Carbomb Night
For all who weren't online to find this out first hand, I finally got
my laptop online tonight at work and was able to email myself all of
the writing that I've accumulated so far. And here, in all it's
glory, is
We showed up at the bar at about 8:30 on a Tuesday night. Pat didn't have Annabelle and I didn't have to be at work until 3 the next day. Both of us were on break for the summer and Plank’s was calling our name. We sidled up to the bar (why does everyone sidle up to bars, what exactly does that mean anyway??) and slapped the bar, “Matt, Carbombs.” We had decided on the walk over that tonight we would be drinking Irish Carbombs, daps were exchanged, Pat exclaimed, “Giddy-up!” (Irish Carbombs, for the uninitiated, are comprised of 1/2 a shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey, 1/2 a shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream, dropped into “1/2” a pint of Guinness (the best ones are more like 2/3, but that usually requires personal acquaintance with the bartender) and then chugged. The resulting concoction, if made correctly and consumed correctly, should taste a hell of a lot like Chocolate Milk.)So there we were, waiting impatiently to get our drink on, while Matt made our first Carbombs. Keep in mind, that this at 8:30 on a Tuesday night. Matt slid the drinks over to our greedy mitts and we proceeded with the standard cheers, Pat always begins, “Over the teeth and past the gums,” my turn, “Look out stomach,” all together now, “HERE IT COMES!” with that we drop and chug, making short work of our first glass of the Irish brewed ambrosia.
It’s been said that God created whiskey so that the Irish wouldn’t take over the world. After a night of heavy drinking with my half-Irish/half-German best friend, I’d have to agree. Those Micks really know how to put together an alcoholic drink. Anyhow, round one down, we promptly slapped the bar two more times, “Matt, ‘nother Carbomb!” He merely shook his head and began making the second round. “On the tab guys?” “Of course, who carries cash anymore?” Two more pints, two more 1/2 shots of Bailey's, two more 1/2 shots of Jamies, two more chocolaty delicious beverages. “Over the teeth...” BAM! The glass shot glasses jingled merrily in the flotsam at the bottom of the empty pint glasses, the blond foam of the Guinness blending luxuriantly with the remnants of the cream/whiskey mixture. We’d been here for 5 minutes and had already had a pint of strong beer, a shot of hard liquor and a shot of strong liqueur. This night was gonna be AWESOME!
After the second Carbomb, we once more slapped the bar, “MATT CARBOMB!” “Guys, slow it down a bit, want some beer?” We both sighed, “Fine, pitcher of Bass.” It was shaping up to be an Irish kind of night. We both took care of our first beers in no time flat, neither one of us needing to prod the other. The second however happened to coincide with the creeping effects of the 2 carbombs in five minutes. Fifteen minutes in and we were already catching a healthy buzz. I’m sure there were sports on the TV’s, the place was either empty or full, I’m guessing empty-ish, since it was still only 8:45, but still, the fact remains the same that things started to get a bit fuzzy from here on out. We finished the pitcher and it was all of 8:55, so we tried once again, “Matt! CARBOMBS!” He came over to our collective perch and began the preparations for Carbomb number 3.
Now, if you’ve never had an Irish Carbomb you may not quite comprehend the cloying effect it has on the senses. It’s like tequila in that you don’t know what’s going until it’s already happened, but unlike tequila, people drink Carbombs for the taste, too. Pat and I have decided that there are a few liquors that no one is on the fence about: Tequila and Whiskey (bourbon whiskey or scotch, not Jameson, there’s a distinct difference.) There are people who LOVE whiskey and there are people who HATE IT, just like there are people who SWEAR by Tequila and people who just won’t touch the stuff. Carbombs fall somewhere in the middle. People who have had them and know HOW to chug, love the shit out of them, everyone else just hasn’t had one yet. And when you make a night of Carbombs, you know you’re going to be in for a treat.
