Me, giving you a flavor of this Tucson trip, in one of the douchiest photos I've ever taken.

Me, giving you a flavor of this Tucson trip, in one of the douchiest photos I’ve ever taken.

You know when you’re dreaming, and you realize you’re dreaming, but there’s nothing you can do about it and continue to act like however your dream requires you to act?

Ever been so drunk, you realize you’re drunk, but there’s nothing you can do about it and continue to act like however that drunkenness requires you to act? It’s sort of like being shitfaced with director’s commentary running through your brain.

This is one such story.

In March of 2009, Kristin, Jason and I took a trip to Tucson to visit our friend Jamie who lived in a shithole suburb just outside the city. It was the type of suburb that when you drive into it, all the energy and lifeforce immediately drains from your face and you feel the weight of creeping oppression on you as you survey the barren landscape of half-assed big box stores and miserable chain restaurants nestled in the tract housing and relentless desert hellscape.

So needless to say, we were all ready to drink our faces off that weekend. My parents have a condo in North Tucson, and we planned a weekend of testing out drinking products on the patio (such as the Flabongo, pictured, once again, with me at my douchiest), Rockies Spring Training games, and not much else.

We succeeded and proceeded to drink our faces off all trip.

On one of the nights, Kristin’s friend Grant, who is really more like a cousin given their families’ long, intertwined histories together, suggested we meet one night at NoRTH, an upscale Italian restaurant in the Cougar part of town. I’ve been in some Cougarvilles in my day, and this area might be the Cougariest of all. If you’re young, rich, hung, or some attractive combination of the 3, you’re almost certain to be going home with a divorcee for a night of ogling plastic surgery scars and expensive alimony-funded pinot grigio on top of hot, hot May-December skrumping.

So we caught up, had some overpriced beers on the patio, and were ready to call it a night. Unfortunately for Jason, he was more than ready, as stomach trouble came upon him like American soldiers taking down the Germans at the Battle of Trenton during the Revolutionary War (they can’t all be boner references, gang). Kristin, being the most sober of us all, drove Jason back to the condo while Jamie and I continued to pound beers with Grant.

Grant grew bored of watching the weird fuck dance between douche bags with (presumably) ribcage tattoos and over-Botoxed future trophy wives, so he suggested we adjourn elsewhere. Being in no position to argue, Jamie and I went along as I, in a remarkably inebriated state, called my wife to relay where we were headed.

“Y’know that road, uhhh… Campbell? It’s like off of that, but south of where we were… Like, not to the river, but then you go, uhhh… right. I think. Hold on. What’s it called again?”

They were the worst directions I’ve ever given in my entire life. Remarkably, Kristin found us. When she did, Grant had called an army of friends who knew Kristin, and they all showed up, appearing as if from nowhere like ninjas. I sat at the table staring down my beer alarmed at my increasingly drunken state.

I retreated to the bathroom, and as I finished emptying my absurdly loaded bladder, I gave myself a pep talk in the mirror. “Ok. You’re drunk. But you can pull it together. It’s not that late. If you finish your beer outside, chug a few waters, maybe smoke a cigarette, and head to bed in a reasonable amount of time, you’ll be fine tomorrow. Good talk. I’ll see ya’ out there.”

I returned to the table full of determination to rewind some of my drunkenness and end the night without the inevitable hangover facing me the next morning. When I returned to the table, there sat Grant, and in front of him, his new friend, Jager shot.

“Here you go, dude!”

“Hell yeah!” I said, tossing my pep talk, and common sense out the window, as the frosty anise-and-root-beer flavored regretmaker slid down my throat.


I stood outside with Jamie smoking a cigarette that wasn’t mine. “I’m REAL fuckin’ drunk, dude” I declared to Jamie. “Me too,” he said, which assured me I wasn’t alone in the universe. It was time to go, and I’m sure we said goodbye, which, knowing these families, probably took


As we rode home in the car, Jason had the foresight to bring CDs for the rental car. We listened to his ultimate Bouncing Souls mix, cleverly titled “Total B.S,” and I had surprising mental acuity as I listened to it. I still remember my train of thought as one song segued weirdly into the next.

“This is an unusual mix. Were I to endeavor to make such a mix using the vast catalog of this band’s songs, I am not certain I would choose these selections. And furthermore, were I to choose these cuts, I do not believe I would assemble them in this order. It’s noteworthy that a finite data set can yield such disparate results despite my friend’s and my similar tastes. These are interesting thoughts and I should share them with the group, which I will do thusly…


What???” said Kristin, as I slapped both hands over my mouth, aghast at the Cro-Magnon level drunken grunt that emanated from my foodhole.

“Nuh-uh,” I forced out from behind my hands as I knew no words were to be forthcoming.

“And I think we’re done talking tonight. Good job, drunky.”

We rode the rest of the way in silence as I contemplated my intoxication. I ruminated over how great it was going to be to drink that blue Powerade Jamie had bought yesterday before I fell asleep. That’ll save me, I thought.

We arrived home, I swiped it from the fridge, took off my t-shirt and shorts, plopped on the bed and Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz……

I woke up the next morning with the cap of the Powerade off, and one sip gone from its body. I felt like death.

Thankfully I wasn’t alone as Jamie had also fallen out of a dog’s ass that night.

Happy Friday to you. Be careful this weekend.

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