SLAMMABLEDICKCAVES.COM
The Internet
In 2014, The Chicago Reader, my city’s finest alternative newspaper, interviewed me for their “Best Of ” issue and I assumed, naturally, that I would be named Best Stand-up Comic in Chicago. I was not. I was named Best Drunk in the city.
Your wife is never thrilled when a newspaper names you the best drunk in town, but, when you are named the best drunk in Chicago—a city of almost three million people known for getting blind drunk at baseball games and partying so hard on St Patrick’s Day, it dyes the river green—she will be particularly bothered.
How Did They Do That?
Dyeing the Chicago River Green
Chicago has been dyeing its river green for St Patrick’s Day for half a century and you would think a project of that size—changing the physical makeup of a river that moves two billion gallons of water a day situated next to America’s third largest city—would be a careful, well-planned operation. And if you thought that, then, well, you’re not from Chicago.
Chicago’s official slogan should be “I know a guy” because everything in this city gets done by buddies from the neighborhood. And the tradition of dyeing the river is no different: It was a spur-of-the-moment idea from Steve Bailey, the head of the plumbers’ union, president of the Chicago St. Patrick’s Day Parade Commission, and (probably more importantly than either of those titles) neighborhood buddies with Mayor Richard J. Daley.
In 1961 the city of Chicago started to identify and punish polluters of the Chicago River. They employed plumbers to insert green dye at various locations that would help identify which pipes or businesses were illegally dumping into the river. One day, one of the plumbers returned to union headquarters covered in green from the colorant, and Bailey noticed the brilliant emerald hue. Being in charge of the city’s annual St. Pat’s parade, he started to dream up the idea to use the dye on the entire river.
The following is a description, from Bailey’s assistant, of how they ‘planned’ the entire operation that afternoon, after Bailey saw the plumber with the green stain, and is a fascinating insight of how fast-and-loose the city of Chicago was with its water supply:
“When the plumber left and we were alone... he said, “Why couldn’t we dye the whole river for St. Patrick’s Day?”
“I’m serious. Who would know about this?”
Reaching for a straw I answered, Capt. Manley, the port director. He is the only one I know who answers questions about the Chicago River.
In a second he was on the phone to Capt. Manley.
Bill Barry, first deputy port director, happened to be in Manley’s office when the call came in and related the following conversation.
“Say John,” said Bailey, “I’ve been wondering whether we could dye the river green for St. Patrick’s Day. What do you think?”
“It might work,” said Manley, after a moment’s hesitation. “Just a minute.”
Manley turned to Barry and put the question to him.
“Gee, Cap, I don’t know,” said Barry. “If the Fire Department can shoot colored water into the air from its boats, I don’t see why we couldn’t try it.”
Manley went back to the phone and told Bailey he was sure it could be done.
(-from “The Man Who Dyed the River Green: Stephen M. Bailey” by Dan Lydon, then-assistant to Stephen M Bailey.)
That story is amazing. As a narrative, it might be more fascinating and chilling than the creation of the atomic bomb. The fact that, in 1961, you could just call a harbormaster, reach the assistant, and say:
“Yeah, hi, I want to dick around with your river. Change the color for a few days. Throw a parade.”
And not only is the call taken seriously, you get a tentative “yes” in under one minute.
And better than their planning was their execution! Bailey and his plumbing buddies procured a green fluorescent dye from the same company that provides dye for Navy rescue operations. When a sailor or pilot falls into the ocean, they break a dye packet which spreads a bright green patch across several acres, making it easier to spot and recover them. In those situations, only a few ounces of dye are needed to cover a fairly sizable area.
Bailey and his plumbers bought several hundred pounds. The river stayed green for a week.
