The Negroni is a classic Italian cocktail that has recently gained my fancy due to my extreme love of mixology and classic cocktails. It is a very old aperitif cocktail that has equal parts of gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth. A simple orange wedge is its garnish. It is a drink that starts sweet, rolls slowly through a pine bough lined mansion-way, and finishes with the subtle bitterness of a grapefruit pith. It is not a drink for women or cowards, despite its rosy hue. A recent test of several(read: one) subjects, implies that 3 Negronis will intoxicate a man of 200 lbs. It took one subject as many as 5 to achieve self noticed intoxication. I won’t tell you his name because that would be indiscreet.
After 6 of my seasonal cocktails,I decided to have a few Dixie beers, and a roll of sushi. After some much needed carbs and salmon eggs, we decided to go Downtown to the Valerium to see a rock show.
Dark Star Orchestra is a Grateful Dead tribute(not cover) band that plays nearly perfect renditions of Dead shows from throughout history. Their former lead guitar player and singer, basically their Jerry, has now taken a job with the band Further. Further is all of the members of the Grateful Dead, except for Jerry Garcia, who died some years ago. Needless to say, this guy knows his shit, and his former band does too. It was a great show, but we couldn’t stay till the end. The sushi and gin made a dangerous stew that sat un-easily in my stomach. After stirring renditions of “Mr. Charlie,” “Slipknot/Franklin’s,” and “I Know You RIder,” I decided to go home. My friend and I made it back to Tomache, and after a very raucous lesson in home cooking, I went to bed with a full stomach and a satisfied mind.
After my usual 4 mile jog on Friday morning, I showered and went to meet Tom at OCI for lunch. The catfish sandwich that I ordered was not quite what my belly was ready for, but I pressed forward and managed to hold it down. However, when I went into the bathroom to blow my nose, I nearly lost it all. All over the floor. I don’t know what was going on in there, but I can say that it made me gag. Once the horrible wafted to the table, it was time to go. Tom has a notoriously weak stomach. It’s actually kind of funny. Hey, Tom. Remember the smell in the bathroom at OCI?
Haha. He literally just gagged. I swear.
We proceeded to go down to/up in the Skybox. We didn’t really have anything to stock, so we just shuffled some beers around and drank a few. It really never gets old. I just love sitting there with my Vol brothers and taking it all in. Sitting in silence while nursing a bloody beer, and watching the Orange stay Orange is so fantastic that I can’t even begin to put into words. Forget words, think Homer Simpson. It is that great.
From the Skybox, I got a ride back to OCI, where Brent and Twon were having a late lunch. The three of sat there, “eating lunch” for a few more hours until more of our friends started trickling in. Around 5, we had a serious crew of fun-havers and the proverbial flood gates had opened.
I went outside to smoke a cigarette with Twon and Dylan, while our friend Kent, literally blew us away with his versions of “Down the Field” and “Rocky Top” played to honkin’ perfection on his duck call. Sometimes camo is cool.
More of the same entailed, and I closed and opened my third and fourth tabs of the day at The Old College Inn. My friend Dixon, soon arrived, in his full Space Ghost regalia and we all walked up to the Copper Cellar for the Big Orange Roundtable. I assure you, it sounds way cooler than it actually was. And I wasn’t really invited. I drank several martinis, and was later told about an incident with a gropey homosexual. I allegedly had him thrown out of Copper Cellar. On his way out, he poured a glass of water on me from above, and I didn’t take it very well. A few seconds later, his hard ridden, middle aged, beard came down and proceeded to spit obscenities at me in her Kentucky Gentleman scented whore breath. Luckily, at this point , she was escorted out of the restaurant by my friends from the kitchen. It is good to occasionally smoke pot with the cooks at your favorite restaurants. They will become loyal in times of need.
After what I’m told were several slobbery pronounced affronts on the university of alabama(lower case is not a mistake), many of which contained the words “fuck” “boog” “mooley” and the word that rhymes with the seldom used baseball play, it was decided that I should leave the Roundtable.
Haziness ensued, and now I was a Rooster’s. I will wave the Rooster’s commentary for a later date, but let me assure you, fair reader, that I fucking hate that place. I love the staff, but I hate the crowd and I said before, we will discuss this later.
Upon the decision to exit the cock shop, I ran into a friend from Nashville who was in need of place to stay. After a very questionable drive, during which I was assured pro-bono legal representation should things go wrong, we came tearing onto Tomache like a German tornado. After, I’m sure a few more beers, I decided to call it a night. My compatriot spend the night in my bathroom and was gone by the time I awoke to the torrential downpours of Saturday morning.
Actually more like Biblical down pours. I honestly thought at one point that the Vol Navy might be in my front yard, but by the time we made our way to the tailgate, the sun was shining down on the Vol faithful. I met my friend Paul and some of his buddies in from Nashville and we walked up to our standard tailgating spot. It was a great spot, with a great crowd, but unfortunately the rednecks next to us had set speakers worthy of the State Fair and insisted on blaring everything from Skynard to Sevendust( I don’t know any Sevendust songs, I just use their name to describe all bad music of that genre.) At one point a David Allen Coe song came on, and Brent exclaimed, “Jesus, just leave this on. It’s terrible but at least it’s familiar.” No such luck. Eventually the whisky kicked in and the music became nothing more than background noise.
My buddy Wes arrived at the tailgate, and we made our way to Tom’s spot and off to the game. The sky was getting very dark and the forecast was less than promising. Not far into the first quarter, after a pretty impressive opening drive from the Vols, both teams cleared the sidelines and headed for the locker rooms. For a brief moment I thought that ducks had forfeited as they were too terrified to continue against such a mighty SEC foe. This was not the case. Soon a voice came over the PA telling us to take shelter and that we could re-enter after the storm. We left the seats and decided to go have a drink at Tom’s truck. Right as I mixed a healthy dose of vodka into my Sprite, the skies opened up as thunder roared and lighting flashed all around us. WE managed to stay pretty dry, and after a 90 minute delay, we went back to the seats and watch Oregon systematically kick the shit of the Beloved. Downtrodden, Wes and I left the game and he drove me home. Hurricane McCord came blowing in a few hours later and after a late night, red-eyed trip to Kroger, we had a feast of crab legs, italian sausage and peppers, and kabobs. Decadence reigned.
Next Week-Florida
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