When Outbackers Attack!
Wow, what a crazy weekend.
After two and a half months of out-and-out, undiluted boredom, I finally got out of the house and had some fun.
Carl's graduation party was on Saturday. The man pulled all the stops: he rented a bar, hired a DJ, organized a few games. I paid $25 for a little bracelet that let me drink for free all night long. The bar was a Sunday afternoon buffet, three-people thick, and the poor bartenders had to dart back and forth like bees to keep the thirsty masses at bay.
I drank whiskey all night long; Carl said the bracelet included Jack, but they soon ran out of it, and I had to switch to Old Crow. (For you non-whiskey drinkers out there, that's like switching from ambrosia to rot-gut).
After two or three doubles I could feel the effects of the whiskey, and I started loosening up. By the time Carl announced the pinata game, I was revved up like a racecar at the starting line. A couple of people took a good whack at it, but the stick finally bent and I realized a new strategy was needed in order to crack that damn pinata open. I paid a dollar, chugged a beer, and Carl spun me around in a couple of 360's. Finally he stopped me, I found the pinata with my eyes, and I speared that giant f*cker like a wild pig. The paper mache broke, the stick ran through, and I yanked down with every erg of strength I possessed. For a brief micro-second I was no longer Billy Heaning, merry party-goer... I was some unnamed warrior from an ancient time and faraway land, and I was spearing the boar for my tribe... There was a roar of voices, and from the sky fell dozens of tiny bottles of booze: rum, bourbon, vodka... A stampede of people rushed past my feet, grabbing at the mini-bottles in some kind of feeding frenzy. I managed to drop to my knees and pilfer a half-dozen bottles. Some noise-makers fell out of the pinata with the booze, and as I walked back to my table to check my loot, they shot off like pistols and rifles. I had 3 bottles of Crown Royal, 2 bottles of Bacardi, and 1 bottle of Smirnoff. No need to wade through the moat of human bodies surrounding the bar to get a drink, at least not for a while...
Pretty soon the urge to dance became overwhelming and I got out onto the floor. It was packed. The party had reached a fever pitch: everyone was dancing. It's hard to describe a scene like that, especially when you're a part of it. To outside observers it must have looked like some kind of hedonistic orgy, except everyone was wearing their clothes, and they were standing up. A rainbow of lights beamed down onto the dancers in revolving patterns, while disco balls sent thousands of tiny stars spinning across the room. Everything seemed to be in slow-motion, or underwater, and in synch with the beat and rhythm of the music. We picked our partners with each new song, and as the night carried on on, the dancing became more and more... salacious?... Strange, isn't it, how human beings find such pleasure and excitement from the simple act of dancing? Maybe it's the lascivious movements, the simulation of the act of love, the building up of prurient tension between two people that acts as its own release. It's definitely a mating ritual.
I met this girl named Amy who said I reminded her of the lead singer to Linkin Park.. Immediately I told her she reminded me of Marisa Tomei, and I think that about did it right there. We found a table and engaged in one of the most inspired, spontaneous conversations I ever had with a woman, drunken or not. I don't know if it was the booze, or if there was a spark between us, but we had the most fluid conversation. Everything she said made sense, and vice versa, and I was really getting into it when suddenly our mutual friend, Jamie, the one who introduced us, decided she and her group were leaving for another bar across town. It was close to last call, anyway, and I pondered briefly the option of leaving with them... and Amy... but decided against it. I'm glad I did because I found out the next day that she's still very much invovled with her ex. No time for that!
The bartenders finally called last call and the party started to wind down. Groups of rowdy, drunken friends were leaving in a steady trickle. A lot of my friends were still there, so we stayed until the DJ played the last song. I was gathering my things, making a mental inventory of everything to make sure I left nothing important behind, when suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw one of the cooks at Outback, a huge fellow, start flailing his fists at this other guy on-stage.
