Source.

March 17th started with Bailey's pancakes washed down with Guiness. From there the drinks only got nastier and nastier. More on that later.


Tiger-Tiger Woods golf (more on that later) was played, of course, and around three we headed to Fashion Valley to take the trolley into downtown.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: San Diego public transportation sucks. More on that later.


If you didn't know, every Patty's day they fence off a few blocks of downtown for a big ol' music and beverage festival. It was quite populous even at five o'clock. Upon entering, everyone beelined for an underground club called Sin - lines are for suckers.

I'm not sure who thought it would be a good idea to combine the ubiquitous Red Bull with Jameson, but let the record show that whiskey blasters are foul.


The next few hours were spent milling, drinking, eating corned beef, and even meeting up with Zac. Our party thinned and we joined Jon and Ray at Fred's. I don't know if the bartender loved or hated Ty, but our margaritas were heavy on the tequila.


As the little hand approached '2' we discovered that Jon had not, in fact, driven from State. There was much confusion over whether or not the trolley stopped service at nine or two, so we booked to the nearest station. We caught the last trolley to Old Town, but it looked like the end of the line for our heroes. No trolley, no taxis, no cars. Kevin, in his best robot-of-questionable-sexuality voice remarked, 'We're doomed.'


Jon and I embarked on the 2.7 mile journey to Fashion Valley by horseless tennis shoe. Our cronies waited patiently for rescue, which came in the form of a 2:15 trolley to Fashion. By that time Jon and I were near the convention center, and finished our merry jaunt.

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