Our White Russian Lady

Last night, as you might have seen, I had posted that I was too drunk to write. I think I also made a comment about Anthony Bourdain. I want to take this time to say that I love Anthony Bourdain and his show (all one episode I’ve seen). I actually know him more for judging people’s cooking on America's Next Top Chef. I really want to stress the fact that I do not want to fuck that guy... No matter how well he has aged.

Anytime I drink vodka I tend to think about one of my more excruciating tails of the dance with Our Russian Lady. I was 16...

It's Friday night. My friend Wes and I had taken a bottle of Aristocrat Vodka ($15 a handle, that's quality) off of one of our friend's hands for the night. I think his name was Pete... or was it Patrick? I can't remember. Honestly he was one of those kids that you weren't really friends with, you just used them to get liquor, because they would steal it from their dads or older brothers (wow I sound like a dick). So we've got this handle and we’re driving in Wesley's champagne colored Camry down W. Tharpe St. in Tallahassee, FL. We're passing the bottle back and forth taking three chugs a piece. What is a chug? A chug is a unit of measure that is equivalent to the formation of several bubbles that float to the top of an upturned bottle, as a result of you in taking large gulps of any liquid. How we never got pulled over or died is a fucking miracle.

So we finally arrive at my friend Jeff's house. Jeff's mom was out for the night I think. Jeff also had just obtained probably one of the shittiest drum kits I have ever seen in my entire life. The snare wires were loose and couldn't be tightened to any satisfactory extent. The toms were heavily bruised and I think one of them had tape on it. This being said, it was the only drum set we knew of that we could literally beat the shit out of and not care, so we took advantage.

Wes and I had brought our guitars from home. His was a blue Ibanez SV Prestige. Mine was a white Ibanez P-O-S (I love that guitar though).

By the time we arrived at Jeff's house the bottle was a third gone and we were three sheets a piece. What was Jeff's only option? If you said try to drink a second third straight from the bottle in one eighth the time that we had, then you were right! Fast forward an hour and we are complete belligerent. I'm playing the drums, Wes is playing grudged out versions of some Rage Against the Machines riff, and Jeff has his shirt tied to his head and fulfilling the part of lead singer. Well, if you consider screaming things like "CHRIS ON THE DRUUUMS!!"; "WES ON THE GUITAAAR!"; "I'VE GOT A BOOONEER!!!" to be singing.

In all honesty this was probably some of the most fun I’d ever had while intoxicated. I can't explain why but it just simply was. Maybe it's the fact that we were all blitzkrieged and didn't have a care in the world. Maybe because I couldn't feel the redness in my face after playing drums for nearly an hour. Maybe Jeff's slurred screaming was having a more soothingly chaotic effect on me. The reverberations from the noise (because what else are you going to call it) had actually pulsed me into tranquility. I was in a place where your ability was not frowned at because your lack of coordination and talent gave you an excuse. Well, before I could accurately grasp the concept, for which I was drunkenly searching, we were interrupted.

Turns out Jeff's mom hadn't planned on being out all night, which would have been apparent if Jeff hadn't failed to mention that she was merely out on a date. I've never ran out of a house so fast. My shadow couldn't keep up and subsequently got its ass kicked by Jeff's mom.

So after a long drive home - it's midnight at this point - I get to my front door. It's locked, great! I knock. The door opens. It's my stepmother Amy. She greets me with a you don't have the damn keys. I reply with a big vodka drenched hug and a "SHHHH it's shokay! Don't slurrie about mae!"

I got to my room and proceeded to fall into my bed and spin out of existence. Or so I thought. I woke up the next morning feeling it. The acid in my throat that let me know what had happened shortly followed by the smell. I look at my carpeted floor. Chunks... that's all I'm going to say. I try to clean it up. I sprayed it with carpet cleaner. I covered it with a towel. I got up most of the solid stuff up and washed out most everything else. Then I realized to my horror that it was Saturday, which meant I had to mow the lawn. FUUUCK!!! I had no choice. I got dressed, went outside, and started that damn mower.

About an hour-thirty into my chore my dad stops me.
"What did you drink last night?"
"Vodka"
"Damn, that's fucked son!"
"Yeah"
"I would kick your ass, but you already look like death and you are mowing the lawn solo"
"Thanks"
"You still have to clean that shit off your floor"
"Yeah"

That story is only surpassed by the Pre-Graduation Party Drunk Dial Fiasco of 2006. I'll save that for another time...