Carbomb number three for each of us arrived and once again the ritual was completed, this time with record time. Pat and I had been competing about who could chug faster, at first it was a dead heat, but by number three, he was slipping behind. Little did he know that his late blooming best friend had been practicing since he turned twenty-one the past year while Pat had remained shackled to a horse-faced ball-and-chain known now as Crazy Julie. We ordered pitcher number two and tried to get another Carbomb. “Guys, you’ve got to slow down, its only 9 o’clock. Wait until 9:20 and I’ll give you another one.” Let the clock watching begin. By this time in the night, the Tuesday night Karaoke guy had finished setting up and was beginning to take all comers to stand in front of the projection screen and make fools of themselves. Pat got the brilliant idea that we should do Karaoke. After three carbombs and working our way through pitcher number two of Bass, who I was to disagree. It was a GREAT idea, why NOT do karaoke while trashed?! I stood up to go get the song book, and much to my dismay, my legs had decided that they would go where THEY wanted to go, whether I liked it or not. I happily stumbled over to the large speakers, dodging people and chairs as I did, and grabbed the well-thumbed blue notebook from the stand. Back at the barstools, we began paging through the songs, trying to keep track of all the songs that elicited the ever-important, “Aw DUDE we should TOTALLY do THAT ONE!” About 1/4 of the way through the book, the fateful moment arrived. As if by divine intervention, the name jumped off the page. Come. On. Eileen. Hell yes, Dexy’s Midnight Runners. COME ON EILEEN! OH YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN! We’ve GOT TO THAT ONE! I, with an inordinate amount of concentration, scrawled our names down on the slip of paper, followed by the Rosetta stone numerical code and dropped it off with the book back at the karaoke stand. We finished the pitcher and continued watching the clock when our names were called, “Pat and Harry singing ‘Come on Eileen’ give it up for Pat and Harry!” Smattering applause as we stumbled up to the “stage” many “WOOO’s” were shouted with raised arms and you could almost hear the groans of the audience before we made our way across the bar. Pat tried to butter up the audience with rock-star banter, “This one’s for the ladies, OW” and the instrumental intro began.
As the words began to stream across the screen faster than our alcohol drenched brains could register we began to mumble incoherently along with the melody. “Do swtwhta adaldw hskalkja wytehsaaaaaaaaa” Then came time for our saving grace, the chorus. God bless the chorus. There we were, mumbling and stumbling our way through a song we realized too late we didn’t know the words to, when that familiar phrase popped up on the screen, bouncing ball and all, “COME ON EILEEN!!! WOOOOOOO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, schma-fa schma fa FA, YOU MEAN EVERYTHING TO MEEEEEEE!” When that chorus came on, our hesitant under-the-breath murmuring became the rock star HOWL of owning a song, we bellowed into the cheap karaoke microphones, we shouted to the rafters with the strains of Dexy’s Midnight Runner’s, we made those fuckin’ aussies proud.
Until they turned off the Karaoke machine. After the second resounding chorus, members of our appreciative throngs were shouting to the Karaoke guy to turn the mic’s down, he motioned over our shouting that they were already turned off, it was just us and the instrumentals. As were rounding home plate, making preparations for our big finish, the screen went black to a thunderous applause from the peanut gallery. Pat and I continued, confused, for a bar or two, before realization seeped into our booze soaked consciousness. We put our mic’s up and threw our arms in the air, “WOOOOOOO! COME ON EILEEN!”
By the time we made it back to the bar, the clock was striking the magical hour of 9:20, “MAAAAATTTTTT! CARRRRRRBOMB!!!!!!” He rolled his eyes at us and made the fourth of the night. Point-oh-two-five seconds later two identical empty Guinness glasses clacked simultaneously to the bar, “Ahhhhh” I wiped my mouth and Pat and I plopped back into our stools, because, you know, you can’t do a Carbomb sitting down, jeeze. We quickly finished our pitcher and by 9:30 we motioned to Matt to close out our tabs, “Just split it down the middle” The place had grown hostile and we were feeling belligerent. After the sticker shock of two identical 45 dollar bar tabs (BEFORE tip, mind you) we stumbled out into the cool night air. Lucky for us, it was only a three block jaunt to the homestead, but of course, with that much liquor punishing our livers, it turned into a 3 block ODYSSEY! Homer would’ve been proud of us that night. Our first stop on the journey was the block-away beer and wing joint, Roosters. We passed it every time, and every time we ridiculed it for its chain-y nature of attracting the characterless yuppie crowd who didn’t know a Thurman Burger from a hole in the ground. As we walked in, Pat asked me to order a pitcher and he’d be right back. I sidled once more up to the bar, this time to order a pitcher of Killians, our