Yes I'm Still Alive and No I Still Can't Believe It

On Sunday, the unthinkable happened. The Saints won the goddamn Super Bowl. And boy howdy, did they do it in style, with a thrilling come-from-behind victory and shocking the world. As you can tell from previous posts, I'm a big fan of the Saints, so Sunday night was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. People from all over the country were calling and texting me their congratulations, and I was getting hugs from everybody at my friend's party. I had one text from a friend that said he was with someone from New Orleans, and she was crying because she was so happy. And as I watched team celebrate on the field, I responded "I'm right there with her."

As a fan, I've been pretty lucky. I've been a fan of the Florida Marlins for their entire existence, and having them win two World Series was pretty impressive. And I'm a bigger LSU fan than a Saints fan, so their national championships in 2003 and 2007 were as good as it got for me. However, nothing compares to the sheer joy I felt as I jumped up and cheered as Tracy Porter snagged that interception and ran it back for that exclamation point touchdown. I've won competitions, have had teams I've competed with win championships, but there is still nothing that will top that moment.



And I've been contemplating the full meaning of that. Do sports have that much of a commanding influence on my life? Definitely not, since I can go weeks without checking the sports pages; music is definitely a bigger addiction. I think it's definitely the culmination of just years of frustration finally being let go in a single moment--it's a feeling that Yankees fans will never understand. To be with a team when they're at their lowest lows makes being on top infinitely sweeter. Look, I've experienced many disappointments in my life--next Sunday will be a continuation of that in one respect--and I wouldn't put a sporting event in a top 10, not even the Blazers crushing 2000 loss to the Lakers, but I'm comfortable with having this victory be in my top 5 high points. This is probably a healthy attitude.

One of my friends commented "I am very disappointed that your profile doesn't have a picture of you wearing a Saints flag like a toga and getting drunk as fuck. 'cause that would be a pretty sweet picture." Fair statement, but in my defense no one had the foresight to bring a camera for the festivities, and you'll just have to rely on the word of my cohorts that I indeed lived up to the reputation of a true Louisianian and partied like there was no tomorrow. They'll tell you of my high-fiving and hugging, the shouting, the dancing, and the clutching of tequila bottles. Of course, being a proud Greek Cajun, I more than held my liquor despite imbibing copious amounts of devilish spirits, and showed up to class the next day as normal, with a mild grin replacing my usual half-frown and only the faintest whiff of alcohol clinging to my Saints sweatshirt. Plus, I'm still looking for a job, so pics might not be the best idea.

People are trying to comprehend how much the victory means to the city of New Orleans, but this is a fool's errand. Everybody points to Katrina and its effects on the city, and it's certainly being felt. I can't imagine how it is day-to-day for most of these people, having left the state long before the hurricane came. I had limited personal exposure, with my godbrothers' homes being flooded and seeing the flow of people move into Baton Rouge. But the thing about the Saints is that they were something that united all Louisianians, and to an extent the entire Gulf Coast region. For the longest time they were the only professional sports team in the region, in an area where Football is King. Rich and poor, black and white, we all loved the team. It might seem stupid to some people, who cares about those buzzkills. Watch this video and tell me you aren't moved:

Saints Superbowl Victory Celebration from Cottage Films on Vimeo.

We won. I still can't believe it.

And we approach the New Year ...

WDR New Year's VIDEO Extravaganza!



Yes, it's that time again: Time to get drunk and stay up late WITH A PURPOSE! Then there's the next few weeks of writing the wrong date on your checks and feeling a little bit older. (Wait, I was in high school ten years ago?!)

There's also the tradition (for some) of making New Year's resolutions. I have not done this, mostly because no one keeps their resolutions, anyway. Also, why should you only make resolutions to change your life ONLY on New Year's. Why not do this when it seems best to do so? I've never really understood this. I guess that's why I picked the song above for New Year's. I think we can all agree that this is a great song. Also, I love the bottle that Eddie wields at the beginning of this video. I like the cut of his jib, that guy.

This New Year's, though, I think that the WDR crew should make a resolution to make more posts here. This year we had a considerable amount fewer posts than in previous years, so we should try to make up for it. Also, as the only member of the group who will not be at the WDR End of Year Extravaganza at Casa de Ouzo, I thought I might as well post something about New Year's here. Get drunk and kill a pinata, guys!

Also, I say, why not have a special video section for the New Year? Glad you agree. So here are some videos that have something to do with the past year. Hope you enjoy the list



Best Christopher Walken Moment



This video got Lady Gaga stuck in my head for days, but it was still worth it.



Best Song Clip Without Music

David Lee Roth Vocal Track, "Runnin' With The Devil" - watch more funny videos

OK, so this isn't a song from the last year, but I heard this in 2009. Not a lot to see video-wise, but the audio is fantastic. David Lee Roth is hilarious.

On a side note, I had a dream recently that my parents moved into a new house and David Lee Roth was our neighbor. Some film crew was over at his house and he was doing some sort of "Cribs"-esque show for his house. My cat runs into his yard and he starts telling the film crew that the cat is his. This was bullshit and I confronted Roth about it and he just wanted me to "play it cool" and let him pretend that the cat was his. The argument continued until I woke up. I have no idea what that dream meant.


The Best Video You'll See of a Guy Getting Hit in the Face With a Cookie Sheet

I actually took this from Deadspin's 2009 coverage, but it makes me laugh every time. The Backstory: The editor of Deadspin.com bet the founder that the Philadelphia Eagles would beat the Arizona Cardinals last season. He lost, and one of the things he had to do was take a cookie sheet to the face. I've added a link here because I couldn't find the thing on YouTube. Enjoy.


The Best Frank Moment from "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia"




The picture goes in reverse for the second section of this, but that doesn't really matter. Frank is "The Trash Man"! The part of him at the beginning of the clip is great, too.

The Best Drunken History



All of these are good and I hope they make more of them. The idea is simple: Get someone drunk and have them explain a historical event. Then, have some actors act it out. My favorite was Alexander Hamilton, but they are all fantastic.

