I had six graduation parties this past weekend, five of which were on one single night. Considering how much I drank, I have no idea how I made it out alive.
Fortunately, those five graduation parties were all in the same place. The graduates - my friends Adrienne, Val, Matt, Marlana and... umm... I can't remember the fifth person - all decided to have a joint celebration at Tango, the bar down the block from my house.
As I've mentioned recently, Tango has been closed for a couple of weeks because the new owners didn't have a liquor license. Well, it reopened on Tuesday. They added windows, which is cool, but they renamed it "JC Washington House." For those of you who don't know, JC Washington is the great, great, great grandson of George Washington, the greatest president of all time. Osama bin Laden would have died decades ago if Washington were still the U.S. President. Still though, it's a stupid name for a bar. We've all decided to keep calling this establishment "Tango" in protest.
The overall appearance isn't the only thing that's different about Tango. Several things stood out as I was scouring the place for Jerks of the Week content. For example, Tango/JC Washington House has a new customer...
Cornrow Cigarette Man:
Two seconds after I opened the door and walked into Tango, I was accosted a guy with cornrows. He stood out because he was the only person in the bar with cornrows. He was also the only black guy, but we're not supposed to recognize race because everyone is the same.
Cornrow Cigarette Man: Hey man, I saw you standing outside, talking to people.
Me: You sure? I just got here.
Cornrow Cigarette Man: Yeah man, I didn't want to be rude and interrupt your conversation...
Me: What conversation?
Cornrow Cigarette Man: Yeah man, you was talkin' to people and I didn't want to stop the conversation, but umm... can I borrow a cigarette?
Me: I don't smoke.
Cornrow Cigarette Man: Oh, OK, never mind.
What an a**hole. He completely lied about everything. He didn't see me talking outside because I wasn't. He was just trying to bum a cigarette off me. He would later accost several other people, telling them the same story - he saw them talking outside, and rather than interrupt, he waited to ask if they had a cigarette once they walked into the bar.
I don't get why Cornrow Cigarette Man didn't just walk across the street and buy cigarettes at Wawa. It's not like he didn't have the money because he bought alcohol and paid to play pool. Speaking of which, I finished up a game of pool when Cornrow Cigarette Man approached me again.
Cornrow Cigarette Man: Hey man, I saw you standing near the pool table, talking to people.
Me: I DON'T HAVE CIGARETTES!
Cornrow Cigarette Man: Naw man, I was going to ask you if you could watch this pool table for me. I want to play, but I gotta go to the bafroom.
Me: OK, I'll do it.
I don't know why I accepted. I was six beers into the night, so I was buzzed. It seemed like a reasonable request at the time. So, I just sat and guarded the pool table for 15 minutes. Eventually, two normal people walked over and set up the pool balls without even asking me if they could.
It had been 15 minutes, so I gave up. I figured that Cornrow Cigarette Man was dropping a massive deuce, but I spotted him talking to an annoyed-looking man in the corner. I doubt that guy had a cigarette for him, but at least his imaginary conversation wasn't interrupted.
Cornrow Cigarette Man has replaced Drunkest Woman Ever as the shadiest person at Tango, but a few things have remained the same. Most of the bartenders are back, including Hot Blond Bartender, otherwise known in my drunken gibberish as the Blondtender.
Blondtender asked me what I wanted for my first drink at the new JC Washington House. Before I told her, I congratulated her on being promoted to manager.
Blondtender: Wow, thanks! How does everyone know about this?
Me: It's all over the Internet.
I was joking at the time, but now it's true. Anyway, I ordered a Yuengling draft. I waited to pay and even held a $20 bill out for her to see, but she kindly said, "I got you."
Whoa. How did that happen? I thought about this and quickly came up with three possible explanations as to why she wouldn't charge me for beer:
1. She's madly in love with me and wants to have my 4-6 children.
2. She's not in love with me, but still wants to take advantage of me in naughty, naughty ways.
3. She reads Jerks of the Week and is happy about being an Internet celebrity.
Sadly, all three theories would be debunked by the end of the night. But I was happy about the possibilities at the time and left her a $4 tip.
I think there's a rule that says there must be a person who looks like John Lennon at every single bar. The John Lennon look-alike at Tango is just some dude who hangs out there every Friday night. I've never even spoken to him, but my sister did one time...
