I could open up with a Blitz joke– but the tale of Saturday, April 27, 2013 needs some foreplay. Let’s kick it off at about, oh, 11am when Cortana headed to Rochester. Granted, I knew that I was going to go out that night with the storied chuggernauts of drunken days of yore– so I slept in. Sleeping in these days constitutes 10am, but I digress. After a few specific admonitions to stay away from jail and the morgue, she hit the highway– and I started doing my checklist of things not to forget.
For the first time in a long freaking time, I actually didn’t forget anything… In fact, I waxed creative in the preparatory hours leading to the inevitably relentless liver punishment that is a TKE bachelor party. This wasn’t, however, the kind of creativity that leads to new drinking games. Oh no, this was that existential douchey type that makes you feel dirty like an unwashed hipster.
I decided to revel in that shit in a way that an unwashed neohippie would totally not approve of. This didn’t, however, cleanse me of the initial sin– but the gastric satisfaction provided an excellent distraction. Don’t worry, I paid for this disturbing faux pas, but that’s later.
I can haz cheezburger.
Oh yes, nothing says a day “all about me” like a guy, some sunlight, and a bag of Wendy’s on a road trip. By the way, that’s only retrospectively sarcastic– because when I took that picture, I was all kinds of excited for those succulent Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers (I know, it’s not even a Goddamn Baconator.) It was one of those gorgeous days that makes you want to be a pretentious tosser, and I still justify my actions by being the last Saturday I’d spend as a “single” man.
To Hell with you– don’t judge me. I’m allowed to have a moment or five.
Yes, even the quasi-introspective auto-timer shot made deliberately out of focus by the open sunroof. Douchetacular.
Yes, my friends, I’d resigned myself to have an entire day revolve around me– because at that point, “single” me had less than a week to live. That, in and of itself, is a mindwarp that defies logic, wisdom, and words. Considering that I am almost never at a loss for words, that’s saying something. Dead man walking, right? Tack on a few hours, several errands, and a few snafus… and I ended up at our base of ops.
Special thanks to my TKE bro, Douggiestyles, for the use of the family/in-law’s cabin, and for the next touch of awesome that came our way. After a few preparatory beers, Nacho showed up. Nacho isn’t one of the brothers– but damned if he doesn’t fit in perfectly, and is accepted accordingly. So there we are, the three of us, a few hours before the impending alcoholocaust. What do we do? Go to a goddamn brewery. Why? Because oddly enough, we’d never been there before– and it’s a brewery (need I say more? Yes? Ok…)…
If you’re not going to have strippers at a bachelor party (my decision, another WTF story for another time), well you’ve gotta go to a brewery. It’s like… man law or something.
Wait, you mean to tell me that this craft brewery grows *all* of its own ingredients on site? Damn right my Scotchtoberfest was fantabulous. Cheers, bros!
We found it hard to believe that the Sprague Farm Brew Works had yet been undiscovered by our merry band of intrepid liver abusers. Nacho loved the food, but Douggiestyles and I kept it to a decidedly liquid diet. I have no freaking idea who the guy was that was on the open mic with the acoustic guitar– but damned if he wasn’t talented. It was a very low-key beginning to a night that was expected to cause grievous organ damage.
Why yes, that’s a former grain silo with the top cut off– made to look like an TKE-sized beer mug. No, we weren’t able to go up there for a beer. Note the lawn chairs.
Fast forward, sending us hurtling into the heart of our storied stomping grounds. We hadn’t been there two hours and I’d almost been thrown out of a bar for having non-standard glassware. Then again, that’s what happens when The Doctor (not a real doctor) shows up with an epic beerstein and I pour my drink into it and start swaggering around like I own the joint. Considering the fat chunk of change that I’d dropped there over the years, I probably should be part owner– but that’s beside the point. After having had wings, beers, shots, and long islands (you already see where this one’s going)– we headed for The Boro, the dive bar with big drinks and a juke box with metal.
What they didn’t tell me was that it was $2 Bomb night.
They did tell me that they didn’t want me to know my name by 10pm. That’s about the only task they didn’t succeed in completing. Look below.
Carbombs. Two Dolla. Reason #160 why I love Edinboro– it’s one of the last bastions of cheap drinking, and real shotglasses.
So here’s where The Blitz gave me a blast from the past– except instead of Heinkel HE 111′s, Stukas, and a mess of Messerschmidts dropping explosive death on my head like I’ve got bad teeth and awesome diction— it was an assorted horde of my best buddies (TKE and otherwise) bombing my organs with… well you see the pictures. Seriously, I’m not one to shirk my walking bar drain reputation, but these guys were on a mission.
This would have been a tale of karmic retribution (because I’m directly responsible for the drinking habits for at least half of the merry band of bastards that took me out), but I have a major issue with recalling the finer details of that night. Fancy that, they literally Jaegerbombed me out of existence– and it took my once infallible memory with it. Of what I can reconstruct of the latter parts of the evening, I recall wandering the bar with beer-in-hand (a universal diplomatic sign of continued intoxication adventures). Every damn time I turned around– this happened:
Jaegerbomb Blitzkreig takes its toll. Again. And again. And again.
It was a coordinated effort in a small bar. I know I wasn’t out of sight of any of the besoffenflotten long enough to stabilize my BAC. Every time I turned around– Jaegerbomb!! Drinking a beer? Jaegerbomb!! Sitting at the table? Jaegerbomb!! Just did a Jaegerbomb? Jaegerbomb!!
It doesn’t take much of a stretch of the imagination to realize that my liver, though a storied item of legend with mythic properties, is out of practice. When I say out of practice, it’s akin to pitting Jill 2.0 against Jill 1.0 in her prime in a beer pong shooting contest.
Let’s make that metaphor work for everyone else: it’d be like dragging Kareem Abdul-Jabbar out of retirement, with no practice, and expecting him to dominate a championship game. While that sinks in, there is another sign of age here that reared its ugly head… I woke up, chipper and shitfaced, at 7:30am.
And here we are, back at the quasi-introspective, artsy-fartsy crap again. Then again, I have an excuse– I was still drunk.
With Nacho and Douggiestyles still passed out, I loaded my car… took some pictures… loaded the car… then realized that I was just too damned energetic to go face-down on the floor for another couple hours. Of course, at the cabin, there’s no cell reception– so it wasn’t like I could surf the ‘net or text bomb the previous night’s “assailants.” As it would turn out, even though I ended up incapacitated like a freshman at homecoming– apparently I ended up faring better than the rest the next morning.
When I returned to civilization, I found this:
Just like London.
A more appropriate typo, there never was– assuming that is, in fact, a typo.