Macon Nightlife

Screw the real world, pour me a beer

2008-05-19T17:43:00.000-04:00

With all the drama of this year’s election, the rising price of oil, the seemingly endless war against terror and the ever increasing threat of getting cancer from global warming and shit, there is always one thing in my life that remains constant; an unending, never wavering, emotional blanket of comfort that is always there for me, Booze.
It’s not just me. Alcohol is universal. It brings people together. It defies all language and cultural barriers and provides common ground for us to stand on. All that, AND it gets me drunk!
If there was ever a time when I didn’t go out at least twice a week, I don’t remember it. Lately, I’ve been going to the bar all but one or two nights a week, my primary reason being to grab a bite to eat. Reason is what fool’s search for, and I’m no fool brother, so to hell with reason, pour me a drink, I’ll stick around.
If I had a dollar for every beer I drank in the past week, well, then I would have drank a lot more because that would make the beer practically free. Unfortunately no major brewery, beer distributor or even bar has offered to sponsor me yet. I’m not sure why. I feel like it would be a great investment.
Last Saturday I ended up in Athens. FYI, it’s not possible to stop there for just dinner. We stopped into some pub early on to grab a beer and before we even started to look for a place to eat, we had pretty much made up our minds to make it a night. After burning my mouth on late night pizza and sleeping in the passenger seat of a convertible all night and on the way home, I spent Sunday recovering and getting ready for finals all week. Finals. What a depressing thought. I couldn’t handle the stress and I needed to crawl back under my emotional blanket.
By Tuesday I was three days into a two day binge. The effects of alcohol aren’t as apparent when you don’t stop drinking. In an effort to prove this, I decided to not stop drinking. Unfortunately, there are just certain times when it’s not practical to be drunk for an entire week. Fortunately, I don’t have enough good sense to know when these times are and even if I did, I probably would have disregarded it and done it anyhow. Considering I spend as much money in the jukebox as I do on beer some nights, I figure I’m self moderating pretty well. As it turns out I just spend entirely too much on the jukebox. Some say I have a problem with it.
By Friday I was done with school and it was first Friday so I decided to get sloppy and wander around downtown.
Having been on a steady diet of greasy bar food all week I decided to change things up and get some greasy Chinese food before heading out. It was pretty busy around town and I met up with Joe Tuff and five of his college girlfriends. Girlfriends like girls say when they’re talking about each other though, like the show Girlfriends. Everything takes longer when there are five girls in tow. Not just putting on make-up and getting ready, but simple things like ordering drinks, crossing the street, and, well breathing I assume, I mean everything. After hanging out at the bird for a bit we rolled out to see what else was going on downtown. We ended up spending some time at the Rookery and then Envy. At what seemed like 4am but was in fact only midnight, we ended up at Oasis, plowing through a variety of food greasy enough to power a diesel engine.
Somehow Saturday I woke up before noon with the strange ambition to clean my apartment. So I went to waffle house to grab breakfast. Eventually I began to clean up my place and to reward myself; it was back to the bar for a beer. Things ended up getting a little crazy. I think I ended up in every bar within walking distance for at least a few minutes. I remember shots being taken, people falling down, walking all the way to 550, realizing I left my credit card at Envy, going home, going back to Envy to get my credit card and then stopping off for another beer on the way home. Look, I swear, I’m getting help for my jukebox problem this week.

I wish I was this Motivated When I'm Sober

2008-04-25T16:45:00.003-04:00

I get a few drinks in me and I start making plans. Often I start making plans to lie in bed the next day and then grab Chinese for dinner. More often, I get these wonderful inclinations to involve myself in all kinds of ambitious activities beyond those concerned with the standard hangover recovery procedure. Water skiing, road tripping, sky diving, maybe even a triathlon or something. At the time, they are the most awesome ideas ever. It’s not often that I actually follow through with any of these plans. In fact, most of the time, no one I made plans with even gets as call, it’s just mutually understood that it’s not going down. Every now and then, I act out of character and surprise even myself. That hasn’t happened recently but I think next time I get drunk I’m going to make some solid plans and stick with them. Maybe I’ll go spelunking or something.

For the first Monday in a long time, I can remember the entire evening. I got a decent buzz and left the bar early to go home and finish some work like a responsible sober adult. Instead, when I got home, I made sandwich and watched Magnum P.I. until I passed out on the floor in front of the TV. Magnum is the man. I figure it must be the stache ergo I don’t feel I need to explain mine. All I need now is a Ferrari, a friend with a helicopter and an estate on the beach where I can do my “job” from.

Tuesday made up for Monday. Papouli’s for dinner and then to the Tic Toc for half price wine. It was then that I came up with the great idea for half dressed/half price night. The idea is simple. Ladies will wear half the clothes they normally do and the guys will buy half of their drinks. Wait. I think that’s been going on for some time now. Ahh, forget it; at least Tuesdays I can still get my drinks half price without sacrificing my dignity. I had to walk past the hummingbird to get home but, uh, I had to stop inside to use the bathroom, yeah, that’s it’s…the bathroom. Two games of darts and half dozen drinks later, I was using the alley for a bathroom on the way home. Don’t judge; God said not to.

