The Memphis Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Day 4 – 10:00am

Today I wake up more confused than ever before; something is awry.  I see Cola, because I’m hugging him, I see Rizzo laying spread eagle on the bed next to me, I see Sketch-mo curled up on the vomit bed, but I see no Wild Bill?  Oh, that’s right, Wild Bill had pulled a fast one last night!  I forgot he had shelled out cash (something of which he is not a fan) in a weak attempt to scheme up some sort of miracle foursome.  Although I don’t always black out, it generally takes me a few moments to figure out what took place the night before; most drinkers are familiar with this process.  It’s similar to when you wake up with a hangover and cottonmouth and then realize that you did not even drink the night before (if you can relate to that statement, we are friends).  After inappropriately prodding Cola awake with my uncontrollable morning wood, I hustle down the hall to heckle Wild Bill.

I have absolutely no idea which room he is in, but this doesn’t seem to be a problem after I immediately hear a familiar voice.

Amanda  “Help!”
Me  “Amanda?  What the fuck, where are you?”
Amanda  “Down here.”

Her voice leads me to their room, and I immediately regret not having my camera with me.  By some awesome stroke of luck, they are all actually locked inside their room.  I guess that would be the equivalent of locking your keys outside your car?

Me  “What the fuck are you doing?”
Wild Bill  “The door is jammed, we gotta crawl out the window.”

At this point, I’m not sure who’s laughing harder, them or me.  After the four bodies fall out through the window like some sort of circus act, the crisis is avoided.  I can tell by the lackluster smile on Wild Bill’s face that things did not go according to plan.  I ask for no details because even the thought makes me throw up a little bit.  We get back to our room and now everyone is awake.  It doesn’t take long to get ready since we are all wearing the exact same shit as the previous night.  I put in a few calls and find out that AJ, Baines, and company are already at the tailgate.  Us 4 Amigos, and Sketch-mo, pile into the van and head towards the stadium.

Day 4 – 11:00am

For a drive that’s only suppose to be 10 miles long, it takes us about 45 minutes to get there.  Between Cola’s “I’ll get you in the vicinity” GPS and the retarded amount of traffic, I’m surprised we made it at all.  Oh, and we also stopped to pick up a few cases of breakfast beer; Wild Bill had a hankering for some Bud Heavy.  After a long search, we find a place to park the van; Dan The Man parks his ride next to ours.  Once on my feet, I take in the sights.  The first crowds I see are comprised mainly of Cow Humpers, and like I have previously mentioned, mostly families as oppose to college kids.  I get our friends coordinates and head that way.  I am immediately stopped; we already have a problem.  Kristin, a member of Dan The Man’s party, is sick; allow me to digress for just a moment.

Similar to Elsie, apparently Kristin also had a little too much fun last night.  Here’s the problem, Kristin is a vegetarian (lesbian) and not to be trusted; never trust a woman that doesn’t eat meat (get your mind out of the gutter).  Cola and Rizzo have previously named her “Veggie Tales” due to her eating habits and Jumanji-style (farfetched) stories.  Since I have already done my good deed of the year by helping Elsie last night, it’s now Dan The Man’s turn to earn his good Karma.  He agrees to drive her back through the mess that we had just endured.  Dan The Man 1, Veggie Tales 0.  Ultimately, Veggie Tales decides to fly home later in the day instead of waiting for the drive back tomorrow; strange, I know.  Well I guess at least she made it to the game, unlike Elsie.  Veggie Tales 0, Elsie -1; back to the story.

After jolting my way through a bunch of inbreds whom are playing more cowbell than Blue Oyster Cult, I finally lay my eyes on a field of Black and Gold.  As I attempt to find a particular group of kids, I throw high-fives and fistbumps to any and every passing UCFer.  Even though we have been drinking since we made our pit stop, we have yet to really kick things into high gear.  Alas I see many familiar faces; we have found Headquarters.  I don’t think “kicking things into high gear” is going to be a problem, especially since this is what the tailgate looked like before I arrived.

Day 4 – 12:00pm

Since kickoff is at 4:30pm, we should have more than enough time to get silly; although I feel like I have let myself down by not getting here at 6 in the morning.  Apparently, today the name of the game is “Shotgun Rally.”  Basically, we’ll be shotgunning a scheduled beer every half-hour in addition to all of the other random shots, funnels, chugs, and impromptu shotguns.  Hopefully I don’t have to explain to you what a shotgun is, but I will explain what a Gladiator Shotgun is.  Allow me to digress for just a moment.

Although I have yet to do one myself, I have seen several Gladiator Shotguns go down in my day.  The difference between a regular shotgun and a Gladiator Shotgun you ask?  Well instead of using a key to make the hole, you use your teeth.  That’s right, you bite into the can like some sort of Cro-Magnon Billy Goat; it’s painful, barbaric, and awesome.  Whoever the Gladiator is that takes part in said shotgun is soon covered in beer, blood, and praise; back to the story.

Once Dan The Man reappears after completing his good Karma voyage, we welcome him back with a round of impromptu shotguns.  As you can see from the picture, Headquarters is set up right by the street.  This is awesome (a recipe for disaster) because the stadium is right behind us and every Cow Humper must walk right passed us in order to get to the game.  Some Cow Humpers walk passed Wild Bill right after he takes another shotgun, yikes…

Wild Bill  “Hey you!”
Cow Humper #1  “Me?”
Wild Bill  “Yeah you, Cletus, does your house have running water?”
Cow Humper #1  “Yes.”
Wild Bill  “Yeah sure, I bet you need shoes and a flashlight to use the bathroom.”
Cow Humper #1  “What are you talking about?”
Wild Bill  “Keep walking you fuckin’ cousin lover.”

As Wild Bill continues to harass women, children, and the elderly, I turn around and join Rizzo and AJ; they have created some sort of makeshift Jagerbomb circle.  Much like a “puff, puff, pass” rotation for a California cigarette, this is more of a “swig, swig, pass” formation.  And by “Jagerbomb,” I mean drinking it straight out of the bottle and chasing it with Noz (I would have preferred Tilt, but I guess I can’t have it all).  After countless shotguns and Jager-swig-bombs in about two hours time, I realize it’s time to break the seal.

Me  “It’s time to break the seal.”
Cola  “Why do you always tell me these things?”
Me  “No idea.  Where’s the bathroom?”
Rizzo  “Yeah, I kinda gotta piss too.”
Cola  “You aren’t going to like this…”

Cola alerts us that the bathrooms are nowhere to be found; he’s been going back to the van and refilling empty water bottles.  The van is pretty far from our current location, so Rizzo and I start the trek.

Rizzo  “Hey, just piss yourself like usual.”
Me  “I hate you.”

Rizzo can be quite the son of a bitch when it comes to revenge inspired pranks; allow me to digress for just a moment.

When I was a freshman in College, I borrowed a shirt from Rizzo.  Later, I returned it to him dirty and wrinkled.  When I was in class (at a bar), he came into my room and stole my computer mouse; he also left a ransom note promising its safe return as soon as I ironed his shirt.  I challenge you to try and use your computer without the mouse; I ironed his shirt immediately.

Another one of his over-the-top revenges, which has to do with the “just piss yourself like usual” comment, is a bit more disturbing, psychologically that is.  I’m not really sure if he was getting back at me for something or just being an asshole, but here’s the gist.  I had lived in 3 different apartments up until my senior year of college, basically we moved every year; the first night of each year, I always managed to pee somewhere besides in the bathroom.  My freshman year, I peed all over my unpacked luggage.  My sophomore year, I peed all over my bed; I think I actually stood up and aimed for my bed as if it were a toilet because my boxers were dry.  My junior year, I peed all over Sketch-mo’s laundry; in hindsight, that was hilarious.

