They made me what I am today

Trouble ensues when you mix a green horn from the California hilly billy land with redneck Irish Montanans. Believe me, I know from experience.

My two best friends (if you're 34 can you really have a best friend? Isn't that reserved for 9-year-olds?), who live in the frozen tundra of Montana - lovely, picturesque Butte to be specific - are trekking down on their snowmobiles or whatever the hell they drive up there toward the beach next week, I'm guessing to thaw out their tootsies and use indoor plumbing that's not frozen. And they asked Wife and I to join us.

To understand my friends, you have to know where they come from. I'm not about to start playing a history major here but Butte, from the few times I've been up there, is heaven for alcoholics. There is some sort of alcholic beverage distribution center on nearly every snow-packed corner in the village. The town was chock full of Irishmen when the mines were hoppin' back when Jesus wore short pants, so go figure that bars sprout when you turn the hose on a 1-acre parcel of vacant land in the village.

We met in Vegas through the computer store we worked at. That's where my education began. They regaled me of Butte antics - keggers by the lake, keggers in vacant lots, drinking after hours in bars because they knew the 'tenders (and believe me, in that city, every drunk knows every drunk) - and quickly they fashioned me in their own eye. They molded me, groomed me, nurtured me and finally force-fed me enough booze to turn my liver into a cheese grater.

Here's an example:

We're in the apartment, partying because some friends of theirs from the frozen tundra are down. I've nursed my drinks all night, easing a hangover from the night before. I'm kicking back on the couch when my good friend D comes over with a bottle of cooking wine.

"Drink this," she says noticing my Coors Light (which they counted as half a beer because to them it was more water than hopps) low.

"No thanks, I'm good."

"C'mon, you California wuss, drink!" She slurs and thrusts the bottle toward my eye, I guess because she thought I didn't see she actually held a bottle when she urged me to drink.

"No, really, I'm good. I don't want a drink"

The look on her face resembles an angry spider monkey and she springs at me with predatory quickness I didn't know she had. She hooks her arm around my neck and pulls me closer. The smell of stale Miller Lite ass humps my nostrils, and suddenly the bottle of cooking wine is pressed against my closed lips.

"Drink, mother fucker, drink!"

She sounds like Sigourny Weaver in Ghostbusters when Zuul takes over her body, and I can feel my bowels let go (we would turn the cushion over later).

"OK," I whimper and guzzle down the bottle until she yanks it away from and drains the rest.

Tough love is how you learn. And when you're pounding back cold ones with Montanans, there's not hoisting up the nurse uniform and milking beers. You pound the shit with authority and grab another until flat on your back dreaming of Salma Hayek doing naughty things with midgets.

They also taught me that when traumatic events cross your path the best thing to do is drink.

We went to a play at UNLV and decided to finish the night off with a drink at a nearby club. Sitting next to the dance floor we watched as two guys begin jawing at each other over wether Miller Lite tastes great or is less filling. At that same time we decided we had enough of Fight Night on the east side, so we wander outside toward our car. As we're strolling our way we notice one of the dudes in the dance floor hullabaloo passing us with a piece - that's a gun for you non-criminal speaking folks out there - which prompts us to head back inside the club. The thought here is that four walls are safer than a parking lot full of riccochet points.

We make it inside and sit the lobby. We engage a local radio DJ into some small talk - "Did you see that ass clown with the gun? You ever see something like that before?" Normal day-to-day chatter - before someone shouts get down. Of course me, the observant journalist I am, didn't hear the call and am wondering why all these schmucks are hugging the floor. D finally yells that the dance floor dude is shooting up the building. I hit the floor like I'm diving into a nuclear bomb shelter, and once the dude finishes his spree, I make sure the twig and berries are still attached to the tree.

"Let's get to our end of town," D says. I couldn't agree more. "PT's?"

Our old safety net in Vegas. She didn't have to ask me twice. We wander in and begin telling anyone who will listen about our dangerous night out. Shots start coming our way from all corners of the bar, and I think from passerbys on the road who heard the story from somone at the bus depot who was just inside listening to us. By the end of the night, the same guy could have shot up that PT's and I would asked, "Is that all you got ass clown?"

So we'll be joining forces once again to take on the beaches and see how much magic is left in these old bodies. When I return next week I may have a story or three to tell. So wait by the computer with baited breathe, or else I'll send the dance floor shooter your way. Either that, or I'll come by and yell, "Read, motherfucker, read!"