So just the other day, something incredulous happened. I graduated from college. We were all surprised. I certainly was. But anyways, the finality of the entire experience was really kicking my psyche around for a while before I shook the funk off. Now, free, as a bird, I reflect. I look back on the last play I worked on, assistant directing Last Easter, and drawing lines between it and my first theatrical experience at USM, realize I should probably record this tale. My first Awakening moments as a undergraduate theatre major:
My first cast party.
Through happenstance circumstances the first few weeks of living in my lovely residence hall, I was stopped by a pretty girl asking me if I was auditioning for the second play of the year. My 18 year old Self was not me today, and easily dodged this opportunity with nervous fear and shyness. She persisted, but even then, the feminine wiles of pretty girls could not break me from my angsty fortress. What it took was an older, more masculine and authoritative and physically larger theatre major to pass by at the same time. She asked the same question to him, and he said ofcourse. She told him to bring me playfully and he was like "What? You're not? Are you a freshmen?" I said yes, and that was all he needed "Come on, Travis. We're going." And with that I found myself surrounded by eccentric loud artistic dramatic students in a too-well-lit dance room. The audition. Wesley Cianchette, I can never thank you enough for your peer pressure.
The play was a Greek classic. Lysistrata, by Aristophanes. It was a student director, hereby referred to as Allie. I did not read very well, and was outclassed by all the actors and actresses who had prepared so very well for this audition. This was one of the first few times I saw Dr. Malkav and the Reverend at work, as well as a young NFC. I felt defeated by the end of it, auditions will never be a strong point for me, but I recalled something Allie had said about wanting musicians as well and felt inclined to offer up my skills. So I approached her after it was over outside and told her I could play guitar and very limited hand drums and she seemed enthused and told me she'd be in touch.
It wasn't long before the cast list went up. A nice girl codenamed Junebug I had befriended a bit in a class almost knocked me over she was so excited. "We're cast together!! Aren't you excited??!!" she exclaimed. I replied with a very confused eyebrow furrow, unable to believe the truth of the situation. I was cast. In a mainstage show my freshmen year. On the mainstage. Freshmen. Baffled.
So no guitar playing for me, I was Male Slave. A bit role with two lines but some stage time and comedic moments. I won't go into the run of the show too much, that can be it's own thing someday in the future. Let's just stick with: I had to dance, pull the Female Slave offstage intimately, and the whole time wear a phallus made of coiled rope that hung eight inches down. All the other male characters had phalli of other materials that stood up straight and tall, the largest honored to NFC at a whopping 18 inches complete with light-up blue balls. (read a synopsis of Lysistrata here for a decent explanation why we were phallused.)
It was a fun show, to say the least. A wonderful footstep into USM's theater department.
Anyways, the party.
One of the cast members, a nontraditional student who lived off-campus (clutch), hosted the party. The directions were written on the chalkboard in the dressing room and everbody, cast, crew, and basically everyone in the department, was buzzing about the party. I was still a youngun' and shy was wasn't sure exactly what my plan of action was until the guitarist Allie ended up hiring came up to me, some music major, I'm calling him Thom for now, and asked me if I needed a lift.
"Sure, I need a ride."
"Do you need beer?"
"Are you 21?"
"Yes."
"Sure, I need beer."
A short car ride, some forced awkward smalltalk, a sixer of Guinness and a sixer of Magic Hat later, and we had arrived at the location of the party. But the party had beaten us over there. There were rooms filled with people, alcohol sitting out on nearly every counter surface, hors d'oeuvres, snacks and treats piled in penis shaped party bowls, a backroom for cannabis partakers, a huge cooler outside on the porch sprouting beer bottles of ice like flowers, and out back, a bonfire.
I first found NFC, my closest freshmen friend, and we remarked at how many people had showed and how cool it was to be at our first cast party and so on. Our boss in the Scene Shop, hereby referred to as Meat Loaf, walked up to us, drinking a beer. This was the first shocker. A faculty member. A beer. Off campus. Totally legal and legitimate. Wow. I'd heard he supplied the bonfire and asked what it was that was burning and he just said "The Laramie set" and burst out with a cackling laughter we couldn't help but joining. The Laramie Project was the first play of the season, about the murder of Matthew Shepard, a homosexual boy in Laramie, Wyoming. He had been abducted, beaten, humiliated and left for dead tied to a fence by two schoolmates of his. This fence was part of the set of the play, I'd helped build it in the shop, and was now burning brilliantly in the fire. I know. Yikes.