Sister: Hey, has anyone ever told you that you look like John Lennon!?
John Lennon: Yeah.
Sister: But you really look like John Lennon!
John Lennon: Yeah.
Sister: You know who John Lennon is, right?
John Lennon: Yeah.
I'd like to point out that John Lennon wasn't being rude. He was just taking after his idol, the real John Lennon, whose soul was crushed by that Asian succubus that he married. Had the real John Lennon not have been killed off, his final song would have been, "Yeah... yeah... yeah... yeah... yeah... yeah..." Sadly, that's more creative than some of today's music.
Anyway, I've never discussed John Lennon in Jerks of the Week because I've never really had much to say about him. Until now. In a bizarre sequence of events, John Lennon was the DJ at Tango on Friday night.
It was so weird. Why would a regular bar patron, a John Lennon look-alike, suddenly be the DJ? It reminded me of Saved by the Bell when Zach Morris*** was on the wrestling team one episode, and then he was captain of the basketball team in the next, and then he was on the swim team the next, and then he was the lead in the school play the next. The writers were just like, "Ah f*** continuity, we'll just give Zack Morris as many roles as possible to make our lives easier. Let's just hope no one notices."
That's what this felt like. John Lennon was just a regular dude at the bar last week, and now he was the DJ for no explicable reason. If the Saved by the Bell writers are behind this, he'll be a bartender next weekend and then the bouncer the weekend after that. I'm just hoping that he doesn't become BFFs with Cornrow Cigarette Man in a future episode because that would be incredibly annoying.
*** Side note: Two of my female cousins used to be in love with Mark-Paul Gosselaar back in the day. One evening, I convinced both of them that Gosselaar was a robot created by NBC to play a character named Zack Morris on Saved by the Bell. They were devastated that he wasn't human, but their misery was acceptable because I got some enjoyment out of tricking them. ***
I can't really tell you how well John Lennon DJed because I don't really pay attention to music at the bar. I concentrate on drinking instead. My next beer was a Shocktop. The Blondtender actually charged me for it, but gave me two tickets instead.
Me: What are these for?
Blondtender: They're for Nicki Minaj.
Me: OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG I WON I WON I WON TICKETS I WON OMG OMG I WON TICKETS YAY YAY YAY YAY YAY!!!
Sorry, I thought I was some stupid teenage girl calling into a radio station for a second there. I didn't actually yell that out. I was confused more than anything. Why did the Blondtender give me two tickets for Nicki Minaj? Was she trying to drop a hint that she likes me? Were the two tickets for us? And more importantly, would she take advantage of me before or after the concert?
Still perplexed, I went to the bathroom and then wandered over to my cousin Steve and former neighbor Melissa.
Me: Look what I got! Tickets for Nicki Minaj!
Steve: Where'd you get them? From the bathroom? Are they giving out tickets to Nicki Minaj in the bathroom?
Me: No, the Blondtender gave them to me! I don't even know who Nicki Minaj is.
Sort of true. I've heard Nicki Minaj mentioned on the radio, but if, say, Rosie O'Donnell threatened to eat Earth unless I could name one Nicki Minaj song, we'd all be spending eternity in the belly of the beast.
Melissa: You're lucky, I want to go to so many concerts this summer.
Me: Really? I've never been to a concert.
Steve: What? You've never been to a concert?
Me: No. I don't really like music.
Steve: You don't like music? What the hell does that mean? That's like saying you don't like air.
Music is OK; I'm just not a huge fan of anything. I was excited about going to see Nicki Minaj though because I'd be able to take the Blondtender. Unfortunately, that was not meant to be. The tickets, as I quickly learned from my Asian friend Not Asian Guy***, were not for Nicki Minaj; they were for a raffle to see who would win tickets to a Nicki Minaj concert. The Blondtender gave me two tickets because I ordered two drinks at that point in the night. I guess she's not in love with me after all.
*** Side note: Not Asian Guy was frustrated that he was told by several Jewish girls at the bar that they were looking just for Jewish men. I decided then that I would reintroduce Not Asian Guy with the last name of "Goldstein," which quickly turned into "Goldensteinrosensilver." This ploy did not deceive anyone into thinking he was Jewish, even when I told them that I've seen him read the menorah and spin the yamaka (correct spelling) on Passover. ***
Remember when I revealed that all three theories about the Blondtender were debunked? Well, I discovered she wasn't in love with me because she would have cheated and had me win both Nicki Minaj raffle tickets, but what about being thrilled to be an Internet celebrity?
