drinking

Drunken Recollection… Late Night Repo’s Are Buzzkills

Posted on by sgottahurt

The weekend was a jam-packed one, and it didn’t leave me much time for any kind of self-reflection and intellectual introspection that I usually reserve for this blog.  (Yeah, right.)  Let me rewind the events of the weekend to get to Friday, a random night where not much happened other than random things…

vvrp verp Car dealership, free car battery under warranty during oil change vrip vrap Work day spent finishing weekend work vrrp vvip Trivia comeback to no win during NHL All-Star game where there were no Red Wings plus Pistons barely lose to Rockets vvvp Ate out at Chili’s vvvp Visited Grams vvvp Met up old friends Saturday night vvvp After working vvvp After nursing hangover… click clack… CLUNK

Okay, rewinding was about as exciting as the Twitter experiment (again, yeah right)… Basically, on Friday, my brother was working in a speakeasy, so to speak.  It was an interactive play that took place during the 20’s, that acted as a fundraiser for a local theatre troop.  I passed the goons guarding the door using the password that not many guessed.

Re-enactment:

Goon: “What’s the password?”

Me: “What.”

Goon: “You may enter.”

My other family members worked the open bar so in my double-fisting of rum and cokes, the ratio of everything went like this:

PLASTIC < COKE < ICE < HANDS < RUM

In turn, this lead to me achieving a sufficient level of what I call “Wedding Drunk” (it’s a different form of “Superhero Drunk” and fodder for a future post).  As the festivities wound down, the group I was with headed to a local hole-in-the-wall bar, where I proceded to karaoke a Weezer song after my cousin Steve ignited the party with his rendition of “Sweet Caroline” (also fodder for another post).

My brother was absent from this collection of the acting troupe, and our rides were kicked out for being trashed (well, at least Richie was the one deemed smashed out of the Venessa and Jess Trifecta).  Steve and I were left behind with the Actors! and someone else offered to drive us to an afterparty once the bar started closing.

(SIDE STORY: Steve had spotted one woman earlier in the night that made him proclaim – “She will be flashing her breasts at some point tonight.”  He was right.  The things you learn while away at college.)

To be honest, I have never seen such a magnificent driver as Kate, a.k.a. She who drove Steve and I elsewhere.  While searching for Toto’s Africa and Asia’s Heat of the Moment on her Zune, her path never waivered – not one bit.  We were going to drive to her house to pick up her dog, but we kept driving around through a subdivision and eventually ended up at the final destination.  We wondered why we didn’t stop and get the dog.  Kate’s answer:

My boyfriend was there.

Around 3am, the repo man showed up and took our gracious host’s truck.  Major buzzkill.  We called for a taxi.  (They hung up on us repeatedly while we were trying to figure out where we were.)  We parted ways with the Actors! around 4am.  I b.s.’d with the bald driver of the Chrysler 300 about life, politics, the universe, and religion, and ate macaroni and cheese once back at the Trifecta’s homebase.

In closing… Viva la Wedding Drunk!  Boo-Hiss Repo Men!

Happy Find… CanIDoBetter?

Posted on by sgottahurt

This website is a treat.  I’m working while hungover.  Have fun.

Oh, it’s called CanIDoBetter?  Just keep clicking that name.  Need a nap.

I think I can do better, btw…

I may need to do more research before making that decision.

I may need to do more research before making that decision.

(via 89X FM)

Sober Recollection… Going, Gothic, Gone!