Immediately the room went from deflating party to wild, fist-flying free-for-all. A dozen guys jumped into a human pile of punches and kicks, and for a second it really did look like one of those cartoon fights, a great big cloud of dust with fists and feet appearing and disappearing. Outbackers were throttling strangers. One guy had at least four people pounding on him like a captured shark.
I grabbed my sister and her best friend, Lori, and flung them behind me. The mass of bodies was coming steadily towards us, and as soon as I heard the DJ say the cops were on their way, I grabbed both girls' arms and forced them towards the exit. "Come on, ladies, we're leaving now. I'm not getting arrested for what's in my pocket because a bunch of apes want to get in a fight."
After we got outside, another fight broke out in the parking lot. Again, just like before, a swarm of Outbackers jumped onto this one poor guy, who just wouldn't stop running his mouth (despite repeated warnings), and stomped him into the pavement. As drunk as I was, I didn't care to stick around to see them smash this guy into a pulp, and I waited at the car for my sister. As we were pulling out of the parking lot and into the street, three cop cars turned into the club and flashed their lights. We made it just in time... Barely...
Later on, I met up with nearly every single cook involved in the ruckus. Somehow they had managed to escape... They were blasted, pumped with adrenaline, and could talk of nothing except the brawl. They told me what started the whole thing and couldn't help but laugh. I'll spare you the details, but it involved a "stay away from my man" or two. Such idiots.
I ended up crashing on Jamie's couch that night. Nobody was in any condition to drive. The next day they drove me home so I could eat, rest, and recuperate.
The official Outback Christmas party is in six days. It's going to be at another dance club, this one called the Yellow Rose. I wonder what's going to happen there?
Sunday was glorious. When I got home, Maleea was making sauce and meatballs. The Heaning recipe for sauce is very old, and very, very good. It requires whole sausages, lots of garlic, and tons of parmesian cheese. The sauce has to simmer all day in order to soak up all the juices and flavor from the meat and spices. But when it's finished and ready to eat, you'll swear it's the best damn sauce you've ever tasted. It was handed down from my great-grandfather, Baba Viano, to my grandmother, Emily, who in turn taught it to my father, Bill, Jr. A few years ago Dad finally shared the secret with Maleea. Pretty soon I'll be entrusted with the recipe. And then I'll have the power.
Meatballs are a huge process, too. They require ground chuck, eggs, stale bread, a whole clove of garlic, salt, pepper, parsley, and an entire bottle of parmesian cheese. We cook them in a frying pan filled with vegetable oil. If your only experience with Italian meatballs is from Chef Boyardi, you don't know what you're missing. Here's a picture of me cooking up a batch...
Maleea also made artichokes. We stuff them full of diced garlic and cover them in oil and let them boil slowly on the stove for an hour or so. We eat them whole, from the leaves down to the heart, which is my favorite part (I think it's everyone's favorite part). I get some kinda weird kick out of pulling the layer of hair-like fibers off the heart... I don't know... It feels gross and makes a mess, but I like to do it. It reminds me of my childhood back in Cape Coral, Florida, eating Mamu's Italian dinners.
Later that evening she and Paige baked some chocolate chip cookies in the oven. They came out a little burnt, but that's how I like them.
I slept soundly Sunday night.
Yesterday was my Paige day. After Maleea got home, I spent the rest of the evening on the computer and reading. I finally went to sleep around midnight, and had another wonderful night of rest.
Thursday is Thanksgiving. The whole family's getting together at my grandparents' house in Bellbrook. My Uncle came up with the idea of taking a collection and sending a care package to some troops over in Iraq for the Holidays. I think it's a great idea... He wants us to find stuff that's useful and will remind them of home. I'm thinking about sending a bunch of old books there. Who knows? Some bored soldier may actually like the chance to get out of that war-torn desert for just a little while, if only in his mind.
Anyway, again, I've written too much. And talking about all this food is making me hungry! Time to see what I can rustle up in the kitchen...
