No Brown Liquor
Our adventures together were always destined to turn into puns. Puns that have been shortened from the absurdly and raucously told stories of these adventures. They formed succinct nuggets that encapsulated all that we had experienced in that particular exploit. We had condensed these so perfectly that with just the mention of them, the entire story unfolded in our heads like a Magic Grow sea animal being dropped in water. We had an arsenal of these capsules, ready to be called upon when the mood struck and we were feeling nostalgic-- or had new friends to entertain with our wackadoo shenanigans.
"Hey, remember when you wanted to 'Take Back Sunday'?" I'd say to Shawna. The sub-headline to this story being "No Brown Liquor". And it was brown liquor (in this case, Jack Daniels) that was the driving force of that night's (mis)adventure. For our trip to Rochester to see the band Taking Back Sunday I had offered to be the designated driver, which was not uncommon-- although I didn't really ever mind that much. I enjoyed seeing bands live so much that the point was not to dull my senses and forget half the night, but to relish every moment and detail of what the evening had to offer. Not to say I was opposed to cracking a beer or two, particularly if it eased conversing with some of the band's members.
Along with Shawna, our roommate Erin and I, our friend Mat had also joined us to see the band. I affectionately called him Hot Mat, generally when he was not there to hear me refer to him as Hot Mat. This epithet served two purposes: one reason was to clarify between the seemingly endless line of guys named Matt whom we were acquainted with (Gay Matt, Little Matt, Katie's Matt, Creeper Matt, etc). Telling a story involving a "Matt" often included the following conversation:
"And then Matt showed up--"
"Which Matt?"
"Gas Station Matt."
"Oh, okay."
Its second purpose stemmed from when Mat was only my friend and I would try to reference him to Shawna:
"Mat's really hot, Shawna."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Über geek hot. Like a long lost member of At the Drive-In. But really hot."
"Ooh."
Mat was a shining example of the kind of guy who could get our panties in a bind. Tall, slender with black frame glasses and lots of curly hair. And very funny. He made me laugh hysterically every single day. It was oddly special when it was just me and Mat, before I shared him with my friends and they eventually took over. Although I cannot blame them for wanting to be close to him; his immediate ease with people was hypnotic. Still, I miss that brief time when I had to describe Mat to my friends using mainly one superlative coupled with quirky private jokes and lame internet drawings of his black frame glasses:
---[_]-[_]--- (I assure you, at the time this was hilarious. Mainly to me.)
I think I should blame Mat for the horrid idea of bringing Jack Daniels with us to pregame in the car, but I don't recall whose bright idea it was. I lean towards Mat because Shawna and I attended countless shows for years prior to this and never thought to bring liquor. We had bought cases of beer for bands or drank beer given to us by bands, but liquor was a rarity on show nights. Probably because of the vast price difference between a can of Milwaukee's Best and a mixed drink. Especially if that can was purchased at a Hess gas station on the way to the show and came in a easy-to-carry 24 pack. Pregaming in the car prior to heading into the venue generally involved bombing cans of PBR more often than drinking from a thermos filled with JD.
In this case, the drinking had started before I had even arrived in Rochester. By the time I parked on the bridge on Andrews St, my companions had definitely achieved full-on tipsy status. Once inside Water Street Music Hall, all hell broke loose. Everyone made a beeline for the bar. I have no idea if it would have worked, but cutting them off at this point would have been a sound idea. Not to worry though, the bartender eventually did that for me-- a half an hour after we arrived.
Security and I became well-acquainted as I somehow convinced them repeatedly not to remove Erin. While I was tending to her, Shawna was busy needling Mat incessantly. At this time, the two were in a not-easily-defined friends with exclusive benefits pairing. The kind of pairing that involves a lot of sex, spending the night at each others' homes, politely not screwing anyone else, but awkwardly avoiding the "you're my girlfriend/boyfriend" conversation. An excessively drunk Shawna plus boyfriend or boy-of-the-moment often meant an argument that no one could figure out how it started. Including Shawna.
Mat effectively annoyed Shawna by clamming up; I was trying to stop Erin from giving full body hugs to strangers. Her advanced height (6' to my 5'3") did not aid this process. After prying her arms off of bemused and alarmed concert-goers, my next task was to try and prevent her from lying underneath the bar and wrapping her limbs around the foot rail. This went on for quite some time. I am unsure if my smooth verbal skills allowed us to stay or the subtle flexing of my cleavage. In hindsight, I am sure I would have preferred us to be removed.