Thursday was softball. The rules are ridiculous. The count starts with one ball and one strike, the walks are counted as doubles, the games are played for one hour; if this isn’t meant for combining alcohol with, I don’t know what is. Thankfully, I’m not the only one with that sentiment and there were plenty of PBR pounders to keep my electrolytes refreshed and my head in the game. The score doesn’t matter in a game like this (unless we would have won) and it’s the team that really counts. Some of us went straight to the bar afterwards, others (you know who you are) went home to shower and change before meeting up with us. The plan was to grab some food at the Red Eye but since it was pretty late and the kitchen had already closed, we skipped straight to the pitchers. There’s nothing like drinking on an empty stomach. Seriously, it saves soooo much money. So does leaving a tab open at the bar, unfortunately both these things always seem to catch up with me later on.

Across the street at Bird I began to solicit my idea for a bathroom review column and website. It would be done like a restaurant critic would do a column on food, but ummm…without graphic descriptions about how things taste. Apparently, plenty of people liked the idea (or they did after a few shots) and it was agreed that in an effort to remain un-biased and objective, both the men’s and women’s rooms would have to be checked out. Well, you can guess what happened from there, and if you do, please let me know, because all I remember is falling down on my way home later on, and I was pushing my bike, so that must have taken a lot of effort or a whole lot more to drink.

Sailing on a Sushi Boat Across an Ocean of Booze

2008-04-10T16:42:00.002-04:00

I can’t think of many things that have gotten me so excited, and then let me down as frequently, as the Cherry Blossom street party. Except for the year that Morris Day and the Time rocked the streets, I’ve been disappointed almost every year. This year it was cancelled because of the rain all day leading up to it. I say screw the stage and the logistics, block the street off, do a BYOB and hand out trash bags for raincoats. The downtown police presence is typically prolific enough to handle a small riot anyhow, so no big deal; Right?
I really shouldn’t complain. There are plenty of other people to do that and I have a knack for fueling my disappointment with alcohol and cigarettes until it transforms into something a little more positive. I’m going to have a drink and forget about it. Had I known earlier in the week that the street party would be cancelled, I would have started this self healing process sooner. I played it safe and prepared to anyhow.
Monday. Ugh, seriously. I woke up still drunk on Tuesday. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Monday is the new Friday? Is it possible I’m not the pillar of sobriety I thought I was? Gulp. What? Shut up!
Joe Tuff got back from a stint over at the oceanless beach on Wednesday. I had been to softball practice that evening and was almost feeling like a healthy, active adult when we cracked the first of what would be a dozen beers. It was already after 2am and three hours later I was setting my alarm. I still managed to get up at seven. I’m getting better at this, the positive attitude thing at least, maybe not so much for the sobriety thing.
Thursday we hit Shogun which must be Japanese for “kick ass sushi served on a massive wooden boat” because twenty minutes after we got there and started flipping through the picture book for kids who can’t decipher sushi menu’s, that’s exactly what showed up on the table. It all disappeared pretty quickly, washed down with a few UFO’s and jokes about the boat being big enough for Gary Coleman to actually use.
Downtown at the rook they were doing some drink specials and playing some eighties music. It worked for me. As long as I don’t have to hear that stupid “apple bottom jeans, boots wit the furrrr” song another fucking time, I’m good. A few overpriced dollar shots later and we hit the bird for last call. Not to be discouraged my Macon’s puritanical alcohol laws, we stocked up on car bombs and masons jars of booze. I even closed an old bar tab. Yay me. Three down, one to go. I ended up playing beer pong until the sun came up and the next thing I know I was waking up in an office chair a few hours later. NuWay for breakfast seemed like a good idea around ten but it still didn’t sober me up and it was all I could smell for the next couple hours. I got some cherry ice cream down at the terminal station and went home to rest up for the first Friday shenanigans.
Under the impression that I was super human and that a shower would be the phone booth for my transformation, I left the house early to wander the streets. Vintage Treasure just opened on Cotton and after browsing through their awesome t-shirt selection it was time to eat…and drink…again. My front tooth is still loose from getting smashed in the mouth during rugby practice a few weeks ago. That means burgers with a fork and knife. It’s a royal pain in the nuts but unless I want to start looking like a Jones county native, I’m going to have to be careful until it heals up. I guess I could make a joke here about sticking to a liquid diet but that would be too easy. By the time I finished my food an a few beers all I wanted was another nap. It was around eleven when I walked up to the power station again to have Janaun Bon jovi rock my face off with eighties cover hits. It was their last show and I don’t think I’ve even seen the power station so packed. Back at the bird before last call, I think this was the only night of the week that I went out and didn’t get closed out of the bar after 2am. It gives me something to shoot for though.

