St. Pats And Barry The Leprechaun

I arrived in England on St. Patrick's Day and immediately set about trying to turn my friends into Americans. This was not at all on purpose. Before setting out on my journey, I had solicited from all my friends their requests for things they'd like me to bring over from the colonies. Apart from the hairdresser who had responded "Your country has nothing to offer me, woman", I had gifts for nearly everyone: Doritos for MrBalls (I gave these to him as something of an apology - I'd had a t-shirt I'd ordered shipped to his house which was posted in packaging more translucent than I had anticipated, causing his postman to say "I wanted to hand this to you personally" whilst giving him my new shirt, the words "I am someones fucktoy" clearly visible through the plastic. My bad, dude), Peeps for the Evil Lesbian (she'd asked me to bring her "something fun" and I luckily saw the Peeps on the shelf at CVS before going off in search of "something fun" for her at the adult toy store), and graham crackers for Sulu (which she adorably calls "Graeme's crackers"). Sulu had discovered S'mores last summer when she was in Boston. Neither Peeps nor S'mores are a thing in England, so I set about explaining the origin of Peeps and the fact that while everyone gets them in their Easter basket, almost no one actually eats them. The Evil Lesbian had already eaten half of them before I'd finished my explanation. We managed to wrestle a couple of Peeps away from her long enough for me to introduce the sport of Peep jousting, which everyone was quite taken with, apparently having never put marshmallows in the microwave before. The Peeps fought valiantly, but in the end, their melted carcasses were inhaled by the Evil Lesbian as soon as they'd cooled enough to touch. Sulu and I cut the heads off a few more of them and made everyone what I'm calling Peep Murdering S'mores TM.

Later that evening, we headed down The Vic for some St. Pats debauchery. Having been advised by the mutineer that wearing a "Fuck you, you're Irish" t-shirt may be more trouble than it's worth, I chose a different green t-shirt which read "I'd fuck me" which everyone seemed to agree with, especially Booth who expressed this by tongue raping my nose shortly after our introduction. I unfestively spent the night drinking Strongbow, mostly because I haven't got nearly enough patience to wait for a properly poured Guinness. This would prove to be the drunkest night of my entire trip, a trip I miraculously managed to get through without a single hangover, despite the best efforts of my alleged friends. I remember accidentally inventing a game called Tits or Knees? by zipping my hoodie up with my legs inside because I was cold and then waiting for people to do a double take, a drunk mutineer repeatedly taking his jacket off that everyone might admire his "swans", a photo of the Evil Lesbian and me taken under the sign for the ladies looking skeptical about being labeled as such, and I will never be able to forget the nose rape because, seriously, what the fuck, Booth?

The following evening, Sulu and I got the all clear signal from our darling Steve and drove out to visit him in his pub. Steve's pub is a mostly laid back comfortable joint in Luton filled with an assortment of characters and as such I did not wear vinyl trousers. I managed to draw attention to myself anyway, though, as no matter how hard I try to blend in over there, my accent makes me stand out, particularly in Luton which is not known as an international tourist mecca. Several grumbly men at the bar asked me where I was from and when I told them I was from Chicago and on holiday, I was met with disbelieving stares and incredulous questions: "You're on holiday from Chicago, and you came to Luton?" I didn't of course, I was only there to see Steve, but they didn't seem to think a holiday in Hitchin was a whole lot more sensible either.

Steve had been warned in no uncertain terms that he was NOT to get me drunk because I had unspeakably filthy plans for the next day and absolutely could not be hungover. He decided it was best to get the serious drinking out of the way at the beginning of the evening. "You have to try this, it's awful," he said, pouring me a shot of something I could smell from across the room that tasted for all the world like battery acid that had been fermented and distilled in a bathtub, an accusation he neither confirmed nor denied. Sulu was driving, so he wrapped her shot in a bunch of plastic wrap so she could dissolve her tongue with it later when we'd gone home. I switched to my standard amaretto after I'd regained my ability to speak and breathe.

