shitona stick
The 2nd Annual PGA Pub Crawl
27/08/1999
What a crew. These kids love to drink. This year's event topped last year's turnout by a solid margin, with over 60 participants. Fresh, Ron, Danielle, Cristina, Bon, Mike & I decide to rest up and stay in for a slow Friday night at the Liquordome, ordering in and watching movies. Well, the six of us order enough Thai (You Thai? Me Thai too!) food for two, don't finish it, but do manage to polish off a 12 of Molson Ice and nearly 1.5 liters of vodka while giggling to the Cute, Dumb, Well-Dressed, and Sassy double feature of "Clueless" and "Romy & Michelle's High School Reunion," followed by hard core porn 'til 3AM-- so we feel just fuckin' fine in the morning when Trent, Eric, Darren, et al show up for breakfast. (Nice work with the omelets and Caesars, DEF. And thanks for the yummy pills.). As we did last year, we bag the practice hole (we don't need practice) at McSorley's and head for Bleecker where we meet up with Craven and a solid pack of early starters where Ray and Karen are awarded an impressive 8-under first-hole score for making it to the practice hole, downing 3 pints, and picking up the tab. Ron shows up fresh from GNC with a groovy new bottle of Ma Huang. A surprise visit from PJ and Maxine (not Red) and one really shitty Bloody Mary later, Ungie unleashes his bullhorn of a voice and pushes the crowd out into the rain toward 288 (a.k.a. Tom & Jerry's) on Elizabeth St.-- but not before Mike bags for a power nap at Ron's. At 288, the LBD tells Jo-the-owner that our buddy, Adam-the-bouncer, had asked us to come. By this point we're at least 45-strong, with Nicki, Luce-uh, & the Brits in full effect. The staff at 288 keeps up with this swell in demand rather well and the sub-par scores start to rack up as many of the crew partake of double shots of Tequila, Jagermeister, and Kamikazes. Ted's suckin' back Kurants on the rocks, I switch to beer, then back to a couple of Chronics, and Vlad can't keep his hands off Jo's pussy (well, at least one of them). The scores plunge. Watch out. We trek en masse to Swift's on 4th, (passing the sacred spot where the hobo was pleasuring himself last year) and where we instantly overwhelm the bartender, killing buzzes left and right. A rush and a push into the back room and up to the Pulpit, where Craven and DEF, our esteemed judges decree that public nudity only counts for females and they generously offer extra strokes off for any body piercings or tattoos obtained by contestants during the course of the day as well as 3 strokes off for anyone who dares to attempt the Stuntman Shot of tequila (snort the salt, do the shot, squeeze the lemon in your eyeball), this new custom evidently being all the rage in New Zealand. Ron and the Canadians (Trent, Eric, Darren) do 4 apiece. Impressive, no? Ungie bares his keester and loses his scorecard. Mark Baker arrives from Chicago. Mike returns. The crowd recognizes the reigning champions, Ted & Totten (didn't we do that at 288 too?). A fiercely competitive Ungie attempts to keep up with Tonya's impressive alcohol consumption, but cannot. Nicki holds court with a bumper crop of Brits at the table royale. And the jokes begin. We're still on last year's course as we advance to our first double hole, Black Star Lounge on 2nd, where we're delighted to find Amy and Scott already a-drinkin'. I switch to trés façionable DKs (Stoli Orange & Tonic), but am soon seduced by the yellow Boddington's tap handle and then slide effortlessly back into Chronics. Nicki & I play a piss-fuckin'-miserable game of pool against Hoover and Alissa - we're all too smashed to sink anything. We lose. Marny and Frank are working the bar and remember the night that Ron and DEF lost their jackets and DEF eventually got his cellphone back. "What petty drama will these two characters create for themselves today?," they seem to think as they issue cheap drinks to the suddenly crammed lounge. They appear mildly amused by our mid-day drunkenness, dutifully reciting the specials each time I inquire. Ungie loses his scorecard again and Ron still hasn't burned anyone so we think we're doing OK, all things considered. We reconverge at Ray's mediocre pizza on Houston. A creature of tradition, I opt for takeout pastrami and pickles from Katz's, next door. Craven graciously awards me two strokes off for being the only one with a bodega beer (another Boddington's) at dinner. (And just because I'm recounting my own drinks in excruciating detail, don't presume I was the most wrecked - I wasn't -- by a long shot, bitch.) Never (on Houston) is quite closed so we hit Motor City (on Ludlow) for an impromptu double hole, where Ron, Rich, Tonya, and Trent return brimming with fresh piercings to much adulation and 6 strokes off each. Bitchy move. DEF hands me a yummy Vernor's. We play silly drinking games at the Brits' table. After a little confusion, we find Swim (on Orchard) where the upstairs is closed and we truly overwhelm the tiny place. Nicki & the Brits, among others, stay overtime and order a couple of boats of sushi. I remember not much else. Back on the traditional route, we converge at the final hole: River Town Lounge (on Orchard) where we find a sober Val, fresh from babysitting, and where the officials are finally getting as sauced as the competitors. Utterly ignoring my brilliant, lucid strategic plan to take the back room while it was completely fuckin' empty, DEF proclaims to me (45 