Hitting the Town, Troy Style

Last night I went out to Albany with a few guys from the Hardware Crew at work, plus a guy who made the smart move to Boston in search of milk and honey. Our dining/pubbing expedition was not without incident.

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Shelby

Dinner started out at Red Robin, a hamburger joint in some town in the Albany area. There are a few and to be honest I have no idea where one town ends and another begins.

We had a brief wait, then were seated at a table to be served by an attractive young waitress named Shelby. That's three points in her favor from the get-go: attractive, young, cool name. She was friendly as waitresses tend to be outside of Berkshire County, and JO was all but certain she was dying to get to know me better. JO can sometimes be an unreliable source, as his main goal is to point out every girl in the place who isn't getting married at that minute and say "Dude, you should go hit on that girl."

Anyway, back to the story. At one point Shelby disappeared for a while, and when she returned told us that she had hurt her back and claimed to have been crying in the back. This of course prompted JO to tell me that I should offer to rub her back for her, which I'm sure was top on her list of things she wanted a customer to say to her. I declined. The rest of the night was dedicated to pointing out how I "so should have told her I was a masseuse", since she obviously made that up so I would hit on her. Right. This is what I get for hanging out with three guys in various states of non-singletude.

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Pee Diddy

The next stop was a bar in Troy called Ryan's Wake, which had nothing to do with a funeral. I forget what the word 'wake' means in this situation, but the bar is pretty cool. The nice part about it is that it's people more my age, instead of being a college bar or a bar for grannies. The unfortunate part about that is that it's full of dudes who have been going there for 15 years.

One such customer, who we nicknamed PD for Piss Drunk then later changed to Pee Diddy, was not having a good evening. My first introduction to said fellow was when JO yelled to me to "watch out, that guy's going down". I stepped aside and turned around in time to see two guys fully supporting their extremely hammered friend. Not only was he stumbling, he was not even conscious that I could tell.

They decided to transport him to the front of the place and presumably arrange for transportation. As they dragged him away, toes dragging like a beaten prisoner, I mine nostrils detected a distinct aroma. At first I thought he was throwing up, but it wasn't that sort of smell. Nope, it was the smell of piss.

When they had passed me, I looked over and not only had this poor sap pissed himself, but he had somehow managed to piss his own ass. I mean this guy was soaked from the belt down on the back of his pants. Now that my friends, is drunk.

Finally they wrangled him out the door to the sidewalk where we hoped an ambulance would be picking him up. Minutes later we saw a firetruck drive away, which could only have been brought in to hose the wizz off of him before they brought in the ambulance. Sure enough, they carted him off to the hospital. Pee Diddy was wrecked. As I type this, I'm wondering how long it'll be before he wakes up and how long he'll have to wait for his hangover to kick in. My money's on Tuesday.

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All By My-Sel el elllf

Then there was the guy who was at the bar all by himself. He was clearly alone, and clearly wearing a denim shirt. The denim shirt had clearly been in his closet long before the 2,000 beers settled in his gut, and the buttons were clearly earning their money. His head was covered by a backwards Mets hat that would be considered a throwback hat had it actually been made in the last few decades. In reality it was just wicked old. We watched him work the room with walrus-like precision. Not smooth, not classy.

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So that's that. My Garmin navigator has been switched to the British girl's voice, and re-named Shelby in honor of our waitress. She performed flawlessly, guiding me to everyones house and then back to my own. Nicely done, Shelby.

Over and Out,
Old Coot