Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 23

Cincuenta

It feels like forty, only with a bit more gray and tequila. I decided a solo trip was in order for this one because I am an unsociable prick. Kidding. Don't you ever enjoy alone time? It's nice not having to worry about pleasing other people. That's hard work. So, here I sit poolside at the most amazing resort I've ever visited and I'm the one being pleased. People, you MUST set aside time every year to be spoiled to the point where you become tired of saying "Gracias."



I admit a little hot tub nookie, shower sharing, and moonlit kissing would enhance this experience, but today I'll replace those with jalapeño margaritas, filet mignon, and the sounds of crashing waves and festive music.



The rest of the resort is paired up, so oddball I am left to give the workers a break from all the PDA.

It's certainly not cheap to stay here at Las Ventanas al Paraiso, but it's worth it. They have a staff of 370 serving 71 rooms. That's a great ratio. They all know and can pronounce (!) my name. I get cold towels to cool off with, I just had a lemon and cilantro ice cream cone, and none of this requires I sit through a timeshare presentation. (A cute server just winked at me ... in Spanish. I hope it means the same as above the border: "Stop staring at my tits and order something, will you?")





I hear celebrities vacation here often. Perhaps I'll run into a few. Here are some I'd love to have a cervesa with:

1. Chelsea Handler -- It would probably be more than one cervesa and she'd make me pee myself.

2. Nicholas Cage -- He just seems like a cool dude. Raising Arizona is a favorite and I want to get stoned with him and reminisce.

3. Joan Rivers -- A legend. I'd suckle her small toe if she asked.

4. President Clinton -- You just know this fucker can party and he has some legendary off-the-record shit to share.

5. Either Williams sister -- Big, sexy, and sassy. Daddy likey. I'd love to hear Serena go off on a bartender. "You're just an ugly, fat person who can't make a skinny margarita."

6. Nolan Ryan -- Pitching tips. Oh, never mind.

7. Sandra Bullock -- Really? Do I have to say the words? She's only the sexiest woman since ... since ... the big fucking bang. There!



Naturally, no celebrities will arrive and if they did, none of them would waste their time amusing a peon like me. This week I shall concentrate on my pregnancy. I am approaching my second trimester and after I devour tonight's flaming something con something, I may need to ultrasound for twins. Floppy man boobs are acceptable at my advanced age as long as I know how to tongue-punch a love button.



Bueno!

Tubes

While in a 600 MPH flying tube to my birthday destination, I made some observations. I'm not calling them interesting--more curious.



1. Why, on flights, can't the personnel use normal terminology? On the Mexican immigration form it asked for my surname (yes, I had to pause and think about it) and port of embarkation. I bet over 20% of the people on the plane answered incorrectly. Why not just say "last name" and "where are you coming from?" Stupid. Or, maybe I'm stupid because I haven't properly stowed my iPad. Stowed? Really? Couldn't the stewardess say, "Put your stuff away" and stop showing off with fancy words only used in flying tubes? She won't be a flight attendant to me until she does.



2. Why does the life-of-the-party guy have to sit near me? He's not friendly; he's trying too fucking hard. Some people (me) don't want to have a conversation with people (you). We want to read the magazine in the pouch and avoid thinking about how awful plummeting to earth would be, with or without floatation devices.



3. The people who work for the airline must have been told by someone that when they speak into a public address microphone, they become instant standup comedians. They don't. They're ten times worse than anyone at the most remote open mic night. Ole Jack Benny in a vest broke out this one today: "Hey folks, just a little reminder that here in Mexico you're no longer on Pacific Standard Time; you're on ... party time." Uk, uk, uk, uk ... he's a riot.



4. Why are toddlers so fascinated by the people (me again) in the row behind them. Don't they see people outside of the tube? I don't look any different in row 26 than I do pushing a grocery cart. This little fucker is fishing for compliments and I'm not biting. He's not cute. He's making me paranoid. Ew, now he's pushing his little finger fries through the crack in the seat while his parents sit catatonic and I push them back with my stirrer.




5. Jesus, who farted? 




6. Why does airline coffee taste like it's two days old?




7. Who decided that pretzels and peanuts make good flight snacks? Who goes to the store and buys a mix of peanuts and pretzels? No-fucking-body! How about Doritos, corn chips, or the most obvious: potato chips? They aren't any less healthy than the salty lumps of crap they serve.



