2.03.2009

Why Drinking As Much As I Did The Past Several Days Is A Bad Idea.

For starters, it gives one too many options on how to title such a blog. Or begin it, for that matter. I just axed the title: "Birthday. Beer. Boobs. ..Err, No Boobs, Actually. Uhmm... Blas...Uhh. Oh! Barfights." It was misleading. I didn't see any boo...oh wait! I did! On some machine at the Tap Room that guys suddenly took interest in. My guess would be that interest was inspired by the boobs.

Neither here nor there, though. I also considered starting this blog like:

Dear Diary,

I thought about writing what I'm about to tell you on my blog. Then I realized I'd have to be fucking insane to do that. Then I realized I'm fucking insane
...

And the storytelling would have continued, etc.

But then I decided the best way to preamble this tale of drunkenness was to start and stop and make very little sense (see above).

So here goes.

Friday was my last "real work day" before my layoff took effect. I spent the day filling over 20 cardboard boxes with files from our file cabinets. I finished so I could go drink at Elephant & Castle stress free with my soon-to-be-former coworkers. The first drop of alcohol hit my lips around 5:45 or 6pm. Everyone was happy, laughing. I shared my birthday plans with everyone, and a surprising number of girls knew about the UFC fights on Saturday. Why? A surprising number of guys had already frustrated them with their UFC obsession and no-longer-free Saturday evenings. I received my first birthday shot from Christine (thank you kindly, Christine), which was a tasty lemon drop. Then, back to Carlsburg. Then I broke the seal. Then... *sigh*, I kept drinking, and should've taken the instance of whispering to someone that I wanted to fuck them when I first met them as a sign of a wild and crazy weekend to come.

Note: I don't make a habit of whispering to friends that I want to fuck them, whether or not I want to fuck them. (Err... not entirely true. I whisper that to my guy friends all the time to make them uncomfortable. It works.)

Point is, that was my last memory of Elephant & Castle before I got out of a cab at my friend's house party, where I drank - I found out later, from pictures, stories - jungle juice. Lots of it.

Time to fill in some blanks...

After I unceremoniously disclosed my carnal desires to an unsuspecting fellow drunk, I left Elephant & Castle around 1030 or 11pm with a number of people and hopped on the Blue Line. At the Western stop, I got up and said, "I'm going to take a cab from here, grumble grumble." History proved: that's exactly what I did. If I had a dollar for every L ride I couldn't remember the next day...

And... *sigh* alright. I remember being at the party. Seeing people I recognized. Getting a few 'Happy Birthdays' and what not. And they cooked up some delicious ass burgers for our drunk asses. Ate about... 4 of those. I remember that much. And looks like I was having a pretty great time, too! Dancing with Richie and the aforementioned jungle juice:


What I don't remember...

Drinking jungle juice. I assumed I kept drinking at my friend's house party. It was, after all, a house party, with $5 per cup admission. I didn't remember giving anyone $5, but I figured I must have, but then I couldn't remember ever going to the bathroom. So I thought, "Huh. Maybe I didn't drink at the party. I have to piss every 5 minutes after I break the seal." So apparently, I don't remember going to the bathroom a million times either. And I thought I rested my eyes for a while - not so. I passed the fuck out for a good half hour before we left. It started like this:


That would be Henry holding my head up while I slept so that I didn't crash into him. Note my unconscious determination to do something fruitful with that jungle juice. Like, drink it, or something.

Alright, alright. I was told the jungle juice had been planted in my hand for comedic effect. But all jokes must die:


Not the jungle juice joke. Not yet, anyway. But.. oh wait, here we go:


So this is what I had looked like when... well. Henry recounted to me that he was talking to some girl who had been petting me, claiming how charming I was being passed out the way I was. I guess Henry had a really wonderful conversation with this girl, and agreed that I was awfully charming passed out as I was. Henry may have even pet me, too - I'll never know! Charming or not, my friends had work to do...


Some friends draw dicks on your forehead with permanent markers. My friends cover you head to toe in an abundance of beer coasters. No passing out shall go unpunished.


