had to come pick it up. I asked why he hadn’t contacted the sellergiver-awayer and he said he had no place to put it, being stuck (for the mean time) back at home. My response:

Steve, when someone offers you a free piano, you take it!

It could have waited in the garage. It didn’t need to even be playable. He has an old NBA Jam coin-op arcade system in the living room. The upright piano could go right next to that.

They go together like pianos and coin-op.

And this is one situation where I practice what I preach. When I had the chance to get a free microfiche machine, I took it!

Just in case a dying man hands me microfilm and tells me, "Don't let them find this," I can see what "this" is.

Drunken Recollection… Flying Bags, Trashing Toilets, Saving Bathrooms, And Other Weird Thoughts

Posted on February 20, 2009 by sgottahurt

Sometimes things you enjoy can get ruined by the mere fact that someone points out the obvious to you, well-enough is not left alone, or something becomes cliché about it. Examples:

One episode of South Park lampooned Family Guy and pointed out the show makes pointless jokes that have no basis or bearing on the plot. It sounds highbrow, but it ruined Family Guy for me.
Matrix 2 and 3, Pirates of the Caribbean 2 and 3, and Star Wars Episodes 1-3 all turned the awesome originals into tripe. What wonders the first works brought us were repeated and retreaded until the wonder was no more. The signs of forward thinking creativity became watered down to levels of… luck.
Don’t get me started on using famous songs in commercials. Too late. I’d give anything in the world to NOT think of KFC when I hear Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama”… but alas, that’s not to be. The classic Southern rock anthem is now an unfortunate cliché.

The reason I bring this all up is fuck American Beauty. Especially this scene:

Why do I have such disdain for this sequence? It’s not that I hate it… at all. It’s that I quite actually agree with it wholeheartedly. I’m the type of person that likes to look up at the clouds every now and again and feel small. I enjoy remembering my minuscule place in the universe that I share with the floating grocery store bags and the tumbling cardboard containers blowing in the wind. What makes me mad is that I liked paying attention to the things too many people ignore before the movie came out (ten whole years ago), and when I do so now, I feel like a cliché because I’m reminded of that movie.

I thought of that on the way to the bar before soccer last night, and I needed to get that off my chest. On to the Drunken Recollection!

SIDENOTE: Does it bring anyone else extreme amounts of joy to see toilets being discarded on the curbside? Oh, the stories they could tell. And it looks so juxtaposed with its surroundings. Can you imagine being the garbage man that has to hoist the porcelain throne into his compactor? I tried to Google Image Search “toilets being thrown out” for additional laughs, but all that showed up were pictures of Lily Allen. Weird.

Once at the bar, time constrained nicely between basketball and soccer, I had to save yet another restroom from flooding. What’s up with people not being able to turn off faucets!?! Have we gone numb?

Anyway, a few topics of interest came up that I thought I’d share:

My (possibly brilliant, or perhaps stranger than I) cousin Steve brought up the suggestion that adults should start referring to their age in months as opposed to years. It’s more specific, it sounds impressive the older you get, and it gives clues to your birthday… that is if you’re good at math and know your times table. Just remember, you have to be older than 252 months to drink and older than 216 months to vote, see Rated R movies, and be considered “legal.”
I was reminded of an old daydream I used to have where people kept growing the older they got, so you’d have to have bigger homes and bigger cars and bigger clothes and bigger factories to make all those big things. Nobody could lie about their age or get Botox or plastic surgery to stay small. And even if you were fifty, your seventy year old parents could still pick you up if they needed to, or you had a bad day and wanted to be nuzzled. (I’m probably stranger than Steve, hands down.)
Do celebrities have insurance? Do movie stars walk around with Blue Cross cards or Medicaid, or do they simply pay cash? Maybe they get comped like with stores and restaurants. “Hey, guess where Angelina and Brad went when they got the flu? Kaiser Permanente.” “Man, I wanna go there, too!” I could research this further, but I only really cared about it last night.

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