8. Why do people cheer when the plane lands? It happens thousands of times a day and only rarely doesn't. In fact, when it doesn't happen, nobody can offer much of a critique anyway. When the cab pulls to the curb, I don't clap. When the barista hands me my coffee, he hears no applause. When I shut my front door and my house doesn't crumble into the earth, I don't cheer. It's supposed to happen that way and no additional appreciation need be shown for the ordinary. If the pilot landed the plane, did four 360s, and a rear-axle wheelie, I'd give that fucker props, especially if I can turn back on my electronic devices.

Son of a Beach

I love it and dread it at the same time. When I have a free day and the marine layer cooperates, I'll don the board shorts and head to the beach. I usually encounter many good and many bad things. There must be an angle to making the trip enjoyable.

Here are the essentials I bring with me and my clan of nobody:Towel
Chair
Sunscreen
Water Bottle
iPhone
Kindle
Almonds
Binoculars


Once I find a parking space, I wobble down the stairs to the beach. Hoards of families abound. I look for an empty circle. A ten-foot perimeter will do. My view should be sand, waves, and horizon. It should include no children.

Laying out my towel is one of those tasks I hope nobody watches me do. The breeze doesn't cooperate. My backpack falls to my elbow. The chair is upside down. Finally, the towel is set. I stand on the far corners, holding them down with my sneakers. (Yes, I know sneakers don't belong on the beach. Sue me.) I knock off the sneakers, stand in the middle of the towel, and peel off my socks and shirt while sucking in my gut. I stuff my socks into my sneakers and plop my grogginess down into the chair.

Serenity.

A sip of water, a sigh, and I'm powering up my Kindle to finish The Hunger Games. Not five minutes later, three idiots decide to play Frisbee. Guess where? Yep, right in front of me. Can anyone throw a Frisbee accurately? No, they can't. Does the ocean breeze make matters worse? Yes, it does. Is it safe for me to bury my face in my Kindle? Not unless I'm prepared to be scalped by an errant toss. Miles and miles of beach and these fuck-knuckles pick here to display their genetic flaws. After they hit three different people (not counting the one who was counting), they finally decide to head back to the family circle and consume Tostitos and sarsaparilla.

Peace again.

Here comes little Suzy and Debbie with their dad who is going to teach them how to play Smashball. What better place than right in front of this nice man and his Kindle? Children can't play Smashball. Girls don't even want to play Smashball. Give them a fucking toy shovel and tell them to bury each other. You're not raising Russian tennis pros, dude. Suzy is bonked in the head and cries. Game over. Thank goodness.

Sanity returns.

Teenage girls decide to set up camp in front of Mr. Nice Guy. Under my breath I say, "Please stop bending over. No, I'm not looking but I can tell you're bending over. Quit it. Why do you need a reason to not do something? How about because it's not ladylike?"

They carry on obliviously. Now, it's time to wiggle out of tiny jean shorts. "Stop wiggling. Will you PLEASE stop wiggling. Just pull the shorts down. Oh Christ. Hold onto the strap of your … aw, now look what you did. Your Honor, I don't know why I couldn't look away. I'm sorry. Yes, take me to prison as long as no Frisbees are there."

Fine, the girls are lying quietly. Back to my book. On one I notice a tiny gap between the bikini waistband and her waist. I'm not looking. Nope. What if they're both nineteen? It's legal then. I'm not looking. Shit. Don't roll over … oh no. Keep your ankles together, will you? Please! I'm not looking. I'll turn over and read on my belly. There. Fine. Jesus, now my back and neck ache. I'll lie on my side. Now my elbow hurts. I need a beer. OK, back on my beach chair.

Now, three pink dodos decide to throw the football around to impress the girlies. I am unimpressed. I want a big shark to beach itself and eat them one at a time with a nice chianti and some lupini beans.

Why must I torture myself?

Finally, I pack up my little picnic and head back to my home where I can recline on my bed with my Kindle and … ring, ring, ring … there's no escaping telemarketers. I wonder if I can find a YouTube video on how to tie a noose.

Picky

When attending a picnic at a friend's place, you don't place any orders. You take the plate graciously and eat around what you don't like. Then, if there's enough wreckage left on the plate, you clear it before the host sees. That's how it's done. Decency demands it. So, why must every cretin around me place custom orders? This have-it-your-way generation bugs me.



"Yes, I would like the Italian Sub. Could I have that without onions and with extra jalapeños?"



