Beach in February? Sure thing!

Once again I found myself about to leave North Carolina without having partaken of any "North Carolinian" delights. I saw no pottery (not a big "dish" fan), I didn't hike (ticks, eep!), and I managed to miss all parts of the Blue Ridge Mountains that weren't directly between me and Cleveland. I'd be damned if I missed the beach again, though. Word on the street had it that Wilmington Beach is the most beautiful to actually swim in, but Myrtle Beach was hopping all year round. I sent out a cry for help, and my co-workers came through in spades.



The view from our balcony, both straight out and straight down, was pretty fabulous. You can't see a chair shattered on the pool deck, or White Castle sliders on the island, but that's because this picture was taken "early." The first night we hit up Broadway at the Beach, a Pleasure Island-esque string of bars with varied themes and no open container laws, and found our home at The Blarney Stone, where the men promptly took over The Lair, martini glasses and all.

Our second night out there was joyously riotus through a number of establishments, until we ran afoul of a drink called 190 Octane, at which point it simply became riotous. Please allow me to set the scene:

Boisterous group in lively piano bar. One of the non-dancing group members (re: lame) gestures towards the door, group, still dancing, follows in a conga line fashion. Return to action.

I can't convey how bizarre it was to enter Fat Tuesday, which contained white tile, two shifty bartenders in front of a series of spinning slushy machines, and dudes. Dudes as far as the eye could see, silently staring at TV screens and nursing the straws of their colorful, slushy drinks. It looked like the opening scene of Lolita...

At this point in the evening I was all energy and smiles, sober and hyper and using the men of my group as alcohol mules. I cheerfuly passed off drinks (and glasses of water when they looked blurry) and husbanded my little band of donor livers through the evening. A case in point: upon entering Fat Tuesday, I still held my last drink from the piano bar, which the bouncer told me to finish. Right. I turned to Mike,

"Mike, will you drink.. oh wait, you're too drunk already. Bill! Bill, will you drink this?" (thrusts vodka and red bull at co-worker, attempts to look small and incapable).

It worked every time.

The bartenders gave Jamie and I samples of their wares, despite our (loud) comments about what a creepy sausage fest the place was. 190 Octance, or as I like to think of it, "the orange one," won the taste test, and after ordering I asked what the drink contained. Twice. Finally the bartender answered, nonchalauntly,

"151 and Everclear."

At this point I laughed, thinking he had just named two of the worst alcohols he could think of to be a jerk. He remained dead pan.

"No seriously, what's in it?"

"One drink won't hurt you..."

Oooook, that's where I started to think he wasn't kidding. I haven't fallen for a line like that since freshman year. 190 Octane explained the rows of silently staring, sweating, hopeful date-rapists lining the walls. Fat Tuesday's should have a bin to throw your panties in by the door. Realizing I held death in a cup, I embarked on a brazen, drink shell-game, in which my glass swooped in and out of my dazzled companions hands until I clutched an empty cup and a sober constitution. This allowed me to spend the rest of the night displaying supernatural (sober) powers, such as the ability to sit in a spinning bar stool without throwing up, and stand on one foot without falling over (as shown in the picture below).



Later that night, after a hysterical cab ride, we made it back to our hotel rooms safe and sound. We managed to convince Jamie that a swim in the ocean was not "a good idea" (mainly by pointing out how much paper work we'd have to fill out if she died), and watched Hennessey test the aerodynamics of various foodstuffs. I wonder if the mountains would be this much fun?