It’s 9:30PM on a Friday night in Anchorage, Alaska. I’m queasy and crashed out on a cigarette-burnt bed at the downtown Howard Johnson. The Friend I Brought Along Because He Can Hold His Liquor Better Than I Can (henceforth known as TFIBABHCHHLBTIC, or TFIB for short) is doing likewise in the other bed next to mine.
The all-you-can-drink beer festival that we bailed on an hour earlier hasn’t even wrapped up yet, we’re just three days into what is supposed to be a six-day Alaskan beer-drinking odyssey, and we are both, inarguably, down for the count.
Where did we go wrong?