Allie's mother was the guest of honor, and by Allie's side the entire night. It's at this point I should mention Allie was approximately 22, a gorgeous brunette who made it very clear how sexual the play was and as a director kept a playful friendly relationship with the cast while also being in charge and maintaining order. So. We, the dudes of the cast, conspire to publicly embarrass her, and do our best to accrue as many folks as possible around the bonfire for a "toast." A good man who needs no codename named Anthony Texiera calls for all our attention, raises his drink and speaks beautiful praise to Allie and her directing and making this great time for us all, and then he declared in her honor the men of the party raise their glasses, and their asses. So we all drop trou'. And there's like a twenty dude Full Mooning of Allie. Mission successful, Allie's mother later remarked "why couldn't we see their fronts?"
So I've got some drinks in me now. No more quiet-hide-behing-emo-hair Travis, I'm moving and meeting and greeting and yucking it up. The Reverend, who I should mention played the crossdressed lead role of Lysistrata, finds me and asks me if I'd like some whiskey. Why ofcourse! He pours me some and I top it off with some Barq's Root Beer, which he dismays at. I ask him why he likes it raw, to which he replies "Because I like to know it's poison." Solid answer.
NFC and I surreptitiously slip into the back room where we here oh so much laughter and giggling. Boom. A haze everywhere, squinty eyes and sidesplitting chortling. Right off the bat, I'm standing next to a To Be Unnamed faculty member, who passes me the joint. I'm a young buck at this party, but with the 'juana, I'm no novice, so I toke, toke and pass it right along, feeling welcome and mature and accepted by all. I later brag about this exchange of contraband between off-duty professor and student for years onward.
In the kitchen, Rev has commandeered the music selection and throws on the Violent Femmes, to which we rock extensively to the delight of the more sober freshmen who think drunk men dancing like fools is entertaining for the first time. I sniff out some Grey Goose vodka, and recalling a classic strip from my favorite webcomic Achewood, I mix some with orange juice. The vanilla...it tastes just like an orange creamsicle icecream pop from the Shaner's truck. Delectable. So I'm getting a bit topsy turvy now.
Then another cast member, let's call him Cuervo for reasons to be explained in this same sentence, breaks out some tequila and announced body shots are to be done here and now in the kitchen. This is apparently his "Thing." He asks for volunteers...and no one says anything. The larger part of the kitchen crowd are freshmen much like myself and are frightened at this new concept and idea. I, having my Blood Courage Content level pushing right past 0.8, step up to the plate. And I declare I've never done a shot of tequila before. Cuervo's eyes light up like jack'o'lanterns. He scans the audience for the subject material of this little educational lesson...and finds her.
It's Allie. My director. And she boldly steps up to help show me how this is done. The kitchen is suddenly crowded to the maximum capacity of people ready to see this freshmen do a body shot off Allie. Allie's mother promptly steps out for a cigarette. I'm embarrassed, Allie's embarrassed, but we're both ready. Cuervo explains the premise here and the motions to go through. First, I lick her neck, then apply salt. She puts a slice of lime in her mouth. My goal here becomes clear: I must lick the salt, take the shot, and suck on the lime. Staggering.
So a little countdown is initiated by Cuervo, probably to pump me up for this deal. I lick, I shoot down the José, and go for the lime. And she puts up a fight, much to the delight of the audience. She eventually gives, and I've got the lime, so I remove it from my mouth, my eyes watering from the golden fire coursing down into my core, and before I can even make a sour face from the limejuice running down my chin, Allie grabs my jaw and starts making out with me.
The crowd goes wild. Welcome to college, Travis H. Curran. You're Superman.
A few more body shots are taken off some other ladies, one of the volunteers being Allie's ex-boyfriend. I'm totally oblivious to this until much later when he guest-teaches a stage combat lesson in my acting class and asks to demonstrate on me. Dicey business, but no real harm or foul done. I take two more body shots off some chicks but with no follow through like Allie's. No big deal.
I step out for some fresh holy shit I'm trashed air, and realize quickly, holy shit I'm trashed. Tequila, whiskey, and vodka sitting in jacuzzi of dark beer in my tummy. Helloooo. Did you bring your party pants?
I stumble out into the woods and lean over for a long time asking a snowbank a very serious question about my activities this evening. The snowbank tells me to man up and get back to the party. I agree with the snowbank. My stomach deals.
I'm welcomed into the kitchen by a great meeting of the minds, Malkav, Rev, and some other older faces. Despite he only being a half a year my elder in the department, the Reverend takes me by my shoulders as a prodigal son and declares his sermon before the meeting of the minds.
"Travis, you entering a great world, following in the footsteps of myself and Dr. Malkavian. You will find that comedy is more human than drama."
he then went on about my comic mask and having a face for it or something or other, I was simply nonplussed by the comparison between the great minds, and later to become my greatest friends and peers as time went on. His words stuck with me though, and it still weighs heavily whenever I write or create artistically.