Punished I was.

Then we went home. I passed out in my bed. I woke up with the worst headache ever.

And got right back to drinking hours later at Honey 1 BBQ. I decided a nice bday dinner was in order, and what better way to kick off a night of fights and birthday drinking than with greasy, manly BBQ and micro-brewed beer (Wolaver's Pale Ale. Delicious.). I had a pulled-pork sammich and rib tips. That Wolaver's must've been highly alcoholic, 'cause Henry and I buzzed our way over to the Tap Room to watch UFC 94. En route, we noticed a neon sign in the liquor store next door to the Tap Room that said "Certified Purveyors of the Miller High Life." For the record, I will love you forever if you get me a neon sign that says both 'purveyor' and 'Miller High Life.'

Fights started. I was excited. I'd been looking forward to GSP vs BJ Penn since August, and especially since November when UFC announced it would happen on my birthday.

So ya know, I'm drankin' my face off a lot harder than I realized, because when BJ's corner threw in the towel, I started yelling. A lot. Just joyful, gleeful yelling (or so I thought, anyway). One of the bar's patrons took mild exception with my celebrating (BJ's a fucking PUSSY!), and he pointed out that BJ had taken quite a beating. It was true. He had. And I wasn't mad at the guy for pointing this out. All I could think about was how BJ called GSP a bitch for tapping out to strikes (read: repeated punches to the face) during their first fight (only after the bell rang ending the first round, so GSP didn't lose, and GSP wound up winning a split decision victory after two more rounds). So, I was wasted, ya know. All I heard was BJ quit. And all I thought was 'hypocrite.' So all I yelled to this unsuspecting Tap Room patron something along the lines of: "You're a fucking idiot and anyone who agrees with you is a fucking idiot!" The actual words have been hotly contested since the incident. I certainly don't remember what I said. Remember? I was just yelling aimlessly. But I realized I was being an asshole when I felt the arms of friends holding me back, while one whispered, "Whatever. We got numbers. It's all good." And I guess this guy understood pretty quickly that I was just being a waste face and not really looking to hold a halfway serious conversation about the well-being of one BJ Penn. I guess he was by himself, too, and wearing a wedding ring. I don't think he was very large, either. All told, I chose the right person to be an asshole toward. And I learned my lesson that uhh... adrenaline + testosterone + beer = cocktailforJontheAsshole. So I can keep that in mind the next time I'm full of adrenaline, testosterone and beer and yelling for the sake of yelling. In other words, I'll probably stop myself from yelling, and just smile widely.

Karma's a bitch, though. Minutes later, while waiting for a bus to take my drunk, testosterone-filled self home, I uhh... Hmm. How shall I put this...

Well, alright.

I fell backwards like an unconscious log because I'd fallen asleep on my feet waiting for the bus. Henry, talking on the phone behind me, saw my dead-logged body at an approximately 65 degree angle in relation to the ground and shoulder-blocked me to the side so that I landed on my elbow instead of cracking my head open on the sidewalk. Had I cracked the back of my head open on the sidewalk, I'm sure I'd have some commentary on it involving the words 'brutal' and 'awesome.' Instead, I'll say I stood back up and denied knowledge of such a thing ever happening. So one friend held me up with my arm around his shoulder and his arm around mine, until it was clear that that was not enough to hold up a sleeping 25 year old man. I may have crashed to the sidewalk again. Not really sure. But I was two-manned for a while in the 'Hold Up My Drunken Friend' department. Shortly after that, I walked unassisted for two blocks to catch a cab.

Then, memory fails me. I woke up shirtless on my couch and retreated to my bedroom. There I found Jake passed out, 'cause I'd stolen his bed (my couch). I woke up the next day without a single symptom of a hangover.

Luckily, I have friends to fill in blanks.

