The Blackout Diaries:
Chapter 1: Too Close for Missiles
By Woody Wood
June 5, 2012
Welcome to the newest topic in the greater TSDB community/webisphere, where sports, alcohol, and other fun filled elements gather in the hopes of ultimately entertaining you, America. Or at least the poor bastards who get the unique life experience of witnessing these debacles. Every society, no matter how big or small, is privileged to have a partying fool among the ranks of more-or-less upstanding individuals. As the universe has seen fit I am one of these remarkable folks: without boundaries, passionate, heavily intoxicated, two timing, loud, obnoxious, crude, unapologetic, amongst a litany of other colorful terms not so suitable for children. Always meaning well - my actions outside of the workplace fall somewhere in the realm between Hank Moody philandering and Tyrion Lannister debauchery with a slight dash of Terence McKenna to weird things up, all this in the foreground of Bill Hicks/Carl Sagan mental foundation – I ultimately end of causing some chaos, pain, or heartbreak on top of the powerful laughter soundtrack. That said I present to you the first chapter of The Blackout Diaries.
Just like athletes in the postseason I take my game to another level come playoffs. Leave the guns at home cause we’re drinking missiles today.
The plan was simple enough when the day began; walk the two miles from home to the bar, watch the games, catch a cab for home, and write a recap of the Kings/Devils and Spurs/Thunder. By the time I had gathered up Mike and AK for our leisurely stroll my system was primed with a pull from the flask to compliment my west coast turnaround and panama red. Rocking my double jersey combo (Kings over Spurs) I was elated to have nary a care in the world aside from making it to the bar. 45 minutes and several quasi hilarious ramblings later we walked in the door to find my buddies were already posted up inside with a ample screen views from the corner table. Parched from the journey I made the disastrous mistake of ordering a Mexican Bulldog and convincing myself that I should drink three of them before my night was done. Please tell me you see the writing on the wall.
At long last coverage of the Kings game begins at 5:00 following the torturous task of enduring women’s softball. Cheers erupt from all parts of the establishment as the puck is dropped – at the same time Spurs/Thunder fires up on the remaining televisions to the joy of my travelling companions. The Saturday doubleheader I’ve been waiting all week for is under way. The Devils are aggressive from the start pounding the rubber deep inside the Kings zone only to find Jonathan Quick is a solid defense preventing their finishing of the job. For nearly eight minutes this goes on until the entire New Jersey team forgot Drew Doughty is quite capable of scoring as five Devils allow him to skate from coast to coast and rip a beauty of a shot past Brodeur. 1-0. I’m onto bulldog two and standing on my chair. Meanwhile on the hardwood the teams are playing towards a tie of 26 after one quarter. Chips and queso have arrived. Life is quite awesome in this moment.
Nothing exciting will happen on the ice until the third period and the second quarter sees the Thunder have a small explosion to seize a 12 point lead at halftime. Bulldog number two was accompanied by chilled shots of Patron and the arrival of more friends to join in on the antics. AK warned me I would be getting into trouble before the night was over and I replied, “shut up woman.” Anytime I use that phrase with her I’m never quite sure exactly what will happen but always aware that my belligerent state is not going away until I’m passed out somewhere, similar to the Hof if you will.
If your children are still reading you might consider handing them over to the state.
“You’d fuck a snake if someone held its head down,” is a phrase a dear friend once eloquently constructed to elaborate on my “choices” in women. I know what you’re thinking and yes I do maintain a sense of pride in reflecting that statement. I don’t know how many women I’ve slept with as more often than not my mind is in an alcoholic haze. Big or small, beautiful or bag worthy, young and old(er). There is approximately an 11 percent chance that in this great land of ours a little Woody is running around (I dread phone calls from unknown numbers and loud knocks on the front door). Hopefully you have the clear picture in your mind that I am a whore.
Sitting outside was this pretty young woman who caught my hazy whacked out eyes. In truth this is the point of the afternoon when I start forgetting important details, and to be quite honest several events entirely. Yet through some charming maneuvers I made my way to her side striking up what could only have been immensely captivating conversation. Call it my diminishing state of being but I assumed everything was going well, so much so that within a few minutes I had already presented the lucrative offer of coming back to my place. Just a few wins and getting laid were all that separated me from a perfect day. Then there is Bulldog number three.