go-to domestic. I handed over the fiver, poured two glasses and waited for Pat to return. Shortly after my first sip, Pat appeared at my side, “we gotta go man,” he whispered conspiratorially into my ear, “What the fuck man, I just got a pitcher!” “I’ll give you five bucks, but we gotta go,” “Fuck, man, alright” As soon as we got outside, I confronted him, “Damn, dude, what was that about?” “I totally just projectile vomited all over their bathroom. I didn’t even make it to the toilet, I just opened the stall door and let loose.” I couldn’t hold in my laughter as I guffawed to the black sky in the quiet of German Village. “Oh man, that. Is. Awesome! Hold on a second, I gotta take a piss.” I veered to the right down a dark pseudo-alley. (the old time Victorian houses that populate the whole of German Village don’t actually touch, leaving these 2 foot wide paths between the two story brick edifices. Not particularly scary, but 100% intriguing and private. I walked down the first of many to relieve myself and as I made my way to the back, I saw that it didn’t end in another building as I had assumed, but rather in a 3 and a half foot high wooden fence surrounding a small backyard. I pissed in the corner and called out to Pat. We decided to cut through the yard, why? Because we could. His being 6’5” made it merely an awkward step for him, but when I tried it, I slid over the pointed wooden stakes and landed squarely on my ass on the other side. We capered through the lawn, trampling the cultivated short shrubbery that lined the small path, and found our exit catty-corner to our graceful entrance.
On the other side, it apparently opened up onto the actual alley that led to Schiller Park, the late gorgeous urban dog-park/playground/outdoor theatre that was just behind our house. It turns out that many of our drunken nights ended at Schiller, as long as the weather held out. Pat thought it would be a great idea to go swing on the swings. Note: In my experience, it is NEVER a good idea to perform acts of any kind that require coordination while intoxicated, combine coordination with heights and a mild chance of nausea, and it’s a recipe for disaster. Luckily for us, no disaster occurred that night, but still, the potential was there. After swinging for as long as I could stand, I stood and started walking back to the house. “We need more booze.” “We’ve got the rest of that Newcastle in the fridge” “Hell yes, lets go take care of that!” Back at the house Pat decided that we would also require golf clubs and golf balls to complete this night, so we each grabbed a wedge, I the pitching and Pat the nine-iron, and all of three golf balls. After procuring more beer and said athletic equipment, we mounted the gigantic hill in the north corner of the park and proceeded to immediately lose all three of the golf balls we had brought with us. All was not lost, however, as our fruitless search of the nighttime grass led us to the large stone statue of Mr. Schiller himself, surrounded on all sides by a forbidding, pointy, cast-iron fence. “Dude, lets climb Schiller!” “Alright!” Because, you know, when you’re this drunk, EVERYTHING is a good idea. Once again, Pat’s stature made for an easy step over the fence, my 5’8” height, however, made my ascension significantly less graceful. I made it half-way before I was being intimately touched by the black metal spikes in front of and behind me. It was all I could do to unwedge myself and return to the safety and comfort of the OTHER side of the fence from whence I had come. “You should go get your camera!” Pat was talking about my brand new (to me) 150 dollar eBay investment in the form of a fragile SLR Minolta Maxxum AutoFocus that I had received in the mail a few weeks prior. “Yeah, I don’t think so” Even when you’re drunk you know certain things ARE a bad idea. “Fine.” He was dejected and a bit pissed that there would be no photographic evidence of him unsuccessfully attempting to scale Mount Saint Schiller, but hell if I’m going to risk breaking the shit out of my camera to take a blurry picture of his drunk ass. By now our beers were gone, Pat was worn out, my balls and ass were still aching and the buzz was beginning to slowly creep into the tired phase that we all find so comforting. We decided that it was high time to get our drunk asses back home and presumably into bed. It was all of 11PM on a Tuesday and we were fucking spent.
I don’t remember anything else of that night, but I doubt it was much of interest. No one was permanently injured, and the next day when we both woke up to headaches and looked at our credit card slips we realized that we had each tipped matt about 20 bucks, bringing the grand total of the bar night to about 60 bucks each, but it was well worth it. We may not have had much to show for the next day, or even now, for that matter, but we will both have the story to tell for the rest of our lives. If you ever see us, just MENTION “Carbomb Night” and you’ll immediately see our eyes light up with recollection, humility, nostalgia and humor. That’s the one night I use to describe how fun and crazy drinking can be, not my 21st birthday, that wasn’t nearly as crazy, but rather the night that will go down in history.
