The Race Where No One Wins

So last Friday I mentioned that a few of my friends and I had a “race to ten Irish Car Bombs.” I should have let on that it was a misnomer. There really isn’t a race. It’s a well scripted descent into blinding drunkenness, which you may have noticed is a running theme with this blog (see this and this). Childish? Yes. Dangerous? Most definitely. Fun to the point of pukesville? Without a doubt.

The “Race to Ten” is a budding tradition of mine, a challenge that you cannot deny and a journey that you mustn’t miss. The rules are simple: Survive drinking ten Irish Car Bombs in one sitting (though you may be leaping, crawling, retching, sneezing or imploding at various points). It always starts out with all sorts of good intentions, okay, that’s a complete lie; the intentions are the worst kind.

For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about an Irish Car Bomb is 3/4 of a pint of Guinness Stout with a half shot of Bailey’s and Jameson dropped into the glass. Our glasses were slightly smaller so on average I’d say we were doing closer to a half pint each time. Still though, that’s like eight loaves of bread.

Enough intro, more body. Let’s meet up with the contestants (The pictures below will also serve as “Before” examples):

Contestant #1: Me. I like to start trouble. Last Thursday was no exception.

Contestant #2: Miss Blue Sky. Melissa throws a weekly party at a bar that I’ve literally spent more time in than any school I’ve ever attended. I did the math. She was the only other contestant in the first race. Neither of us won that time either. In fact, we both lost several hours of our life to Blackout Village, population: Us.

Contestant #3: Commando. Keith is a buddy of mine from way back. He works on Rhythmism with me. He likes guns… and drinking. I believe he may even like them at the same time, which is why I only hang out with Keith in Blue States.

Contestant #4: Noiseboy. Mikey and I do everything together, well whenever he’s around. He’s a super special tour manager for some big named DJ’s. We like to sit around and talk about our favorite things about ourselves. Hence why we get along so well.

Oh and we can’t forget Trixie.

The eminently charming and talented Trixie is our bartender. She was on hand for the destruction that was about to commence. Trix is the best because she’s among the handful of New York bartenders that can keep up with me when I get a mind to get down to boozin’. She’s also way prettier than the guys I usually get alcohol from.

Anyway, we started with a simple plan. One car bomb every thirty minutes till we were done. Some people hopped in and out along the way, but myself, Melissa, Keith and Mike were committed by a binding contract of assured shame should any of us bow out. The rounds were arranged as such:

The play by play.

Round 1: Nothing to report, we were still very sober (despite dining on schnitzel and VERY nice German beer for the two hours preceding the event).

Round 2: Disco D’s Round, if you know, you know (RIP). A mini Irish wake was had.

Round 3: Still not drunk.

Round 4: The Round of Danger. This is the point that we had ascertained that we should by all rights start to be getting drunk-ish.

Round 5: This is when we started naming rounds and acting them out. But not without a few midway status upgrade pics first!
Here Keith is threatening to either stab Betty or the booze, or he is about to rail a massive bump of invisible cocaine off that knife Carlito style. For the record, Betty wrote all our round cards and named them. She’s a type A personality, whereas we are just drunks.

After five Car Bombs Mike was starting to feel gangster, which is obvious by the massive wad of $61 dollars he was flashing around like a Turkish sheik in a harem full of women made out of diamonds and platinum.

I look like death warmed over. However I can assure you I was feeling fine. Though look at my friend Joe’s look in the background. He was obviously concerned, or passing gas. Neither would have phased me, I call this look: “The Zone.” You may know it by another name, “The Crazies.”

Round Six: “Sexy 6”
Indeed.

Round Seven: “Lucky 7”
This is me being lucky not to get a fucking thorn in my tongue. Actually this was our Sexy 6 photo. We were at a complete loss as to how to look “lucky.” But I guess being lucky enough to have a pal like Meliss is good enough.

Round Eight: “Crazy 8’s”
Remember when I just said that great stuff about being lucky to have Melissa as a friend? Well I said that because she disappeared for good after round 7. We didn’t notice until round 11. In honor of Crazy 8 Mike and I also did a shot of Tequila because the Guinness was being all pussy. Here’s the effect of us on some Tijuana Bang Bang:
I get all fucking frightened by this picture till I realize it’s me.

