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A Thanksgiving Pub Crawl
It’s the night before Thanksgiving, which is apparently a big drinking night in places other than college towns. I think it has something to do with people getting away from their family members. GB comes up with a brilliant idea. Let’s go out like we always do, but let’s hit more bars and call it a pub crawl. Deeeelightful!
Bar 1: Molotov
Time: 7:15 p.m.
Drunk: Just Getting Started: Threat Level Low.
I catch up with the boys and girls at Molotov for a little West Sixth throw back fun. And indeed we do have a throw back person in attendance—it’s Gringo Especial! It turns out ol Gringo has tied the knot at some point in the last few years—I haven’t really seen him around so I don’t know when!—and his lovely wife is also there, immediately harassing El Dilector. I like this a lot.
She tells El D she saw him from afar. “You saw my mannerisms from afar?” El D says, delighted that women can spot him sitting on a balcony as they walk by on the street below.
“No, I saw your lack of manners from afar,” she answers.
He notes this fact and introduces me. She promptly responds, “That’s your sister? What happened to you?”
She is now completely endeared to me.
She of course wants to know what’s going on with my notebook, and I explain that I fancy myself a writer.
“You’re a writer. Unless you’re an advertising copywriter and then you’re just a
whore.”
“Which she was!” El Dilector screams, and then frowns. “Wait, I’m not sure what your job was before. It had something to do with advertising.”
GB is discussing an upcoming costume party, and it has something to do with lumberjacks. MackTate’s girl Barilla says: “You could dress up like a penis.”
“That’s what I do every night,” El Dilector responds without missing a beat and simultaneously pouring the rest of my vodka tonic into his empty glass.
Bar 2: Dogwood
Time: 8:00 p.m.
Drunk: Working On It.
MackT and Barilla leave us at Dogwood while they go in search of food. The rest of the group orders a drink and then Bloke arrives. He’s been drinking for a while. Also apparently bathing in cologne. I give him a hard time about this but he is unaffected. Probably because he is always a hit with the ladies and gives his cologne full credit.
As we discuss where to go after this drink, GB reminds us to hurry up and finish said drinks. “This is a pub crawl, not a pub sit!”
El Dilector tries to come up with some sort of game in order to force us to drink. It goes something like this: The last one to finish a drink has to divvy up the rest of the drink between everyone else. Or something. We elect to just leave half-finished drinks all over downtown Austin.
Bar 3: Key Bar
Time: 8:25 p.m.
Drunk: Mild: Feeling Light-Headed and Kinda Stupid.
Key Bar is next on the list simply because it’s the closest bar on the same side of the street as Dogwood. It always makes me think we’re going to a key party and have to switch partners.
The bouncer squints at my ID. “How come I’m a year younger than you and I look ten years older than you?”
I shrug. “Moisturizer?”
It is at the swingers bar—I mean Key Bar—that someone brings me a fabulous pretty drink in a martini glass with the rest of the drink in a shaker AND…a popsicle in the martini glass. It’s the most awesome thing I have ever seen in my life. And I want a popsicle in every drink I have from now on.
I am halfway through the drink when El D grabs the popsicle stick and dips it in his vodka.
“You just snaked my popsicle, bitch!” I yell.
“I needed a little flava,” he explains.
I believe we are discussing Girlfriends Past and trying to recall the girl El Dilector broke up with on New Year’s Eve Eve (because he would never break up with someone on New Year’s EVE itself…that would be wrong) when I spy Bloke
French-exiting the bar.
“BLOKE IS LEAVING WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE!” I screech. (Somehow he later joins us again but I’m not clear on this whole process.)
El Dilector whips out his phone and leaves a long message in which he chastises Bloke for his behavior and ends thusly: “…Eff you! Okay. Call me tomorrow.”
Bar 4: DB’s
Time: 8:45 p.m.
Drunk: Things are Getting Dicey: Threat Level: Elevated.
Somehow after draining my delicious martini, I am supposed to go to this HORRIBLE place called DB’s. I don’t know what it really stands for, but I prefer calling it Dirty Bastard’s. It’s teeny and narrow and dark and claustrophobic. Have I mentioned I don’t love this bar?
Bloke has returned and he wants to know what I want to drink. “I don’t want to be here,” I whine. He says I have to order SOMETHING and then we can move on.
“Fine. I want flavored vodka. Strawberry vodka and Sprite,” I say.
Bloke shakes his head. “There is NO WAY THIS BAR has flavored vodka.”
I lean over the bar and ask the bartender for a strawberry vodka and Sprite. “Comin’ right up,” he says to me. I turn and look at Bloke with triumph. He is dumbfounded.
