Since I told a story about my dad, I'm going to tell one about my mom.
Several years ago, I moved from Yakima to Seattle. I started off in Tukwila, but then moved to Burien.I was living in a two bedroom apartment with an old high school friend.
How we came to live in that complex, and the adventure within, is a
story for another day.
A few weeks before my birthday, I
got a card in the mail. It was from my mother. She had sent me a
birthday/Christmas card. People do that to me all the time, since my
birthday is pretty close to Christmas. Anyway, I open the card, and
notice that there are two checks in it.
One is marked "Birthday", and the other is marked "Christmas". The birthday check wasn't signed. Good job, mom.
So, I put the check in an envelope with a note asking her to sign the check (even though I could have just forged her signature) and also thanking her for the money, and send it on it's way back to St. Louis, which is where my mom lived at the time.
A couple days later, I get a call from mom.
"Hi, honey! Did you get the card I sent?"
'Yeah, mom, I did. Thank you again."
"Again? What do you mean?"
'Well, mom, I opened the card a couple of days ago, and one of the checks you sent wasn't signed.'
"Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. Send me back the check, and I'll send it back to you."
"Not a problem, mom. I already have."
"OK, good."
I pause for a little bit, and then say, to my MOTHER:
"Mom, I don't want to sound like an ungrateful son, but if the check isn't signed, how am I going to cash it and buy cheap liquor and hookers?"
She didn't even take a breath: "Oh, honey. You know you don't buy cheap liquor..."
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
I Sprained My Thumb
And long story short, I had my appendix taken out.
Here's what happened.
I sprained my thumb playing volleyball in Iraq. We had a barbecue for our company and a fellow company. Lots of food, fake beer and people trying to have fun in one of the most desolate places on the planet. We started a volleyball tournament, and in the first game, I jumped up to block the ball. The problem was, the guy on the other side of the net was a LOT bigger than me, and slammed it down into my hand.
It hurt.
A few days later, I wasn't feeling so good, and my thumb had started to turn a little purple. So, I told my boss that I was going to the med center to have them check out my thumb.
When I get there, they take a look at it and tell me that there's nothing they can really do. I have to just let it heal. But, they COULD give me ibuprofen. Like I don't have enough of that already. They wouldn't do a scan or even check the mobility of it to see if it was broken.
While checking out my thumb, they noticed I was holding my stomach. "Is your belly OK? You seem to be holding it." I told them that it had been hurting a little bit for a day or two. The nurse, a Specialist, says she's gonna get the doc.
The doctor is a 1st Lieutenant, and had a great bedside manner. The whole time I was there, we were laughing and joking. He asks me to lay down, so he can examine my abdomen. I do, and he starts prodding, starting with the lower left quadrant, and moving counter-clockwise.
He finally gets to the lower right quadrant, and pushes in. "Does it hurt here?" "Fuck yes it does!" Then, he says, "Does it hurt more when I push in..." ( I swear he was trying to touch my spine) "Or when I release?" When he let go, it felt like he had reached into me, grabbed some organs, and tried to rip them out, while simultaneously, someone hit me in the back of that area with a pickaxe.
I shot up off the exam table, and almost threw a punch at the doc. It was a good thing he was an officer and a nice guy. Otherwise, I would have hit him really hard. Ok, I would have used some very harsh language.
He tells me to lay back down and then explains, "Ok, we're going to get an IV in you, give you some Morphine, and get you on the first MEDIVAC flight out of here. You have Appendicitis, and you need to get that thing removed as soon as possible.
Holding up my hand, staring at my thumb. Then the doc. Then my thumb. Then the doc. "I came in to have my thumb looked at!" "Well, your thumb will heal. Your appendix will kill you." "Well, okay then."
One of my buddies brought me a backpack with a couple changes of clothes, a couple packs of cigarettes, and a crossword puzzle book. Apparently, the med center staff called my unit, and told them that I was getting a MEDIVAC, and to have someone bring me some essentials. However, they didn't explain why I was leaving. Everyone knew I was going to the Med center to get my thumb checked out, and suddenly, I'm being flown out like a medical emergency. I gained a lot of respect for that.
An hour later, I'm on a helicopter, flying to the nearest hospital, which is 100 miles away. They put me in the ICU and give me 2 CT scans. Just after the CT scans, the doctor comes to talk to me. He tells me, "Well, your appendix is just about the size where we could take it out, but you don't seem like you're in A LOT of pain. If you were here on this base, I'd just send you back to your unit, and have you come back if it gets worse. But, since you aren't, and it would be such an ordeal to get you back here, we'll just go ahead and get that thing out of you." Which I was very enthusiastic about. Seriously. I haven't had a real surgery since I was 2.
So, they took it out of me, and I had one of the nurses take pictures. Pablo looks angry. That's right, I named it. I wanted to take it home, too, but they wouldn't. The bastards. I woke up in the ICU recovery room, completely whacked out on Morphine, and babbling my ass off. Apparently, morphine makes me very talkative. Problem is, I was speaking gibberish. I must have made up 10 new words. When I finally came to, I went quiet for a minute. The nurses were concerned, because they thought I might have had an adverse reaction to the anesthesia, and might vomit. I called one over.
You okay?
I have a question. Problem. A problem, question.
All right?
Where are my underpants?
That's your question?
No, that's my problem. Where are my underpants? I went into surgery wearing them, and don't have them now.
Oh, they're under the gurney.
...
...
...
Okay. Here's my question:
I'm doped to the gills, I hurt from the belly button down, and for some reason, my genitals are wet. I feel like a sex crime victim. What did you guys DO to me while I was under?
All the nurses started laughing, and some of the doctors who just happened to be walking by started laughing, too. I'm glad that I can make people laugh. Even after surgery, I still have a sense of humor. Once they moved me to ICU, they put another IV in me, and wouldn't let me eat or drink. I hadn't eaten since before I went to the med clinic 2 1/2 days earlier. They wouldn't even let me have water. They were afraid I was going to vomit it back up. So, I had an IV in me for the next 2 days, until I convinced them that I was well enough to eat. I think I lost about 20 pounds while I was there.
Since I could hardly stand, let alone walk, I wasn't able to smoke, and could barely get around. I wanted a wheelchair, but they didn't have any that were available. (I think they lied to me. They always do that.) Hell, I couldn't even shower, and I was starting to get ripe since I hadn't taken one for about 5 days. So, I kept asking everyone to give me a sponge bath. EVERYONE. Officers, enlisted, nurses, men, women, the LTC who did my surgery. I just kept saying, "Don't be shy! Grab a sponge!" They didn't. Where is their bedside manner?
After a couple days, I was well enough to walk, and got a ride to the airfield to try and catch a flight back to my base. Took 3 days. Finally, I catch a chopper and head back. I got put on light duty for a month, and was given Percocet for the pain. Which was wonderful. Not as good as the morphine, mind you, but good enough. It kept me from weeping every time I had to take a shit.
Oh, by the way, the entire time I was gone, 10 days, I didn't have access to a computer, or any contact numbers for my command back at my base. So, I couldn't let them know when I was coming back, or give them updates as to my condition. They basically just heard that I went to have my thumb checked out, and then I became a medical emergency. I had to explain it all to them, because the Med center wouldn't tell them anything.
Once I was back on base, I was showing everyone my scar, when my buddy Bill come walking up. He had just gotten back from R&R. As he was walking up, we yelled hello at him, and waved him over. My partner in crime, Tiger, leans over, and whispers, "You got stabbed at the pumphouse." Gotcha. The two of us were intelligent and bored. So, we always had to fuck with people's heads. Bill usually didn't fall for our stuff, but this time he did. Hook, line and sinker.
When Bill got over to us, I showed him the scar, and told him that I was out on mission at the water pumping station, and got into a tussle with one of the Iraqi Army guys, who was apparently up in the tower looking for one of our female soldiers. I told him to get down, he wouldn't, we started wrestling, and he ended up at the bottom of the ladder well. I, however, was stabbed in the abdomen. The Medics got me in a truck, and brought me back to base.
"Dude! Really!"