When we got to my apartment, we played Rock Band for a while. Shirtless. I participated, apparently. Then, there was a long enough break in the action for me to start leaning/rolling against the wall, causing my roommate to declare 'Oh my god, that guy is not okay,' at which point I guess I fell onto a chair and almost broke something. Jake said he slapped my face, told me to pull it together and walk over to the couch (a 3-4 step journey). I complied and didn't move again until morning. ..Err, unless someone started talking to me about drugs. I guess that got me to move from time to time.

Oh, my favorite part... Henry's girlfriend Gosia cabbed to our apartment shortly after we arrived from the Tap Room. She told us her cab driver picked her up and she gave the cabbie her address of destination. He gave her some interesting news: "[That address]? I just dropped 4 guys off there. One was really tall and had a nose ring [Henry]. Ya know, most guys I pick up - all they talk about is gettin' pussy. These guys? All they talked about was tacos and burritos."


That's Gosia and the cabbie. Reports indicate he was amused by our banter. I certainly don't remember. My friends said I was interacting with others coherently in the cab ride. I assume they were speaking relatively.

So I took a day off from drinking. Visited my parents. Told them a more selective version of the story you just read. And, I say 'took off,' but I meant I only had 3 beers instead of enough beers to kill a yak. I considered Super Bowl parties, but some sound piece of judgment managed to reach my thick skull that day and I did not SuperBowlParty it up.

But Monday, Feb 2nd, my last day of employment, I threw sense out the window and drank and drank and drank, starting around noon at the Billy Goat Tavern. I had a great time, too. Not one bad moment, really. Everyone was happy, drinking with me, laughing, forgetting that we'd all just lost our jobs. It was quite great! Nothing bad that I remember. Probably because... I don't remember passing out at the bar we'd been drinking at, Cal's. And I don't remember getting thrown in a cab with Sam V., whose boots I puked on (for what it's worth, Sam, I puked a little on my peacoat, too) during said cab ride. My delightful coworkers tried desperately to contact my roommate Jon to make sure I didn't die when I got home. My roommate Jon's recounting of events:

"I received phone calls and text messages from numbers I didn't have stored in my phone. They said things along the lines of 'Jon - your roommate Jon is beyond wasted and we're sending him home in a cab. Please make sure he does not die.' I got home and was happy to see you not passed out in the hallway. The door to your room was open. No lights were on. I looked inside and turned on the light. You were wearing your coat, hat and scarf, kneeling in front of your bed with your upper torso and face flush with the mattress. I thought, 'He didn't quite make it...'"
I still don't have a time frame for any of Monday's events. All I can say with certainty was my last memory of Sam V. was at the Billy Goat, when she went back to the office (she has her job until April). Not Cal's, where I passed out and got thrown in a cab. At some point during my unconsciousness, Sam V. returned to her more merry former coworkers and dragged one of them into a cab home where he proceeded to puke on her boots as a means of saying "Thank you."

I can think of many reasons to drink yourself into oblivion. I'm not saying my reasons were bad at all, but... there comes a point for all of us where enough is enough. I just needed to come to that point... 5 or 6 times in 3 days for it to have any sort of meaningful effect.

So this is how I've entered my new, bohemian lifestyle. Puking on boots and writing about it.

I think I can dig that. Wish me luck.

5 comments:

Jacob Coon said...

I think you did some damn good work.

I laughed many times, quite out loud, and am glad you made it out to our place on Friday!

You were fucking wasted, and it was classic.

Be easy brotha!

Anonymous said...

You can make me uncomfortable any time you want, buddy. Sounds like you had a blast this weekend, wish I could have been there.

Jon Grip said...

Yes yes, it was pretty incredible all around, I must say.

Coulda been better with a little Eth sex, but when doesn't that make everything better?

What a lucky pillow. said...

this is my first comment on a blogspot blog's blog. i guess you talking about me, and including shots of my ugly mug, made it about that time. this was good, but i really should have lauded your zack and miri review. scathing, laughter-inducing, and it had more flow than MIA on the rag.

Jon Grip said...

Yeah, this was definitely under the 'just for fun,' category, 'self-incriminating fun' sub-category. Ya know.

Maybe I should strictly review Kevin Smith movies. My hate for that guy is inspiring.