After two and a half months of out-and-out, undiluted boredom, I finally got out of the house and had some fun.
Carl's graduation party was on Saturday. The man pulled all the stops: he rented a bar, hired a DJ, organized a few games. I paid $25 for a little bracelet that let me drink for free all night long. The bar was a Sunday afternoon buffet, three-people thick, and the poor bartenders had to dart back and forth like bees to keep the thirsty masses at bay.
I drank whiskey all night long; Carl said the bracelet included Jack, but they soon ran out of it, and I had to switch to Old Crow. (For you non-whiskey drinkers out there, that's like switching from ambrosia to rot-gut).
After two or three doubles I could feel the effects of the whiskey, and I started loosening up. By the time Carl announced the pinata game, I was revved up like a racecar at the starting line. A couple of people took a good whack at it, but the stick finally bent and I realized a new strategy was needed in order to crack that damn pinata open. I paid a dollar, chugged a beer, and Carl spun me around in a couple of 360's. Finally he stopped me, I found the pinata with my eyes, and I speared that giant f*cker like a wild pig. The paper mache broke, the stick ran through, and I yanked down with every erg of strength I possessed. For a brief micro-second I was no longer Billy Heaning, merry party-goer... I was some unnamed warrior from an ancient time and faraway land, and I was spearing the boar for my tribe... There was a roar of voices, and from the sky fell dozens of tiny bottles of booze: rum, bourbon, vodka... A stampede of people rushed past my feet, grabbing at the mini-bottles in some kind of feeding frenzy. I managed to drop to my knees and pilfer a half-dozen bottles. Some noise-makers fell out of the pinata with the booze, and as I walked back to my table to check my loot, they shot off like pistols and rifles. I had 3 bottles of Crown Royal, 2 bottles of Bacardi, and 1 bottle of Smirnoff. No need to wade through the moat of human bodies surrounding the bar to get a drink, at least not for a while...
Pretty soon the urge to dance became overwhelming and I got out onto the floor. It was packed. The party had reached a fever pitch: everyone was dancing. It's hard to describe a scene like that, especially when you're a part of it. To outside observers it must have looked like some kind of hedonistic orgy, except everyone was wearing their clothes, and they were standing up. A rainbow of lights beamed down onto the dancers in revolving patterns, while disco balls sent thousands of tiny stars spinning across the room. Everything seemed to be in slow-motion, or underwater, and in synch with the beat and rhythm of the music. We picked our partners with each new song, and as the night carried on on, the dancing became more and more... salacious?... Strange, isn't it, how human beings find such pleasure and excitement from the simple act of dancing? Maybe it's the lascivious movements, the simulation of the act of love, the building up of prurient tension between two people that acts as its own release. It's definitely a mating ritual.
I met this girl named Amy who said I reminded her of the lead singer to Linkin Park.. Immediately I told her she reminded me of Marisa Tomei, and I think that about did it right there. We found a table and engaged in one of the most inspired, spontaneous conversations I ever had with a woman, drunken or not. I don't know if it was the booze, or if there was a spark between us, but we had the most fluid conversation. Everything she said made sense, and vice versa, and I was really getting into it when suddenly our mutual friend, Jamie, the one who introduced us, decided she and her group were leaving for another bar across town. It was close to last call, anyway, and I pondered briefly the option of leaving with them... and Amy... but decided against it. I'm glad I did because I found out the next day that she's still very much invovled with her ex. No time for that!
The bartenders finally called last call and the party started to wind down. Groups of rowdy, drunken friends were leaving in a steady trickle. A lot of my friends were still there, so we stayed until the DJ played the last song. I was gathering my things, making a mental inventory of everything to make sure I left nothing important behind, when suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw one of the cooks at Outback, a huge fellow, start flailing his fists at this other guy on-stage.
