Drunken Recollection

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.

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Blaze Of Glory

Posted on by sgottahurt

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this time it’s about what makes this country so great…  especially Detroit…

Independence Day (the holiday, not the movie) is a time for celebrating our right to blow things up and be American!  One particular Fourth of July, we showed our dedication the best way we could… by buying illegal fireworks from Ohio.

Now, you youngsters might be wondering, “Isn’t that illegal to buy things that are illegal, Uncle Sean?”

And that’s my point – it’s American to do just that very thing!

As we sat on my front porch which is on a main road in Detroit, cars drove by while mortars and missiles and fountains rained down colored flames.  No one paid a mind, and a great time was had by all… especially because we had a couple of 24 packs inside that dwindled down faster than a sparkler.

SIDENOTE: I used to have three lawn chairs.  They were the old aluminum frame ones with cross-hatched plastic strips.  They were pretty crappy, but still comfortable.  One by one they were eventually stolen off my porch, but on this day I still had all three.  Viva America!

One of my friends slash your uncles either didn’t know how to sit in these chairs, or he was the straw that broke the camels back, so to speak, but the cross-hatching gave way under his weight and he fell and bent the frame.  We all had a good laugh (he may not have), and I pushed it further by tossing it over the bushes onto my front lawn as the show continued, courtesy of Uncle Rich.

Some neighborhood kids came down to see if they could buy some fireworks off us.  We weren’t selling, so they stole some.  Viva America!

Your Uncle Jay and Uncle Rob decided to pretend they were in G.I. Joe, so they each grabbed a Roman candle and had a battle in the front yard, roadway, and across the street shooting at each other.  I suggested that Jay use the downed chair as a shield (Rob was the one who broke it).  Viva America!

SIDENOTE: The people across the street from me were evicted.  A big dumpster full of their belongings was parked out front.  There were boxes, furniture, mattresses.  You’ll need to know about this later.

After the battle used up all the ammo, I thought it would be funny to suggest that Uncle Rob throw a mortar into the dumpster to see what would happen.  As if he was in Mission Impossible, he scurried to the trash heaps steel base.  With his back pressed to it, he lit the firework and chucked it in.  He ran back across the street to us.  And we waited.  And we waited.  No flurry of sparks.  No explosion.  We deduced that it must have need its launch tube.

As the supply of fireworks winded down (the beverage supply was getting low too), your Aunt Sue readied to put the last mortar into the launch tube.  She stood over it as she prepared to light it.  This was her first for the night.  We shouted at her to stop… pointed out how dangerous that was.  On cue, a tiny flame flickered out of the dumpster.

Everyone leaped into action.  Sue and Rob scrambled to pick up all the debris littering the front yard.  Rich, Jay, and I hurried inside to grab bowls to fill with water to put the fire out.  From my kitchen, through the front door, I could see that the flames were out of control.  Jay pulled out a colander.

“We need a hose and some trash cans,” Rich said.

Outside, we filled and carried trash can after trash can and ran across the road.  A pair of women walking down the street laughed at our efforts.  Viva America!

The fire truck eventually arrived.  I carried the last dose of water.  I nodded as they took over.  We all hid inside as they finished the job, which took quite awhile.  They even had to pull out the charred remains to make sure it was extinguished.  That’s when we realized the cases were empty.

MORAL OF THE STORY: We should have ran to the store well before the Roman candle fight.

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Being A Boob And Having A Ball

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 what happened after a bachelor party… and it’s not quite what you think…

I’ve been to more than a few bachelor parties in my time.  Some have occurred on buses that took us to magical places (two of the best adventures, I must admit).  Most times, the magic visits upon us.  One time, and only one time, the bachelor wanted nothing to do with any of the magic, so his uncle enjoyed the sanctioned magic instead.  Another time, we sought out all kinds of magic in a city where magic never sleeps.  But I digress…

On the day of this story, the magic was visiting us.  I had planned on calling it an early night, since I had something to do, early the next morn.  Five beers tops, I promised myself.  But unlike the other shindigs I had been to, this one had kegs rather than cans or bottles (this was early in my bachelor party years), and my plastic cup never ran empty, courtesy of the handled couriers that were passed around.