First,  shittard, jalapeños don't belong on anything Italian. Did you ever hear of a pepperoni burrito? Of course not. How about a taco with anchovies? Perish the thought. Second, if you don't like onions, remove them yourself. Nobody is saying you must eat the onions. You are not allergic. Stop using allergies as an excuse to act persnickety. You are to order and receive the item the way the cook designed it and the menu describes it. Eat it any way you like, but don't you dare ask for things on the side that belong within the dish, you little snit.



If I'm asked my preference, that's different.



"How would you like your burger cooked, sir?"

"Medium ... and stop calling me sir. My chin fur is sun-bleached, not gray."

"Yes, um, patron ... er, person?"

"Go away."



Nowadays if you don't like it, you don't eat it. When I was a child, if I didn't like it, I fucking ate it and acted as though I liked it, or else. I guess that stuck with me. I'm not part of the entitled generation of spoiled thumb-bags whose parents lucked out on an internet stock that helped them afford to avoid dealing with leftovers. You're darn tootin' I'm ornery. (I bought Enron.)



A salad with dressing on the side is a pile of leaves. French fries with ranch dressing are vagina creators. Gluten-free food is for wimpy-bellies who didn't eat enough Tabasco and undercooked bacon in their younger years. Eat what's on the menu, people! Eat what's in front of you!



Think of it the same way you think of a shot someone buys you—say a SoCo Lime, for instance. You don't wrinkle you nose, cry for a chaser, or take any Tums before downing one. You may take longer than others to finish it, but you won't leave anything measurable in the bottom of the glass, will you? No. Because your friends will drop the vagina triangle on your ass. (The vagina triangle is made with the fingers of two hands, similar to the heart thing that Taylor Swift makes, but it's much more meaningful and less doucheist.) If you are female, you obviously can't receive the vagina triangle, so you'll probably have peers stare at you and comment about your shoes behind your back. They might even say you look frumpish. Fine. You've been warned. My work is done here.



Now, finish what's on your plate and you're not leaving this table until you do. I don't want any sass out of you. Not "but"s either. I expect that plate to be as clean as when your mother pulled it from the Palmolive. Tuck in that bottom lip and stop playing with your food. Lord, what am I going to do with you?

White

It was a parade of white pants in the club last night. Patti Stanger filled me in on the reason: "Labor day is the last day of the year to wear white pants." Interesting. White pants don't look good on men—not even on Don Johnson. I surveyed a few bystanders and they agreed with me. Still, before leaving their homes, each of these men stood in front of full length mirrors and said, "Damn, I look good." Silly boys.

One fellow had his pulled up so high I'm positive his belt was chafing his nipples. I could see another ding-dong's ding-dong through his sheer, white pants. Maybe he was hoping some ladies would feed him peanuts. Most of the guys wore Tommy shirts along with white loafers. Had I died and gone to Bravo TV?

You know who can wear white pants? Black men. In fact, black men can wear just about anything, including pink, bright yellow, and shades of Kardashian. Must be nice. I'm stuck with shades of blue, brown, and black.

I was making the moves on a lovely female specimen and those white pantsians were listening in and hating on me. Fuckers. Patti always says it's important to engage the target with questions instead of boring them with statements. So, I did.

"What part of town do you live in? What do you do? What's your preferred type of food? Do you have a favorite restaurant? What do you do for fun? Can I smell your neck? (Scratch that.) Have any kids? How about pets? Where do you get your hair done? (Nope.) What are you reading, currently? Have any vacations upcoming? Want to make out? (Now, who's silly?)"

Then she asked what I do. I usually say I'm a writer and change the subject. I rarely get away with it.

"What do you write?""Humor.""What sort of humor?""Um … R-rated.""I mean, what subject?""Say, have you tried the short-rib here? It's heavenly.""What subject?""Fine. Relationship humor. I write about how frustrating it is to find love at my advanced age of seventy.""You're not seventy.""Thank you for biting with the compliment I was fishing for.""Do you write for a magazine, newspaper, or what?""I could use another scotch on the rocks. Can I buy you a drink?""Yes, after you answer my question.""I write books.""Might I have read any of them?""Only if you have exceptional taste and never want to see me naked.""Ha!"

Then one of those linen lunkheads interrupted and said I was lying.

"He's just saying he's an author thinking it will get him laid.""Really? That works? I've never had a woman part thigh at my revelation.""Then you should stop trying.""I can see that your strategy of wearing camel-ball white is highly effective.""Dude, you're wearing a baseball cap.""I have an unsightly skull, so I cover it. If you could see your saggy man-hams you'd probably have left the white pants on the golf course. Now, please go away before I spill something on you."