Better yet was Bailey’s response when some Chicagoans started to worry that the green coloring might never dissipate. He resolutely gave the following statement:
“The Chicago River will dye the Illinois, which will dye the Mississippi, which will dye the Gulf of Mexico, which will send green dye up the Gulf Stream across the North Atlantic into the Irish Sea; a sea of green surrounding the land will appear as a greeting to all Irishmen of the Emerald Isle from the men of Erin in Chicagoland, USA”
Not only does Chicago let a few hard-drinking, Irish plumbers screw around with the river, but, when concerns are raised that they might not have thought this through, and the media ask for a response, their reply is: “Guys, we are fucking legends for doing this!”
By 1964, the third year of the tradition, they learned that only twenty-five pounds of dye were needed to make the river green for about twenty-four hours and no more. For the first decade or so they continued to use a chemical dye but, in the 1970s they moved to an organic dye to minimize environmental impact and, today, they use around forty pounds of an environmentally-friendly organic dye.
Other cities have tried to copy Chicago’s tradition and dye their own respective rivers green for St. Patrick’s Day, but, luckily for Chicago (in terms of bragging rights), the plan is always vetoed by the relevant state’s environmental protection agency. Most recently, Saginaw, Michigan (the Saginaw River) and Fort Lauderdale, Florida (the New River) both attempted to copy the stunt and both were denied since the cities could not prove there would be no environmental impact from it. One of the reasons why they cannot prove this is: The only city in the world that actually does it (Chicago) has never attempted to show it has no effect. We’ve always just assumed our river is already so polluted that no amount of annual discoloration could possibly make it worse.
And our experts agree! Asked to evaluate the risk of dyeing the river, Margaret Frisbie, the executive director of the Friends of the Chicago River advocacy group said:
“The environmental impact of the dye is minimal compared with sources of pollution such as bacteria from sewage-treatment plants.”
Only in Chicago could an environmental engineer seek to allay fears about the possible damage to the city’s main river from a festive makeover by reminding the populace that it’s already full of shit.
A night or so after I was named “Best Drunk” my wife and I left a bar at last call and grabbed a cab. To me, a cab ride home after last call is the closest most Americans will be get to a safari trip, where you stare from the safety of your vehicle at creatures and skirmishes not normally found in civilization: Men headbutting each other at full speed like rhinos competing for pasture; women in high heels walking drunk, like a newborn giraffe finding its legs.
“God,” Jessica said after taking it all in. “I can’t believe I’m married to the worst drunk in this city.”
“Best drunk,” I corrected her.
“Ugh, is there a difference? Also, by the way, have you Googled yourself since you won this major award?”
I had not Googled myself. Upon arriving home that night, I did just that and discovered that when you Googled “Sean Flannery” the search engine would suggest, helpfully: “Did you mean, ‘Sean Flannery DRUNK’?”.
The fact that Google, the modern world’s broker of knowledge—today’s library of Alexandria—felt the need to clarify the inquiry in this manner is unfortunate testament to the brilliance of the search engine; the fact they would recommend rephrasing that question the same way you would at a party:
“Do you know where Sean Flannery is?”
“You mean Sean Flannery, the drunk one, right?”
“Shit,” I said, upon seeing these results. I had just started a job search for the first time in years and this was probably not going to help my chances.
“Well,” I mused aloud. “Maybe the people interviewing me won’t Google me?”
“For a technology job?” Jessica asked sarcastically.
“God, I hate Google,” I said, and turned off the computer and went to bed.
WHAT THE HELL AM I READING HERE?
Hi. My name is Sean Bair-Flannery. I live in Oak Park, Illinois, with my wife Jessica and our three kids. I perform standup comedy at night and during the day I fix computers.
This is chapter from my book, “Places I Can’t Return To”.
Each week, I release a new chapter (the current one completes below). If you enjoy the stories, you can buy the full book below or, next week, you can come back and read the subsequent chapter.
Purchase Full Book:
Digital
$4.99
Paperback
$14.99
Audio
$19.99This book is true stories, but it is not a memoir. It is a more an illustration — maybe a warning — of what your life will look like if you decide to live everyday like it’s your last. I actually followed that advice. I followed it for a good fifteen years.
