The magazine is based out of Denver and distributed to New York, Minneapolis, Philadelphia, Chicago, Baltimore and pretty much everywhere else but San Diego. Consequently, I have never met any of the other writers, or editors, or even my boss and Publisher Frank Rich. Until this weekend, that is, when Frank invited me to the First Annual Modern Drunkard Magazine Convention in the Avalon Ballroom of Stardust Hotel in the Land of Busted Blood Vessels and showed me the second most baddest, rockingest, filthiest, drinkiest, druggiest, time of my filthy, drinky, druggy life.

The Convention: I sign in at the check in table outside the ballroom, receive a laminate, and step inside. On my left is the bar. Straight ahead is the stage. On my right is a vendor table selling flasks, specialty shot glasses, a 6-man hookah-style beer bong apparatus and various other weapons of mass deconstruction. Next to that, a Modern Drunkard Magazine swag table. Between them sits a keg, at the base of which is a drunken toad desperately hanging on to the barrel like an overboard sailor clings to a buoy. Near the stage, two guys are dragging away some poor rye-eyed clodhopper (apparently the first victim of the drinking contest), and in the center of the ballroom a middle-aged wine cooler hag is flashing her cans to anyone who is brave enough to look at them.

I know it instantly – I am home.

First, I locate Publisher Frank Rich. He’s wearing a black Kenneth Cole over a crimson shirt. Frank is already gin-blind. He dangles a cigarette in his hand and stares off into some unknown horizon across which topless hula gals shimmy to a song the rest of us can’t hear. When I introduce myself he says, “Mista Deckaaah” dragging the last syllable of my name like Dean Martin on a handful of bennies, “So niiice to finally meet you. Let’s have a drink.”

“My people,” I think, holding back a tear, “These are my people.”

Next I meet my hotel roommate. His name is Sid Pink and he is the MC of the event. Sid Pink is cartoon elegance all the way. He’s wearing a white suit and shoes and a pimple pink shirt and pink accessories. After we introduce each other he says, “I’m not much of boozer. I prefer pills,” and pulls out an Altoids’ tin full of various, multicolored capsules and tablets. I dip my hand into his armamentarium, select a shiny red and white, and pop it into my mouth.

This is my welcoming to the Modern Drunkard Magazine Las Vegas Convention in the Avalon Ballroom of the Stardust Resort and Casino. It is the kind of brain-bake you could never throw here in San Diego – America’s Uptightest City. An entire weekend of nearly around the clock gluttony with presentations, and contests, and burlesque, and punk bands, and all the booze, pills, hallucinogens, and amphetamines you can get your filthy hands on. When the convention ends, we stumble to the Double Down Saloon to watch more punk bands, raise drunken fists, and drink vodka Red Bulls until 6 o’clock in the “Holy-shit-is-that-the-goddam-sun-up-there-or-is-the-moon-in-a-pissy-mood?!” morning. Then, after a miserable few hours of sleep apnea, it’s a Bloody Mary Morning Mixer to start the thing all over again.

And the best part of the whole wretched affair was the 3-day drinking contest. It was called, The Clash of the Tightest – and was the kind of drinking contest that made all other drinking contests look like pin the tail on the donkey at gramma’s house; the kind of drinking contest that ends with one man puking on the crowd and the other man laughing as a referee holds his fist in the air; the kind of drinking contest you could never witness here in San Diego – Land of No Kegs on the Beach on 4th of July – And for that reason alone, the story must be told.

Part 2
Clash of the Tightest

Sunday, May 16 – Clash of the Tightest (Final Round):

On stage is a small, square table and two empty chairs. Beside each chair is a large trash can. Behind the table are two commentators sitting on a raised bench. They introduce themselves as Nick and Sid Pink. The crowd goes wild as Sid Pink brings on the first contestant, a guy named James who works the drinkingstuff.com vending booth. James is trim and handsome. Then Nick, the other commentator, says, “Ladies and Gentlemen, “Please welcome to the stage, contestant number two . . . Oggar!”

And the crowd goes nuts.

