Here's the St. Patrick's Day wrap-up:
My sister's husband says he hates St. Patrick's Day because it's amature night and all the bars are full of people who don't know how to hold their booze, but apparently, even the pros can slip-up once in a while. I slept-in and watched soccer until it was time to go to Outriggers to see Whitey Morgan. Stacey picked me up and then we picked up her friend Julie. Stacey decided not to drink because she was driving (a very responsible decision), but since I wasn't driving, no such thought ever crossed my mind. Over the hour and a half we were there, I had 2 whiskeys and a Pitcher of Sam Adams. "Sam Adams?" you ask... yes... Sam Adams. That says a lot about Outriggers. Feeling happy and having just seen some great country music, we went back to Stacey's for dinner. She made us all some good fake-turkey sandwiches and then Julie's husband picked us up and we went to TCs for an evening of debauched music. We met up w/ Laura and Dave, Laurie and Pete, Connie and Sean, Steve, Shannon, Nikki, Georgina, Andy and Matt. (For those of you keeping score, there will be a test at the end... for those of you who didn't want to be named here, well, that's too bad.) After a pitcher of Newcastle (things were looking up already, but oddly, even on that day of all days, they didn't have one stout on tap. I would have been happy w/ Beamish of Murphy's... I don't demand Guinness, but it was not to be) and a couple more whiskeys, the music got good and we were having a great time. I thought a couple of Shamrock Shake tasting shots was in order, so I did 4 of those, and demanded everyone else try them too. In hind-sight, that might not have been a good idea, but live and learn. We also tried some short of whiskey shot that seemed to be mixed w/ Hot Damn or something like that. It wasn't very good, but as I write this, I'm beginning to understand why I felt the way I did yesterday. At one point, Gerry showed up and Stacey went home in a sort of shift change, and it was nice to hang w/ him too. Later, a few of us got to make complete asses of ourselves on the dance-floor, and then as the person I was dancing w/ walked away (either for more drinks or to the restroom... I'm not sure, but I know I had another whiskey so maybe for drinks), so random woman moved in front of me and started rubbing her ass on me as we were dancing. She was totally grinding into me and trying to get me to rub her tits right there in front of the band. About a minute and a half later, she walked away... it was weird as hell. As the music ended and the bar was closing, we thought it'd be a good idea to venture back to my place and continue the fun. After a bottle of wine, people finally started going home around 4:00.
Now here is where the backstabbing comes in. I went to bed feeling great, but when I woke up around 11:30, things went a bit awry. I've been courting the hootch for many years now. I thought we were friends, but one night of excessive imbibing and the next thing you know there's a fucking insurgency in my stomach. Oddly, Andy Johnson's goal that beat Arsenal in the last minute of the game didn't make me throw-up, but then again, it's possible that everything that lead up to that moment made throwing up again an impossibility. To make a long story short, I think I'm going to have to take a little time off from that two-faced bottle for a while. And to think I've been so loyal.
In other news, I went to the diner this morning, solely to talk to the cute, tattooed/pierced waitress. The food was alright, but I actually got up the nerve to say something. This older guy was at the counter flirting w/ her and kind of annoying her the whole time I was eating, which helped me develop a pretty good line. I'm proud of this one, so get ready. I finally said, "So I know that guy at the counter has been flirting w/ you and I hate to be the 2nd douchebag at whom you need to roll your eyes this morning, but I was wondering if you might want to meet for a drink some time." Now here's the kicker, considering everything I wrote in the 1st 2 paragraphs. She says, "Well, I don't drink, but I'd love to get together for coffee or something; let me get you my number." What are the chances that the day I decide to stop drinking for a while, I meet a woman who doesn't drink? That's pretty fucking cool.