The party went on. I got higher. Thom puked, and a lovely responsible sober lady drove in a designated fashion a couple of shuttles of folks back to campus, myself included. She wouldn't even let me in her car till I'd drank two glasses of water. And the next day, there was no hangover to be found. Whiskey, tequila, and vodka all played nice and got along within me and helped turn this frail meager boy into a tougher, rougher, more mature man.
The first college party. In the bag, under the belt, to be remembered with delight and cheer forever. And now, with college as a whole also done and done... probably one of the better times I'll look back on.
Good day.
Showing posts with label parties. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parties. Show all posts
5.14.2008
4.28.2008
Dustin, and the "Legend of 60."
So. Being me, and having recently aged and grown over the years, I've developed as a man. Matured, even. I've taken on Responsibilities. It's very important to always take responsibility for your actions. At a certain time in your life, you reach a point where the government lets you take responsibility. That point is after twenty one years of stomping around on this planet, you are granted your God-given unalienable right to party.
Beer.
Legally purchased beer. Nothing finer. And how do I procure such delight? A quick walk down the street to the local 7-11 establishment. One of the nicest walks of my life, both there and back. And sometimes, at night, if the 5-0 aren't lurking in the parking lot across the street like nocturnal predators they are, I can even enjoy a beer on this walk home. But there's more to my ritual beer acquirement than just the walk. There's the 7-11 experience. One man makes that experience.
"What's goin' on, dude? How the hell are ya?"
Right as you're in the door. I say 'you' and not 'I'm' because he will say this to every single person who enters that establishment that evening, in the most laid back friendly way possible.
His name is Dustin. When I first met him, after realizing I interact with this fellow on a quasi-nightly basis, I should get to know him a little better, at least his name, he introduced himself as "Dustin, the Seven Eleven Guy." He is the only clerk I've ever met who appears at all times to be enjoying his job, and acts happy to see a customer. Happy to the point of greeting them, holding mild chit chat littered with catch phrases of his, and wishing them a good night.
"Good news from the bank, things went through." or "They got good things to say." After you swipe your card.
"32 cents, just for you," whenever he hands you your change back.
I've met dozens of Portlanders who've interacted with this guy. Wicked tall Irish guy, has the Northern Maine dialect down pat. Fuckin' right, brutha. He's a living legend. A local celebrity. The man. And this story involves him centrally.
The Polite Young Gentlemen of 56 Payson Street decided to throw a party (as is our god-given unalienable right). We couldn't settle on a theme, so we decided to just go as general as possible and have a Hat party. This slowly developed into Mad Hatter party, as I own a fancy top hat. Then later we just referred to it as A Lovely Tea Party. Anyways. Our first big bash in our apartment. What do I do? What's expected of me: I invite everyone on Facebook I know, and a good number on Facebook I don't. No big deal.
We get the extreme mix of folks, most of which connected by some odd degrees of separation through me. But there were the strangers who were friends of friends of friends, and I was totally down with that. The heavy numbers didn't start filtering in and out until later on into the evening. At the onset of the party, I'm just a couple sheets to the wind, we come to a Problem:
We are out of beer.
The noble and gracious host I am, I take this Responsibility onto my shoulders, give my hat to a pretty girl to wear in my stead, and begin to take orders down. Turns out, a lot of people wanted beer. Go figure. But I've got a solution. My old compadre Conman left his backpack in my house when he moved to California, and told me to keep it. It's the heavy-duty black and yellow Yadeng pack he haggled for while in China. A little history to it. While using it that semester, I'd discovered I could fit my textbooks, my laptop and a 30 rack of PBR in it at the same time, with room for more. I didn't want anybody driving to the 7-11 so I was perfectly content to get all bike courier on this shit.
Naturally, people see me writing down a fairly extensive list, and strapping this backpack on, and they all instantly morphed into Doubting Thomas's. Telling me not to go. Telling me I was a damn fool. Telling me it ain't gonna happen. And let me tell you I did not hold with this at all, and it only fueled my ambition to deliver as promised and shut their doubting mouths up. Such negativity would have no place at my party.
So out I went, people shouting their warnings and "Be Careful's" out behind me. I paid them no heed. And raced off on my bike to Sevies. I know who would be there to greet me.
"What's going on, dude? How the hell are ya?"
"I'm fine, Dustin. I'm just fine." And I headed back to the coolers.
By the time I'd piled up all the beer I needed on the counter bars in front of the Taquito's a line had formed so I let them all go on through as I continued to shuttle the beer from cooler to counter, Dustin giving me a sideways glance every once in a while, a question forming in his mind but not able to ask since he was throwing down his friendly repartee with the customers. When I was finished, there was a 12-pack of PBR, an 18-rack of PBR, 4 six-packs of PBR Tall Boys, and a sixer of Shipyard Pumpkinhead ale ready to be checked out. Dustin just looks at me.