I can’t re-enter most the places I visited in that time.
—S. B-F
A few years before Google identified me only as “Sean Flannery the drunk,” my buddy Mike texted me that he was at one of my favorite bars, Wrigleyville North, and was looking to start a bender because his wife had left him. This is a matter you encounter often in Chicago, not so much friends getting divorced, but people proposing a bender, like it’s a nature walk or architecture tour:
“Are you doing anything tomorrow? No? Come join me for seven Rob Roys before lunch!”
I joined Mike and we drank. He was initially bemoaning the fact that his marriage fell apart, but soon, he began to complain that, because he and his now ex-wife had been together since high school, he had no idea how to talk to women anymore.
“I’ve been out of the game too long. I wouldn’t even know how to sound cool,” he explained. “The dialogue has changed, right?”
“Um, I don’t think so,” I countered. “Not too much.”
“Come on! It’s different! What do you young guys call chicks?” he asked (Mike is five years younger than me).
“I think it’s all pretty much the same terms from when we were growin’ up, man,” I replied. “Chicks. Girls. Ladies?”
“No!” he insisted. “What’s the new term? There’s gotta be one! You’re hiding it from me!“
I assured him I was not hiding any “terms” but he grabbed me by the lapels—he was so drunk he was finding it impossible to believe his friend might be being honest—and then he suddenly said something so loud, so unexpected, and vulgar, it was like a meteorite fell from space, crashed through the roof of the bar, and knocked me to the floor:
“Let me guess,” he spat, “‘Slammable Dick Caves!’”
“What?!”
“You young guys! You call women Slammable Dick Caves, right?!”
He seemed to be suggesting it seriously; that he thought the phrase “slammable dick caves”—which, beyond its contentious and generally objectionable tone, is an awkward, bulky mouthful—had replaced the common terms of “chick” or “lady” during his seven years of marriage.
I fell over laughing. The phrase seemed so crazy, so unexpected, and so silly, I thought that, maybe, it could actually catch on? I was so drunk I began to think that “slammable dick caves” could conceivably become part of the American lingo, so I took out my phone and credit card and, while thinking, thank God I’m not as drunk as this guy, I registered the domain name “SlammableDickCaves.com” on the internet.
Not only did I register it, I expressed amazement that it was still available.
“You’re not gonna believe this!” I told Mike after clicking about on my phone for a second or two. “It’s what, 2007? And Slammable Dick Caves DOT COM is still available!” I emphasized the “dot com” loudly, to show we were getting the internet’s best real estate; none of that .info or .org stuff for us!
“Are you serious?” Mike questioned in wonderment.
“I know!” I responded. “You’d think some entrepreneur would have gobbled it up by now, right? We’re gonna make some serious dough off this!”
I have no recollection of what happened that night after registering SlammableDickCaves.com. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t even recall buying SlammableDickCaves.com the next morning; I left for a trip to New York with Jessica, thinking nothing of it.
Three years later, almost to the day, I was in Ohio marrying Jessica. Jessica and I said our vows, had the best night of our lives, then spend a week in San Francisco and the Napa Valley for our honeymoon.
We returned to Chicago and entered our apartment on that great high that all newlyweds have when passing through their home’s doorway for the first time as a married couple. After reminiscing a bit on the wedding and laughing, I went and made some coffee while Jessica picked up all the mail we had missed that was lying on the floor.
I heard the sound of letters being opened in the other room, then Jessica’s voice, tinged with confusion: “Sean, what is this?”
More folding and opening sounds, then:
“$300 for SlammableDickCaves.com?!”
It was a bill for registering and retaining the domain name SlammableDickCaves.com. And, once she said it, all the attached memories flooded back; the entire blackout unrolled in my mind and I recalled buying the domain with Mike as though it happened just minutes before. It was like when you choose to restore a file from the recycle bin.
