My last post concerned a trip I took to New Orleans way back when and a desperate search for authentic Cajun barbecue. My good friend, Suzy, posted a comment alluding to another evening spent in the Big Easy and it got me to thinking about the top benders of my life. It is hard to rank these things — in part, because they are so hard to remember at all. But I recall three benders distinctly enough to write about them here.
First up is the time in college when I was having girl troubles. I stormed off to a party to drink away my sorrows and found myself throwing back a lovely potion that I had never tried before — a Long Island Iced Tea. I had another. And another. And still more. My roommates had to carry me home, but getting back to the dorm was the least of my worries. At the time, I was a contact lens wearer and this was long before they made lenses that you could comfortably wear overnight. I made a few desperate — and to hear my roomies tell it, quite comical — attempts to remove the lenses from my eyes, but to no avail. I woke up the next morning with my clothes still on and my eyes sealed shut. For a few moments, I learned what it’s like to be blind. It sucks. Eventually, I dribbled enough water into the slits of my eyes and cried enough real tears for the lenses to start to come loose. Not a good morning.
Next up is the time that I went to a strip club with my dear friend, Peter, who is now the godfather to both of my children. Peter and I were living together in New York City after college. Pete always had a thing for strip clubs and the clubs in the Big Apple were second to none. We used to go to Scores, right under the 59th Street Bridge. We went one night to solve the problems of the world and I ended up getting ridiculously drunk. So drunk, in fact, that I broke the cardinal rule of strip clubs — I fell for one of the dancers. Ah, this is painful for me to recall even to this day. Any rank amateur knows that the strippers don’t give a shit about you. They are businesswomen. And they are in the business of taking as much money as possible from hapless shlubs like me. At a certain point in the evening, Peter gave me a little salute and headed home. Let me tell you, when you outlast Peter in a strip club, you know that you are HAMMERED. By that time, I had burned through all of my cash — $20 per lap dance and about the same for a beer will do that to you. So I handed over my credit card and got some “Scores Dollars” — basically, Monopoly money, but instead of buying Park Place you buy Fake Boobs. I was barely coherent at this point. My Scores Dollars vanished in about five minutes, as did the stripper who had charmed me. Time to go. I hailed a cab and, about halfway home, I realized that I had no money. Not Scores Dollars. Not U.S. Dollars. Nothing. I asked the cabbie to stop at an ATM. It was freezing cold out and I was so trashed that I couldn’t punch in my access code correctly. After about five tries, I headed back to the cab, but he was already driving away. I couldn’t blame him, really. I walked the rest of the way home. There is cold, my friends, and then there is New York City cold. Hammered. Broke. Frostbitten. Nice!
Finally, I will share with you the story that my friend, Suzy, referenced in her comment. I met Suzy about eight or nine years ago at a conference in — where else? — New Orleans. It was a conference of communications professionals — not the craziest people you’ll ever meet, but not exactly wallflowers, either. At the hotel where the conference was being held, a few attendees gathered at the hospitality suite for an after-dinner drink. At this point, I was barely even buzzed and was about five minutes away from retiring to my room for the night. Someone suggested that we head to the French Quarter for a nightcap. For the purposes of this story, I will say that this was Suzy’s suggestion. Yes, that seems about right. Against my better judgment, I agreed to join a group that consisted of me, Suzy, and two guys, both named Andy. We ended up at bar named the Funky Pirate, which is world famous for a drink called the Hand Grenade. One or two of these suckers could drop a horse. We had more than one or two. One of the Andys fired up the jukebox. It was probably about 2:00 a.m., so we were the only fools left in the joint. I remember Jukebox Andy attempting to do one of those James Brown moves, where you sort of drop down to the floor with one of your legs sticking out and one tucked under your ass and then you try to pop yourself back upright. He made it down to the floor just fine. A heroic effort nonetheless. I remember lying down in my bed back in my hotel room and looking at the clock. 4:00 a.m. What made it even worse was the fact that Iwas scheduled to give a presentation at the conference the following morning — or, more accurately, the SAME morning. I woke up a precious few hours later, still drunk, my head screaming. To hurl or not to hurl. That was the question. I decided not to hurl. I went to my conference, sucked it up, and did what I needed to do. Suzy was there, too, looking none too worse for the wear. Neither Andy was anywhere to be found. Jukebox Andy surfaced later in the afternoon and we shared a cab to the airport with two unsuspecting conference attendees. Andy looked hideous. The woman sitting next to me kept whispering to me, “Is he OK?” No, lady. No, he is absolutely not OK, OK? At the airport sitting at the gate, waiting for our plane, Andy magically produced an orange from his backpack. He was hunched over, staring down at the floor. He looked like he was going to pass out at any moment. He began peeling the orange, slowly, so slowly, and eating it, bit by bit. Something about that scene cracked me up to no end. A few months later, Andy, Suzy, and I had a reunion in New Jersey. Andy had a Hand Grenade glass with him. You went that drunk and still managed to take the glass?
Sensei, I admire your skills.
