Buck spent Saturday afternoon at home installing fresh, super-sized brake pads on his enormous work truck — and drinking beer. He didn't drink heavily, but he emptied enough Miller Lite bottles throughout the day to make him plenty boisterous by the time we left his house around 8:30 p.m.

The original plan had us briefly visiting a sports bar, where Buck would've fit in nicely. Instead, we opted for a place that probably never before in its five-year history had a patron request the TV be changed to Fox so he could watch NASCAR. Luckily, the folks at Front Porch Bar & Grill in Tampa are a kind and accepting bunch. And the laid-back environment proved the ideal setting for me to relax following an eventful Friday night in SoHo that didn't wrap until 5 a.m.

Buck hit me with a sadistic wakeup call at 9 a.m. Saturday that went unanswered. I blew him off again when he rang at 11. The bastard finally got ahold of me around 2. "Just come over now and then we'll go out later," he shouted as I held the phone a foot away from my ear.

"Fine," I croaked. "Be there in like an hour." It took me twice that long to finally get off the sofa, in the shower and out the door. Like it says in that country song, the hangovers hurt more than they used to.

I went out Friday with my friend; we'll call her Brianna. She's one of the few women I know who can match me drink for drink. In fact, Brianna's the first woman I ever saw single-handedly consume an entire bottle of wine in one sitting — a feat she accomplished prior to her 21st birthday. Eight years and who knows how many bottles of wine later, Brianna didn't have any problem knocking back cocktails before we left my apartment, more while waiting for our food at Ciccio & Tony's, another during our meal (which was excellent, by the way) and then additional rounds at Mangroves, where my five rum-and-cokes were equaled by her quintet of Baybreezes (vodka, cranberry, pineapple). After stumbling back to my place in SoHo we continued to imbibe like Nick and Nora Charles.

At around 4 on Saturday afternoon, before heading over to Buck's, I eventually found my keys — in the hallway outside my apartment door. Yeah, it had been one of those nights.

I arrived at Buck's house a half hour later, planning to abstain from drinking — at least until we went out. But you know how it goes. A fresh 12-pack got killed by nightfall, and then during a tasty dinner prepared by Buck and his wife, the three of us polished off a bottle of cabernet. With the children put to bed, Mrs. Buck then granted her hubby permission to go out. Although neither of us had been to The Front Porch before, we decided it would be a smart bet since it's within walking distance of Buck's home in Seminole Heights.

A Victorian house built in 1898 that's been smartly refurbished, the Front Porch exudes coziness and sophistication — not the best place to bring Buck when he's slightly hammered and has a hankering to watch his beloved Dale Earnhardt Jr. The bar's TV was muted and showing SportsCenter when we sat down.

"Do you mind putting on the race?" Buck asked the bartender, Travis, who appeared perplexed. While Travis fumbled with the remote to find Fox, Buck surveyed the other customers and added, with considerable volume, "Y'know, if it's not going to offend anyone."

A young guy seated several stools away looked up at the screen and moaned: "Not NASCAR." Buck, in his most polite voice, explained to anyone within earshot that it was the Bud Shootout at Daytona International Speedway, an important precursor to the Daytona 500. He also noted that it was Earnhardt Jr.'s first race since leaving the team founded by his father, who died while competing at Daytona in 2001.

The race aired and no one said anything. Buck's impassioned sales pitch apparently worked. Or maybe it was just that nobody wanted to rankle the rather large fellow with the thick Southern drawl and strong desire to watch NASCAR.

"Jimmie, stay out of there, you sorry sonofabitch!" Buck barked at the TV as Johnson's car threatened to cut off Junior's new No. 88. Two laps remained when Earnhardt took the lead and raced to his first victory in nearly two years. "Thatta boy!" Buck hollered, slapping me so hard on the back that the Jameson I was nursing nearly landed in my lap.

We stayed at the Front Porch for a few hours. I dug the homey feel of the place and the staff's friendly demeanor. The couple that owns the establishment made time to chat with all the customers — even Buck. He regaled them with his extensive knowledge of NASCAR while I drank away my hangover and read a text message from Brianna that read: "OMG did I have 10 drinks last night?"

Front Porch Bar & Grill, 5924 N. Florida Ave., Tampa, 813-237-5511 or frontporchgrill.com.

This article appears in Feb 13-19, 2008.