Dear Debra

2008-04-10T16:39:00.001-04:00

Dear Debra McCorkle

We need to talk sometime. We should do it over a beer. If you’re half as boring as your article or the picture that accompanies it, we should probably do it over as few shots as well. “Cultural musings” reads like a bad left wing bumper sticker of a pusillanimous middle age brat. Maybe that’s an unfair characterization of someone I don’t even know, then again, maybe that’s exactly what you’re going for. The “mother earth” image you project is so clichéd that I feel like I can tell things about you that I have no desire to even know. Without a doubt you are more than familiar with yurts, marijuana alternatives, and…god I hope I’m wrong about this…the middle age orthopedic replacement for Birkenstocks, Crocs.
You strike me as the kind of typical liberal feminist taking up the same trite causes that define the worst of your type. I can picture you rambling on about Darfur at the same time you write of “angry Iraq war veterans” performing “free body cavity searches” at Bonnaroo, a festival people like you give a bad name to. I’ve served my country “Mama Karma” and I don’t know whether you have or not, but the attitude your statements project is one of self-service and nothing else. You seem like an educated woman that still struggles to deal with a period of your life that you feel like you’ve missed out on, and you now need to compensate for it.
I’m no Freud, no Kerouac, no brilliant thinker. I’m not a crusader of conservative causes and I have no desire to proselytize my political beliefs on anyone who doesn’t care to hear them, not even when I’m really drunk. I agree with plenty of your points but by the time you’ve delivered your message, you’ve turned me against you. The power of the libertarian ideas that you speak of is negated by the constant radical relationships you associate them with. You are one of the people that have taken up the libertarian cause as a device to trumpet your position on legalizing marijuana rather than denounce an ever increasingly controlling central government. The dualities are always there but you seem to promulgate them unnecessarily with your “musings”
You try so hard to be original that you have slipped into the same category as everyone else that tries as hard as you do; “Cultural musings” could be written by a left-wing programmed, veggie-burger fueled computer. It’s all been done mama, the pastor has been attacked as a hypocrite and the women’s tales of abuse have been told by many before you. Sure I write about getting drunk, but I try to be honest and a little bit insightful. I don’t talk shit about the men and women who have fought for, or contributed to, my freedom and I wouldn’t be writing this if you didn’t either. Change it up mama. We don’t want to hear you fighting for Mumia’s freedom or ranting about the most recent Dave Mathews generation jam concert. It’s cool you like to get your smoke on; you can be an advocate of the ganj to your heart’s content without attacking anyone else’s principals. Maybe then we can sympathize with your POV instead of being driven away by the divisive spike you drive between us and your perspective.

Love,
Alex Bender

P.S. Seriously, let’s get drunk together sometime, maybe you can show me some of your tattoos.

Till it Hurts...

2008-03-13T22:00:00.000-04:00

I woke up in the lobby of The Massee one morning this past week. I don’t live there and I don’t know what the hell I was doing there. I was still pretty buzzed (completely drunk) when some douchebag woke me up to ask if it was warm outside. Go check and see for yourself buddy, the doors right there and I’m obviously working over here, so can I get some peace and quiet, please?
It took me a few minutes to get my bearing and a few more to find my cell phone which had lodged wonderfully in between the cushions of the couch along with the other kind of goodies I can only imagine end up in between the cushions of a couch in the lobby of The Massee. Needless to say the walk back to Cotton Avenue seemed like an eternity and the cigarette I smoked on the way home would be the last one I’d smoke all day. It was as bad as it sounds, only worse, and somehow all worth it.
I think this was Thursday morning. I’m not really sure, and it doesn’t really matter. Despite that couch being comfortable as hell compared to that K-Mart parking lot or that ditch in Moscow that I’ve awoken in previously, there is something unsettling about waking up in a strange place and not knowing how you got there.
I had finished doing some work downtown around six and went to grab some wings and a beer. Next thing I knew I had managed to hit just about every place in town (I’m assuming) in search of whatever it is I’m searching for (besides the bottom of a bottle) when I go out. I had been off all week and had no real obligations before noon each day. Regardless, I had no intentions of becoming a sloppy mess. It had been done the week before anyhow, and if anything, I was hoping something interesting in the context of the evening would occur. The thing is, nothing had to. There’s a reason I stayed out all night and it’s not because I was sitting at the bar drowning my sorrows in a beer.
I’ve gotten tired of going out and having a visual train of the mundane and monotonous run on me. You know what I mean, the same crowd in the khakis, North Face jackets, tucked in plaid shirts, the “I’m tryin to dress up so I can get in the club and act like a whore” outfit. I’m not bitching, if fact, I like “people watching” and it’s these things that I observe and amuse myself with that get me through the moments when real entertainment is lacking. I guess in my drunken stupor I figured it was time to re-evaluate the reasoning of others as I perceived it. I tried and I probably failed but there are several things that I have realized over the course of my drunken excursions, and not to belabor an already hackneyed point, but I feel as though I need to elaborate. If I come across as specifically ambiguous, it is intentional so please don’t get confused.
There are different types of nights in the mindset of both males and females, there are the nights when crocs and sweats are acceptable (never in my book) and there are the nights when certain attire is expected depending on the situation (khakis and a blue oxford and loafers or khakis and a suit jacket depending on the circumstances{I do not condone any of these atrocities, this is merely an observance})Typically individuals go out with a specific goal in mind, the most common being to get sloppy drunk in an effort to impress friends with the ability to consume large quantities of alcohol, the other being the intention of going home with a girl they meet out that night, one who typically possesses the same level of tact and class as themselves.
Don’t be these people. Getting drunk is fun enough; don’t ruin it for the rest of us by giving it a bad (worse) name than it already has. Drink as much as you want and wake up were you so desire, but in the process, please avoid the aforementioned tendencies that could potentially tarnish the image others may potentially have of you. Enjoy going out and getting schwasted for the sake of getting schwasted, don’t do it for any other reason. Or do, it makes me look that much better when I’m drooling on myself in an apathetic drunken daze.

