Once again the Beer Commissioner is here to help.  Yet another politician has lost his away, and has thrown his career down the proverbial toilet.  I don't know about you, but I'm sick and tired of these poor politicians getting caught with their pants down, and having their promising careers ended long before they have the chance to sell a Senate seat, stuff cash in their freezer, or get indicted for making huge profits on land deals.

So, I've decided to write the Beer Commissioner's Adultery Primer for Politicians.  By following my simple rules, any politician will save themselves from the shame of having to resign office long before they have the chance to swindle millions of taxpayer dollars, setting up their families for life, right before they are indicted.

First, say you are a Senator or a Congressman and you happen to like gay sex.  Like I said many times before, the Beer Commissioner is a progressive guy. I don't care what kind of sex anyone has, or who you want to have sex with. That's your business, and I'm quite happy to stay out of your business.  However, if you are a Senator or Congressman and you like having gay sex, avoid having gay sex in airport restroom stalls or with Capitol pages.  You Senators and Congressmen go on junkets to high dollar resorts all the time.  Do what everyone else does. Meet your boy toy through craigslist.  Odds are the boy toy isn't going to know you are a Congressman or a Senator.  Only about 40% of Americans know who the Vice-President is, do you really think they can identify the senior Senator from Idaho?  I couldn't pick Larry Craig out of a photo line-up, but airport security had no problem frog marching him to his mug shot when he decided to play footsie in a airport bathroom.  Also, avoid Capitol pages.  Seriously, nothing good is going to come from having sex with a 16-18 year old employee.  Besides, the pages only work for 6 week terms.  Would it really kill you to wait 7 weeks when they are an ex-page? 

Second, say you are a governor or a United States Senator and you like having sex with prostitutes.  A Hollywood movie star was once asked why he paid for sex with a prostitute?  He replied, I didn't pay for sex, I paid for them to leave.  He didn't say I paid for them to leave and keep a secret.  Ben Franklin once said, three people can keep a secret if 2 of them are dead.  Seriously guys, do you really think a prostitute is going to keep her mouth shut about having sex with you?  About once an election cycle, Larry Flynt offers up $1 million to anyone who has sexual dirt on a politician.  Let's pretend for a second.  Pretend you are Elliot Spitzer's prostitute, and Larry Flynt has just offered up $1 million for any dirt on a politician.  What do you do if you are the prostitute?  Easy, screw Gov. Spitzer, make him pay you the $4K, then make a copy of his credit card (for verification purposes) then call Larry Flynt.  A little hint to the politicians: hookers are in the hooking business to make money, not friends, and not political connections.  David Vitter, do you really think your hooker was just spending time with you because she wanted a vacant federal judgeship?  If you politicians are so dumb that you think these hookers are not going to turn on you in a heartbeat when they have a chance to make money standing up, then you do not deserve the opportunity to hide $90,000.00 in your freezer.

Third, say you are a governor of a small southern state. And, let's just go crazy and assume that you like having sex with Argentine women.  Hey, nothing wrong with that.  Argentine women are beautiful.  However, if you are a governor, it is generally not good to leave the country without telling ANYONE, including your wife, as to your whereabouts.  Surely to heavens, the governor of a state can come up with a reason to visit just about any place.  If you are so dumb, so as not to be able to come up with a reason to substantiate a weekend outside your state, then you are too dumb to have the opportunity to sell a Senate seat.  Frankly, any wife who sits by, on Father's Day weekend and 'allows' her husband to go out of town for 5 days without knowing where he is going, or how to contact him, doesn't really have the right to be sitting in a governor's mansion either.  As a married guy, with children, on Father's Day, I think it is reasonable, for a wife to insist, hemispherically speaking, where you will be. 

Fourth, say you are President of the United States.  Well....just don't smoke cigars with interns in blue dresses and you are home free.

Guys, it isn't that hard.  Please follow the Beer Commissioner's Rules for Committing Adultery, and you too, will have the chance to fleece the electorate at will!

        

I've officially had it.   Americans need to get their collective sticks out of their nether regions.  The people in this country whine entirely too much.  I'm not sure when it started.  My grandparents walked 20 miles to school each day, up-hill both ways, got an orange in their stocking for Christmas, and ate cardboard every meal of the year, and they didn't complain.  They didn't have tv, telephones or the internet. Hell, they couldn't drink either, because they were in their teens and 20s during prohibition.  They never whined. They told me so.

You didn't read about the peace-niks and the Greenpeacers being human shields during WWII.  People didn't care if our president spent the week in Georgia with his mistress, let alone, going to dinner with his wife in New York.  It seems everyone has to whine about something. Constantly.

