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After spending a couple of days on a boat, winding my way through the bayous of southern Louisiana, I find myself in God's Own City, New Orleans, with an expense account, a PR flack sent to make sure I'm happy so I don't write a bunch of stories about what a piece of shit his client is (read: he's buying), and as assignment to case the city for a possible beer-related travel story in a few months. In other words, I'm pretty much in heaven.
The story begins on a Sunday, the last day of pro football before the Super Bowl. Jim (the PR flack) and I are up at the crack of 10.00am to make sure we secure prime bar stools for the upcoming day of championship football. A bonus - Jim is a big fan of one of the teams trying to make the Super Bowl, not to mention a true DB. (Side note: During an embarrassing moment of weakness, I worked as a PR flack for two whole months. During those two months, I trained Jim, ran up a $25,000 expense account, pissed off my bosses, and used most of my time in the office to line up writing gigs. The point is, as my trainee, Jim's a bloody prodigy in the world of PR/Ad Whoredom.)
We find ourselves in Ryan's Irish Pub, where we meet Mike, who's not long off the boat from County Cork and who will soon be one of my new best friends. Most of the day's pretty slow, spent slamming beers and watching football.
Once we're well lubricated, we make our way over to the Kerry Pub. (There's a motif.) Mike's already there, and he's waiting for us with Bushmills shots. Mike's just won $1000 in a football pool and we're all celebrating together, he says.
Here my troubles begin.
We do God knows how many shots of Bushmills, chased by pints of Guinness, Killian's, Harp, Bass, Abita, Shiner, and a couple of beers I can't remember. Jim's team starts losing - badly. Jim starts downing shots, then hurling the empty glasses at the TV. Jim's aim is very bad, and the tables beneath the TV are being showered with shattered glass. Mike and I are deep in conversation about the Troubles, and only throw a couple of glasses into the wall as a show of solidarity with Jim.
The game ends, Jim's team loses, we start drinking seriously. It's about 7.30pm. We're joined by a couple from NYC; the guy's already so plastered he can barely walk. We also discover a couple of BritChicks (tm) over by the dart boards. We convene a tournament.
None of us can agree on proper dart rules, so we split into two teams (taking in a guy who's leaving to join the Peace Corps the next morning and his girlfriend), and agree that we'll throw for shots. Each player throws three darts, high points win; subtract loser's points from winner's and the loser's team has to do that many shots. After about three rounds, it's not unusual for one player to miss the board entirely, forcing his/her team to do as many as 12 shots (four per person; the maximum as agreed) per round. This leads to much hilarity as the BritChicks (tm) begin throwing the darts at each other, PeaceCorpsMan's GV starts blatantly feeling him up, and NYC babe blows off her BF and grabs Li'l Jim as she tells Jim, "You're beautiful. You're beautiful."
Being the soul of propriety, I find myself back at the bar with a couple of new pals, one of whom turns out to be none other than Dave Sharp, who used to play guitar for The Alarm, a band only ODBs will remember, but who might've been great if they hadn't come out about a week after U2. In addition to Sharp, there's a crew of expat Brits who used to work as roadies for Pink Floyd on the Wall Tour and U2 during the Joshua Tree tour. We trade beers, shots, and stories of life on the road.
At some point, Sharp gets on stage to sing. I decide he'll sound better with some backing vocals, so I grab one of his guitars and start wailing harmony. Okay, so I don't know the song - I'm a pro, I'm faking it. Halfway through the song, Sharp tells me he'll buy me a beer if I'll get the fuck off the stage. I agree. My debut is a smash.
Sometime around 10.00pm, I get word that the GF's flight has landed and she's en route to my hotel. I decide it'll be romantic if I meet her with flowers, so I leave the bar.
I buy a dozen roses at a shop, but somehow lose them when I stop into a bar for a wee dram to tide me over 'til the GF shows.
I get to the hotel and she's nowhere in sight. I decide to sit and wait. I decide to lie down and wait. I decide that as long as I'm lying in the doorway I might as well catch a catnap. It's 28 degrees (F), but I've plenty of anti-freeze in the ol' engine block.
I'm awakened by a kick to the ribs. "Hey," the guy says, "we're trying to get in." I get up and go across the street, where the doorways seem less traffic-filled. Ah... Sleep...
I'm awakened by a group of college types. "Hey, fucker,"one says, "get a fuckin' job." They throw some change at me. I throw it back, hitting one in the head. I spit at them. They leave, I go back to sleep.
The GF shows up. I wake up. She's fired up and ready for a night on the town. I have to rally. Somehow, I do. She thinks looking for Jim is the best idea. I say taking in a couple of live sex shows on Bourbon St. will be much more fun. I'm very persuasive. Next thing I know, we're sitting in a booth in a sleazy bar, knocking back Hurricanes and Bushmills shots while naked women writhe on the table in front of us. I try to convince the GF that she'd look great on stage, naked, with me putting $1 bills in her shoes, but she won't go for it. Nor does she go for my suggestion that I see how much money I can make if I get naked on stage.
From there, it gets really fuzzy. I know we went to at least two other bars and bought some Lucky Dogs from the pushcarts, and that I woke up on the floor of our hotel room while the GF was happily buried under a mountain of blankets and pillows.
(ADDED BONUS CD TRACK)
The night before I left on this adventure, Oso showed up in Austin. We met, after some miscommunications, at the Bitter End, my favorite local brewpub, where we polished off many pints. We then headed to the GingerMan, the best beer bar in town and the place where Pete VonderHaar and I met, for more pints, at which time I became horribly drunk.
On the way to my house, we stopped at one of the numerous taco trailers for a late-night snack, where we paid something like $50 for four tacos. Oso ate three of them.
I woke up the next morning to find Oso crashed on the floor, shivering uncontrollably since I don't believe in using my heater. You'll have to get more details from him.
Dave
Finally recovered, but surely leaving a lot out...