Spring Break Redux
(Article originally published March 2004)
Last week, a few buddies and I went on vacation to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. On Thursday night we were drinking all-inclusive Pacifico beer out of Styrofoam cups at our 3-star hotel bar while in the background single, drunken, 17-cat-owning, middle-aged women were doing soulful Karaoke renditions of “I Will Survive”. I felt like I was at a Barbara Johnson campaign rally. Anyway, me and my buddy Jerry started chatting with these two average-looking girls in their 20’s. Girl A was cute, petite, had short blond hair, and along with the standard tailbone tattoo, had a tattoo on her cleavage (AKA a “titty-tatty”). Girl B had more of a soccer-type body, also blond, a much bigger chest, and an Amanda Woodward length skirt, but was not as cute as Girl A. They were both drinking Margaritas and chain-smoking Salem Lights.
Around 11, we all hopped in a cab and drove 56 mph down to Sammy Hagar’s bar, Cabo Wabo. The place was ballistic: girls dancing on tables, Nelly songs blaring; I was in my first “Wild On” special. After several more drinks and dancing, the two Buffalo natives were hooking up with each other more than Trent Edwards and Terrell Owens. Girl B even flashed while Girl A video taped it. Wow, this was fun. I was in the vicinity of all the action, attempting to lay groundwork for a 300-1 long shot trifecta later in the evening. But twenty minutes later Girl B was legally unconscious so the two of them had to leave the bar. I stayed. Oh well. My visions of living la vida loca would have to wait another night.
Fast forward to Saturday night. It’s our last night in Cabo, and as luck would have it, I run into the same Buffalo girls at the all-inclusive hotel bar around 9:00. I strategically abandon my buddies, wave off several wingman requests, and sit at a table with the two of them. It was Mexican “bizarro world” as my usual shtick of overly sarcastic comments and obscure sports references was replaced by down to earth, apparently interesting and funny banter! Then the sexual innuendos start to sail as we watch the racy video from Cabo Wabo Thursday night on their camera. At this point I use my sleuth-like abilities to pick up their names, which I thought was a good idea at this point. Girl A is Leanna, and Girl B is Tara, and more importantly, they’re getting really bombed and showing a great interest in me. Although not specifically stated, it’s implied that I’m being heavily recruited here by both of them. Now I’ve had some tremendous late shoe rallies on prior vacations, from my back-to-back straight flushes playing 3-Card Poker with Ray Buchanan last year in the Bahamas, to a Hole-in-one on 18 at the Eastham Red Barn Mini-Golf course in 1987 to beat my Dad. So pulling off this unlikely “3-peat” wouldn’t be a total shock. OK, yes it would be.
A few drinks later my buddy Irwin relays to us that we’re leaving in 30 minutes (around 11:30) for our trek into Cabo. The girls are fine with that, but aren’t satisfied with their outfits. They debate back and forth for a few minutes when it’s decided they both should change their attire. “We’re going back to the room to change”, Leanna says to me, “do you want to come back with us? It’ll be cool, you could see our room.” Tara lets out a chuckle. To steal from a prior Barstool article, this is the point where Rocky cuts the Russian. After wiping the beer from my chin I mutter, “Uh, sure. Let’s go.” Yeah, this is happening. Honestly, come on! These were two really cool, drunk, blue-collar bi-sexuals from Buffalo who invite me to their room while they change? With a video camera! That ain’t bad for a guy who spends his nights at dog tracks and cheats at solitaire.
We enter room #3441 and immediately the “old me” returns. I comment, “Wow, nice room”. (It’s a friggin hotel - all the rooms are the same!) Next I make an incredibly meaningless remark about how I watched Teen Wolf in Spanish earlier in the day. Then I follow up that gem and ask if they’ve ever been to Rich Stadium. But it didn’t seem to matter; as Tara enters the bathroom to change, Leanna decides to just drop trow right in front of me! OK, this isn’t happening. Whoever’s doing this, just stop it. Really, it’s not funny anymore. I momentarily thought about going “all-in” at this point and making a move on Leanna. Or maybe she would make the move on me? But her buddy’s still in the can? I don’t know the proper protocol for these things! I’m not Scott Baio! So I decide that at 11:00 it was still relatively early and “check”. I had such a substantial chip lead, there was no reason to go “all in”. If I lose, I’m out, the tourney’s over. My plan was to “slow play”, and re-raise with my pocket Aces after returning from our night out. Anyway, after more chit-chat the two of them complete their wardrobe change. I’m still deliberating strategy. We head back down to the lobby just past 11:30 and rendezvous with the rest of the crew. The 3 of us grab a drink for the road, and snuggle in the back seat of the mini-van cab. I’m still in good shape as the closing anthems from The Natural, Hoosiers, Rocky, Karate Kid, Over the Top, and Wild Things are all playing simultaneously in my head.