Posted on by sgottahurt

Last night I went out for my friend, Jenny’s, 30th birthday.  We went to a goth industrial night club in Detroit called the (Leland) City Club:
Like Blade rave minus vampires and blood shower, I think

Like the rave in "Blade" minus vampires and blood shower, I think

We arrived late by my standards (courtesy of the snow and collected company), but it’s primarily an afterhours spot, so to the regulars, we were probably early.  Since it was midnight, I could have either pounded as many bottles as possible, or keep my mind clear for people watching.  Speaking of clear…

  • Upon arrival, I thought “I’ll keep my mind clear,” and I saw a dude in a clear shirt.  Then a grand woman passed by that put the BOOST in bustier, and I thought, “Biiiig.”  Then a woman no taller than 4′ followed her, and I thought, “Smaaaall.”
  • On the telly above the bar, this scene from “Superbad” was playing.  Notice the wound on McLovin’s cheek at the end… is it CGI?  It sure looks like it was digitally added, and I never noticed until last night:
  • A woman sat on a dude’s lap in the corner, straddling and facing him.  There was no movement, per sé, but I wondered if they were doing the deed.  I brought this up to another friend, Lisa, and she suspected the same.  It wasn’t until moments later that I saw them both smoking side-by-side that my suspicions were confirmed.
  • The electric chandelier above us had energy-efficient coiled black light bulbs:

Like this, but purple
Like this, but purple
  • There was a dude that looked like an elf, and a dude/dudette (?) that looked like an anime character, amongst many other things.  I pondered what percentage of people here partook in the Renaissance Festival (nice alliteration… at least the first part).  Since two people in our group of eleven had, it was fare to assume they weren’t alone.
  • I wasn’t surprised to find out that I knew some of the music (Ministry, Depeche Mode).  I was surprised to smell fabric softener coming off someone’s black hoodie with the anarchy logo on it:
Smells like Snuggle

Smells like Snuggle

  • I learned that my brain may be wired like that of a moth, as my eyes were wont to follow any bright light in the form of glow sticks, light up yoyos, and a shirt like this (the sound bars actually moved):
See the music, taste the light!

See the music, taste the light!

  • Finally, my nerdery outstepped itself by conjuring up reference to an obscure “Star Wars” character no one in my group knew, as there was a guy who looked exactly like this, save the green pigmentation… and his hair was in a bun:
"How do I get to Detroit? Is it on Hoth?"

"How do I get to this... Detroit? Is it on Hoth?"

(Sorry BillyGoatBluff, but it was another sober night.)

So Long, And Don’t Let The Automatic Door Hit You On The Way Out!

Posted on by sgottahurt

Asta La Windows Vista, Baby!

Asta La Windows Vista, Baby!

The hell hole that stole my soul will finally be no more.  Circuit Shitty is set to close it’s remaining 567 stores by the end of March, and it’s website will shut down today.

Why do I have such disdain for the retail store?  Let me count the ways:

  1. I took the job to avenge my sister – I should have known better.  I had recently moved back from L.A. where I worked at a Best Buy.  There, they had taught me that “Circuit City” was the enemy and “working for commission” was evil.  As the DVD market was beginning to grow, I remember us laughing about the ridiculous plan CC had in motion to develop DIVX (more on this in a moment).  My sister, Tammie, had opened store #3604 back home, and she had been complaining about a manager that kept hitting on her/harrassing her.  She refused to take action so I got a job there to make sure it stopped.  It did.  That manager ended up helping me make a lot of money, so he ended up being an all right guy.  Cursed Southern salesmanship!  (NOTE: To be read as “curs-ed”… not “curst”… thanks.)
  2. It elevated my lifestyle.  When I started there in August of ’98, working in the SOHO department (Small Office Home Office), I made something like $700 my first full-commission week.  The next week, I made $1oo more, and the next – $200.  I had worked at a medical center prior to BB, and at BB, I was the Media Department’s Senior (which is a splash above regular).  This money influx was amazing.  There were days I could make my week’s pay that day.  I spent more than I saved.  And it took me a long time to break that habit, as well as another.
  3. It turned me to drinking excessively, amongst other things.  You see it in every movie: Tom Cruise, Matthew McConaughey, Giovanni Ribisi… they start making money and things *snap* start *snap* happening.  I had so much money I didn’t know what to do.  Couple this with the fact I worked at a nightclub Friday and Saturday nights… well, I didn’t do completely stupid things.  I just drank more than I even do now and partook in inhaling and occasionally ingesting certain types of vegetation…
  4. I had to make the sale.  No.  Matter.  What.  I never outrightly lied.  I may have slightly bent or tip-toed to the edge of what our service plans covered, but as long as I worked there, anyone that came in with a problem was taken care of by me.  Too bad I was only there for a year-and-a-half (too long).
  5. The DIVX Dupe.  For those of you only familiar with the media format, there used to be format with the same name.  The idea was you’d buy a disc for $4.50 and once you played it in your machine, you had access to it for 48 hours, after which you had the option to pay $15 more to permanently unlock it, or could “rent” it again for $3.  It put a DVD player in my house, but it was a dumb idea.  And I was forced to sell this product to every customer.  And since it was in the TV Department, all out wars broke out between SOHO and TV (because of the spiffs).  When it finally folded as a format, all the discs went on sale for a buck or two.  I bought pretty much every one.  They exist in a box in my basement and predicted my eventual DVD purchasing habit (I currently own over 1200).
  6. The CompuServe Rebate Ripoff.  For the first Christmas I worked, people had to save up to buy a home pc.  The cheapest complete system (14″ monitor, tower, printer, and of course – service plan) cost $1585.55 out the door, with something like $50-$100 in rebates.  I killed at selling this package, and it probably made me eighty-some bucks a pop.  The following August I spent backpacking in Europe and upon returning, the well had dried up.  The cheap machine boom was upon us (as was the looming Y2K fiasco), and at the center of the shitstorm laid the CompuServe rebate.  Anyone would get a $400 dollar rebate for signing a 3-year agreement to join the dial-up service at $21.95 per month, so everyone and their kitchen sink were coming in for the “FREE” pc.  Hardly any commission on that, and try to sell service plans I did – to no avail.  Where I had been swimming in cash at the end of ’98, I dove into an empty pool at the end of ’99.  I wouldn’t last many months more because in addition to making peanuts for pay (I was back down to $400 per week – the horror!), the quality of products we sold had also diminished.  This lead me to take a second job overnight at Target which brought me a great group of friends I still associate with to this day, so maybe Circuit City wasn’t that bad after all.

(I feel cleansed like this was some type of confession.  BB CCing you in hell!)

Another one buyts the dust...
Another one BUYts the dust…

Drunken Recollection… Recollecting Is Getting Harder To Do When Drunk

Posted on by sgottahurt

What in the heckity-yeckity is going on with my mind?  I can’t remember things as easily as I used to mere years ago.  I’d like to blame it on aging, but since I’m in denial of going through that, I may have to blame it on drinking (and no, I do not have a problem).

It’s especially bad when the memories corrupted are the ones that were at one time so automatic (it has not yet affected my corrupted memories, ifugetwutimsayin).

How could I forget such nerdery as the titles of these:

The Voyage, um, The Journey, uhh... The Something Something

The Voyage, um, The Journey, uhh... The Something Something

It's Something...tion, like Generations or Insurrection, right?

It's Something...tion, like Generations or Insurrection, right?

Couple that with the fact I could not get to that wrinkle in my brain where I stored the third film to my Rutger Hauer Awesome Crap Trilogy: “Blind Fury,” “Deadlock“/”Wedlock”, and ?

(The third is the original version of  “The Hitcher.”  “Ladyhawke” gets an honorable nod.)

Now, what was I talking about again?

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… When Red Wings Attack At The Bar!

Posted on by sgottahurt

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this is a tale about how to go out with a bang… or not to, depending on how you look at it…

After moving back to Michigan from Los Angeles, I was out of work but willing.  Your Aunt Becky worked at a night club in Royal Oak that I had frequented prior to leaving and during my return visits home.  They needed someone to run the pair of dance floor servant stations (and by run, I mean run back and forth and get ice and replenish other supplies).  I was their man.  This story isn’t so much about my first day (which happened to be an *NSync concert before they blew up… see SIDENOTE at bottom of post).  It’s about my last day working there (well, my first last day… I went back a couple more times to help or when I needed money).