A friend of our family broke his collarbone yesterday, doing of all things---PLAYING OUTSIDE.  Kids just don't break bones anymore.  Mrs. Commissioner and I were talking about that yesterday. I told her to think about it.  When we were 7, there were 12 channels on the TV, there was no internet, Atari hadn't come out, and we were still 7 years away from the Commodore 64.  We had to play outside, or, at least my dad would've used that white belt he had in his closet to spank me.  As a consequence of playing outside, we fell out of trees we climbed, broke bones trying to jump things on our bike, or broke arms playing football in the backyard.  My parents personally sent all of my orthopoedic surgeon's kids to college, with my help. 

I'm not sure when the whining started.  It starts around 6:00 a.m. every morning in my house.  It starts with "I want a poptart", "I want milk", " I want Wow Wow Wubbzy".  Every morning, and every evening ends the exact same way.  The middle of the day is filled with whining too.  And not from the little deputies, but from the news and our elected officials and professional agitators.  I'm telling you, I've seen the most absurd news stories of late coming out of Washington.  Today, Senator Boxer was whining to some General to call her Senator, instead of the highly offensive term, "ma'am".  Since when did "ma'am" become a derrogatory term?  It is proper ettiquette to address the Queen as "ma'am", although they pronounce it as mum, yet Senator Boxer felt the need to berate and whine to a general that she earned her title and wished it to be used.

Then yesterday the President is about to give an interview.  A fly was buzzing the tower. The President did what apparently everyone not in PETA does, he swatted the fly and killed it.  The PETA folks went completely nuts that he killed the fly, and suggested he should have a humane fly catching trap to safely and humanely release the fly back into the environment.  I'd suggest putting one in his Christmas stocking, but surely someone will whine about the hanging of a Christmas stocking in the White House. I only mention PETA because I tried to send my wife's, dearly departed cat to Peru for the cat eating festival in hopes of getting PETA to protest me, but no such luck.  I noticed PETA apparently had no problems when the President ordered the Navy Seals to kill 3 teenagers a few months ago for swashbuckling activities in the Indian Ocean.  Imagine the outrage had the President ordered the seals to take out a whale instead of the three kids?

Since when have we reached the point in this country when we cannot refer to a woman as "ma'am", or we can't swat a fly?  If things get much more out of control, Jose Canseco is going to sue baseball for allowing him to use steroids.  Oh, but that will never happen. 

C'mon people, relax a bit, enjoy a nice cold beer, and don't sweat the small stuff.  It will be ok. I promise.

        

The Commish had a great weekend.  Mrs. Commissioner sent me on what she affectionately referred to as a bro-mance weekend with my friends Brad and Kevin.  Brad is stationed in the Navy in Japan, and Kevin lives 'just' outside of Philadelphia.  The Navy saw fit to send the good Lieutenant to Naval Justice school in Rhode Island. Brad was furloughed for the weekend, so we converged on Philadelphia.

After being picked up at the airport, we of course headed straight to the bar.  I enjoyed a few Yuengling's then it was home. Of course, we made the obligatory stop for snacks. I picked up 3 cases of Tastykakes.

On Saturday we basically pub crawled through Philadelphia, prior to seeing the WORLD CHAMPION PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES.  Two places stood out as superior beer drinking establishments, which will now be awarded the Beer Commissioner's Award of Distinguished, and are now therefore, among the Beer Commissioner's Best Places to Drink Beer.

First, we went to Monk's Cafe on Spruce Street.  Monk's specializes in Belgian beers.  I'm not sure how many different varieties of beer they had, but let's just say if you went there every single day and had a beer, it would take you way more than a year to have one of everything.  In addition to the vast selection of beers, all of the Belgian beers were served in the appropriate mug.  The ambiance of the place was great.  Certainly no fern bar, but just a good old fashioned drinking pub.  After having a beer or 3 at Monk's we strolled a bit further and found Tria. 

Tria is a fern bar type of place.  Definately the type of place you take a sophisticated sort of date.  They serve fine wines, good cheese selections and a wonderful beer selection.  I tried the Stone IPA, which was absolutely wonderful.  The wait staff was great, and our bar babe was a major hottie. 