Round 9: “Naughty 9”
Don’t fucking ask. Though I must say Keith has got a bad ass “O” face.

Round 10: “The Round of Death”
Was HIGHLY anti-climactic. In fact, I was drunk enough to forget that we’d done it and asked Mike several times when our next one was coming up. We ended up doing another one, or Round 11: The Round Which Shalt Not Be Named. Then we did a variety of poses and realized Melissa was missing.

Nope, not drunk at all, haha.

This is when we started just screaming for no reason. There weren’t a lot of people left around to be impressed by us… but man were we impressed with ourselves.

This is when Keith gave me a piggy back victory ride… to nowhere. Bear in mind I was like twenty pounds heavier than usual, what with all the Guinness.

And so our night was over. As we wandered out into the night to find (hopefully) our beds to sleep off the poisoned, frothy goodness we’d so unabashedly injected into our gullets we were all seeing the world like this:

I woke the next morning the way I did the first time I had a race: On time and completely unhungover, though quite possibly still drunk. So the race ends and the tradition grows. You up for a Race to Ten?

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Defeat!

A couple things on this beautiful Monday morning:

#1: I’m back! After a short bit of vacationing upstate with the family I’m back at work and feeling productive. A mini shout out to everyone who’s been checking out the back logged posts, of which there are many.

#2: I’ve fallen in love with a band and I’ve bought my first CD in over four years. See, I’ve been a completely unrepentant music downloader in years past, but recently I picked up a copy of this band, The Black Keys. They’re amazing, a real classic rock sound, like straight out of the 70’s.

If you’re like me and you like to drink, and I don’t mean drinking a few martinis with dinner, but rather a few pints of ever-clear in a dark and smokey room, then buy their latest album, Magic Potion. I previewed it for some of my little brother’s friends this weekend over a couple cases of cheap beer, wanton personal insults and a late night game of Asshole. They were very impressed.

#3: In reference to a previous post of mine: Victory, the goddamned place where I get my breakfast… where the guy JUST learned what I get every morning… IS CLOSING on Wednesday. I am cancer-serious that this is a gigantic fucking dilemma. Where the hell am I going to get my breakfast? That’s six months of quiet patience out the window.

SO ANGRY.

Anyway, good to be back.

Wedding Zingers

We’ve got this super-huge event coming up soon here at work, so I’ve been super-hugely busy. Sorry for not staying updated. After this weekend I should be free enough to begin really posting in Ernest Saves Christmas.

Anyway, so the lady and I went to this really beautiful wedding on Friday night. Two of my very dear friends were tying the knot and we were lucky enough to be invited. It’s always more fun when it’s not a family wedding, don’t you think? There are no great uncles to worry about getting too drunk, no disapproving cousins to validate your life choices to. Just a mass of friends and strangers wrangled into an open bar with door prizes.

As we were signing the guest book I noticed something. There are really only three or four stock phrases that everyone chooses from. Either something along the line of, “Dear So and So-ette, thank you for letting us share in this moment,” or “May your love continue to grow until the end of time,” or “May you treasure this day forever, blah blah blah.”

Where’s the originality, people?

I find it a little disconcerting, really. I mean here are two people whom you love dearly, they’re getting joined at the legality bone and all you can conjure up is something you read off the back of an appendix surgery-themed Hallmark card.

So with that sentiment in my heart I went to write something fantastic.

I of course drew a blank and ended up writing a mish-mash of the stock phrases in poor handwriting and what seemed to be pidgin English. Hey, screw you, Buddy, it’s a lot of pressure. I realize now that I’m 5,000,000 times more witty when on the other side of a keyboard (which is not saying much since I was in possession of zero wit at the time).

I’ve taken the liberty of creating a few non-traditional wedding guest book phrases that you can memorize for when the time comes. Please to enjoy.

“Thank you so much for inviting us to your Wiccan ceremony. The Goddess dance, while causing me to re-tear my ACL, was riveting both in body and spirit.”

“Here’s to at least several months of unmitigated happiness, ten years of pained silence, regret and painful loathing and then hopefully a revival of your marriage in your sunset years when you guys can throw a great renewal of vows ceremony and start the whole thing all over again. Maybe by then I’ll be able to buy Jim a cyber-stripper, Awesome!”