And that's the little bit of effort I'm going to put into something today that doesn't involve drinking. So happy New Year's to all of you out there. Drink, but don't drive, lest you get fucked by the police.(If college bowl week has taught me anything, it's that.) Also, in case you didn't know, the Manhattan Bridge in New York opened 100 years ago today. So ... that's cause for celebration too, right? Me, I'm going to start off the New Year hung over and watching the Rose Bowl. Go Ducks!

Nic's Wild European Adventure: Bruges

If I grew up on a farm, and was retarded, Bruges might impress me but I didn't, so it doesn't.

One of the best and most hilarious movies to come out last year was a little film called In Bruges. It got some minor notice and some rave reviews, but for the most part people haven't really heard too much about it. Which is a damn shame. I mean, just reading the quotes page is enough for hours of entertainment.

So where did my co-worker and I decide to spend the second weekend? In one place that was skewered for ninety-something minutes as one of the most boring places on the planet, which was my only previous reference point. Did the city live up to its reputation? Yeah, if I had to spend the rest of my life there, sure. But for a quick weekend trip, Bruges definitely lives up to Harry's memories as an idyllic town.


So what's in Bruges? A bunch of really old churches, including one with "Christ's blood". We visited that one, but there was a service going on at the time, so it would have been kind of awkward to walk up to the altar and give the blood an old looksy. And there's the giant Belfry which played a part in the movie. It is indeed as narrow and hazardous to the fatty as the movie suggested, so the American should have heeded Ray's advice. He would have had a terrible time negotiating the narrow stairway, and he wouldn't even have to pull his co-workers giant duffel of weekend luggage up the whole way.

Even though the Belfry was quite the sight, the one in Bruges didn't match the one that I had found in Delft. I'm only bringing this up because I have an incredibly stupid story to tell about that place. The belfry in Delft was narrower and taller, and featured several points where I hit my head on low-hanging bar. Its exterior also was eight-hundred and fifty-seven times more fright inducing, considering the low waist bar that was the only protection from certain death on the narrow walkway. But I only bring the whole experience up because I saw some fresh graffiti in the stairwell from some Americans--"Bill '09 and Melissa '09", all luvy-duvy. I was prepared to add my own contribution--"My Balls '09", since they hit the same spot as I negotiated the previously-stated low-hanging bar. Damn shame I didn't have a pen on me.

Trust me, that was all much funnier in my head.


Bruges has also apparently earned itself the reputation as being the place for bachelor parties in Northern Europe. We came across several parties, including one that featured a traveling cycling kegmachine, which we attempted to join (once we finished our forties in the town square--no joke). For a sleepy-ass medieval village, the place sure had a lot of nice clubs to help out said folk. It's also home to a few bars that served hundreds of different beers. It's interesting that Belgium is now seen as the new hot place for beer, considering that Belgian-style ales are pretty weaksauce. However, we were able to sample a few great-tasting beers, even if one of them was the more feminine pineapple-flavored beer. But as my co-authors could attest, I still found a way to pull that one off.

Beyond that, there's not too much to say about Bruges. I did get my Eurotrash on, but that only leads too tears. I've also previously commented on how Flemish is a terrible, terrible language, so we've covered that. There was some weird chocolate, but hell, everyone already knows the Belgians are known for their chocolate--they invented it so the molesters could get to the children. So I'm just going to end this with just a plain inexplicable photograph, and hope you understand what the Venice of the North is all about.

Nic's Wild European Adventure: Ireland

Even though I'm back State-side, I never gave you readers the full rundown of what happened over in Euro-Land. While I did provide a great look into the day-to-day life of a stranger in a strange land (Dutchland), I didn't have a chance to go over all the trips that I took to different countries over each weekend. So, before my vacation ends, I'm going to spend this week running down the full list of destinations. And we're going to do two-a-day, to fully capture the Rules of Attraction style nature of the whole trip (we reference this movie way too much considering how bad the entire film was). First up, we have Ireland.


1. Guinness snobs are right. I spent my first weekend in Dublin, and it would seem to be a good omen for the rest of my time overseas. I had always wanted to visit, but even though I had been to the UK many times we were never able to make the short trip over. So I was excited to visit, even though I knew nothing of the sights to see. We saw an old college which has an old Bible, and a couple of random old churches. But I did know that they had one must-see destination: the Guinness Brewery.

The tour of the brewery itself was worthwhile, as we got a glimpse into the brewing process. However, the true highlight was the many pints of beer that we had on the premises. And I hate to confirm what I had heard before, but the beer really does taste better in Dublin than it does elsewhere--and I say that as a guy that enjoys his Guinness. We had our share of other pints, but we always came back to the Guinness.


2. Ireland can apparently be confused with the South of France. We chose the one great weekend in terms of weather to visit, as it was wonderfully sunny and a very pleasant 70 degrees the entire weekend. And as we toured the green countryside, we were able to take the most spectacular pictures. Ireland would seem to be known more for its rustic charm, but under the right light, it's just plain beautiful.

3. Who would think you could get barred from entering a club in Dublin for being too drunk? We ended up joining an international group of travelers in our nighttime Dublin experience, and we had a great time searching for cheap drinks and good times. In the center of the city it can be tough to find a good deal, as they're mostly cashing in on ignorant tourists, so it was a struggle. We did receive one setback when one bouncer would not let in our group because I and another compadre were said too bee "too drunk" to enter the club--strange, considering we hadn't had a drink for hours at that point. No matter--we just found a nice neighborhood pub and enjoyed a drink with the locals, and many friendships were made that day.

Happy Birthday to Me (2009 Edition)

Hey, once again it's time for a birthday post. Unlike the other two bozos, I'm stepping up to the plate and doing my own quick birthday post. So how is/was my birthday? Well, besides the slight bummer of having to return my copy of Dinosaur Jr.'s new album, something I had been waiting to have for over two months, because of some packaging error that gave me only the bonus disc and not the actual album, it's gone pretty well. I had a get-together with my friends last night, with a guest list that saw more faces than my last 3 or 4 parties combined (though minus one asshole), and we had a great time enjoying the benefits of Buttface Amber Ale and ping-pong-based alcoholic consumption games.