After our pub crawl we headed to Citizen's Bank Park to see the WORLD CHAMPION PHILLIES.  Of course, more beer, cheesesteaks, rain delays, terrible fielding, but a wonderfully great time.  I wish the trip would have been longer.  The weather was wonderful as well.  Highs around 72 with no humidity.   Of course when I landed back in New Orleans, and it was 98 with 100 percent humidity I was reminded of the old WC Fields quote, "All in all, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

        

My wife's cat has gone to the litter box in the sky.  Those of you who are faithful readers of my blog know of the long tortured relationship I had with my wife's cat.  For those of you, who do not know, I'll give you a little background.  When I first met Mrs. Commissioner 7 years ago she had three cats.  All three of them were given as gifts to the engineer who designed the Great Wall of China.  Talk about winning a booby prize? 

The first cat, Chelsea, actually liked me.  Mrs. Commissioner said she knew I was 'the one', when Chelsea liked me, because Chelsea didn't like anyone.  Chelsea was an old grey cat, who lived under the bed, and only came out to hiss at people.  Chelsea went to visit the litter box in the sky, the day after Thanksgiving, approximately 6 years ago.  I had no issues with Chelsea.  She used the litter box, she rarely left the underside of the bed, and I think she would have tried to claw someone's eyes out had someone tried to attack  us.

The second cat, Fooshie, didn't like me, but he was mostly an outside cat.  Fooshie was an independent sort of soul, would run off for days at a time, and come home to eat.  Fooshie was voted most likely to have fleas forever by his high school class , and a little known Fooshie fact, is that he taught Andrew Zimmern how to eat all those weird foods.  Fooshie too, was kind enough not to wear out his welcome.  One day, I'm outside grilling steaks, drinking an ice-cold beer, and Fooshie walked up the driveway after one of his 3 day vacations from the family with a golf ball sized tumor right behind his eye.  I immediately took poor Fooshie to the vet.  That was 4 years ago.  Keep in mind, of the three cats my wife had, both Fooshie and Chelsea were younger than Dacquiri A. Cat.

Perhaps Dacquiri hated me because I took the other 2 cats to the vet.  Perhaps he hated me because I didn't like him, and didn't hide it very well.  Dacquiri was approximately 6,000 years old.  He hadn't used a litter box in years.  He was stone deaf, and blind in his right eye.  He didn't have most of his teeth.  He vomitted approximately 400 times a day.  He ruined all of our outside furniture. We had to replace the carpet because of him.  I'm going to miss pressure washing the pool deck every Saturday.  Dacquiri caused my beloved Crimson Tide to lose their final two games last year by hexing my blanket (see prior blog).  I have been rooting for Dacquiri's death for quite some time.

Mrs. Commissioner was out of town for a few days, and I was left to tend to her beast.  I noticed the cat was leaving strange things in his food dish, and was otherwise not seeming like his evil self.  He didn't seem like he wanted to eat me. I took him to the vet on Thursday, and the vet checked him over.  She deemed him senile and dizzy, but that he 'had a good 6-8 months left'.  The next day, Mrs. Commissioner and I get the kids in bed, and we decide to get in the hot tub.  We pour some adult beverages, and open up the door to go to the hot tub.  Mrs. Commissioner lets out a blood-curtling scream, I sincerely hope NOBODY on earth ever has to hear, ever.  Right there in our swimming pool was Dacquiri A. Cat doing the dead-cat float in the swimming pool.  Mrs. Commissioner jumps into the pool and pulls the cat out.  She hands me the cat, who weighed three times his normal size, because he was filled with water.  I put the cat down on the ground, and Mrs. Commissioner is screaming, FIX HIM, FIX HIM!!! 

I do not do well with women screaming at me.  I do not do well with women crying either.  When I hear screaming and crying, my instincts are to make it stop, immediately.  So, Mrs. Commissioner is screaming FIX HIM, so, like the good lifeguard that I used to be, I started performing CPR on the cat.  After about a minute or so of this, I declare to Mrs. Commissioner, "Sweetie, he's gone."  She screams, HE CAN'T BE, FIX HIM!!!  So, back to the CPR.  I perform CPR on the cat for 10 minutes or so, to the background of hysterical crying, and I'll be damned if that cat didn't pick his head up and meow.  I'm not kidding.  This cat came back to life.  Needless to say, we never did make it into the hottub.

We stayed up with the cat for a better part of the night.  I'm not sure if he had a stroke, which caused hiim to fall into the pool, or if he suffered brain damage from being in the pool.  In any event, poor Dacquiri never really could walk again.  On Saturday morning, we fed him breakfast, and Mrs. Commissioner brushed him real good and said her goodbyes, and I took him to the vet. R.I.P Dacquiri A. Cat.

        

Life sometimes serves up disappointment.  You deal with it and move on to other things.  Nothing is more disappointing than missing out on an opportunity you didn't even know existed.  I am distraught on the opportunity I apparently missed with the passage of the latest federal budget.  The story is here: www.foxnews.com/politics/2009/05/08/government-funds-study-gay-sex-argentina-bars/.