“Thank you for the drinks and loose women.”

“Thank you for the food and tight men.”

“May your love continue to grow, but not in a cancerous way, because cancer is bad.”

“Thank you for that reading from Corinthians II, it helped me truly understand the vows of marriage in a way I have not understood them since I was 12 and in Bible school.”

“Your fine selection of shrimps and appetizers are truly representative of the special bond of love you two hold. Except for the Capers, who’s idea was that?”

And of course, my personal favorite:

“Is this where I sign up for the silent Auction? $20 for the Mother of the Bride.”

Miss(ed) Manners: Urban License #1: JOC

The more you think about it the more you realize people just can’t be trusted to be competent in anything that they do. In many cases when compentency becomes an issue of life or death the government will issue licenses certifying that person in the skill in question. Driving, operating heavy machinery, being a barrista at Starbucks, etc.

Why stop there, I ask. There are thousands of skills that require licensing immediately simply just for living in New York. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this issue and the simple fact of the matter is that you need to know if you’re skilled enough to perform certain tasks without fear of legal reprisal, beatings or cock-smacks (assuming you have one, vag-slaps aren’t nearly as painful).

So today I’m introducing part one in a multi-part series of undetermined length or quality that I call:

Dave’s Urban License Program
License #1: Jukebox Operator Certification

Picture this: You’re sitting in your average run of the mill New York beer bar, swilling down some God awful pint of Hoegarden or whatever you fairies drink. You’re enjoying the company of your friends, eating, talking, laughing, all is right with the world.

Then, out of nowhere, the jukebox springs to life, its lights pulsating to the beat of some unknown track buried at the end of Guns and Roses’ seminally horrible album, “The Spaghetti Incident.” Your palms start sweating, you don’t know the words, you don’t know when to bounce your head, how to fake the guitar riffs. There will be no chorus of, “ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Snap!” from your table. This song is unsnappable.

All too often a jukebox acts like a beacon to the musically retarded. This large foreheaded neanderthal strolls into packed bars with a musical agenda. He’s got a list of songs that he’s going to search that jukebox for and make everyone listen to for one of two reasons: Either 1) The song means something only to him and/or his friends and they want to relive some aborted spring break vacation they spent in their parents’ garage smoking reefer and talking about breast size or 2) He thinks this awful song is good and he wants other people to hear it on the off chance that they’ll like it too and then come up to him and offer him oral sex. I read it in a newspaper.

There’s no reason for this to happen. If the city were to introduce my Urban Licensing system then all jukeboxes installed in the city would be outfitted with card scanners and a series of qualifications for operation based on song catalog, venue type and neighborhood.

For the most part bars with a jukebox fall into the “Beer Bar” category. The semi-sports bar, the slightly noisy, may have food, just a place to hang out with little to no pretension in the air sort of place. These are my favorite places. The jukebox is usually stocked with all manners of Classic Rock.

There are more localized and discerning jukeboxes of course. There’s the hipster bar, country bar, punk bar and jazz bar to name a few. Operating a juke box in these locations would require passing the general JOC exam along with a specialized genre specific written exam so you don’t end up putting on the 15 minute interview introduction to a Miles Davis compilation and getting soaked in a hail of fancy brown liquour by an angry mob of funny hat wearing post-depression Americana enthusiasts.

However, like I said, most bars fall under the general JOC’s jurisdiction, which is headbanging, lyrics screeching, guitar wailing, Classic Rock. Rock and Roll is the veritable glue that holds this macaroni picture frame we call a country together. There is no greater thread that runs through our nation’s history than Rock, it is the universal language of keg parties, beer busts and four day binges ending in multiple pregnancies. Shit, when George Carlin came back in time in the movie, “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure,” he wasn’t coming back to help a pair of clarinet players, he was coming back to ensure that Wyld Stallyns brought the future together under the banner of Rock music. So suck on that DJ’s, you are basically a shit stain on the underwear of musical relevance.

Anyway, I’m currently in the process of producing the written exam portion of the licensing procedure. Eventually there will be a real world practical exam wherein the applicant will have to program a ten song set into a randomly chosen bar jukebox. The finale song choice (always important) is basically the paralell parking equivalent.