Because here comes this burly brute with a big bald head and a foot-long goatee bleating down to his knees. Oggar (pronounced Ogre) is 6 feet, 4 inches tall, weighs 350 pounds and is a bouncer at a strip club in Minnesota called Mettlers. He climbs the stage, raises a fist to the crowd, and the Oggar fans chant, “Oh-Ger! Oh-Ger!”

Oggar

The rules of the bout are simple. Contestants take turns choosing a cocktail, which they both must drink within 10 seconds. Then each contestant must perform a simple dexterity test: they drop a ping pong ball into the top of a tube and catch it below. The contest is over when someone either fails the dexterity test, or vomits – giving a whole new meaning to the phrase, “Throw in the towel.”

In the Clash of the Tightest Semi-Finals, Ogre out-boozed Bruiser, a curly-haired behemoth also from Minnesota. Bruiser was even bigger than Oggar, but 23 rounds later found Bruiser barfing in the bottom of a barrel. James got here by defeating the only female in the tournament, a Las Vegas local called Molly Brown who tapped out after about 8 or so rounds of pure rotgut Hell.

Ding. Ding!

Round 1: James orders a White Russian no ice which they both finish with ease and complete the dexterity test.

Round 2: Oggar turns to the crowd and says, “Bring on the Brutal Hammer,” and the Oggar fans howl, “Brew-Tull. Brew-Tull,” because they know it was the Brutal Hammer that put down Bruiser in the prelims. The Brutal Hammer is half red-wine, half vodka in a ten ounce glass no ice.

Round 3: James calls a tequila lime juice and Sid Pink whispers into the microphone, “He’s banking on the lime juice,” and Nick whispers back, “That’s right Sid, he’s hoping it’ll curdle with the milk,” as the contestants guzzle and perform their dexterity tasks.

Round 4: Oggar again orders the Brutal Hammer.

Round 5: James calls for more tequila lime.

Brutal hammer. Tequila Lime. Brutal Hammer. Tequila Lime. . . Back and forth, back and forth and James is showing signs of stress. He’s turning yellow and rocking in his seat like somebody is inside his body yanking out nails with the claw end of a Brutal Hammer; -- which is to say, he’s coming apart.

Brutal Hammer. Tequila lime. Brutal Hammer, and James nearly coughs it back. The ref is counting, “10. . . 9 . . . 8. . .” James takes another sip and gags again, “5… 4. . . 3 . . .” James drinks again, fist clenched, head swaying, “3…2…1…” and just in time he slams his glass onto the table.

But the Oggar fans are howling “Foul!” They claim James did not finish the drink. Indeed, there is a considerable amount of Brutal left in his Brutal Hammer. But it doesn’t matter. Before any ruling can be made, James drops to one knee.

It’s between him and Christ now.

Into the garbage pail he points his beak, like a bird preparing to feed her hungry chicks. He’s still on one knee then – hugging the trash can like the trash can is all he has left in this miserable, rotten world; like if he ever makes it out of this mess he would make that trash can his bride, and take that trash can places that that trash can has never seen -- and finally James tumbles over, bring his beloved trash can down with him – a lover’s leap to be sure – both of them laying dead on the floor while Oggar and the ref hold his fist high in victory.

“Oh-Ger! Oh-Ger!”

And that’s that. After the crowd clears out, I find James collecting himself against a wall. I shake his hand and say, “A helluva try man.” He looks at me with the sort of cold, blank stare you get from the undead and I fear that he broke something inside that he’s gonna need later in life. Then I go over to Oggar. He’s there with some friends sharing his prize – a 750 milliliter bottle of absinthe. I am in utter awe of him. He just finished a drinking contest which left his opponent lobotomized and now he’s drinking from a 150-plus proof bottle of that bitter green deathjuice from Hell.

“Any parting words for my readers?” I ask Oggar as he passes the bottle to me. “Sure,” he answers, “Clash of the Tightest, seems like the sort of thing that should only happen once in a lifetime . . . But, God willing, this is going to happen every year.”

EJD
06/01/05