Anyway, why am I sharing all of these “make my parents proud” moments with you?  Well because after the time I peed all over Sketch-mo’s laundry, I started wetting the bed on an almost bi-monthly basis.  At the time, I was living with Rizzo and Sketch-mo, so of course I shared with them my “situation.”  I mean, I party often, but seldom do I throw up or wet myself; this was a cause for concern.  Rizzo told me that I was disgusting and just couldn’t handle my booze; I ignored his mean comments.  After about 6 months of staying dry, Rizzo comes clean.  Here is a conversation we had nonchalantly while playing Smash Brothers on Nintendo 64 one day…

Me  “Dude, it’s been 6 months and I haven’t pissed myself!”
Rizzo  “Congratulations.”
Me  “Seriously, I don’t know what that was all about, but I’m glad it’s over.”
Rizzo  “Yeah, you never actually had a problem.”
Me  “Ye… wait, what?”
Rizzo  “It was me.”

I pause the game.

Me  “What?  Are you telling me you have been peeing on me?”
Rizzo  “What?  Oh God no, I’m not an asshole.”

Rizzo unpauses the game.

Me  “Well what are you saying then?”
Rizzo  “I’ve been pouring water on your crotch so you’d think you pissed yourself.”

I pause the game.

Me  “What the fuck?  Are you fucking serious?  For 6 months?”
Rizzo  “Um, yeah just about.  Dude relax, it’s not like I pissed on you or anything.”

Rizzo unpauses the game.

Me  “This is not funny, you are an asshole.  I’ve been seriously worried man!”
Rizzo  “It’s kinda funny.  Like, you’d laugh if it wasn’t you right?”

I pause the game.

Me  “That’s besides the point, how could you not tell me this”
Rizzo  “I told Cola?”

Cola has been playing n64 with us as well; he chimes in.

Cola  “Yeah I knew, it’s pretty funny.
Me  “What?!  Dude, this is so fucked up!”
Cola  “Can you stop pausing the game?”

Imagine thinking you have a sleepwalking problem because every time you fall asleep, your friends move you so you wake up somewhere else; that’s how fucked up this is, except add urine to the mix.  After getting no remorse from my soulless friends, I unpause the game; back to the story.

Day 4 – 2:30pm

With a full bottle of urine in my hand, I contemplate pouring it on Rizzo to get back at him for years of therapy to come; ultimately, realizing he is bigger than me, I just roll the bottle under the van.  Once we get back to Headquarters, I see a small crowd (3 people) gathered around Amanda; she has been bragging about how she can shotgun a Sparks.  After she proves that she cannot, the crowd disperses.

The Cow Humpers continue to pass us on the streets, growing larger in numbers; apparently they too are practitioners’ of the “Safety in Numbers” theorem.  Now that the alcohol has begun to take its natural course, it’s time for my poor decisions to follow.  I see a Jr. Cow Humper (7 year old) and his family about to pass; I make my approach.  I hand him the tail end of my Natty Light…

Me  “UCF, we don’t ID!”

Jr. Cow Humper smiles; his parents do not.  Instead of verbally reprimanding me like normal people, they just shoot me a dirty glare and bang their cowbells scornfully.  We’ve begun to notice the odd dressing style of the College-aged Cow Humpers; they all have “forehead combovers” and don’t seem to know that their shirts are only tucked into the front of their pants.  Instead of my description, let’s go with Johnny Boy’s spot on reenactment.  I can only use the words “shotgun” and “Jager” so many times before they become monotonous (if not already), so we finish off all the supplies and head into the game.

Day 4 – 4:00pm

Right before we enter the stadium loud and proud (sauced and lost), this is the first time I notice how truly outnumbered we are.  Our large group has already separated, so now it’s us 4 Knights, and Sketch-mo, lost in a sea of Cow Humpers.  I stand close to Rizzo and Wild Bill as I shout obscenities at any and everything; Rizzo is a 250lb hockey player and even though Wild Bill is a glass jaw Gummy Spine, his 6’4” looks can be deceiving.  We find our seats and begin to pass around a flask and a water bottle half-full of whiskey as the stadium begins to fill.  I reflect back to our pre-trip planning, and how Cola had purchased our game tickets through AAA.  This is always a safe bet incase the game expectedly sells out, however this generally fucks up your seating.  Instead of being in the UCF reserved block, we are definitely located at the opposite end of the stadium.  Regardless, Rizzo and Wild Bill give our seats the thumbs up.

We cheer like idiots as the Knights take the field; our spirits can’t (will) be broken.  Instead of giving you the play by play, I’ll give you the gist:  we did not win.  Cow Humpers 1, Us 0.  Some highlights of the game include this liar in front of us who promises he’s awake, me falling on my way back from the concession stand and dropping my overpriced, undercooked hotdog, and Baby Voice Bill sneaking off to the other side of the stadium to make another fruitless pass at my mom.  By game’s end, my body is bruised, drained, and condiment-stained.  We leave Baby Voice Bill behind as we make it to the van and putter back to the hotel.

Now if you’re reading this, I’m going to assume you have been to a tailgate before.  If not, well then your parents should do a better job of monitoring the Internet content that you peruse; but that’s their fault.  After any tailgate, one usually passes right out, no matter the time.  Often it’s only 7pm, so when you wake up feeling rejuvenated at 4am, you are very confused as to why it’s still dark outside.  Well friends, I reach the hotel and I hit the bed hard; my lights are out at 8pm.  Wow, I really hope you didn’t believe any of that crap; I cracked another beer and kept the partying going.  You know who sleeps?  Losers.  I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

Day 4 – 9:00pm

The only problem with never sleeping and always wanting to be out and about is that you are in a league all of your own.  My friends aren’t (are) losers, but they actually are sleeping.  Back at school, it’s not really much of a problem; as long as you have several different groups of friends, somebody somewhere is doing something.  It’s now time to go door to door at the hotel until I find some companionship.  I first knock on Lora’s door, no answer.  I assumed they were all sleeping, but I later find out they are out to eat somewhere.  Next, I go to Dan The Man’s room.  Eureka!  They are all awake and drinking, plus 1 Sanford to boot.  So in reality, I guess it’s only my friends that are tired?  Oh well.

Me  “Amanda, how the hell are you still awake?”
Amanda  “Cause I’m awesome.”
Me  “That can’t be it, must have been that Sparks you ‘shotgunned’.”
Amanda  “You’re an asshole.”

Dan The Man laughs; we high five.  Since Veggie Tales has already shipped off, the room seems a lot more spacious and lesbian free.  Oh, just for the record, if any guys are ripping on me for not liking lesbians, please let me clarify.  I’m not talking about hot schoolgirl lesbians that you see on the Internet, I’m talking about softball players and the WNBA.  After sharing a little bit of California tobacco, the new group grabs a taxi and heads to, where else, Beale Street.

Day 4 – 11:00pm

Since this is my 4^th night in a row boozing on the same ¼ mile strip, I’ll just give you the key parts as not to be too repetitive.  Since I’m with Dan The Man and local neighbor women, we spend the majority of the night at B.B. King’s; this place is probably the busiest that I have seen it all week.  Unfortunately, it’s mainly swamped with the Mississippi State college crowd, which until now has not been large in show.  Dan The Man and I start the night out with 4 shots each, so basically I’ll be bilingual very shortly, speaking both English and Retard.  Like clockwork, I stumble out of the restaurant solo and hit the streets.  Oh, and if I haven’t mentioned it yet today, FUCK IT’S COLD!  The mother ship beacons me in and before I know it, I’m sitting alone at the Tap Room bar.  I can only smile as Rob pours me a much-needed Rogue Dead Guy, you know, to even out the shots.

Rob  “So how’d your team do Florida?”
Me  “It was an abortion.”
Rob  “Messy huh?”
Me  “You got it.”
Rob  “Sorry brotha.”
Me  “Hey, you win some, you lose some.”

The time has come for me to say goodbye to my dear friend Rob.  It’s a little past midnight, and due to our 6am departure, once I leave Tap Room tonight, I will not be returning.