PART II

2008-03-13T02:19:00.000-04:00

I get flashbacks. Often. A song comes on and reminds me of a cool fall day when my bedroom window was open in the middle of the afternoon. I don’t know how this is significant at all but it feels good. I want to be there right now. I walk into a room and I am overcome with a feeling of excitement that is almost too much to contain. I smell a cigarette and I can transport though time. Seeing the sky in the afternoon on a cloudy day, I am suddenly in a dream, and I am in complete control. My movements through life have been dictated by the flashbacks of things I have not even experienced. I have flashbacks of the future. I am looking back on things I’ve never experienced, but eventually will. I don’t understand this and I don’t know if I want to. It will play a crucial role in my demise. Although I’m looking back on it right now, I’m not sure if knowing this will help. From what I see, I won’t be able to change a thing.

enough to leave you wondering

2008-03-03T15:23:00.003-05:00

It feels like I’m buried in wet sand, the crushing weight momentarily numbing the pain until the sand seems to melt away and the numbness subsides. Now it’s just pain. Hot, wet and sharp. Everything is a blur. Noise and light seemed to collide. All I can hear is the echoing in my ears of whatever just knocked me on my ass. All I can see is the dirt that fills my eyes and when I rub them, a cloudy, almost tranquil brightness pierces through. I can’t tell if the blurry grey figures around me are moving or not and for a second, I don’t know if I want them to be. This all seems last an hour but it can’t be more than a few seconds.

“HELP! Mommy! HELP ME!” is the first thing I hear. It’s barely decipherable at first. Maybe because it surprises me. Maybe because I think I hear something else, or am at least expecting to. I try to get up but begin to stumble. The indignity of the situation is one of the first things I feel. That can’t be right though. I must still be in shock. It isn’t a child screaming. It’s the kind of voice that is deep and commanding, and the desperation in it scares me more than anything else…

I hate your stupid t-shirt

2008-03-03T02:44:00.001-05:00

Whoever originated the saying "When you 'assume', you make an ass out of 'you' and 'me'" is an idiot and a loser, not to mention a douche bag for trying so hard to be clever that in the process they created a fallacy that has set society back 60 years.
People are clearly afraid to assume these days. I'm not! If I'm walking down a dark alley and I see a figure emerge from the shadows, brandishing a gun and wearing a ski mask, I am in fact going to ASSUME that they have some sort of ill-intent, presumably towards me. The only problem we've encountered isn't with assuming but with common sense. I could also, in an attempt to be politically correct, assume that the individual previously mentioned has legitimate reasons for the situation and approach them to find out…
Indecision has become our default, and rather than act or take charge, passing the problem along has become a typical solution.
Always ASSUME a gun is loaded, always ASSUME the other guy will screw you over, and always ASSUME the worst. Is it such an asinine concept to think that we actually have the ability to accurately reason and make assumptions that will benefit us? There are plenty of individuals who I would never give this credit to; I would like to think that most of us do possess this ability to some degree however.
Do I stereotype? Hell yes! Do I assume if you're black you are a rapper or that if you're Jewish, you are a jeweler? Not at all. (I assume that if you're black you don't tip well and that if you're Jewish, I should probably have some alternative food choices when I invite you over for the pig roast.{this is a joke}) For some reason, the promulgation of a politically correct, de-masculinized society that is overly concerned with everyone's "feelings" being my assumption, we have begun to cower in the face of decision and choice. What if I choose wrong? What if I offend someone? What will people think of me?
We lack conviction and strength. We lack the courage to stand up against anything except standing up! Apathy has been the precursor to nothing, ever, and never will be. The great wars that have shaped this world and the tragedies that have defined it, started and ended with individuals that had the courage to stand up.
The apexes of history have never been based on certainty and it's a pusillanimous person that needs such reinforcement to make a decision or take action.

Old Wine, New Bottles

2008-02-29T21:36:00.000-05:00

Friday the 15th
Having tired of frequenting the same places in town, I decided to change up my routine. For the sake of familiarity, I started out at Envy to warm up with a few drinks but soon found myself at club Extreme. Extreme wasn’t packed, but should have been considering a fantastic band was playing. If Pink Floyd had been a black jam band, I imagine this is what they would have sounded like. An almost continuous stream of music poured from the stage as several different people took over on the mic. Fast forward two hours; with a trio of separate bars and a drink selection more diverse than their mix of clientele, Synergy is one of the most unique clubs in town. The music was going and the lights were flashing and despite it being fairly late, the crowd hadn’t thinned out much. If they had still been serving, you wouldn’t have known it was any later than 2am. I also wouldn’t have headed home to build a still in my apartment in an attempt to remedy this atrocity.