Folks, this goes down into the Greatest Missed Opportunities Ever by the Beer Commissioner category.  Our United States government decided to give some college professor in Argentina $400,000.00 to study why men have risky sex in Argentine gay bars.  For real. I'm not making this up.  Why was this not posted on monster.com?  Why isn't there a website that publishes these opportunities?  Why did I not get an email from my congressman that said, Dear Beer Commissioner, would you volunteer to take $400,000.00 to study and tell us why gay men in Argentina engage in risky gay sex in bars, because if you don't take it, we are going to find someone who will?

Now, the obvious question is, what makes me qualified for this? Do I speak Spanish? No, but I can find a couple of Mexican guys at the Home Depot who do.  Have I ever been to Argentina?  No, but I have seen Evita, and I still think Madonna is hot.  Am I gay? No, but I do think Madonna is hot.  Have I ever been in a bar? Well duh.  Have I ever been in a gay bar?  I live in New Orleans, of course.  And finally, do I have any idea what causes people in bars to engage in unsafe sexual activities?  Well of course I do.

So, I have concluded the in-depth study, citations included.  People go to bars to drink and have a good time. (See the epic film Roadhouse).  Bars traditionally serve alcoholic beverages, including beer, wine and hard liquor.  (See the classic television show Cheers!).  When people go to bars, and consume alcoholic beverages, their libido tends to rise, creating sexual arousal and the loss of inhibitions. (See the epic film Cocktail)  If toward the end of the night, the drunk and uninhibited person has still not found a hook-up, their standards and inhibitions lower even more in an attempt to satisfy their sexual needs. (See generally, the term 'Beer Goggling').  This phenomenon is not limited to heterosexual couples (See the film, Priscilla Queen of the Desert).  Based upon these undisputed facts, gay men in Argentina go to bars to drink and have a good time. As a result of their drinking, they get horny. The later it gets in the evening, the drunker and hornier they get, they throw caution to the wind and hook up with any random guy they see fit to satisfy their urges and desires.  They'd most likely engage in safe sex, but the condom dispenser in the bathroom was broken.

Please forward the $400,000.00 to me as soon as possible. 

        

The First Annual Beer Commissioner Awards!  Yes, you heard me, the Beer Commissioner is giving out awards.  Does this mean I'm straying off course from my stated mission of not endorsing one beer over another?  Oh heavens no!  After all, Gary Bettman gives out the Stanley Cup every year.  The football commissioner hands out the Lombardi trophy.  Bud Selig gives out MVP awards, Cy Young awards, etc. 

So, this year the Beer Commissioner is giving out his First Annual Beer Awards.  Awards will be given in the following categories:

Best New Brewery:     Awards will be given to any brewery opened from January 1, 2008 until now.

Best Import:     Are you the type that likes to stick a lime in the neck of your beer bottle?  Or do you like watching black bubbles in a proper beer mug?

Best Stout including Irish Dry Stouts, Imperial Stouts, Oatmeal Stouts

Best Ale, including wheat ales, blonde or golden ales, cream ales, Belgian style ales, English style Pale ales, Scottish ales and Irish Ales.

Best Lager

Best Specialty Beer:  This category will apply to limited run beers put in distribution for a short period of time, e.g. Holiday Beers.

Best Weizen Beer

Best Hefeweizen

Best Brewery

Best Bock

Best Porter

Best Overall

That's 12 categories of Beer Commissioner Awards.  I have assembled a distinguished panel of judges and beer tasters to hand out the awards.  You might ask what does the winner receive?  Well, each winner will receive the prestigious Beer Commissioner trophy, they will get notoriety on the Beer Commissioner website, as well as one year worth of Beer Commissioner goodwill.

If your brewery wants to be considered for a Beer Commissioner award just shoot me an email, and I'll let you know what you need to do.  commissioner@beercommissioner.com

The awards will be announced on June 30, 2009.  Good Luck!

        

About a year ago, Mrs. Commissioner thought I needed a Facebook page.  So, the Beer Commissioner is on Facebook.  I'll admit, thus far, it has been fun.  I have enjoyed some of the random emails from people in my high school class, Who the hell is the Beer Commissioner?  I have had family members ignore my friend requests, because they didn't know I was the Beer Commissioner.  Imagine their surprise when they got a Christmas card from the Beer Commissioner with pictures of the little deputies.  One of my cousins sent me an email....'oops, I didn't know you were the Beer Commissioner, I just thought it was some weirdo'. 

