WHAT JOHN DID THIS SUMMER, PART 2

We pushed our way through the lobby of the hotel, valiantly ignoring the flirtatious giggles of the evil cheerleaders, and stepped into the muggy, damp Florida night. I had worked so hard to cool down, but immediately burst into sweat within moments of setting foot outside. I was unperturbed because I knew the ladies at City Walk would find a wet, pasty white boy oh-so-attractive.
"Wow. I thought Steve sweated a lot," Eric remarked.
It was true. Light beads of perspiration were making their way through the pores in Steve's well-tanned forehead, a promise of possible wetness to follow. He was still the Sahara compared to me.
Steve shrugged. "Yeah. You beat me."
I could not deny this comment on my unfortunate tendency to soak through any shirt within minutes. I break a sweat in 50 degree weather, and I expected total dehydration followed by an agonizing death tomorrow sometime around high noon. Sure, it was muggy. But I never thought I'd be sweating like I was now at ten o'clock in the evening.
"Yeah! Johnny's on vacation!" Flynn stepped in and saved me further embarrassment.
"Yeah! We're gonna get drunk!" added Eric.
We waded through the sweltering air across an eight-lane highway. I expected an alligator would be on the other side, but was sorely disappointed when all I noted was something on the ground that resembled a dead wallaby.
"Yeah! Eric's gonna step on a carcass!" I exclaimed. No such luck. It was a coconut husk from one of the palm trees lining the street.
We walked a few more blocks, passing the largest parking garage I had ever seen, as well as the Orlando Hard Rock Hotel. I was getting excited. From what I had been told, City Walk was a Shangri-la of beautiful women and alcoholic splendor; a magical place were funny tropical drinks loaded with rum flowed from the very streets. There was supposedly a club for every conceivable type of person.
This excited me greatly because the majority of bars I frequent in Pittsburgh usually end up being of the dull, half-assed Irish sort. By this I mean the type of bar, or should I say "pub", that believes all that is required to make a bar authentically Irish is to decorate it in green and hang up cheap, traveling carnival game prize mirrors with Guinness logos on them. If the "pub" should be especially authentic, a leprechaun of some sort (preferably quasi-robotic) adorns one of the empty nooks in a corner. Many delectable Irish dishes are served in these Irish pubs of Pittsburgh, like hot wings, pierogies, and French fries. The patrons are authentically Irish as well-- rowdy, red haired drinkers and salty lasses who know how to hold their liquor. Or maybe they are simply a smattering of middle-aged Steelers fans with massive guts that smoke too much and vomit in the men's room around midnight. Either way, City Walk promised an escape from the middle-of-road establishment to which I had grown accustomed.
We took a short escalator up to the entrance of Universal Studios, and I was astounded at the insanity that lay before me. It was an amusement park for adults; a neon temple of decadence. It was almost overwhelming. People were everywhere, families exiting the park, party seekers entering. Everything was so huge, so over the top, so overdone, so horrendous in size, so amazing and spectacular, so beautiful in its sheer excess.
"Look at this place,.." I managed to eke. I have to admit, I was astounded.
"...with the flying and the magic," Eric finished. "Welcome to Universal."
"Where to?" Flynn asked.
There was the reggae bar called Bob Marley: A Tribute to Freedom™. It sounded way too heavy and political for the likes of our blood. I mean, come on. Do you really need to tag "A Tribute to Freedom" at the end of the name of a bar? Why not call it Bob Marley: A Huge Downer When All You Want to Do is Get Wasted™? I ran the idea through my head and found myself wondering if Mr. Marley would be so quick to lend his name to a tourist trap. How about Bob Marley: Rolling Over in His Fucking Grave™? Not for me, sir.
There was also NASCAR Café™, where we assumed all the toothless, moonshine swiggin' vacationers would be. Many of the patrons would likely smell like hogs, fornicate with their equally toothless cousins, and yell enlightened things like "Hoooo-weee!" and "Dang, did you see that crash last week?" No, thank you. Next.
