Houli’s? Who picked this place anyway? What an awful idea…..near the mall, with horrible traffic on route 1, really hard to find a parking spot. This is going to be miserable. Well, these at least were the thoughts in my head as I drove towards Houli’s. I found I was somewhat relishing the idea of having to suffer through this misery. As you have likely found out at family gatherings, old men seem to really like having something to complain about like that pain in your back, the price of a loaf of bread, or “kids these days”. As I drive up Route 1 finding very little traffic, and then pull into one of many parking spots near the front door of Houli’s, I find myself deeply disappointed that I encounter none of the envisioned trouble. What the heck? This is a huge bummer. My dreams of complaining about all of the logistical hassle have been shattered. This shouldn’t be easy….we should have to work for this!! Now all I have left to complain about is that there was no hassle.
I enter Houli’s, and am quickly reminded that there is something to complain about! The bartenders at Houli’s all wear shirts with a different action word on the back. In particular, tonight’s subject has the word “quench” on his back. Well, given the highly ornate font, I think that’s what it says. Maybe it is “clench” or “wench”. Regardless, what the #* is that all about? Is this some sort of seven dwarfs nomenclature? If so, shouldn’t his name be “Quenchy”? Quench feigns friendliness upon taking my initial order, but I can tell in his eyes that he knows I’m thinking to myself “Quench…what the #* is that all about?”. As the night continues on, I find that the Quenchman is very efficient at taking your empty glass when you are not looking, but not nearly as efficient at refilling that glass. He must get pay bonuses based upon frequency of glasses entering the dishwasher.
Benny rolls in with a dejected look on his face. He describes the disappointment of how easy it was to get to Houli’s,
Uji is in the house, making his first night of the year. Yo is there, too, and now it’s apparent that only an act of mother nature can keep him from a purple moose. Ditto for Reese, but then again, Reese is the Cal Ripken of the TDDoC (consecutive game streak, playing through pain and injury), so no surprise there. Pods indicates that Friday night’s Day Ten hangover just wore off about 15 minutes ago.
Russ reports having seen the new movie Saving Mr. Banks or Licking Mr. Pickle or whatever it is called. It’s that one with Tom Hanks, unlike all of those other movies with Tom Hanks. We discuss how Tom Hanks is the token white guy in so many films. When you need an old white guy, it’s Hanks. Seriously, do any other older white male actors even get roles anymore?
And now a word from the next generation of TDDoC:
I would first like to announce I brought out my girlfriend Annie for all those who did not meet her. This means that i have thoroughly invested in the future of the TDDoC, and it may be continued through me and Julian long after ya'll are hospitalized for liver damage. I arrived at the scene and it seemed like a good crowd was at the bar. I won't name any names because I have no clue who was there. Being the hungry teenager that I am, Annie and I quickly scuttled over to the family section with Su and the kids to order some food. Corey was also out and was using his magical ability to order alcoholic drinks. I hear there’s this thing called "21", but I blame the drinking fairies for not bestowing me with this power. Maybe Santa will pull through with this one -- my fingers are crossed.
Conversation quickly turned to how Gman only has one kidney. Interestingly enough, this led me to learn a valuable lesson. This is where I learned the true meaning of having kids. Kids are not there for enjoyment, love, slavery, or for telling their teacher that all their dad does is watch football and attend the Twelve Drinking Days of Christmas. Kids are there for spare parts. Corey is currently first in line to donate Gman one of his kidneys if his fails. Corey does not want to participate, but in the words of the Uni-kidney**, "You have to sleep at some point." Some sort of bathtub kidney removal will then take place, and Corey may never even notice the scar. Julian and Andrew may also want to start running now before Uni-kidney needs any of their bodily organs. I might have to run with them.
After Gman and family leave, we finish up and head over to the other side of the bar where only a few seasoned drinkers remain. Between Goettle, Eman, Ska, Tamps, Pods, and Russ, in their lifetime they have probably consumed an amount of alcohol that would fill the Pacific. But these are the men I look up to, and I respect their unique skills. Someone quickly notices I have not surpassed Goettle in height, even with my tall, poofy hair that could put the '80s to shame. We quickly find each other back to back with the others looking at how clearly Goettle has me beat. Or that’s how it may have seemed. We were actually saying goodbye the same way the ancient Babylonians would ceremoniously do, by touching their butts together to bid a safe farewell. So farewell to my biggest supporter, Mr. Peter Goettle, who pushed me night after night to write stats eventually. Until I see him the next day.
And now back to the old guy:
Once the crowd starts to thin, the remaining party leftovers decide it’s time to take this show on the road. Joe’s Crab Shack is a popular suggestion for where but cooler heads prevail. It’s off to The Blend in Hamilton, a place beloved by Goettle, who in the past has described it lovingly as “$ucking” (said without much conviction). Russ, Tamps, Ska, Goettle, and Eman make the trip. Several of us order the Southern Tier 2Xmas -- a fine choice. The Blend seems to be slightly more to the liking of some (Russ and I secretly love it there), and this may be because unlike last time there is no awful singer belting out “Hotel California” on some sort of keyboard karaoke device. It seems that most patrons are in their 20’s, which is clearly why some hated it last time. Suddenly, in rolls a potential future generation TDDoCer, Russ’s son Ryan. Russ jogs over to greet his son and his friends, who smile but quickly encourage Russ to beat it before the rest of the twenty-somethings see them talking to these dinosaurs. Dang, another dead end on the future TDDoC trail. It’s one and out at The Blend, and before I know it I’m home slapping down a stack of $1 bills next to my wallet for some unknown reason.
Editor's Note: The utility of this has expired but included for completeness:
Day 12 is at Wildflowers. The secret password to get in is “picklehider” said with a Russian accent. This lovely converted Orange Julius is a Christmas eve favorite for elf $ex offenders, human Christmas trees, and people who are missing some of their bodily organs. It features pizza math contests, the breaking of the wall sconce tradition, and “who didn’t pay enough for the pizza?!?!” debate clubs.
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