"Yeah, bro. I'll tell you this. That guy disappeared. We haven't seen him since."
Here's what happened.
I sprained my thumb playing volleyball in Iraq. We had a barbecue for our company and a fellow company. Lots of food, fake beer and people trying to have fun in one of the most desolate places on the planet. We started a volleyball tournament, and in the first game, I jumped up to block the ball. The problem was, the guy on the other side of the net was a LOT bigger than me, and slammed it down into my hand.
It hurt.
A few days later, I wasn't feeling so good, and my thumb had started to turn a little purple. So, I told my boss that I was going to the med center to have them check out my thumb.
When I get there, they take a look at it and tell me that there's nothing they can really do. I have to just let it heal. But, they COULD give me ibuprofen. Like I don't have enough of that already. They wouldn't do a scan or even check the mobility of it to see if it was broken.
While checking out my thumb, they noticed I was holding my stomach. "Is your belly OK? You seem to be holding it." I told them that it had been hurting a little bit for a day or two. The nurse, a Specialist, says she's gonna get the doc.
The doctor is a 1st Lieutenant, and had a great bedside manner. The whole time I was there, we were laughing and joking. He asks me to lay down, so he can examine my abdomen. I do, and he starts prodding, starting with the lower left quadrant, and moving counter-clockwise.
He finally gets to the lower right quadrant, and pushes in. "Does it hurt here?" "Fuck yes it does!" Then, he says, "Does it hurt more when I push in..." ( I swear he was trying to touch my spine) "Or when I release?" When he let go, it felt like he had reached into me, grabbed some organs, and tried to rip them out, while simultaneously, someone hit me in the back of that area with a pickaxe.
I shot up off the exam table, and almost threw a punch at the doc. It was a good thing he was an officer and a nice guy. Otherwise, I would have hit him really hard. Ok, I would have used some very harsh language.
He tells me to lay back down and then explains, "Ok, we're going to get an IV in you, give you some Morphine, and get you on the first MEDIVAC flight out of here. You have Appendicitis, and you need to get that thing removed as soon as possible.
Holding up my hand, staring at my thumb. Then the doc. Then my thumb. Then the doc. "I came in to have my thumb looked at!" "Well, your thumb will heal. Your appendix will kill you." "Well, okay then."
One of my buddies brought me a backpack with a couple changes of clothes, a couple packs of cigarettes, and a crossword puzzle book. Apparently, the med center staff called my unit, and told them that I was getting a MEDIVAC, and to have someone bring me some essentials. However, they didn't explain why I was leaving. Everyone knew I was going to the Med center to get my thumb checked out, and suddenly, I'm being flown out like a medical emergency. I gained a lot of respect for that.
An hour later, I'm on a helicopter, flying to the nearest hospital, which is 100 miles away. They put me in the ICU and give me 2 CT scans. Just after the CT scans, the doctor comes to talk to me. He tells me, "Well, your appendix is just about the size where we could take it out, but you don't seem like you're in A LOT of pain. If you were here on this base, I'd just send you back to your unit, and have you come back if it gets worse. But, since you aren't, and it would be such an ordeal to get you back here, we'll just go ahead and get that thing out of you." Which I was very enthusiastic about. Seriously. I haven't had a real surgery since I was 2.
So, they took it out of me, and I had one of the nurses take pictures. Pablo looks angry. That's right, I named it. I wanted to take it home, too, but they wouldn't. The bastards. I woke up in the ICU recovery room, completely whacked out on Morphine, and babbling my ass off. Apparently, morphine makes me very talkative. Problem is, I was speaking gibberish. I must have made up 10 new words. When I finally came to, I went quiet for a minute. The nurses were concerned, because they thought I might have had an adverse reaction to the anesthesia, and might vomit. I called one over.
You okay?
I have a question. Problem. A problem, question.
All right?
Where are my underpants?
That's your question?
No, that's my problem. Where are my underpants? I went into surgery wearing them, and don't have them now.
Oh, they're under the gurney.
...
...
...
Okay. Here's my question:
I'm doped to the gills, I hurt from the belly button down, and for some reason, my genitals are wet. I feel like a sex crime victim. What did you guys DO to me while I was under?
All the nurses started laughing, and some of the doctors who just happened to be walking by started laughing, too. I'm glad that I can make people laugh. Even after surgery, I still have a sense of humor. Once they moved me to ICU, they put another IV in me, and wouldn't let me eat or drink. I hadn't eaten since before I went to the med clinic 2 1/2 days earlier. They wouldn't even let me have water. They were afraid I was going to vomit it back up. So, I had an IV in me for the next 2 days, until I convinced them that I was well enough to eat. I think I lost about 20 pounds while I was there.
Since I could hardly stand, let alone walk, I wasn't able to smoke, and could barely get around. I wanted a wheelchair, but they didn't have any that were available. (I think they lied to me. They always do that.) Hell, I couldn't even shower, and I was starting to get ripe since I hadn't taken one for about 5 days. So, I kept asking everyone to give me a sponge bath. EVERYONE. Officers, enlisted, nurses, men, women, the LTC who did my surgery. I just kept saying, "Don't be shy! Grab a sponge!" They didn't. Where is their bedside manner?
After a couple days, I was well enough to walk, and got a ride to the airfield to try and catch a flight back to my base. Took 3 days. Finally, I catch a chopper and head back. I got put on light duty for a month, and was given Percocet for the pain. Which was wonderful. Not as good as the morphine, mind you, but good enough. It kept me from weeping every time I had to take a shit.
Oh, by the way, the entire time I was gone, 10 days, I didn't have access to a computer, or any contact numbers for my command back at my base. So, I couldn't let them know when I was coming back, or give them updates as to my condition. They basically just heard that I went to have my thumb checked out, and then I became a medical emergency. I had to explain it all to them, because the Med center wouldn't tell them anything.
Once I was back on base, I was showing everyone my scar, when my buddy Bill come walking up. He had just gotten back from R&R. As he was walking up, we yelled hello at him, and waved him over. My partner in crime, Tiger, leans over, and whispers, "You got stabbed at the pumphouse." Gotcha. The two of us were intelligent and bored. So, we always had to fuck with people's heads. Bill usually didn't fall for our stuff, but this time he did. Hook, line and sinker.
When Bill got over to us, I showed him the scar, and told him that I was out on mission at the water pumping station, and got into a tussle with one of the Iraqi Army guys, who was apparently up in the tower looking for one of our female soldiers. I told him to get down, he wouldn't, we started wrestling, and he ended up at the bottom of the ladder well. I, however, was stabbed in the abdomen. The Medics got me in a truck, and brought me back to base.
"Dude! Really!"
"Yeah, bro. I'll tell you this. That guy disappeared. We haven't seen him since."
Friday, February 17, 2012
Shit My Dad Says
At 19, I was in community college on Yakima, and was still living with my dad.
One day, I walked up to my dad in the kitchen, and hit him with a revelation...
"Dad, you know I've had sex before, right?"
"Well, you're 19. I figured that would happen. I just want to ask you to do two things for me."
"What's that? "
"Firstly, always protect yourself. I'm not just talking about condoms. PROTECT YOURSELF. Women are fucking crazy. Trust me. I've been married and divorced 4 times. Learn from my wisdom."
"And the other thing?"
"Don't ever tell me about it."
Flash forward two years. I'm living on my own, and call up my dad for our weekly bullshitting session.
"Hey, dad. What's going on?"
"Oh, son. Not all that good. I can't have anything but water until midnight, and then can't have anything."
"Why not? What's going on?"
"Oh, I didn't tell you? Tomorrow, I have to go to the doctor to have 2 enemas and a 6 foot anal probe."
<pause>
"Dad, a couple of years ago, we made a deal. I would like to amend that deal. I won't tell you about my sex life, if you don't tell me about what goes in and comes out of your ass. Deal?"
So, that's how we were for years. That is, until he started dating again.
I'll say this. It's pretty intriguing and disgusting to watch a couple of 70 somethings make out in a bar on St. Patrick's day. After witnessing that, my dad felt that it was okay to tell me about his sex life.
