Ok, KDA readers out there, it’s time for another hopefully interesting/hilarious chapter in the story that is my life.  I realize the bar was apparently set pretty high after the first story, as I knew it would be, but I’m going to strive to live up to the lofty expectations I have set for myself.  With that being said, let’s get to the reason why you’re all tuning into this particular post.  Let’s face it; St. Patrick’s Day is practically a Holy Day in the life of a college student, right up there with Halloween, New Years Eve, and for the historically minded among us, Repeal Day (December 5th, kiddos! Start marking your calendars!).  As such, it deserves to be observed in an appropriate fashion, and while this particular tale isn’t necessarily the drunkest or most out-of-control St. Paddy’s Day I’ve had, it is one of the most memorable.

For 6 non-consecutive years, I was a member of the greatest college marching band in the history of ever.  Yes, even better than those Buckeyes and there TBDBIWTFE or whatever the hell that acronym is.  As such, I’ve had an opportunity that few people get to enjoy, in that I’ve attended a hefty amount of sporting events for free, usually with pretty decent seats.  Additionally, I was usually there on the University’s dime, and all I had to do to earn it was to play a tuba, something I like to do anyway.  A rough life, I can assure you.

In 2005 I was selected to be a part of the band which would travel with the Men’s Basketball team for their postseason tournaments.  Basically, we got to go to the Big Ten tournament, (which I believe was in Chicago that year), and to wherever we ended up in the NCAA tournament.  This not only makes you root even harder for the team’s success, as it directly correlates to your Spring Break plans, but also manages to make Selection Sunday even more interesting as you find out where you’ll end up.  Though many more incidents and stories occurred during the tournament run that year, this particular story takes place at our first round site, Oklahoma City, OK.  Not exactly the tropical location swimming with coeds that I could’ve hoped for, but as is my nature, I was determined to make the most of it.  I mean, hey, how many people even get to say they’ve seen one NCAA tournament game in person?

We flew into to OK City with the team, arriving on Wednesday the 16th, if memory serves.  Got settled into our swanky hotel, (staying with the team has some definite perks), went and checked out some of the team shoot-arounds at the arena, explored the area nightlife and generally lived ourselves up.  We didn’t play our first game until the 18th, so our St Paddy’s Day started off innocently enough; we were in a parade, had some lunch, and then lounged in the hotel hot tub with copious amounts of beer and plenty of TVs pointed at us to catch all the first round action we could.  I don’t think I’ve ever been quite as relaxed and carefree in my life as I was on that afternoon.  It would serve as a startling contrast to the single-minded dedication and dogged pursuit that a small group of friends and I would exhibit later that evening.  Our goal?  No more lofty than that of any other reveler on this most inebriated of holidays: to not only consume beer in massive quantities, but also for that beer to be a festive green color.  As one of my good friends once remarked about the holiday, “If you’re not shitting green on March 18th, you probably didn’t try hard enough.”  Since that day, that has always been the benchmark by which I’ve judged all my St. Patrick’s celebrations.

After the games concluded for the evening, we decided it was high time that we get this show on the road.  Due to our advanced scouting reports, we knew a good handful of band nerds had already gathered at the Spaghetti Warehouse downtown to grab some dinner, and the green beer was flowing.  Though dedicated drinkers such as us had no need of food yet, the siren song of green beer quickly drew us to join them.  Some 20 minutes later we had gathered a sizable troupe of Wisconsinites and were having the kind of rip-roaring old time that only we can.

This frivolity soon came to a screeching halt, however, as the bartender informed us that we had consumed all of the green beer that they had in the place.  For my own part, I’d like to think I was less surprised at this occurrence and more surprised at just how quickly we’d accomplished it.  In any event, this information led to a brief and heated conference as we tried to determine our next plan of action.  To our credit, the obvious decision was reached, and we decided as a group to set out in search of more emerald colored deliciousness.  Thus began the epic and impromptu St. Patrick’s Day Pub Crawl of ‘05.

From ritzy dance clubs to seedy dive bars, our intrepid band kept up a relentless pursuit of our goal.  Despite our motivation, however, time started to work against us due to a number of factors.  Firstly, regardless of whether a bar had green beer or not, as friendly Midwestern alcoholics we felt obligated to have at least one drink wherever we stopped, which was everywhere.  Secondly, there was a fair number of random Wisconsin fans (read: rich alumni) who had come down to catch the games, and upon learning that we were in the band were only to happy to buy us some drinks and chat with us (read: SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS!).  Those two issues seemed destined to keep us from ever finding more green beer, as invariably we would walk into a bar and be informed that it had just ran out.  These constant setbacks, enjoyable though they were, caused the group resolve to waver.  By the time we ended up at a honky tonk bar with a live blues band on stage and a $2 Dos Equis special, the crew elected to give up the hunt.  As it was roughly 11PM, the prevalent thought was that it was better to enjoy the remainder of the night somewhere that was pretty cool instead of chasing an elusive green unicorn.