When the magicians finally arrived (some extras appeared unannounced), the festivities flared.  Cash flashed (amongst other things), and soon the booze was tapped dry.   Due to the inundation of said magic and the awkward payment situations that followed, the party abruptly came to an end.  Phase One, anyway.  My initial hope to cut-and-run was quickly forgotten when Phase Two was announced.

In probably not the safest collected cavalcade, we embarked on a journey to the oldest part of town, where the Big Three Kings once ruled.  We visited an establishment that specialized in, um, magic, and as the night and my buzz winded down, I recalled my plans:  “I have the GRE tomorrow!”

I bid my farewells and ferried off left.  The next morning was to clarity as glass was to stone.

As I say in the lobby of the testing facility, I glanced at the other patrons.  I was the best dressed, I decided, mostly because they were all still in their pajamas, and I wore what I… slept… in.

We had to sign a form beforehand that required us to write a paragraph in cursive.  I failed to recall any of the letters, namely the capital-I which began the paragraph “I agree… blah, blah, blah.”  Looking around the room for any clue, my eyes stumbled upon the heroine of the show.

(I should note that in situations like these, I always daydream that the surrounding players and I are the cast of a TV show.  I’m the hero, of course, and I have to pick my supporting cast.  This daydream involved the rest of the world disappearing outside of the clinic’s walls, and us survivors picking up the pieces of… whatever.)

Somehow, my heroine sensed my selection of her as my co-star, and she looked up from writing.  I asked, “How do you make a cursive capital-I?”

When I was called into the interview room, the nebbish gentleman verifying my identity asked if I had any questions.  I did.  “Do you have any aspirin?”

Without irony or any further prompting, he leaned back and shifted his gaze upon me.  “Do you work for… them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you work for… the company?”  (I swear this happened.  It wasn’t hangover induced or a daydream.)

“What are talking about?”

Finally, he relaxed and explained that the parent corporation that hosts the testing will send in dummy clients to test workers.  He told me they were not allowed to give out “medication.”  I reminded him it was only an aspirin that I wanted; he gave me the option of leaving to purchase some prior to hitting the questions.

“I’ll survive.”

The exam was equally grueling and a blur.  The first math section was Headache Incarnate, but it was the essay that I’ll never forget.  I had to write a piece on… well, that part I forget.  All I remember from the whole experience was that I ended up going on and on about Tiger Woods.  About how I feel his naturally talents could have possibly been squandered by being put into golf at such an early age.  On how his mind might have been built to tackle insane astrophysics or abstract geometry – not to hit a little ball in a hole far away.  I don’t believe I ever made my point in the essay, and I remember rushing to even finish a sentence before the clock ran out on the computer.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Drunken ramblings work better as vocal rants than as GRE essays.

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Hoop There It Is!

Posted on by sgottahurt

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this one may explain where the “Twilight Zone” got its name… you know, ’cause something weird happened at twilight… well, at about 6pm or so…

The bulk of the friends I have I’ve had for almost all my life.  From grade school on, there’s about a handful of us that keep in close touch contact with each other, and still hang out.  They’re like brothers to me, and hence are like Uncles to you.

Your Uncle Tom and his then fiancée, Aunt Jenny, invited a group of us up to her family’s cabin.  Upon arrival, we spend a good amount of time chatting and partaking of spirits.  We had a late lunch and decided to head off to the lake.

It was a beautiful day, so they took us out on the boat.  I dove off the back while we were cruising (the spirits moved me to do it).  It was shallow where we were (I was unaware of that fact), so luckily we were at travelling speeds.  Otherwise, I might have sunk down rather than skim the top.  Nonetheless, I spent the rest of the ride drying off and grinning from ear to ear.

On land, where the towels were actually at, I continued to fill my tummy with carbonated carbs after I changed out of my bathing suit.  The basketball court was empty, so a few of us guys grabbed the orange orb from my car’s trunk and he hit the pavement.

Someone decided it would be a good idea to try to incorporate drinking into the gameplay.  So what we devised was each person had to hold a can in one hand, and dribble/shoot/block with the free hand.  If you spilled your lager – you had to drink.  If you spilled another player’s – you had to slam dunk yours.  We dribbled our way to 21 (ironic) for awhile, when a group of kids showed up.