Me  “Rob, this is where we part ways my friend.”
Rob  “Oh yeah?”
Me  “Yup, leaving in the morning, going to find my friends (anybody) now.”
Rob  “Well man, keep it real.  Here’s a shot of Whiskey for the road.”
Me  “Dear God.”

I take the shot, we hug it out, fistbump, and then I wipe the tear from my cheek.  I rush back to B.B. King’s before I forget where I am.  When I get inside, I head right to the bathroom.  Once at the urinal, I spend a fair amount of time searching for my frozen member and stretching it out as best I can so I look respectable incase the guy to my right has wandering eyes; another guy approaches the urinal to my left.  Gadzooks, it’s our Quarterback!  The QB and I know each other, but not well.  You know those people you recognize from all over town, but you’ve never actually had a conversation longer than the “what’s up” head nod?  This is that type of relationship and I find this the most appropriate time to formally introduce myself.  While we are both still peeing, I give him a pat on the back and lead in with an introduction…

Me  “Hey QB, good game man.  Things could have gone better, but good season.”
QB  “Thanks man, glad you guys came up here and supported us.”
Me  “I mean, the papers are gonna call you a bum and say you cost us the game and that you’re a clown and blah blah blah, but you can’t buy into any of that shit.”
QB  “Uh, I guess not, thanks?”

Now if you haven’t seen Along Came Polly, this might just seem gay and not funny.  He’s still relieving himself as I finish, so as I flush, I awkwardly rub his ear with my other hand…

Me  “Mazel, good things.”

I finish with a football style palm-to-ass goodbye.  Either he had seen Along Came Polly or he was too drunk to notice, because he did not punch me.  Actually, he was a great sport and even posed for a picture.

When I finally make it back to the table and find my “friends,” I’m handed another shot.  See ya!  Let’s fast-forward 3 hours.

Day 5 – 3:00am

The rest is broken memories, pictures, and hearsay.  At some point, apparently I ran into Lora, or as Cola calls her, “the mean one.”  I think Lora is awesome, but Cola disagrees; allow me to digress for just a brief moment.

During the previous 4^th of July, we had a giant neighborhood block party; I mean fucking GIANT.  We staged it in front of Wild Bill’s place, which happens to be located 3 doors down (accidental band reference) from Lora’s place.  We had kegs, golf carts, and slip n’ slides; it was like MTV’s the Grind (if you don’t know what that is, fuck you, you lucky young bastard).  Anyway, Cola and Lora had never met or spoken before, and here was their introduction…

Lora  “I’m not going fast on the slip n’ slide, what should I do?”
Cola  “Take your top of.”

It’s been awkward ever since, back to the story.

Amanda also informed me that as the club emptied out, there were 3 girls dancing together downstairs.  Dan The Man and I approached the threesome and impressed them with our dance moves.  Apparently they were more into dancing with each other than us, so then we decided to impress them with our smooth game.

Me  “I’m down with lesbians.”
Dan The Man  “Yeah, even ugly ones.”

They were not into our smooth game; I’ll never truly understand lesbians.  Alright, enough is enough, it’s time to get out of Memphis while I still have my dignity (wallet) intact.  Back in West Memphis, I briefly remember a casino?  I can only imagine that at some point I was stumbling around Southland Park; I guess I’ll need to get tested when I get back to Orlando.  When I’m finally in the room, Cola is actually just waking up to get ready for the drive home.  Apparently I had my headphones on and was rocking out to my iPod.  Cola later informed me that the other end of my headphones was plugged into nothing and that I was trying to jam it into my cell phone.  My cell phone does not play music.  I drop dead on the bed for about 20 minutes before I am woken up.

Day 5 – 6:00am

Since we are making the drive back in 1 day, it has been predetermined that we will get up and leave super early.  This is good for everyone except me; I’m more intoxicated now then I was 20 minutes ago when I went to sleep.  I shove everything I think I own into my bag and then head to the van.

Day 5 – 6:45am

I’m phasing in and out as I realize we are still parked.  I’m too drunk to move, but not to drunk to notice that I’m the only one in the van.  Finally Cola opens the driver side door as I lay lifeless in the back row.

Me  “Dude, man, meh, ah, what’s going on?”
Cola  “We were eating breakfast.”
Me  “Why am I in the car?”
Cola  “We didn’t want you to go anywhere.”
Me  “Why didn’t you leave me in the room?”
Cola  “This was funnier.”

Before I can call him an asshole, I pass back out.

Day 5 – 12:15pm

Once I wake back up, I feel great.  Somehow we have gotten lost; apparently Cola’s GPS only leads us to danger, and this great breakfast joint called Michelle’s.  Whenever you go on any adventure, you always end up somewhere amazing that you can never find again; Michelle’s is said spot.  I’ve Googled the shit outta this place and have come up empty-handed.  It’s somewhere about 5 hours south-ish of Memphis; if you know, please do tell.  The food here was so plentiful and cheaply priced that Rizzo couldn’t stop himself from flexing.  Since it’s Sunday, Michelle’s is offering some sort of Church Buffet Special.  We may not be much for Church, but we’ll take God up on his kick ass Buffet.  With a menu that looks this good, how could we say no?  It’s the kind of stuff your mom cooks, well, if your mom was related to your dad before they got married.

Remember how I told you my mom forced us to take an Amish-style map along?  Yeah, me neither because The Memphis Chronicles – Part 1 seems like a fucking year ago because I’m a terrible writer.  Anyway, Cola’s GPS wasn’t worth the cardboard it was printed on, and for some reason our MapQuest directions didn’t work in reverse.  The old school map was the only thing that got us home (this was before phones could do everything).  However, we all made it back successfully, even Sketch-mo.

So what did we learn from this voyage?  Well, in short, Memphis is cold so don’t waste your time.  Besides that, let’s list a few:

• Vans are awesome (I honestly can’t believe I don’t have 1 fucking picture of this thing, it’s very upsetting).
• Only pour urine out of a moving car when Sketch-mo is behind you.
• West Memphis is actually in Arkansas.
• Don’t listen to idiots that don’t know what a “green jacket” looks like.
• Cell phones can still work even after they are soaked in water overnight.
• Rob the Bartender kicks ass.
• Drunk gambling can be awesome if you win money.
• 90lb girls who drink with me will throw up.
• Baby Voice Bill has no game.
• Vegetarians (lesbians) are weird.
• People from Mississippi hump cows.
• It’s very wrong to pour water on your friend’s crotch and tell him he pissed himself.
• Last but not least, always listen to your mother.

So what’s next?  I’m thinking something tropical, perhaps Spring Break in Key West?  Who knows, maybe I’ll spend my nights on a pier, run from the law, meet the Joad family, avoid a drive-by, befriend homeless teenagers, hell, I might even get laid!  But that’s really just speculation…

AFTERMATH:

My roommate found this link on Forbes.  Apparently they did a study of the top 10 most miserable cities… Memphis?  Holding strong at #2. http://www.forbes.com/2009/02/06/most-miserable-cities-business-washington_0206_miserable_cities_slide_3.htmlhttp://www.forbes.com/2009/02/06/most-miserable-cities-business-washington_0206_miserable_cities_slide_3.html

The Memphis Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Day 3 – 6:30pm

I always find it amazing that the “3 S’s” can instantly sober up even the wildest of idiots.  For those of you unfamiliar with the term “3 S’s,” it stands for Shit, Shower, Shave.  I’m not sure if this is an acronym that girls use, but for us boys, well I guess we’re just that simple.  Complete with my UCF shirt and rejuvenated appearance, I take a solo walk to the Mexican restaurant, Margaritas, to meet back up with Wild Bill.

Once inside, I grab a seat at the end of the ghetto-rigged 2 table arrangement that seats about 8; it’s Wild Bill, Sketch-mo, Sanford, and Lora and her friends.  At this point, I have still not seen Amanda and the rest of that crew.  I sit into a very awkward conversation; for some reason, Wild Bill and Lora have told the waitress that they are married and have a kid.  They are getting a To Go order for one of Lora’s friends, but are pretending it’s for their fictional child.  Yes, at times my friends are even dumber than me.  As the waitress takes the order, I waste no time interrupting in a humorous attempt to steal the table’s thunder.