My aunt said, "I guess you really like beer."  This comment made me wonder if I got elected pope, would she have said, gee, you must really like mass?  In many ways, Facebook has been a self-learning experience.  I have become completely addicted to Mob Wars.  I really like the mobster movies.  When it comes to Mob Wars, I really am a vengeful s.o.b.  If I get attacked, you get whacked.  (I need to remember that rhyme for my next closing argument in front of a jury).  Seriously, I didn't know that I am NOT a turn the other cheek kind of mob boss.  Beyond Mob Wars, Facebook has all these little quizzes you can take.  I must admit, I LOVE the Facebook quizzes.  I'm not sure why, but they are fun.

Here are my results:

What Norse God are you?    Odin
What president are you?     Ike
What decade are you?     The 1940s.
What professional wrestler are you?     The Warrior
What liquor are you?     Vodka
What beer are you?     Light beer
What Star Wars character are you?     Emperor Palpatine
What Calvin and Hobbes character are you?     Calvin
What Muppet are you?     Beaker
What is your political ideology?     Ultra liberal.
What is your IQ?     Over 140.
Celebrity Girlfriend? Demi Moore

So, what do all these quizzes mean?  It means I should probably seek psychiatric help.  Some of the results were really amusing to me.  I had no idea I was a 'vodka'.  I haven't had a sip of vodka in probably 17 years.  Light beer?  Not that there is anything wrong with light beer, but I just don't drink it (usually).  I like my calories.  Political ideology, ultra liberal and President Eisenhower.  Not two things that generally go together.  How can someone be a Sith Dark Lord and Calvin?  How can someone be the Ultimate Warrior and be Beaker?  How can someone have an IQ over 140 and really care about what professional wrestler they are?

I'm not really sure what I should make of all this stuff.  One thing I do know, I'm going to go buy a 6 pack of light beer and head to Idaho.  I heard Demi Moore lives there.

        

Every now and then in life you run across someone you will never forget.  I will never forget the day I met Douglas.  Meeting Douglas was immediately uncomfortable.  At the time I met him, I worked for a high starch, button-down, law firm that did high end legal work for Fortune 500 companies.  The firm's lawyers sent out million dollar bills, and they were paid.  The lawyers were uptight, except for the times when they'd meet up with their secretaries on Saturdays for 'work'. 

So, one day I get a call from a local judge, who politely requested (read-gave me no choice) but to represent Douglas.   Douglas lived in New York City.  Douglas was an actor. He played Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Dickens, Galileo and one man plays all over the world.  The New York Times wrote an article about his performance of Santa Claus in Miracle on 34th Street on Broadway, hailing him as an acting genius, and he was.  The man quoted entire works of Shakespeare in my office.  My first meeting with Douglas lasted for 5 hours. We were instant friends.  Douglas was that way.

So, why was my meeting with Douglas uncomfortable?  Well the tale begins in New York City.  About 4 years ago, Douglas's mother passed away, and left him with a sizeable inheritance.  Douglas, after years of manic behavior and heavy cocaine use, now had money to resume his acting and hard living.  He bought new costumes, packed them in paper sacks and headed out to see the world.  But first, he wanted to catch up with old friends.  He flew to San Francisco to see an old lawyer friend of his. He showed up at his friend's house unannounced.  His friend welcomed him, and Douglas stayed for several days before his friend's wife kicked him out, mainly for hard drinking and obnoxious behavior. His friend drove him to the airport, where Douglas was to board a plane for Oregon, where he had several plays booked at a local theatre to play Edgar Allan Poe in a one man show.  Somehow Douglas wound up on a plane to Minneapolis.  Nobody knows how.  Somehow, someway, Douglas drank his way down the Mississippi River. He performed several plays along the way, spent some time on Beal Street in Memphis.  He then got on an Amtrak train and wound up in New Orleans.  Somewhere around 4 in the morning, Douglas decided he wanted a drink from the train's bar.  Unfortunately, Douglas went to the train's bar, wearing nothing but his Russian Bolshevik bear skin hat, and his slippers (Douglas could not wear shoes because his feet were so grossly distorted).  Douglas was jailed in New Olreans for public indecency.  He sat in jail for 30 days or so, and representing himself, had the charges dismissed, when he convinced the judge he was sleep walking, and further convinced the judge, the DA would be unable to produce witnesses from an Amtrak train to testify against him at trial.  Immediately upon his release from jail, he went to the courthouse to see the judge about suing Amtrak.  The judge sent him to me.

