The Worst Day of My Life

I guess I’ve always been pretty lucky in life.  I’ve never really applied myself to anything or anyone and have skated through.  I’ve never really lost anyone close to me and have never had any life-threatening illness or incident.  With that said, most of the worst moments of my life were caused by me, usually as the direct result of my actions drinking.

This next story is one that I had completely forgotten until recently.  It is a tale of highs and lows, joy and pain, deceit and salvation.  And where can a tale of such epic proportions take place?  Vegas.

For the sake of brevity, many of the events that took place during the weekend will be omitted.  Only events relative to the worst day of my life will be included.  I have not proof-read this story.

 

The Las Vegas Airport Wheelchair Fiasco

It was 2004 and I was drinking a lot of vodka.  Vodka and Red Bull.  Looking back at that time I often wonder why I would consume so much Red Bull.  Was it the taste?  No.  Was it the nutritional value?  Not really.  Was it the way that one sip could make you feel like you were a freight train of power, speed, and assertiveness?  Bingo!

There was something in the air at O’Hare on that April Thursday.  I couldn’t stop my leg from twitching as I sat in the chair, waiting to board my America West flight to Las Vegas.  Looking around the terminal before boarding a flight is one of my favorite things to do.  I like to look at all the other passengers and try to figure out where their final destination is and why they are travelling.  If anyone else in the terminal had been playing that game in their mind while looking at me, they could only see one message, “GOING TO GET FUCKED UP!”.

The flight to Vegas was uneventful.  Takeoff, climb, drinks, snack, drinks, more drinks, additional drinks, drinks, descend, land.  Once at McCarran I hurried to get my bag and hopped in a cab to the MGM Grand.  Walking into the MGM Grand brought back memories.  It was not my first time in Vegas, having been there once before for an eight day stay.  That’s correct…eight days…please keep in mind that my autobiography will be titled Poor Choices:  The Life and Times of D.R.

I headed to the bar and met up with most of the other members of my party.  We were there for Bisk’s bachelor party.  An eclectic crew of about fifteen.  Ready to rock.  Ready to roll.

The first night was a pretty standard Vegas night.  I played craps for about ten minutes and lost $100.  I then drank at the bar, at the “club”, and in the casino until about 8 in the morning.  When I awoke two hours later, I was lying on the floor in the bathroom of my hotel room.  I immediately located all my possessions, hopped in the shower, and headed for the pool.

Day one at the pool was a trying time.  To be honest with you, I don’t really remember too much about it.  Every sip of every cocktail was painful.  Now I’ve drank for extended periods of time on several occasions and the same thing seems to always happen…my body systematically shuts down to conserve energy.  Usually the thought process goes first, followed by good judgement, and so on until the central nervous system goes completely.  This day it was the urinary tract.  Even though I started drinking at 10 in the morning, my first urination wasn’t until 6 in the evening.  For most people this would be a warning sign, a red flag.  For me it was just another day.

The second night was similar to the first.  Lots of drinking, little memory.  I’m sure I said some dumb things, threw out some one-liners, and, generally, made an ass of myself.  Another blackout, another 2 hours of sleep…this time, in a bed.  Woke up again, located my possessions, hopped in the shower, and headed for the pool.

Day two at the pool was a time of reflection for me.  As I sat poolside with my mirrored aviator sunglasses on, I tried intently to remember my last 24 hours.  I felt terrible but I knew I couldn’t let it get the best of me.  I soon headed to the bar and waited in line.  When it was my turn to order the bartender just looked at me and asked, “The usual?”  Confused and intrigued, I said “Sure”, and he poured me a daiquiri topped off with about an inch of brandy and covered in whipped cream and cherries.  All I could do was stare in amazement at the concoction that apparently was my “usual”.  My actions of day one at the pool came up again later when a middle-aged couple came up to me and asked, “When is the show going to start?”  Bisk turned to them and responded, “Please don’t feed the animals.”