So, to get back at him, I'd tell him about the painful shits I would take. And that way we remained until he died. In fact, just before he died, we talked on the phone, and I told him about some problems I was having with my GI system. He gave me some advice on diet and whatnot. Then, he told me about the date he recently went on. I gave him some advice about positions and whatnot.
Miss you, Pops. In Memory of Allen K. Grissom
One day, I walked up to my dad in the kitchen, and hit him with a revelation...
"Dad, you know I've had sex before, right?"
"Well, you're 19. I figured that would happen. I just want to ask you to do two things for me."
"What's that? "
"Firstly, always protect yourself. I'm not just talking about condoms. PROTECT YOURSELF. Women are fucking crazy. Trust me. I've been married and divorced 4 times. Learn from my wisdom."
"And the other thing?"
"Don't ever tell me about it."
Flash forward two years. I'm living on my own, and call up my dad for our weekly bullshitting session.
"Hey, dad. What's going on?"
"Oh, son. Not all that good. I can't have anything but water until midnight, and then can't have anything."
"Why not? What's going on?"
"Oh, I didn't tell you? Tomorrow, I have to go to the doctor to have 2 enemas and a 6 foot anal probe."
<pause>
"Dad, a couple of years ago, we made a deal. I would like to amend that deal. I won't tell you about my sex life, if you don't tell me about what goes in and comes out of your ass. Deal?"
So, that's how we were for years. That is, until he started dating again.
I'll say this. It's pretty intriguing and disgusting to watch a couple of 70 somethings make out in a bar on St. Patrick's day. After witnessing that, my dad felt that it was okay to tell me about his sex life.
So, to get back at him, I'd tell him about the painful shits I would take. And that way we remained until he died. In fact, just before he died, we talked on the phone, and I told him about some problems I was having with my GI system. He gave me some advice on diet and whatnot. Then, he told me about the date he recently went on. I gave him some advice about positions and whatnot.
Miss you, Pops. In Memory of Allen K. Grissom
GTA
I went to USC 6 back in the day. A very big rave, in what is now the Century Link Events center.
There were 12 of us going, and we took 2 cars. I had decided to be the sober guy that night. No booze, no drugs. It was pretty fun, actually. Until...
My girlfriend started having a bad trip. She was never really a fan of crowds to begin with, and now she has 4,000 people around her, and she's high as fuck.
As a couple of us were trying to figure out what to do, my friend Odie (Not his real name, obviously) shows up. I ask him for a big favor. I need to borrow his car to take my girl back home. He says yes, but will need a ride back there after the rave. We confer with one of the drivers, and they agree to let him ride with them.
Cool. We're all set. He tells me the car is a VW Fox, on parking level 2. So, we walk up there, and look for the car. It's not there. I quickly run up the next 4 flights to find his car. It's nowhere.
I come back down, and suddenly, there it is. So, we get in, and go home. I remembered thinking, "When did Odie put Christmas lights in his car? Oh, well." We get home, and I decided that since we were no longer at the rave, I would do a home roll. Lots of fun. My girl and I had copious amounts of sex that night, and fell asleep.
I get woken up at 11:30 by Odie and my other buddy.
Odie: "Dude, where's my car?"
Me: "It's in the lower parking lot."
O: "No it's not."
I get up, and look out the window.
Me: "It's right there, see?"
O: "That's not my car, dude. Mine is a 4 door. That's a 2 door."
That's right. I had accidentally STOLEN A CAR.
Now, I'm not hungover, but still a little groggy from the X. I get some clothes on, and we go out side.
O: "How did you even get it unlocked? We tried, and the key wouldn't turn."
I take the key from him, and unlock the door without a problem. Then climb inside, and start it up. Also, without a problem. Now, everyone is freaking out. I'm not awake yet, but I still have the ability to think clearly in the face of adversity.
I tell Odie to get in this car, and drive back down to the events center. My other buddy I tell to follow. When they get there, park it somewhere conspicuous, and look for his car. If his car is still there, bring it back home. If it's not, to bring Odie back home, and we'll report it stolen.
They do as they're told, and are gone for about an hour. When they come back, Odie tells me that his car was exactly where he told me it was. (Which is wrong, but whatever) We have a pretty uneventful rest of the day. Although my living room looked like Jonestown: The Morning After.
There were 12 of us going, and we took 2 cars. I had decided to be the sober guy that night. No booze, no drugs. It was pretty fun, actually. Until...
My girlfriend started having a bad trip. She was never really a fan of crowds to begin with, and now she has 4,000 people around her, and she's high as fuck.
As a couple of us were trying to figure out what to do, my friend Odie (Not his real name, obviously) shows up. I ask him for a big favor. I need to borrow his car to take my girl back home. He says yes, but will need a ride back there after the rave. We confer with one of the drivers, and they agree to let him ride with them.
Cool. We're all set. He tells me the car is a VW Fox, on parking level 2. So, we walk up there, and look for the car. It's not there. I quickly run up the next 4 flights to find his car. It's nowhere.
I come back down, and suddenly, there it is. So, we get in, and go home. I remembered thinking, "When did Odie put Christmas lights in his car? Oh, well." We get home, and I decided that since we were no longer at the rave, I would do a home roll. Lots of fun. My girl and I had copious amounts of sex that night, and fell asleep.
I get woken up at 11:30 by Odie and my other buddy.
Odie: "Dude, where's my car?"
Me: "It's in the lower parking lot."
O: "No it's not."
I get up, and look out the window.
Me: "It's right there, see?"
O: "That's not my car, dude. Mine is a 4 door. That's a 2 door."
That's right. I had accidentally STOLEN A CAR.
Now, I'm not hungover, but still a little groggy from the X. I get some clothes on, and we go out side.
O: "How did you even get it unlocked? We tried, and the key wouldn't turn."
I take the key from him, and unlock the door without a problem. Then climb inside, and start it up. Also, without a problem. Now, everyone is freaking out. I'm not awake yet, but I still have the ability to think clearly in the face of adversity.
I tell Odie to get in this car, and drive back down to the events center. My other buddy I tell to follow. When they get there, park it somewhere conspicuous, and look for his car. If his car is still there, bring it back home. If it's not, to bring Odie back home, and we'll report it stolen.
They do as they're told, and are gone for about an hour. When they come back, Odie tells me that his car was exactly where he told me it was. (Which is wrong, but whatever) We have a pretty uneventful rest of the day. Although my living room looked like Jonestown: The Morning After.
In the dark, listening to repetitive music
I moved to Seattle from Yakima in 2000. 2001, many of my friends got heavy into raves. So, like a good little sheep, I started going, too.
My first rave, however, is something I will never forget.
I was at a show up in Mukilteo, watching my brother's band, Counterfist, play. These guys are awesome.My friends, however, went to a rave at NAF Studios in West Seattle. I told them I might come down after watching the band.
I had a pretty good time at the show, but managed to drink just a little too much. Another friend of mine managed to follow me back from Mukilteo, and told me that I shouldn't have been driving. I was apparently all over the road. I would have argued the fact, but I had to close one eye to drive straight, so the point was valid.
So, we get to the rave, and start partying with everyone. They are all completely whacked out on extacy, having a ball. Since I had been drinking, I didn't take any with them. I really didn't need to. I was almost falling over as it was.
So, I had never been to a rave before, and didn't quite know what to expect. I had seen scenes in movies before, and this was basically just like them. A big open warehouse with benches around the outside, the stage completely mobbed with people, and hundreds of people with pupils the size of dinner plates.
After an hour in that sweaty mass of flesh, I had sobered up. Seriously. I had one of the bouncers watch me do a field sobriety test. I had never before, or after, been able to recite the alphabet backward, but I did it in almost record time this night.
A dealer friend of mine, came up to me, and asked me if I had seen my buddy, and I hadn't. He was going to buy from her, and she wanted rid of it quickly. So, I paid for it, and took it off of her hands. I know, dumb thing to do, but I help out friends. When I finally found my buddy, he gave me the money for the pills, and offered to let me have one for the trouble. I said, sure why not, and took it.
