Editor’s note: Paul Muth is an Army vet who tends to talk a lot, so when his friends tell him to stop, he either writes or talks to a microphone and calls it a podcast. He writes better with a beard and looks better with a beer. Or something like that. Follow him on twitter at @abumnamedpaul
BY PAUL MUTH
So it was about 4 p.m. Sunday when I realized I should probably start figuring out where and with whom I’d be watching game one of the Rockets vs Thunder later that evening (I’m still distracted by baseball’s return, leave me alone). I started shooting texts out to interested parties and soon I had two confirmations. The problem, however, was that I was already out at La Grange (the Montrose bar, not the town) with a lady enjoying a good old fashioned Sunday Funday.
“Not a problem,” I thought to myself. “I have four hours to figure this out. Plus, this girl doesn’t even like sports.”
I knew I had at least two more hours before I really needed to get the ball rolling on…well…leaving her, so I had another drink and continued hanging out. What I failed to consider was that my current company was matching me drink for drink and was not–as of this writing–a six-foot, 230 pound Army (drinking) veteran. That’s on me. My bad.
So two hours later, she’s drunk. Like, PDA at the bar drunk. She’s gone from her own to sitting on my lap; from slightly grinning at my attempts at humor to “OMG you’re so funny!”
Now was I interested? Yes. But when she’s getting sloppy drunk, I want nothing to with that. Plus, Rockets playoffs are now two hours out. It’s time to get moving.
I manage to convince her it’s probably time to get going, and offer to drive her back to her vehicle.
“Oh, I’m way too drunk to drive,” she responds, as provocatively as she could manage.
So I figure, “Awesome. I’ll just drop her off at her house and I’ll be on my way to go bro out with my bros in Bros-ville (Midtown) just in time for the game.” And if it had, in fact been that simple, I wouldn’t be writing about it.
So we’re in my car and I take a turn off Westheimer towards the direction of her house. I only know that because she mentioned she lived near a certain bar, and I figured if I could get at least that far, we could figure the rest out as we went.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m taking you home,” I explained. “You said you were drunk, and you said you can’t drive, so I figured I’d take you home.”
“No way! We’re not going home! I still want to party!”
“I would,” I said. “But you’re already drunk, and I have plans to meet my friends for the Rockets game.”
“Take me!” She responded. “I love the Rockets”
“No you don’t, I’ve never heard you ever mention them. Or any sport for that matter. Plus it’s just going to be a bunch of guys yelling at a TV, it won’t be any fun.”
Every excuse I gave was rebuffed, and I was approaching the bar she mentioned. After that, I had no idea where to go.
“Look, can you just tell me where you live?” I asked.
“Can I go watch the game with you?”
I pulled up beside the bar near her house, parked, and weighed my options. I could kick her out, but then I’d be the guy who stranded a drunk girl at a bar. I could take her with me–no. I’m stuck.
It took 30 minutes for her to finally relent, and as she gave me directions I was repeatedly reminded how “lame,” and “boring” I was for taking her home. I was shamed for getting a drunk person home safe. The irony was not lost on me.
I dropped her off, went home, changed, and met up with my buddies–beer in hand–exactly as they tipped it off. The Rockets went on to crush the Thunder, and I had a happy ending.
She still hasn’t spoken to me.
Anyway, let’s get to it:
Hell of a week, boys. Game one was a 31-point blowout win, only to be followed up with a come from behind game 2 victory. Nothing makes me smile more than bloated Russell Westbrook stats that account for NOTHING. The series moves to OKC for the weekend and I expect them to take one at home. But let’s be real: there is no one else on that team besides Westbrook. Just let him tire himself out like Wednesday night. If we can survive that onslaught, they don’t have a chance. Bring on the Spurs/Grizz.
Last Saturday’s game was one of the weirdest I’ve ever seen. A no-hitter going into the seventh with the score of 5-2, only to be topped by a furious 8 run rally that led to a 10-6 Astros victory. The Astros are first in the division (by beating almost exclusively division opponents), Dallas Keuchel is 3-0, George Springer is a league leader in Home runs, Orbit trolled the hell out of Mike Trout, and you can get Shake Shack in the outfield for less than $7. What a time to be alive.
My phone exploded when news that Andre Johnson was going to sign a one day contract with the Texans in order to retire with them. You guys had to know that was happening,right? Either way, I’m glad that it did. He’s a Texans legend in my opinion, and I expect to see his number in the rafters of [Energy Conglomerate Named] Stadium sooner than later. He was awesome on the field, and awesome off of it. I don’t see him being a first ballot Hall of famer, but I see a pretty good argument being made for an eventual enshrinement.
As far as the draft goes–
Ha. Yeah, right. Maybe next week I’ll throw out a name so I can play the “I told you so” game.
After a confusing draw last weekend against a much weaker opponent, the Dynamo sit in fourth place in the Western conference. Only three points separate them from the conference-leading Portland, however, and they needed a rally to beat Houston just a few weeks ago. This weekend will be an important early season matchup as they take on San Jose, who are one spot below the Dynamo with a point disparity of one.
Bro Move of The Week:
This one stays local and goes out to Jordan Economy, the executive chef over at Prohibition Supperclub & Bar downtown. After serving my two buddies and I 36 chimichurri oysters on the house, we ended up buying 36 more because they were so damn good. The fact that they were 50-cents at happy hour didn’t hurt either. Regardless. Awesome hookup, awesome food. Go check them out. They’re at 1008 Prairie Street, downtown.