Thursday, July 22, 2004
My own publicly drunken Idaho
I'm just recovering from a sprint of a trip I took to the beautiful Treasure Valley in Idaho to visit JoeJa this weekend (and by weekend, of course, I mean Sunday to Tuesday). After leaving the damp, rank climate that is summer in south Louisiana, I stepped off the plane in Boise greeted by a convertible driven by a Frenchman with Steve-o in the back holding up a large sign that read "Welcome Back From Israel Rabbi Druzin," with a large Star of David inlaid with the outline of Idaho. As I learned this trip, the Aryan Nation has, sadly, had to move out of Idaho due to financial trouble, but somehow I still felt like a target under a sign that read, "Until Jerusalem, there is Boise."
Being the efficiency expert that he is, Joe had the car packed for a float and we went directly from the airport to the Boise River to drunkenly enjoy nature. Our flotilla included Joe's roommate, Guilhem (who will be referred to simply as "The Frog" in future references) by himself in a punctured raft refusing to drink PBR because he only drinks cider, wine and breast milk, and a raft made to carry three malnourished toddlers crammed with me, Joe, Steve and Amber, who, half-drunk and with just half a paddle, managed to rescue us from disaster several times while I kicked back, drank and got sunburned.
The water was cold, the weather was overcast, we were ill-prepared and it was awesome.
Following our harrowing riparian adventure we got down to the real business of the day: getting utterly pissed. And what's the quickest and most fun way to do that short of a tequila bong? Beer die.
After an appropriately western dinner of Buffalo burgers and beer we set up the table and introduced Boise to the unquestioned champion of drinking games. The first game lasted an hour and a half and each player had downed five beers before there were even two points on the table and a fight nearly broke out. The puking was contagious. It was beautiful. My hero for the night, aside from me, who stayed on the table a good two and a half hours without yacking, was Amber. After uncontrollably booting on the floor of a crowded dining room, she got back on the horse, kept playing, snuck out of the house to puke again and continued to drink.
After physically removing Steve from my futon, thereby saving myself from a night of smelly, drunken advances, I passed out, secure in the knowledge that a great tradition had been passed on to yet another generation of degenerates.
Somehow, Joe, Steve, Amber, The Frog and I got up at 9 a.m. the next morning and headed to the Sawtooth National Forest for a high elevation hike/realization that my lifestyle is taking a toll. We trekked about two miles to a pristine mountain pond where I was reminded that not all bodies of water are brown, stagnant and full of snakes and ecoli.
We got back, had a dinner at an excellent but awkwardly out of place Tikki bar in downtown Boise and then Joe and I hit the Neurolux, had our fill of gin and checked out The Gourds, of Gin and Juice fame (it's that version that everybody thinks is Phish or Ween or Yanni or whatever, but is actually The Gourds).
After a relaxing trip to some hot springs the next morning and a visit to The Statesman, the paper where Joe works, I started my preparations for my return trip, which began at the Boise airport at 8:40 p.m. and ended the next day in New Orleans at 9:12 a.m. So by preparations, of course, I mean drinking enough to sleep through the trip.
A predinner cocktail was followed by a two margharita send-off dinner. Once on the plane from Boise to Seattle I attempted to set the record for drinks consumed on a 1 hour and 20 minute flight (so far it's three, shared by Joe and Steve). Thirty minutes in to the flight (which included 10 to 15 minutes of our boozeless ascent) I was two glasses of wine down and well on my way to shattering the record. Sadly, nature stepped in and turbulence shut down the drink service the rest of the way.
Fortunately, I found a bar at the Sea-Tac Airport and managed to squeeze in another two cocktails before the Seattle to Houston flight, on which I promptly passed out.
All in all, a successful trip and many thanks to all my Boise hosts who showed me their beautiful state and got me sufficiently drunk to enjoy it.
Being the efficiency expert that he is, Joe had the car packed for a float and we went directly from the airport to the Boise River to drunkenly enjoy nature. Our flotilla included Joe's roommate, Guilhem (who will be referred to simply as "The Frog" in future references) by himself in a punctured raft refusing to drink PBR because he only drinks cider, wine and breast milk, and a raft made to carry three malnourished toddlers crammed with me, Joe, Steve and Amber, who, half-drunk and with just half a paddle, managed to rescue us from disaster several times while I kicked back, drank and got sunburned.
The water was cold, the weather was overcast, we were ill-prepared and it was awesome.
Following our harrowing riparian adventure we got down to the real business of the day: getting utterly pissed. And what's the quickest and most fun way to do that short of a tequila bong? Beer die.
After an appropriately western dinner of Buffalo burgers and beer we set up the table and introduced Boise to the unquestioned champion of drinking games. The first game lasted an hour and a half and each player had downed five beers before there were even two points on the table and a fight nearly broke out. The puking was contagious. It was beautiful. My hero for the night, aside from me, who stayed on the table a good two and a half hours without yacking, was Amber. After uncontrollably booting on the floor of a crowded dining room, she got back on the horse, kept playing, snuck out of the house to puke again and continued to drink.