The band headlining that night was a band that I have a particular distaste for (putting it mildly). I had been subjected to them multiple times without choice and was delighted that I was able to take advantage of their playing last and leave once Taking Back Sunday had finished. I had instructed Shawna, Erin and Mat that they were to meet me as soon as that band was done playing. How naive I was. When TBS started playing, Shawna had wandered off to stage left and Mat stood in the back alone, thoroughly aggravated by this time. Erin's alcohol consumption had reached the "this doesn't feel good" stage and I left her leaning against the bar trying to hold herself upright-- something I had been doing for her for the previous hour.
I feel like I am a patient, flexible friend. I decided I had done my duty for the time being and that I was going to go and enjoy the band while they played. I stuffed my glasses in my jeans pocket and followed them with my cell phone. I never saw one of my friends during the entire set. When they had finished, I headed toward our meeting spot. I am alone at this spot long enough to set my teeth on edge. Mat is the first brave soul to find me. Erin stumbles toward us twenty minutes later. Turns out she couldn't stand very well when I was there, but mustered the strength to jump into the pit. Cue my irritation level rising. Shawna is still nowhere to be found, Erin is too drunk to communicate with, Mat is sulking and refuses to go look for Shawna. And we've reached my rage-filled search in a dark music venue for my drunk best friend with one of my least favorite bands as the soundtrack, stunted relentlessly by countless morons who enjoy said band and are preventing me from any real progress.
The search was even more futile as my glasses had magically worked themselves out of my pocket and had vanished-- leaving only my cell phone. To this day I am unaware of what dark voodoo allowed this to happen. (The same voodoo that removed the underwire from one side of my bra in the dryer, despite not finding one single spot with a hole or missing stitches. That's just spooky.) As I continue searching for Shawna-- disturbingly sober, with blurred vision and pornographically angry-- I am forced to continually check back in with the other delinquents to make sure they did not disperse and find out if Shawna had returned. This is where I entered disciplinarian mode, speaking to my friends as if they were preschoolers:
"Erin. Erin. Erin. ERIN. Stand up. Erin. Mat, can you--? ERIN. No, you have to stay here while I look for Shawna. No. Nooo. Erin. Mat, are you listening to me? Mat!"
Filled with that much Jack Daniels, that was the only way to speak to them.
When the prodigal best friend finally reared her head, I refer you to Madeline Kahn's Mrs. White to fully describe my fury. Flames might as well have been coming off my head. Smashed out of her gourd, Shawna was absolutely clueless as to what I was upset about. I marched them out of the venue and barked at them to follow me immediately, speaking in clipped words through gritted teeth, while speed-walking down the street in what can only be described as "the pissy walk". Much to my eyes' dismay, it was now raining. A fitting but unwelcome accent to my next adventure of driving three disgustingly inebriated people an hour and half home. At night. Without my vision-correcting lenses. Also attempting to see through that screen of red I had been seeing for the last 2 hours.
After we pulled out on the road, the conversation between me and Shawna went like this:
"Why... why... wait, are you mad?"
"..."
"Hey... I found John (TBS guitarist). It took me a long time to find him, but I found him."
"..."
"Why... mad?"
"I would probably stop talking if I were you. The rest of the way home."
"Oh god, I'm so dru--"
*blasts radio volume*
When we reached Mat's house, Shawna insisted on getting out there. Erin slept the rest of the way back to our house, which I was grateful for. The following day was Monday and I had to work, which was probably for the best for everyone. I went from boiling to simmering away from the house, while Shawna tried to figure out why I was angry. She tried to call me at work and I refused to take the phone call. She called me two more times and the third time I gave in just to make her stop calling.
"What do you need?"
"Why are you angry? I don't remember what happened last night."
"Oh, I remember."
"What did I do?"
"I'm not going to talk about it at work, Shawna. Stop calling."
"Will you talk to me when you get home?"
"Maybe."
Of course, I did talk to her when I got home. A day later and away from everyone, I had mostly let it go. They had the convenient excuse of being blind drunk, after all. Shawna was sheepish and I could tell that she realized what had happened-- Mat had filled her in. Our conversation was brief, but mending. It would be how we managed to get through any rough spots. Like when we argued on Route 1 from NYC to Philly in bumper-to-bumper traffic over the opportune time to get food. We spent a week in a red tin can on wheels eating only Saltines and an over-sized Pepperidge Farm meat stick, splitting a bottle of water three ways per day (plus showering and shitting was a scarce opportunity). We lived solely on free ground beef from her farmer stepfather for months, cooked up w/ various condiments and eaten out of a bowl because we had nothing else. We scraped change off the floor of our cars or wrote post-dated checks to get gas. We made it through all of this with our horrible, punny humor.
When I came home from work, I went into Shawna's room and sat on the bed with her. She told me she was sorry and I nodded. We sat quiet for a minute, still feeling a little leftover tension. Then she said:
"Boy, I wish I could take back Sunday."