I had announced to all it was my last day, and everyone was sad to see me go.  One of the order loaders arranged it so that I would get a bottled water filled with vodka so I could make drinks for myself through the night.  And partake of it, I did.

The funny thing about drinking while working in a night club is that people tip better when you’re on the same playing field as them.  I would help out the bartenders from time to time when I was slow and they were swamped.  This night was no exception.

A patron came up and ordered a shot called Red Wings.  “What’s that?” I asked.

“Cranberry juice and Jaeger,” she responded.  She ordered three shots.  I asked if one was for me, and she said to make it four.

Did I ever tell you Jaeger is my death nail?  Each of the liquors have a varying result in my actions, but they are consistent.  Jaeger is the anomaly.  Jaeger answers the next morning’s question – “Why did I do that?”

The woman came up shortly after that, and ordered another round.  Coupled with the screwdrivers I’d been downing, this is the last thing I recall.

Later, your Uncle Jay (who also worked there) and Becky would recount to me what followed.  As the night winds down, it’s my job to count out what items were left, to dump the ice trays, and do general cleaning.  I don’t know what time I disappeared, but Jay took care of my bars as well as his.

After the place closed up, my manager had a brainstorming session with Jay and Becky that went something like this:

“Perhaps he got in a fight, and the bouncers didn’t recognize him, and they threw him out?”

Jay and Becky shook their heads.

“Well maybe he met a girl and ditched this place with her?”

A pair of negatives again.  “That’s not the type of person he is,” Becky explained.

Jay piped in, “Check all the toilets.  He’s hugging one of them.”

Surely I was.  Upstairs, in the employee stalls.  Becky knocked on my door.  I remember that her voice sounded like an angel.

I pulled myself together and made my back to the main floor.  It turned out there was a concert the next day, and we had to set up all the chairs.  That was my penance.  If only that was the type of person I was…

MORAL OF THE STORY: Red Wings Team = good.  Red Wings Shots = bad.  Unless by “Shots” you mean “Scoring Attempts” then = good, again.

(SIDENOTE: Justin Timberlake and crew came out dressed in spaced suits to the Imperial Death Marchfrom “Star Wars.”  Their costumes made them look like the guys in colored hazmat suits in those old Intel commercials.  Girls had to be pulled out of the crowd from passing out.  Insane!  Who passes out at a night club anyway… never mind.)

Picture this, only worse.

Picture this, only worse.

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Have London, Will Travel

Posted on by sgottahurt

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this one is about how following a whim can leave you feeling dim…

There was a time in my life when I was a trip-hijacker.  No, hijacker sounds too malicious.  Tag-along?  Too Girl Scout Cookie-y.  Leech?  Too blood-curdling.  No matter what, I was a follower.  That works.

When your Aunt Becky was going to Hawaii for her friend’s friend’s wedding, who followed along?  One guess – me.  When your Uncle Rich lived in Japan, and your Uncle Tom was going to pay him a visit, who dropped everything to make a payment too?  You know who.  (If you see my Regret Sheet at the top, you’ll find I missed out on a big chance to follow.)

So when your Uncle Marsh had the opportunity to take a class in London, where he would sleep in the university dorms for free (well, it was included in his price), who asked if he could crash on the floor?  *gestures to self with thumbs*

But this wasn’t going to be an ordinary sojourn for me.  No sirree.  I had a plan and a purpose.  I wanted to find this place:

What are you looking at, they seem to say with their faces.

"What are you looking at?" they seem to say with their faces.

I had read about it in Real Detroit, a free news mag we get around town.  And I needed to see it myself.  Plus, since I live in the city it’s named after, I wondered what kind of perks (if any) I met get.

So Marsh agreed and off I went.  While there, he and a couple other people from his group would hit different pubs at night.  I, of course, would tag along (not as Girl Scout Cookie-y anymore).  Most of the places close at 11pm, and I find this to be a brilliant idea. 