We showed up at the bar at about 8:30 on a Tuesday night. Pat didn't have Annabelle and I didn't have to be at work until 3 the next day. Both of us were on break for the summer and Plank’s was calling our name. We sidled up to the bar (why does everyone sidle up to bars, what exactly does that mean anyway??) and slapped the bar, “Matt, Carbombs.” We had decided on the walk over that tonight we would be drinking Irish Carbombs, daps were exchanged, Pat exclaimed, “Giddy-up!” (Irish Carbombs, for the uninitiated, are comprised of 1/2 a shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey, 1/2 a shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream, dropped into “1/2” a pint of Guinness (the best ones are more like 2/3, but that usually requires personal acquaintance with the bartender) and then chugged. The resulting concoction, if made correctly and consumed correctly, should taste a hell of a lot like Chocolate Milk.)So there we were, waiting impatiently to get our drink on, while Matt made our first Carbombs. Keep in mind, that this at 8:30 on a Tuesday night. Matt slid the drinks over to our greedy mitts and we proceeded with the standard cheers, Pat always begins, “Over the teeth and past the gums,” my turn, “Look out stomach,” all together now, “HERE IT COMES!” with that we drop and chug, making short work of our first glass of the Irish brewed ambrosia.
It’s been said that God created whiskey so that the Irish wouldn’t take over the world. After a night of heavy drinking with my half-Irish/half-German best friend, I’d have to agree. Those Micks really know how to put together an alcoholic drink. Anyhow, round one down, we promptly slapped the bar two more times, “Matt, ‘nother Carbomb!” He merely shook his head and began making the second round. “On the tab guys?” “Of course, who carries cash anymore?” Two more pints, two more 1/2 shots of Bailey's, two more 1/2 shots of Jamies, two more chocolaty delicious beverages. “Over the teeth...” BAM! The glass shot glasses jingled merrily in the flotsam at the bottom of the empty pint glasses, the blond foam of the Guinness blending luxuriantly with the remnants of the cream/whiskey mixture. We’d been here for 5 minutes and had already had a pint of strong beer, a shot of hard liquor and a shot of strong liqueur. This night was gonna be AWESOME!
After the second Carbomb, we once more slapped the bar, “MATT CARBOMB!” “Guys, slow it down a bit, want some beer?” We both sighed, “Fine, pitcher of Bass.” It was shaping up to be an Irish kind of night. We both took care of our first beers in no time flat, neither one of us needing to prod the other. The second however happened to coincide with the creeping effects of the 2 carbombs in five minutes. Fifteen minutes in and we were already catching a healthy buzz. I’m sure there were sports on the TV’s, the place was either empty or full, I’m guessing empty-ish, since it was still only 8:45, but still, the fact remains the same that things started to get a bit fuzzy from here on out. We finished the pitcher and it was all of 8:55, so we tried once again, “Matt! CARBOMBS!” He came over to our collective perch and began the preparations for Carbomb number 3.
Now, if you’ve never had an Irish Carbomb you may not quite comprehend the cloying effect it has on the senses. It’s like tequila in that you don’t know what’s going until it’s already happened, but unlike tequila, people drink Carbombs for the taste, too. Pat and I have decided that there are a few liquors that no one is on the fence about: Tequila and Whiskey (bourbon whiskey or scotch, not Jameson, there’s a distinct difference.) There are people who LOVE whiskey and there are people who HATE IT, just like there are people who SWEAR by Tequila and people who just won’t touch the stuff. Carbombs fall somewhere in the middle. People who have had them and know HOW to chug, love the shit out of them, everyone else just hasn’t had one yet. And when you make a night of Carbombs, you know you’re going to be in for a treat.