"Hey Dustin, think I can fit all this beer into my backpack?" I inquire.
"No." He replies simply.
"I'm going back home to a party full of Disbelievers, but I'm proving'em wrong."
He rings it all up and we do the hard math, there are sixty beers here. I withdraw the largest bankroll cash wad of small dirty bills I've ever held before from my pocket and pay the man. Then I quickly ferry it all into a nearby aisle to make room for the line of customers behind me and began to load the wagon for the long journey home. Another clerk, the younger black guy I don't know so well came in and was flabbergasted. The line of customers also had some things to say, but I was focused on the task at hand.
The two main pockets reached full capacity quickly, and I had two more sixers of tall boys to go. I thought briefly about asking for a bag, but opted instead to man up and MacGyver this. There were cords used for tightening up the pack, and I weaved these in and out of the plastic loops of one of the six-packs. It held shakey but hung low. I was drunk enough to not worry and let things ride their course here. Then I tucked two tallboys each into the pockets of my vest (I was a bit dressed up for the party) and then shoved the remainders one in each jean pocket. Snug fit. But a fit.
The Yadeng must have weighed well over 60 pounds. I have no idea how much it actually clocked in at. I wish I did. But I don't. Let's just say it was wicked fuckin' heavy, guy. But it got up and on me. Sixty beers. On my person. Ready to rock.
Dustin wouldn't let me leave though. He rang out everybody in the line and wished them all a good night, then went and got his cellphone for a picture. We discussed how if I had consolidated the beers, I could probably get two 30-racks in there with room for more, breaking the sixty barrier in the pack alone. He snapped a shot, and I went on my way.
The ride home was a bit dicey. That's all I'll say.
When I rolled up to my home, there was a crowd on the porch. The party's headcount had practically doubled. I locked up my bike and staggered up the porch, greeted by disbelief and shouting. Climbing the stairs was a bit tough. But victory helped support my top-weight. Once I was through the door, I was welcomed by shouting and praise. The crowd was delighted by the delivery of beer, and instantly forgot their nay-saying, washed away by alcohol and cheer. And I?
Triumph.
Responsibility.
The Right to Party.
We all full circle, here?
Dustin now refers to me simply as "60," and we're like best friends. He invited me over for a poker game at his place, but I had to decline due to the sad state of affairs my bank account is in, I don't have the cash to lose. That's a Travipedia for another time. The next time I was there afterwards, he quickly asked me if I had Youtube, and if I'd mind if he put that shit up on there. Wait. He took a video. Damn. I gave him my full name, and he said he'd hook it up.
Well then...
Prepare for Travipedia to Get a Little "Web 2.0" on your asses.
Here's my friend with my tophat:
And here's a quick bit of the party:
And for the grand finale, the video Dustin took. "The Legend of 60." It's short and sweet, he forgets six of the beers when he lists them off but hey, who's counting. I ain't complaining, hell, we got some video on Travipedia. Check it.
Beer.
Legally purchased beer. Nothing finer. And how do I procure such delight? A quick walk down the street to the local 7-11 establishment. One of the nicest walks of my life, both there and back. And sometimes, at night, if the 5-0 aren't lurking in the parking lot across the street like nocturnal predators they are, I can even enjoy a beer on this walk home. But there's more to my ritual beer acquirement than just the walk. There's the 7-11 experience. One man makes that experience.
"What's goin' on, dude? How the hell are ya?"
Right as you're in the door. I say 'you' and not 'I'm' because he will say this to every single person who enters that establishment that evening, in the most laid back friendly way possible.
His name is Dustin. When I first met him, after realizing I interact with this fellow on a quasi-nightly basis, I should get to know him a little better, at least his name, he introduced himself as "Dustin, the Seven Eleven Guy." He is the only clerk I've ever met who appears at all times to be enjoying his job, and acts happy to see a customer. Happy to the point of greeting them, holding mild chit chat littered with catch phrases of his, and wishing them a good night.
"Good news from the bank, things went through." or "They got good things to say." After you swipe your card.
"32 cents, just for you," whenever he hands you your change back.
I've met dozens of Portlanders who've interacted with this guy. Wicked tall Irish guy, has the Northern Maine dialect down pat. Fuckin' right, brutha. He's a living legend. A local celebrity. The man. And this story involves him centrally.
The Polite Young Gentlemen of 56 Payson Street decided to throw a party (as is our god-given unalienable right). We couldn't settle on a theme, so we decided to just go as general as possible and have a Hat party. This slowly developed into Mad Hatter party, as I own a fancy top hat. Then later we just referred to it as A Lovely Tea Party. Anyways. Our first big bash in our apartment. What do I do? What's expected of me: I invite everyone on Facebook I know, and a good number on Facebook I don't. No big deal.