We arrive at a club called El Squid Roe, where there are two lines to get in. One for Americans, one for Mexicans. We get into the Mexican line. After switching lines 15 minutes later, we finally enter the club and on this first official night of Spring Break, it’s as crowded as City Hall Plaza during a Red Sox parade. Following a brief chat with my two lady friends, we split up. No problem, I’ll catch up a little later. Again, I didn’t want to overplay my hand and swarm them like the flies on my poolside taco.
As the night goes on I get caught up in the antics of a guy standing in an elevated booth in the middle of the dance floor called “The Substitute Pimp”, whose official job description reads “crowd firer-upper.” He performs such tasks as giving “shout outs” to various Mexican villages and US states, barking during any Snoop Dogg song, spraying fire extinguishers up girls’ skirts, and repeatedly asking the crowd whether or not they were “ready to party all of the night!!??” They should get this guy for Celtics games. Before I know it, I’m in the middle of all this mayhem, I’ve got 3 girls making out to my left, 6 girls dancing in Paris Hilton outfits to my right, and most importantly, a 300 lb. girl table-dancing above me who I have to be wary of. I’m having a great time, believe me, but it was bout time to git back to biznit. Since I don’t wear a watch, the ill-prepared me asks my buddy Sneakers for the time. He says, “Almost 2:30”. What??! My clock management skills are rivaling Herman Edwards and I have no idea where Leanna and Tara are. Bad job by me, but there’s still time.
So I begin doing a lap around the massive 2-story club to find them. I slice my way through the sea of drunken humanity, roll around every incidental pick, but can’t find them anywhere. (I also don’t wear my glasses out, so I’m doubly screwed.) Finally after 20 minutes and 2 miles, I complete my arduous lap and there’s still no sign. Crap. Fine, I take another lap, get the equivalent of a case of Dos Equis spilled on me, and still nothing. Where the heck are these girls?? Screw this, I take another lap! I feel like Cal Ripken Jr. the night he broke Gehrig’s record. This time no more BS! I look everywhere: guys’ bathroom, girls’ bathroom, Mexican-only bathroom, DJ booth, kitchen, under the Substitute Pimp, nothing. Then I get stuck in a log jam behind a fight between a local Mexican and some Big 12 frat dude named “Hoss”. What the heck is going on?! Am I on “Boiling Point”? It’s been more than 20 minutes, give me the f’n hundred dollars already! It’s now close to 3:15, and I’m panicking. Damn it, I never should’ve left them.
I see Sneakers again. He mentions that he spotted the girls in the front of the bar a little while ago and I should check there. Still hope! We Lewis and Clark the front of the bar for 10 minutes, and come up empty again. As my exhausted body and soul makes its way back to the dance floor I run into my buddy Jerry. He says, “Pete, I thought I just saw you leave?” “What do you mean?”, I say. “I just saw Leanna and Tara leave 5 minutes ago with some guy I thought was you. They were all over him! I thought it was you!” “$#@$%&@#%$?!?!?!?!” Dagger in the heart. I lose all feeling in my extremities and almost collapse. The only thing holding me up was the noose around my neck. “Don’t worry, I’m sure this’ll happen again”, jokes the unfunny Jerry shortly before I “accidentally” dump a Corona on his head. I regain my equilibrium after 10 minutes and finish out the painful remaining moments standing in stunned silence next to the Substitute Pimp. Not even he could cheer me up. The next morning I awoke at 6:30 and dry heaved for a half an hour. I’m still not sure if it was from drinking or if that was just God being a dick.
As we boarded the plane for our flight home, I analyzed the regrettable events of last night in my mind. Why did I not go “all-in” in the room? How the heck could I lose them at the bar? Maybe I should buy a watch and contacts? Can you major in Substitute Pimping? I was sure there was some educational lesson about the danger of slow-playing a big hand that I’d learn at some point if not already. But as I sat and shook my head for 5 hours I did come to this realization; my once promising Penthouse letter had turned into a depressing article for Barstool Sports.