They were adolescents and their numbers matched those of us playing.  They kept trying to steal the ball and play in our game, but as they did not have beers, we would not let them.

One of them was a little bit obnoxious, and one of your uncle’s wasn’t afraid to be obnoxious back.

One of them had a broken arm; one of your uncle’s broke his arm at that age.

One of them was plain clumsy, as I oft tend to be.

From the sidelines, your Uncle Rodney started laughing as the battle waged on.  The sun was lowering and the rest of the group was packing up to head back to the cabin.  I asked what he found so funny.

“They’re all miniature versions of you!  Even down to the hair color.”  Red for red, brown for brown, and blonde for blonde.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Don’t drink while out too long in the sun or you might cause a dimensional vortex that could threaten the fabric of our universe.

Neener, neener, neener, neener, duh-duh-DUH!

Neener neener, neener neener, duh-duh-DUH!

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Friends Don’t Let Friends Dance Drunk

Posted on by sgottahurt

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this one is about something that only happens in the movies… or when you’re really drunk…

Once upon a time there was a welcoming place called Cadillac Cafe.  It was called the Alibi before that, and many other names since then, but for a brief period of time, under that moniker it existed.

Sure, it was a ways from home, but it was a straight shot up the Grand River.  Let it be known that in this place, a wonderful and strange event happened, that may or may not have happened the way I remember it.

At this time, I used to be a helper at a local doctors’ office.  I would do menial tasks, such as file forms and file claims.  I was but a boy working amongst mostly older women.  In hindsight, I should have taken a job at the local eatery or merchant with others my age, but such is life.

A few of the women I worked with were closer to my age, and we would make it a point to collect a gathering of folks and visit the Cafe on weekends.  Fun was always had – even if your Uncle Jay may not agree.  Ask him about the time he stepped on a fair maiden’s hand that he liked while they were “freaking.”  She broke a nail.  His spirit broke – it was great.  Also, one of his future ex-mistresses happened to work there, though he didn’t know it at the time.  What a small world!

On the day of the event, I had my share of libations and I took to the dance floor as I was wont to do.  For whatever reason, on this eve, as I was out there “skanking,” another fellow took up the space beside me and did the same.  A crowd slowly formed around us as the songs continued.  People chanted and cheered.  Him and his friends took turns, tapping out on one another’s shoulders.  Each of them had different styles of moves.  (I had three at best.)  But I remained on my own the entire time.  It felt like the glow from a light up above was shining down on me (it was – from a ceiling fan… Cadillac Cafe was a restaurant during normal hours… didn’t I mention that?)

Once the last song ended, my competitors and I parted ways without a word or second glance.  My friends dubbed their leader “Powder” because he resembled this guy:

Same guy in Boondock Saints and Young Indy Jones... different complexion

Same guy that was in Boondock Saints and Young Indy Jones... different complexion... same hat?

And they declared me the winner.  But there were no winners that day…  only losers.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Don’t get into real-life dance-offs.  They’re gay.  (Sorry HilDuff!)

BONUS: A song by another co-worker-at-the-time’s friend’s band – Drunk Uncle by the Miracle Berries.

Drunken Recollection… 86 The ’76 Trivia, Stat!

Posted on by sgottahurt

Knowing about the following song won us a small victory at trivia last night (we took second place because I thought the movie “Poseidon” took place on Christmas rather than New Year’s). 

The question in question: Name one of two songs that had the word “disco” in it that hit #1 in 1976.  I swore that this song was the best option aside from  “Disco Inferno” and “Disco Fever” (which I don’t even think is a real song):

Turned out I was right.  Turns out the other song option was “Disco Lady” (?)

Shadoe Stevens... a Hollywood Square

Shadoe Stevens... A Hollywood Square

Rick Dees... Weekly Top Dorky

Rick Dees... Weekly Top Dorky

The biggest mistake I made (aside from the upside-down boat holiday movie inquiry) was thinking the song was song by this (<–) guy:

And not this (–>) guy:

In conclusion, here’s some random 70’s awesomeness from the Midnight Special that I’m so inclined to buy on DVD (damn you infomercials and my insatiable DVD addiction!)  It’s either that or the Dean Martin Variety Show.

