Chapter the First: Stupid Bhagwan Tricks

The Exercise: “Comment (in this space) and I’ll give you a topic for either a top five or a top ten.”

I was given, “Your top five worst drunks of all time,” by .

A tall order, but I can fill it fast and easy. For sake of discussion, we are going to define “worst” as being, “boy, I wish I hadn’t done that in quite that fashion.”

1. Friday, October 15, 1993. “I drink myself to death.”

This is not hyperbole. This night is a website all to itself (in fact, most of these could be expanded to a full chapter in the book of my life), but it marks quite possibly one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done, and the first block of “missing time” I have in my life. There is but one other, and oddly enough, it doesn’t make this list.

Suffice to say, the night “ends” with the following exchange, spoken over my half-clothed body lying on the bathroom floor, surrounded by a pool of broken glass and my own stomach lining.

Patrick: “Oh my God, he’s dead.”
Edgar: “No, wait. Look. He’s still breathing.”

Both statements are true.

2. Friday, March 12, 1993. “I fight the Huskies offensive line”

Seemed like a good idea at the time. There is a phenomenon known as “twofers”, wherein certain alchoholic beverages (such as beers or shots) are put on sale, and are sold 2 for the price of 1. During these enlightened times, a single drink order will yeild multiple results.

Hitting two bars with this special on in the same night, in a small town in northern Idaho, and making full and excellent use of both, can lead to interesting times. Especially when you pick up women while doing so. Especially when you forget your brother in the first bar. Especially when he does not forget that you forgot him.

This also is a whole night’s worth of drinking to explain. But I will sum it up thusly. I like Tequila. I like it a lot. in fact, I can drink Tequila all night long, and I will remain happy, pleasant, and a good companion to my similarly inebriated freinds. If I have a shot of Jaegermeister, Odds are high I’ll have another. And combined, the two put a big Scarlet J on my chest, and a flowing red cape sprouts from my shoulders.

When I order 4 shots of jaeger for me and my freinds, the bartender points out “you know it’s twofers, right?” Of course, says I, expecting to pay the price of two shots for my freinds and I. When 8 shots showed up, I had fewer friends interested in drinking than I thought I would. However, I also had 6 more shots of Jaeger all to myself.

This was not the first round of the night, nor was it the last.

3. Saturday, June 21, 1997. “I almost fuck up big time”

After a night of drinking and fun, I am awakened early Saturday morning by the words, “Dude, Forge Party. Get up.” My response: “Can’t have a forge party, Mischka’s not in town.” Answered : “Yes he is. he’s down at the park.”

Faced with this inevitable logic, I throw on a pair of shorts, stumble up my stairs to the back yard, where my housemate and my landlord (the previously mentioned Edgar) have fired up both grills, and ask “have anything to cook?” Since at the time I worked for a frozen foods company, and in fact had “sampled” some prime USDA choice beef two nights previously, again my answer is in the affirmative.

Steaks (plural, about 30 oz of meat in total) take a while to cook. So I had a beer. Then I had another one. 10:30 AM rolls around, and the steaks are done. Edgar says, “We should get down to the park, we might have to go get supplies.”

Sound logic. So we drink another beer, close up shop at the house, and drive about a mile down to the faire. Indeed, my brother Mischka is hard at work, smithing and chatting up folks as they come by. We are reunited, and decide that we will indeed need to lay in supplies for later, as he is not alone, and the tent has pleny of room for everyone. Of course, the need for supplies is brought home fully by the bottles we empty in the tent, while the forge is cooling down. We decide that he should drive, since his car has more room to carry things. Also, we get lunch.

We get enough supplies for the two of us, some spillover, and some ciders for his wife. It’s 3 PM, so clearly we can’t drink the hard stuff just yet. So we have some cider, and then decide that it would taste better if mixed with Rum.

We were pretty smart back then.

It takes a while for the sun to go down, so we have some more cider, and then send someone to buy some more for Mischka’s wife, since that lush seems to have finished all of hers.

There are no full bottles at the end of this story. There are some hilarious antics, including us breaking up a hippie/stoner drum circle that was disturbing the horses, a 10:00 PM swim in the Columbia river that is quickly cancelled once certain parts of my anatomy retract into my throat, a drunken apology (which may or may not have come from me) to a lady (whom I may or may not have dated several years previously) who did not seem to care, a slow staredown of one of the aforementioned horses, and then a leisurely stumble across the street to (I swear this is true) Ye Olde Frontier Taverne, which has a shuffleboard table.

And beer. Since that damn lush wife has drunk all the cider again. A few more pitchers make us smart again, and we play Shuffleboard until closing time. All of the bottles in the tent are empty, and it’s time to go home. Clearly, we cannot leave my car at the park; something might happen to it. As we open up to go, Our Dave asks “Dude, are you okay to Drive?” Of course, says I. “If I couldn’t drive, I wouldn’t even get behind the wheel.”

As I get behind the wheel, and place the key in the ignition, my little voice goes off. This same litle voice stopped me from doing something Really, Really Bad to someone who Really, Really deserved it in #2 above. This time, it says, “What the hell are you doing. you can’t drive.”

Well, it was right the last time, so I listen. I get out of the car, walk around to the back door, and throw my car keys to the mostly upright gentleman I see coming my way. “Drive me home, I’m drunk.”

Lucky for me, that guy happend to be Edgar. Go figure.

Long story short (TOO LATE), I wake up the next morning, face down in the lava rock outside my house. Thoughtfully, Our Dave has draped a blanket over half of my body, and I am not dead. I am mostly recovered when my freinds Bill Cooper and Rick come over to learn how to play a cool card game.

But, yeah. That’s twice he saved my life.

4. Friday, April 2, 2004. “I fuck up big time”

Skipping straight to the punchline. Something ended up in my drink that should not have been there. It did not get there by accident, and the person who put it there knew it did not belong. I fall at a concert, I get kicked in the head, and am escorted forcibly outside and made to stand in a corner while I pass out.

I awake at home the next morning. Several months later, I am informed that I have been single for longer than I thought I was.

5. Saturday, March 18, 2000 “William Cooper, R.I.P”

I miss him. A lot. Rick, Edgar and I waked him proper. And then I drank something I should not have, and I got rid of it in a relatively fast fashion. To my credit, I had been tending bar for some hours that evening already, and had in fact trebled the contributions into the donation bucket during that time. Evening was going quite well up until then, and I cleaned everything up before I left.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.