My youngest sister Beth gets nearly as drunk and crazy as I do. She's going to college in Fort Collins, Colo., home of the famed Fat Tire brewery and, she claims, more bars per capita than any place in the United States. Which is good, because the last time I visited her there I got banned from two of them.
I recall being bounced from the first bar, but it really wasn't my fault. Not entirely, at least. Beth, her frisky roommate and I were seated at the bar, shit-faced. The high altitude had me all fucked up, and then Frisky Roommate started grabbing at my crotch. Next thing I know, I'm That Guy sucking face with That Girl at the bar. Worse, mid-make-out, Frisky Roommate falls off her bar stool, dragging me down to the floor with her.
"Get them out of here!" yelled the bouncer. Frisky Roommate and I wobbled out, giggling like buffoons, while Beth followed sheepishly.
After that, the night gets foggy. I remember my sister passionately kissing a random stranger. And I remember freezing while stumbling through Old Town — not much else.
But my sister remembers everything.
"You got banned from the second bar after you mouthed off to the bartender," Beth says. "You threw a fit because they wouldn't serve your drunk ass!"
Oh.
We're seated in the basement bunker of Ceviche in downtown St. Pete on a Wednesday evening. I've just arrived from Tampa, and my mom and dad — who simply shake their heads at another tale of my debauchery — have already ordered a pitcher of sangria and tapas plates for everyone, as in the entire family: brother Joel, sister Beth, sister Allison and brother-in-law Chris, who gets scolded by pops for polishing off the sausage plate.
"Hey, did you ask Wade if he wanted any?" Dad says.
"Your son is 29 years old and not one to remain quiet when he wants something," Chris replies. "If he wanted the last sausage I think he would have grabbed it or said something."
Me: "True."
Dad: "True."
"Cheers, everyone." Beth raises her glass of wine, and we all join her. It's her last night at my parents' house in St. Pete before returning to Colorado. The occasion also marks my brother's final day at his current job. He's relocating to New Orleans on Jan. 2.
Beth's 10-day stay has, so far, resulted in zero incidents, a pretty amazing accomplishment for the loving yet rather volatile Tatangelo family. We have been known to engage in a few ugly arguments over the years. Dad, Beth or I usually instigate the spats. But this vacation has been fight-free despite my parents' place being packed to capacity, with Beth and Joel occupying the guest bedrooms and me spending several nights on the sofa bed.
"We're gonna head home," Mom announces after picking up the check.
The rest of us walk over to the Independent, the only bar that has much of a crowd this Wednesday at 7:30 p.m. Ordering takes forever, because Allison doesn't know squat about import beers, Chris wants something chocolatey and Joel and me are dead set on pints of Guinness, but they don't serve it. Joel asks for the closest thing to Guinness, and the beer pourer, instead of offering him a stout, carelessly gives him a German Bock, something that may look like Guinness but tastes nothing like it.
"This tastes like burnt bark," Joel says when we get back to the table. "It's all carbonated and bitter — nothing like Guinness."
Next to us sit four hammered loudmouths who appear to be co-workers. One of them is in the middle of the longest rant ever and manages to use the word "douche" about eight dozen times before I lead our posse outside. A band called Lounge Cat is set up with a video crew shining lights and pointing cameras at them. It's a band with several horn players and a talented female bassist I recognize. We wait anxiously to hear them perform, and then the letdown is severe: The male singer with the soul patch is covering Tom Waits and trying to duplicate the famous singer's trademark growl. One of the horn players is wearing shades. This cracks up Allison, causing her to break into song.
"I wear my sunglasses at night," she starts to sing, thoroughly pissing off the people seated next to us, who are obviously fans of the band.
"Let's go," Beth wisely suggests, and everyone chokes down their beers, except Chris, who just leaves his chocolate stout for the next bum who walks by.
Back at Mom and Dad's place, Beth cracks open the bottle of pinot I bought her for Christmas, our family friends Terry and Jeff come by, and we all gather around the kitchen table to view pictures from Christmas Eve, including the snowmen Allison made out of Play-Doh, which Chris, Joel and me later altered, making for some rather interesting gay porn.
"Can't wait to see everyone again," Beth says the next morning. "We'll have to all meet up in May for a wild weekend in New Orleans."
The Big Easy has become a destination party place for the Tatangelo clan. My brother and I joined my parents at Jazz Fest last year, and we'll all be meeting Beth there for the festival in a few months. Next week, I'm helping Joel move into his new place.
Which means, yes, next week's Bar Tab is taking place in New Orleans. Sounds like a recipe for disaster, but I don't expect to get bounced from anywhere. That only happens when I'm in high altitudes. Or so I tell Beth.
The Independent, 29 Third St. N., St. Petersburg, 727-820-9514.
This article appears in Jan 2-8, 2008.