Immediately the room went from deflating party to wild, fist-flying free-for-all. A dozen guys jumped into a human pile of punches and kicks, and for a second it really did look like one of those cartoon fights, a great big cloud of dust with fists and feet appearing and disappearing. Outbackers were throttling strangers. One guy had at least four people pounding on him like a captured shark.
I grabbed my sister and her best friend, Lori, and flung them behind me. The mass of bodies was coming steadily towards us, and as soon as I heard the DJ say the cops were on their way, I grabbed both girls' arms and forced them towards the exit. "Come on, ladies, we're leaving now. I'm not getting arrested for what's in my pocket because a bunch of apes want to get in a fight."
After we got outside, another fight broke out in the parking lot. Again, just like before, a swarm of Outbackers jumped onto this one poor guy, who just wouldn't stop running his mouth (despite repeated warnings), and stomped him into the pavement. As drunk as I was, I didn't care to stick around to see them smash this guy into a pulp, and I waited at the car for my sister. As we were pulling out of the parking lot and into the street, three cop cars turned into the club and flashed their lights. We made it just in time... Barely...
Later on, I met up with nearly every single cook involved in the ruckus. Somehow they had managed to escape... They were blasted, pumped with adrenaline, and could talk of nothing except the brawl. They told me what started the whole thing and couldn't help but laugh. I'll spare you the details, but it involved a "stay away from my man" or two. Such idiots.
I ended up crashing on Jamie's couch that night. Nobody was in any condition to drive. The next day they drove me home so I could eat, rest, and recuperate.
The official Outback Christmas party is in six days. It's going to be at another dance club, this one called the Yellow Rose. I wonder what's going to happen there?
Sunday was glorious. When I got home, Maleea was making sauce and meatballs. The Heaning recipe for sauce is very old, and very, very good. It requires whole sausages, lots of garlic, and tons of parmesian cheese. The sauce has to simmer all day in order to soak up all the juices and flavor from the meat and spices. But when it's finished and ready to eat, you'll swear it's the best damn sauce you've ever tasted. It was handed down from my great-grandfather, Baba Viano, to my grandmother, Emily, who in turn taught it to my father, Bill, Jr. A few years ago Dad finally shared the secret with Maleea. Pretty soon I'll be entrusted with the recipe. And then I'll have the power.
Meatballs are a huge process, too. They require ground chuck, eggs, stale bread, a whole clove of garlic, salt, pepper, parsley, and an entire bottle of parmesian cheese. We cook them in a frying pan filled with vegetable oil. If your only experience with Italian meatballs is from Chef Boyardi, you don't know what you're missing. Here's a picture of me cooking up a batch...
Maleea also made artichokes. We stuff them full of diced garlic and cover them in oil and let them boil slowly on the stove for an hour or so. We eat them whole, from the leaves down to the heart, which is my favorite part (I think it's everyone's favorite part). I get some kinda weird kick out of pulling the layer of hair-like fibers off the heart... I don't know... It feels gross and makes a mess, but I like to do it. It reminds me of my childhood back in Cape Coral, Florida, eating Mamu's Italian dinners.
Later that evening she and Paige baked some chocolate chip cookies in the oven. They came out a little burnt, but that's how I like them.
I slept soundly Sunday night.
Yesterday was my Paige day. After Maleea got home, I spent the rest of the evening on the computer and reading. I finally went to sleep around midnight, and had another wonderful night of rest.
Thursday is Thanksgiving. The whole family's getting together at my grandparents' house in Bellbrook. My Uncle came up with the idea of taking a collection and sending a care package to some troops over in Iraq for the Holidays. I think it's a great idea... He wants us to find stuff that's useful and will remind them of home. I'm thinking about sending a bunch of old books there. Who knows? Some bored soldier may actually like the chance to get out of that war-torn desert for just a little while, if only in his mind.
Anyway, again, I've written too much. And talking about all this food is making me hungry! Time to see what I can rustle up in the kitchen...
posted by Billy at 2:44 PM
1 Comments:
Good damn story. Period.
Matt
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