Carbomb number three for each of us arrived and once again the ritual was completed, this time with record time. Pat and I had been competing about who could chug faster, at first it was a dead heat, but by number three, he was slipping behind. Little did he know that his late blooming best friend had been practicing since he turned twenty-one the past year while Pat had remained shackled to a horse-faced ball-and-chain known now as Crazy Julie. We ordered pitcher number two and tried to get another Carbomb. “Guys, you’ve got to slow down, its only 9 o’clock. Wait until 9:20 and I’ll give you another one.” Let the clock watching begin. By this time in the night, the Tuesday night Karaoke guy had finished setting up and was beginning to take all comers to stand in front of the projection screen and make fools of themselves. Pat got the brilliant idea that we should do Karaoke. After three carbombs and working our way through pitcher number two of Bass, who I was to disagree. It was a GREAT idea, why NOT do karaoke while trashed?! I stood up to go get the song book, and much to my dismay, my legs had decided that they would go where THEY wanted to go, whether I liked it or not. I happily stumbled over to the large speakers, dodging people and chairs as I did, and grabbed the well-thumbed blue notebook from the stand. Back at the barstools, we began paging through the songs, trying to keep track of all the songs that elicited the ever-important, “Aw DUDE we should TOTALLY do THAT ONE!” About 1/4 of the way through the book, the fateful moment arrived. As if by divine intervention, the name jumped off the page. Come. On. Eileen. Hell yes, Dexy’s Midnight Runners. COME ON EILEEN! OH YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN! We’ve GOT TO THAT ONE! I, with an inordinate amount of concentration, scrawled our names down on the slip of paper, followed by the Rosetta stone numerical code and dropped it off with the book back at the karaoke stand. We finished the pitcher and continued watching the clock when our names were called, “Pat and Harry singing ‘Come on Eileen’ give it up for Pat and Harry!” Smattering applause as we stumbled up to the “stage” many “WOOO’s” were shouted with raised arms and you could almost hear the groans of the audience before we made our way across the bar. Pat tried to butter up the audience with rock-star banter, “This one’s for the ladies, OW” and the instrumental intro began.
As the words began to stream across the screen faster than our alcohol drenched brains could register we began to mumble incoherently along with the melody. “Do swtwhta adaldw hskalkja wytehsaaaaaaaaa” Then came time for our saving grace, the chorus. God bless the chorus. There we were, mumbling and stumbling our way through a song we realized too late we didn’t know the words to, when that familiar phrase popped up on the screen, bouncing ball and all, “COME ON EILEEN!!! WOOOOOOO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, schma-fa schma fa FA, YOU MEAN EVERYTHING TO MEEEEEEE!” When that chorus came on, our hesitant under-the-breath murmuring became the rock star HOWL of owning a song, we bellowed into the cheap karaoke microphones, we shouted to the rafters with the strains of Dexy’s Midnight Runner’s, we made those fuckin’ aussies proud.
Until they turned off the Karaoke machine. After the second resounding chorus, members of our appreciative throngs were shouting to the Karaoke guy to turn the mic’s down, he motioned over our shouting that they were already turned off, it was just us and the instrumentals. As were rounding home plate, making preparations for our big finish, the screen went black to a thunderous applause from the peanut gallery. Pat and I continued, confused, for a bar or two, before realization seeped into our booze soaked consciousness. We put our mic’s up and threw our arms in the air, “WOOOOOOO! COME ON EILEEN!”
By the time we made it back to the bar, the clock was striking the magical hour of 9:20, “MAAAAATTTTTT! CARRRRRRBOMB!!!!!!” He rolled his eyes at us and made the fourth of the night. Point-oh-two-five seconds later two identical empty Guinness glasses clacked simultaneously to the bar, “Ahhhhh” I wiped my mouth and Pat and I plopped back into our stools, because, you know, you can’t do a Carbomb sitting down, jeeze. We quickly finished our pitcher and by 9:30 we motioned to Matt to close out our tabs, “Just split it down the middle” The place had grown hostile and we were feeling belligerent. After the sticker shock of two identical 45 dollar bar tabs (BEFORE tip, mind you) we stumbled out into the cool night air. Lucky for us, it was only a three block jaunt to the homestead, but of course, with that much liquor punishing our livers, it turned into a 3 block ODYSSEY! Homer would’ve been proud of us that night. Our first stop on the journey was the block-away beer and wing joint, Roosters. We passed it every time, and every time we ridiculed it for its chain-y nature of attracting the characterless yuppie crowd who didn’t know a Thurman Burger from a hole in the ground. As we walked in, Pat asked me to order a pitcher and he’d be right back. I sidled once more up to the bar, this time to order a pitcher of Killians, our go-to domestic. I handed over the fiver, poured two glasses and waited for Pat to return. Shortly after my first sip, Pat appeared at my side, “we gotta go man,” he whispered conspiratorially into my ear, “What the fuck man, I just got a pitcher!” “I’ll give you five bucks, but we gotta go,” “Fuck, man, alright” As soon as we got outside, I confronted him, “Damn, dude, what was that about?” “I totally just projectile vomited all over their bathroom. I didn’t even make it to the toilet, I just opened the stall door and let loose.” I couldn’t hold in my laughter as I guffawed to the black sky in the quiet of German Village. “Oh man, that. Is. Awesome! Hold on a second, I gotta take a piss.” I veered to the right down a dark pseudo-alley. (the old time Victorian houses that populate the whole of German Village don’t actually touch, leaving these 2 foot wide paths between the two story brick edifices. Not particularly scary, but 100% intriguing and private. I walked down the first of many to relieve myself and as I made my way to the back, I saw that it didn’t end in another building as I had assumed, but rather in a 3 and a half foot high wooden fence surrounding a small backyard. I pissed in the corner and called out to Pat. We decided to cut through the yard, why? Because we could. His being 6’5” made it merely an awkward step for him, but when I tried it, I slid over the pointed wooden stakes and landed squarely on my ass on the other side. We capered through the lawn, trampling the cultivated short shrubbery that lined the small path, and found our exit catty-corner to our graceful entrance.