White ain't right.

Their Own Devices

Men, I am suspecting a devious plot is underway. The fairer sex has developed a fancy device that may spell the end of our gender, or at least the confiscation of our favorite toys. I don't know how we missed it. Perhaps we were staring too intensely toward the wrong area, hoping for some nipple peakage. Or, maybe it was because ESPN was showing "Web Gems." Aw, hell, I don't know. Jesus, we had better act fast because it's spreading. Ignore the nipples, I tell you. (But, I do love girlie nipples—every bit of them. Not the hair so much. It happens. Seriously. It was not a he-she.)

Oh, sorry.

The plot I'm referring to involves mysterious devices in the form of those wide, sparkly bracelet things women are wearing on their forearms. See that? You haven't even noticed, have you? You've been too busy admiring delicious rumps. (Gosh, I love girlie butt too. I saw a nearly perfect one last night. The jeans she wore must have been custom fitted. It was like an upside-down heart. Ooh wee. Be right back …)

Sorry again.

How the heck did we not see this coming? The devices are quite ornate with sequins, gems, and shiny metals. I mean, shoes I can understand us missing. It's reasonable that a bitch toe is overlooked because the eyes' journey was stymied mid-thigh or at the calves. (So, two nights ago, I met these two fitness models and the one had incredible legs. I'm sure she could crush my skull like a walnut. They weren't man-ish—no, they weren't hairy or large-pored—just defined and bronze.*sigh*)

Where was I?

That's right, I was filling you in on the Wonder Woman wrist thing. I think they're soaked in testosterone. The one I investigated was attached to a Barbie. (You know—the SoCal variety with two shades of hair extensions, globular boobs, and funky nail designs. I think she was in Playboy. I can picture her kneeling in front of me, giving me doe eyes while she …)

Damn it!

You'd expect a woman like this to be sipping something pink while discussing Gucci. Nope. That fancy arm thing possessed her. She was drinking Coors freaking Light … from a bottle! You know what else? She said, "fuck" a lot. I mean, she was cursing like an author. Guess what else? You'll never guess. She was watching a college football game. That's right. She yelled, "Where's the interference call, ref?" at one point. No, she didn't scratch her crotch, but I could swear she blew a burp at her friend. What a copy-kitten!

I need to find a way to deactivate the device. There's no way to remove one. Maybe if I spill soymilk over one, the estrogen will cancel out the testosterone and bring her back to fruity drinks and lip-gloss. (Shiny lips give me major wood. I so want to kiss the heck out of them and smear that goo until she resembles a sexy, female version of The Joker.)

Holy shit! I'm infected. Help me. God, help me! It's … the … bracelet. Argh!

Cold

If you bring home a puppy, it's probably going to require more attention than you expect, it will leave behind some messes, and it's going to whimper when you walk away. You can tell the puppy ahead of time that it's a temporary thing. It won't matter. You can ask the puppy to avoid becoming too attached. He'll just yap and rub on your ankles. Still, if you like puppies, you must selfishly lose any guilt they toss your way.

An exceptionally fit woman, freshly divorced with two children, thumbed her iPhone while rolling her eyes in disgust.

"What's up, buttercup?""Ugh. I'm so tired of babysitting. I guess I should know better than to hook up with boys twenty years younger.""Twenty years? Really?""Yep. I know—I'm kind of giving away my age.""… and your pussy.""WHAT?""Let me finish … and you're possibly the hottest sixty-year-old I've ever seen.""I'm forty five, goofball.""Ah. Sorry. I didn't get a proper reading on your elbows."*ding*"Jesus. He's been texting me all night. He wants to meet up.""You'd be similarly frustrated if he didn't text you at all, right?""No. I want him when I want him. He's just a toy to me. Now, he's starting to develop feelings and becoming needy.""Isn't that natural?""Not when I told him upfront this was just going to be a fling and he'll never meet my children."*ding*"Wow. Why don't you give the poor fella a break and invite him over?""Nope. Tonight I'm out with the girls. Maybe later, if I get the urge, I'll hook up with him.""Damn. You're cold.""I was married for fifteen years. This is my time."*ding* "Brrr."

Her married friend enjoys the escapades. It's vicarious joy when good and another reason to stay married when bad.