And what awesome gifts did I receive? Well besides a few complimentary drinks (always appreciated in these quarters), I also received this as a gift from "my parents". This captures everything you can want in a birthday present--it speaks to your passions, and is absolutely useless, and probably a waste of money. But fuck it, I'm gonna enjoy this one.

We Must Win the War for Hot Dog Technological Supremacy

When you're traveling on a budget, some things have to be sacrificed. One area where a lot of money can be saved is in the food part of your budget. As a result, even though I've been traveling to different countries every week, I haven't taken the time to indulge in some of the finer cuisine.

That isn't to say I haven't sampled the local flavors, it's just usually on the cheaper side. One of the joys of going to Northern/Central Europe is the abundance of various sausages. I mean, beer and sausage, who doesn't love a healthy balanced meal?

Here's how a proper German bratwurst looks like. Notice the great size, and the good amount of mustard. Much to my disappointment, sauerkraut was not an option.



Now the disparity between bread and hot dog is just ridiculous. In this case, the bread acts as merely a hot dog-holding device, much like a glorified potholder. It's comical and inefficient.

Now compare this to the sausage from Vienna. No, this wasn't a Vienna sausage, stop trying to confuse me. I believe this was a bratwurst as well, but I was just picking wursts at random--whatever sounded good and spicy was my sole criterion for choosing.



Now notice the difference in the bread. This is an amazing use of bread technology to help support the enjoyment of the hot dog. As most sausage enthusiasts are too well aware, the bread often breaks apart, or provides insufficient coverage to protect the taster from spillover of precious precious condiments. But this design of the bread solves all problems! The condiments are contained, and there is no mess! Truly a tasty, enjoyable experience.

My question is why hasn't pure American ingenuity come up with this design? We must steal the blueprints for this and proceed posthaste in constructing an American prototype. WE MUST NOT ALLOW FOR A HOT DOG GAP!

You can tell it was a good New Year's party...

When this is what you wake up to in the morning.



I know that it’s true
It’s gonna be a good year...

Nic & Jack's Infinite Playlist

This past Friday saw the opening of a new movie called Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist, which is apparently about two young folks who experience one of those magical nights in New York City where the hijinks are caa-raazy!!! and there's the smell of love in the air, which seems to overpower the general stench that randomly pervades the city. By the Law Of Arrested Development, I'm pretty much forced to watch anything that has a member of that show's cast, because the rule goes that "anyone that has a connection to the show = genius". Then again, Michael Cera has had a pretty good track record so far (Superbad was great, and Juno was better than not-bad), so I'm not dreading this requirement so much.

On the other hand, as a new resident of New Yawk,I feel I need to settle this bullshit about the supposedly magical nature of this city that's been a crutch for storytellers for far too long. And what better way to show this than by telling the story of my own infinite playlist from this past Friday.

The day began promisingly enough. By general rule, any day in which you play a game of flag football is a good day (it's in the lost verse of Ice Cube's "Today Was A Good Day", if you want to check). We won by a huge margin, and it was the second week in a row that I accidentally leveled a girl half my size (this is what happens when I stop, and you don't). That, my friends, is a recipe for success. Top it off with a celebratory stop at a bar WITH SKEEBALL, and you've got yourself a good time.


Things fell apart once the sun went down, however. I've always found that the night time is the right time, so this was especially disappointing. As everybody on the team split off to follow their own evening plans, I had to reassess my options. It was then that I decided to do something I never thought I would do, and that was attempt to meet up at a college mini-reunion party. So I cleaned myself up to look somewhat presentable (well, I did what I could), and headed out for this "reunion". That's where the trouble begins.

I will forever assert that New York has one of the worst goddamn subway systems I've ever encountered. It's crowded and smelly, has a really inconsistent schedule, has no maps on the train, and has stations that have multiple names that make it ultra-confusing for the uninformed. And those are the problems that I came up with in about .2 seconds. My problem that night was that I could only find the entrance for the Downtown line and not the Uptown one. Because we absolutely have to have these things separate for some goddamn reason (to give New York credit for one thing, at least "Downtown" and "Uptown" are consistent--unlike Boston's T that has an "inbound" and "outbound" switch). The directions on the sign itself led me to ANOTHER downtown bound train, and so I was forced to look in an 8 block radius for the companion station. It was only after about half an hour of searching that I finally located the station...across the street ducked into a side street. You have to love the fact that newspaper dispensers were able to perfectly block my view.



Alright, so all this work left me with about half an hour left at this mini-reunion. That's not so bad, because I was only planning on a quick visit then stepping out later. The directions I had merely stated that the event was being held "across the street from Grand Central Station", on 50 Vanderbilt Ave. So I head out of the station (which is a mini-journey itself), and started looking for the address. I was at the 400s, so I started heading east to get to the lower numbers. After about 5 blocks, I take a look at the sign, and realize I'm not on Vanderbilt Ave., I'm on goddamn Lexington Ave. I have no idea why New York has this inexplicable hard-on for SEC locations, especially since no one around here loves college football, so don't ask. I then high-tail it back and find the correct address.

Before I go further, I should mention that the event was being held at the Yale Club. Yes, that means that a Dartmouth reunion was being held at the Yale Club, which is approximately 3267 different kinds of wrong (oh, and sorry to throw the snob-card down by mentioning my alma mater, but it's needed to make this story work). Not the least of which is that we end up looking like the lesser school, having to beg the almighty Yale for space. I thought we had our own club...and then I do the actual research now and find out that we do have our own club, and it's located in the Yale Club. Fucking perfect. So at this point in the story, I've arrived at the club with about 10 minutes left before the party is supposed to end. I inquire with the doorman as to where the party was taking place, when I heard a scoff. "Sir, you are required to wear long pants. It is the rule of the club".

Fuck you in the ear, doorman.