We get the extreme mix of folks, most of which connected by some odd degrees of separation through me. But there were the strangers who were friends of friends of friends, and I was totally down with that. The heavy numbers didn't start filtering in and out until later on into the evening. At the onset of the party, I'm just a couple sheets to the wind, we come to a Problem:
We are out of beer.
The noble and gracious host I am, I take this Responsibility onto my shoulders, give my hat to a pretty girl to wear in my stead, and begin to take orders down. Turns out, a lot of people wanted beer. Go figure. But I've got a solution. My old compadre Conman left his backpack in my house when he moved to California, and told me to keep it. It's the heavy-duty black and yellow Yadeng pack he haggled for while in China. A little history to it. While using it that semester, I'd discovered I could fit my textbooks, my laptop and a 30 rack of PBR in it at the same time, with room for more. I didn't want anybody driving to the 7-11 so I was perfectly content to get all bike courier on this shit.
Naturally, people see me writing down a fairly extensive list, and strapping this backpack on, and they all instantly morphed into Doubting Thomas's. Telling me not to go. Telling me I was a damn fool. Telling me it ain't gonna happen. And let me tell you I did not hold with this at all, and it only fueled my ambition to deliver as promised and shut their doubting mouths up. Such negativity would have no place at my party.
So out I went, people shouting their warnings and "Be Careful's" out behind me. I paid them no heed. And raced off on my bike to Sevies. I know who would be there to greet me.
"What's going on, dude? How the hell are ya?"
"I'm fine, Dustin. I'm just fine." And I headed back to the coolers.
By the time I'd piled up all the beer I needed on the counter bars in front of the Taquito's a line had formed so I let them all go on through as I continued to shuttle the beer from cooler to counter, Dustin giving me a sideways glance every once in a while, a question forming in his mind but not able to ask since he was throwing down his friendly repartee with the customers. When I was finished, there was a 12-pack of PBR, an 18-rack of PBR, 4 six-packs of PBR Tall Boys, and a sixer of Shipyard Pumpkinhead ale ready to be checked out. Dustin just looks at me.
"Hey Dustin, think I can fit all this beer into my backpack?" I inquire.
"No." He replies simply.
"I'm going back home to a party full of Disbelievers, but I'm proving'em wrong."
He rings it all up and we do the hard math, there are sixty beers here. I withdraw the largest bankroll cash wad of small dirty bills I've ever held before from my pocket and pay the man. Then I quickly ferry it all into a nearby aisle to make room for the line of customers behind me and began to load the wagon for the long journey home. Another clerk, the younger black guy I don't know so well came in and was flabbergasted. The line of customers also had some things to say, but I was focused on the task at hand.
The two main pockets reached full capacity quickly, and I had two more sixers of tall boys to go. I thought briefly about asking for a bag, but opted instead to man up and MacGyver this. There were cords used for tightening up the pack, and I weaved these in and out of the plastic loops of one of the six-packs. It held shakey but hung low. I was drunk enough to not worry and let things ride their course here. Then I tucked two tallboys each into the pockets of my vest (I was a bit dressed up for the party) and then shoved the remainders one in each jean pocket. Snug fit. But a fit.
The Yadeng must have weighed well over 60 pounds. I have no idea how much it actually clocked in at. I wish I did. But I don't. Let's just say it was wicked fuckin' heavy, guy. But it got up and on me. Sixty beers. On my person. Ready to rock.
Dustin wouldn't let me leave though. He rang out everybody in the line and wished them all a good night, then went and got his cellphone for a picture. We discussed how if I had consolidated the beers, I could probably get two 30-racks in there with room for more, breaking the sixty barrier in the pack alone. He snapped a shot, and I went on my way.
The ride home was a bit dicey. That's all I'll say.
When I rolled up to my home, there was a crowd on the porch. The party's headcount had practically doubled. I locked up my bike and staggered up the porch, greeted by disbelief and shouting. Climbing the stairs was a bit tough. But victory helped support my top-weight. Once I was through the door, I was welcomed by shouting and praise. The crowd was delighted by the delivery of beer, and instantly forgot their nay-saying, washed away by alcohol and cheer. And I?
Triumph.
Responsibility.
The Right to Party.
We all full circle, here?
Dustin now refers to me simply as "60," and we're like best friends. He invited me over for a poker game at his place, but I had to decline due to the sad state of affairs my bank account is in, I don't have the cash to lose. That's a Travipedia for another time. The next time I was there afterwards, he quickly asked me if I had Youtube, and if I'd mind if he put that shit up on there. Wait. He took a video. Damn. I gave him my full name, and he said he'd hook it up.
Well then...
Prepare for Travipedia to Get a Little "Web 2.0" on your asses.