Here’s why I think that: people hit the bar right after work, drink to their heart’s content, taxi home at a decent hour, and wake up at a decent hour so they can do it all over again.  It’s basically what I do in my life now, except I stay out until 2am and get to work at 10am, and the time between work and party is a killer.

As a student, this arrangement worked just as well.  For me, it worked even better.  (I could sleep as late as I liked.)

One day, we made it out to the club scene which stays open longer than the pubs.  I had my smaller backpack on from travelling.  Oddly, it seemed to make me more popular with the locals.  Perhaps they confused me for a druggie or pusher, or worse – a douchebag American.  At another place, I was able to talk a little bit more with one of the women in Marsh’s class.  We started telling drunk stories to one another, and a flash of an idea occurred to me (that’s probably not the slightest bit true).

The drunk stories guys I know usually tell involve some act of boorish stupidity: where they threw up, who they drank up with, where they woke up…

The drunk stories girls I know usually tell involve some sex act: where they hooked up, who they hooked up with, where they woke up… (okay maybe it’s not all that different…)

Place screams Detroit... Screams it!

Place screams Detroit... Screams it!

The last day the class was all together, the teacher decided he too would like to see the Detroit Bar.  I had studied the city in my travelling around, so I had a sense of where everything was in relation to each other, but I followed as usual.

As the group ambled about, it became clear to me that the prof essor had no idea where he was going.  Armed with my little drug dealer backpack, I hijacked the collective (with his blessing) and less us to the promised land. 

The inside reminded me of the Flintstones meets the Jetsons (not the movie – the stylings).  Its walls were made to look like stone caves, but the remainder of the decor had a futuristic atmosphere to it.  I approached the bartender and told him where I was from and showed my passport.  I wondered if I could maybe get a drink on the house for bringing everyone.  His eyes darted around the bar area, and he told me to walk back up in a minute or so.  I did, and I got my free drink.  Otherwise, the placed sucked.  Like a leech.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Don’t judge a book by its cover, particularly when the book is a bar, and its cover is a blurb in an article from a free magazine in a different country!

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Quitters Never Wine

Posted on by sgottahurt

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this one is about how determination isn’t always the key…

After testing my vertigo at the Eiffel Tower, your Uncle Steve had the bright (two-days-late) idea of finding cheap wine.  We were in Paris, France, after all, and so far at the local restaurants, les verres de bière were not proportionate in regard to their size and cost.  During his stay in London, he had heard a rumor from someone that there were bottles that cost three Euros – and it tasted good.

As we rounded the corner to approach our hotel, I wondered aloud where we might find some of this mysterious vin bon marché that tasted bon.  I mean, we hadn’t noticed any place up to that point that carried any such thing.

Then there it was, right smack dab on our route.  We had passed it more than several times the past two days, and we had no idea.  It had an inviting chalkboard out front and everything.  We were probably too busy paying attention and trying to figure out these bikes:

Are they community bikes? Do they charge by the minute? Do you have some kind of pass key or can you use your credit card? Aaah!

Are they community bikes? Do they charge by the minute? Do you have some kind of pass key or can you use your credit card? Aaah!

Quoi qu’il en soit (I’ll give you this one – anyway), we entered the shop, meager and apprehensive.  “Bon soir!” the attendant proclaimed.  “Bon soir!” I replied.  As my eyes scanned one half of the store, Steve scanned the other.  I spotted nothing but produce and weird imports before settling upon a 6-pack of Heineken cans.  I began to convince myself this was good enough, and I readied to convince Steve when the old man came out from behind the register to interact with us. 