After physically removing Steve from my futon, thereby saving myself from a night of smelly, drunken advances, I passed out, secure in the knowledge that a great tradition had been passed on to yet another generation of degenerates.
Somehow, Joe, Steve, Amber, The Frog and I got up at 9 a.m. the next morning and headed to the Sawtooth National Forest for a high elevation hike/realization that my lifestyle is taking a toll. We trekked about two miles to a pristine mountain pond where I was reminded that not all bodies of water are brown, stagnant and full of snakes and ecoli.
We got back, had a dinner at an excellent but awkwardly out of place Tikki bar in downtown Boise and then Joe and I hit the Neurolux, had our fill of gin and checked out The Gourds, of Gin and Juice fame (it's that version that everybody thinks is Phish or Ween or Yanni or whatever, but is actually The Gourds).
After a relaxing trip to some hot springs the next morning and a visit to The Statesman, the paper where Joe works, I started my preparations for my return trip, which began at the Boise airport at 8:40 p.m. and ended the next day in New Orleans at 9:12 a.m. So by preparations, of course, I mean drinking enough to sleep through the trip.
A predinner cocktail was followed by a two margharita send-off dinner. Once on the plane from Boise to Seattle I attempted to set the record for drinks consumed on a 1 hour and 20 minute flight (so far it's three, shared by Joe and Steve). Thirty minutes in to the flight (which included 10 to 15 minutes of our boozeless ascent) I was two glasses of wine down and well on my way to shattering the record. Sadly, nature stepped in and turbulence shut down the drink service the rest of the way.
Fortunately, I found a bar at the Sea-Tac Airport and managed to squeeze in another two cocktails before the Seattle to Houston flight, on which I promptly passed out.
All in all, a successful trip and many thanks to all my Boise hosts who showed me their beautiful state and got me sufficiently drunk to enjoy it.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Zydeco drunk
Lafayette may be the coolest town in Louisiana. About one fourth the size of Baton Rouge, it is 100 times more fun. Recently, some buddies and I went down to the heart of Cajun Country to catch some live music and get Zydeco drunk. As usual, we were late and only caught the end of the band we came to see: a guitar, tuba and drums trio called, appropriately, Drums and Tuba. What little we saw was actually quite good and, more importantly, we got a jump on the nights drinking before going to catch some country music at The Blue Moon Saloon, the coolest bar in the coolest town in Louisiana.
The Blue Moon is basically somebody's house with a dance floor, a bar and no bullshit attitude. On this night there was an old school country band playing and people dusted off their shit-kickers and did some bad ass drunken country dancing. I knew I liked the band when they started dusting off shots of Jack in the middle of their set.
The last stop of the night was Hamilton's nightclub where it is all Zydeco all the time. Being as segregated a state as Louisiana has been (and still is in a lot of ways) it was explained to me that Zydeco is essentially black Cajun music. The crowd at Hamilton's was very heavily black cowboy, with the hat, the shoes and the duds. It was one of the friendliest bars I have ever been too, so much so that I didn't even hate the Zydeco music that night.
A very unique feature of Hamilton's is the men's bathroom, or, I should say, the bathroom mirror. You see, in the bathroom the pisser is a trough urinal, which is weird enough; however, right above that trough urinal is a gigantic mirror. Unless you point your head straight up toward the ceiling there really is no getting around staring at your own dick and catching a glimpse of your neighbor. And, at a bar with Hamilton's clientele, it's a little depressing.
The Blue Moon is basically somebody's house with a dance floor, a bar and no bullshit attitude. On this night there was an old school country band playing and people dusted off their shit-kickers and did some bad ass drunken country dancing. I knew I liked the band when they started dusting off shots of Jack in the middle of their set.
The last stop of the night was Hamilton's nightclub where it is all Zydeco all the time. Being as segregated a state as Louisiana has been (and still is in a lot of ways) it was explained to me that Zydeco is essentially black Cajun music. The crowd at Hamilton's was very heavily black cowboy, with the hat, the shoes and the duds. It was one of the friendliest bars I have ever been too, so much so that I didn't even hate the Zydeco music that night.
A very unique feature of Hamilton's is the men's bathroom, or, I should say, the bathroom mirror. You see, in the bathroom the pisser is a trough urinal, which is weird enough; however, right above that trough urinal is a gigantic mirror. Unless you point your head straight up toward the ceiling there really is no getting around staring at your own dick and catching a glimpse of your neighbor. And, at a bar with Hamilton's clientele, it's a little depressing.
She's Sleezy
I realize I have some catching up to do on this blog, so please bear with the multiple posts today. First off, a warm TOJECC welcome to Sleezy E herself, Eleeza Agopian, who has just joined the hallowed (and swelling) ranks of the TOJECC links bar. Eleeza offers the perspective of, well, another fucking journalist, though this time from the seething, smoggy hell-hole that is Irvine, CA (whatever, it's all LA to me, Northern California rules). A bandwagon Angels fan who likes to sigh in her blog posts, Eleeza was the Big Chief at the college newspaper I worked for while I was but a peon. Be sure to check out her site and offer up the ritual abuse you have all become so accustomed to here.
