The Kind of Girl Who … flips some dang cups (in a castle!)

NTKOG #17: The kind of rabid she-bro who actively crusades the city streets in search of venues for table games leading to the unhealthily rapid consumption of beer.

I am: more of a wine person, to be honest.

I am not: a competitive drinker. Let us all drink to get drunk, thinks TKOG, and not to engage in boorish frattishness.

The Scene: Sam Adams’s annual Beer Summit, the biggest Oktoberfest in Boston (slash in September), held in an honest-to-god castle in the center of the city. I toss on a cocktail dress and my meat cleaver necklace and storm the castle.

Lesson number one of the night: beer drinkers don’t wear cocktail dresses. Lesson number two: it costs twenty friggin’ bucks to even get into the joint. I get to the party with only two and a half hours left to go and make puppy-dog eyes at the bouncer, to no avail; finally, weighing my finances, I ask an old lederhosen-clad dude if the party is still cool enough to pay, or is totally lame. “Totally lame,” he tells me, “After all, I’m leading the polkas.” Then the bouncer focuses on some fresh meat and Lederhosen practically jabs his nose in my ear and whispers to meet him in the parking lot around back.

What, like I’m not going to do it?

I get back there and he is waiting for me outside:

Lederhosen: Okay, I’m going to sneak you in. I told the cop you were my wife.
TKOG: Well, I’ve always wanted to be married to a polka maestro.
L: You’re interesting. Are you an actress?
TKOG: A long, long time ago.
L: Christ, how old are you?
TKOG: I’m 23.
L: Wow. I’m 62. This is going to be weird.

He takes the crook of my still-bruised elbow and escorts me up two flights of stares. On the way, a cop gives me the once-over — “This your wife?” — and in reply, Lederhosen smacks my friggin’ ass. (!!!!!! ?) I thank him again for sneaking me in, then set about claiming my free beer stein, Sam Adams Cherry Wheat Ale, and alpine pimp hat.

A few laps of the converted castle/auditorium reveal the place isn’t as much of a beirut haven as I’d hoped. The place is packed with wasted 30somethings wearing souvenir T-shirts from long-ago sporting events and avoiding eye contact. I dally briefly with a young woman who — sweating straight hops, I discovered too late — introduces herself, then invites a group of Sam Adams employees to feel my breasts to confirm they’re symmetrical, the whole time mourning the loss of her last boyfriend who broke up with her on their third anniversary by admitting he was engaged to another woman.

Second pass (after politely disengaging myself on the pretense of a refill) yielded the goods: a table full of young professionals playing flip cup. I walked up to one of the girls and asked: “You wanna be best friends?” “I’ve been here since two,” she beamed: answer enough. I joined their flip cup team as anchor and nailed the first round with an expert chug slash flip.

The next eight rounds were a bit less optimistic. At one point, I was appointed Starter, and shot my empty cup ceiling-ward a good forty times before the other team completed their entire course. Um, guys, can I get a mercy rule? Or at least a making-everyone-thirsty rule? Chatted a bit with a cute night-school lawyer, then waved them away as they decided to hit the clubs.

Flip cups dreams and demoralization in the bag, I went for the trifecta, insinuating myself (gee! to think once I thought it was difficult!) into a group of Canadians, discussing rimjobs and the cost of couches in Alberta, while they tried to pick up a trio of few desperately unamusing chicks in Celtics shirts. But as they stood outside after last call, laughing at non-jokes and discussing bars like it was maybe something that mattered in any real way, I knew my place. “Nice to meet you, but I’m fucking bored,” I cheerfully half-hugged the guy who brought me into the fold.

After all, I’ve got to get home. We wives of lederhosen dudes know our friggin’ priorities.

The Verdict: Beer will almost certainly never be my preferred beverage, although I do enjoy the sense of occasion it provides in circumstances like these. And my coordination will never be table game ready. I guess I’ll have to stick to drinking classic cocktails for sport, sips punctuated only by scintillating conversation with the kind of people who, um, are into neither sports nor Sam Adams.

Complimentary beer steins and sneaking into parties, however? Totally, totally my bag.

Bonus sighting of Totally Admirable Male Archetype: While out for a drunk cigarette, I saw possibly the suavest pick-up I’ve ever been privileged enough to witness. A cute guy came up to a girl and asked for a light. While they were smoker-camaraderie chatting, a middle-aged man stumbled into the wall maybe five feet away from them and vommed his guts out. Wasting not a second, TAMA pulled the girl close to him, ostensibly to shield her from the vomit, then started kissing her. And what could she do but kiss back? While they were making out — and this is key — TAMA discarded his lit and mostly unsmoked cigarette by tossing it behind his back DIRECTLY INTO THE VOMIT!

Guys. Take notes. I think we all have a few lessons to learn about this dashing man and his impeccable patterns of seduction.

I’m not sure if I’m kidding about that or not.

Tagged as: beer, beer stein, beer summit, beirut, canadian, college, drinking, drinking games, drunk, flip cup, lederhosen, oktoberfest, pretending to be married to old dudes, sam adams, strippers