Some sample questions:

1) You’re in a bar on a Saturday night and the mood is low. To begin your musical selection you can choose from the four following songs:

a) Madonna – Like a Virgin
b) Ricky Martin – Livin’ La Vida Loca
c) Phil Collins – In the Air Tonight
d) Anything by AC/DC

Answer: D, you idiot. Madonna is generally reserved for the subset Gay jukebox or in the subarticle 9 clause, entitled, “Playing a Female Request in Hopes of Getting Laid.” Ricky Martin songs are obviously punishable by death and/or theft of beer, the same usually goes for Phil Collins, however in this case we see the case of the classic, “playing a song just for the instrumental solo” situation. Not acceptable. “In the Air Tonight” is only allowed for sitting quietly alone on a waterfront, staring off into the distance, contemplating murder/suicide and then walking off, right as the drum solo happens, to an uncertain future.

2) You’ve arrived at a bar only to find that it houses a new, electronic jukebox, what do you do?

a) Instantly search the web for that new Fergie song.
b) Play your song and pay the extra $2.00 to have it bumped in front of whatever song is playing next.
c) Use their comprehensive catalog to find the song you lost your virginity to and cry at the bar.
d) Throw your fist into its cold, mechanical heart and tear out what you can, then, if possible, defecate inside of the gaping hole.

This is a tough question to answer. If you answered A, you should probably sterilize yourself by whatever means possible. If you chose B then you’re one of the reasons that these machines are a greater threat to national security than Diebold voting machines. A competent Jukebox operator knows how to put a set of music together, if you go and start either shuffling or changing the order, not only do you risk bodily harm to yourself, but also you risk harming the masterfully crafted ambience that only a 40 minute block of soul-pelting Rock can do.

Answering C is really its own punishment. Good luck with that.

Again the only suitable answer here is D for one simple reason: Led Zeppelin. Currently, the Led Zeppelin catalog is not permitted to be used in Internet jukeboxes. I’ve heard rumors that the Boss also does not allow for his music to touch these little abominations. It is theoretically impossible to drink beer for an entire night and not hear Led Zeppelin and call it a good night. Therefore you must destroy all touch screen/web enabled jukeboxes on sight.

So that about does it for the JOC licensing preview, I’m currently in talks with the Mayor’s office regarding its immediate implementation. In the mean time however, may I suggest that you all supress your wanton urges to recklessly play at Maestro when you see a jukebox from across a crowded bar? You’re gambling with the ears of dozens and scores of dollars in incredibly sub-par beer.

Miss(ed) Manners: Step Up, Fall Down Drunk

Once in a great while a movie comes along that will make you rethink your views on class, culture and art. A stirring narrative that will have you talking about it for weeks or maybe months.

Step Up is NOT that movie.

Last night I embarked upon my second (but third attempt at) drunk movie review. This tradition is quickly becoming both my favorite and most hated past time. For those of you who are in the dark, the first movie review can be found
here

The premise is simple, imbibe dangerous amount of vodka then travel to a movie theater and see the worst movie showing there. Last night, however, I decided to throw in a twist, I brought a friend.

No, the friend’s name wasn’t cocaine, you people make me ill.

His name was Dale! Dale is one of my favorite people in the world because he loves to drink almost as much as I do. We’ve both been known to tote bottles of liquour around parties and then be found face down in a bathroom some time later. Who better to bring along on a DMR?

We got things started early, around 8 in Washington Square Park where we threw our bottle of Tito’s Handmade Vodka into a brown paper bag and chatted about everything from tits to asses.

What? We’re guys, that’s what guys talk about.

About half way through the bottle we decided to pregame a little more at a bar with some beer and pool. At this point I felt like we were overcompensating a little with the manliness considering we were about to go see a movie about dancing, together, after 10pm. I stole a pen from a bar tender, blatantly, and then we headed out.

Eventually we made it to the theater and bought two tickets to the 10:30 show. Then I started to take stock of how drunk I was getting. The teller mentioned that the movie was on the fifth floor and I mused aloud that those were a lot of steps to walk. They have escalators you dumb ass.

Things really start to get hazy here. We’d consumed nearly the entire bottle of vodka and with two pints of beer a piece in us we were staggering by the time we got in the actual theater.

