Monday, August 14, 2006
Last Man Standing
Great party Saturday night at the Goat and Jell Shot Queen's Party Palace! If you missed it, you missed out on a great time. Of course, there was a club meeting, and a lot of rum and cooked animals and bullshit by the ton, but the evening's real focus was to help out a friend in need: Mexico Mark Mulligan and his family. That tragic story has been told, so suffice it to say that Mark intends to be at Parrot Grande and everyone is looking forward to seeing him.
There were a lot of cheers and very, very few jeers Saturday. All I can say about the jeers is that nobody else seemed to notice, much less care. Everyone was too focused on friendship and partying with a purpose. And that we did.
The Crime Dog's Award for Outstanding Accomplishment In Inebriation has to go to our great and honored phriend, Ukulele Sam. He wandered the grounds, ice-cold Jagermeister in tow, for the better part of the evening, until finally winding down on a bench in the backyard around midnight. In great Parrothead tradition, he was a load of laughs and kept himself well in control. Honorable mention goes to our generous host, The Goat. I saw him snoozing peacefully in a lawn chair about quitting time. That has to be the most mellow drunk I've ever known.
From where I sat, The Wood Eye was the true personification of The Last Man Standing. Try as we might, we could never get him below about .20 on The Crime Dog's Shitfaced-o-meter. Yet there he was, standing tall and proud, saying "bring on a little bit more." Steve-O and Pirate Captain Rick were right there as well, but I'm not sure where they pegged on the Shitfaced-o-meter. The Pirate Captain never seems to be in the least out of control, and Steve-O could go on the wagon for a month and still blow a .08.
As for The Crime Dog, well, I never reached the lofty pinnacles occupied by Ukulele Sam or The Wood Eye. I made a .14 at the party, and was all the way down to .08 by the time I arrived home. As a passenger, of course.
But there's always Parrot Grande, where Herculean efforts to be The Last Man Standing often meet with dubious or even disastrous ends. For example, last year's early exit by The Cheap Bastard on Friday night came after a lovely and agile slow roll right out of his chair and onto the lawn at the Francisco Grande in the middle of a Stars On The Water song. Gotta hand it to him, though. He got right up off the ground as though to say "I meant to do that," packed up his shit and went to bed. He's da man.
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There were a lot of cheers and very, very few jeers Saturday. All I can say about the jeers is that nobody else seemed to notice, much less care. Everyone was too focused on friendship and partying with a purpose. And that we did.
The Crime Dog's Award for Outstanding Accomplishment In Inebriation has to go to our great and honored phriend, Ukulele Sam. He wandered the grounds, ice-cold Jagermeister in tow, for the better part of the evening, until finally winding down on a bench in the backyard around midnight. In great Parrothead tradition, he was a load of laughs and kept himself well in control. Honorable mention goes to our generous host, The Goat. I saw him snoozing peacefully in a lawn chair about quitting time. That has to be the most mellow drunk I've ever known.
From where I sat, The Wood Eye was the true personification of The Last Man Standing. Try as we might, we could never get him below about .20 on The Crime Dog's Shitfaced-o-meter. Yet there he was, standing tall and proud, saying "bring on a little bit more." Steve-O and Pirate Captain Rick were right there as well, but I'm not sure where they pegged on the Shitfaced-o-meter. The Pirate Captain never seems to be in the least out of control, and Steve-O could go on the wagon for a month and still blow a .08.
As for The Crime Dog, well, I never reached the lofty pinnacles occupied by Ukulele Sam or The Wood Eye. I made a .14 at the party, and was all the way down to .08 by the time I arrived home. As a passenger, of course.
But there's always Parrot Grande, where Herculean efforts to be The Last Man Standing often meet with dubious or even disastrous ends. For example, last year's early exit by The Cheap Bastard on Friday night came after a lovely and agile slow roll right out of his chair and onto the lawn at the Francisco Grande in the middle of a Stars On The Water song. Gotta hand it to him, though. He got right up off the ground as though to say "I meant to do that," packed up his shit and went to bed. He's da man.