And that was all she needed to say. After we laughed about our new-found pun and the ironic convenience of the band name meshing with the night we saw them, it later became one of our favorite puns.
I then informed her that she was not allowed to drink brown liquor ever again.
"Hey, remember when you wanted to 'Take Back Sunday'?" I'd say to Shawna. The sub-headline to this story being "No Brown Liquor". And it was brown liquor (in this case, Jack Daniels) that was the driving force of that night's (mis)adventure. For our trip to Rochester to see the band Taking Back Sunday I had offered to be the designated driver, which was not uncommon-- although I didn't really ever mind that much. I enjoyed seeing bands live so much that the point was not to dull my senses and forget half the night, but to relish every moment and detail of what the evening had to offer. Not to say I was opposed to cracking a beer or two, particularly if it eased conversing with some of the band's members.
Along with Shawna, our roommate Erin and I, our friend Mat had also joined us to see the band. I affectionately called him Hot Mat, generally when he was not there to hear me refer to him as Hot Mat. This epithet served two purposes: one reason was to clarify between the seemingly endless line of guys named Matt whom we were acquainted with (Gay Matt, Little Matt, Katie's Matt, Creeper Matt, etc). Telling a story involving a "Matt" often included the following conversation:
"And then Matt showed up--"
"Which Matt?"
"Gas Station Matt."
"Oh, okay."
Its second purpose stemmed from when Mat was only my friend and I would try to reference him to Shawna:
"Mat's really hot, Shawna."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Über geek hot. Like a long lost member of At the Drive-In. But really hot."
"Ooh."
Mat was a shining example of the kind of guy who could get our panties in a bind. Tall, slender with black frame glasses and lots of curly hair. And very funny. He made me laugh hysterically every single day. It was oddly special when it was just me and Mat, before I shared him with my friends and they eventually took over. Although I cannot blame them for wanting to be close to him; his immediate ease with people was hypnotic. Still, I miss that brief time when I had to describe Mat to my friends using mainly one superlative coupled with quirky private jokes and lame internet drawings of his black frame glasses:
---[_]-[_]--- (I assure you, at the time this was hilarious. Mainly to me.)
I think I should blame Mat for the horrid idea of bringing Jack Daniels with us to pregame in the car, but I don't recall whose bright idea it was. I lean towards Mat because Shawna and I attended countless shows for years prior to this and never thought to bring liquor. We had bought cases of beer for bands or drank beer given to us by bands, but liquor was a rarity on show nights. Probably because of the vast price difference between a can of Milwaukee's Best and a mixed drink. Especially if that can was purchased at a Hess gas station on the way to the show and came in a easy-to-carry 24 pack. Pregaming in the car prior to heading into the venue generally involved bombing cans of PBR more often than drinking from a thermos filled with JD.
In this case, the drinking had started before I had even arrived in Rochester. By the time I parked on the bridge on Andrews St, my companions had definitely achieved full-on tipsy status. Once inside Water Street Music Hall, all hell broke loose. Everyone made a beeline for the bar. I have no idea if it would have worked, but cutting them off at this point would have been a sound idea. Not to worry though, the bartender eventually did that for me-- a half an hour after we arrived.
Security and I became well-acquainted as I somehow convinced them repeatedly not to remove Erin. While I was tending to her, Shawna was busy needling Mat incessantly. At this time, the two were in a not-easily-defined friends with exclusive benefits pairing. The kind of pairing that involves a lot of sex, spending the night at each others' homes, politely not screwing anyone else, but awkwardly avoiding the "you're my girlfriend/boyfriend" conversation. An excessively drunk Shawna plus boyfriend or boy-of-the-moment often meant an argument that no one could figure out how it started. Including Shawna.
Mat effectively annoyed Shawna by clamming up; I was trying to stop Erin from giving full body hugs to strangers. Her advanced height (6' to my 5'3") did not aid this process. After prying her arms off of bemused and alarmed concert-goers, my next task was to try and prevent her from lying underneath the bar and wrapping her limbs around the foot rail. This went on for quite some time. I am unsure if my smooth verbal skills allowed us to stay or the subtle flexing of my cleavage. In hindsight, I am sure I would have preferred us to be removed.
The band headlining that night was a band that I have a particular distaste for (putting it mildly). I had been subjected to them multiple times without choice and was delighted that I was able to take advantage of their playing last and leave once Taking Back Sunday had finished. I had instructed Shawna, Erin and Mat that they were to meet me as soon as that band was done playing. How naive I was. When TBS started playing, Shawna had wandered off to stage left and Mat stood in the back alone, thoroughly aggravated by this time. Erin's alcohol consumption had reached the "this doesn't feel good" stage and I left her leaning against the bar trying to hold herself upright-- something I had been doing for her for the previous hour.