"So, what do you think of your friend's little pet?""He's hot.""How about from the neck up?""A bit needy.""What's your advice to Miss Cooler?""She should have fun with him until he gets too needy, and then move on."*ding*"Four texts in five minutes must be crossing the needy line, approaching psychosis.""Yep. He would have been done after the second one if it were me.""You do realize what's going to happen here, right?""What?""She's going to meet an age-appropriate man who won't play the please-love-me game, she'll wonder why he won't chase her, and then she'll become the puppy.""Hm."*ding*"In the meantime, I guess puppy love is better than no love."

This dating-out-of-your-decade thing is a recent phenomenon for women. They're not very good at it. Men have been doing it since Adam. Perhaps I'll offer a course in puppy care. They'll call me The Lovepuppy Whisperer. Puppy owners will leash their pets and come to Dr. Phil's office for training. I've got my rolled up newspaper and spray bottle ready. If the puppies are too difficult, I'll euthanize those fuckers and offer my services at a steep discount.

Draft

Everything is as it should be except for one, tiny thing: It's not the way you want it. It takes a strong person to detach. Can you do it without becoming a dial tone? You can express happiness and sadness in bursts without suffering physical effects. Stress and frustration are the killers. The healthiest option is to care—just not too much.



Women care deeply about friends, family, pets, and TV characters. Men care about sports teams, gadgets, the stock market, and getting laid. Therein lies the disconnect. Women can't understand why men care about a preseason football game more than who's the favorite to win Dancing with the Stars. Men are dumbfounded by why a girlfriend's career move matters when the new iPhone is coming out.

The simple solution involves teamwork.

"Honey, we don't have enough individual compassion to care about everything, so here's where teamwork is required.""OK, shoot.""Let's have a mock draft of who and what we care about.""But I don't care about drafts.""Damn it. All right. How about a rose ceremony?""Interesting.""We each have twelve roses to hand out to things we care about.""This sounds like fun. I'll pour some champagne with floating berries.""I don't care about champagne, and fruit belongs in pies.""Jesus. Fine, how about two plastic cups of Coors Light?""Now we're talking."

I'll spare you the dramatic music and pauses (I fucking hate them) as well as the yeast infection commercials between picks (only a fan of brewer's yeast). It went down something like this:

Woman's draft:Dog
Sister and Parents
Rhianna
Vogue
Trip Planning
Shoes
Purses
Her Shows
Bathtub
Scan Pan (Shit, I wanted that one.)
Her Friends
Appointments
 Man's draft:Cliff Lee
iPhone
NFL Redzone
Topless Jeep
Playboy Channel
Steak
Beer
Happy Hour
UFC
Sex
Baseball Mitt
Sneakers
See? Problem solved. OK, there's one important step to add: We each need to respect the other's right to not give a high-flying fuckity fuck.

"Honey, listen to this new Rhianna song.""No.""Don't be stupid. It's a great song. Here, I'll play the video.""No. I'm not looking.""She's hot.""Define 'hot.'""She's mocha with legendary glutes.""Press play.""What do you think?""Meh. Somewhat catchy, but I'll not trade my mitt for her. You keep her. Your turn. Taste this microbrew I picked up. It was on sale for ten dollars a six-pack.""Ten fucking dollars?""Stop. Just taste it. Here.""Yep, it tastes like beer—just like the four-dollar versions.""Aren't you picking up hints of earth and apple?""Aren't you picking up hints that no beer is worth ten fucking dollars.""Fine."

Who gets drafted onto your "to care" list and who sits lonely on the sideline like the last kid picked for the kickball team? (I'm still scarred by that shit. Maybe that's why I don't have children on my list. Third graders are heartless pricks.)

Yesss

Do you find yourself asked about your preference when you're feeling indifferent? Sometimes having too many choices causes stress. We don't need more stress, do we? We're already stressed about whether to eat dinner or pay our mortgages. It's unnecessary to make us choose from ten different salad dressings.

I've found a solution: Answer every "or" question with "yesss." (You must extend the s-part, like a hissing snake, to have the proper effect. Oh, and smile when you do it.)

"For your salad, would you like Thousand Island, French, Blue Cheese, Ranch, or Raspberry Vinaigrette?""Yesss.""Huh?""Yesss.""Which dressing?""Yesss."

See how easily I transferred the stress right back to the chick in the silly black apron? She's not controlling my blood pressure.