Waitress  “And what will your son be eating?”
Me  “Cock, if he’s anything like his father.”

My attempt is successful; people laugh as Wild Bill is shamed.  He gives me the stink-eye to show his disapproval of my remarks.  I smile and cheers him with someone else’s Margarita; we are friends again.  After we have slammed a few margaritas and the To Go order is intact, it’s time to get back to the room and start the heavy pregaming.  Real quickly on the margaritas, allow me to digress for just a moment.

Tequila does not taste good.  The idea that anybody would want to mix it with sugar juice and drink it even slower is just asinine.  If you are reading this and thinking “Hey, I like Tequila,” you are dumb.  Nobody drinks Tequila for the taste; we drink it because it makes us feel not dead inside.

As the girls go back to the room to change and Wild Bill follows them to watch, I call Amanda and head to her upstairs room.  She told me that she had just finished eating at the Mexican place right before Wild Bill got there.  Once inside, I see she is with Alexa, Kristin, Jess, and a new face, Dan.  Dan sits in a chair in the corner drinking alone while randomly insulting all of the girls in the room.  I like Dan immediately; he is the man.  Dan The Man informs me that he drove the entire way, and that girls are very useful during long drives.  After I chug a couple beers with Dan The Man, I make fun of Amanda and then exit the room.

Back in Lora’s room (which if you remember shares a wall with ours), the party has grown to about 10 or so.  I see that Wild Bill has put on his party face as he leans over to whisper something to me.

Wild Bill  “I just saw Holly’s butt.  Woo Wee!”
Me  “What are you, 7?”
Sketch-mo  “Yeah I know right?!”
Wild Bill  “Just shut up Sketch-mo.”

As the party continues to grow, we feel it’s best to move it to the lobby.  The group fires up a couple card games as I polish off a mixed drink and a Tilt.  We are starting to run low on refreshments, so Lora drives Rizzo and me to a sketchy gas station to pick up some beer and a few more Tilts.  Upon our return, all UCFers that are staying at Days Inn are now in the lobby.  Cola, our future accountant, takes a head count and realizes that we cannot fit 15 people into a single cab.  We turn back towards the booze as we wait for our transportation to arrive.

Day 3 – 9:45pm

I jump into the back of one of the van-style taxis with Amanda and her friends; Dan The Man snags shotgun and brings his Days Inn beverage along for the ride.  Once we reach Beale Street, it looks like a completely different place.  The street is packed beyond belief; this is what we had originally envisioned, apparently we just had to wait until night 3 to experience it.  There are beer vendors in the streets, drunk kids already throwing up, beautiful UCF people everywhere, and even a few obnoxiously ugly people from Mississippi State; life is now amazing.

Once all taxis are unloaded, it’s time to split the heard; with groups this large, you generally never stick together for more than 10 minutes.  Our room and Amanda’s room stick together and hop into the first bar we see, B.B. King’s.  As we get IDed, both Dan and Rizzo are using passports because they don’t have IDs; they fist bump and become instant friends.  We manage to find a large enough available table in the middle of the crowded bar.  Once we sit down, Wild Bill leans in for another whisper.

Wild Bill  “Have you ever hooked up with Amanda?”
Me  “You are an idiot.”
Wild Bill  “Just checking.”
Me  “Does this mean you’re gonna try?”
Wild Bill  “I can’t predict the future.”
Sketch-mo  “Hey, what are you guys talking about?”
Wild Bill  “Eyes down Sketch-mo.”

Have I ever hooked up with Amanda?  This is a question I have been asked so many times; allow me to digress for a very disturbing moment.

No, I have never and will never hook up with Amanda.  For those of you who don’t know our situation, my nickname for Amanda is “Mom.”  This is not because she is caring and helpful; this is because she physically resembles my mother.  I would have referred to her as “Mom” throughout this entire story, but I did not want to confuse anybody.  So with that in mind, let’s rephrase Wild Bill’s question.

Wild Bill  “[Have you ever hooked up with someone who looks like your mother]?”

No Wild Bill, I have not.  Furthermore, you know that I call her “Mom” so why would you ask me this (multiple times)?  That would be weird, uncomfortable, and in some way probably incestuous.  This reminds me of another disturbing conversation that I’ve been trying to erase from my mind for years; readers beware.  One time while I was at the Wife Factory (Strip Club), I asked one of the Future Wives what the weirdest thing a guy has ever said to her was.

Me  “What’s the weirdest thing a guy has ever said to you?”
Future Wife  “This one time a guy asked me for a lap dance because he said I reminded him of his granddaughter.”

Take a moment to wipe your projectile vomit off the screen.  Some people are just fucking weird.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve never gone to a family reunion with a wad of singles in my pocket.  If you are normal, Wife Factories can be a good time.  I mean besides, guys like Wife Factories because “they are funny and not a turn-on.”  Girls, if we (men) tell you that we like going to a Strip Clubs because it’s “funny and not a turn-on,” we are lying to you; we like going because strippers are hot and obedient, and yes, we want to have sex with all of them.  I’m not sure where this is going, but the bottom line is Amanda = No Sex, Strippers = Cool; back to the story.

Once at B.B. King’s, Dan The Man is working some magic at the bar because he actually works at the B.B. King’s in Orlando, so he is scoring some sort of discount.  He returns with several shots; I rip a couple and then take to the streets alone.  As I’ve mentioned before, I’m somewhat of a wanderer.  I think it must be my ADD or something, but whatever the case, I can’t sit still for too long.  I walk into another bar called Club 152 and find Lora and Elsie drinking at the bar.  I brag about my poker winnings and suggest that we spend it; we begin ordering all sorts of random shots.  Some girl next to me shouts my way.

Some Girl Next To Me  “Hey, do you work at the UCF Gym?”
Me  “Yes, I do.  Would you like a shot?”
Some Girl Next To Me  “Obviously.”

It’s easy to make friends when you are handing out money in the form of alcohol.  I look back to the girls and notice that Lora has wandered off somewhere.  Elsie and I exit and head towards, where else, Tap Room.  As we cross the street, we run into Wild Bill and Casey.  I tell them that we are going to visit Rob the bartender; they agree to meet us after they find [some member of the crew, I can’t remember who].  After giving Rob an overzealous hug, Elsie and I sit alone at the bar and continue to pound drinks; nothing good can come from this, especially for Elsie.  She is drinking as fast as I am, the only problem is that she weights maybe 90 lbs, soaking wet.  All of a sudden Lora appears as if from nowhere and since Elsie is once again safely a part of “the buddy system,” I hop back to the streets.  Oh in case I haven’t mentioned this yet tonight, FUCK IT’S COLD.

Day 3 – 11:30pm

Every time I blink, the population of Beale Street seems to double.  I see a large group of UCF fans jumping wildly in a circle in the middle of the street; I join the madness and start hopping up and down like a diehard fan (crazed idiot).  Out of nowhere, I’m bear-hugged from behind and lifted off the ground.  Holy Smokes!  It’s AJ (from The Key West Chronicles) and Baines (from The Cross Country Chronicles coming eventually).

AJ  “Where have you been?!”
Me  “All over the place, when’d you get here?”
AJ  “Today.”
Me  “So why did you ask me where I’ve been?”
AJ  “Huh?”
Me  “Never mind.  Where’s everyone else?”

AJ and Baines point to the rest of the drunkards who are in the middle of the jumping circle; apparently I had been jumping with people I actually knew.  AJ high-fives me a skittle and I accept it.

Baines  “Who are you here with?”
Me  “A bunch of people.”
Baines  “Where are they?”
Me  “No idea.”

