This weekend, my awesome friend and old time drinking buddy, Alan Kaplan, visited Champaign-Urbana. Now, if you know anything about him and his chemistry with me, you should be aware that the night usually surmounts to a wild, blurry drunkfest that would shock the people behind "Girls Gone Wild"... Well, that may be stretching it a bit too far; there was no nudity necessarily (if you don't count Roger's exposed chest, as you will soon see), but enough alcohol was consumed to give 200 babies Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. It's been a long time since I've gone binge drinking like the old college days, and seeing Kaps allowed me to relive some great, fond memories.
The night started off at the 1-bedroom apartment of Alex, one of Kaplan's old Lambda Chi brothers and a recent grad student at UIUC. After purchasing a handle of Skyy Vodka, the three of us decided to take shots. However, since technically we're above your atypical undergrad behavior, Alex didn't have any shotglasses in his apartment. Kaplan, the mathematical genius that he is, decided to guesstimate the volumetric amount of a shot of alcohol: he just poured God-knows-how-much into regular plastic cups.
After three "shots" and a Corona each, I could already feel that the night would not end well.
Eventually, Roger -- a Lambda Chi undergrad -- came over, with his Italian-made shirt (he had to mention that) unbuttoned to an astonishing three or four buttons from the top. With his chest exposed like that, he very much looked like a male stripper, but he claims that one of the buttons were either broken or missing. I think he's just very proud of his chest. That, or he is very fratastic.
After starting to feel a heavy buzz from the alcohol, Kaps and I decided to go to the mythical Firehaus, a campus bar that had recently been opened after years (and I'm serious about the "years" part) of being under construction. I supposed, after last year, Green Street exploded with new restaurants and bars.
My first impression of Firehaus was that this was waaaaaaaaaay too nice of a bar. Shit, they even had an ornate, domed ceiling in the center of the three story bar-and-grill. Just drinking there made you feel out of place; I mean, would you get pissed-drunk in some classy place like The Drake or the Ritz-Carlton? The only saving grace from its ungodly yuppie-Park Place atmosphere were its drink specials and prices. As pictured above, you can order a tank of beer. Furthermore, I paid five dollars for two Irish Car Bombs when they cost $5.50 each anywhere else (I should note, however, that they did not put Bailey's Irish Creme in the shots, just straight Jameson. Hell, I didn't complain).
Eventually Alex and Roger joined up with us, and we each shared a pitcher. And if you notice in this and pretty much all of the pictures of Kaplan, he looks like he's afraid of getting shot in the face or something. Perhaps he, too, is aware that this night will not end pretty.
Kaps was curious what the white thing in the center of the pitcher was, so he unscrewed it...
...spilling ice water all over the table. Supposedly, the white core keeps the beer cold, but I agree with Kaplan's belief that putting it there only takes more beer away.
I asked Kaps to pour me a glass; oh how I miss the infamous "Kaplan Foamy."
Here's Roger, chest and all, trying to seduce Kaplan with his Mexican-Tongue Dance of Seduction. Kaplan is slightly aroused.
Roger trying on my glasses.
Roger's second sensual attempt at the Mexican-Tongue Dance of Seduction.
Hey, and it works!
Our next destination was good 'ole Brothers, where I was shocked to find out that they raised the price of T-Bomb shots (aka Tequila Bombs: Bacardi Cyclone and Red Bull) from one dollar to a dollar fifty.
Some Miller Lite girls were dancing on the bars, giving free shit out. I tried to get the attention of a hot Asian one and make her give me a t-shirt, but she didn't even turn towards my general direction. Afterwards, however, I met up with her and she at least gave me some holographic-3D cup and a pin.
Kaps, despite my belief that he was asexual and not interested in girls, got lucky. I took a photo of him with one of the other Miller Lite chicks.
Kaplan showing his undying love and devotion to Springfield.
God, I love Indie-Punk Rock Artsy Chicks...
"Suckin' on my titties like you wantin' me callin' me all the time?" Ahem. Anyway, after a few too many T-Bombs, Leine's beer specials, and Bacardi Orange mixers, it was time to head to another bar. I think sometime during that night, we decided to make the evening a barcrawl...