A lot of us were just standing around, slightly dancing and basically just enjoying the music. I had drank a shitload, and had a lot of water when I got there, so naturally, I had to pee. They had about 15 portable toilets outside, and I got in line. Took about 20 minutes to get to the front.
Suddenly, a very beautiful girl comes up and kisses me. The pill hadn't hit me yet, so I didn't quite know what to do. So, I pulled back and started talking to her. It turns out that she was 15. I was 23 at the time, and was not having any of that. People may think that I'm a lecherous hump, but even I have my limits. She had a friend with her, who was 16, and was sober. At least, she said so. I don't think she was, but whatever. I wouldn't do anything with her either, but at least she could hold a conversation.
So, after using the toilet, I went back to my friends and sat on the floor. Then the drugs took effect. Slow at first, then built up and hit me like a hammer. It took a lot longer than I thought it would. But, once it hit, I didn't care anymore. Just before the hammer hit, I noticed the two girls I met while standing in line. We were all sitting by some portable scaffolding the promoters had used to put up decorations for the event, and the girls were sitting under it with a couple other people. The 15 year old was making out with some guy, and the 16 year old had a pissed look on her face. So, I struck up a conversation. While we were talking, we noticed something.
The younger girl had started blowing the dude.Right there at the rave, surrounded by people. Her friend and I were just dumbfounded. We didn't know if we should stop them, or watch, or tell someone else about it. We just stood there. Then the pill hit me. I stopped caring about the underage blowjob, and went to the front to dance.
I ended up shirtless and sweaty right in front of the headliner. I think it was DJ Irene. She was good. Very good. I love that big lesbian bitch. I got my first light show, someone put a surgical mask with ether on me, I made out with some hottie brunette, got into a cuddle puddle. It was a great first rave.
Once it was all over, we all understood that I should not be driving, because I was VERY high. So we left my car there, and would come back for it the next day. We all went back to my place and enjoyed the rest of our high, and crashed out.
Now before you ask, I'll tell you. The underage girls did not come with us. I wouldn't allow it. There's no way in hell I'm going to have 2 underage girls in my house, high on X, and possibly blowing people.
I didn't get laid that night, but nearly everyone else did. I didn't care. I felt fantastic. I went to many more raves after that, and even went to a few of them completely sober. Those were interesting times.
My first rave, however, is something I will never forget.
I was at a show up in Mukilteo, watching my brother's band, Counterfist, play. These guys are awesome.My friends, however, went to a rave at NAF Studios in West Seattle. I told them I might come down after watching the band.
I had a pretty good time at the show, but managed to drink just a little too much. Another friend of mine managed to follow me back from Mukilteo, and told me that I shouldn't have been driving. I was apparently all over the road. I would have argued the fact, but I had to close one eye to drive straight, so the point was valid.
So, we get to the rave, and start partying with everyone. They are all completely whacked out on extacy, having a ball. Since I had been drinking, I didn't take any with them. I really didn't need to. I was almost falling over as it was.
So, I had never been to a rave before, and didn't quite know what to expect. I had seen scenes in movies before, and this was basically just like them. A big open warehouse with benches around the outside, the stage completely mobbed with people, and hundreds of people with pupils the size of dinner plates.
After an hour in that sweaty mass of flesh, I had sobered up. Seriously. I had one of the bouncers watch me do a field sobriety test. I had never before, or after, been able to recite the alphabet backward, but I did it in almost record time this night.
A dealer friend of mine, came up to me, and asked me if I had seen my buddy, and I hadn't. He was going to buy from her, and she wanted rid of it quickly. So, I paid for it, and took it off of her hands. I know, dumb thing to do, but I help out friends. When I finally found my buddy, he gave me the money for the pills, and offered to let me have one for the trouble. I said, sure why not, and took it.
A lot of us were just standing around, slightly dancing and basically just enjoying the music. I had drank a shitload, and had a lot of water when I got there, so naturally, I had to pee. They had about 15 portable toilets outside, and I got in line. Took about 20 minutes to get to the front.
Suddenly, a very beautiful girl comes up and kisses me. The pill hadn't hit me yet, so I didn't quite know what to do. So, I pulled back and started talking to her. It turns out that she was 15. I was 23 at the time, and was not having any of that. People may think that I'm a lecherous hump, but even I have my limits. She had a friend with her, who was 16, and was sober. At least, she said so. I don't think she was, but whatever. I wouldn't do anything with her either, but at least she could hold a conversation.
So, after using the toilet, I went back to my friends and sat on the floor. Then the drugs took effect. Slow at first, then built up and hit me like a hammer. It took a lot longer than I thought it would. But, once it hit, I didn't care anymore. Just before the hammer hit, I noticed the two girls I met while standing in line. We were all sitting by some portable scaffolding the promoters had used to put up decorations for the event, and the girls were sitting under it with a couple other people. The 15 year old was making out with some guy, and the 16 year old had a pissed look on her face. So, I struck up a conversation. While we were talking, we noticed something.
The younger girl had started blowing the dude.Right there at the rave, surrounded by people. Her friend and I were just dumbfounded. We didn't know if we should stop them, or watch, or tell someone else about it. We just stood there. Then the pill hit me. I stopped caring about the underage blowjob, and went to the front to dance.
I ended up shirtless and sweaty right in front of the headliner. I think it was DJ Irene. She was good. Very good. I love that big lesbian bitch. I got my first light show, someone put a surgical mask with ether on me, I made out with some hottie brunette, got into a cuddle puddle. It was a great first rave.
Once it was all over, we all understood that I should not be driving, because I was VERY high. So we left my car there, and would come back for it the next day. We all went back to my place and enjoyed the rest of our high, and crashed out.
Now before you ask, I'll tell you. The underage girls did not come with us. I wouldn't allow it. There's no way in hell I'm going to have 2 underage girls in my house, high on X, and possibly blowing people.
I didn't get laid that night, but nearly everyone else did. I didn't care. I felt fantastic. I went to many more raves after that, and even went to a few of them completely sober. Those were interesting times.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Bouncer
On a Friday night in Downtown Seattle, I was working as 1 of 4 bouncers at the J & M Cafe. KISS 106.1 was there to promote the bar, and their radio station, and had brought a DJ. Not a bad one, either. They play Top 40 music, which I usually don't like, but it was a good mix.
Anyway, I was working the door, checking IDs, when 5 guys stumbled up to the door. They all had just come from the Sounders game, and were a little drunk, as would be expected. Each looked to be about 40-45, but I asked for their ID anyway. Hey, it's my job. I card everyone.
The first 4 guys were no problem. They had Washington Driver's Licenses, paid their cover charge, and went inside. The 5th guy was a little bit of a.... problem
He's almost 7 feet tall, red hair, red beard, pretty muscular, and from Chile. That's right. The country of Chile. And that's the ID he handed me.
Me: "I'm sorry, sir, but according to State Law, I can't accept this ID. Do you have your passport, or another form of ID issued by the US?"
Chilean Ginger: "Why would I need that? Isn't this good enough?"
Me: No sir, it's not. I can only accept a valid ID issued by the US government, Military ID, state driver's license, merchant marine ID, or passport.
CG: What? You don't like people from other countries? What are you, a Racist?
Me: Sir, I'm not a racist. If you would calm down, I could talk to my boss, and see what we can do for you, as you came with 4 friends.
CH: Fuck that, you're gonna let me in.
Now, I'm a little pissed. You don't tell a bouncer what he's going to do. Ever. Especially one that is a member of the Seattle Goon Squad. We don't take kindly to that. Most of us will get physical, but I'm the Goon that gets in your head and Mind-fucks you.
Me: Sir, I was going to try and let you in, but now you're being an asshole. So, what I'm going to do now, is ask you to stand over there on that curb, and wait while I have someone find your friends, refund their money, and you can be on your way.