So in just a few seconds, Yale affirms every single stereotype ever asserted about them. You kind of have to admire that level of jackassery. And I'm sorry I was wearing shorts--I mean, it was only a Happy Hour, and it's still good weather outside. Then again, I seem to be the only not-wimp in the city since I can maintain shortsleeves and shorts in 60+ degree weather. Whatever. (For the record, they were quite nice khaki shorts, and I was wearing a freshly-laundered polo shirt, so I wasn't living up to the stereotype of the Dartmouth Hobo at all).

So what did I do? Well, I went back home at 9:30, drank enough Jack Daniel's to stun a horse, and then masturbated. I couldn't remember if I finished or passed out first, but it doesn't matter, because I end up a winner either way.



Oh yeah, the whole "playlist" motif. The soundtrack to the evening was...Spoon's Gimme Fiction. It doesn't get much more fitting than that.

Bringing A Smile to Any Dead Kennedys Fan

Sometimes CNN justifies its existence. Other times, not so much. But when it comes to bringing up the most random retarded stories, it has no equal.

I bring you the tale of a Milwaukee gentleman and his lawnmower. Well, the gentleman, his lawnmower, and a dangerous firearm. Surprisingly, these elements were all found in conjunction and aided by the effects of alcohol. [Shocked face]

And if you're wondering why the hell we're referencing the Dead Kennedys, then just find yourself a copy of Give Me Convenience Or Give Me Death and enjoy such kickass tunes as this one.

The WDR 1 Year Anniversary Blowout Craptacular!

Wow, we can't believe that it's been an entire year since we polluted the internet with our demented worldview, but we've done it. We've gained more than a few readers during this long, strange journey, and some of them weren't even looking for "Banana Bread Rape" (an actual search term, and yes, I'm serious). Hopefully you've enjoyed reading as much as we've enjoyed writing this crap, and frankly, if you enjoyed it 1/17th as much as we did, then I guess we should be satisfied.

So, after over 250 270 (?!) posts, WDR has decided to have a little celebration. We decided to build a true Pong Table, in the spirit of my beloved Alma Mater, and we brought along a camera to document the process. I'm sure Werner Herzog would be proud of our efforts.

Our quest began with a trip to the Home Depot. which is so far out of the reach of civilization that it's next to the KOA campgrounds. Once there, we selected a gigantic piece of lumber, which turned out to be a rather large 8x4 board. We were originally going to cut it, but we said "Fuck it, let's go big." While not the dimensions of a true Pong table, this would be suitable for our purposes. Of course, we didn't realize we might have a problem fitting our awesome table in my minivan.



You can see we had issues. But we are nothing if not resourceful, and since Joe Reefer is some kind of engineer (let the record show that once this fact was brought up, Mr. Zhuang made the "drinky drinky" motion), we became unperturbed once again. Fuck it, we're strapping that shit to the roof of our car!



The minivan did look good with its new hat, but not nearly as badass as it did when the back bumper fell off. Now THERE was a car you weren't going to mess with. Next came the awesome task of spray-painting the giant board. We chose green, because, well, I don't know why. We of course took the job of painting very seriously.



While we were waiting for the paint to dry, we tackled the most important part of our quest: securing the beer. And secure we did, amassing quite the bounty of beer, ranging in quality from "delicious" to "goddammit, did we really have to drink a case of Keystone Light" (yes we did, it's tradition--plus, when you assholes got drunk too early and were so full from our good German beer, light beer sounded good, didn't it?).



So now that everything was taken care of, we were set to begin with The Playing of the Pong. We used my random potted-plant holders as supports for our Giant Board, which proved effective (until a drunken associate of WDR overturned the board 10 days later, then we made plans to reassess our options). As for a net, we used my trusty hockey stick, which had served us well in our New Years' celebrations for the past few years (we are fans of destroying piñatas in our celebrations, with said stick being our Weapon of Choice). And we of course had our ping pong equipment, complete WITH PADDLES. As I explained, this game is called Pong, it's not called "throw a ball into a cup". You can take that bastardization and call it Beirut, but never call it Pong (/rant). I eventually had all the rules explained, set up an excellent soundtrack for the party (Beck and The Thermals, so I must say that it was "bumpin'"), and then we played until the late late late hours, when the sun was shining in our face.



Who won? Yeah, I did. Every single game. But there are no losers in Pong, because we all got to drink.

I imagine this post, in true WDR fashion, will be viewable only after at least a week since it was "published". In the meantime, we're taking a much deserved break, and we'll be back warping your psyches in July. In the meantime, if you want to do something awesome like nominate your favorite post or author or comment, now would be a good time to do so. Or not. You know, whatever.

How To Drink Like A Greek

Greeks aren't especially known for their drinking (like say, the Irish), but reputation isn't everything. As anyone who has been to a Greek restaurant after-hours would know, we know how to throw a party down, courtesy of more than a few spirits. We're the kind of people that don't necessarily go all out and match you shot-for-shot, but at the end of the night we're the ones still standing and dancing and having your girl make eyes at us. In other words, we're marathon drinkers, not sprinters--but we'll beat you in sprinting if we have to as well.

So it comes as no surprise that in my travels back to the homeland that drinking made up a prime component. The country just lends itself to drinking at any hour in the day. You of course drink plenty with your meals, but say, it's just 2 in the afternoon--crack open another bottle. It's hot "as fuck" outside--time for a cold one. Bored? Not for long you aren't. All in all, I had more beer than...well, since a Tuesday night at Dartmouth.

Beer Me

The other benefit of drinking in Greece is its relatively close distance from Germany. I had more delicious German beers than I could shake a sausage at, including ones that I had never heard of before in my life. I tended to stick with Kaiser, since it was a hearty lager that was available at just about every taverna, though at home I was free to explore whatever the local grocery store happened to have that day. That's not to say I didn't have some Greek beer. Mythos is the brand that is most well-known among the American tourists, and it's not surprising considering how it tastes like a less-pussy version of Budweiser. But the true Greek beer is Alpha, which is much more influenced by German brewing. It's not nearly as common, but worth seeking out if you have the chance.