Wednesday 20th
I showed up at Grants for the 37th anniversary celebration and what appeared to be the busiest night of the year. Blues legend Eddie Kirkland had just taken the stage wearing a jacket he must have acquired from an old women’s estate sale in the mid eighties and that only he could actually pull off. As I made my rounds at the bar and through the crowd I wondered why it wasn’t this busy more often. Someone dropped a buzz in my beer along the way and after getting a few pictures with some local music legends, the stage had started to clear and I proceeded to head home but the rookery got in my way.

Thursday 21st
As soon as I heard, for the thirteenth or fourteenth time in a month, that the Hummingbird had finally reopened, I went there to get confirmation… and a drink. I played a not so riveting game of darts and ended up losing horribly. Not exactly the nail-biter I anticipated. I blame this on beer and the fact that I’m just absolutely horrible at darts. At the Capitol, MAGA was kicking off with a showing of the Otis Redding biopic “Dreams to Remember”; Filled with footage of Otis performing locally and around the globe and interviews with his family and fellow musicians. I anticipated it being a late night, but much like my previous adventures as an amateur lumberjack, things didn’t go as planned. After the movie I passed out next to a leftover pizza on the floor in front of my TV (this is now a permanent back-up plan).

Friday 22nd
I’m hooked on happy hour at the Rookery. Cheap beer and quarter wings are my weak spots. So are jukeboxes and girls with daddy issues. At least I know I’m guaranteed the jukebox, wings and cheap beer on any given evening at the Rook. The local crowd that’s just gotten off work and the strangers that are passing through town usually fill up the bar. Hopefully none of them will be ganging up on me for continuing to play Duran Duran on the jukebox every evening. Later at the Downtown Drill, about a dozen or more of commandeered the area by the bar, eating, drinking, smoking and making a general ruckus until late night. I eventually made it home to change and decided to give the ascot a test run, I have a feeling I didn’t appear as aristocratic as I felt that evening. Maybe next time when include the pipe with the ensemble.

Saturday 23rd
On our home pitch we (Macon Love R.FC.) managed to narrowly defeat Savannahs Shamrocks Rugby team for the second time, winning 8-7. At Cj’s by 3, we managed to kick one keg within an hour and the second shortly after. When the sun went down, so did my level of sobriety. Downtown around midnight I gravitated towards an old friend, the Hummingbird. It was loud as hell and I was on my fifth or sixth wind at this point. None of that stopped me from stumbling around to get a Strongbow, exchanging head butts with Dan and proceeding to actually get lost downtown. I live downtown. Eventually I would miraculously awake in my own bed, the world once again my oyster.

The World is my Oyster

2008-02-14T15:43:00.004-05:00

Friday of last week was the last day I would work at my old job. I don’t miss it. I don’t miss it a whole lot. To celebrate the end of this previous career, I did what anyone who is not a nun, a teetotaler or an anti-social computer nerd with a bizarre robotic animal fetish would do; I went out downtown. A few of us decided to make it a suit night. That way, no matter what happened later on, we would be well dressed. Unless we decided to strip, then I guess we’d just be naked. People tend to ask less questions when your well dressed than when you’re naked, well, unless you lie and tell them you’re a foreign dignitary, then it just gets awkward…nosey broads; never mind what country or why I don’t have an accent! Anyhow, we dropped into the rookery to have a few beers until my fleeting mentality showed up and told me to head to Tic Toc. Since two of the Mactropolis’s favorite bars have been closed, the bar at the Toc has picked up the overflow and it’s seen a good crowd. The remainder of the night would be a mix of Envy, Iguana and Oasis, the memories of which were apparently tossed in a blender at some point, with only the pictures that were taken and a few receipts to help piece together the puzzle.
A friend had a party the next evening that involved kegs and barbeque. Heck yeah I went! I called a cab but arrived late because apparently every taxi in this city is always a half hour from downtown. Full of beer and ambition, I wound up back downtown a few hours later at Tic Toc. It’s was pretty busy but with patience not being one of my strong points and knowing there was a sexy school girls dance contest at Iguana, I didn’t stick around long. At Iguana I immediately found several girls in tiny outfits, dancing on the bar, gyrating on the stripper pools and on each other. I couldn’t help but wonder what their fathers would think...actually that’s a complete lie, I didn’t really care. I was easy prey to the wantonness they proselytized.
I didn’t have big plans for First Friday but it turns out I didn’t need any either. This past FF there were two ribbon cutting ceremonies, one at Meadows Jewelers’ new store on Cotton Avenue followed by one at Envy. I had missed the first at Meadows but made it to Envy. Free drinks are a great idea, even better at six on a Friday. It’s like the happy hour I would have suggested if anyone had bothered to ask me. A Red bull and vodka or six later and if I stuck around much longer, I’d need to have someone write my address on my forehead. I really didn’t need that happening…again. I’d like to say the rest of the evening held some spectacular stories of decadence like Macon has never seen, but honestly, after I got in a back alley fight with some ninjas and delivered a baby in the bathroom, I was just too exhausted to carry on much longer.