minutes into the hole) "you know we don't need the fuckin' cards to decide who wins. I can't deal with adding up all those fuckin' scores. I'll just pick the winners." I persuade him that this has been billed as a highly quantitative event, with rather explicit rules and richly contested rulings, and that that plan just won't cut it so he and Craven get all the cards and do what IRI boys do best, eyeball the figures and make shit up. We attempt to cram the entire crew into the now-packed back room for the awards ceremony. The Champions: Unlike any other event in the history of sport, Craven announces the top winner first, robbing the crowd of any level of suspense or sustained interest through the rest of the awards ceremony in the darkest part of the loud, crowded room. Doug announces the rest, but no one can hear him; nor do they seem to care. Ungie is long gone and his voice was shot anyway. The announced winners are: 1st Ron. 2nd Ray. 3rd Trent. Ron also gets the Obnoxious Award and the "I Am Learning To Share" Award. Totten gets the "I Am A Good Listener" Award, however, it probably should have gone to Rich as he was having trouble talking with his new tongue stud. Hoover gets the Messy Drunk Award (Clean Hands And Face Ribbon and a Medical Kit). I wind up with this ribbon within minutes. Upon review, Ron should NOT have won (as Ron told me repeatedly during the night. "I'm not even fuckin' drunk.") as Trent was 6 drinks ahead of him at Motor City. The final standings are Trent, Ray, and Ron, pulling up the rear, in third. The corrective ceremony will be held at next year's event, which means that Trent has to return from Victoria, BC, and Ron has to live that long. We're confident that Ray will be there early, at the practice hole, shaming us all. Ceremony over, the alcohol is beginning to take its toll, yet I can't bring myself to eat the second half of my Katz's pastrami and pickles, which have been tied to my belt for several hours. Ron takes off for Hoboken of all places and the rest of us emerge into the front room of River Town where we find Whelan with his hard-drinkin', Red-smokin' crew in tow. Whelan and I, as is our custom when he makes that little head nod and hand gesture and utters, "so, Ken, you mind if I…", trade Green for Red and the first drag burns like hell. Many drinks ensue and we eventually team up in cabs and head North to, where else, Siberia. We call Nicki at least twice en route, but she and the bumper Brits are watching snuff films and quaffing Muscatel at home in their bunny slippers at this point. At Siberia (on 50th), Tracy nearly busts my ribs with a bear hug for the second time in 3 nights. I switch to club soda, then another, then back to Chronics. I am a bit better from the soda. Val is in very, very good shape through all of this and her right side is smelling very good, though she seems miffed that her wrist is utterly scent-free. I begin to think that perhaps I should have started at the last hole too. I refuse to allow us to stand in the back room with that shitty music so we go hang up front by the good juke box. Will is there. DEF is there, fully lit. Rich is mumbiling some shit with that thing in his tongue and I'm devilishly trying to talk him into doing shots. We can't locate Hoover, who is up to no good, no doubt. Whelan, Ted, and the crew knock back more strong, strong, no-mixer cocktails. We're there for a good couple of hours. We keep getting free Chronics, which is a bad thing at this point. Doug orders water and Aaron pours him a Chronic to go with it, gratis. As our crew dwindles precipitously, Ron triumphantly returns from across the mighty Hudson to see who's left standing. DEF dazedly wanders away without saying anything to anyone. Ron & I hang out on the couch for while. I've lost the lighter. We look for it. Ron's talkin' some late night drunken macho bullshit, then leaves. I ask Tracy to keep an eye out for the lighter. Tracy turns off the music and makes an announcement about the lighter, extemporaneously concocting some tale about it being a grandmother's heirloom. I'm the last one from the pub crawl crew there. I wander out into Times Square and traipse back to the Liquordome, down 48th. The couches are full of drunks and I crash on the floor, with Twin Peaks at full volume on the TV and amplified by the massive stereo. I am relieved to know that there are no roaches there and I dream of the lighter. I awake to find that some of the drunks have gone, while others have returned. I am relieved to see that Hoover, who wonders aloud where he got this stupid medical kit, has not spent the night on a park bench. I'm even more relieved to find the lighter on the table. It came back to the Liquordome, its second home, (with someone, presumably) but no one remembers. It wasn't me. The crawl is complete. Endnotes: Kudos to the travelers: Mark Baker from Chicago, Melissa and Jen from Boston, Trent and Darren from Victoria and Vancouver. And Mike doesn't count. And shame shame shame on those who DIDN'T show: Youthful Billy Staikos, Peter Bond, Adam Ginsberg, Jason Fisher, Ron Wetclow, You, Aimee Ferreira, Greg Mandel, Danielle Staples, Jilly McManus, Lydia Gobena, Fran Ilchert, Suzi Craig, Steve Elkind, Jose Minaya, Jim Barkat, Cristina Callegari, G$, Phil, Astrid, Jim, Kelli, Heidi Ewing, JenMoc, Steph Isherwood, Q., Fin, Al, the BF and the girls, and the elusive DeAngelos.
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