“Are you lookeeng for zum affordeeble wine for thees evening?”  We nodded and he madehis suggestion.  (It was a choice red wine, fresh from the countryside.)  We completed our purchase and continued on our way, one bottle each

As we neared our home base of operations, a thought occurred to Steve (again it was late, but to his credit, it didn’t occur to me at all).  He was reminded of the fact that we didn’t possess a means to open our grape beverages.  Quite frankly, I didn’t feel like turning back.  And even though we could clearly see the bottles had those newfangled rubber stoppers buried deep in their necks, somewhere in my mind I knew we could open them.  Again, upon entering the hotel lobby, he wondered if he should ask the concierge for a corkscrew.  I didn’t know what the on-site drinking policy was, and I didn’t want to find out.

In our room, I scrambled through my belongings, surveyed the room.  Steve rummaged through his stuff for any options.  As I opened the drawer below le télévision, I turned instantly into MacGyver.  I unscrewed the knob off the drawer, and even though the screw was flat, I started twisting it into the cork.

Steve readied to do the same, but my effort proved fruitless.  He excused himself to run downstairs and ask.  I decided to start pushing the cork in.

I retreated to the bathroom in preparation for any chance of spillage.  I had to use my other hand to shove my finger into the bottle.  As I made more headway, the more difficult the shoving in became due to the mounting pressure.  I was pot-committed now – there was no turning back since no cork could reach it.  Almost there, I kept telling myself.  Almost there… There!

Purple juice exploded out the top past my finger.  It sprayed like a aerosol can, hitting everything.  The mirrors, the tile, the walls, the towels… me.  It looked like a murder scene.  As I promptly began cleaning to prevent staining (it discolored everything instantly), Steve returned, corkscrew in hand.  We eventually plowed through those bottles, and took to the streets to seek out two more. 

Our shop had closed, but a restaurant we stumbled upon sold us some of their stock.  A customer/regular in that place recognized us as Americans and asked where we were from.  We answered: Michigan, and he asked: Detroit?  He had visited our home town often, and was fairly knowledgeable about the region.  We soon parted ways after getting our second doses, and we almost missed the train to Belgium the next morning. 

The rough ride coupled with my hangover caused me to do an impersonation of my first bottle.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Find out what kind of drinking deals a foreign city/country has way before you get there.

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Neither Optimal, Nor Primal

Posted on by sgottahurt

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this one is about a Halloween party where I learned a hard life lesson…

I consider myself a cardboard specialist.  Sort of a masterboarder, if you will.  Two examples:

I helped them forge Duck-Duck-Goose

Get it? Duck-Duck-Goose! Ah, go duck yourself.

I ain't afraid of no... OMG! Is that orb a ghost?!

I ain't afraid of no--OMG! Is that orb a ghost?!

Your Aunt Tammie and Uncle Will wanted something simple, cheap, and quick a few Halloween’s back.  She came up with the concept; I came up with the design.

A Halloween or two prior to that, I studied my “Ghostbusters” accessories, and mocked up a poor man’s version (a.k.a. child’s version) of their Proton Pack to go along with my tan jumpsuit and patches.

My talent first revealed itself to me a Halloween or two prior to that one.  (There was one party in the middle where I grew out my beard and hair and went as Tom Hanks in “Cast Away.”  I was going to follow-up as Robert Duvall in “THX 1138” the next year by shaving my head, but I went on vacation instead.  As if you cared.)

The event that birthed my boardery occurred at a private gathering in the basement of a hall.  Upstairs, a wedding reception was held, and upon walking through the front doors of the hall, the groom exclaimed, “Optimus Prime!”

Michael Bay, eat your heart out.

Michael Bay, eat your heart out.

 He didn’t yell to Uncle Jay, “Starscream!”  He yelled the character I was playing.  (Although he did also shout “Dogma!” when he saw Uncle Chris dressed as Matt Damon in the film – he was a wingless angel in armor.  Nerd!)

Later in the night, prior to the police arriving to break up the Halloweed festivities, a group of us would eventually make our way back up to the reception to seek out more alcohol.  There’s video somewhere out there of Optimus Prime and Starscream dancing with the bride and bridesmaids.  But that’s not what this tale’s about.