As if they could smell the insanity, Wild Bill, Rizzo, and Cola appear from out of the shadows; Dan The Man, Amanda, and others follow close behind.  Our original group is now reuniting in the middle of the freezing street.  Just when all is well, trouble comes a brewin’.  A Mississippi State circle has formed and they are challenging us in a very West Side Story fashion; although, instead of the Sharks vs. the Jets, it’s really more like Team Good Looking vs. Team Inbred.  These Cow Humpers have also gone with these very annoying cowbells as their weapon of choice.  Wild Bill accuses Team Inbred of being a bunch of “Sister Kissers.”  We agreed.  The kids gather around Mom and take a picture.  After street security unnecessarily intervenes, I invite Team Good Looking back to Tap Room as if it were my own bar.  Once inside, more trouble is a brewin’.

Day 4 – 12:45am

Inside Tap Room, Lora informs me that Elsie is a bit on the fritz.  And by “a bit on the fritz,” she means face down at the bar.  There’s nothing more complicated than being drunk and having to take care of another drunk person, but we’ve all been there.  The original plan is to toss her in the back of a cab and let the Gods protect her; but fearing that she might get gang-raped by a gaggle of locals, I’m elected as the designated guardian.  Once we make it to the hotel, I toss her over my shoulder and carry her to her room.  I tell the cabbie to stay put and that I’ll be right back because this is a round-trip.  With Elsie out cold, I fruitlessly search through her purse for her room key.  Ultimately, I can either toss her in our room or leave her on the staircase; I believe in Karma so I throw her in our room.  I also believe in vomit, so I place her on Sketch-mo’s cot “just in case.”  I run to the cab and catch my ride back to the madness.

Day 4 – 2:00am

Having just completed my good deed for the year, I reward myself with a Fat Ass sized Rogue Dead Guy back at Tap Room.  The massive crowd has dispersed, but Cola and Rizzo still grace the bar.  There is a walk-up window connected to the bar so people can order drinks from the street; it’s also useful for harassing Cow Humpers.

Rizzo  “Hey you!  Who’s better in bed, your mom or your sister?”
Me  “Do you know what the internet is?”
Cola  “Yeah, what they said.”

The funny thing is that most of the Cow Humpers are real adults and not college kids; although, at 2 in the morning there is no such thing as respect for authority.  I ask Rizzo as to the whereabouts of Wild Bill.

Rizzo  “Oh, you mean Baby Voice Bill?  He’s trying to score with your mom.”
Me  “Oh, that should be funny.  And please call her Amanda because I don’t like sound of ‘Wild Bill scoring with my mom’.”

Alright, the time has come for you to learn all about this man, Wild Bill; allow me to digress for more than a moment.

I first met Wild Bill (formerly Big Bill) my sophomore year of college; he was a fraternity brother of mine.  Yes I was in a fraternity, and no I do not have a tribal band tattoo.  We became good friends my junior year when we ended up living in the same neighborhood.  Big Bill lived with his brother and Sanford, and I lived down the street with Rizzo and Sketch-mo.  Our place basically became the community rec center; we had a Jager machine, a Kegerator, and a full liquor bar, so I guess we brought this upon ourselves.  Big Bill would come over, we would get all liquored up, and then go out to a local watering hole (sometimes we would just cruise around in my borrowed golf cart, but that’s a whole nother story).  I started noticing the crass and hilarious things that Big Bill would say to strangers; not that I didn’t do the exact same thing, but I guess it just seemed funnier when somebody who was 6’4” 240lb said it.

On the way out to Vegas for my 21^st birthday, Big Bill asked the stewardess (flight attendant) if the in-flight movie was United 93; right then the nickname Wild Bill was spawned.  Wild Bill reared his brash, shameless head all over the place; like the time a sweet innocent girl asked Wild Bill if she could use his stool because he was only sitting on it half the time.  His response:  Sorry, chivalry is dead sugar tits.  Another time, we were leaving The Library (the one with booze, not that weird place that’s like Blockbuster except with books) after a Friday afternoon happy hour; about 3 doors down is an Italian ice place at which several of my friends (female) worked.  I was talking to one of them, Jessica, and she noticed that Wild Bill’s knuckles were all fucked up (we had a punching bag), so she asked what happened.  His response:  I just got done teaching my girlfriend a valuable lesson (relax, he was kidding, I think).  These are just a few instances of Wild Bill, but like most people, this man has many different personas.

Personally, I only have 2 versions; regular ol’ jolly me, and The Russian.  The Russian is who I become after I drink too much vodka, start speaking a made up language, and then urinate on myself; this version is not a fan favorite.  Another friend of mine, Dez, has a couple.  There is Full Price Dez; this version works at a bar and offers his pals no discount whatsoever.  And then there’s my personal favorite, Too Full Dez; this version eats so much that he goes into a food-coma on the couch and repeats the phrase “I feel like I’m gonna throw up” like a broken record.

So far in this story, Wild Bill has been brutal, witty, and hilarious; I think now it’s time you learn about the rest of the Bills.  Let’s begin with Office Bill (aka Whistleblower Bill, a term coined by my friend Griff Dawg).  Whistleblower Bill holds a position at a bank for which he is more than under qualified.  Furthermore, if he’s not texting on the job, he is somehow miraculously using up another vacation day.  The kid has more vacation days than me; I’m currently unemployed.  Whistleblower Bill?  Not for me.

Next up, we have Gummy Spine Bill.  Gummy Spine Bill gets walked all over by anyone and everyone; this is still a mystery to me because Gummy Spine Bill has the same physical dimensions as Wild Bill.  Gummy Spine Bill is also stupidly sketchy.  Often, he will call me and say he’s on his way over to hang out; then, when I call him back hours later because he is a no-show, he says “Oh sorry man, I can’t make it.”  Read that sentence again, it makes sense, I promise.  Gummy Spine Bill also gets pushed around and overruled by all of his roommates, even though he is the eldest and the largest.  Gummy Spine Bill?  Not for me.

Next on the menu, Baby Voice Bill.  You know when your buddy picks up his phone and changes his voice to “little bitch mode” because he is talking to his girlfriend?  Welcome to Baby Voice Bill.  Baby Voice Bill loves to come out when he’s “running game” on a girl or talking to a waitress; again it’s always funnier with him because of his larger-than-life size.  Baby Voice Bill speaks to women, and sometimes authority figures, in a tone which implies that he’d like to pet them softly.  Baby Voice Bill?  Not for me.

With most people, you can tell which version you’re going to get according to their level of alcohol consumption; in Big Bill’s case, it’s always a complete guess.  Big Bill has several other versions, but the aforementioned are the dominant ones.  In any case, unless you’re a stranger, you are always praying for Wild Bill to show up at the party.  Anyway, where was I?  Oh right, basically even though Amanda has understandably low standards, she knows Wild Bill far to well to fall for Baby Voice Bill; back to the story.

Day 4 – 3:00am (estimate)

By this point, the booze has once again started to take a toll on my memory; if not for the skittle, I would have blacked out hours ago.  After a few incoherent phone calls, I somehow manage to meet back up with AJ and Baines.  They, along with the rest of their buddies, are at a place called Rum Boogie Café; it is located at the end of Beale Street and across from Silky O’Sullivans (the place at which I had made friends the previous night).  This place seems a little too busy for my liking, and after unsuccessfully attempting to order chicken wings, I take back to the streets.

The time has come for me to find my original group; if not I fear I will wind up being just another pillaged victim of a local meth-head.  Things are very hazy and the streets are still packed, so I turn on my drunken recall and head to our original place, B.B. King’s.  Once again, God favors the drunks, because Eureka, I have part of the crew!  It’s Dan The Man’s crew (formerly Amanda’s crew) along with Rizzo, Cola, and Sanford.  Wild Bill is nowhere to be found, but unfortunately Baby Voice Bill is residing with the rest of the group.  I’m also glad Alexa is here, because I had entrusted her with my camera earlier since I tend to lose things when I drink.  She did however take about 15 pictures of herself; she’s hot enough so I’ll show one here.  Rizzo leans over…

Rizzo  “Hey, you want a skittle?”
Me  “Where’d you get that?”
Rizzo  “AJ.”