Time has ceased to exist by the time I make it back to my table. To my supreme knowledge I have become the life of the party, the lovable drunk uncle you can’t get enough of at family reunions, while the only souring of the festivities has been the Ryan Carter tying the game at 1-1 and the Spurs continue to trail after three quarters. I’m getting louder with every passing second that removes me further from reality when suddenly I admit to myself that watching two games is a feat I can no longer maintain. My focus goes to the nearest tele, Kings game is on. Good luck Spurs, hope you can pull this off but I’ve got Cup finals to watch and it’s going to sudden death overtime. Bonus hockey! AK begins to insult me for not finishing number three, yet another task I must admit defeat. My perfect day is lost as the Spurs fall 109-103, I’ve forgotten completely about the girl, and haven’t a clue where I am.
Events move quickly once Jeff Carter wins it for the Kings in the first OT. I have no recollection of the goal being scored, what I may or may not have done though I imagine only happy things, paying part of the several hundred dollar bill, and I vaguely remember being thrown out of the bathroom following a punch to the gut which led to some vomiting outside of the bathroom. At this moment I hear a girl eek “Ewww gross,” and realize I may have overstayed my welcome. Must get home. Kings won! Recaps need writing and I’m in no position to do anything else but for some insane reason I am convinced an article will be ever so easy to do. Fortunately Mike will see to it we make it home as he is nowhere near the altered state I’ve been residing in. If the sun is sober, place my caretaker in the vicinity of Jupiter while I huff methane somewhere in the Kuiper belt chasing down Voyager 1. Whether I walked out on my own or was thrown out remains a mystery to me.
The next thing I know we’re wheels up and I haven’t an idea of who is in the car with me. However this doesn’t matter at all as the safety of home is mere minutes away. But like any good movie, the hero gets blindsided with another terrible event. Deep inside the sack of meat my soul inhabits, Bulldogs 1-3 are at war with the chips, queso, and tequila from earlier in the evening. Again, my memory is FUBAR so you’d have to ask the cabbie just exactly where I redecorated his ride and city streets but I can tell you that a fair amount wound up on my sleeve. Between two pumps of my stomach I flash back to the Great Bikini’s Queso Disaster of 2008 – a day that ended rather horribly after proposing to a scantily clad waitress – and my final moment of reason for the night is realized: this will end badly. I believe a few tears were shed as my wardrobe malfunction set in while Mike angrily yelled at the cabbie. Yep, we’ve lost all decency but are still enjoying ourselves as he speeds away. Apparently the rest of society, amplifying the necessity of making it home quickly, doesn’t appreciate our shenanigans. Everything is black now.
I awake frenzied at 6:08 in the morning.
On top of my sheets and stripped down to my boxers I find my phone under the pillow with clothes littered around the room. At least I had the good sense to undress before bed; certainly everything is going to be okay. I take a deep breath, my first mistake of the day as the familiar scent of a frat house on Saturday morning permeates my nasal cavity. Rolling over I notice the organic additions to my jersey and reality quickly sets in: mother of god what have I done this time? Whereas my room is relatively tame the bathroom appears to be the aftermath of what I presume was a bad peyote trip. Searching my phone for clues I discover the last usage of it had been for the Kings box score and several text messages and phone calls I won’t dare try to explain. A looming sensation of rock bottom began to hang above me as I lay back down and tried to make sense of the whole damn saga, to no avail. Really, how bad could it all have been? Around nine I mustered the strength to make coffee as Mike emerged from his room, surprised to see me alive as a functioning human being. “Yes my friend I have returned from outer space. And I hit it off with a girl, think it went well.”
“I wouldn’t say so. She was a five at best, buddy, don’t know what you were thinking. At least we laughed about it.”
“How were her boobs?” I asked, hoping for a little bit of redemption.
“Proportional to her gut.”
And so it goes. Don’t remember the games, destroyed my internal systems again, hit on bland women, lost the drinking bet, hurled up all I could take down, vandalized my bathroom, insulted friends and strangers alike, spent a large sum of cash, and failed to write a good doubleheader recap. In short I accomplished nothing save for two things: providing some hilarity for society and coming to the conclusion that for playoff games the action is too close for missiles – I’m switching to guns.
**If you were part of this experience, please help a man out and shed some light on the night. Until the next blackout….**