Day two at the pool ended about the same way day one did, so I’m told.  I was standing in the shallow end, extremely sunburned, playing pool-length Frisbee with a cocktail tray while my drinks (yes…plural) floated on another tray by my side.

The damage continued through the night and into the early morning hours.  Clubs, limo rides, and “clubs”.  At about 5 in the morning, while waiting for the McDonald’s in the basement of the MGM to open, I flipped the ashtray lid on the trash can open and let it go…vomiting in the middle of the gaming floor.  Luckily, it was 2004 and not 1977, so I was greeted by a kind security staff who escorted me up to my room and didn’t try to use my face to open the doors.

I found a space on the floor and slept for a solid hour and a half.  When I awoke, to get ready for my flight, I felt the worst I’ve ever felt in my life.  After about 20 minutes of dry heaving in the shower I got dressed, packed, and ready to go.  Before leaving the room I stated, “I have never, ever felt worse in my entire life.”  Matt D. followed with, “How many drinks do you think you’ve had since Thursday?”  I paused, collected my thoughts, and answered, “At least 80 Red Bull and vodkas.”

Mathematics:  3 days + 80 cocktails (minimum) + 5 ½ hours of sleep = not a good a feeling

I then grabbed the ice bucket and headed out the door.  For the next 30 minutes I rode the elevator.  Up and down, up and down…vomiting in the ice bucket the entire time.  I finally gathered enough strength and energy to leave the elevator and made a beeline for the mini-mart in the hotel.  I purchased Pepto-Bismol, Mylanta, and anything else I thought would help.  I then downed all the pills and fluids with a Gatorade chaser, threw out my ice bucket, and headed out the door.

As I waited in line for a cab I checked my watch and realized my plane was leaving in less than an hour.  Thinking fast, I ditched the cab line and headed for the street where I jumped in front of a cab, hopped in, and yelled, “AIRPORT!”

The departure line at McCarran was terrible so I instructed the cabbie to take me to arrivals.  I then ran through the baggage claim to the check out desks.  Luckily, I was dressed for speed in my Adidas track pants, flip flops, Polo shirt (with collar popped), and sunglasses.  The line of people at the desk was terrible.  Checking my watch again, I realized the plane was going to leave in about 30 minutes.

This next part of the story gets bad.  I often joke about how I’m going to hell.  Frankly, I don’t believe in any afterlife…but if there really is a heaven and hell…this next part assures me a seat next to the red guy.

I look to my left and notice a sign that says “Special Services”.  There are two men in this line, both in wheelchairs.  With my best fake limp, I hobble over to the line.  It is eventually my turn and in my most sincere-sounding voice I tell the woman, “Hi.  My flight to Chicago leaves in about 10 minutes.  I hurt my knee and don’t think I can walk to the gate.  Is there anything I can do?”  She promptly responds, “We can get you a wheelchair and hold the plane.”  I shamefully say, “Thank you.”

This part is the worst part of all.  The woman who pushed my Larry Flint-mobile to the gate was about a 5-foot tall, tiny, tiny, older, Mexican woman.  I felt awful about it…but hey…I couldn’t break character.

When I got to the gate I was asked, “Mr. R…will you be needing a wheelchair at O’Hare?”  I quickly responded in a questioning manner, “No”, then changed my answer to a more thoughtful, “No thanks…someone will be waiting for me there.”

As I boarded the plane, the doors closed, and we started pulling back.  I will never forget the look on the face of the woman next to me when I sat down…pure fear.  I can’t imagine what I smelled like…but it must have been terrible.  As the flight attendant made her pass to check all the seatbelts, I caught her eye.  I was visibly shaking and she knew exactly why.  She then brought me a cup of ice water and placed it in my trembling hands.  I took a few sips and shook it until the ice melted.  She then replaced it with a new cup without any words exchanged.  This would continue for the entire flight.