I feel like I am a patient, flexible friend. I decided I had done my duty for the time being and that I was going to go and enjoy the band while they played. I stuffed my glasses in my jeans pocket and followed them with my cell phone. I never saw one of my friends during the entire set. When they had finished, I headed toward our meeting spot. I am alone at this spot long enough to set my teeth on edge. Mat is the first brave soul to find me. Erin stumbles toward us twenty minutes later. Turns out she couldn't stand very well when I was there, but mustered the strength to jump into the pit. Cue my irritation level rising. Shawna is still nowhere to be found, Erin is too drunk to communicate with, Mat is sulking and refuses to go look for Shawna. And we've reached my rage-filled search in a dark music venue for my drunk best friend with one of my least favorite bands as the soundtrack, stunted relentlessly by countless morons who enjoy said band and are preventing me from any real progress.
The search was even more futile as my glasses had magically worked themselves out of my pocket and had vanished-- leaving only my cell phone. To this day I am unaware of what dark voodoo allowed this to happen. (The same voodoo that removed the underwire from one side of my bra in the dryer, despite not finding one single spot with a hole or missing stitches. That's just spooky.) As I continue searching for Shawna-- disturbingly sober, with blurred vision and pornographically angry-- I am forced to continually check back in with the other delinquents to make sure they did not disperse and find out if Shawna had returned. This is where I entered disciplinarian mode, speaking to my friends as if they were preschoolers:
"Erin. Erin. Erin. ERIN. Stand up. Erin. Mat, can you--? ERIN. No, you have to stay here while I look for Shawna. No. Nooo. Erin. Mat, are you listening to me? Mat!"
Filled with that much Jack Daniels, that was the only way to speak to them.
When the prodigal best friend finally reared her head, I refer you to Madeline Kahn's Mrs. White to fully describe my fury. Flames might as well have been coming off my head. Smashed out of her gourd, Shawna was absolutely clueless as to what I was upset about. I marched them out of the venue and barked at them to follow me immediately, speaking in clipped words through gritted teeth, while speed-walking down the street in what can only be described as "the pissy walk". Much to my eyes' dismay, it was now raining. A fitting but unwelcome accent to my next adventure of driving three disgustingly inebriated people an hour and half home. At night. Without my vision-correcting lenses. Also attempting to see through that screen of red I had been seeing for the last 2 hours.
After we pulled out on the road, the conversation between me and Shawna went like this:
"Why... why... wait, are you mad?"
"..."
"Hey... I found John (TBS guitarist). It took me a long time to find him, but I found him."
"..."
"Why... mad?"
"I would probably stop talking if I were you. The rest of the way home."
"Oh god, I'm so dru--"
*blasts radio volume*
When we reached Mat's house, Shawna insisted on getting out there. Erin slept the rest of the way back to our house, which I was grateful for. The following day was Monday and I had to work, which was probably for the best for everyone. I went from boiling to simmering away from the house, while Shawna tried to figure out why I was angry. She tried to call me at work and I refused to take the phone call. She called me two more times and the third time I gave in just to make her stop calling.
"What do you need?"
"Why are you angry? I don't remember what happened last night."
"Oh, I remember."
"What did I do?"
"I'm not going to talk about it at work, Shawna. Stop calling."
"Will you talk to me when you get home?"
"Maybe."
Of course, I did talk to her when I got home. A day later and away from everyone, I had mostly let it go. They had the convenient excuse of being blind drunk, after all. Shawna was sheepish and I could tell that she realized what had happened-- Mat had filled her in. Our conversation was brief, but mending. It would be how we managed to get through any rough spots. Like when we argued on Route 1 from NYC to Philly in bumper-to-bumper traffic over the opportune time to get food. We spent a week in a red tin can on wheels eating only Saltines and an over-sized Pepperidge Farm meat stick, splitting a bottle of water three ways per day (plus showering and shitting was a scarce opportunity). We lived solely on free ground beef from her farmer stepfather for months, cooked up w/ various condiments and eaten out of a bowl because we had nothing else. We scraped change off the floor of our cars or wrote post-dated checks to get gas. We made it through all of this with our horrible, punny humor.
When I came home from work, I went into Shawna's room and sat on the bed with her. She told me she was sorry and I nodded. We sat quiet for a minute, still feeling a little leftover tension. Then she said:
"Boy, I wish I could take back Sunday."
And that was all she needed to say. After we laughed about our new-found pun and the ironic convenience of the band name meshing with the night we saw them, it later became one of our favorite puns.
I then informed her that she was not allowed to drink brown liquor ever again.