I don’t know what has been going on with Mondays lately but it seems every time I head out the door for five minutes, it turns into an all night event. I had been out the evening before to watch the Super Bowl at the Capitol and the evening before that to watch DJ Dirt at the Red Eye, so it’s not like I needed to spend another six hours of my day at the bar. I suppose I just forgot that going out at night isn't necessarily a mandatory obligation...actually I’m still confused on whether it is or not, but I wasn't willing to take that chance. A half-hour at the Rook for a beer and trivia at 6:30 turned into a few hours. I’m not too much of a trivia fan but Tom and Leslie could make a wake a good time. I sucked pretty badly at trivia but I did get lucky and win the halftime show by being the first person to present a quarter from the eighties. Sadly, this would make my day week and wouldn't demonstrate my amazing intellectual abilities whatsoever.

Roast of The Regretted Tattoo

2008-02-08T22:00:00.000-05:00

I am here today to roast and pay tribute to the past decisions that don't seem so wise when looked back upon, specifically, you, regretted tattoo.
Although all of us have, more than likely, made bad decisions and done some stupid things, the memories of these actions typically fade with time. Tattoos, however, remain as a permanent result of a temporary decision. Regretted tattoo, you walk down the halls of notoriety amongst the likes of Girls Gone Wild video tapes and late night drunk-dialed phone calls. No one has convinced the masses to do something so stupid since Los del Rio came out with the Macarena.
Whether it's the tramp stamp, the Panama City license plate or the Myrtle Beach message board; a tribal arm band or a cartoon character on the ankle, you are now a permanent fixture on the canvas of our bodies.
Spontaneity is exciting. Taking off for a weekend at the last minute, watching a movie you know nothing about, and calling in sick to work are examples of things many of us have found enjoyment in. Years later we have little more than the memories of such occasions. You do not fit in this category, regretted tattoo. Because like the after effects of war or the results of precarious sexual behavior, you remain as a vivid reminder that just because it seemed like an excellent idea at the time, it doesn't mean that it was.
Like Mt. Rushmore you have transformed a virgin landscape, equally as irreversible and yet so inversely admirable and respectable. You deserve props, regretted tattoo. Not only did you have the influence to convince someone to wear you forever, but you inspired them to look at what god made and say "ya know, this just isn't good enough the way it is, but add my beau's name and a tacky Chinese symbol, and it should be perfect!" Regretted Tattoo, you are a constant reminder to both those of us with your everlasting image on our skin and to those of us that see you immortalized on the flesh of others, that you will undoubtedly last longer than our spontaneous and fleeting impulses.
At times we will make decisions, both well thought out and spontaneous, that we inevitably come to regret later on. Your eternal image on our skin is a small price to pay for doing something stupid. You remind us that maybe, in ten years, we will have a dissimilar outlook. The experience we gain from mistakes that we have made catapults us forward. Poor decisions and bad choices teach us that we should take a step back to look at the big picture and anticipate the worst possible final results of our actions.
Although we may regret past decisions, unlike a bad drug habit or the nastiest results of Russian roulette, the everlasting mark of a poorly chosen tattoo is a fairly small price to pay for making an awful choice at one point in life. As tasteless and gauche as you appear on the outside, you are a valuable tool and a friend to those that don't even know you. You don't judge, you provide insight, and let's face it, you're extremely loyal.
Without mistakes, Columbus wouldn't have discovered America, we wouldn't have modern rubber or penicillin, and Cinderella never would have been reunited with her prince. You help us to reevaluate the choices we make, to consider the outcome, and to laugh at other people that so unfortunately are now the background to your mark. Thank you, regretted tattoo. The depravity your image projects lets us know that you truly are the antithesis of all good decisions ever made.