Luckily, myself and two other buddies were true believers.  Somewhere in our heart of hearts, deep down in a way that even we likely couldn’t understand we knew that there was more to be had this evening than cheap Dos Equis.  Destiny was afoot, and it beckoned us onward into the night.  So we pressed forward, continuing the bar to bar slog with still no success to show for it.  As we neared the last bar in our winding downtown crawl, even we were beginning to think that perhaps this was indeed a lost cause.  I’ll freely, if somewhat ashamedly, admit that upon seeing the glowing, tiki-themed bar ahead of us, even I suggested we just head back to meet up with the others.  Luckily, for the second time on that trip, I was about to have my initial perceptions shattered in a wonderful way. (B’s note: For reference, I’m referring to an unmentioned incident from earlier on the trip.  For more information, please keep your eyes peeled for my eventual book)

One of my friends rationalized that the least we could do was to ask about green beer, as it was the only place left.  We agreed, if for no other reason than general principle, but our hopes were not high.  A waitress was outside wiping down the patio tables, (complete with palm tree umbrellas), so he went over to talk to her over the thumping bass beats of dance hall music coming from inside;

“Excuse me, Miss, but we were wondering if you guys were serving any green beer tonight, you know, for St Paddy’s Day?”

“Yeah, it’s free, actually.”

For maximum enjoyment, please play this video, skipping ahead to roughly 53 seconds in while reading the next paragraph

I know I can’t speak for everyone in our small group, but to me, hearing those words was as if the Heavens had opened wide, replete with trumpets and choirs of angelic voices, thundering down through the firmament to finally bestow justification on our noble journey.  SUCCESS! SWEET GREEN SUCCESS! After we had all calmed down from our respective flights of ecstasy, the waitress informed us that the deal was all you could drink green beer, for free, after you paid a 10 dollar cover charge.  The only other time I’d seen people run into a line with such joy in their faces was earlier that year when we’d been stranded in Tampa for a day after the bowl game with a liquor store down the street and nothing to do all day (Will also be in aforementioned book).  I was practically giggling as I got my hand stamped and walked into the largely empty bar.

We bellied up to some open stools at the bar and the bartender grabbed us a pitcher of green beer.  We politely informed her that we ‘weren’t from around here’, and that maybe it would be best to just get a couple of pitchers for the three of us right away.  She laughed and assured us that she’d be able to keep up with us, as there were hardly any other customers yet.  Three pitchers later, she had two sitting in front of us and every time she walked by she’d just drop off another one.  Obviously a quick learner.  For our parts, we were happy living the lifestyle of three people rapidly descending into inebriation.  I was frantically trying to call everyone I could think of to let them know about this foolish drink special that we were going to abuse like an asthmatic in a game of dodgeball, and if they were able, trying to get them to join me.  Eventually we got a decent handful of the other nerds to come join us, much to their great delight, and things progressed rapidly downhill from that point.

Sadly, that’s where my narration of the story ends.  Things from that point on are extremely dark and fuzzy, memory-wise, and likely for good reason.  I do have it on good authority that sometime shortly before bar time I fell backwards off my stool and onto the floor, immediately jumped to my feet with a crazed look in my eye, and dashed off into the night.  I woke up in my hotel room the next day, so obviously I made it back safely, but nobody really knows when I got in or what kind of trouble I may have caused in the interim.  I do know that apparently my partners in crime took advantage of my dramatic exit from the bar to make off with all the loot that they had apparently been leaning over the bar and grabbing throughout the night.  They cut me in due to my unwitting help with the scheme, so I got a cheap plastic pitcher, a strainer and a couple of pour spouts out of the deal.  And yes, cause I know you’re wondering, my BM the next day was a healthy forest green color.

And there we are, another tale in the can for your viewing pleasure.  Once again, I know I got a little long, but if the response to my last post was any indication, you guys are willing to stick it out to hear all the ridiculous details in the saga of my life.  Keep your eyes peeled, say your prayers and be sure to eat your veggies, and I just may bring another thrilling story your way next week.  Till then, adios, muchachos!