And now, the furtherance of the Milwaukee’s Best Ice sponsored epoch:
Mere seconds had passed since the Pagano objective revealed itself when my phone started a-buzzing. I had two text messages, one from JDMiller4Life, and the other from my sister Angie. JD was telling us to get over to Brixx stat, as there was some manner of happy hour situation and we needed to be on it. Angie wanted to meet up and get her shirt, as Sarah carried the extras with her in a sack. I typed in response “On the way” and “Brixx,” respectively, and we set off.
Brixx isn’t a normal starting line for the great marathon that is Parade Day, but it’s not half as lame as some places. During the course of the day we’d hear stories about people who opened up their days at bars (acceptable), bar/restaurants (less acceptable), restaurants (barely acceptable), and Dunkin Donuts (unacceptable – as the phrase America Runs on Dunkin’ may be the reason for all the fat ass kids torpidly wandering the streets and sitting in front of television sets, watching commercials for artery-clogging garbage like Dunkin’ Donuts). We, however, had technically started in the kitchen, before breakfast, and that was the most acceptable of all. It was beyond acceptable. It was exemplary. The way they started at the HoJo may be the only thing better, and that was starting on the previous day and not stopping for rest, sleep, food, or general complaints from the authorities until the parade was well over and it was time for Sunday brunch.
JD and his roommate Big Rob were rocking the house in a very cramped way when we arrived at Brixx and spotted them through the front window. They were pressed up against the glass like a pair of socks in the washer, faces smushed against the pane, beers in hand a foot away from their mouths. Behind them was seemingly the entire order of Hiberians in the middle of a heated jigging competition with the Knights of Pythias, all marching later, all crowded into the same room. The line to get in was four across and four dozen deep, so we stood and waited and watched as our friends inside uncomfortably attempted to get beers to mouths, but with limited success.
I met Sarah through JD at a party at Marywood, where they both were juniors (or sophomores, or freshmen, I have no idea). I had been out of school a few years, contemplating going back or taking that job working with a drill, a shovel, and a dream in a quarry just north of Halifax, which would’ve been a bastard of a commute. JD and I used to act in plays together – terrible, hackneyed plays with puns in the titles and no asses in the seats.
It was Fat Tuesday, and from time to time I’d find myself at JD’s apartment, playing the beer pong and drinking the absinthe. This was before one of his roommates convinced himself he was a samurai and one of the whores Sarah lived with would begin a new plague with her rancid vagina that is still killing livestock in the Pacific Northwest. Sarah lived in an apartment down the way, and happened to be at this party. I’d like to say that I instantly knew she was the pants face for me, but it’s not true. The next day I could remember talking to a girl for a while, and that she was pretty cute, but particulars escaped me as I’d gotten blackout drunk, vomited on my car, and woke up face down half naked on the bathroom floor. So while my appeal to her is obvious, it was only after extended phone conversations about her French horn playing and my never having visited Buffalo that we got together. Kismet, ladies and gentlemen.
Despite no one exiting the bar, more bodies were ushered in until we finally made it through the doors ourselves, where we stopped dead at a massive wall of humanity. People kept moving and darting around, snaking in lines through the crowd, but no space ever opened up. We stood on the edge and peered in, as though gaping at a giant, lethal machine that was likely to take a leg or worse if we got too close to it.
JD and Big Rob were in there getting tossed around, and from time to time I’d spot 4Life’s Red Sox hat bob up in the crowd. Waitresses with trays of drinks would float by, somehow managing to stay upright and clothed, and I was impressed by their lack of mishaps until Big Rob finally reached our group, said hi, and was blasted in the chest by a falling beer. The waitress sort of apologized, and promptly disappeared into the crowd. It was then we decided to leave.
Holy Freeholy! Bar Numero Uno was a nightmare! How do we progress from here? What does San Diego have to do with the future episodes of this wicked pisser tale? Confusing indeed and so it will continue in the next account of Scranton and Parade Day, likely entitled Smell Your Way to HoJo’s!