Apparently, St. Pats weekend wasn't over yet. After Sulu and I tried out our snake handling skills on the snake Steve keeps in the bar these days we were ready to go, but Steve insisted that we had to stay for a while as "something" was going to happen that we wouldn't want to miss. This something was Barry the Leprechaun. Nearest I can tell, Barry the Leprechaun is just a drunk Irishman named Barry who had happened upon some green velvet trousers and a matching jacket in a thrift store which he bought for £10 and decided to pair said outfit with an outrageous wig and head to the pub. Barry had just returned from a rather long stint in Germany, so, already in his cups, he spent the evening talking shit and counting in German or occasionally slipping into a German accent and arguing with Steve over the value of foreign currency. Steve watched in wonder and amusement whilst Sulu and I spent the better part of two hours alternately taking the piss out of him. "I can't even see you tagging each other," he told us. "I don't know how you two know when it's time to switch." When we'd had our fill of that, we finally got up to say our goodbyes. Barry hugged me entirely too long and I eventually had to say "Barry, please sit down before you fall down." I hugged Steve goodbye without breaking his neck (he thinks I hug too hard, I think he should shut up and take it like a man) and demanded that he go to the Double Down Saloon in Vegas and drink the ass juice as if there were some chance of him giving that adventure a miss. He went, of course, and even tried the bacon martini because he does that sort of thing.

Rebirth of Slick (Beverages, That Is)

Last night I went to Tai's because the comic was in town and because we would be in St. Louis on Thursday and therefore not at Tai's. And I got some of the best news I've had in a long time.

Back in the day not so long ago, there was a Star Trek museum inside the Las Vegas Hilton. It was filled with trekness like model ships hanging from the ceiling, people dressed and in character as different species from the show (a borg once asked me if I required "photo-replication" before posing for a picture with me) and, most importantly, Quark's Bar. The reason why Quark's Bar was so important was because it was home to the greatest mixed drink of all time: the Warp Core Breach. It came in an orb as big as your head, bubbled and foamed from the dry ice in it, tasted like love and rainbows and the best sex you ever had and was notorious for getting the Tai's crew fucked up enough to dance in the taxi line and then threaten the life of the driver (ok, both of those were MrSteve, but really it could have been anyone). For many of us* it was half the point of going to Las Vegas in the first place. You can view a fuzzy video of a bunch of not very entertaining guys drinking the smaller sized one here.

But then tragedy struck - the Star Trek museum closed and it took Quark's Bar and our beloved Warp Core Breach with it. There was much rending of garments and gnashing of teeth. I feared one of the greatest chapters in my life was over and gone for good.

So what's my wonderful news? Big Charlie, a connoisseur of the Warp Core Breach and one who imbibed it in astonishing volumes, has spent the last year or so since the museum closed experimenting and has finally perfected the recipe for the Warp Core Breach. He doesn't have any dry ice, but I suspect I can provide my own for this momentous event: the Warp Core Breach Resurrection.

Thank you Charlie, thank you!

*Me.

What Happens in Vegas Gets Blogged on the Internets

I've just come back from Las Vegas and I have to say, I am more than a little bit shell shocked. Now, I've been to Vegas before, a number of times actually, and other than the propensity for middle-aged women to don velour pant suits for the duration of their trip (Seriously, what is the deal with this?) I have a pretty good understanding of the place. This ain't my first rodeo. But I saw more strange things in one day than most people see in a year. Snow notwithstanding, I was relieved to come home.

