Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Stats That Shape a Weekend (Glory Hole Party Edition)
Number of Shots I Made: I don’t have an exact count, but well over 100*
Number of Shots I Drank: maybe three . . . four most
Number of Kamikazes I Drank: maybe three or . . . five?
So, as I mentioned earlier, I’d volunteered to bartend the party this past weekend for Mr. Glory Hole. And by “bartend,” of course I mean mix shots. Because I’m not a bartender, although I was mistaken for one. Mr. Glory Hole had already taken care of the core of the recipe needs with the-shadow-of-GOP-corruption-sized bottles of vodka, rum, Jagermeister, and Jack Daniels. We split a list of mixers and liqueurs. And then came the expectations that I might be overdoing it (his), followed by self-doubt (mine). The party proved to be an expectation-shattering event.
Expectation: This party won’t be any bigger than the last Glory Hole party.
Reality: While the previous party was quite the popular event (for about 30 minutes), this one was quite popular for several hours. I left sometime between 12:30 and 1 and didn’t see the party “winding down” at all.
Expectation: No-one’s gonna be that into doing shots. C’mon, these aren’t kids just out of college.
Reality: The shot concept may have been a little awkward at first, but people warmed up to the idea pretty quickly. Having shots called “Red-Headed Slut” and “Cock Teaser” help break down a few barriers, too. (Oh, and some of the people there were still in college, albeit creative-writing graduate students, but that counts.)
Expectation: I’ll be the bar guy and everyone will be happy to give me my space.
Reality: Very early on, I got nudged out of the bar “area” by some guy making a round of margaritas. I didn’t have a purpose (at that point), other than making an Amaretto Sour for Mr. Glory Hole’s ex-girlfriend. So, I started making shots almost continuously. And nudging people out of the way who insisted on sharing their life stories in front of the sink. Hey, people, it’s nice outside and you’re not waiting for a drink. Out!
Expectation: I’m gonna stay sober for as long as I can, but will inevitably slip into an alcohol-induced coma around midnight.
Reality: I didn’t even really have a drink until the party had been going on for an hour. By then, Michelle had had four. When I abandoned my bar “duties” sometime before midnight, I started making myself a series of kamikazes. Not sure exactly how many I had, but it’s safe to say I was hammered . . . about two hours after I fell asleep at home. (Seriously, I woke up pretty hungover for someone who wasn’t that drunk when I went to bed.)
Expectation: Michelle will not have fun and she’ll sneak out after an hour or so.
Reality: After the four Crown and gingers, Michelle was primed . . . to be my barmaid. She was given a batter’s helmet and sent around with trays of shots. Unfortunately for her, many of the “takers” insisted that she do a shot with them. So, while she was having a great time, it was taking its toll. The girl-on-girl-on-girl-on-girl, open-air tongue-touching was something I couldn’t have predicted Michelle would be mixed up in.
* Mr. Glory Hole has my tally sheet.