I was sitting in a chair later in the night when the male bartender who reads Jerks of the Week approached me and yelled over John Lennon's music, "Let's talk about your bong!"
Bong? I have a bong? I've never mentioned that.
Me: What? Bong?
Male Bartender: NO! I SAID LET'S TALK ABOUT YOUR THONG!
Me: Not that there's anything wr... wait, I don't have a thong.
Male Bartender: NO! I SAID LET'S TALK ABOUT YOUR BLOG!
Oh. It never occurred to me that he would say "blog" because this technically is a Web site; not a blog. Male Bartender then yelled toward Blondtender.
Male Bartender: HEY THERE'S A BLOG ABOUT YOU!
Blondtender: My thong?
Male Bartender: NO, THERE'S A BLOG ABOUT YOU!
Blondtender: What? Who's blogging about me?
Fortunately, Male Bartender didn't answer. I should have known better than to think that Blondtender was aware about her Internet celebrity status. Everyone knows that hot chicks don't know how to use the Internet, so how could she possibly know that she's a featured character in Jerks of the Week?
That raises the question - why did she give me a free beer at the beginning of the night? I guess I'll never know.
Two Hot Chicks, the Cockenabler and 36 Cents:
I mentioned last week that Jess' friend Pat brought two girls to my house to celebrate St. Stalin's Day. One was a blonde and the other was a redhead. They were hot, but both appeared to be with dudes. Things apparently changed in a week.
Prior to Friday night, I was told that Hot Blonde asked about me during the week. Unfortunately, she was sitting next to the same guy she was with at my house, so I couldn't game her. I don't know if I heard this correctly because I was pretty drunk by the end of the night, plus my ears were bleeding from John Lennon's music, but I swear some guy told me that he overheard that the dude she was with creepily drove by her house a dozen times that week.
And she's into him? I must have been imagining this information because what hot chick in her right mind would be interested in a creepy stalker like that? What else does this guy do? Does he write her love poems with letters cut out from magazines and newspapers? Does he kidnap young children and toss them into his dungeon? If so, I recommend that all men start doing this so we can game hot chicks. I wonder how many kidnapped children it'll take to impress Blondtender. Hmm...
At any rate, my friend Body Burners, who learned that Hot Blonde was interested in Kidnapper, but didn't want to fully commit to him, jokingly flirted with her for a while and then brought up a good point:
Body Burners: So, I've been flirting with you for a while now. Will you go home with me?
Hot Blonde: No.
Body Burners: And why not?
Hot Blonde: Because I'm into Kidnapper.
Body Burners: So, if you're into Kidnapper, why don't you be with Kidnapper?
Kidnapper's friend overheard the "Will you go home with me?" sentence and told Kidnapper about it. Kidnapper, as Body Burners later learned, was very angry about that. Fortunately, Body Burners is 6-foot-2, 250 pounds, by his own admission, and Kidnapper only picks on people 4-foot-6 or shorter.
Nothing happened, but Body Burners seemed distraught over this. "I tried to help him out, and he's angry at me. I was the opposite of a cockblocker. I was a cockenabler."
Meanwhile, Hot Redhead was with Pat last week, and they were seemingly close at the beginning of the night. That's why I was confused when Body Burners approached me with the following news:
Body Burners: You should totally game Hot Redhead.
Me: But she's with Pat.
Body Burners: Not anymore.
Me: What? They were together at the beginning of the night. When'd they break up, like five minutes ago?
Body Burners: Actually, yeah, I think so.
Whoa. I drunkenly decided to take Body Burners' advice. It's not like I've known Pat for many years or anything. I met him three times, so while he seems like a cool guy, I didn't feel bad going after Hot Redhead instantly. Maybe if I knew Pat for a few years, I would have waited 30 minutes or so, but that wasn't the case.
I approached Hot Redhead with a beer and ice cream cake in my hands. Adrienne gave me the piece of ice cream cake, and while I was happy about that, it was difficult to balance the two in my drunken state. Hot Redhead saw this and asked me if I wanted her to hold my beer. It was then that I knew I had met my dream woman.