For further trivia thrills (ha! yeah right), try to name everyone in the cast on “Futurama.”  I bet you’ll miss at least two, like we did.

For further betting thrills, go to the race track.

Drunken Recollection… That’s About Right For A Detroit Joint

Posted on by sgottahurt

Last night was a night spent in three four bars, and it kept me sleeping until 5pm today.

Some highlights:

  • First stop was the Bronx Bar, a Detroit hole-in-the-wall down near Wayne State University.  My sisters wanted to visit an old friend.  They chatted while “Poison” played on the jukebox.  BBD’s song, not the group.  “Crazy” also played.  Not Britney Spears… Patsy Cline.  That’s about right for a Detroit joint.
  • Second stop was the Magic Stick.  There was a concert going on upstairs, so we stayed on the main floor and saw a show of our own.  It probably made as much sense as the punk bands upstairs might, but here’s what it involved: a man with a big beard, a woman with only her bra on, a skinny kid with his shirt off, and another skinny girl holding her bloody nose.  They came out of the bowling area and swept through the place until security escorted them out.  They actually tried to come back later.  We met up with my cousin Liz who was there to see the show on the second floor.  Some of my sisters’ friends that are getting married next year dropped in (congrats again Beth and Ben), and another of Tammie’s friends from grade school was hanging out with his friends (hey P-funk).  A stranger drew pictures of us in green crayon on the back of concert flyers.  My sister, Tammie, ordered some pizza.  I quizzed her on the latest Killers song that was playing.  Becky and I drank 24 oz. beers.  We wondered why the word dapper isn’t used more.  That’s about right for a Detroit joint.
  • Third stop lead us into Greektown, across from the casino, to The Well.  Tammie’s other old friend, Joe, was down there with his crew.  Some girls were dancing on the bar.  The DJ was right behind us playing T.I.  The area we were in was about 12’x12′.  They flashed the lights at about 1:45am for last call.  We all finished our drinks and headed next door to…
  • The Baltimore, our final stop.  We ran into a family member we haven’t seen for years.  Tears were spilled over some more beers.  Becky took forever putting all our numbers in our cousin’s phone.  The music playing was Journey or some other 80’s band.  A half hour or so later, we all departed into the winter rain.  We bid our farewells and journeyed home.  That’s about right for a Detroit joint.

Drunken Recollection… Monday Night Nerdfest

Posted on by sgottahurt

Monday Night Football Trivia was in full effect last night, and I learned that there were more U.S. soldiers in the Korean War vs. the Vietnam War, Turkey was not only a part of the Ottoman Empire and Iran was not only Persia (they were both a part of Mesopotamia), and prior to “Titanic,” the highest grossing Best Picture winner was “Forrest Gump.”

While the competition occurred (we were in third place before the last question, but we wagered all of our points on “Gone With the Wind” on guess-which-question), these were some of the topics of discussion:

  • I have had a song stuck in my head for a few days.  I had the melody and this lyric: And somebody picked on me.  It turns out that the lyric is actually: And somebody snitched on me.  The song was “I’m Getting Nothing for Christmas.”  (Thanks to Kelly for playing Scooby Doo on that one.)
  • Talk about holiday parties began, and about how cool it would be to hire a waiter or waitress for New Year’s Eve.  I thought it’d be funny to hire one for any day.  Have a couple of friends over… the waiter/waitress can change the channel, get us beers and snacks… you know, stuff like that.  When nothing was going on, the waiter/waitress could play video games with us, or watch the season finale of “Lost” with us.  We wouldn’t be dicks about it.  It would be for the sake of uncomfortable awkwardness and a good story to tell.
  • Speaking of dicks – this store’s name brought us grown infants a heaping amount of joy:
    I originally saved this file as dicks, but changed it to avoid confusion.
    I originally saved this file as ‘dicks,’ but changed it for obvious reasons.

    We talked about how their midnight madness sales could be called “nocturnal emissions” and that the idea for the event “came to them at night.”  This was the least crass example – trust me.

  • The night ended not at the bar, but playing “Call of Duty 4” once again.  As we were leaving, paintball was brought up, and one friend stated he would wait in a tree outside my other friend’s house in order to ambush him.  Due to the cold weather we’re experiencing, it was also brought up how he would freeze to death waiting.  Since this particular friend is leaving the state for a new job, everyone would think he left early, and no one would notice he was missing until the spring.  But since my friend didn’t clean all the leaves that are awaiting under two feet of snow, his body would get lost in the leaves… yada yada… I’ll stop there.  This is what video games are doing to adult minds – imagine what they do to the kids.