For some reason, we all decided to go to Kam's, a skanky, sticky campus bar that appeals to minors, sorority sluts, and frat-boy date-rapists. What can I say? By this time we were all moderately drunk to make any reasonable or rational decisions.
Now before we left for Kam's, I had to pay my tab at Brothers. It was then that I learned that there was a fifteen dollar minimum, so I had to buy a shitload of $1.50 T-Bombs to cover my tab -- eight shots, if I recall. Anyway, I didn't notice that Alex, Roger, and Kaplan had already left the bar, so I was forced give five of those shots to random strangers. Toasting to some girl who graciously took one of the T-Bombs, I chugged my three shots and left Brothers.
On the short way to Kam's, those three shots immediately hit me. Drunk as shit already, I puked on Sixth street, between the convenient store and Clybourne's. I tried to pass it off as nothing, not even stopping as the vomit rushed into my mouth. I simply spit it out onto the sidewalk, like a passerby simply spitting some gum or a loogie onto the street. In all honesty, aside from Alex and Kaps noticing those familiar "puking-up sounds," no one on the busy street seemed to notice.
All night, I was telling Kaps how I thought it'd be cool to get into a fight with someone. By this time, we were both wasted and play-fighting. Standing in line at Kam's, I jokefully punched Kaplan in the face, and he retaliated by uppercutting me in the jaw. Yes, we punched each other hard, and yes, it did hurt, but seconds later we were laughing and putting our arms around each other. The girls standing in line behind us thought we were fucking weird. But hell, we were drunk and those girls probably had some sexually transmitted disease anyway; they are going to Kam's, afterall.
Believe it or not, Kam's didn't charge any cover, making the experience even more tolerable.
See? We love each other! Punches in the face are like kisses to us! (And does anyone remember back in Unofficial 2004, when I accidentally punched Kaps in the face really hard?)
What the fuck am I looking at...?
Oh. Hawt Kam Bitches sitting behind us.
Roger was passing out...
Wait, nevermind. There's the Mexican-Tongue Dance of Seduction again!
There are two, current mainstream dance songs I'll bust-a-groove to: Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl" and the Black Eyed Peas' "My Humps."
After drinking a few beers at Kam's, Alex, Roger, Kaps, and I went next door to CO's, an equally sleazy-ass bar that I would otherwise not step foot into. Thankfully, however, there was no cover as well, and I was inebriated enough not to care.
Immediately upon entering, Roger started dancing with some girl -- a friend, perhaps -- grinding down on her so low that it looked like he was giving her head.
I agree, wholeheartedly, with Alex's expression.
After last call, we headed back to Alex's place, where somehow I passed out on his couch but ended up in the floor in the morning. Dawn approached, and around 7 in the morning I woke up with a slight headache. No big deal, right?
I climbed up in the small section of the couch that was unoccupied by Kaplan. That's when, my friends, the severe nausea hit me. All of a sudden, I felt really sick, and I thought to myself, Don't throw up, don't throw up. For the love of GOD, I'm not gonna throw up.
Well, I threw up some non-chunky liquid in my mouth, my hand trying to hold whatever the hell it was from spilling all over the place. I immediately ran to the sink, a little bit of whatever spilling onto Alex's floor. After drinking some water to relieve the sickness, an aftershock of nausea hit me, and I ran to the bathroom where I puked in the toilet for five minutes. Least to say, after this little incident, everyone was awake.
We eventually went to McDonald's, where I ordered an orange juice and a McGriddle, only to drop it on the floor. It clearly wasn't going to be my day. In fact, throughout the rest of the day, the disgustingly sweet taste of T-Bombs lingered in my mouth. That's what I get, I guess, for suddenly reverting back to my old college ways...
For the complete set of pics, chizzeck out My Flickr site.
And so ends my story. Thank you, the reader, for reading this far and tolerating the graphic nature of both my vomiting experiences and Roger's chest. Thanks, Alex, for letting me crash at your place and subsequently throwing up on the floor. And thanks to you, Kaps, for coming down. It was awesome to see ya again, and if you're reading this, try and make it a plan to come up to Chicago for New Years!
Cue "Family Ties" theme: 'Sha-la-la-laaaa...'
pleasantly brought
to you by phillip retuta Sunday, November 20, 2005 @
11:45 PM
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