There’s a joke going around that those who set up the Tiki Bar and drink in it (mainly Modern Drunkard staff) have formed an amiable yet effective Tiki Mafia. From what I’ve seen so far, this isn’t too far from the truth.
Jimmy, one of the Modern Drunkard crew and one of the many people I’ve got on very well with, had a word with the hotel’s reception staff when I wearily said last night that I’d probably get a room again and the rate was slashed, despite the bar having nothing to do with the hotel at all. I think that the basic scenario is that people respect them, and seeing as none of them are exactly wilting flowers, probably don’t want to get on the wrong side of them either, no matter how universally pleasant they are to meet.
It was Jimmy who rung my room this morning and suggested we head straight out for drinks. He, Jen and I met in a bar called Charlie Brown’s and get about some cocktails before talk came up of popular bar sports. America shares (exported, obviously) a lot of the pub video games we have in Britain, such as Golden Tee and most of the quiz ones. Then there’s the stables ones, such as pool, darts, and winning arguments. I suggested there and then that we should spend the day playing as many of these games as we could against each other in a sort of Bar Olympics, UK vs. USA.
So straight down to a brewery pub further into town where upstairs in a vast room they had perhaps a dozen large pool tables, shuffleboard, and Golden Tee. The golf was first and I played abysmally, going 1-0 down without putting up anything resembling a fight over 18 holes. Then it was pool, playing the best of five racks. I went 2-0 down, Jimmy missed the black, and I then fought back like some sort of modern day Rocky to level it at 2-2. I had the black in the deciding game to win the pool tournament but the ball bounced off the pocket and went in another one down the end of the table, meaning I’d lost.
So 2-0 in the Olympics whole. We had to leave the bar then without attempting the shuffleboard (damn it all, I’ve never played the actual thing but love the pub video version) because Jen had fallen asleep on a shelf and so we put her in a cab and went to a neighbouring bar for bowling. There were two lanes of ‘mini-bowling’, which is exactly the same in every way to ten-pin bowling but on a different scale. The balls are obviously smaller too so you don’t put your fingers into them but simple launch them down the wood into the pins which are about fifteen yards away and reset themselves just as at a standard alley.
It’s extraordinary fun and I had control before we both got too drunk to coordinate ourselves and the whole thing descended into chaos. We were also annoying joined by a third player whom neither of us knew and so decided to call it a day and return to the Tiki Bar.
I went to my room for a couple of hours sleep to set me up for the evening and was awoken by a call from the bar telling me to get myself down to witness a peanut eating contest.
A certain amount of thought had clearly gone into this and four contestants sat behind a trestle table with two glasses of a sickly orange pop for refreshment and a large bowl each of these ridiculous, large, orange ‘peanuts.’
They’re called Circus Peanuts and are as American as eating pretzels in front of the baseball game. This is because, with the greatest respect, only an American would eat one. An American or a starving hog. I put one in my mouth for a little try and the closest I can get to describing it is a little like those spongy polystyrene packing capsules, yet firmer, orange, entirely sugar, obviously sweet, less digestible, and shaped like a small poo.
There is no way I would willingly eat one. To be fair, the purpose of this contest is that sensible minded Americans such the ones gathered here also find them repellent and thus this competition to see how many it’s possible to get down before bringing them back up.
The first player gave up at about twenty five. The second at about 30. Of the two remaining players, one had stripped down to his underwear in some bizarre tactic to make the hideous ordeal more bearable. Perhaps he thought he’d be cooler and therefore less nauseous.
None the less, he did let fly with a steam of bright orange vomit moments later having got through 40-odd. The sadistic winner managed over sixty and almost seemed to be enjoying himself.
It occurred to me that I’ve not eaten in days. I tried an eggs Benedict this morning but it took it’s revenge on me after about three mouthfuls. Eating anything is like engaging your stomach in a boxing match.
The rest of the evening was spent in the Tiki Bar getting messed up with the whole crew.
I constantly remind myself I need to get some work done, but there’s no way I’m in much state to write and the material for the new stand-up show on the 2nd is all written. Get it sorted out on the plane home, can’t I?
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