Not to be caught sitting on our hands in this age of 'traveblogs' we decided to hit the road for a little sightseeing of our own. Saturday afternoon we shipped on down to Lincoln for a very special occasion. It was Pistol P's little sister's winter formal and we had to make sure the little wiener taking her was an alright kid. Also, we had big plans on getting hammered. Totally hammered.
We blazed out of Omaha through some sketchy weather, hellbent for the desolate wasteland. We arrived at the palatial home of Pistol Pete, and were greeted by his saint-like mother. Pistol P's dad, a man who shall be known as 'La Begota', asked us what kind of beers we wanted. Coors Light, of course. And some Coronas. However, we had a special request. If at all possible, we were going to need La Begota to appropriate some Joose, the highly caffienated, highly alcoholic devil syrup that turn the most mild-mannered cat into a raving, jabbering fool. It's awesome. Unfortunately, it was not to be found in the liquor store frequented by La Begota, so we would be forced to make do with the beers. And make do we did. After a few beers, the 'picture group' for the dance arrived and we harassed a small boy for 20 minutes (this will be covered in a future post). Then we drank some more beers before Pistol P's folks took us out to dinner, a fine Mexican eatery which means we had to have some margaritas.
Now the night began in earnest. We were dropped off at a sorority house to meet up with Pete's main squeeze and her associates. This house was really nice, and I could feel my fingers getting sticky, an urge I resisted. From there, we walked to some bar (Cliff's?). I was having mixed feelings at this point. On one hand, I was getting ready to just get absolutely obliterated with some dear friends. On the other, I was in Lincoln, home of the hated Huskers and the even more hated 'kids that go to Nebraska'. They were all around me; this was enemy terrain. We got to the bar and I was pleased to see there were a few pretty good specials. I ordered up a $2.50 Hurricane and went after it with gusto. After a few sips, I wondered out lout, 'Is there alcohol in this?' God damn it. I thought maybe this one had just been a bad mix, so I got another and discovered it had the same problem. Kmart and I split a pitcher of 'Everclear and orange juice' which should have been called 'mostly orange juice'. I've been sick a little bit lately, so its a good thing I got all that vitamin C. There's a reason why the drinks are so cheap in Lincoln. There's no booze in them.
Another difference between Lincoln and Omaha: most of these people were only ordering one drink at a time. I even heard a group of dudes, with surprise/wonderment, exclaim a chorus of 'Whoa, dude, double fisting!' when their buddy walked up with a drink in each hand. In Omaha, I have seen a guy carrying two beers in each hand with another tucked in the crook of his arm. This embodies the mindset of the Omaha bargoer; one that is always worried, 'What if I run out of alcohol? What if the line at the bar is really long and I can't get another drink? I better just order two.'. In Lincoln, bars are used to socialize while you have a few drinks. In Omaha, they're for drinking while you talk to the same three people you showed up with.
We left the 'juice bar' and walked straight into a hot garbage dump packed with Afflction-wearing cool dudes and a lot of mediocre looking chicks drinking weak-ass well drinks and 'getting hammered'. 50 cent Natty Light draws helped to ease the pain, as they slid down the hatch with ease. I continued to avoid the mixed drinks after I ordered a Long Island that was less potent than an actual glass of iced tea.
We ended the night at a dingy hole in the wall bar where we watched two hookers play pool with their 'broker'. I wasn't sure how to process this, so I just took it in. I feel like my life has just been a series of taking it ins.