On the other side, it apparently opened up onto the actual alley that led to Schiller Park, the late gorgeous urban dog-park/playground/outdoor theatre that was just behind our house. It turns out that many of our drunken nights ended at Schiller, as long as the weather held out. Pat thought it would be a great idea to go swing on the swings. Note: In my experience, it is NEVER a good idea to perform acts of any kind that require coordination while intoxicated, combine coordination with heights and a mild chance of nausea, and it’s a recipe for disaster. Luckily for us, no disaster occurred that night, but still, the potential was there. After swinging for as long as I could stand, I stood and started walking back to the house. “We need more booze.” “We’ve got the rest of that Newcastle in the fridge” “Hell yes, lets go take care of that!” Back at the house Pat decided that we would also require golf clubs and golf balls to complete this night, so we each grabbed a wedge, I the pitching and Pat the nine-iron, and all of three golf balls. After procuring more beer and said athletic equipment, we mounted the gigantic hill in the north corner of the park and proceeded to immediately lose all three of the golf balls we had brought with us. All was not lost, however, as our fruitless search of the nighttime grass led us to the large stone statue of Mr. Schiller himself, surrounded on all sides by a forbidding, pointy, cast-iron fence. “Dude, lets climb Schiller!” “Alright!” Because, you know, when you’re this drunk, EVERYTHING is a good idea. Once again, Pat’s stature made for an easy step over the fence, my 5’8” height, however, made my ascension significantly less graceful. I made it half-way before I was being intimately touched by the black metal spikes in front of and behind me. It was all I could do to unwedge myself and return to the safety and comfort of the OTHER side of the fence from whence I had come. “You should go get your camera!” Pat was talking about my brand new (to me) 150 dollar eBay investment in the form of a fragile SLR Minolta Maxxum AutoFocus that I had received in the mail a few weeks prior. “Yeah, I don’t think so” Even when you’re drunk you know certain things ARE a bad idea. “Fine.” He was dejected and a bit pissed that there would be no photographic evidence of him unsuccessfully attempting to scale Mount Saint Schiller, but hell if I’m going to risk breaking the shit out of my camera to take a blurry picture of his drunk ass. By now our beers were gone, Pat was worn out, my balls and ass were still aching and the buzz was beginning to slowly creep into the tired phase that we all find so comforting. We decided that it was high time to get our drunk asses back home and presumably into bed. It was all of 11PM on a Tuesday and we were fucking spent.
I don’t remember anything else of that night, but I doubt it was much of interest. No one was permanently injured, and the next day when we both woke up to headaches and looked at our credit card slips we realized that we had each tipped matt about 20 bucks, bringing the grand total of the bar night to about 60 bucks each, but it was well worth it. We may not have had much to show for the next day, or even now, for that matter, but we will both have the story to tell for the rest of our lives. If you ever see us, just MENTION “Carbomb Night” and you’ll immediately see our eyes light up with recollection, humility, nostalgia and humor. That’s the one night I use to describe how fun and crazy drinking can be, not my 21st birthday, that wasn’t nearly as crazy, but rather the night that will go down in history.