We hang out in the teensy booths and down our drinks. I share with the boys that my fingers smell like shallots, owing to the kitchen assistance I provide my mother earlier that day. The smell of shallots, because they are sort of like garlic, will stick to your fingers forever—sort of like garlic. This means I’m shoving my fingers near everyone’s nose and explaining this concept.
“I’m gay. I know what shallots are,” GB says.
“I know what shallots are too,” says Bloke.
“Yeah, because you’re British.”
Bar 5: Kung Fu Saloon
Time: 9 p.m.
Drunk: Stumbling: Threat Level: Guarded.
At Kung Fu, I sit at the bar with Bloke, GB and Cash. Cash promises to pay for the rounds at the next three bars. Sweet! I haven’t yet spent one dollar and it appears this trend will continue.
Someone suggests hitting up Fado’s—this is a pub crawl, after all—and we decide that’s where Bloke was adopted. Awwww. Isn’t that sweet?
Spring comes up to the bar and tells the bartendress she wants a shot. The bartendress says she knows just the thing: it’s called a Dragon Baby Yeah Baby. Spring and I look at each other, confused. We confirm the title. Yes, indeed, it’s a Dragon Baby Yeah Baby. WTF does that mean? Spring takes the shot and shrugs. Apparently it’s no clearer after taking said shot.
El Dilector wanders in next, points to the TV across the room and says with authority: “We don’t have a little Prince William wedding.” Then he walks away.
Bar 6: Hudson’s
Time: 9:27 p.m.
Drunk: Totally Confused: Threat Level: High.
Bro and I don’t know where Hudson’s is, and the group is walking waaaaaaaaay faster than we are. So we snag a pedicab and tell him he need to get to Hudson’s. He doesn’t know where it is either. Thus, all three of us whip out our phones and look it up. We get an address and proceed. One block later….seriously, like 15 feet….we are there. It’s the shortest pedicab ride in history.
All I have from here is this note: Pregnant El Dilector! I do not know what this means.
Oh, and a vanilla vodka and Coke. With a cherry. Yum!
Bar 7: Rain
Time: 10:01 p.m.
Drunk: Only Drinking Water: Threat Level: Guarded.
El Dilector decides to hit on Spring with this amazing line: “How do you exist on this earth?”
We leave him attempting that and head to the back patio, where I believe I don’t even try to drink anything alcoholic. Just water.
Text messages ensue from people across the table from me. Why aren’t we talking out loud? Oh, because we’re making fun of people. Proceed.
Bar 8: Fado
Time: 10:40 p.m.
Drunk: El Dilector’s Beer Goggles In Full Effect: Threat Level: Elevated.
You might note that we are only here for 25 minutes based on the time stamp for Oil Can’s below. However, we are at Fado long enough for the following: to run into a Girlfriend Past, to break a glass, for Bro to climb on Bloke’s back and be carried around, and for El Dilector to hit on two of the homeliest girls I have ever seen. He, of course, thinks they are the hottest girls ever.
Bar 9: Oil Can Harry’s
Time: 11:15 p.m.
Drunk: Shots! Shots! Shots! And Splintering: Threat Level: Severe.
This is where the group splinters. I’m pretty sure there are two rounds of shots here, in rapid succession.
I’m also pretty sure that El Dilector and Cash are gone—back to Molotov or some other bar—and then Spring informs Bro: “I’m done drinking. I’ve been going at it for twelve hours now.” An impressive showing, Spring. You’ve made us proud.
Bro and I stumble away, leaving GB and someone else (no, I don’t know who!—someone new without a nickname yet!) at Oil Can’s.
Bar 10: Lavaca Street
Time: 11:45 p.m.
Drunk: Recall Mixed: Threat Level: Severe Times Two.
There was some rumor people were coming here next, so Bro and I check it out. It is here where we walk up to a table where Bloke is sitting, look at him, nod in confirmation that is indeed where he has gone, and walk away. I have no idea why. We take a table near the window and proceed to discuss something in great detail. Whatever it is, we can only agree that we probably should not attempt said discussion while so inebriated.
Bar 11: Molotov
Time: 12:30 a.m.
Drunk: Full Circle: Return to Molotov: Threat Level: Severe Times Ten.
Bro and I find El D and Cash entertaining ladies at the bar.
El D tells Bro: “I find it inappropriate you are touching my sister.” This makes Bro and I laugh uproariously.
So we’ve hit eleven bars. Well, ten plus one twice. So is that eleven? I believe this is a brand new Thanksgiving tradition. Woohoo! And it’s time to head to Mom’s house in a few hours just a wee bit Next Day Drunk. Awwww yeah.
-Shakira 12.08.10
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