The purpose of the trip was to see Social Distortion and Mitch Fatel. Mitch Fatel didn't happen due to his not showing up, but despite the illness of Mike Mess, Social D performed at the House of Blues as scheduled. Let me just say that HOB Vegas is lame. The bartender and I were forced to surrender our studded belts because they weren't allowed. I am not certain what damage security thought we were planning to cause, but I can assure you, our only goal with them was to hold up our pants. I found it interesting that we couldn't wear our belts inside, but that a kid with a broken leg on crutches was allowed, not just into the show, but into the pit. Sure enough, we later saw him being carried out by security screaming in agony because he'd gotten hurt in the pit. After paying $7 each (!) for a freakin' Coors Light, we got into a conversation with a couple of girls (who were wearing the same kind of studded belts that we were told to check). It was during this conversation that a kid came stumbling by us in a gigantic parka. He was obviously impaired as evidenced by his erratic gait, but as he passed on his way to the pit we were left in no doubt. We all watched in horror as Parka barfed into his beer cup....and then drank from it.

This was merely the icing (or vomit I guess) on the cake for the day. We happened to arrive on the day of the Las Vegas Marathon. As such there were myriads of people wandering around with what appeared to be giant pieces of aluminum foil. I am sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, like that it reflects the sun away from you keeping you cool, or possibly gives you super powers. But anywhore, as the bartender and I sat in traffic with our guide after a lovely lunch at Fatburger, we saw a bum laying underneath one of the giant foil thingies in the middle of the sidewalk. At first glance he appeared to be sleeping. On closer inspection, however, there seemed to be some movement occurring underneath his shiny blanket. I also noticed that his left hand seemed to be jammed pretty far down his pants. A gust of wind blew the blanket up and that's when we all simultaneously realized that the guy was masturbating right there on the sidewalk. From the backseat, I was the only one who had a clear shot of his head, and let me say he was sporting quite the impressive "O" face. The bartender immediately began calling everyone he knew. For my part I fired off a text message: "Ah Las Vegas...where you can watch a bum jerk off right in the middle of the street. Which I just did." I finished just as he did, I assume based on him extracting his hand from his pants and rolling over on his side for a nice post-monkey spankin nap.

Later in the trip I drank some ass juice at Double Down and bought a Christmas CD there featuring songs like "Santa Was a Cross Dressing Nazi", "Imo Shoot Me a Reindeer" and "Santa Blow Me".

But the masturbating bum...yeah. Just....yeah.

The Obligatory Holiday Recap

Well hello there, internet friends. Long time no write.

Despite the best efforts of the "kids" of my family (you all should have co-ordinated your efforts, It still wouldn't have worked but it probably would have been really entertaining) I spent my Christmas with the bartenders family in Galena this year instead of going to Cleveland. This worked out very well, because I can't get homemade swedish meatballs in Cleveland, and no one in my family is the crazy cat lady so I wouldn't have gotten to play with a half dozen kittens that were so cute I almost threw up on them. Then again, if I'd gone to Cleveland I wouldn't have been covered in cat hair, and also my dad's house doesn't smell like ammonia.

The bartender was born on Christmas Eve, so I baked him a cake with the Blackhawks logo on it (because I am friggin awesome) which we took with us to Galena that night. He decided, somewhat arbitrarily and with no basis whatsoever in reality, that we would be celebrating his 24th birthday, which magically transformed him into being younger than me for a day. We hung out at his sister's townhouse for a while, before retiring to our hotel to watch football. Alcohol was consumed, cheese was heated up at 2 in the morning and consumed on tortilla chips. I think he had a pretty good fake 24th birthday.

I got a lot of great gifts. My parents had sent me a huge box of stuff, including a couple of new nativities for my collection and a cute but weird stuffed lamb that had a card claiming it had slept on top of the baby Jesus in the manger to keep him warm. I found that unlikely because it seems like if you put a sheep on top of a baby the kid would suffocate, but then again I wasn't there. The bartender's sister and her girlfriend bought me an amber necklace when they were in Scotland. And the bartender broke from his highly cultivated "you are not so special and you annoy me" attitude and surprised me with airline tickets to Las Vegas for New Year's.

As far as New Year's goes, Las Vegas is the new New York. About 3 million people come into town for it. The cost of a hotel room quadruples. They shut down the strip at 5:00 so they can fill the street with people who will then watch a spectacular fireworks show at the stroke of midnight.

