I’m a big fan of awards shows juiced with booze. That’s why the alcohol-enhanced Golden Globes traditionally stomps the liquor-less Oscars. I don’t want to see someone gravely hand over a dumb-ass plaque — or accept the honor with a stale speech devoted to mom and his fifth-grade drama teacher.
Most awards show watchers and attendees crave a scene like the Lily Allen vs. Elton John battle royale from the GQ Men of the Year bash in London. The former coked-out, duck-suit-wearing wild man scolded the talented pop tart for being drunk on stage. “Fuck off Elton, I’m 40 years younger than you, I have my whole life ahead of me,” Allen told the faded star. “I could still snort you under the table,” John retorted.
Now, that’s entertainment.
Creative Loafing’s recent Best of the Bay Awards Show (aka The Loafies) at the Tampa Theatre didn’t include anything quite that memorable — but it wasn’t for lack of booze consumption, at least not on my part. I arrived at our 4 p.m. script reading clutching a Bud tall boy and continued drinking without pause until about 12 hours later. Luckily, show co-producer/script writer Eric Snider anticipated my condition and wrote me a role I’ve been rehearsing for all my life: The Drunken Award Presenter.
“Here, take a shot with me,” I begged my co-worker Leilani, aka Miss Loafie. She took a slug — made a grimace, but took a slug. I appreciated the gesture.
“I’m nervous,” I told her.
“You’ll be fine,” she responded.
I took another long pull from my flask of Canadian Mist. Handed it back to Leilani, and my esteemed colleague gulped it down — or at least pretended to. I passed the bottle around to several others backstage and waited anxiously.
“Do I look OK?” I asked Leilani.
“Yeah,” she said, “You look fine.”
And then came my cue: “Ladies and gentlemen, direct from the bar in the Green Room, here’s Creative Loafing music critic and author of Bar Tab, Wade Tatangelo.”
By this point, my nerves were largely numbed by whiskey. Shit, I had been drinking — heavily — for four and a half hours. By the time I went on stage around 8:30, well, let’s just say I was legally intoxicated. But that didn’t stop me from performing the scripted stunt.
The original plan was for me to enter the stage with a whiskey bottle filled with iced tea — and, once at the podium, chug, chug, chug. But I balked. Didn’t want to be accused of engaging in any bullshit. Instead, I stumbled to the podium and grasped it with both hands as if to steady myself. It was, at least in part, acting — I think. I asked the audience to give me a moment and then flashed my flask. The longer I held it to my lips the louder the crowd roared — or at least that’s the sound I heard inside my mind. By the time I wiped my mouth on my sport coat sleeve, I was definitely loaded.
The words “Best Dive Bar” were displayed on the screen behind me. “In this category, I know of what I speak,” I slurred. “Yes, I’ve been known to frequent a dive bar or 10. Sometimes all in the same night. And I’ve been, well, assisted out of a few of ’em.”
At this point, there might have been scattered chuckles. Truth be told, I’m not sure. The lights were bright on stage, reducing my vision to a trippy blur. In addition to my eyesight suffering at this point, my hearing was failing, too. So if there were hecklers out there, I didn’t hear or spot ’em.
“The finalist for Best Dive Bar in the readers’ poll are,” I announced. “The Emerald [applause], The Hub [loudest applause] and the Tiny Tap Tavern [loud applause] … And the Loafie goes to … The Hub.”
The bartender from The Hub, Jeannie Robinson, charged the stairs and ran straight at me — for a moment, I feared for my well-being. But she was just excited, not coming on stage to strangle me. I offered her the quarter-full flask, but, to my disappointment, she declined. I then inducted The Hub into the Best of the Bay Hall of Fame and announced a music performance by Have Gun, Will Travel. Or at least that’s what the script called for.
The rest of the evening is a haze of Green Room revelry, followed by after-party foolishness and after-after-party debauchery at The Hub. I pieced the night together the next day by counting the dirty wine glasses in my apartment, checking texts and listening to voicemails.
“Wadester,” bellowed my ex-girlfriend, who we’ll call Briana, in a phone message. She happened to attend the Loafies with her girlfriend, who we’ll call Jen. “If you don’t call us back, we’re gonna kick your ass. We’re trying to find you. Call me back when you get this.”
Yeah, it was one of those lost nights. Good times.

Hub Bar, 719 N. Franklin St., Tampa, 813-229-1553.

This article appears in Sep 24-30, 2008.