Drunk In Vancouver is a chronicle of the city and its many subcultures, explored by way of everyone’s favourite social lubricant: BOOZE.

The rules are simple:

1) Pick a drink
2) Pick an appropriate venue
3) Keep an open mind

The Dependent presents:

JAGERBOMBS AT THE ROXY

If you’ve never had one you’re either under 12 or over 40. Take 1 can Red Bull, empty into pint glass. Pour one shot Jagermeister, drop into glass. Hear clink. See foam. Tilt. Enjoy.

The mighty Jagerbomb.

If they’re your drink for the night and you play by the Drunk in Vancouver rules, the mixture of sugary stimulant and syrupy depressant is liable to put you in the hospital.

Which is precisely what it did.

***

Granville Street was buzzing. I was decked out in the finest of urban cowboy and Jimmy was a mess of hair gel and Axe Body Spray and fake Gucci shades. In preparation, he had been watching My New Haircut on repeat for the previous two days.

At Robson, we passed two gorillas in Ed Hardy kicking the shit out of a guy on the ground. The complainant scrambled to his feet, bruised and bloody, and darted into an alley. His attackers paced the strip like caged animals, full of drink and adrenaline and testosterone.

“Think that’s how we’ll end up?” I asked Jimmy.

“Sure hope so,” he said as we stepped into Taf’s for a warm-up.

“Three jagerbombs,” he demanded of the hostess.

“Sorry. We don’t have Red Bull,” she said, surprised. “Do you still want a table?”

“Jager?” Jimmy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yup…”

“Good- two of those, and two empty glasses,” and he jogged out the door.

“Back in a second!” he called over his shoulder.

I was left to ponder the amateur art on the walls until Jimmy returned with two Red Bulls, which he promptly poured.

“Well,” he said raising his Jager shot, “to the first official Drunk in Vancouver. May it be fun and prosperous and enjoyed responsibly,” he said with a wink, and we clinked and dropped and downed the syrupy concoctions.

“”Two more!” he immediately called out, waving his finger in a wide circle above his head and, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“I’ma get my pimp on tonight,” he told me, producing a peanut from his jacket pocket.

“What the fuck is that for?”

“You’ll see,” was all he’d say.

The lineup for the Roxy was a parade of sky-high heels, winter-tanned thighs, thick chains and hair gel.

“This is gonna be fucking awesome,” Jimmy grinned, his breath hot and sour in my ear.

He swaggered up to the bouncer.

“We’re here to see Tonya,” he said, importantly.

The meaty fellow inspected his clipboard, crossed us off, and lifted the nylon rope.

“Wait a minute,” said his counterpart, placing a thick hand on Jimmy’s chest, “let’s see that shirt.”

It was tattooed with an elaborate heart and sparrow design. Jimmy lowered his progressively-tinted Gucci knock-offs.

“Problem?” he asked, coldly.

“No Ed Hardy,” the bouncer informed him.

I squeezed myself between them. “We’re here to see Tonya.”

***

Inside, the place was packed: cute, twenty-somethings in tank tops and heels. Wide, white smiles. UB-40 and inoffensive party rock-and-roll. A distinct absence of fistfights. It was a playground for the youngish single crowd, looking for a night on the town or perhaps a stranger’s bed. Jimmy seemed right at home, minus the Ed Hardy.

Tonya led us to the bartender at the back.

“This is Jules. He’s our personality,” she informed us. Jules had dyed blond hair and was wearing an ’05 away ‘Nucks Jersey. Tonya whispered in his ear and he began flipping glasses over his back, Cocktail-style, until the bartop was covered. He balanced shots on the rims between.

A crowd began to form and people fished camera phones from their pockets.

“Right now?” I asked Tonya, completely unprepared. On the phone I had told her we were professionals.

“Right now,” she confirmed.

I gestured desperately to Jimmy who leaped onto the bar and pulled out his camera.

I cupped my hands and yelled into the air, “FREE DRINKS!” to which I received no response. Tonya looked on and finally threw a wedge of lemon and ordained the unholy marriage of Jagermeister and Red Bull.

Cute, red-cheeked girls with big eyelashes, and young men with drunken smiles and ill intentions pushed their eager hands through the crowd, now understanding my offer.

Jimmy’s flash popped as the drinks were hoisted (I myself consuming three in short order) and a moment later he was beside me, Jagerbomb in hand.

“Got some good ones, I think,” and he drained the glass and slammed it on the bar, “now to get laid.”

“You girls wanna see a magic trick?” he asked of the two ladies beside us.

“Sure!”

“All right,” he said, producing a peanut from his pocket, “I take this ordinary peanut … rub off that weird brown skin … and then shove it up my nose!”

Which he promptly did.

The girls gasped.

“I’ve learned that I have a rather interesting digestive talent,” he continued, “and if I place food in my nose it actually comes out,” he paused dramatically, “my BELLYBUTTON!”

And he lifted his shirt and sucked in his stomach and sure enough, a peanut dropped out.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“How’d you do that!?” one of the girls exclaimed.

“I already told you, my dearies: MAGIC! Now who wants to dance?!” and he wandered off into the crowd, one on each arm, only to lose them both to a pack of jumping, screaming, hugging girlfriends.

He turned back to me and shrugged, then shot me a grin as he pulled another peanut from his pocket.

***

“Motherfucker,” someone muttered in the stall behind me as I buried my face in a handful of cold water. My heart was thumping in my chest and pounding at my temples. Drinking Jagerbombs all night was proving very difficult…

In the mirror I saw the stall door open and to my surprise Jimmy emerged, a trickle of blood beneath his left nostril. By now it was 1am, and the last time I had seen him was over an hour ago, performing his infamous trick for yet another group of enthusiastic females.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, your nose is bleeding. Did somebody knock ya?”

“Goddamnit… Is it really bleeding?” He craned his neck to look in the mirror and let out a defeated sigh. “I was trying to get the peanuts out.”

“Peanuts?”

“The first one I could deal with, but the second is driving me nuts.”

I wracked my brain seeking punishment for the obvious pun, but my head hurt too much.

“You’re a moron,” was all I could muster, closing my eyes and rubbing my temples, “you really can’t get them out?”

He closed his mouth and blew hard out his nose.

“Nope,” he said bleakly, “and I just tried with my keys.”

The blood glistened on his upper lip.

***

“Both nostrils, eh?” said the doctor, slipping on gloves.

Jimmy nodded.

“Does alcohol have anything to do with this little predicament?” he asked, clearly amused.

Jimmy nodded again as the doc produced a curved instrument with a balloon on the end.

“I’ll need you to sit still,” he said. He squeezed the device’s base, and the balloon expanded and contracted.

Jimmy let out a nasal sigh: “Damn Jagerbombs,” he said.

“Damn Jagerbombs,” I agreed, my head swimming in sugar and caffeine.

“Damn Jagerbombs indeed,” said the good doctor.

Then, he put a gentle hand on Jimmy’s head, and tilted it backwards.

Have a suggestion of where we could get

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