Drunken Recollection… I Have No Idea What I Recollected

Posted on by sgottahurt

I’m going to let everyone in on a little secret about the mysterious workings behind this blog.  I wake up at the crack of dawn everyday (I just love beating the sun) and walk to my corner gas station to pick up a local paper.  Sure, I could have the delivery boy bring it, but the exercise keeps the ol’ pumper pumping (besides, I leave the paper boy a tip every Christmas as if I subscribed to help make up for his losses).  As I mill through the ink print to discover what’s going on in this world, I pour myself some whole grain cereal and organic milk, with a side of orange juice and toast (I use real butter to lather my heated wheat treat – it’s my only vice!)  I even slice up bananas and strawberries to put on top, like in the commercials.  After immediately washing the dishes and separating my recyclables, I ready the tub for a nice bubble bath and who am I kidding… I barely wake up on time to get to work at 10:30ish.  I should be there at 9!  This is the case due to the habit of my evening imbibing of carbonated, fermented brown water.

While at the draft tap establishments, conversations erupt, and often I’m reminded of something clever to write about, and I make a note in my cell phone.  Usually, I can translate.  Most times, I find messages like this:

  1. dancing caveman jukebox
  2. baby jacket
  3. think straw when see
  4. deli 25 bux
  5. whoprvirgins baby coat
  6. mr. wizard
  7. getn away w murdr
  8. angus young black
  9. martha quinn med woman
  10. kidbits

There are other notes of which I do remember, and will be inevitable posts, but these strike little or no chord.  Or I remember having a drunken laugh about them, such as 3, 8, and 9.  I believe 3 refers to how when I see a straw in somebody else’s drink at the table, I move toward my drink as though it also has a straw (I don’t drink beer with a straw anymore… not since I got rid of my “Cast Away” Halloween costume beard… although at times I have joined many straws so I wouldn’t have to pick up my mug).  8 and 9 were common mix-ups I have about AC/DC’s lead singer and the old MTV VJ.

1 and 4 were going to be big to-do’s, but I really had no fodder.  I cannot stand the dancing Geico caveman on digital jukeboxes, and I love how you don’t have to sign credit card statements on things less than $25.  I have no idea what the “deli” has to do with anything.  Much like number 7 – that one scares me because I’m 100% clueless about it.

2 and 5 repeated the theme of those stupid small coats that the ladies wear nowadays.  I wanted to bring up how pointless and stupid and trendy they are – much like Uggs boots.  I don’t know why I jotted down the Burger King website in conjunction with the jacket, though.

6 and 10 probably had to do with the same chit chat about childhood TV science shows.  I don’t know “Mr. Wizard,” per se, but “Kidbits” taught me how to make a chair out of three baseball bats (I also believe the demonstration was with knives or forks… I’m leaning toward knives though) and how to poke a straw through a potato. 

In closing, here’s “Kidbits” theme:

Drunken Recollection… Douchbag Machines

Posted on by sgottahurt

See, you punch it, and it gives you a score... what do you mean what else does it do?

See, you punch it, and it gives you a score... what do you mean what else does it do?

I hate this thing.  I really do.

I wish I never set my eyes upon it.  I’ll go one better and wish my friends’ eyes had never set upon it, because they’re the facilitators of the addiction.

Meet Punch!  Or BoxClub… or Boxing… or whatever version the bar has.  They’re all over the place, like a drunk girl on me (I wish).  And they have been for awhile, but I’ve managed to keep my distance from what I designated as the Douchebag Machine.  The higher the number you can hit on the dangling nutsack, the bigger the nutsack you are.

Or so I used to pretend.  Now it’s almost like a Holy Grail when I step into a gin joint.  Whomever spots it first begins the murmurs – “Did you see?  Did you see?”  And every unit is different.  Ssome bags are soft, some are hard.  Some respond well to running at it and others don’t. 

So am I a douchebag for playing?  Nope.  And neither are my friends.

But everyone else still is.