It's 5 o'clock Somewhere

It’s Fat Tuesday and my participation isn’t even a question. See, alcohol has always been a constant in my life. A celebration of sorts. Ever present on family vacations, holidays, birthdays, at dinner, Catholic mass, and high school summer jobs, it was always an accessory. My parents didn’t lecture about the effects of alcohol because it wasn’t a taboo subject in our house.

Italians are always drinking wine at every family gathering and Catholics are always sipping the same juice – err blood – so what’s a sip here or there for a 10 year old? And wine coolers on the beach? Bartles and James loved sharing their deliciousness with a 13 year old. And a cold mug of Bud Lite during the Super Bowl is just waiting for a youngin’ to see if it tastes just like apple juice. FYI: biggest disappointment of my ENTIRE childhood.

This experimentation would soon lead me down a long road of a very happy and successful relationship with alcohol in every different form. But let it be known that I’m in no way required by law to use party plates or attend AA meetings. I use good judgment. Most of the time.


I followed the adage “study hard and party harder” all the way to Ohio University. With its beautiful rolling hills in middle-of-nowhere-southern Ohio and grand brick buildings and streets, it tops the charts on the Princeton Review’s Top Party Schools every year. Sophomore year in 2005 we ranked #2, but I’m not going to brag (WTF University of Wisconsin? NO ONE can even point your state out on a map). It was definitely 4 years of living in a bubble with 20,000 enthusiastic drinkers and miraculously escaping with minimal liver damage.

I believe it was all in preparation for New Orleans – January 2008 BCS National Championship game between LSU and Ohio State (it’s not really necessary to distinguish the fact that OSU and OU are 2 completely different schools, every Ohioan pretends to be a Buckeye at some point or another). 3 nights on Bourbon Street in the land of no laws, aka zero empty container laws set the ultimate bar for a heightened experience of intoxication. Oh you just got your drink but your friends want to head to the next bar? Why, we have to-go cups of course. A 2 foot tall Miller Lite bottle filled with 8 beers for $15? Done.

This is where Pat O’Brien’s enters the picture, bringing along with it the classic invention of The Hurricane. With that hourglass shape and tantalizing taste I knew I was in love. Because The Hurricane is the lovechild of alcohol and Mardi Gras. They let New Orleans raise it. And they let the world corrupt it. And they used it as a catalyst for bad decisions. As it would turn out, riding a mechanical bull in a dress would be one of those decisions.

What the hell is that drink made of you ask? I don’t know. I would imagine it’s equal parts punch, redness, fuckedupness, and shame. What I do know is that a bar in the East Village will be serving them today on the most holiest of alcohol-appreciation days, and it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.