CG: No you're not. You're going to let me in. What are you going to do if I just walk right through you? (As he takes a step toward the door)
Me: (I put a hand on his chest and push him back Now, I'm starting to get really pissed, and I'm getting loud) I don't fucking think so. Look here, Gigantor, If you think you're going to get in here by going through me, I will climb you like a spider monkey and make the 'Squeal like a Pig' scene in Deliverance look like 'A Very Brady Christmas". Here are your options. A) You go over there and stand on that curb while we find your friends, and you go somewhere else. B) You lay on that curb, bleeding from several orifices and unconscious, while we find your friends, and they CARRY you somewhere else. Either way, you are not coming in my club. If you're going to treat the doorman with such disrespect, I can only imagine how you will treat my bartenders. Now get your big, dumb ginger ass over on that curb!!!
CG: ............ Fuck you man. (Walks over to the curb, and starts talking shit to the shoeshine guy, who immediately defends me.)
I didn't know this, but my boss was about 10 feet behind me when this all went down. He saw everything, and had already sent another bouncer to find the guys. One came up to me, looked at the guy on the curb, and said "Fuck him. We met him at the game, and he's an asshole."
To quote Michelle from Full House.... "You got it, Dude."
So, I went over to Gigantor, and calmly asked him to "get the fuck away from my bar."
CG: What about my friends?
Me: They don't want you here either. Go away.
I calmly went back to work, and with much grumbling, he left. I don't think that any of the other bouncers, especially my boss would have been able to handle the situation like that. It probably would have come to blows. I seem to have this talent to get people to calm down, and do as I tell them. But only in an official capacity. Doesn't seem to work in my personal life.
I'll have to work on that.....
Anyway, I was working the door, checking IDs, when 5 guys stumbled up to the door. They all had just come from the Sounders game, and were a little drunk, as would be expected. Each looked to be about 40-45, but I asked for their ID anyway. Hey, it's my job. I card everyone.
The first 4 guys were no problem. They had Washington Driver's Licenses, paid their cover charge, and went inside. The 5th guy was a little bit of a.... problem
He's almost 7 feet tall, red hair, red beard, pretty muscular, and from Chile. That's right. The country of Chile. And that's the ID he handed me.
Me: "I'm sorry, sir, but according to State Law, I can't accept this ID. Do you have your passport, or another form of ID issued by the US?"
Chilean Ginger: "Why would I need that? Isn't this good enough?"
Me: No sir, it's not. I can only accept a valid ID issued by the US government, Military ID, state driver's license, merchant marine ID, or passport.
CG: What? You don't like people from other countries? What are you, a Racist?
Me: Sir, I'm not a racist. If you would calm down, I could talk to my boss, and see what we can do for you, as you came with 4 friends.
CH: Fuck that, you're gonna let me in.
Now, I'm a little pissed. You don't tell a bouncer what he's going to do. Ever. Especially one that is a member of the Seattle Goon Squad. We don't take kindly to that. Most of us will get physical, but I'm the Goon that gets in your head and Mind-fucks you.
Me: Sir, I was going to try and let you in, but now you're being an asshole. So, what I'm going to do now, is ask you to stand over there on that curb, and wait while I have someone find your friends, refund their money, and you can be on your way.
CG: No you're not. You're going to let me in. What are you going to do if I just walk right through you? (As he takes a step toward the door)
Me: (I put a hand on his chest and push him back Now, I'm starting to get really pissed, and I'm getting loud) I don't fucking think so. Look here, Gigantor, If you think you're going to get in here by going through me, I will climb you like a spider monkey and make the 'Squeal like a Pig' scene in Deliverance look like 'A Very Brady Christmas". Here are your options. A) You go over there and stand on that curb while we find your friends, and you go somewhere else. B) You lay on that curb, bleeding from several orifices and unconscious, while we find your friends, and they CARRY you somewhere else. Either way, you are not coming in my club. If you're going to treat the doorman with such disrespect, I can only imagine how you will treat my bartenders. Now get your big, dumb ginger ass over on that curb!!!
CG: ............ Fuck you man. (Walks over to the curb, and starts talking shit to the shoeshine guy, who immediately defends me.)
I didn't know this, but my boss was about 10 feet behind me when this all went down. He saw everything, and had already sent another bouncer to find the guys. One came up to me, looked at the guy on the curb, and said "Fuck him. We met him at the game, and he's an asshole."
To quote Michelle from Full House.... "You got it, Dude."
So, I went over to Gigantor, and calmly asked him to "get the fuck away from my bar."
CG: What about my friends?
Me: They don't want you here either. Go away.
I calmly went back to work, and with much grumbling, he left. I don't think that any of the other bouncers, especially my boss would have been able to handle the situation like that. It probably would have come to blows. I seem to have this talent to get people to calm down, and do as I tell them. But only in an official capacity. Doesn't seem to work in my personal life.
I'll have to work on that.....
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Scariest Day of My Life
I was in the Army National Guard for about 13 years. During those years, I had many different adventures, including two trips to the litter box the rest of the world calls Iraq.
During my time there, we were in constant danger from rockets and mortars. Nearly every day, we would have to stop what we were doing, and find a fortified shelter to protect us from the these incoming explosives.
Around every two weeks, someone would launch a VERY big mortar from across the river. Our problem with this, other than the fact that this person was launching artillery at us, was that they were doing it from inside a village and it was across the river. So, we couldn't launch back, and it wasn't in our Area of Operations. All we could do was track where it came from, and let the unit to the north of us know about it.
There were a couple of things that REALLY bothered me about this.
Within a month of us arriving at the base, the army decided it would be a grand idea to construct a 75 foot tower right outside of my office. With a big red flashing light on it. They did this to have somewhere to put a couple of cameras, and the light was to keep the helicopters from hitting it. All it really did was show where the bad guys to shoot. They knew the Operations Center was there, and now they had an aiming stake. So much so, that the longer we waited to get this guy, the closer he was getting to hitting our building. First it was about a kilometer to the north, then a few hundred meters to the south, then to the north again, then hit the softball field (100 meters south of the OC).
One day, it finally came to a head.
I was sitting in the office, and had a hankering for a cigarette. I usually had a smoke out on the back porch, but recently, they told me not to smoke there, because it was too close to the doors, and it annoyed the non smokers. We're in a combat zone, and they're worried about second hand smoke. So, I was going around the north side of the building, where they couldn't see me.
This day, before I went for a smoke, I decided to use my Battle Captain's computer, and check my email. I hadn't heard from my dad in a week or so, and decided to write him one to let him know that I was ok.
Suddenly, there was a very loud boom, and I was thrown from my chair. After a few seconds of confusion, we figured out that there had been a mortar strike, and it was REALLY close. Black smoke started filling the office, and we realized that it was closer than we thought. Right outside our window.
The guy across the river had finally hit home, and launched a mortar directly into a communications humvee right next to where I was going to smoke. I'll say that again. RIGHT NEXT TO WHERE I WAS GOING TO SMOKE 5 MINUTES PRIOR.
There were 3 guys in the hummer, and one of them had shrapnel wounds to his back. His buddies brought him into our office, and since I was the only one there with any kind of medial training, I started taking care of him. One of my fellow analysts came from another office, and we both patched him up. Then, I went back to work. They made most of us leave, and set up a separate OC. In the meantime, I answered the radio, and basically did my job. When the LTC told me to leave, I refused. I still had work to do.
After an hour or so, they had completely moved the OC and I had finished my work. So, I left, and went out the other side of the building for a smoke, even though I had been breathing that black shit for an hour. I think I just wanted to get outside so nobody else could see me have the shakes and almost break down crying. Ok, I did cry. Who wouldn't?
Later on, I found out something very interesting.
I had thought that me hitting the floor was just a reaction to the explosion. As it turns out, a piece of shrapnel 3 inches long, 2 inches wide and an inch and a half thick flew through 3 pieces of 1/2 in plywood, and embedded itself in the chair on which I was sitting.
So, If I had gone outside for a smoke five minutes earlier, I might have died.
If that chair had been turned 1/4 of a turn, I might have died.
If I had stayed any longer in that smoke filled room, I might have died.
Basically, I'm lucky to be alive right now. It took about 3 years before I told any of my friends about this, or even my dad.
