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Influencing a man's perspective for centuries
I decided there hasn’t been enough booze conversation to date. This post aims to fix that.
I went to a local commuter college and didn’t start experimenting with alcohol until I was 21-years-old. I didn’t attend one single party in high school and didn’t witness a keg stand until my buddy Rae’s birthday party in her garage. Friends hoisted her legs in the air while I held the spigot. No one told her to hold onto the keg until after she tried to kiss it with her forehead.
At 30-something-years-old, I find myself often acting like a college freshman when it comes to partying. Like I’m making up for lost time. Except my body refuses to recover like it did when I was 20 and sleep’s stock is higher than Google’s on my Wall Street.
My buddy is getting married later this month, so the groomsmen and I took the him down to San Diego for a night. Another buddy of mine and I have wanted to try the Century Club for a while now, so we decided this was the weekend to experience it. As my 30-something brain now works, I thought it’d be better to do 60 shots of beer in 60 minutes, rather than the 100 in 100 of the Century Club.
The Power Hour, as it’s commonly referred to, would allow us to drink stupidly (it’s the equivalent to 7.5 drinks in one hour), yet still be able to walk and function for the rest of the night. I witnessed the last half of a Century Club party several years ago. After it ended, one guy left the house to go get Del Taco. He returned two hours later with both hands clutching Food 4 Less bags and a bright smile.
“I got a cake!” he said proudly. It was adorable. But it also demonstrates how f-u-c-k-e-d up one gets attempting to scale the mountain that is the Century Club.
At about 3 p.m., with the Rounds app (seemingly no longer on iTunes) loaded up on my iPhone to change songs every 60 seconds and 60 Bud Lights (Here We Go) frosting in the cooler, we were set. It should be mentioned that I had a Corona Dancer (tequila filled in neck of a Corona bottle and chugged), three jager shots and two pints in me before we began. We downed shot after shot to Dr. Dre, Snoop and other hip hop artists you’d find in a trendy club that I’m too old to dare enter. I figured it’d keep the energy up.
And we needed that energy. Before the half way mark, one of the groomsmen had bowed out. By the 30th shot we were cursing each time the song changed. Sixty seconds now felt like five. I dry heaved twice, thankful that I didn’t puss out. After about the 40-45 range, it was downhill. It’s like we passed the breaking point. I don’t recall my reactions when the iPhone went silent. The game was over, and I was thrilled to have survived.
At some point the puking began amongst us and one warrior, who normally is the last man standing, was in bed by 8 p.m. That’s not to say the rest of us we’re in much better shape. I recall deciding to head back to the hotel around 10 p.m. I don’t remember the walk back. While I managed not to hurl, I did attempt to hurdle a sign with one leg and bloodied my knee and hand, and later slipped while running on wet grass and landed on my left thumb. I’ve managed to regain some range of motion, but I still can’t open a bottle of water. And dressing the twins is a bitch without two good thumbs.
Oh, and I knocked over a lamp. There’s a giant crack in the glass, which we tried to hide. And I left a twenty on the night stand for the maid, hoping it bought her silence.
While I admit the idea and follow through of this drinking exhibition is sophomoric and unnecessary, I’m so proud that I did it. Like it adds to my cub scout badges of drinking achievement. Better late than never, I say.