Here's my friend with my tophat:
And here's a quick bit of the party:
And for the grand finale, the video Dustin took. "The Legend of 60." It's short and sweet, he forgets six of the beers when he lists them off but hey, who's counting. I ain't complaining, hell, we got some video on Travipedia. Check it.
1.30.2008
The Festival. Day One.
Day One: Prelude.
There’s a large organization for colleges around America that have Theatre programs. They divide our fine nation into Regions and once a year the schools of these regions meet. It is called a large acronym, but we, the participants, know it only as “the Festival.” These schools stay in a large Four Points Sheraton hotel and attend workshops, compete in acting for scholarships, learn new technical skills, and see many plays by day. By night, we revel with a Bacchanal nature that would make our patron deity Dionysus weep with pleasure.
Our classes are dismissed for the week. This is the vacation no other academic major gets. And I am here now.
The bathrobe I just bought from the largest Salvation Army you’ve ever seen just down the road. The Raybans came from the iParty adjacent our hotel. The Johnnie Walker Red Label from the New Hampshire State Liquor Store. It’s 1:30 pm Eastern Standard Time and I’m getting my drink on before a play I’m about to see in an hour. It’s called Columbinus, and from the description involves student perspectives on the Columbine massacre and the two crazy sons of bitches that carried it out. These could be the best actors in the world, and this play will still be horrible. I’m not going to call it “too soon” just yet, but with such heavy content it is already doomed to being over-criticized, over-dramatized, and over-done. No one is walking out of that theatre a better person. This is just my surface thoughts though, once the scotch has kicked in and I possibly further inebriate myself, I’ll get back to you on how Columbinus affected me.
This is my third year in a row coming to the Festival. Each year marked with high adventure, extreme debauchery, intimacy, and memorable times. The Festival is a mile-point in my college career, and once I’m out of this institution, my fondest memories will be of the Four Points Sheraton in Leominster, Massachusetts. You pronounce it LEMON-STER, but since we are Maine folk proper we disregard any sense of their Masshole vernacular and have resorted to calling it Leo-Men-Stah. This is deeply rooted from the Missouri Compromise.
This year is different though. They did not house our students in the Four Points. No. We are across the street. In the Super 8 Motel. So far one room has had it’s toilet overflow nonstop. The room across the hall had large insects in the beds. We called them bed-bugs, but who the hell really knows what a bed-bug is. These both happened on the second floor. I am on the fourth. I feel safe so far, but the sketch of this shady motel may soon reach our door.
Last night I cracked open the Johnnie Walker and had a few tumblers of Scotch with ice. This unfortunately wasn’t working as quick as I’d like. A fine blended Scotch Whiskey is not a party drink. It’s a "lounge in your new bathroom that makes you look like a prizefighter and discuss the finer points of plot development in playwriting with the Reverend" drink. Rayban sunglasses optional, but recommended. I had a few glasses but mixed it up with some cheap beer until the night started taking off. Hanging around this new place with my best friends, remembering the crazy times at the Festival years before.
At the right point of the night, in celebration of our first night down, I broke out some Wild Turkey Bourbon (another special thanks to the NH State Liquor Store) and with a select few took a couple swigs. If you’ve never had 101 proof Wild Turkey before, just a few swigs is all you need and I was all set for the duration of the night. People came and went from my room and I came and went to others’ rooms. Everything started getting very smooth and cool, getting to know some of the freshmen younger folks better who I had not fully aquainted myself with, a man hereby referred to as Scarborough particularly. We talked of ProTools, Audacity and other sound engineering programs we were familiar with. He has a real affinity for the stuff and hopefully has a bright future in either sound design or audio engineering.
Ended up in M&M’s room. Reminded him of how he once took advantage of how easily persuaded I am when intoxicated and made me make out with this chick who was not someone anyone wants to be seen making out with in order to sway the vote in our Student Organization in our favor. It didn’t sway the vote, he just wanted to laugh at me, but it was all in good fun and I made him feel a bit guilty. The nostalgia was hilarious. The Reverend arrived and joined us, but we soon after realized the time and severity of our drunk, so we arrived on the decision for Bedtime. Whitesnake and Bones were already passed out, and we followed suit.
And now, I head to Columbinus.
There’s a large organization for colleges around America that have Theatre programs. They divide our fine nation into Regions and once a year the schools of these regions meet. It is called a large acronym, but we, the participants, know it only as “the Festival.” These schools stay in a large Four Points Sheraton hotel and attend workshops, compete in acting for scholarships, learn new technical skills, and see many plays by day. By night, we revel with a Bacchanal nature that would make our patron deity Dionysus weep with pleasure.
Our classes are dismissed for the week. This is the vacation no other academic major gets. And I am here now.