Putting a Hammer to a Nail

2008-02-03T19:15:00.001-05:00

There is no physical device in existence that can do what I can. See, I have this keen intuition that let's me know, all without the software complications and service plans of an electronic device, where the best places in town are to party on any given night. I try to put my adept ability to use as frequently as possible, primarily in an effort to help others but also to keep it honed razor-sharp. It's the fulcrum of necessity in my opinion…"What's that keen intuition?...yeah...I know I'm right!"
At some point Friday I began feeling pretty exhausted. The week was catching up with me and even though I tried to brush it off I couldn't shake the feeling that it might be an early night. This lasted about five minutes. Downtown seems to be like some sort of a cult leader that brainwashes me of whatever feelings and occasional priorities that I become preoccupied with and replaces them with social ambition and a seemingly inborn desire to soak up everything that I possibly can. I won't lie, the beer helps too.
I met up with Joe Tuff at the Rook around 8 and had a couple of cokes and a few cigarettes. I didn't stick around too long because I wanted to head to the capitol so I didn't miss any of the show. The Capitol set up a full bar and Magnificent Bastard was poised to take the stage followed by Sons of Roswell, a band I wasn't familiar with, and Hank Vegas was scheduled to wrap things up. By the time everyone who had gathered outside to smoke and socialize decided to head inside, Mag Tard was just getting things warmed up. After they had played a self-proclaimed "Badass" set, which I won't disagree with, I wondered back out front to meet up with a few friends and make some new ones. I ended up out there longer than I anticipated, missing a portion of Sons of Roswell. Back inside, what I did hear got me interested. They have a very distinctive sound and the rockstar image you can only achieve with pants so tight they must be painted on and hair so glamorous and rockstarrish that well…you know what I mean. I realized I would never wear skinny jeans, have kick ass crazy rocking hair, ergo I would likely never lead a kick ass band to commercial success. R.I.P dreams of a Heart tribute band!
By the time the music had stopped and the crowd was leaving it was relatively late. I had to get up early to head to Savannah for a rugby match (Macon Love Rugby Football Club vs. Savannah Shamrocks R.F.C.), so I did the only logical thing and went to the Tic Toc for a glass of water…and another beer. When Toc started closing I went looking for my friends, who had disappeared like a girlfriend when you answer the "Do you think I'm fat question?" the wrong way. I just hoped they weren't in a corner crying somewhere like sissies, too. An hour later I had met up with them and was at Oasis finishing the night off by committing a coup de gras on a Philly cheesesteak.
7am Saturday got there faster than a college freshman passing out and before I could figure out who put a headache in my own beer the night before, I was on the way to the Sav. Despite the absurd cold, the rain, and the muddy pitch that seemed to mock us like we where the fat kids with lisps, we won our first match by 5 points. After snagging a room at a cheapo hotel and a hot shower it was off to the Shamrocks club bar, Murphy's Law. The remainder of the afternoon (3pm -3am) was spent gorging on Sheppard's Pie, drinking free draft beer while we sang rugby songs, and repeatedly losing, finding and then losing one another at the different bars downtown. Last I recall, Dirty, a new rugger on the team, and a few of us who decided to spend the night, where singing karaoke at a blues bar on bay street. The next morning as we searched for credit cards and car keys, we tried to piece together the final moments of the evening and figure out where Dirty was. I would later learn that around 4am he jumped in a cab of his own, and taken it from Savannah to Macon! I love rugby days!
Since Sunday was a recovery day, I did little after lunch at Mellow Mushroom other than nap on and off during and after the ride home. I had heard rumors of an upcoming visit to Mercer University by former president Bill Clinton. Having never seen a current or former president in person I decided to attend. I would arrive early, get a good seat, and if I was lucky, have the opportunity to ask a question.
Early to me was an hour before doors opened and by then the line waiting to get in was wrapped well around the building and into the parking lot. I was the last person through the door before the guards arm dropped like a guillotine and cut off everyone behind me the same college freshman's parents after finding out what their kid has really been doing their first semester. I felt good because I never get that lucky bad. Then I got over it. Although Bill was there to campaign for his wife, it seemed most others, like me, where just there to see a former president speak. I think I was the only one with plans to drag him out for a beer afterwards though. I've got to say, there is something about his demeanor and the way he speaks that captures the audience. I think it's because he doesn't say "umm" or "like" at all. I wanted to harness that and use it to impress cute girls.
That same evening I showed up at Red eye for wings and pitchers as I am wont to do on Mondays to begin my week. I also wanted to see if the respect and admiration that a former president receives had somehow rubbed off on me due to my close proximity to one earlier. I'm not sure if it did or not, but I saw a few people point and stare as I was passing out on the bar, so it's quite possible. My keen intuition is rarely wrong.

Laboring in the Vineyard

2008-02-03T19:14:00.000-05:00

I have always held the philosophy that good things should be appreciated and respected, not neglected or wasted. This may be part of the reason I tend to overindulge. The fourth of January marked another First Friday. I decided that since I would be returning to the job and to school on Monday, that I should REALLY try to appreciate this particular evening and even though I was just making excuses for myself to once again go out and get down, and even though I was fully aware of this at the time, I had plenty of prearranged back up excuses for myself and decided to just settle with the one I previously mentioned.
Some of the crew I roll with (we're like a crappy gang but we do have matching jackets) was back in town after being away for the holidays and, early on, plans were laid (lucky ass plans) to hit the streets of the Downtown. The streets didn't appear too busy and part of the reason for that could have been the cold; I just figured it meant that I wouldn't have to wait as long for a beer. I dropped into The Rookery around 8:30 and grabbed a few beers while some friends and I exchanged stories of the decadence we had been a part of during the holidays. I had made earlier arrangements to meet up with Chris at The Hummingbird and the time for that was getting close so I decided to bootscoot.
Outside the bird I began shooting the breeze with Josh and Molly but the breeze was starting to shoot back so I ducked inside for a beer. Upon my reemergence I ran into Chris, who wisely suggested to Molly and I that we all head up to the office, where we could better introduce ourselves to one another without getting frostbite or having to scream over a crowd. After we had all become acquainted we went back inside The Hummingbird to check out the feature band, The Whigs. If you're not familiar with The Whigs they are a rising band from Athens, GA. They have been touted by the likes of Rolling Stone, Esquire and Blender magazines and they performed at last years Bonnaroo, which frankly didn't mean jack to me because I have seen some horrible bands in all these magazines at some point in time and, well, those ugly fur trimmed boots women wear are popular too, so I just had to see them for myself. Shortly after they took stage I realized what all the fuss was about. These guys could jam; it wasn't an overwhelming, "I can't hear the vocals, all I hear is a loud noise" kind of a show but it was the kind you could sing along to if you knew the words, and it appeared plenty in attendance did. I must say that not only was this the most packed I've seen the floor at the bird in a long time but I believe that there were more than a few people who had actually traveled to Macon FROM Athens to see these guys rock the bird. My only complaint about the Whigs set is that it was too short, then again, when I got a good thing in front of me I feel compelled to overindulge.