I take the gift; Rizzo and I are nothing but smiles.

Day 4 – 4:00am (estimate)

After another round of shots and a Miller Lite, It’s about time to head back to the hotel.  Once outside, I no longer notice the cold.  Finally, I have reached a BAC high enough to keep me safe from below freezing temperatures.  The streets are beginning to thin out, and the cops are kicking everyone off Beale Street.  They are literally telling us that we cannot stand on a particular corner, but the “other” corner (5 feet away) is not a problem.

Rizzo  “Oh ok, so you want us to loiter on the other side of the street?”
Dumb Cop #1  “Yes.”

We flag down a cab; this time it happens to be a 15 person passenger van.  I don’t think we needed that much space this time around because I’m fairly certain that other parts of the group had already gone back (I’m not positive though).  As we all pile in, we notice Sketch-mo talking to a presumably underage sex solicitor behind a tree in the distance; we break up the probable jail time situation and throw his ass in the van.

As I completely say goodnight to my memory, the rest is once again hearsay.  On the way back, Baby Voice Bill sat shotgun and kept fucking with the cab radio volume in a poor attempt to befriend the driver.  I sat in the back row doing my patented Fake Pass Out at least 10 times; as usual, I fooled no one.  Once we got back to the hotel, things got even better.  As we entered our room, Elsie had decided to throw up; good thing I had placed her on Sketch-mo’s cot “just in case.”  He gets angry with me, but I reraise him with more anger until he settles down.

Me  “What was I gonna fuckin’ do?  Leave her outside?!”
Sketch-mo  “You could have put her on the floor or something?”

Wild Bill (formerly Baby Voice Bill) walks by…

Wild Bill  “Just shut up Sketch-mo.”

I cozy up to Cola in our shared bed as Rizzo finds himself sleeping solo.  Why you ask?  Well Wild/Baby Voice Bill has big plans for this evening.  He decided to rent his own room so that he and Sanford could conjure up some sort of sex party with Amanda and her friend.  Even with my eyes closed and brain turned off, my mouth still runs on its own.

Wild/Baby Voice Bill (to Amanda) “Yeah, so I think I need to get a new room cause Elsie threw up in mine.”
Me (laughing) “Never gonna happen.”

Cola can’t help but to laugh; this only fuels my autopilot wittiness.

Wild/Baby Voice Bill (to Amanda) “Me and Sanford are gonna split it, you guys should stay with us.”
Me (eyes closed) “Everyone in this room can smell your desperation.”

I will give Wild/Baby Voice Bill his due credit; his ploy worked.  The 4some ended up sharing a much overpriced and very sexless room.  Our room has emptied out; Elsie was carried back to her place, Sketch-mo is sleeping in vomit, Rizzo is sleeping like a king, and I’m the big spoon as I clutch Cola tightly.  Tomorrow can’t come soon enough; it is GAMEDAY!

Me (talking in my sleep) “Ha, Wild Bill, ha…”

CONTINUE ON TO PART 5 (FINALE)

The Memphis Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Day 2 – 9:00am

You know that friend who wakes up early as fuck and always seems to be energetic and without a hangover?  Well ladies and gentlemen, I am said friend.  I wake up feeling oddly refreshed and ready to rage.  The greatest thing about a vacation is the ability to drink at any time of the day without judgment and condemnation.  Also, there is no greater feeling in the world than waking up with more money than what you went out with; today I had this feeling.  It was only an extra 40 bucks, but not being 10 grand in the hole after a night of black out gambling is always a plus.  Despite this good fortune, this morning I do in fact have a problem.  I cannot find my jacket that I wore to the casino last night.  I search high and low and it’s nowhere to be found.  Besides being the “morning person” friend, I’m also the type that gets hung up on particular problems until they are solved.  I won’t be able to rest until I find my jacket; allow me to digress for just a moment.

The jacket I’m talking about is not the typical “trash bag turned makeshift poncho” which I’m accustom to wearing.  It is a very nice (expensive) jacket that was a hand-me-down from my pops, not to mention that it keeps me warm while residing on this intolerable iceberg that is Memphis.  My dad, who is a great man for reasons not limited to putting up with my consistently high levels of retardation and funding all of my legal expenses over the years, does in fact have 1 major flaw.  My pops is the only Florida resident that I know who has a coat fetish.  The man really does have a strange obsession with heavy winter jackets.  A Floridian with a closet full of jackets is like a Hollywood blvd street hooker with a moral compass: a complete waste.  Anyway, back to the situation at hand.

I call the casino and ask to speak with a representative from the poker room.  They must have misunderstood me and though I asked to speak with a GED recipient with Down Syndrome.  The conversation we had is as follows:

Me  “Yes, I was there last night and think I left my jacket behind.”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “Oh, ok.  Well I haven’t seen anything.”
Me  “Um ok, well can you check the poker room?”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “There’s nothing in the lost and found sir.”
Me  “I understand, but can you check the room, I think I left it on the back of a chair.”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “I’m sorry sir, we have nothing.”
Me  “Ok, well I know it’s there because I wore it out and when I got home it was gone.”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “Maybe you are mistaken sir?”
Me  “Maybe you’re adopted.”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “Excuse me sir?”
Me  “I’m the reason your parents got divorced.”

This conversation goes on several minutes longer until I become completely frustrated with the tard and just hang up.  The only person in the room who’s awake is Cola, so after a few minutes of pleading I get him to drive with me back to Tunica so I can search the casino and find my missing apparel.

Day 2 – 10:00am

I recognize the long entranceway as my drunken recall begins to set in.  I walk my haggard ass through the card room trying to relive last night like some sort of forensic investigator, Cola follows.  I speak with the card room manager (different person than GED Recipient With Down Syndrome).

Me  “Have you seen a jacket?”
Card Room Manager  “Nope.”
Me  “It’s dark green, I left it here last night?”
Card Room Manager  “Sorry, nothing.”
Me  “Are you related to GED Recipient With Down Syndrome?”
Card Room Manager  “Excuse me?”

Cola calms me down, and we abandon this conversation as we continue our search.  Just as hope begins to completely fizzle away, something catches my eye.  A lone chair sits at the far side of the poker room, folded up resting on top of it, my jacket.  You have got to be fucking shittin’ me.  I spoke with multiple retards and asked them just to check and here, in plain view of everyone, I’ve found it.  I have some words on the way out, but I won’t scare you with the details.  The entire point of this tangent?  Don’t ever listen to fucking idiots.  If you lose a phone, wallet, girlfriend, car keys, whatever it may be, don’t settle for some lazy redneck telling you that you are wrong.  Now that I am whole again, I can begin to enjoy myself (drink).

Day 2 – 11:00am

Cola and I head back towards West Memphis as the others are still sleeping.  We have several groups of friends coming up to meet us for the bowl game, so I’ll lay it out real quick.  We are the first group to make it to Memphis, and apparently the first people from Florida to ever visit this city.  Our neighbor Lora and her friends are coming today, and our other neighbor Amanda and her friends are coming up on Friday.  These two groups will also be enjoying the fine lodging of Days Inn.  Our last group of amigos, my buddies AJ, Baines and some other friends, are driving up Friday and lodging elsewhere, most plausibly in a gutter.  So, while we wait for the rest of the troops to arrive, we’ll spend most of today exploring actual Memphis and finding local hot spots at which to eat and drink.  We make it back to the hotel and Wild Bill is enraged.

Wild Bill  “Yeah, one of you is real fucking comedian.”
Me (to Rizzo) “What’s he barking about?”
Rizzo  “He woke up and found his cell phone in the bathroom sink with a steady stream of water running over it.”
Me  “Oh my God, that’s awesome.  Why is he mad?”
Rizzo  “He thinks one of us did it as a prank.”
Me  “Has he ever considered that his own drunk ass may have done this?”
Rizzo  “No, he’s dumb.”
Me  “Wild Bill, calm down, no one ruined your phone but you, dumb dumb.”
Wild Bill  “Yeah right, this isn’t a funny joke.”
Me  “10 to 1 odds it was you, fuck-o.”
Wild Bill  “Whatever, fuckin Sketch-mo!”
Sketch-mo  “What did I do?”
Wild Bill  “Just shut up.”