During my time there, we were in constant danger from rockets and mortars. Nearly every day, we would have to stop what we were doing, and find a fortified shelter to protect us from the these incoming explosives.
Around every two weeks, someone would launch a VERY big mortar from across the river. Our problem with this, other than the fact that this person was launching artillery at us, was that they were doing it from inside a village and it was across the river. So, we couldn't launch back, and it wasn't in our Area of Operations. All we could do was track where it came from, and let the unit to the north of us know about it.
There were a couple of things that REALLY bothered me about this.
Within a month of us arriving at the base, the army decided it would be a grand idea to construct a 75 foot tower right outside of my office. With a big red flashing light on it. They did this to have somewhere to put a couple of cameras, and the light was to keep the helicopters from hitting it. All it really did was show where the bad guys to shoot. They knew the Operations Center was there, and now they had an aiming stake. So much so, that the longer we waited to get this guy, the closer he was getting to hitting our building. First it was about a kilometer to the north, then a few hundred meters to the south, then to the north again, then hit the softball field (100 meters south of the OC).
 |
| The Giant Aiming Stake |
One day, it finally came to a head.
I was sitting in the office, and had a hankering for a cigarette. I usually had a smoke out on the back porch, but recently, they told me not to smoke there, because it was too close to the doors, and it annoyed the non smokers. We're in a combat zone, and they're worried about second hand smoke. So, I was going around the north side of the building, where they couldn't see me.
This day, before I went for a smoke, I decided to use my Battle Captain's computer, and check my email. I hadn't heard from my dad in a week or so, and decided to write him one to let him know that I was ok.
Suddenly, there was a very loud boom, and I was thrown from my chair. After a few seconds of confusion, we figured out that there had been a mortar strike, and it was REALLY close. Black smoke started filling the office, and we realized that it was closer than we thought. Right outside our window.
The guy across the river had finally hit home, and launched a mortar directly into a communications humvee right next to where I was going to smoke. I'll say that again. RIGHT NEXT TO WHERE I WAS GOING TO SMOKE 5 MINUTES PRIOR.
There were 3 guys in the hummer, and one of them had shrapnel wounds to his back. His buddies brought him into our office, and since I was the only one there with any kind of medial training, I started taking care of him. One of my fellow analysts came from another office, and we both patched him up. Then, I went back to work. They made most of us leave, and set up a separate OC. In the meantime, I answered the radio, and basically did my job. When the LTC told me to leave, I refused. I still had work to do.
 | |
| Guess where I was? Right where that smoke is blowing into the building. |
After an hour or so, they had completely moved the OC and I had finished my work. So, I left, and went out the other side of the building for a smoke, even though I had been breathing that black shit for an hour. I think I just wanted to get outside so nobody else could see me have the shakes and almost break down crying. Ok, I did cry. Who wouldn't?
Later on, I found out something very interesting.
I had thought that me hitting the floor was just a reaction to the explosion. As it turns out, a piece of shrapnel 3 inches long, 2 inches wide and an inch and a half thick flew through 3 pieces of 1/2 in plywood, and embedded itself in the chair on which I was sitting.
So, If I had gone outside for a smoke five minutes earlier, I might have died.
If that chair had been turned 1/4 of a turn, I might have died.
If I had stayed any longer in that smoke filled room, I might have died.
Basically, I'm lucky to be alive right now. It took about 3 years before I told any of my friends about this, or even my dad.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Jazz Legend
I started playing Trombone when I was 11. I wanted to play sax, but they needed more trombone players, and I was weak of character.
Almost immediately, I found that I had a talent for it. The other trombone players around me seemed to copy me. I played for years, all the way through college. I had to give it up eventually, because I couldn't find anyone who wanted a trombone player for their band, and apparently, I wasn't good enough to join the symphony.
However, there is one moment in my musical career that I will never forget.
While in college, I was part of the stage band. We were adequate enough for a community college band, and had a few public performances. The one that sticks out in my mind the most is when Lionel Hampton showed up at our college during a lunchtime performance.
I turned to the kid on my left and asked him, "Do you know who that is?", "No, who is it?", "It's Lionel Hampton!", "Who?". The kid was about my age, but knew nothing of Jazz music. For those who also don't know who Lionel Hampton is, Click Here for his Bio. He was a very talented musician, and played with all the greats, like Benny Goodman. But I digress.
The kid didn't know who he was, but the 40ish year old man on my other side did. "We should make this a performance to remember for Lionel," he said. I agreed, and we all played our very best.
Once we were finished, people clamored to meet Mr. Hampton. I, not being a 'star chaser', hung back and proceeded to clean up a bit, put away my trombone, straighten up the stage.
Suddenly, I heard a voice say, "Hey Red!!" I turn, and, as if in a dream, the crowd in front of Mr. Hampton parts, and he is pointing at me. So, I close my case, and walk over to him. "Mr. Hampton, it's an honor to meet you. I've been to your Jazz Festival in Moscow several times, and I'm a big fan of your work."
"Son, the honor is mine. I felt the need to tell you something. You are the best trombone player I have ever heard."
Blink. Blink. Blink.
I was stunned. "Sir, please don't take offense to this, but I know you're getting up there in years, so you might have a touch of dementia. You've played with Benny Goodman, Harry James. The greats of the Jazz world" The gentleman who was pushing his wheelchair was his son. He interrupted me, "No, he still has complete command of all of his faculties. You are amazing!"
I didn't know what to say. I managed to stammer out a "Thank you, sir!". Before I could turn, Lionel grabbed my by the hand, and said, "You do me a favor, son. As long as I'm alive, you keep playing. I would love to see you have your own festival someday."
Sadly, he died in 2002. I had sold my trombone a year prior, as I was in desperate straits, and needed to pay rent. I still miss playing, and would love to start up again.
I may never play again, but at least I know that when I did play, I was great.
Almost immediately, I found that I had a talent for it. The other trombone players around me seemed to copy me. I played for years, all the way through college. I had to give it up eventually, because I couldn't find anyone who wanted a trombone player for their band, and apparently, I wasn't good enough to join the symphony.
However, there is one moment in my musical career that I will never forget.
While in college, I was part of the stage band. We were adequate enough for a community college band, and had a few public performances. The one that sticks out in my mind the most is when Lionel Hampton showed up at our college during a lunchtime performance.
I turned to the kid on my left and asked him, "Do you know who that is?", "No, who is it?", "It's Lionel Hampton!", "Who?". The kid was about my age, but knew nothing of Jazz music. For those who also don't know who Lionel Hampton is, Click Here for his Bio. He was a very talented musician, and played with all the greats, like Benny Goodman. But I digress.
The kid didn't know who he was, but the 40ish year old man on my other side did. "We should make this a performance to remember for Lionel," he said. I agreed, and we all played our very best.
Once we were finished, people clamored to meet Mr. Hampton. I, not being a 'star chaser', hung back and proceeded to clean up a bit, put away my trombone, straighten up the stage.
Suddenly, I heard a voice say, "Hey Red!!" I turn, and, as if in a dream, the crowd in front of Mr. Hampton parts, and he is pointing at me. So, I close my case, and walk over to him. "Mr. Hampton, it's an honor to meet you. I've been to your Jazz Festival in Moscow several times, and I'm a big fan of your work."
"Son, the honor is mine. I felt the need to tell you something. You are the best trombone player I have ever heard."
Blink. Blink. Blink.
I was stunned. "Sir, please don't take offense to this, but I know you're getting up there in years, so you might have a touch of dementia. You've played with Benny Goodman, Harry James. The greats of the Jazz world" The gentleman who was pushing his wheelchair was his son. He interrupted me, "No, he still has complete command of all of his faculties. You are amazing!"
I didn't know what to say. I managed to stammer out a "Thank you, sir!". Before I could turn, Lionel grabbed my by the hand, and said, "You do me a favor, son. As long as I'm alive, you keep playing. I would love to see you have your own festival someday."
Sadly, he died in 2002. I had sold my trombone a year prior, as I was in desperate straits, and needed to pay rent. I still miss playing, and would love to start up again.