Of course, the main attraction is not beer in Greece, it's Retsina! Nah, we don't even drink that most of the time. No, the drink of choice is of course ouzo, something that you would be inclined to believe that I know something about (hint: look at my name, jerkass). Unfortunately, most non-Greeks are unfamiliar with ouzo, so as a Concerned Citizen, I'm providing a quick lesson on the basics.

Choosing An Ouzo

Most people in the US are unfamiliar with the various brands of ouzo. This is not really their fault--most liquor stores only carry one, maybe two brands. And usually the brand that they carry is the completely awful Metaxa, which makes drinking gasoline seem like a great way to quench your thirst. Since this is the introduction to ouzo for many, you can see why ouzo isn't more popular. On the other hand, if you're lucky enough, you can stumble upon 12, which is much, much better than Metaxa. Plus, it comes from my mom's hometown, so there's some regional pride showing through.

However, when in Greece, you should get your hands on Plomario, which is the standard-bearer of ouzo. While 12 may be the equivalent of Grey Goose or Belvedere, Plomario is the Russian Standard of ouzo--there's a clear difference in quality, and it's not even that much more expensive. On the other hand, you're always welcome to try the various random offerings you'll find. Of course, you can always choose an ouzo based on the best-looking bottle.



Word to the wise: be careful when selecting the local ouzo when you're at a taverna. Not exactly the same 80 proof stuff you'll find in the standardized fare, I'll tell you that much. I guess just make sure you're not driving afterwards.

How to Drink Ouzo

Ouzo is not meant to be done in shots; doing that just proves you're an idiot, not a man. It's meant for summer days, it's meant for relaxation, so you sip it. Take your time, there's still plenty left for you to drink later. This way, you won't be dead drunk after 20 minutes.

Also, it's best not to drink ouzo straight. The Greek way is to pour it over ice cubes. Not only does this soften the taste of it, but you get the added cool factor of seeing two clear substances (ice, ouzo) combine to form a white drink. This will blow the minds of your (probably intoxicated) friends.

Well, now you're ready to drink like a pro--you're ready to drink like a Greek. Good luck, you're going to need it.

Thirsty Thursday!

Because let's face it: You probably have to do something tomorrow, but you're going to get drunk anyway.

Not that this really has anything to do with drinking, I just couldn't think of a title that included "Thursday" with much, how you say, pizzaz. "Thoroughfare Thursday"? That doesn't work. "Thoron Thursday"? Not that one either. See? No good names for it.

Anyway, I'm putting this post up because I just watched this video for Flight of the Conchords, and it was hilarious. Yeah, I've heard it before and watched the show on DVD a bunch, but still: Fun times. Now get out there with some rollerskates and enjoy the sun!

St. Patrick's Day Redux

Yes, we realize that it is way past the appropriate time for a St. Paddy's Day post. But "timing" has never stopped us before. So now is as good a time as any to go over various drunken shenanigans.

This year, that meant much more mischief than usual. Well, quantifiably speaking, approximately two times as much mischief, since we celebrated it twice (math is fun!). That's because the feast of St. Paddy fell right in the middle of Holy Week, and Catholic liturgical rules say that you can't celebrate the Day Of Green Beer during such a somber occasion. So most churches pushed to celebrate the holiday earlier, especially on the 15th. And we took advantage of this.

And of course, who are we to question the Catholic Church? I mean, they can't just spend every day coming up with brand-new Deadly Sins. Though, let's be honest, conducting stem-cell research just doesn't have the same Zazz! as GLUTTONY. But we figured that this is as good a time as any to heed the word of Pope Joey Ratz. Well, only so long as when applied it benefited us--we had no qualms with celebrating during Holy Week.



That meant two celebrations--one on the coast, and one in the Irish hamlet of Salem Towne. Did anything special occur? Not really, considering that we drink the Irish Car Bombs on a weekly basis. Though there was awful, awful dancing that took place. And that's worth celebrating.

My encounter with a hockey great

AKA: Why do people want to fight me?

So I was at a place called the Jackalope Lounge tonight, and things were going well. The beer was flowing like wine, the music was good and everyone was having a good time. It came time for me to buy a round of drinks, and as I approached the bar there was some sort of commotion. There was a man getting very angry about something related to his bill, and his being drunk didn't help matters. It was during this argument that I observed something very interesting. This man look a heck of a lot like Wayne Gretzky circa 1992. He was also wearing a shark tooth necklace, which I can only assume was there to make him look stupid. I was in the midst of a legend. A stupid, drunken legend.

And after several moments of unpleasant noise, Gretzky yells at the bartender, "Well, I'm never coming to this place AGAIN!"

At first I was pleased to be able to order my next round of drinks, but then things changed. Without regard for anyone else, Wayne Gretzky ran into me, and the following exchange occured:

Me: What the fuck dude?
Gretzky: What's your problem?
Me: You ran into me!
Gretsky's girlfriend: But we just got ripped off (by the bar)!
Me: Well, guess what: I didn't rip you off. You should watch where you're going.
Gretzky: What the fuck is your problem?!
Me: You shouldn't run into people without at least some sort of half hearted apology.
Gretzky's girlfriend: You just poked a bear. You don't want to mess with HIM.
Me: Wouldn't be the first time.
Gretzky: You wanna start something?
Me: No, I just rather you didn't run into me. Just settle down, dude.
Gretzky: The fucking bar ripped me off!
Me: Well, I've been ripped off before too. It fucking sucks, but I don't go taking it out on other people. Just calm the fuck down.
Gretzky's girlfriend: You're poking a BEAR!
Me: You know what, if you want to fight over something like this, go ahead. I don't want to fight. Just settle down. You don't need to be a dick to other people like that. I don't mean to be a dick to you, but you shouldn't take out your frustrations on bystanders.

And it was after that that drunken asshole Wayne Gretzky circa 1992 apologized. I shook his hand, told him to stop being a dick, and bought some booze. Then we shook hands and parted ways.