I recalled that not only had I purchased SlammableDickCaves.com, but had also drunkenly clicked “YES” to auto-renew the purchase in three years’ time. Evidently, I had felt there was no way my business with SlammableDickCaves.com could be completed in fewer than 36 months. Of all the gods in the pantheon, I know that Cupid has the best sense of humor because what was I doing on that day exactly three years into the future, when SlammableDickCaves.com renewed itself on my credit card?
Marrying the love of my life.
“$300 for a website?” she exclaimed. “A website called, what? What? SLAMMABLE DICK CAVES DOT COM!?”
(Quick side note: Although she probably wasn’t ready to admit it at the time, I could tell by the way Jessica over-pronounced the “dot com” that she was actually impressed that I had secured the most prestigious and official version of the domain name.)
“What the hell are you into?” she spluttered.
I entered the room and answered with confidence, “Ok, first of all, I’m not ‘into it’. I own it.”
“What??”
“You are not talking to some customer of SlammableDickCaves.com. I am the owner and operator.”
I went on to explain the situation—Mike saying this farcical phrase and me drunkenly registering the domain—and Jessica laughed, but she did mention that we were low on money and should avoid such empty-headed purchases in the future. I agreed completely and went online and changed my account to ensure that SlammableDickCaves.com would not, once again, renew itself in three years.
“Well, you got three years to make it work now,” I murmured while making the change.
“Who are you talking to?” Jessica asked.
I paused.
“SlammableDickCaves.com, I guess.”
And, with that SlammableDickCaves.com receded into a dark storage room in the back of my brain and, again, I more or less forgot all about it.
A few years later myself and Jessica were expecting our first baby so I had to return to work. My trade at the time was software development with a specialty in identity and security applications.
I was contacted by a bank and interviewed with them. It went well; I mostly answered technical questions. A second interview was scheduled and I was told that due to their security regulations a background check would need to be performed, which I had no problem with. I entered the second interview, expecting it to go just as smoothly as the first, but was soon struck by how many non-technical people were in the room, almost as if a trial were about to start. An older woman with a folder full of papers introduced herself as one the team leads, and said that, the background check having been completed, they now had a lot of questions.
“Mr. Flannery, on the application and résumé that you submitted to us…have you listed all your professions?” she asked. “That is to say, have you given a complete account of all the ways you make money?”
“I think so, yes,” I replied.
“Really…everything?”
“I don’t know if I listed anything past ten years ago. My high school jobs didn’t seem relevant, but, within the last ten years, yes. Well, I do perform stand-up comedy at night, but it’s not a lot of money and I did mention that in the interview.”
There was a pause while she collected herself.
“All right, let me just come out and ask it: Mr. Flannery, are you a pornographer?”
“What?!” I responded, shocked. “No! Of course not!”
My mind began to race. What could have prompted them to ask such a ludicrous question?
All of a sudden it hit me, and I asked:
“Wait, is this about SlammableDickCaves.com?”
When I hear friends talking about job interviews, they are usually uncertain of how it went, whether the employer considered them the right fit or not. I, on the other hand, marvel at the notion of leaving an interview with this kind of doubt. My interviews are like watching a long-jump skier landing: everyone in the building knows instantly if it went well or was a horrifying disaster.
“Do you expect a callback from them, Sean?”
“Well, they are a bank that asked me if I am a pornographer so…No, Eddie. I don’t think I will ever hear from them again.”
A year or so after that, I got a call from a telemarketer.
There’s something called “internet squatting” which is a swindle where people look for domains that have been registered for multiple years and wait for them to expire; they then immediately buy them with the intent of selling them back to the original owner at a huge premium. Many domains expire accidentally; perhaps the owner wished to keep it longer but didn’t realize the lease was ending or maybe they changed their contact or billing info and the domain couldn’t be processed automatically. In those cases, the original owners, who created the domain, now have to spend a huge amount of money to get their site back from these internet squatters.
“Mr. SEEEN Flannery?” the telemarketer/squatter asked.