I may never play again, but at least I know that when I did play, I was great.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Tasty Tasty Meow
I went to a pretty rural high school. The closest convenience store was about a mile away, and some of my friends and I would go there for lunch. We thought we were badasses because we weren't supposed to leave the grounds during the school day, but we did it anyway. We were rebels.
Anyway, we would usually go to this shop, and I would buy a pack of Camels and a couple burritos. You know the ones. Deep fried, and delicious.
Well, this day, we pulled up and saw the usual 3 cars in the parking lot. We went inside, and nobody was there. We called out toward the office and kitchen, but nobody answered.
Now, I'm the kind of guy who helps people if they're in trouble. I stop fights, I give change to bums, I help friends move. So, concerned about the owners of the store, I went back outside, and around to the back.
Nothing could prepare me for what I saw.
There were no people, but there were cats. About a dozen of them. They were all dead, and in various states of dismemberment. Some were hanging from the ceiling, one was hanging half out of a grinder. It kind of disgusted me.
However, since there was nobody in the back, I went back around front.
I walked in, and the owner was behind the counter again. So, I made my usual order. 2 burritos and a pack of Camels.
I'll tell you something, my friends. Those burritos actually tasted better after I learned they were made of cat.
As a side note, I should have probably figured it out before that. The store had been shut down 10 times in a year for neighborhood pets gone missing.
Anyway, we would usually go to this shop, and I would buy a pack of Camels and a couple burritos. You know the ones. Deep fried, and delicious.
Well, this day, we pulled up and saw the usual 3 cars in the parking lot. We went inside, and nobody was there. We called out toward the office and kitchen, but nobody answered.
Now, I'm the kind of guy who helps people if they're in trouble. I stop fights, I give change to bums, I help friends move. So, concerned about the owners of the store, I went back outside, and around to the back.
Nothing could prepare me for what I saw.
There were no people, but there were cats. About a dozen of them. They were all dead, and in various states of dismemberment. Some were hanging from the ceiling, one was hanging half out of a grinder. It kind of disgusted me.
However, since there was nobody in the back, I went back around front.
I walked in, and the owner was behind the counter again. So, I made my usual order. 2 burritos and a pack of Camels.
I'll tell you something, my friends. Those burritos actually tasted better after I learned they were made of cat.
As a side note, I should have probably figured it out before that. The store had been shut down 10 times in a year for neighborhood pets gone missing.
Monday, February 6, 2012
An adventure in drinking in Vegas. (Kind of long)
Vegas. 2006. 3rd Annual Modern Drunkard Convention.
I'm not making up the title of the convention. Modern Drunkard Magazine is a publication out of Denver, CO. It's a magazine dedicated entirely to the art of getting soused.
I was in Sierra Vista, AZ for 6 months, retraining for a different job for the Army. Since I drove down there, I had to drive back up. On the way back, as would be expected, I stopped off in Las Vegas. I love that town. It just so happened that MDM was having their convention the same weekend, and I managed to get a hotel room a block from it.
I check into the hotel Friday afternoon, and promptly go to the poker tables. I order a scotch on the rocks, and proceed to get nice and shitty in preparation for the convention. A friend of mine and I went to the convention the previous year, in Denver. I didn't realize that I could drink that much, over that amount of time. This weekend, I decided to break my previous record. Scotch/rocks every twenty minutes. I won a very large pot when I got my third drink, and forced the waitress to keep bringing me the same glass, otherwise she wouldn't get a good tip. I tipped her $2 for every drink, regardless of what was happening at the table, but if I won a good pot, she'd get $5. I must have paid her rent that weekend. I still have the glass somewhere, too.
The convention starts, so I register. I've been drinking for about 3 hours already, and had at least 3 drinks per hour. I am rather wobbly already, and we haven't really even started feeding the monkey yet.
I'll pause at this point, and let you know, my dear reader, that at the previous convention, I didn't think I had made much of an impression. My buddy and I were just back from a tour in Iraq, and I was still in the mindset that a soldier in public is a representation of the entire service. So, I was keeping a pretty low profile. Meeting people, drinking my face off, and generally trying to keep everyone from knowing that I was REALLY FUCKING DRUNK.
Anyway, when I checked into the convention, I ran into the Chief Editor of MDM, Frank Kelly Rich. Nice guy. Hot wife. Fellow drunk.
Frank sees me out of the corner of his eye, recognizes me from the year before, makes a bee line for me and throws a hug on me. "Ray! You're here! Welcome back!". I didn't realize he remembered me at all. Turns out, all the employees of the magazine remembered me. The couldn't believe how much I drank, and apparently, everyone I had met remembered me. Made me feel like a rock star, ya know? So, we belly up to the bar, and nearly all the employees of the magazine start buying shots. I see nearly everyone from the year before, and we all have a great time.
Before the night ends, I meet this girl who decides that she wants to play a poker tourney, and she's going to buy me in as well. We get into the $125 buy in tourney at Binions, and she disappears about 20 minutes later. Turns out she drank waaaaaaaaayyyy too much, and threw up in the bathroom downstairs, then went to bed. I was so drunk at the table, that I had to cover one eye to make the cards stay still. I ended up getting 7th place out of 400 people . Kudos to me.
Fell asleep with the glass of scotch. Woke up with it still in my hand, unspilled. I'm a professional drunk, apparently.
Got breakfast, started playing poker again. Poker paid for the entire trip, basically.
Went back to the convention later that night, and they had what they called the "First Annual Modern Drunkard Bar Olympics". It was basically a timed contest on stage with 8 events in this order:
Get a beer - They set up a bar on stage, and you had to get a beer from the "bartender". Didn't matter how, you just had to get it. Bribery helps.
Chug the beer - Simple. Chug your ICE FUCKING COLD bottle of beer.
Hit on the Floozy - Frank's wife was sitting at a table on the side of the stage, and you had to give her your best come on lines. If she liked it, she would hand you a piece of paper that represented her number. Some of the contestants took longer than others. They didn't have very good game.
Order a drink - You then ask the "Floozy" if you can buy her a drink. She will tell you a complicated one, and you have to go back to the bartender. He's playing stupid, and doesn't know what's in the drink, so you have to tell him. If you don't know, you have to go back, and ask the Floozy for a less complicated drink.
Clear the table - 5 large cups are on her table, and you have to clear them off, spilling as little as possible.
Order a shot - Same as order a drink, but it's a shot of your choosing.
Make a toast - Simple. Make a toast. If it's really good, they will take time off of your score.
Toss the Drunk - This is the fun part. One of the other contestants is playing a belligerent drunk (not a far stretch for us), and you have to kick him/her out of the bar. Since we're on a stage, a point near the front of the stage is designated the exit, so we don't have people flying off the stage into the crowd and hurt someone.
So, my turn eventually came up. Here's the play by play, in order: 1) I threw 3 bucks in the bartenders tip jar, and he hands me a beer. 2) I suck at chugging beer when it's cold, much to the amusement of the "bartender", who kept asking me if I wanted a nipple for it, and of Frank, who kept asking "Didn't your mama teach you how to chug?". Finally finished the beer. 3) Looked Frank's wife right in the eye and said, "I have a three pound cock and a trust fund." She handed the number over immediately. 4) She asked for an Old Fashioned. Thankfully, I remembered how to make it., and explained to the bartender. 5) Brought her the drink, and cleared the table without spilling a drop. 6) Ordered a shot of whiskey. Easy enough. 7) My toast: "I love each and every one of you. But I would kill any of you for $5000. Some of you, even less." 8) The other contestant playing the drunk had laid down on the stage near the "Floozy". He was holding onto the edge of the stage with one hand, and her chair with the other. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't come quietly, so I grabbed him by the belt and by the crotch. He let go of the stage, but held onto her chair. I then dragged him across the stage to the exit point.
I will repeat that.
I dragged a 230 pound man 20 feet across a stage, while he was holding onto the leg of a chair being sat upon by a 135 pound woman, BY HIS BELT AND TESTICLES.