As you can see, our conversations tend to go on longer than needed and never result in anything that comes close to making sense.  After some ranting and raving, everyone gets dressed, and then we pile in the van and head on down to Beale Street.

Day 2 – 12:00pm

Once on Beale Street, we all discover that we are way underdressed.  Once again, it is cold as fuck!  Also like the previous night, it is a ghost town; nothing but tumbleweeds and homeless people.  We do however manage to take the customary picture of Cola standing under a cola sign.  We also walk passed a closed bar called Silky O’Sullivans (I will be embarrassing myself here later in the night).  Besides Three 6 Mafia and some guy named Elvis, Memphis is also known for its amazing BBQ joints.  First, we stumble passed the Pig, whose slogan is “Pork with Attitude.”  Wild Bill and Rizzo flex alongside the mascot, but ultimately we feel we can do better and carry on down the street.  Not knowing which one to attack first, we devise a plan:  Let’s find a homeless guy and turn him into our tour guide.  This didn’t take long as we spot one about 10 yards in front of us.  We approach…

Me  “Excuse me sir, you look like you might be familiar with the area.”
Homeless Guy  “Yesa sir, this herea mya streets.”
Wild Bill  “That’s a lovely accent you’ve got, New Jersey?”
Homeless Guy  “Say what?”
Me  “Ignore him, we are in search of the best BBQ in Memphis.”
Homeless Guy  “I know da place!”
Wild Bill  “So you are indeed homeless, right?”
Homeless Guy  “Ah Hell na!  I’m a pimp.”
Rizzo  “Really?”
Homeless Pimp  “Ya’ll knows it!”
Wild Bill  “I bet you are.”
Me  “Ok, where’s this BBQ joint, we’re starving.”
Homeless Pimp  “Follow me.”

It’s generally frowned upon to follow a Homeless Pimp down a back alley in an unknown area, but we as a group are relying heavily on the “Safety in Numbers” theorem.  After snapping a picture with Homeless Pimp, he leads us to the secret spot.  Apparently it’s customary to tip your Homeless Pimp Tour Guide, so Rizzo pulls a wad of Costa Rican money from his pocket and hands Homeless Pimp a “colón” (a currency far more stable than most other third world currencies; some people are just downright ungrateful.).  He is less than thrilled, so I, fearing that he may in fact bite us, I throw him 2 unstable American dollars and an air high-five.  He departs, leaving us bumvenon-free as we enter Charles Vergo’s Rendezvous.

Day 2 – 12:45pm

I can’t tell if the food here is really good or if I’m just overjoyed because I’m on vacation, but regardless the service is a bit on the fritz.  All of the waiters have massive amounts of street cred and dress like they’re working at Steak n’ Shake sans the doofy little hat.  When it comes to ordering, there’s really only one choice, the full rack of charcoal-broiled pork ribs.  A full rack of ribs combined with several pictures of Miller Lite, now if that’s not a great lunch I don’t know what is.  After catching a buzz and scarfing down a meal which probably took several years off my life, it’s time to take back to the streets.

Once back outside, the phrase “FUCK IT’S COLD” runs through my head again.  I’m not really sure how this came about, but for some reason we find it to be a good idea to go bowling.  I’m fairly certain we were just looking for an indoor activity that served booze.  Nothing beats a good bowling alley bar; allow me to digress for just a moment.

The summer after my freshman year of college was a snoozefest.  Like most stupid 19-year-olds, I thought it’d be great to spend the whole summer with all of my old high school friends again, so I went back home to Clearwater.  Well, the first 2 days were cool, and then everyone went their separate ways, leaving me alone with my parents for 3 months (nothing against my parents, but living with real adults again after having already been living on your own for a year really fucking sucks).  So after re-securing my old high school job as a restaurant cashier, I needed to find a place to drink at night.  Since the city was filled with Hometown Heroes (people who never left), I had to hunt out a secluded bar where I could drink alone and avoid them at all costs.  Looking back at it now, it kind of seems like I was a Hometown Hero at this venture in my life, ironic.  I found a distant bowling alley in Clearwater called AMF Lanes and spent way too much time there (this was actually the 2^nd bowling alley I scoped out, the first one was already littered with Hometown Heroes).  I was like The Dude, except instead of White Russians, I was drinking overpriced pitchers.  One day I decided to actually bowl, and within a month, I had my own ball and shoes, and had joined a league.  The point here?  Bowling is more addictive than meth; back to the story.

We end up walking into an area known as Peabody Place.  Much like Southland Park which we had visited last night, this place also seems to be HIV positive.  It is an extremely dumpy makeshift outdoor mall with a bowling alley underneath.  Somehow this place has the balls to enforce a dress code; I’m guessing it’s just a weak attempt to keep all gang activity to a minimum.  Somehow my sandals and beanie make the cut, and we grab a lane and argue over who’s getting the first pitcher.  Wild Bill, a notorious cheap-ass, also refuses to pay for bowling shoes, so he attempts to bowl via socks; I go barefoot, mainly because I was scared to wear the “loner socks” I was offered.  It’s not long before we cause trouble.  We are drinking in the “undesignated area” and have been spotted by a worried employee.

Worried Employee  “Excuse me, you fellas can’t drink here.”
Wild Bill  “Why, cause we’re not black?  You a racist?”
Worried Employee  “No, there’s no food or drink in this area.”

The area he’s referring to is right by the lane, where the ball return and computer are.  Every bowling alley I’ve been to gets pissy about this; I guess they just don’t want stupid drunk kids spilling booze on the expensive shit, oh well.  Another thing I’ve noticed, all bowling alley employees tend to take themselves and their jobs way too seriously.  So instead of apologizing like a nice, considerate, normal person, Wild Bill decides fight fire with fire.

Wild Bill  “Spilling beer on the floor might up the resale value of this dump.”
Worried Employee  “Sir, please do not drink in this area.”
Wild Bill  “I’ll drink in your sister’s area!”
Worried Employee  “I don’t have a sister, sir.”

After empty threats of kicking us out come our way, I calm Wild Bill and we resume our barefoot bowling as Worried Employee walks away.

Sketch-mo  “That guy was a douche.”
Wild Bill  “Just shut up Sketch-mo.”

We bet a pitcher per round, and after 3 rounds I haven’t spent a dollar.  Unfortunately, my bowling score has an inverse correlation with my BAC; the higher the BAC, the lower the score.  On the 4^th and final game, I am unable to break 100, but Wild Bill does even worse and has to buy the round.  It’s about time to leave the recreational activities behind, and get down to some serious drinking.

Day 2 – 3:30pm

After a very short and very cold walk back to Beale Street, we pop into our first watering hole, Tap Room.  To me, this place is heaven on earth.  I’ve never really been much of a club guy, dive bars are definitely more my thing, and Tap Room is definitely the dive bar of Beale Street.  If a barstool, good conversation, and a selection of about 30 beers on tap sounds good to you, then we are on the same page.  The only thing wrong with this place is that they do not tolerate the use or sales of illegal drugs.  Our bartender is Rob, and he is the man.  He recommends Rogue Dead Guy Ale, so we order a round.  Before I know it, rounds 4 and 5 go down the hatch.  Feeling loopy, Rizzo, Wild Bill, and I continue to chat it up with Rob.

Me  “Yeah, we’re here for the bowl game.  This town seems fucking dead though?”
Rob  “Don’t worry about that, things will be crazy tomorrow night.”
Me  “Right on, well what’s going down tonight?”
Rob  “Oh man, you gotta come back tonight and check out this place.”
Rizzo  “Oh yeah?  Why’s that.”
Rob  “There’s a kick ass band playing.”
Wild Bill  (skeptical as always) “Yeah I bet, what kinda music?”
Rob  “Blues Rock.  They sound like a cross between Ray Charles and Slayer.”