The bathrobe I just bought from the largest Salvation Army you’ve ever seen just down the road. The Raybans came from the iParty adjacent our hotel. The Johnnie Walker Red Label from the New Hampshire State Liquor Store. It’s 1:30 pm Eastern Standard Time and I’m getting my drink on before a play I’m about to see in an hour. It’s called Columbinus, and from the description involves student perspectives on the Columbine massacre and the two crazy sons of bitches that carried it out. These could be the best actors in the world, and this play will still be horrible. I’m not going to call it “too soon” just yet, but with such heavy content it is already doomed to being over-criticized, over-dramatized, and over-done. No one is walking out of that theatre a better person. This is just my surface thoughts though, once the scotch has kicked in and I possibly further inebriate myself, I’ll get back to you on how Columbinus affected me.
This is my third year in a row coming to the Festival. Each year marked with high adventure, extreme debauchery, intimacy, and memorable times. The Festival is a mile-point in my college career, and once I’m out of this institution, my fondest memories will be of the Four Points Sheraton in Leominster, Massachusetts. You pronounce it LEMON-STER, but since we are Maine folk proper we disregard any sense of their Masshole vernacular and have resorted to calling it Leo-Men-Stah. This is deeply rooted from the Missouri Compromise.
This year is different though. They did not house our students in the Four Points. No. We are across the street. In the Super 8 Motel. So far one room has had it’s toilet overflow nonstop. The room across the hall had large insects in the beds. We called them bed-bugs, but who the hell really knows what a bed-bug is. These both happened on the second floor. I am on the fourth. I feel safe so far, but the sketch of this shady motel may soon reach our door.
Last night I cracked open the Johnnie Walker and had a few tumblers of Scotch with ice. This unfortunately wasn’t working as quick as I’d like. A fine blended Scotch Whiskey is not a party drink. It’s a "lounge in your new bathroom that makes you look like a prizefighter and discuss the finer points of plot development in playwriting with the Reverend" drink. Rayban sunglasses optional, but recommended. I had a few glasses but mixed it up with some cheap beer until the night started taking off. Hanging around this new place with my best friends, remembering the crazy times at the Festival years before.
At the right point of the night, in celebration of our first night down, I broke out some Wild Turkey Bourbon (another special thanks to the NH State Liquor Store) and with a select few took a couple swigs. If you’ve never had 101 proof Wild Turkey before, just a few swigs is all you need and I was all set for the duration of the night. People came and went from my room and I came and went to others’ rooms. Everything started getting very smooth and cool, getting to know some of the freshmen younger folks better who I had not fully aquainted myself with, a man hereby referred to as Scarborough particularly. We talked of ProTools, Audacity and other sound engineering programs we were familiar with. He has a real affinity for the stuff and hopefully has a bright future in either sound design or audio engineering.
Ended up in M&M’s room. Reminded him of how he once took advantage of how easily persuaded I am when intoxicated and made me make out with this chick who was not someone anyone wants to be seen making out with in order to sway the vote in our Student Organization in our favor. It didn’t sway the vote, he just wanted to laugh at me, but it was all in good fun and I made him feel a bit guilty. The nostalgia was hilarious. The Reverend arrived and joined us, but we soon after realized the time and severity of our drunk, so we arrived on the decision for Bedtime. Whitesnake and Bones were already passed out, and we followed suit.
And now, I head to Columbinus.
11.12.2007
Midget Strippers, Two Dollar Bills and Topless Donuts.
I will preface this anecdote. I work at a reputable pizza place, called Portland Pie Company, that makes delicious expensive specialty pizza pies and sandwiches. I have never had a sandwich there, but the pizza is exquisite. This is because I put love into the pizza when I make it, and no, that is not a euphemism for my body's products. PPC has several different locations in the Greater Portland Area, but is experiencing some major expansion that is causing some new changes in my workplace. We are moving to a new location on India St. which will seat close to 80, and handle much more deliveries efficiently. In light of this move, they have shut down their South Portland location, but not it's business. The SoPo guys have come to us, the Fore St. location in the Old Port, and we are now taking all South Portland's orders. My job has doubled in difficulty, but don't worry, we're all handling it fine.
This is a Saturday night. This was the busiest night I've ever worked.
The 1st cook in had told me, the night prior, about a happening in town. That the local "Gentleman's Club," Platinum Plus would be hosting a special touring show of... you guessed it (from the title, you cheaters):
Midget Strippers.
No political correction. No "Little People" or "Dwarfism" mentioned at all. Plain and simple. Midget Strippers. Tiny Tina and Little Pixie. I was baffled. And, of course, concocting plans to go. I do not have some sort of tiny fetish, or even a strong desire to see dwarfs naked in the first place. My reasons were the same as the majority of people who went: the novelty. To be able to say "Yes. I saw this. This. Just. Happened." The pure principle of the experience.