The bartender and I had gone to dinner with the owner et al. for his birthday at Japanais. While this seemed like a good idea at the time, we were clear on the other end of the strip from where we wanted to be, which was on top of Mandalay Bay at the Foundation Room, where we had been invited to watch the fireworks with the bartender's good friend whom I shall call His Royal Awesomeness because he fills me with awe. (And booze.) With the strip being shut down, and the blisters I had acquired walking to dinner, we were going to have a hard time making it back in time. Actually, as it turned out, it would be impossible to get back in time, because by 11:00 the street was so packed with people it was impossible to cross.

As much as I enjoy visiting Las Vegas, it is a Mecca for stupid asses. No one could figure out how to board a tram, look in the direction they were walking, or keep themselves from blocking foot traffic. As we stood trapped in the middle of the street, surrounded by drunk frat boys chanting "Tits! Tits!" at girls who were clearly not drunk enough to take their shirts off, the bartender observed that people seemed even more retarded than normal, and concluded that Los Angeles had thrown up on us.

We spent the next few days in the sports book watching some FANTASTIC (Fiesta) and some atrocious (Orange) bowl games, plus a bit of hockey. We also eventually stopped up at the Foundation Room where some girl hit on me. Only girls hit on me now. Boys don't any more. I don't know what that's about. We left without anyone else hitting on me, which was very disappointing because one of my main goals for this Vegas trip was to get some ass. Other than that the trip was pretty uneventful - just the usual "go to Fatburger" thing, the usual "drink with His Royal Awesomeness and get extremely hammered" thing and the subsequent "Amber and the bartender get in a huge argument on the last day" thing.

Next up: Amberance's Super Duper Fabulous 29th Birthday extravaganza! which is likely to consist of going to Tai's and getting all crazy, like flailing my arms around and demanding everyone pay attention to me or drinking four ciders instead of three. So pretty much exactly like what I do every week, except that I'm going to make everyone sing to me.

I am Moving Somewhere South and/or West of Here

It was 32 degrees this morning, and it felt like a freakin' heat wave. I'm hoping it warms up further and melts the ice on my stairs so I can stop almost killing myself every time I leave or come home.

The owner is in Las Vegas and had the audacity to call me last night and complain about the weather. "It's cold here!" he said.
"No, it is not. It's cold here."
"No, I mean it's cold for Vegas. It got down to 40 degrees last night."
"It's a desert, ass, of course it's cold at night. There's hardly any moisture in the air, so they can't hold their heat overnight."
"Whatever. But I'm telling you it's cold here."
"And I'm telling you that during the day today, it was like 20 degrees."
"Oh, it was 65 during the day here."
"I hate you."

Hot Off The Press

As I suspected, we (that is, the bartender and I) were recently informed that Fuckwit did indeed commit futher infractions by grabbing the asses of girls he did not know, for which he was kicked out of the Foundation Room. Good going, Ace.

Viva Las Vegas

So I’m back from Vegas. I started writing this righteously long post and then realized it was going to be interesting to no one except me and possibly the bartender, so I’m scrapping that and going with the bulleted highlight format instead.