New Years Eve and new ways to...

2008-02-03T19:13:00.000-05:00

New Years Eve is a special event on the calendar for most of us, but for me, New Years Eve has a unique significance. It is a time to reflect on the year that has most recently passed and to make resolutions for the year to come; it is also a night to party harder than you have partied the entire year before! New Years Eve is the orgasm of parties that the entire 364 days preceding it has been building up to. For the party that ends the year, absolute overindulgence and debauchery is almost (in my book, absolutely) mandatory.
I decided to class it up a bit for the evening and throw on the three piece suit. It always looks better when your sloppy drunk but dressed like you're important…which I am. I met up with my date and ventured towards the Armory Ball Room in an effort to benefit The Heart of GA Humane Society. It just so happened that a buffet, an open bar and The Legendary JC's rocking in the New Year were complimentary to my contribution. Not one to arrive on time, I waltzed in to the Armory around ten o' clock, about an hour after the doors had opened. The party was clearly underway and even though the JC's had not yet taken the stage, everyone in attendance seemed to be anxiously anticipating the arrival of the midnight hour as well as preparing for it in a similar fashion as myself. Ah, liquid celebration!
After grabbing a few drinks, doing some people watching and casing the joint for familiar faces, I restocked at the bar and made my way towards the smoking area outside. I ran into Jen, who was looking for a light, and within a few minutes the conversation had turned towards intoxicated golf cart mishaps, oddly, I could relate. For the next hour my attention was divided between the bar, the smoking area and the Legendary JC's, who had just taken the stage. Before I realized it (or as I realized it?) it was almost midnight and 2008. I positioned myself at table where I had a good view of the stage, stuck my paper party favor hat on and filled my glass with champagne as the entire room chanted the countdown and toasted the New Year. Around 1am, I had the pleasure to make the acquaintance of a Russian named Dragon who convinced me and my date to head to Envy or TCFKAD (The Club Formerly Known As Dea) with his quickly growing entourage. We piled 8 deep into a prearranged ride meant to hold no more than 5 and rode the 3 blocks to the club. The place had a crowd but it wasn't packed, which suited me because I don't like to wait for drinks and Bartender Nicole made sure there was no risk of that happening. We danced and drank and drank and the next afternoon I would feel like the wall that Dale Earnheart hit. Stumbling home I realized one thing about the evening and the New Year…I just wish I could remember what it was.

Like the holocaust, but the EXACT OPPOSITE!

2008-02-03T19:12:00.000-05:00

Like the holocaust, but the EXACT OPPOSITE!
13th – 14th of December
Thursday evening started out a lot like many other nights, by following a miserable day at work. After downing some Disaronna on the rocks (it reminds me of Christmas time when the eighty degree weather outside makes me forget) I decided to head to the newest "hot spot" in town, The Dirty Iguana. The local crowd of college students I have become acquainted with had just finished finals and seemed to be in an ambitious mood to soak in the new atmosphere as well as some social lubrication. After several shots in supportive celebration, thoughts of an alarm clock (a very blurry alarm clock) began to flash through my minds eyes until I decided to head back to the house and rest up, not as much for work the next day as for lunch, which I anticipated to be the highlight of my work day.
After spending my lunch hour gorging on soul food at Owens Boarding House, the afternoon was spent wallowing in a general malaise. As the big hand came around and another day/week of working for the man concluded, the realization of a three day weekend awoke me and set the gears in motion. There is something about "three day weekend" which triggers a vibe in my mind that quickly travels to my soul and takes over like a controlling girlfriend, but in a much more pleasant way. Before the evening had really begun, I showed up at Oasis. I found myself with a cue stick in one hand and a Philly cheese steak and a beer being juggled in the other (I'm quite a delicate individual if you're not getting the picture). Before long Joe Tuff and I decided to head to the rookery where Tyler was more than eager to serve us all up a shot or two of the things dreams are made of. When it got crowded and our group grew and became restless, Red Eye was the next natural stop. Band Toolshed Ginger was jamming out and for some reason that didn't stop a couple of us from randomly busting out the most awesome (disclaimer: All opinions of my singing are based on my state of mind at the time and how I currently recall the events, the possibility of this in fact being an insulting and disastrous experience to others is entirely possible) a cappella rendition ever of "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey. As the night seemed to be winding to and end we began to wander back towards home but somehow wandered into Club Extreme. We ordered a final round of beers and much like an emo kid trying to make it through high school we struggled to finish our drinks. Finally satisfied with the evening of tomfoolery that preceded us we went our separate ways (I swear that is not an intentional Journey reference) and once home my head hit the pillow with a thud almost as loud as the throbbing that would awaken me later that day.