The rest of City Walk blew by in a blur of middlebrow disdain. We passed by CityJazz® because we figured it would be inhabited by sensitive, weepy Kenny G fans. We ignored MOTOWN® Café Orlando because everyone in there was bland and middle-aged. We slid past the Latin Quarter™ because, well, we're not Mexican or Cuban. We dribbled past NBA City because it would be full of pathetic ex-jocks, and because it did not have a trademark or copyright symbol after its name. The same applied to the groove™ because we agreed that dance clubs are gay, and because I was especially pissed off by the all lowercase, oh-so-trendy spelling of its name. Steve, Eric, and I agreed that Jimmy Buffett's® Margaritaville® would suck for a variety reasons, but mainly because it would be full of sensitive, weepy, bland, middle-aged, ex-jock, gay Jimmy Buffett fans who think they are so cool that they get two registered trademarks instead of just one.
Flynn seemed particularly wounded by the latter snub. "I don't care what you say. Jimmy Buffett is sweet."
"No. He's gay," Eric countered.
"His concerts are fun," Flynn protested.
"'Oooh, I'm an old beach slacker who drinks too much," I mocked. "Oooh, I'm a pirate looking at 40. I'm so menacing and talentless.' What a fucking putz."
"'I eat cheeseburgers on the beach. I'm such a rebel.'" Eric said.
"Gay," we both said.
"Gay," Steve added.
"Fuck you." Flynn was defeated, losing steam. "Where do we go then?"
After much deliberation, we ended up at Pat O'Brien's® Orlando. It was the sort of dull, half-assed Irish bar we were all comfortable with in Pittsburgh.
By now I was in desperate need of a drink. We pulled four stools up to the bar, which was surprisingly bereft of the crowds that plagued the other bars. Eric, who had been to Orlando a dozen or more times, recommended a beverage called the Hurricane. This drink, a concoction of fruit juice and massive quantities of alcohol, was known far and wide for its ability to knock a person on his or her ass. I could hardly wait. Instead, everyone opted to start things off with a beer. I was promised a Hurricane as soon as the first round of beers was completed. This would not stand. I was on vacation and, damnit, I wanted booze.
I scanned the menu for something that sounded appropriately self-destructive. I saw nothing but adorable little pictures and trite descriptions for the entire line of house specialty drinks. They were all so pretty! Everything contained booze and fruit juice in varying proportions, and none of it seemed particularly manly. I did not want a pretty drink in rainbow colors that tasted like pineapples and mango. I wanted to get hammered. I scanned the lower right side of the menu and found a section listing names of lesser-known drinks that had no summaries. Of course! The rotgut was banished to the bottom because it wouldn't demand the attention the tourist drinks would have.
It was there that I spotted the TNT. Immediately I knew this would be a manly drink. How could it not be? It would put hair on my chest. It would be an explosive car wreck, billowing balls of fire and destruction. It would rock my ass off, AC/DC-style. I quickly ordered and awaited the awesome fury of the TNT. A few moments later, our barkeep brought out a long, thin glass full of pink liquid.
"Dude, it looks likes a fucking tampon," Eric said. And it did.
"It's supposed to look like a stick of dynamite," the bartender offered.
I was nonplussed. "But, it's pink."
"And it looks like a used tampon," Flynn added.
"Kinda big for a tampon," said Steve. "Kinda gay, too."
"How's your tampon, Marshall?"
This was not good. My manly, explosive drink was a two-shot donkey tampon. It also tasted like a donkey tampon. But, hey, at least I got to keep the glass. Not that I wanted to be reminded of my folly.
After enduring insults for another five minutes, everyone else was finally ready for a Hurricane. Steve graciously purchased one for Eric and I. It was possibly the most delicious alcoholic beverage I have ever tasted; somewhere between Hawaiian Punch and orange juice, with a sharp tang of sweet, sweet liquor.
Flynn deferred and bought a Typhoon, which is essentially the same thing, but smaller. This was fortunate because it took the heat off me.
“It's so tiny. Be a man and drink a Hurricane."
"Um, no."
"How about a TNT?" I asked.
"Um, no. I am small and I do not want to die."
We stayed at Pat O'Brien's for the remainder of the evening and, I'm happy to report, got pleasantly sloshed for our efforts. We stumbled back to the hotel somewhere around one in the morning, exhausted and ready for bed.
Tomorrow there would be theme parks.
CLICK HERE TO READ PART ONE