Take a moment to laugh condescendingly.

Rizzo  “Well that’s something I gotta see.”
Rob  “Rock n’ roll brotha!”

Just then, 3 familiar faces stroll into Tap Room; it’s Lora, Elsie, and their friend Casey.  I am thrilled that the UCF population has just about doubled.  Now that we finally have female companionship and no longer look like a bi-curious boy band, it’s time to go from loopy to sloppy.  We decide to break out a mid-day game of quarters to help kick things into high gear.  Spirits are high and smiles are big; after about a 3 hour afternoon stint at Tap Room, we part ways with Rob the bartender and head back outside.

Day 2 – 7:00pm

After 6 hours of competitive drinking, the fun has only just begun.  After stumbling around in the streets, we decide to head back to the hotel so we can put on some warmer gear.  Even after the unsafe levels of liquor consumption, it’s still noticeably cold outside.  I swap out my windbreaker for a hoody, and my sandals for shoes.  In all honesty, there’s really no logical reason for me to go back out in public, but the last time I listened to logical reasoning, I woke up cold and alone in a parking garage in Colorado during a blizzard without a jacket (don’t ask).  We grab a van-style cab and shove 8 bodies into it.  With Memphis presenting no other option, we roll right back to Beale Street.  On a side note, I have not eaten anything since lunch; this will soon lead to my demise.

Day 2 – 9:00pm

After walking up and down Beale, I end up right back at Tap Room (big surprise).  By this point, things are beginning to look a bit fuzzy.  Right as I enter the bar, someone sneaks up behind me and welcomes me back with a giant bear-hug.  Gadzooks, it’s Rob the bartender!

Rob  “Florida!  What’s up brotha!”
Me  “Drunk local!  Livin’ the dream!”

Rob is no longer working, so now he is a patron.  I feel like we have only been separated for about an hour or so, but it appears that somehow he has managed to drink a handle of whiskey during our hiatus.  Rob orders me and the crew a round of shots on the house, he is the man.  After a few more shots, I’m in trouble; allow me to digress for just a moment.

When it comes to drinking, I have something of a tolerance (if you can’t tell).  One time in high school, a buddy and I finished a double power hour (approx 14 beers in a 1 hour time span) and then 2 hours later I passed a field sobriety test (don’t worry I wasn’t driving, the asshole cop was just trying to get me for underage drinking and public intoxication).  That was when I was 16.  However, I do know my vices; beer I can drink for hours upon hours and still remain coherent, but once I start to hit the hard liquor aggressively, lights out.  My freshman year of college I earned the nickname of “The Russian” at a random house party.  I got this name because I got so shit-housed that I was speaking a language which people called Russian because apparently not even I could understand what I was saying.  Because of this, I no longer drink vodka (true story).  So what’s the point?  Well let’s just say thanks to Rob’s hospitality, I won’t be making any friends tonight.

As the night grows later, the group begins to separate.  Wild Bill disappears, and Sketch-mo follows Casey as he continues to try and slip her the sleazy.  Lora and Elsie went to go check out other bars on the street, so it’s Cola, Rizzo, and myself holding strong at Tap Room.  Rob is still partying with us and has some people he would like me to meet.

Rob  “Hey man, come with me, I want you to meet some folks.”

Rizzo and Cola stay behind as I follow Rob to the other side of the bar.  I’ve definitely met some solid groups of characters in my day, but Rob’s “folks” were a whole new breed.  He introduces me to 5 guys sitting at a round table; I felt like I was meeting the cast from True Life I’m a Recreational Killer.  By this point, I’m way too charming (drunk) to fully comprehend what is going on, but the best I can piece together is that this was a biker gang and they were interested in recruiting new members.  Fearing that they would mistake my kindness for weakness, I excuse myself and link back up with Rizzo and Cola in an attempt to stick to our “Safety in Numbers” theorem.  Moments later, I have to go to the bathroom.

Me  “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Cola  “Why are you telling me this?”
Me  “Whatever.”

I stumble off in an unknown direction; allow me to digress for just a moment.

Another one of my character traits (flaws) is my instinctual ability to become a drunken wanderer.  Most people have this friend, the one that just walks to nowhere once they have a high enough BAC.  This doesn’t happen to me as often as it used to, but I have had my fair share of alone adventures.  One time around the beginning of my collegiate career, I was drinking at a local UCF watering hole called Devaney’s.  For some reason, I felt it was the appropriate time for me to leave, and I also decided that I need not tell anyone else of my impromptu departure.  I guess my original plan was to just walk home (which happened to be about 3 miles away), but somewhere in the mix I went the wrong way.  I later had to put in a desperation call to a sleeping Rizzo to come find me.  Unable to put together coherent sentences, I had the clerk at 7 11 clue him in on my whereabouts.  There was another time when I left a tailgate my freshman year and somehow ended up at a random gas station far away from the stadium.  Again I needed the clerk’s assistance to relay my whereabouts to my safe ride, this time it was Cola.  When he finally found me, I was standing in the middle of OBT (an Orlando street with massive amounts of street cred) giving random bystanders the middle finger.  These 2 instances also happened to take place before I stopped drinking vodka.  So what’s the point?  Well, I said I was going to the bathroom, but I failed to mention that it would be at a different bar.

Day 3 – 1:00am (estimate)

I somehow meander my way over to a bar called Silky O’Sullivans.  As I prance around the bar friendless, I decide it’s time for me to impress the bartendress.  First, I impress her by being rich and buying us both shots, next I show her that I am a master linguist by saying “thanks toots” after she rings me up.  From this point forward, I have no memory; the rest is just from pictorial evidence and hearsay.

Rizzo, who appears with a yardstick jagerbomb, and Cola make their way over to Silky’s and I casually throw them a head nod as if my disappearance act had never happened.  Cola listens in as I continue to impress the bartendress.

Me  “So you should come back to my hotel.”

Actual Statement:

Me  “Soo you finde tohopa ridecok wthsche achoehdns tafev!”

Actual Thought:

Me  “I am so smooth.”

I’m not sure why the bartendress isn’t wooed by my courting of her, but now I must reach deep into my bag of tricks.

Me  “You should make out with that other bartendress, and then I’ll kiss both of you.”

Actual Statement:

Me  “Asonsgsv hosnvsoe asbudfgm voosao!”

Actual Thought:

Me  “I hope you’re not focusing on the stream of urine that’s running down my leg.”

Just because I stopped drinking vodka doesn’t mean that other hard liquor can’t do the trick.  This charade goes on for way too long, and instead of stopping me from looking so good, Cola and Rizzo just decide to sit back and enjoy the show.  Cola told me the gist of the conversation was me propositioning 2 bartendresses for a threesome.  He also mentioned that they were not attractive and appeared to be a mother/daughter combo.

Day 3 – 3:30am

One of the best (worst) things about Beale Street is that the bars are open until 5am, although tonight that will not be necessary.  It is clearly time to go home as we attempt to reconvene with the rest of the group.  Wild Bill and the girls appear as if from nowhere, and they are accompanied by Sanford, another UCF champion who has just made it to Memphis.  Once Sketch-mo comes waltzing out of the darkness,  we leave Silky’s and wait for a cab.  While waiting, I find it an appropriate time to enter a questionable diner and demand a slice of pie.  We are no longer on the tourist-friendly Beale Street, but instead we wait on a side street that isn’t exactly in the safest of areas.  Cola drags me out of the diner before I incite some sort of reverse Rodney King riot.  Once we make it back to the hotel, I hit the bed like a sack of bricks.  Once again I wake up missing more than just my dignity.  If I had a nickel for every time I’ve woken up missing something, I’d have like 2 bucks, and that’s about the price of a Tilt; it’s a vicious cycle.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 3