• People, I’m sorry, but what the FUCK is up with the heat out there? 107? You have got to be kidding me. And the wind? Not the nice cooling breeze you get here in the great lakes region. Oh no. Just super hot air blowing you in the face and drying out your contact lenses. The second day some woman said to me “It’s cooler than yesterday!” It was 104. How can you tell the difference between 107 and 104?
• Here’s the lone issue I have with having pink and blue hair: it’s like an open invitation for strangers to talk to you. Everywhere I went it was “Cool hair!” “I love your hair!” “Your hair is so awesome!” Seriously, at least 60 people I didn’t know came up to talk to me, minimum. The bartender suggested there should be an over/under line on how many strangers were going to comment on my hair each day. At the Foundation Room one night, a girl came running up to me screaming. “OH MY GOD! Look at your hair! That is the best thing I have ever seen! Wow! You guys, come and look at her hair. OH MY GOD, AND YOUR DRESS! This is the greatest dress ever! Is this how you dress EVERY DAY? (By now she has a hold of both my arms which she is squeezing in a death grip. Her face is two inches from mine.) You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life. I have to get a picture with you!” At which point the owner, helpful as ever offered to take a picture of both of us. Some random guy got in it too and I was smashed in between two total strangers posing for a picture, after which she kissed me and had to literally be dragged away by the arm by one of her (very embarrassed) friends.
• Also about my hair: the owner took up calling me Sno-Cone. Cone for short.
• I ate at Fatburger twice in the same day. That’s right, two fatburgers and two milkshakes all in the same day. Holla.
• The M&M store is so super cool I can’t even tell you. They have these huge columns of M&Ms in every color you can think of all along the back wall. I made a bag of scarlet and grey ones for Michigan Bouncer (who said “I’m gonna eat ‘em just like Michigan’s gonna eat the Buckeyes this year!”) and the bartender made a rainbow bag for Manny. I bought myself a new puzzle, but I can’t put it together because Kristen keeps sitting on the pieces.
• A tally of Fuckwit’s fuck ups for the weekend: (1) could not meet us at the M&M store because he couldn’t find it, despite the GIANT M&M right out front; (2) became incensed when he learned he’d have to pay for his own lunch, since he’d just assumed the owner would buy lunch for 15 fucking people just for fun; managed to offend every single person in a 20 foot radius at he Foundation Room by calling the girls bitches (3), making racial comments to our Mexican friend (4), and to the manager (5); was charged for room damage for puking on the floor (6) and the comforter (7). I’m sure there will be more; these are just the stories I’ve heard so far.
• The Double Down Saloon is the most awesome thing I’ve seen in Vegas yet. It’s the epitome of a punk rock bar. The jukebox is stacked, STACKED with punk music from the classics to the brand new to the obscure. The walls are covered in all manner of graffiti. There are signs hung up all over the place. One reads “House rule: You puke, YOU clean it!” Another advertises bacon martinis for $5. And another one announces this effed up “special”: “Ass Juice! $3 or 3 for $11!” I asked how many people fall for that and apparently it’s quite a few. I also asked what ass juice is made out of, but they wouldn’t tell me. I asked what a bacon martini was and I was presented with a bottle of vodka that had strips of bacon floating around in it. Not even kidding. After that I was glad they didn’t tell me how they make ass juice.
• “I STILL LOVE YOUR HAIR!” I heard someone shout while waiting to board the plane at the airport. I turned around to see the crazy girl who had molested me the night before walking past me, grinning and waving.

Fear and Drinking in Las Vegas

Hi. I'm back. From Vegas.

As it turns out, what happens in Vegas actually DOESN'T stay in Vegas and the reason for this is that I have a blog. The trip was ostensibly for the Tai's Til 4 family of employees and patrons to attend the bar and restaurant show which was in town. The real reason was for us all to get very very drunk and gamble a lot. I've been trying to write this post for 3 days now, but for some reason these people keep giving me work to do. So instead of the original post I was going to write that would have taken you six days to read, I now present the abridged version:

• The bartender, who was my roommate for the trip, and I headed over to Paris the first day to sit in the sports book. I am not a gambler myself, so I was basically there just to watch television. The bartender finds this "not gambling" thing completely foreign and set out trying to convert me by teaching me how to read stat sheets. He might have had a better chance if he hadn't started the lesson with, "Hey math geek, check this out."
• Later that evening, we traipsed over to New York New York and met MrSteve for drinks at the Irish bar. We proceeded to get very drunk. Also, I spent a lot of time staring at our bartender, whose nametag said he was called Lee, because he was the most beautiful boy I have ever seen. In our drunk, the three of us decided the best course of action would be to all stand near the bar, pull out our phones, and start texting people we left in Chicago, where it was approximately 3 a.m. It seems we texted Brandon a few times, which he was very pleased about given that he had to get up in the morning for his first day at a new job. Also, all three of us sent a barrage of messages to Big Charlie, who was also drunk. A good time was had by all.
• The second day, MrSteve and I decide it's time to hit the Star Trek Museum. This was by far the thing I was most looking forward to in Vegas, because I am a huge geek. Luckily, MrSteve also likes to get his geek on so I had a partner. There are two rides at the museum. The first one we went on was Klingon Encounter, where I got to stand on the bridge of the Enterprise, somewhere near the tactical station (hello, NERD!). Somehow Steve and I managed to lose each other in the gift shop after the first ride, and I ended up going on the second ride by myself. This was a mistake because I had no one to grab onto when the Borg started jumping out from behind things and dragging people away to be assimilated. I assure you, it was one of the most frightening experiences of my life.
• Afterwards, MrSteve and I decide to hit up Quark's Bar for an alcoholic beverage. This beverage is called a Warp Core Breach. It is served with dry ice in it so that it smokes and bubbles, and it tastes like purple. While enjoying this, a very drunk woman began trying to start a very loud an incoherent conversation with us. Eventually we moved down to sit closer to her and her husband. Their names were Don and Matilda (I know there's a Waltzing Matilda joke in there somewhere, but I just can't find it) and they were at the Star Trek museum celebrating their 21st wedding anniversary. Don was very nice and normal, was a 49ers fan and talked football with me for some time, while MrSteve was dragged by Matilda into a conversation I'm not entirely sure he needed to be there for. All was well until suddenly I found Matilda behind me, playing with my hair and stroking my neck. Much as I enjoy people playing with my hair, it's kind of creepy when total strangers do it, and I was more than a little freaked out.
• That night, a large group of us went over to The Foundation Room for some fun and vodka. We were waiting for a few late comers to show up when the body came over to the bartender and me and told us he'd taken some new pictures on his phone he wanted to show us. Apparently he'd gone out and hooked up with not one, but two different women his first night in Vegas. Which we didn't know when he came walking up to us and so we were totally unprepared for his pictures. We both stood with our mouths hanging open as the body narrated his little slide show: "This is a picture of her tits, and this is a picture of her sucking my dick, and this is a picture of me sticking it in her ass..." He looked at us for our approval of his two conquests, but we were a little bit freaked out. All the bartender could manage was "I can't believe I just saw your dick."
• The next day I woke up with a fever and a sore throat, because that is exactly what I should have been expecting on my first real vacation in 10 years. Needless to say I was pretty upset, though not as upset as the bartender was. We had discovered the day before when Steve and I went to Star Trek that I was the bartenders lucky charm. Whenever I was standing next to him he won, and whenever I was somewhere else he lost. He had taken to dragging me around with him to all his favorite slot machines and rubbing my head for luck. Sure enough he lost that day.
• The bartender was waiting for a phone call from his friend who was driving us to the airport on our last day. When the phone call came he had just gotten out of the shower and came running out of the bathroom stark raving naked to answer it. This made me extremely happy because I think he should be naked all the time. Later when he was dressed he asked me if I was feeling any better. I told him it should be obvious that I wasn't by the fact that I didn't attack him when he was running around all nekkid, which he agreed was a good point.
• Ever gotten on a plane when you're sick? Don't. It sucks about seven kinds of ass. It sucks about 700 kinds of ass when you're sick and sitting next to Fatty McGee who is taking up half your seat and can't seem to sit still, and also you're in an aisle seat and are prone to motion sickness and really really need to be by a window, and also you want to try to sleep but four other people on the plane are snoring like it's their job, and also there's so much turbulence that you're sure the plane is going to fall right out if the sky.

So those are the highlights (and lowlights) of Amberance Goes to Vegas 2006. Stay tuned for Amberance Goes to Florida in May and Football Season: Vegas Strikes Back sometime in the fall.