"Say, what type of man do you like?""I'm attracted to taller men. Dark skin is nice as is a full head of hair. The toned and athletic look works too. He has to have a good job, be responsible with his finances, and act like a gentleman at all times.""Nice.""So, what type of woman are you attracted to?""Yesss.""No, I mean like blonde or brunette?""Yesss.""Tall or petite?""Yesss.""Do you prefer the younger ones or women closer to your age?""Yesss."

I don't want to choose. I love them all ... unless I don't.

"Are you ready for another round?""Indeed.""What were you drinking?""Vodka and vodka.""Funny. Which vodka?""Yesss.""I mean, do you prefer Kettle One? Chopin? Absolut?""Yesss.""Fine. Do you like it up or on the rocks?""Yesss."

Stress transfer successful. Ladies, you rarely have no preference, yet you cause problems by claiming you have no preference when actually you do.

"Do you care where we sit?""Oh, not at all. Pick a spot, honey.""You're sure?""Yep. Anywhere's fine.""OK, how about here?" he asked, while sliding into the booth he knew he'd soon be sliding out of."Hm. Well, it's a little drafty here.""All right. How about over there?""That's fine. I really don't care."He tilts his head as he holds her chair, waiting for the inevitable."Actually, honey, would you mind if we sat on the other side of the restaurant? This side gets too much traffic because it's close to the kitchen.""If you had a preference you could have saved us aggravation by sharing it.""It's not really a preference. We can sit here if it's that important to you.""No, it's not important where we sit as much as when.""Well, don't get an attitude now. I told you I don't care where we sit.""Ugh."

My new strategy will keep these forehead lines from deepening. I'll answer in the affirmative and tolerate whatever comes my way.

"Do you want to go upstairs and fool around a little or should we have more wine?""Yesss.""Do you like it better when I'm on top or when you're behind me?""Yesss.""Do you prefer the lace underwear or should I go with the thong?""Yesss.""Should we go hiking or walk the dogs?""Nooo."

Can't Drink That

It has been a bumpy road to the Majors. Our livers have gone through much, haven't they? Oh, come on. You must recall such indulgences as Fire Water, Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill, and chartreuse (*gag*). When I think of all the things I've put my body through it amazes me that I can remember my name, last four digits, and where I left my damn keys.

The next time you walk into a bar, take note of the bottles on the top shelves and the dust they've accumulated. In the middle, you'll find my buddy, Galliano. He's taller than the rest and neglected more than most. Mix him with cola and you get something close to root beer that will, indeed, make you suicidal if you overdose. He gets points for a pretty bottle. He gets lonely because of the icky yellow liquid within.

An early favorite of mine was sloe gin. Jesus, that's some gross shit right there. Yes, I've had a sloe gin fizz or fifty (and no, not while doing a limbo). I haven't seen it around lately. It had a saturation of red that would instantly destroy any garment it came in contact with. I probably have a pink, pissed-off liver.

One day, a kind bartender turned me on to something much less vile: the Singapore Sling. This hangover seed was a funky combination of cherry-flavored brandy, gin, and sour mix. It was served in a frosted, tall glass with a big straw and a cherry. Yum. Then again, after a half dozen of those, my nose went numb and I parked on the lawn.

I tried to save money during my college years by indulging in such delicacies as Malt Apple Duck and Tango. (I apologize if I've just caused you mouth-puke a bit.) The former came in a 40-ounce bottle and tasted indeed like apple beer. The latter was what you'd get if you were foolish enough to mix cheap vodka with Tang. I drank a few of those my sophomore year and learned how to release fluid from both ends simultaneously. Don't even act like you've never.

There was a club back in the who-gives-a-shit 80s that featured a Thursday night deal that probably wasn't a great idea. It was $10 for all you can drink all night—anything you want. If I were the seasoned pro I am now, I would opt for something velvety on the rocks. As a twenty-something dingbat, I ordered Black Russians and lost consciousness. Who drinks Black Russians? Dumb white Italians, that's who.

Before anyone came up with more vodka flavors than Baskin Robbins, we had three choices: vodka, cherry vodka, and (God forbid) lime vodka. If you drank lime vodka, you had definitely given up on life and were choosing a gutter nap. Anyone who polished off fifths of that neon green nonsense must now be pushing around a rusty shopping cart while yelling at imaginary beings.

So, now we're left with micro-brews and SoCo lime. B&J and Zima are fading away. We'll never pass around a bottle of Giacobazzi again. Sad.