Douglas immediately came to my office.  He came carrying 3 paper bags which contained his costumes, and a plastic bag that contained his toiletries (which he clearly had not used since he was in jail).  So, I'm in this stuffy law firm, with a man who is every bit of 6'6, every bit of 350 pounds, wearing a heavy suit, a Russian Bolshevik hat (in the middle of summer in New Orleans), smoking a cigarette in the lobby (no smoking building), who smelled worse than anything you can imagine.  He also broke one of the antique chairs in the lobby (that had a do not sit sign on it).  The managing partner wanted to know what on earth I was doing, and I explained to him that Judge so and so sent him over.  His reply was "oh, well get him out of here as quickly as you can".  We left to have drinks together 5 hours later.

Douglas told me his tales, and I was fascinated beyond belief.  He checked into the Royal Sonesta hotel on Bourbon Street.  The Royal Sonesta is probably one of the most expesive hotels in the city, and the only 5 star hotel on Bourbon Street.  He checked into a suite.  He was arrested on his second day there for skinny dipping in the pool.  Our firm represented the Royal Sonesta so I convinced them to drop the charges, and he was released, upon the condition he not come back to the hotel.  Douglas then checked into the La Pavillion, another fine New Orleans lodging establishment.  Douglas lived there for about 4 weeks, which is how long it took all of his credit cards to max out.  His bill was nearly $100,000.00 for the month, and most of that was champagne. 

During this time, Douglas had lined up about half a dozen strippers to be in plays with him.  He booked a three week play in Birmingham, Alabama with the strippers.  I did all the legal work for the plays.  I didn't bother to run any of this stuff by the powers that be at the firm, as I knew, we weren't going to be paid, and besides, he had long since been banned from the building.  I don't think he quite understood why the firm didn't want me drinking champagne with him to celebrate his 'signing' of the lovely Melissa to play his lover in his play.  Douglas did in fact leave New Orleans with the strippers, and did play in Birmingham.  He sent me press clippings from the Birmingham News related to the plays.  For the next 6 months, Douglas directed all of his correspondence and calls to his lawyer, me.  I spoke with him on the phone every day for 6 months.  I spoke with his son, who hadn't seen his father in over a year. I spoke with his brother who told me Douglas had blown his entire inheritance.  I spoke with his lawyer friend in San Francisco.  I spoke with Douglas's ex-lovers, of which there were many, and they all still loved him.  Somehow I had become the gatekeeper.  I had no idea how to get in touch with the man, but I talked to him every day.  His lovers told me tales of his powers. His sway with the audience. His passion.  They told me about 'our time in India', 'that time in Amsterdam', 'all his lovers in St. Petersburg', 'the orgy in Naples'.  I never figured out why they wanted to tell me this stuff, but they did, and I listened.

Douglas had taken to calling me collect, because as his brother had stated, he had blown his entire inheritance.  He called me one day. He was stuck in Atlanta.  He needed to get to New York, because his guru had died.  I bought him a plane ticket.  I didn't hear from Douglas again for several weeks.  Then one day I got a call from the LaPavillion.  Douglas had a $300 bar tab that was unpaid.  He was back in town, and he directed them to his attorney.  I walked down the street and paid it.  His son called me, his dad disappeared, did I know where he was.  I told him he was in New Orleans, but I hadn't seen him.  A day later, Douglas called me, he was at the bus station in New Orleans and wanted to go home.  I went to the bus station, bought Douglas a ticket and sent him home. I never saw him again.  About a week later, Douglas sent me a Bob Dylan cd.  He knew that I had named my son after a Bob Dylan song.  I wrote Douglas a thank you letter, as his phone was disconnected, and he did not have the internet.  We then wrote letters to each other every week for about 8 months.  Beautiful letters.  I still have them.  His tales and stories were fascinating. I'm inclined to believe them, as I've talked to so many of the characters.  In January of 2007, I wrote Douglas and told him I was coming to New York for St. Patrick's Day.  I wanted him to pick the finest restaurant in the city. We were going to go, and we were going to get drunk, and we were going to get kicked out.  Because, that's what Douglas does. He gets kicked out of every place he goes to. 

About 3 days later, on January 19, 2007, I got a call from Douglas.  I hadn't spoken to him in several months. He sounded loud, gregarious, pompous.  He was in the hospital.  He was there because of his feet.  He was telling me that one of the nurses was his lover.  He called to RSVP on my St. Patrick's Day trip.  He told me he wouldn't be able to make it.  I asked him if it was a play.  He laughed, and he said no.  He calmly and plainly said, I'll be dead.  What do you mean you'll be dead?  He said, today is my birthday.  Happy Birthday wishes were given.  He told me the day was also Edgar Allan Poe's birthday.  Douglas had told me many times he was reincarnated from Edgar Allan Poe.  I didn't necessarily believe him, but I let him go on, because the story was good.  Douglas, then very clinically, but in his typical story type fashion, told me about when his guru told him, he was destined to die on his birthday. He was destined to die the day Poe was born, so that he could be reincarnated again, on the same day.  Douglas explained to me that was the order of things.  He told me he was going to die, and he was going to die that day, and he called to thank his friend.  Three hours later, after that phone call, Douglas died in his sleep.  He died of natural causes, and he was not sick, save for his feet.

