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Last Five Hangovers...
The Ten Thousand Dollar Choking Hazard - 2004-12-09
Mixing Advice - 2004-10-24
A Grave Injustice - 2004-09-27
A Short History of the Bloody Mary (in My Life) - 2004-07-31
If You Build It, We Will Come - 2004-07-19

BE A FRIEND OF THE MOVEMENT!

Everyone gets to be a bar regular in different ways. For some, it's showing up day in and day out, wearing an ass-groove into a favored bar stool a la Norm from Cheers. For others, it's being demonstrably drunk and rather loud and attention-grabbing night after night until the proprietor and bartenders can't help but recognize your drooling face.

We thought the latter had worked for us, but we were wrong: Our method, though we didn't realize it at the time, was showing up on Halloween in schoolgirl outfits and giving the owner a hug when he complimented our short skirts. Although this hasn't paid off with free beer (the owner, bless him, loves money more than he loves our legs), it's gotten us a free piece of apple pie, some Diet Cokes, and more importantly, access.

On St. Patrick's Day, we reached the latter peak. Heather and I hit the pub around 8:30 p.m., and arrived to see a line of green-clad people wrapped around the corner of the bar, looking peeved. This was my first St. Patty's Day at a bar, and I knew I did not want my experience to include waiting all night for just one taste of sweet, sweet Guinness. Therefore, I headed straight for the bouncer and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek in greeting -- and, admittedly, knowing he'd recognize us. "Wait by that tree right over there for a few minutes," he whispered. A few minutes later, out came the owner. I grabbed his arm to say hello, he looked at us, and he beamed drunkenly, "You girls, come around back with me!" A knock on the knobless back door later, he ushered us through and into the madness.

Girls, we have arrived. Those bar tabs, big tips, and burgeoning beer bellies all led up to this moment: The night we jump the queue because We're Insiders. Regulars. Rockstars. We're welcome.

Pardon the interruption, but the phrase "knobless back door" is giving me the giggles, because although my driver's license says otherwise I am indeed all of twelve years old.

Back to the story: There was hardly room to contemplate moving, much less actually get from A to B to W.C. Eventually Heather and the recently arrived Jessica -- who also got in by being recognized -- managed to get to the bar as I squeezed my way through to say hi to Bob and Harvey Weinstein, our code-named regulars (and, as Harvey calls himself, my "smooching pal"), who were naturally there for this drunkiest of funky holidays.

Despite the cramped room, there was something really fun in not being able to move, yet looking outside at the line of wannabe drinkers and knowing we had beaten the system.

A few minutes later, apparently the fire department realized we'd beaten the system as well and pretty much shut the place down. The bartenders hopped up and shouted for everyone to close their tabs, and the owner was overheard whispering to a few people, "They threatened to arrest me, so I seriously need everyone to get out." Jessica and Heather immediately began competing for "Best Beer Nursing of 2004" and only took the most miniscule sips of their beers as we waited to find out what the real story was -- after all, our bouncer connection assured us this was just a ruse to empty the bar of fifty or more patrons so that, if a fire broke out, we wouldn't all perish in a giant motionless mob of scorched-together flesh. We discussed heading to the non-Irish bar down the street, figuring that sweet, sweet beer was more important than the nationality of the pub. But God realized that this was wrong, and so just as we made our way to the owner to hug him goodnight, he shouted, "We're back in business!" The lights went back down, the music cranked back up, and the taps began flowing.

Girls, we have arrived. Again. For real this time. Getting in on a crowded night, ahead of the line, is one thing; staying in when the owner's trying to get everyone else out is quite another. And to think our mothers said that being giant drunks was a disgusting idea that would get us nowhere!

Well, okay, they didn't say that, but they would have, had we ever had the misfortune of them discovering this Web site. Oh yes, there would be fists on hips, glares, Serious Conversations, and lots of literature on binge drinking. So please stay away from our mothers. Thanks. We prefer that they think we drink in total moderation at all times, with shenanigan-free evenings and zero stray tongue.

The crowd thinned to comfortably (as opposed to stiflingly) full, and we toasted to our good luck. Throughout the evening, we toasted to a lot of other things, as well: The tournament starting the next morning, passports, the color green, and most importantly, Heather and I pulling the trigger on taking a cab home because I got tired of not drinking. Damn the meeting I had the next morning -- I deserved at least a comfortable buzz.

From there, the evening got even… cozier, as I ended up making out with Bob, Harvey, Jessica, AND sort of Heather, and I think everyone ended up making out with everyone else as well, with the exception of Heather and the guys -- and thankfully, Bob and Harvey did not make out with one another. Not hot.

Drunk but still smart enough to know that I needed a few hours of sleep before playing a professional the next morning, we stumbled to a cab around midnight and after generously tipping the driver for being nice, clawed our way upstairs. I ripped my bra off with great flourish from under my shirt and passed out with gusto.

There's something beautiful about waking up after St. Patrick's Day wearing almost exactly what I had on the night before, but with an undergarment draped suspiciously from the lamp. It's exactly the way things should end.

We hope you all had a great March 17 full of swinging lingerie, cheap beer, and cheaper people. Cheers!

-- Lauren