As you may know by now, I am not a religious man.  I haven’t prayed in many, many years.  That all changed that day.  Before takeoff I started to pray.  I wasn’t praying that I’d feel better, I wasn’t praying for a safe flight…I was praying for a plane crash.  I couldn’t take it.  I wanted to die.  I wanted the plane to have some sort of engine failure and hit the mountains on the climb up.  Unfortunately, lousy God didn’t answer my prayers.

By now I’m sure you’re all thinking…wow…this guy is a horrible person.  Don’t worry, karma got me back on the flight.  The headphone jack on my seat was busted and I had to watch National Treasure without any sound.  I know, I know…awful.

So there you have it folks…the worst day of my life.

 

My Thoughts on Air Travel

I may not be the most-frequent flyer, but I fly enough to know what is going on.  Here are my least favorite things about flying:

The Early Stand

Why is it that everyone stands up once the plane reaches the gate after landing and the seatbelt sign goes off?  Really people?  You’ve just sat in one spot for 4 hours and you can’t wait another 5 minutes?  I barely fit in the fucking seat and I don’t feel the need to pop up immediately.  There is nothing better than having the ass of a 50 year old obese woman in your face when you’re trying to pull your shit out from under the seat in front of you.

The New Friend

I despise when the person next to me strikes up a conversation with me.  Other than saying “hello” or “how you doing?” or “excuse me”, there is no reason to converse.  The worst of all was on my flight home from New Orleans a few months ago.  The man next to me, with a bible on his lap, kept talking to me about iPods.  How do they work?  Are you happy with that one?  Listen buddy, I’m not sure what kind of people you think are flying from New Orleans to Las Vegas, but depending on the time of day they are either drunk or hung over.  Leave me the fuck alone!

The Bathroom Trip

Once is one time too many.  If you’re going more than once, I better see the oxygen hoses in your nose because you’re so sick that you’re traveling to cure your medical condition.  Go before you board.  Go when you land.

The Living Room

How short are attention spans becoming when people need to recreate their living rooms in the 2 square feet of space that is the tray table?  Do you really need to read, listen to music, watch a movie, play cards, take a nap, write in your journal, balance your checkbook, and eat snacks the whole fucking time?  Just sit still!  Fuck that pisses me off.

The Security Line Fiasco

If you can’t physically lift your bag onto the conveyor belt…check it!  If you see everyone else taking their shoes off…it’s probably for a reason.  Have we all lost the ability to observe and react?  Has the whole world gone mad?

The Beverage Questionnaire

Every damn airline carries the same shit.  If you haven’t heard of Coke, Pepsi, Diet Coke, ginger ale, water, and coffee by now…you are a moron.  What the fuck are the people who ask, “What do you have?” looking for?  Goat semen?  Do you have orange Fanta?  NO!  No one has orange Fanta!  You get water!  Fuck you!

 

DD-L

Lately I’ve been catching myself speaking like Daniel Day-Lewis, to myself.  It’s always the same two voices...the ones from Gangs of New York and There Will Be Blood.  Is this a problem?

I think I secretly want to be Bill the Butcher.  No...wait...it's no secret.

 

Cinco de Mayo Scramble

Glory days.

If anyone still has the email updates I was sending out from that night…I’d love to read them.  I still can't believe I lost to Remmi.  If I were Japanese...I'd have to cut my hand off.

Writing on the walls...no wonder Keystone tried to charge us $3,000 when we moved out.

 

Blog by Committee

I will be in Canada from Saturday, March 21 through Sunday, March 29.  During this time I am not planning on posting…unless the right combination of soup and spirits warrants something amazing.

I am reluctantly handing over my blog to four individuals…Dr. Mike, The Choz, Lunchbox, and David.  Although I am extremely nervous about this lack of control, I am also extremely excited by the possibilities.  Hopefully, by calling them all out here, I have motivated them to create the extraordinary.

Good luck and Godspeed.

Wow

Currently playing at the Blue Angel...

"Fuck the Pain Away" by Peaches