One of the nice things about having a Gaelic spelling of your name is that telemarketers immediately identify themselves:
“Hello. Is SEEN Flannery there?”
“This is Seen, yes.”
“OK, may I call you Seen?”
“I prefer to go by Seen, yes.”
“Well, you have allowed your internet domain to lapse and, Seen, I’m afraid it’s been purchased by another firm. But, for a small fee, I can buy it back and return it to your ownership, Seen.”
I have owned a few domains over the years and I had no idea which domain he was referring to and, honestly, I thought it might be one that I actually I cared about retaining.
“Thanks. I own, or have owned, a few domains. Can you tell me which domain it is? To see if I still want it.”
“Of course, Seen. Because, Seen, I don’t want you to lose the great business opportunity you had going at...oh... hmm...”
At this point it became obvious to me this call must be about SlammableDickCaves.com and this guy hadn’t looked at the domain in question until this exact moment.
“What business opportunity am I missing?”
“Well, it’s…I’m sorry. Just...someone here is talking about…It’s your cave domain, Seen. It expired.”
“My cave domain? Could you give me the full name, so there is no confusion.”
There was a pause.
“Slammable…Dick…Caves…Dot. Com”
“Slammable Dick Caves Dot Com?” I confirmed.
“Yes, Mr. Seen! Mr. Seen! I bring terrible news: SlammableDickCaves.com is in the hands of your competitors!”
Technology Corner!
According to a survey released in 2018, 40 percent of Americans admit to purchasing goods online while drunk, and the total annual sales for those drunk purchases is estimated to exceed thirty billion dollars. To put that number in perspective, McDonald’s had about twenty-eight billion in sales the same year, meaning our drunk shopping is so unrestrained it exceeds the world-wide sales figures for what is often considered to be the most well-marketed company in business history.
Well before the internet, scientists knew that we spend more money when hammered-not that we need a doctor from Oslo to tell us that, yeah, we don’t seem to make our most judicious financial decisions on Friday night. We spend more when drunk to a combination of social and mental changes.
Socially, we like the happiness rush of buying things for ourselves or others. We also use displays of money to impress people—to establish social dominance—and, as you get more drunk, your need to make people happy or impress them increases, resulting in you spending more money.
Mentally, our brain slows down as we become drunk to the point where we cannot correctly tabulate how much money we are spending. This is why you often start your night with a promise like, “just one, maybe two drinks! I’m broke,” then, three hours later, you have put your credit card down at the bar and are ordering drinks for people like you are a Walmart heir. We do not realize that we can not afford this.
But, thirty years ago, the worst damage a drunk could do to their fiscal wellbeing was an exorbitant amount of drinks and food. Then the internet happened and now drunks are buying a grill or an above-ground-pool or a sword. Previously, the kind of places that sold things like that they were closed by 9 p.m. and would not do business with you until the morning. Imagine how rich you would need to be to purchase a battle ax at 2 a.m. twenty years ago. You would need to be sufficiently powerful to wake up a small business owner, assuring them they do NOT want to miss a sale from you, and they travel to the store to unlock and light it, just for your single purchase. But, with the Internet, countless businesses say, “Yes! We would love the opportunity to sell you a battle ax at 2 a.m.! We are imminently ready to take your money!”
A price comparison website, Confused. com, published a report on drunk shopping in England (in 2014) that said one in five consumers admit they shop online when buzzed with the average drunk purchase coming to £142. The report detailed recent examples, which are amazing:
“One person bought ten lobster pots while drunk, while others snapped up...diving equipment, a folding ladder and a washing machine.” Going by that list it reads like Brits come home drunk and starving and start believing that, maybe, they could fetch a late snack from the ocean if they had the right equipment:
“Let’s see, it’s half past two in the morning, so the fish-and-chips shop is closed. But, now, the sea itself is only a three block walk, if I only had me a lobster pot and a ladder! Id be eating like royalty!”