By Jamie Swinnerton
By Mark Antonation
By Lori Midson
By Jonathan Shikes
By Amber Taufen
By Cafe Society
By Juliet Wittman
By Jonathan Shikes
It's bad enough when a few members of the Institute of Drinking Studies get together -- fewer than five representatives is known as a "troubling" -- but when you have the executive council and fifteen potential members, things quickly get out of hand. This is known as a "disaster." By the end of the night, the group will usually share a single intoxicated brain cell, which will get in guy-humor hysterics at the mere mention of Climax, Nebraska, or Intercourse, Pennsylvania.
In short, you really can't take us anywhere. And never was this more apparent than when a disaster of us, including the potential Oriental Representative, went to Kassai Sushi (731 Quebec Street) for Kirin, Sapporo, hot sake and sushi. We set Far East-American relations back to at least 1945. Leading the diplomatic retreat was a guy who was offered a permanent position as the new Liaison for Redneck Relations when, at the end of the night, he referred to the bus staff waiting to clear the devastation of our large table as "ninjas waiting to kick our butts out of here." After we thoroughly explained what "liaison" means, he accepted the position.
Ninjas and all, the staff at Kassai went above and beyond to accommodate some of the most stereotypical, idiotic guys ever seen in North America. They quickly rearranged their relatively small establishment to seat us. No member of our group ever wanted for excellent Japanese beer or superb hot sake, a drink traditionally made with such ingredients as snake venom and designed to make travelers to the islands look like complete fools after two sips. (It was highly effective this night, for sure.) The sushi was some of the best I've had, and a bargain at the happy-hour price of a dollar per piece, good from 4 to 10 p.m. -- pretty much Kassai's entire operating schedule, which makes its customers very happy, indeed. The wasabi was so hot it set the Head of Sleeper Drunks' hair on fire, and he quickly doused the flames with about fifteen large sakes.
By now the future Redneck Liaison was lit, too, and going all out for his position. He discussed how living with roommates poses complex dilemmas, especially regarding what to do when you get home and have to listen to your roomie completing a big night out by vomiting or having wild relations with someone he will never speak to again -- or both. This is apparently a win-win situation for the listener, who can thank God he's not yelling at the toilet or, in the opposite situation, jump-start a little personal time. We also got to observe some ingenious problem-solving by the Head of Instant Drunks, whose blood-alcohol level had already surpassed legal limits just from watching the heads of Drinking Regrets and Sleeper Drunks swill sake. After consuming his own share, he had to figure out how to extract himself from the back corner in time to avoid an unfortunate urologic incident. He debated climbing across the table, but with his uncoordinated nervous system, he would be courting certain injury and inevitable cheap shots from his surrounding "friends," who never could resist beating a guy who's already down. In the end, he may have just gone where he was; it sure would have been a hell of a lot easier.
I hope the proprietors of Kassai do not regret opening their doors to us, because we had a great time. This is one of the best places we've found for a large group of potential degenerates to realize their potential, and the staff tolerated way more than is required by law. The second we left, though, they hurried to lock the doors. Happy hour can only last so many hours