After killing a few beers in my hotel room after the drive down to Anaheim (on a side note, I managed, with a lot of help, to Photoshop my booze receipts for the weekend to include them on my expense report), I relied on a trusty flask to power me through what was decidedly a boring game. My team, the underdog, lost after staying in it the whole way despite playing some horrendous ball.
However, in the press room and around the press tables at the court, you’d think it was the NBA Finals. I’d always felt that career sports reporters in small markets must simply be stoked on writing about teams that didn’t have as much scrutiny and flooded coverage as large market squads, but after seeing middle-aged men attack a catered buffet with a gusto normally reserved for rescued plane crash survivors, I realized that I was in the middle of their biggest event of the year. I mean, it’s easy to chalk up my lack of enthusiasm to me being relatively jaded and mostly drunk at the time, but when even the refs are eagerly grabbing brooms to clean off the court alongside a two-stepping janitor, it’s obvious that everyone present was stoked on getting involved.
With that in mind, I figured I might as well see what that life is like. With Office Space flashbacks running through my mind, I decided to immerse myself in the mentality of an average young professional for at least one night. After schmoozing and hobknobbing my face off post-game with writers, photogs and athletic administrators from a plethora of schools and newspapers, I realized that not only could I fit in, I could wreck shop in that environment.
Soon enough, people wanted to go out for food and drinks, and of course we headed to an obscure chain restaurant within walking distance of the hotel. The Applebees, Chili’s, TGI Fridays, Chotchkey’s, and in this case Joe’s Crab Shack establishment has been burned so many times in pop culture, and yet somehow they persist. I understand that people want something comfortable when on the road or whatnot, but when I hear arguments over which of these chains has the best drink specials, I start to question the intelligence of any patrons in those hell holes.
I can just imagine the presentations given to investors when people pitch ideas for another restaurant. The formula is simple. First, you need a name that is completely made up, easy to say, and clearly describes the theme of the joint. Second, the theme needs to translate easily into covering all the walls with random shit. Have you ever thought where those nick-nacks and obscure memorabilia come from? There is someone with a proclivity for shopping at garage sales and in possession of a giant distribution network that is making a killing off this crap.
Third, and maybe most importantly, you need to steal a drink list full of colorful, picturesque and overly sweet mixers from another restaurant and nickname them all with your own goofily retarded monikers, all of which must be puns revolving around your theme. Finally, after you’ve gotten people thoroughly drunk off of $9 “Wicked Tornado Slingers”, you need to figure out the most embarassing way to sing “Happy Birthday” to your patrons.
In the case of Joe’s Crab Shack, they took it to the next level, with their employees turning the god damned place into a light-show filled disco every fifteen minutes while they dance their asses off in the aisles and on empty tables while we sat around drinking $20 pitchers of margaritas. Shit, the place was such a fuckin’ party that we had to wait an hour for our first pitcher (of four that we initially ordered) because Joe ran out of pitchers in the back! Too bad the dishwashers were shaking their ass in my face while I slammed down some inedible nachos.
Of course, I sound like a crotchety old man, and I apologize. In the interest of fair reporting, I must admit that the other people in the joint were having a grand old time. The place was absolutely rip-roaring, despite being in the middle of hotel complex near Disneyland. Impressive stuff indeed, but despite my previous optimism on fitting in, I just could not buy it. At that point, it was clearly time to head to the hotel pool and party.
Getting hammered in a hot tub with everything getting paid for by work is a hell of a great feeling. It’s one of those situations where you can truly sit back and immerse yourself at the task at hand. After a long day of pseudo work, free hooch and clean sheets really make one feel good.
Even better is having a few basketball players show up when you’re kicking it, getting them to grab the rest of their team, and heading back to a hotel room to get faded until 4 or 5 AM with a bunch of cheerleaders. I’ll save those photos for when they make the NBA.