About 2 months later, I got a package in the mail from one of Douglas's lovers.  It was a package of newspaper clippings.  Hundreds and hundreds of newspaper clippings.  Douglas had 'willed' them to me.  Story after story of his plays. His reviews always amazing.  The stories always ended the same.  The proceeds from the plays always went to a library, an orphanage, toys for tots or women's shelters.  I guess he gave away what was left after his 'expenses'. 

St. Patrick's Day is nearly upon us.  I was thinking today of my dinner with Douglas that never happened.  I wanted one more story.  I miss my friend.

        

Next week I'm marching in the St. Patrick's Day parade in New Orleans.  I'm part of the Irish Channel Walking Crew.  Next week, we will don our tuxedos and march through the streets of New Orleans handing out beads and flowers, and in exchange the women on the parade route HAVE to kiss you in return.  Seriously, who thought of this?  You give a woman a $.25 cent string of beads and in return she plays tonsil hockey with you.  Additionally, there are THOUSANDS of women who are ok with this deal.  Even better, Mrs. Commissioner is perfectly ok with me lip locking a few hundred women next week. (Note: The New Orleans people know these kisses are air kisses more often than not, there is very little lip locking going on, but NEVER let the facts get in the way of a good story).

In preparation for next week's parade, the Irish Channel Walking Crew had a practice march yesterday.  Again, I do not know who came up with this idea, but, they ought to be shot.  Yesterday I got up at 5:45 a.m.  My friend Chip picked me up at my house at 6:30 a.m. precisely and we headed toward the French Quarter of New Orleans.  We arrived at the meeting place at approximately 7:15 a.m., and then began marching.  We marched to 20 bars throughout the day.  We stayed at each bar for 20-25 minutes or so.  We were served beer at each bar.  As much beer as we wanted.  One of the stops thought it would be a brilliant idea to set out an entire table of DOUBLE Jameson shots. 

It was interesting to watch the day unfold.  Of course, we had a truck leading the parade blaring loud Irish drinking music.  Early in the morning it was quite amusing to watch people walk out on their balconies with a clear WTF look on their face.  If the person walking out on the balcony was a woman, she was pelted with beads. Lots and lots of beads.  One particular woman came out on the balcony wearing nothing more than a teddy.  To say all hell broke lose when 500 comfortably buzzed men saw a good looking woman with no pants jumping up and down for beads is a bit of an understatement.  She probably thought she hit the bead lotto.  I took a picture of her bottomless self on my cellphone, but I have no idea how to pull the picture off my phone.  You can probably find some pictures of her somewhere on the internet today. 

By 11:21 a.m., about 4 knuckleheads decided the 12 pack they bought was getting warm, so they 'shotgunned' the last 4 beers.  At 1:00 p.m. one member of our lot, passed out on the floor at Coyote Ugly.  At 1:27 p.m., another member of our lot threw up on the ridiculously cute waitress, Shorty at Viola.  She was just giving out free shots afterall.  At 4:04 p.m. we got into an intense debate as to which Bourbon Street strip club was most likely to give out complimentary sipro pills at the door.  At 4:27 p.m., I BEGGED my wife to pick me up.  At 4:28 p.m., I was called a pussy by 7 of the 8 guys left standing in my group for 'skipping out on them'.  The other guy, confessed to me his wife was 5 minutes behind my wife.

At 5:38 p.m., one of the other guys, who had previously led the charge of calling me a pussy, was now giving me hell, for not bringing him with me, when my wife picked me up.  He drunkenly said something about having a chocolate milkshake, and hiding in some bushes, hoping his wife didn't see him, because he had missed his child's school fundraiser.

I'm glad I was not summoned by the God of the Bowl last night.  I'm glad I feel good today.  Now, I won't feel so bad about doing it all again next week.

        

Your Beer Commissioner does not consider himself a high roller.  Do I like to gamble?  That's like asking if the Pope likes going to mass.  I'll bet on just about anything.  When I was in college, I was at the dog track every Tuesday night, which coincidentally was .25 cent beer and hot dog night.  Seriously, .25 cents for a beer and a hot dog.  Sure, the beer was usually warm, the hot dogs were those little red hot dogs, but still, can you really beat .25 cents for a beer and a hot dog?

