Thanksgiving 1995: Drink & Drown

First of all, let’s all wish a Happy Independence Day to the residents of Lebanon. Gee, I thought Lebanon was still a part of Wilson County. Most importantly, today is the 43rd anniversary of Lyndon B. Johnson’s coup d'état against President John F. Kennedy and the U.S government. Thank you, Oliver Stone. Also, a Happy Birthday to my former teammate and co-worker, Jonathan’s Daddy.

Today is the day before our wonderful holiday, Thanksgiving. This is the day that we prepare for the day that we give thanks for all of the blessings that God (or whoever you infidels worship, if any) has bestowed upon us. Ever since the mid-90s, this has been the day that I reflect on the happenings and goings-on of Wednesday, November 22, 1995.

Please keep in mind that due to the loss of millions of precious brain cells, I must rely upon the recollections of the parties involved to supplement my very sketchy memories.



It was the day before Thanksgiving 1995 and I was recently single and looking to go out and have a good time. I had not been to too many places (clubs, bars, etc) due to having turned 21 years old only six months prior. G-Man (yes, that G-Man from previous posts) called me to see if I wanted to accompany his pal Crabb (just go with it) and himself as they were headed to downtown Nash-vegas to paint the town red (do people still call it that?). They wanted to take me to a now-defunct club known as the Music City Mix Factory. This place was a Mecca for those who loved to party, dance, drink and just participate in general reverie. If I remember correctly, there were three floors all dedicated to a different type of musical genre: dance/pop, country and the floor that we were headed, rock! Since I was heading out to show the world how spectacular I was, I needed to dress to impress. After rummaging through my wardrobe, I found nothing that I liked (just like a girl would!). I knew; however, that my Pops had a sweet shirt that would rock the town. With much trepidation, he allowed me to borrow it. “Don’t ruin my shirt,” still rings in my ears today as I think back to this fabled story.

I drove across The Mount to the G-Man’s place (well, it was his parent’s place and before you judge, I just moved back into my parent’s house at that time) where we were going to ride together in his car to Hermitage to meet up in the bowling alley parking lot with the Crabb-man. We piled into Crabb’s car where I distinctly remember pushing aside some drive-thru bags and getting an education in not-so-popular music, such as Nick Cave. I started to get hyped up for the whole excursion when it was told to me that the culmination of events tonight would be my very first wet t-shirt contest! Is there anything else to give thanks for more than that? I think not!

We finally got downtown and parked in what seemed like half of a mile away in a gravel lot. We had to cross a semi-busy thoroughfare. The lure of the neon-encrusted signage and myriad of musical sounds had me half-running to the front door! I could not wait to mingle with the “cool dudes” and sparsely dressed ladies of the Nashville club scene. We paid our fee to enter and made our way up the dozens of steps to the top floor where the rock and roll lived. The music was so loud that you could feel it in your chest as we hollered about our excitement to each other. I know that my eyes must have been like saucers when I saw the sign that prophesized my impending death! “$5 Drink and Drown”!



For you novices (like I was at that time), “$5 Drink and Drown” refers to an ulta-special promotion to get people to come out on Thanksgiving Eve and party at their fine establishment. $5.00 allowed you to receive a special arm band which would entitle the owner to drink as much beer as he could possibly drink and get your brew of choice two at a time! It seemed to me that the lights from Heaven itself were shining brightly onto this sign. The song of the Angels could be heard over the heavy metal thrashing guitar solos. I think I knocked over two women on my way to the bar (no fear, they were ugly…j/k…no really, they were pooches).

Now, for the remainder of my story, I will give you the Reader’s Digest version. Two Coors Lights down the gullet. Two more Coors Lights and liquid courage is in full effect. I managed to prowl my way around the club ogling all of the scantily clad ladies. A live band was shaking the rafters as we raised our hands in youthful exuberance. Rumor has it that your hero (that’s me) annoyed a lovely young married girl who was out with only her friends in tow. Apparently, the phrase “leave me alone” did not compute. Eventually, I was steered away from this poor woman and sat down at a large table to have two more drinks and watch the band. It was at this time that a spectacularly gorgeous girl sat down next to me that I started to fancy. In my drunken stupor, I took her friendliness to mean she really liked me. We became bar pals and talked about lots of stuff, including the up coming wet t-shirt contest. I, being very lawyer-ish, hit her with very probing questions. She mentioned how no one would want to see her in a wet t-shirt, I disagreed, saying that her boyfriend (a young man sitting next to her) would. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she exclaimed. Yea me! So we talked about the band and how great they were and I asked her again if she might participate in the contest. She said that her boyfriend, the guitar player, probably wouldn’t like her to enter. Struck down again! We all know that we can’t beat out a rock-n-roller!



It was nearing go-time for the t-shirts but something was wrong. My head was spinning out of control. I had to hold onto anything just to stay upright. I’m not sure how many beers I had that night as I lost count after 14! My stomach was gurgling and I realized in my stupor that I needed to be outside. Without letting my buddies G-Man & Crabb know, I proceeded to stumble down the steps, bumping into several people on the way and headed outside. I am pretty sure several people got burnt by my cigarette (hehe…oops!). I vaguely recall crossing the busy street (without looking either way, never mind both ways) and heading to the parking lot. I wanted to just relax and get some quiet. I searched for Crabb’s car high and low. While walking through the parking lot, without breaking stride, I hurled on a random vehicle from headlight to taillight. Somehow I found Crabb’s car.



After what seemed like hours, the boys found me at the car. I poured myself into the backseat and put my head down. I asked Crabb several times to pull over. We stopped once so that I could evacuate my overly filled stomach of some of the alcohol. Apparently there were cops at this stop. Oh well, they didn’t notice me. We finally got to G-Man’s car at the bowling alley, where I proceeded to get sick again, I believe on his rear tire…I think I urinated on it too. We got to his house where he let me know that I would sleep there for the night. I crawled up the steps and collapsed onto his bed. He came in with a trash bucket in preparation for the long night ahead of me. I think I remember him starting to tell me that there was no way I was sleeping in his bed when I yacked on the pillow and myself! “Never mind, dude, you sleep there.” I slept in the disgusting pile of vomit, still wearing my father’s prized shirt. Yeah, I know, very gross. I woke pretty early and headed back to my abode to sleep more of my hang over off. Pops was already getting the Thanksgiving spread prepared as he noticed how terrible I looked. I told him I would wash his shirt later and headed to my bedroom. I could hear the many guests arriving and was coaxed out of bed with the delicious smells of turkey and dressing. This was around 3:00 p.m. but I was still a little woozy. I filled my plate to the rim with all of the fixings and prepared to grub.



One bite. That was all I managed to consume before having to run up to the bathroom for another round of puking! Back to sleep I went. I managed to drag myself out of my room after dark to eat a small portion of left-overs.

For those of you laundry-doers, when you allow a brightly colored shirt to marinate in alcohol soaked vomit, it will bleach the garment. Much to my old man’s dismay, his shirt was ruined; however, he does have a somewhat amusing story to tell us all on Thanksgiving every year. Well this year, Dad, I beat you to it for once. It gets funnier as the years tick away. So, anyone who may be thinking that this year you would like to go get hammered the day before this Day of Giving Thanks, please think twice. I never did replace his shirt and if it makes you feel any better, I never did get to see that wet t-shirt contest.