Lo and behold there were actually people ready and waiting to watch this drivel. In the back corner there was a homeless guy who figured this would be the best place to catch a nap, considering the movie has the entertainment factor of chewed celery. There was the requisite child molester-looking guy two rows behind us. And then there were two girls, probably NYU freshmen, who were about to get their first dose of New York, Miss(ed) Manners style.

After getting settled, taking a few more pulls on the bottle and deciding we’d write our notes on our brown paper bag (which I subsequently lost), the theater went dark and the movie started. It should be noted however, that by this point I had lost complete control over my motor functions and I wasn’t even writing, it was like controlled fits of Parkinson’s with a stolen pen.

Step Up takes place in Maryland, a fact explained to me by Dale after I shouted at the screen, “this looks NOTHING like New York!” Street wise Tyler (Tatum Channing) loves to dance, a fact we’re reminded of during the opening scene. Potatum and his boys are at a club, he’s out on the floor getting all krump on some girl and then he almost gets shot. This obviously frightens the boys as they then run out of there and immediately break into a dance academy to steal some shit to buy some guns to go get the guy that almost shot Tater. They get caught and convicted and Totem Pole has to do 200 hours of community service by being a janitor at the school.

Toast’em then spends a little time complaining about how this world is so different from the world he grew up in. He is after all, very authentic and hasn’t coopted any culture at all. The Ballet school is not Krump enough for him.

And then we meet our female protagonist, Nora (Jenna Dewan).

She’s sad in this picture because she’s just realized that she looks like Vincent from TV’s Beauty and the Beast. Well, that and her partner (who is apparently the only one in the school strong enough to lift her beastly, mannish figure) got hurt and he needs to take some time to ice and practice his tights stuffing skills.

What follows next is a whirlwind romance and clashing of high society dancing and street moves. Break dancing and ballet! Holy shit, what a great idea for a movie! Do you think… maybe… they might learn from each other and perhaps make a stupendous dance routine that blends their specific styles of dance into one, but without losing the traits that make them unique?!

Unfortunately we didn’t get to know. At 11:00 I received a call from my mother. What was I to do? I was plastered drunk by this point, unable to talk effectively and in a movie theater, what’s the correct thing to do?

Well I answered the phone of course! It was my mom!

I started the conversation off with the ever popular (and very loud), “Hi Mom! I’m really drunk and in a movie theater with Dale!”

“That’s nice honey, tell Dale I said Hello, do you want to buy a piece of land?”

I covered the receiver and whisper-shouted to Dale, “My mom says Hello! She wants me to buy some land!”

My mom is a real estate agent and she’s constantly trying to get me to buy land with money I don’t have. I make about enough to eat and drink (as can be seen) and I’m happy. But apparently my mom thinks I would be happier owning a few acres of undeveloped land upstate. I usually counter this argument with something about the noose of land ownership and my being a free spirit that needs to pay overpriced rent to feel validated.

That’s the gist of the five minute conversation I stammered and slurred at full volume in the theater. It got pretty heated and she ended the phone call angrily with, “Call me when you’re sober, David!” It was so Jerry Springer I almost cried.

It should also be noted that never at any time did anyone tell me to shush. I must seem like a violent drunk.

By the end of the phone call the vodka was bearing full force on me. I could feel the walls of drunkness closing in on me and I was swaying visibly. We tried to write notes and follow the movie, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

Add to that that this movie is more formulaic and trite than an episode of Real World and we felt like there was nothing left to watch. I made the following predictions in my head for the movie before we left:

The original dance partner guy would come back and Beastlady would choose FacTatum over him.

One of Tatumstatumtum’s friends would get shot.

She-ra the Animal Queen would make a killer dance routine and do ballet to hip hop music.

All three of these things happen of course. Basically, you could go to this movie with an Urban Fish Out of Water Movie Plot Bingo Card and win in the first twenty mintues. When we realized we’d seen the movie already in our heads (a much better version of course) Dale and I decided to hit the bricks. I was losing consciousness slowly but surely and needed to sleep it off.

I woke up, as usual, still slightly drunk.

My Rating: 2 out of 5 Drunk Rambling Phone Conversations with Your Mom
(Not reccomended, drunk or otherwise)