Despite the fact that Jay and I won Best Couple (again, before that whole cop crackdown thing), there was a bitter Energon cube I was forced to swallow.  While talking to a pair of G.I. Janes, my good old buddy was getting all the attention.  I blew up.  “I’m the leader of the Autobots,” I began.  “Starscream doesn’t lead anything.  In fact all he does is whine to Megatron.  It’s his wingspan, isn’t it?  It’s always about the wingspan.  Don’t lie and tell me differently.”

Thank Cybertron the boys in blue cancelled the show.

MORAL OF THE STORY: No matter what you do, no matter how much you accomplish in life, girls always love the bad boys.

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Long Shots, Free Shots, And Snapshots

Posted on by sgottahurt

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this tale is includes everything – intrigue, comedy, romance, adventure, tragedy… at least the way I remember it does…

Saint Patrick’s Day is one for the textbooks, here in Detroit, and over in Chicago…  maybe some places in New York City, and definitely over in Ireland (or wherever in the world an Irishman may own a pub).  But this story doesn’t take place on St. P Day.  It happens a few days before, but in the spirit of the inebriated hullabaloo, it may have well been.

It was the first trivia tournament my team and I partook in.  It was hosted in the day by a night club I had not previously visited, and we were all pretty nervous going in.  We drove in one car and had the intention of letting Uncle Chris worry about getting us home since he is wont to be a teetotaler.  A few drink specials and missed trivia questions later, we were many sheets to the wind, and came the closest we ever will to winning the grand prize of $1000.  (More importantly, we were thisclose to each getting a mini-fridge.)  All we would have had to do was bet zero points, but I digress.

As per usual on any trivia night, all the other teams up and left, except for the first place team, and another team we befriended through the season.  All the TJ’s (trivia jockeys) were still there, and soon enough, the owner of the trivia company was buying everyone shots.

Flashes of highlights:

  • Intrigue!  We played trivia…  We could have won…  Mini-fridges!
  • Comedy!  A team of Miller Lite marketers descended upon the place, adorned in their green belly shirts and skirts.  The day was turning to night, so the night club atmosphere was developing.  A thought popped in my head and I lead a friend from the other team over to the gathering of emerald ladies.  “Excuse me,” I began, “my friend Richie would like to take a picture with you all.”  He was embarrassed, but he stood there like a champ as the bevy of beauties surrounded him on the short staircase.  I backed up, and took another step back, sizing the photo op up.  I raised my fingers and mimicked a camera.  “Click,” I said as I pantomimed pressing a button.  The liquor squad did not like that one bit and they scattered from his side.  His jaw dropped.  One of those departing chimed, “Did you get a good mental picture?”  No, but I got a good laugh.  (I wish I said something about having a photographic memory.)
  • Romance!  I know the Cupid Shuffle, and I did not know that I knew it.
  • Adventure!  I got sick and managed to stop myself twice, but one time I couldn’t, and it ended up under the table.  I proceeded to leave, and got sick again immediately upon reaching the cold air, a few more times.  I found Uncle Chris waiting outdoors as well.  He was equally as sick as I.  We tried to head to the sports bar next door to get some food, but it was too hot in there.  So we walked to Aunt Venessa and Jess’ home.  About 4 to 5 miles away.  In about 4º to 5º weather (it probably wasn’t that cold, but for literary purposes, it works).
  • Tragedy!  Chris is a drunk klepto (did I not mention the drink specials and free shots?), but he doesn’t take anything other than glasses from bars.  He had one in each of his cargo pants’ side pockets – one from the night club and one from the sports bar.  On the long walk, we passed a taxicab company and knocked on the window.  They told us to call, but neither of us had our phone.  During the trek, he stumbled and fell a few times, and didn’t break the glasses somehow.  Yet upon reaching the park next to the final destination of home, he removed the glasses to look at them, and somehow dropped and broke them.

Okay, it’s not an altogether classic story, but it left me with some good mental pictures!

MORAL OF THE STORY: Always carry a spare roll of film for your brain.