I won the contest by 3 seconds. They didn't even count the bonuses I got for a great pick-up line and toast. The prize was a 3 foot tall, wrought iron trophy shaped like a bottle. I will post a picture of it later on tonight. Needless to say, I was the envy of the convention. Even the guy who won the drinking contest the previous year was impressed. More so by the fact that I was still standing after having been drinking for 14 hours, and having at least a scotch/rocks every 20 minutes. I finally did the math, and figured out that by that time, I had around 45 drinks. In 14 hours.
But I wasn't done.
A couple hours later, we're closing up the convention, and Frank asks me to talk to these two hot girls that were vendors at the convention selling Fernet Branca. It's really not bad stuff, if you like Jagermeister mixed with horseradish and some leaves from the gutter of your house.
These girls had missed their flight, and were going to just going to go to the airport, and wait on the next one. I wasn't going to have any of that. So, I invited them to come party with Frank and the rest of the gang from the magazine. When you drop the words "Penthouse Suite", they come running. We partied our asses off.
Incidentally, these two gorgeous women were lesbians, but somehow, I ended up in the bathroom with both of them. At the same time. I'd tell you the details, but it's kind of a blur. Remember, I had been drinking for at least 16 hours at this point. I do remember the good parts, but I'm not going to disclose them. You can imagine what happened.
Greatest trip to Las Vegas I have ever had.
And here's a picture of the Trophy:
I'm not making up the title of the convention. Modern Drunkard Magazine is a publication out of Denver, CO. It's a magazine dedicated entirely to the art of getting soused.
I was in Sierra Vista, AZ for 6 months, retraining for a different job for the Army. Since I drove down there, I had to drive back up. On the way back, as would be expected, I stopped off in Las Vegas. I love that town. It just so happened that MDM was having their convention the same weekend, and I managed to get a hotel room a block from it.
I check into the hotel Friday afternoon, and promptly go to the poker tables. I order a scotch on the rocks, and proceed to get nice and shitty in preparation for the convention. A friend of mine and I went to the convention the previous year, in Denver. I didn't realize that I could drink that much, over that amount of time. This weekend, I decided to break my previous record. Scotch/rocks every twenty minutes. I won a very large pot when I got my third drink, and forced the waitress to keep bringing me the same glass, otherwise she wouldn't get a good tip. I tipped her $2 for every drink, regardless of what was happening at the table, but if I won a good pot, she'd get $5. I must have paid her rent that weekend. I still have the glass somewhere, too.
The convention starts, so I register. I've been drinking for about 3 hours already, and had at least 3 drinks per hour. I am rather wobbly already, and we haven't really even started feeding the monkey yet.
I'll pause at this point, and let you know, my dear reader, that at the previous convention, I didn't think I had made much of an impression. My buddy and I were just back from a tour in Iraq, and I was still in the mindset that a soldier in public is a representation of the entire service. So, I was keeping a pretty low profile. Meeting people, drinking my face off, and generally trying to keep everyone from knowing that I was REALLY FUCKING DRUNK.
Anyway, when I checked into the convention, I ran into the Chief Editor of MDM, Frank Kelly Rich. Nice guy. Hot wife. Fellow drunk.
Frank sees me out of the corner of his eye, recognizes me from the year before, makes a bee line for me and throws a hug on me. "Ray! You're here! Welcome back!". I didn't realize he remembered me at all. Turns out, all the employees of the magazine remembered me. The couldn't believe how much I drank, and apparently, everyone I had met remembered me. Made me feel like a rock star, ya know? So, we belly up to the bar, and nearly all the employees of the magazine start buying shots. I see nearly everyone from the year before, and we all have a great time.
Before the night ends, I meet this girl who decides that she wants to play a poker tourney, and she's going to buy me in as well. We get into the $125 buy in tourney at Binions, and she disappears about 20 minutes later. Turns out she drank waaaaaaaaayyyy too much, and threw up in the bathroom downstairs, then went to bed. I was so drunk at the table, that I had to cover one eye to make the cards stay still. I ended up getting 7th place out of 400 people . Kudos to me.
Fell asleep with the glass of scotch. Woke up with it still in my hand, unspilled. I'm a professional drunk, apparently.
Got breakfast, started playing poker again. Poker paid for the entire trip, basically.
Went back to the convention later that night, and they had what they called the "First Annual Modern Drunkard Bar Olympics". It was basically a timed contest on stage with 8 events in this order:
Get a beer - They set up a bar on stage, and you had to get a beer from the "bartender". Didn't matter how, you just had to get it. Bribery helps.
Chug the beer - Simple. Chug your ICE FUCKING COLD bottle of beer.
Hit on the Floozy - Frank's wife was sitting at a table on the side of the stage, and you had to give her your best come on lines. If she liked it, she would hand you a piece of paper that represented her number. Some of the contestants took longer than others. They didn't have very good game.
Order a drink - You then ask the "Floozy" if you can buy her a drink. She will tell you a complicated one, and you have to go back to the bartender. He's playing stupid, and doesn't know what's in the drink, so you have to tell him. If you don't know, you have to go back, and ask the Floozy for a less complicated drink.
Clear the table - 5 large cups are on her table, and you have to clear them off, spilling as little as possible.
Order a shot - Same as order a drink, but it's a shot of your choosing.
Make a toast - Simple. Make a toast. If it's really good, they will take time off of your score.
Toss the Drunk - This is the fun part. One of the other contestants is playing a belligerent drunk (not a far stretch for us), and you have to kick him/her out of the bar. Since we're on a stage, a point near the front of the stage is designated the exit, so we don't have people flying off the stage into the crowd and hurt someone.
So, my turn eventually came up. Here's the play by play, in order: 1) I threw 3 bucks in the bartenders tip jar, and he hands me a beer. 2) I suck at chugging beer when it's cold, much to the amusement of the "bartender", who kept asking me if I wanted a nipple for it, and of Frank, who kept asking "Didn't your mama teach you how to chug?". Finally finished the beer. 3) Looked Frank's wife right in the eye and said, "I have a three pound cock and a trust fund." She handed the number over immediately. 4) She asked for an Old Fashioned. Thankfully, I remembered how to make it., and explained to the bartender. 5) Brought her the drink, and cleared the table without spilling a drop. 6) Ordered a shot of whiskey. Easy enough. 7) My toast: "I love each and every one of you. But I would kill any of you for $5000. Some of you, even less." 8) The other contestant playing the drunk had laid down on the stage near the "Floozy". He was holding onto the edge of the stage with one hand, and her chair with the other. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't come quietly, so I grabbed him by the belt and by the crotch. He let go of the stage, but held onto her chair. I then dragged him across the stage to the exit point.
I will repeat that.
I dragged a 230 pound man 20 feet across a stage, while he was holding onto the leg of a chair being sat upon by a 135 pound woman, BY HIS BELT AND TESTICLES.
I won the contest by 3 seconds. They didn't even count the bonuses I got for a great pick-up line and toast. The prize was a 3 foot tall, wrought iron trophy shaped like a bottle. I will post a picture of it later on tonight. Needless to say, I was the envy of the convention. Even the guy who won the drinking contest the previous year was impressed. More so by the fact that I was still standing after having been drinking for 14 hours, and having at least a scotch/rocks every 20 minutes. I finally did the math, and figured out that by that time, I had around 45 drinks. In 14 hours.
But I wasn't done.
A couple hours later, we're closing up the convention, and Frank asks me to talk to these two hot girls that were vendors at the convention selling Fernet Branca. It's really not bad stuff, if you like Jagermeister mixed with horseradish and some leaves from the gutter of your house.
These girls had missed their flight, and were going to just going to go to the airport, and wait on the next one. I wasn't going to have any of that. So, I invited them to come party with Frank and the rest of the gang from the magazine. When you drop the words "Penthouse Suite", they come running. We partied our asses off.
Incidentally, these two gorgeous women were lesbians, but somehow, I ended up in the bathroom with both of them. At the same time. I'd tell you the details, but it's kind of a blur. Remember, I had been drinking for at least 16 hours at this point. I do remember the good parts, but I'm not going to disclose them. You can imagine what happened.
Greatest trip to Las Vegas I have ever had.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)