He and his friends said a few other things, but they're not really worth mentioning because it was all regular drunk talk. I'm not really sure what the "bear" reference meant, especially considering that the guy wouldn't fight ME. He couldn't be that tough. I mean, come on: I don't exactly look like Ronnie Coleman. I guess I can only assume that this was some reference to this guy's place in the gay community. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Pinch The Tail And Suck The Head

Nic Ouzo's look at The Mardi Gras That Was has now reached it's merciful conclusion. We appreciate you sticking around for this lame attempt at upping the PostCount.

The amateur Mardi Gras party-er assumes that everything leads up to The Big Muffuletta on Tuesday. This is why the amateur has not yet achieved professional status, because they are dead wrong. Sure, you would assume that since the whole thing is called "Fat Tuesday", and it's all about blowing your load before the tyranny of Ash Wednesday arrives, that Tuesday would be Where It's At (bottles and cans people, clap your hands).

The truth of the matter is that everything shuts down at midnight on Tuesday, because every one has to go back to work on Wednesday (the 8-day weekend is enough, and besides, ). Plus, we are of the philosophy that if you can't go all night, you shouldn't go at all. So Tuesday is all about nursing the World's Biggest Hangover, which amounts to chilling out on the couch, and in this year's case, watching the Super Tuesday coverage (and then waking up the next morning and cursing the idiocy of Massholes and Surfer Dudes).

And crawfish. Eating lots and lots of crawfish.



Because that's what I missed most about Life on the Bayou. I mean, in general, the food is excellent, because people down South aren't afraid of embracing things like "taste" and "flavor". So eating a couple of pounds of boiled crawfish seasoned to perfection was quite a fitting end to a wild weekend.

And because I'm terrible at planning things, here are a few leftover observations:

FEMA shirts are hilarious My favorites included "FEMA: Find Every Mexican Available" and "FEMA Evacuation Plan: Run, Bitch, Run!". It was a nice change of pace from the general tacky/obnoxious tourist shirts, though I did enjoy the one written upside down which implored those that if they could read said shirt, to please tip the patron back onto his/her barstool.

I'm not comfortable with taking pictures of the Naked Cowboy But mentioning him now gives me the opportunity to mention his fantastic lawsuit. No matter how hilarious an awkward picture of the Naked Cowboy with old Asian ladies may be, I still didn't feel like getting my own personal copy. And as many people will attest, I am totally comfortable with my sexuality, so that wasn't it. But it does lead to the fact that

I am a terrible photographer Yeah, sorry about that. If only I could have had Rasheed, our intern, come in and do lighting for me. Or if I attempted to figure out how to use the camera at some point before I started shooting.

It's always fun to talk to crazy fundamentalist Doom Prophets and it takes a shitload of alcohol to get me drunk. If ICE 101 is not involved.



So that officially wraps it up for my giant travelogue. I hope you enjoyed reading along, and I hope I didn't incriminate myself at any point in the process. For those of you interested in exploring the entirety of my shitty photography, here is where you can see pretty much all the photographs I took (but be warned, this set is PG-13. If you want more graphic, file a formal request through an e-mail, you sick pervert). Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make plans to head back next year.

Where We Learn How Close To Death Our Intrepid Hero Was

Continuing a feature that's rapidly losing popularity, Nic continues his travelogue of his time spent living it up during Mardi Gras

I'm going to be upfront about this: the zaniest shenanigans of my trip have already been told. So if you're reading this hoping for more tales of cunning plans and crazy capers, I'm sorry to inform you that you will be highly disappointed. But if you just have a morbid curiosity as to what it's like hanging out in the Big City, well, you'll probably be disappointed too. That's just the kind of guy that I am.


We took the morning off to recover in Baton Rouge from the antics of the night before, and believe me, we needed it. Fruits were consumed, Tylenol was taken, and sleep...occurred. But Cajuns are hearty folk, and that afternoon we were ready for another day of living the high life. After all, I'm pretty sure the state motto is "We'll drink you under the table--then drive your ass home". It's either that, or something about "Sportsman's Paradise" or "Shoot a Nutria From the Back of a Pickup Truck", I can't remember. So we headed down to Metairie for a good ol' fashioned family parade.

Now, the thing about the family parade is that there is far less flashing than on your standard parade route (but that doesn't mean it's totally absent). The upshot is that there is no barrier from the floats, so you can wander up to them and assault the people in parade. It's really a fantastic situation. So, after a stop at the Rally's (you have to love a fast food joint that features a burger called "The Big Buford"), we were ready to get some more beads. Well, after we got ourselves a 64 oz. Hurricane and hit the convenience store for a couple of fifths of vodka (God bless you Louisiana, and your hard alcohol-selling Circle K's).



In the buildup to the parade, I talked to a couple of Boys in Blue, most of whom had been shipped in from around the state just for the weekend. We get to talking about various strategies to handling the unruly (the one rule of Mardi Gras is basically "Don't be a jackass"; beyond that, they're not going to hassle you), and dish about the various celebrities that had shown up (like how Hulk Hogan was seen with a very young blonde lady who was not his daughter). We also get the scoop that it wasn't a particularly violent holiday--except for the shooting at the Endymion parade. Our more observant readers will realize that this was the exact parade that we went to; not only that, the shooting occurred right where we were hanging out (Canal and St. Charles). We apparently avoided catastrophe by about 15 minutes; then again, considering the overall volume of the entire festival, chances are we wouldn't have realized that a shooting had occurred unless we were ourselves hurt.



Eventually the Zeus parade rolled around, and we had ourselves a merry look at The Capitals of the World. Mainly this involved people dressing up in various feather/sequin combinations that in no way evoked any notion of national dress, but no one was looking for a history lesson on that day. Though I was pleasantly surprised that the Death Star sent out some representatives this year. But you can only take so much culture, so we hit the road once again for the French Quarter.