I'm not really sure what Hot Redhead and I talked about for the next 15 minutes, but the conversation went something like this:
I'm not sure why, but Hot Redhead seemed disgusted with me after that. I bought her a rum and coke - and received two more Nicki Minaj raffle tickets in the process - but this didn't help. In a last-ditch effort to help me game one of the girls, Body Burners offered them something to come back to my house along with several other people for an after-party.
Body Burners: Come back to Walt's house! I'll give you 35 cents that I found on the ground!
Hot Redhead: Nah, that's OK, I want to hang out with my brother, who goes back to Georgia after this weekend.
Body Burners: Oh, come on. No, wait, I forgot I found a penny too. I'll give you 36 cents!
Hot Blonde: That's worse than 35 cents! I don't want a penny!
It was a valiant effort, but Body Burners could not help me convince them to come to my after-party. Oh, and yeah, I'd make a joke about Not Asian Guy Goldensteinrosensilver accepting Body Burners' offer for the 36 cents, but that might be considered racist.
New Niece and Nephew:
I mentioned that I had six graduation parties this past weekend. The sixth one was on Saturday night at a Chinese restaurant in honor of my cousin Megan, who just finished up at Penn State.
It was fun reminiscing about State College. We talked about our favorite bars and how we both went out four nights per week because we stacked all of our classes on Tuesday and Thursday. I miss Penn State. I spent so many nights puking in the streets after hours of drinking. It was a glorious six years. I'll definitely have details in my upcoming book, Jerks on My Floor.
The other interesting aspect about this sixth and final graduation party was being introduced to my nephew and niece (once removed) for the first time. I have a cousin Tony whom I seldom see, and this was the first time I've ever met his kids.
I called Katya, my niece-once-removed, a "blond Arya Stark," for all of you Game of Thrones fans. Two reasons: First, I was told that one day, she was being called names by this taller Brazilian girl. Katya wouldn't have it. Despite being a short, innocent-looking, 9-year-old blond girl, Katya clutched her fist and decked the Brazilian girl in the face. The Brazilian girl collapsed from that one punch.
Upon hearing that story, I wished that we were in the olden times so I could ask the blacksmith to make a short sword for Katya. She would then go around and stab fat men with it. This could backfire, however, because I am fat. So maybe it's good that we're not in the olden times.
Second, Katya stormed into her brother Peter's room on April 20. They had this conversation:
Katya: What does 420 mean?
Peter: It's the national weed-smoking day because April 20 is Bob Marley's birthday.
Katya: Oh. So, why aren't you smoking weed?
I love being related to a complete badass. As for Peter, my nephew-once-removed, he looked familiar. He also said he recognized me from somewhere. We would later realize where we had previously seen each other - he used to take swim lessons at my old gym. Yup, that's right - he may have been one of the Swim Lesson Brats I used to discuss. Perhaps he's even friends with Melvis.
In my original post about the Swim Lesson Brats, I discussed how strict that Russian swim coach was. He would often hit the kids and pull their hair when they did something wrong - something all teachers should be able to do. Peter confirmed this.
Peter: Yeah, he was pretty mean.
Me: I saw him pull a girl's hair once.
Peter: Oh, that's nothing. Sometimes he would pull boys' nipples if they really acted out (Editor's note: Not that there's anything wrong with that). One time he entered me in six events. I didn't want to do the sixth one, so I asked him if I could sit out, and he said OK. I guess he forgot because he ran over and cursed me out for missing my event. I was 11 at the time, and he must have used every single swear word that's ever existed.
Me: Do you still swim there?
Peter: No. One time he called my house. He and my mom got into a fight. The next time he saw me, he said, "I enjoy you as svimmer, but I no can coach you anymore because your mozer very angry vooman."
Apparently, Strict Swim Coach met his match with my cousin's wife. No wonder Katya knocks out taller girls with one swing.
Anyway, I had a nightmare that night. I was swimming at my old gym pool. As I pushed off the wall, I saw Strict Swim Coach point a gun at me. He fired, and I woke up in a sweat.
I couldn't stop thinking about that for the rest of the day because it very easily could happen. Hot chicks can't use the Internet, but Russian swim coaches certainly are capable of doing so, and I can only imagine Strict Swim Coach's rage upon reading that Jerks of the Week entry.