I was first introduced to 'big time' gambling when I joined the Phi Kappa Psi fraternity at the University of Alabama.  That's when I first learned about bookies, parlays, teasers and the juice.  Guys were betting, what I then thought were huge amounts of money on football games ($100 or $200 hundred a game), which now seems like chump change, but still, was a ton of money for college kids with nothing.  One of my fraternity brothers was what I'd call a degenerate gambler.  One of my other fraternity brothers still fondly tells the tale of when the gambling brother offered to 'jump him' for $20.  Puzzled, the one said, what the hell is 'jumping'? Sure enough, the gambler said, we'll stand here and see who can jump farther for $20.  The latter turned down the former.

To this day, I still don't bet on football, and I certainly wouldn't jump anyone for a beer, much less $20.  I will go beer for beer against just about anyone though.  I've been to Vegas numerous times. I've played in some pretty high stakes poker games, and I've even cashed at the World Series of Poker.  There isn't much anyone call tell me that will surprise me when it comes to gambling. I've seen and heard it all.

On my first trip to Las Vegas, I played in the Four Queens Poker Classic.  This is by no means a big time tournament, but it was my first.  It was No-Limit Hold-em, multiple rebuy, and I actually cashed in the event.  That very first tournament opened my eyes to a new level of 'high rolling' I had never heard of or thought was possible.  That first Vegas  tournament I played in 7 years ago, I was introduced to some 'characters', one of which was "Silent Bob", who is a very accomplished poker player, having won a couple of World Series of Poker bracelets.  I was moved to a table where I sat between "Silent Bob" and another player who had previously won the main event at the WSOP.  Silent Bob was about 2/3 into a bottle of vodka, and he was apparently about 10 minutes into a 20 minute story about how the waitresses sucked, because he had asked for a vodka with cranberry juice, and the waitress came back and asked if apple juice was ok.  Silent Bob was completely indignant, and was going on and on about the general level of incompetance of the scantily clad waitstaff.  Finally, the player who won the WSOP bet Silent Bob $10,000 he couldn't keep quiet for one hour.  Silent Bob immediately accepted.  I thought this was a fools bet, since Silent Bob, apparently got his name because he talked more than any human being alive, and he was already drunk as Cooter Brown on a bender.  Since, I was sitting between the 2 men, I was deemed the keeper of the loot.  So, here I was holding $20,000.00 sitting between these two guys.  After about 40 minutes, the WSOP winner offers anyone $1000 that can get Bob to speak.  He of course doesn't.  At 1 second past one hour, Silent Bob turns to me and says, "Did the White Sox win?"  Silent Bob bet $25,000.00 on the White Sox to win.  He showed me his betting slip.

During that tournament, I was exposed to lots of high roller activity.  I saw men bet $1000.00 on who the waitress would ask who wanted a drink first.  I saw another guy purposely get knocked out of the tournament when he realized he sold 105% of himself, meaning if he won the tournament, it was going to cost him money to pay off all his backers.  I saw 2 guys flip a quarter for $5000.  I saw other guys betting red or black on the flop for $3000 a flop.  I couldn't believe it, but I certainly did love it.   All of these guys would pull wads of cash out of their pockets thick enough to choke a horse, and they'd peel off hundred dollar bills like they had a tree of them growing in their backyard.  I couldn't believe what I was seeing, and I've seen it dozens of times since. 

I've certainly never bet anyone $10,000 that I could keep quiet for an hour, although, I would.  I've never bet $25,000.00 on a baseball game, much less the White Sox.  I do not consider myself a high roller.  So, what is the point of all of this?

Well, tonight when I was driving home, I passed a car on the road with the license tag 'HIROLER'.  Either this guy likes rolling joints at altitude, or he fancies himself a big time gambler.  What image do you have of someone with HIROLER on their license plate?  I immediately thought of Brioni shirts, someone probably wearing a gold necklace, Rolex presidential watch, big, fake, chested bleach blonde girlfriend.  The kind of guy that makes it rain at strip clubs with $20s.  The kind of guy that tips the maitré de $100 so he doesn't have to wait for his table.  The kind of guy that has a tux, and has worn it in a casino in Monaco. 

However, the HIROLER I spotted today, was cruisin around town in his raggedy black STATION WAGON.  If you happen to see this poor bastard, please, buy him a beer, but only a light beer.  Apparently he ran into someone who 'jumps' farther than him, and all he has left of his dignity is that license tag. At least, that's what I hope.