Now, there isn't much more to relate about hanging out on Bourbon Street. We sampled a variety of beverages, ranging from the Keystone Light of my college days to some kickass German imports that this Specialty Beer Hall had on tap, to daiquiris and Jaegerbombs. But I did get a chance to talk to some of our Spiritual Protest friends, mainly trying to convince them that it was kind of stupid that they followed a denomination of Christianity that was about 8 splits away from the original, and how retarded it was that they were attempting literal interpretations of the Bible when they weren't looking at the original Greek of the New Testament. But nothing was as awesome as the guy that had a sign that listed the 20 things in the area that were leading us straight to hell, ranging from the usual "homos" and "whores", but including the temptation of "Loud Women". I cannot begin to do justice to the rambling idiocy that was the reasoning behind it, so I'm just going to leave that to your imagination.

The only other story I can really tell is my attempt to follow Rule No. 1 of Bourbon Street. That involved trying to find a bar that would not force us to pay for a drink, or at least had open bathrooms. I had never needed to use a bathroom so much in my life, but was saved when we found an out of the way dive, only to be confronted by An Unholy Terror. Anyone who has seen the movie Trainspotting remembers "The Dirtiest Toilet In All of Scotland"; well, I found its counterpart in New Orleans. Except that it was only a urinal, and people had conveniently ignored that fact. But I was able to satisfy the ordeal with great relief, with the price being I had to hold my breath for about five minutes.



It's really hard to convey the go-go nature of the Street. Think of the best fucking frat party you've been to, except there's a thirty percent less likely chance of date rape. It's a whole lot of fun, but there's still a whole element of fear--you're goddamn right I had a hand on my wallet the entire time. On the other hand, my mind was often more concerned with taking in the sights and sounds. And enjoying smoking cigars while walking the streets with a beer in my hand. And really, isn't that what life is all about?

Of Functional Health Units and Holy Hand Grenades

Or: I've Made A Huge Mistake...

Continuing my look back at the weekend that was...Mardi Gras 2008


I left you guys with a quick look at Bourbon Street, which is essentially the soul of Mardi Gras in New Orleans. As a sleazy 70s porn producer would say, "it's where the magic happens." If you've heard any fantastic tales about the debauchery of the holiday, chances are these stories took place on a select few blocks of La Rue Bourbon. And sure enough, that's where we spent the entirety of our Sunday. Before I continue, I should teach you the Rules of Bourbon St.:

1. Don't Pee On The Street The cops allow just about anything, so it's a good idea to at least let them have this one ("laissez les bon temps rouler" officially replaces "To Protect and To Serve" for that weekend).

2. Don't Sit On The Street Because people tend to violate Rule No. 1. Assholes.

With those rules in hand, you're pretty much set for a quality weekend of partying On The Holiest of Streets.


So I woke up on Sunday morning, in the same clothes from the previous day's festivities. And because it's New Orleans, we decided "fuck it", and went out without changing. I mean, who's going to complain about our potential smelliness? The bums? Unlikely. So we decided that we needed to ease into the day, and that meant a quick stop for some alcohol. Everyone talks about New Orleans and their famous Hurricanes, but the official drink of Bourbon Street is the Hand Grenade. It looks like a bong that the Ninja Turtles would use, tastes like the Slimer version of Hi-C, and features a grenade shot on top of the ridiculously copious amounts of alcohol already present in the drink. It would be the strongest drink on the strip, except for a couple of places that feature a Knockout 191 (yes, that's 191 proof), and since I wasn't in the mood to get date raped, I felt satisfied with my choice of Hand Grenade.



While we sipped on our beers and Hand Grenades, we encountered a truck that had a couple of dudes tossing what looked like to be free Gatorades. In fact, it turned out to be some sort of Detox drink, one of those hangover cures you're likely to find at your local 7-Eleven. We grabbed a few, then hit up a local restaurant for some of that down-home Cajun cooking that I had missed so much over these years, which meant one fucking sweet Shrimp Po' Boy for lunch (and there you were, thinking that a Po' Boy was just a random Creedence album reference). Not only were we provided with very necessary fuel for future alcohol consumption, but we got the chance to analyze the scientific benefits of our Urban Detox. There was a fantastic bar graph, pictured here, that showed that it helped alleviate hangovers and nausea and potentially cancer, because it contained so many "functional health units".



Since it was still early in the day, we decided to go to a fantastic shithole bar for some cheap alcohol and that famed New Orleans ambiance. That's The Abbey for you, which has a nice Dixieland funereal vibe going for it. In between meetings with an angry Polish/Greek and an old man with a nose covered in c-c-c-c-cocaine, we talked to the band, which featured a singer from Portland. I'm telling you, Portland musicians are fucking everywhere! Though the finest musical performance went to a local guitar/violin/tuba sidewalk trio, who played the most kickass version of "Stairway to Heaven" you'll hear.


After a quick stop at a cafe serving some authentic absinthe, it was time to partake in the more standard Mardi Gras fare. Which, in one word, can be described as "overindulgence". For this fellow right here, that involved a rack of test tube shots and the body parts of various hostesses at a Bourbon Street club. Frankly, there were a few scandalous photos taken that might prove compromising if I were currently running for office, but you weren't hearing any complaints from me at the time (though my mouth was otherwise occupied). But tough shit for you folks, because those photos aren't currently in my possession. So you'll just have to let your imaginations wander as to what it was exactly that I was doing.


It was at this point (about 54 shots later) that our female companion decided that it was a good time to get bodypainted. Not being one to complain, we ended up at a little place that was able to provide such a service. While waiting for the services to be rendered, we struck up a conversation with a retired Army colonel who's now a private security contractor in Afghanistan, and ended up spending the day with him and his newly-bodypainted ladyfriend. As you can imagine, walking down the street with these two lovely ladies provided quite the commotion. No joke, this was the top attraction on Bourbon Street, and I spent the afternoon providing my services as a bodyguard (even if I wasn't exactly sober). I had my head on a swivel, but you couldn't really ask for a better job. Actually, I'm more concerned about the photos from these events--if you see a fat Greek guy in a goofy pink foam Captain Morgan's hat next to some beautiful ladies, well that was me. I fear my eventual appearance in a Girls Gone Wild video.

As for the rest of the night, it involved a lot of drinks, and a lot of bars. In between various stops and shots, we managed to watch the majority of the Super Bowl, but had to make the trip back to Baton Rouge once the Giants gained the lead in the fourth quarter. Of course, we missed the best part of the game, but considering everything that happened before it, I'd say we made a fair tradeoff. Plus, we got to enjoy the replay of the game, so it really worked out well in the end.



While this certainly was the craziest day, that's not all the tales I have, so keep tuning in for more this week. For those of you who just hung around hoping for the pictures of the bodypaint, for shame! We are a blog of standards! If you want them, you're at least going to have to e-mail us. Come one, we have standard practices to follow.

Welcome To Louisiana: Home Of The Drive-Thru Daiquiri!

I have promised for some time to detail my exploits from the Mardi Gras weekend, but I am faced with the problem of my own pure incompetence, at least when it comes to writing (and as you will soon see, my photography can also be charitably described as "utter shite"). Sure, I could give brilliant random anecdotes that the other co-authors of this blog are sure to appreciate (and would certainly go into far greater detail than I would otherwise here), but to turn it into an actual narrative for other people to follow seems like too great of a challenge. But I never back down from my promises, so here we go folks.



Baton Rouge is a fine city, if you don't care for aesthetics or things to do (which makes it like 99% of the other cities in America). It even has a couple of decent family-friendly parades, and I had seen my fair share of those growing up. No, this trip was about venturing into the belly of the beast, to bear witness to the Mardi Gras of Legend, and that meant hurtling along like a silver bullet across the bayou into the madness that is New Orleans. With me on this journey I had two guides, my friend Garrett and his girlfriend Michelle, and without them I would have been lost, and probably mugged. Word to the wise: Find yourself a native before embarking on such a trip of your own.



We began the festivities in a way that all such journeys should began, and that's in a dive bar. This was right next door to the titular Drive-Thru Daiquiri establishment--we would have partaken in such spirits, but to tell you the truth, the line was too long for us (the fact that it was 11:30 in the morning on a Saturday apparently meant nothing to those in a quest for lubrication). We slowly got into the spirit of the occasion, drinking cheap beer and shooting pool to a soundtrack of Zeppelin and Floyd, which starting the previous night when we saw their respective tribute bands, would provide much of the music for the weekend. Eventually we made our way into the downtown area onto St. Charles, where we stuck around waiting a parade to start, getting our drink on at The Avenue Pub and WhiskeyDix. I sampled the world-famous Hurricane beverage and also a shot of the local favorite, Grand Marnier, promptly getting toasted. We then spent the rest of the daylight hours playing on the pornographic video game machines, choosing to focus our energies on the "Spot the Difference between the Naked Ladies" game (and for full discretion, this was more heavily driven by the female contingent of our crew).



We grew restless, and with a call of "fuck it", we hit the road to try to hit the French Quarter before the parade rolled through. To do this, we walked directly through the parade route, because we have no use for your silly things like "rules"! We played football with little kids, did some line-dancing in the street, had shit thrown at us from balconies, and generally had ourselves a good time as we attempted to find a bathroom/find Bourbon Street. We met up with some local firemen en route, and that's where we got the word as to the real reason the parade we had been waiting for had been delayed--Kevin Costner was stinkin' drunk. So drunk, in fact, that he had gotten injured mounting his float, and that's no good when you're the GRAND MARSHALL. So Tin Cup was holding everything up, as they attempted to sober up his sorry ass.



Eventually we made it to the famed Canal Street, and we settled in and watched the parade. There are floats, and then there are Endymion Floats. I had seen my fair share of parades as a Baton Rouge native, but nothing as elaborate as the standard New Orleans affair. We settled in, caught our fair share of beads, enjoyed a few [ahem] smokes, and generally engaged in some standard-fair debauchery. By the time we decided to call it quits, I was decked out in enough beads to look like the Greek Mr. T. Which is fantastic, because in New Orleans, beads are legal tender. I was wading in Hard Currency, folks. Beers are on me!



We then made a push to get to the heart of Mardi Gras, La Rue Bourbon. To say that the street was a sea of people would be an understatement--if you could see actual street, you were lucky. It was just a wash of moving heads, beer cubs, and neon signs. Oh, and the occasional chorus of "Show us your tits!!!" and the response that was appropriate for whatever decision was made. We also were met by Concerned Souls, who wanted to ensure the safety of our everlasting souls. And I'll give them the last word for this journal, and will show you exactly what they were up against tomorrow.



You have to love the self-righteous, folks.

WDR Is Hitting the Road...Again!

(Well, some of us are)

I just wanted to make the announcement that after weeks of careful deliberation and much soul-searching, that I came to the realization that I needed to embark on some life-affirming quest. I needed to return to my roots, and go back to the city of my birth, and hopefully I will receive some sort of divine inspiration that will guide me as I embark on a new chapter in my life. Embrace the past to move on to the future, or something to that effect.

Oh, and I wanted to get my drink on and celebrate Mardi Gras. That was an important part of the decision-making process as well.



It has been many years since I've been back to my previous home state--so long, in fact, that the last visit I had made, Dubya wasn't even in the White House at that point (oh, the good ol' days--you knew where you were then, watching shows like "Gentle Ben" (guess we could use a man like Sheriff Lobo again)). And I thought to myself, "Nic. You're probably going to be in school/working for the rest of your life. You're not doing anything right now. When are you going to have a chance like this to truly take in the Mardi Gras experience?" The answer was "Only when I decide to commit career suicide", which is probably at least two decades away. So, in the spirit of instant gratification, I booked a ticket on a whim and am now headed back to Louisiana at the end of the month.


What does this mean to you, the viewer of this reputable website? Well, probably no posts from me that week (and considering the participation by the other co-authors, that'll probably mean no new material at all--unless they can figure out how to work the YouTube machine and toss in some hilarity for you to enjoy). On the other hand, I should be able to get a camera and provide you with pictures of all the festivities at some point. In the end, I win, and you end up not really giving a shit. Thus, the circle of life is complete.