This is the same reason I do a whole lot of things.
So I'm all geared up slammed with work, throwing dough, topping pies, cheesing, the entire time blabbering on to any co-worker foolish enough to come near about the midget strippers, trying to recruit an entourage to accompany me. There were few takers, but they all found my enthusiasm amusing. I even went so far as to send a mass text message to every self-respecting eccentric male I knew with a taste for the odder things in life, but alas, only sparked humor and jest. One response was an invitation to a Post-Halloween Costume/Keg Party a street over from mine, with people there I wanted to see. So I threw my outrageous midget stripper expedition to the wind.
At this Costume Keg Dance Beerpong Halloween Soirée, I enjoyed some Premium Australian Lager and sugarcookies of pumpkins and witches. And the large beautiful silver metal container of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I could have gotten on my knees and bowed, face down, in complete piety. And after enough of that I danced and chatted with Whitesnake, B-Bones, NFC, and AA (for "Amelia Airheart"). As I walked AA back to her home, she brought up the midget strippers! She expressed a great interest in seeing them as well, and I mentioned that I perhaps had heard they would be there another night. Plans were made.
The following night AA flew in and picked me up right from work. I had actually gotten off work a bit early so sat down at the counter and chummed with the South Portland guys for a bit and had some tallboys for confidence, for I should add, I have never been to a strip club before. And might I also say, what a strip club it was.
First of all, it was packed. Everyone wanted to come see the midget strippers. There were as many women present as men. The line for entering was long, and the bouncer wore a very nice red suit, and did a little number where without me really trying to walk past him, he put two fingers on my chest and said, "I.D."
He was quite bigger and stronger than me, but I felt like he had to let me know it. I got the picture, so he got my picture. Longhaired unshaven 16-year-old Travis, the living face of awkward. Hello, it said, pleased to meet you, I'm really quite nervous about everything. The polar opposite in the persona spectrum handed me my dignity back. He carded AA too, like a tool doing his macho tool job.
Right through the door we discovered a table covered in beer, with beer on the floor under it, and two ladies in some exotic form of underwear charging a lot of money for it. A clever ploy, strip club, but I'm not so weak. I spotted the bar across the way, giant mirror, hanging glasses, towering spires of liquor bottles with those funny little pourer spout caps. Instinct told me to head there and buy myself and the lady a drink...but...something stopped me, and broke my concentration.
There were naked women dancing onstage.
It was incredible. Just like in a movie but now here, right in front of me. Merely feet away. It was all so new and fascinating. They would climb soooooooo high on the poles, I feared they would hit their heads off the lighting instruments. Then they'd slid slash drop straight down and roll back out over the stage and have their crotch in some dudes face. I was wrong before, they were not completely naked. They had the tiniest little g-string things and the highest of platform heels. Some were hott, some were nott. I was not going to complain. They rotated between the mainstage and two other smaller stages. One entire wall was a mirror, so I thought there were six stages and three sets of twins for a little bit there, and way more people.
We snaked our way through the old men and the floor girls to the bar, and managed to get a spot at it. It took the just-a-bit-less-pretty-than-the-strippers bartenders to not be busy and help me out with a rum and coke and amaretto sour for AA. I did not appreciate the price of these beverages and neither did my debit card, but we came to an agreement that it was validated by the occasion. It was tasty, too. We enjoyed our time there, remarking on class the establishment had practically sticking to the walls. I turned to find one of my best friend's older brothers with a guy he knew that I met once, so I went up to him. He was pleased to see me and pleased to be in a strip club, asked if I had any good smoke on me, accepted my apology and went about his night. I could have had longer conversation with him, but I had to risk the bathroom, but it was not at all harrowing. Everyone in there was drunk and having a wonderful evening. The sanitation surprised me too.
I was frightened for AA outside, so I was hasty, but I think I just worry about stuff like that too much. Near the alcove leading into the bathroom hallway was an excellent view of the stages, standing, looking over the seated masses of mostly couples. Some girlfriends in laps would stand up and shower the strippers with money, gaining special attention and sometimes physical interactions, like being half pulled on stage and basically romped about on. A man standing beside me remarked
This part [of the room] is best 'cause it's free!"
And he had a very good point.
We were near another section of the place that when I inspected was revealed to be the lapdance area. Just long comfortable benches with chicks writhing around on dudes. The strippers were in and out of there a lot with satisfied typically ugly men. One decrepit old fella walked up to me and immediately began talking to me with a throat filled with gravel and rusty nails.
And he let out this cantankerous laugh that sounded honestly painful but he had the happiest goddamn face on. We then turned and watched some women about to get married get sat down onstage. I knew she was getting married because of the little veil thing she was wearing. The MC of sorts, this short stockish blonde guy with a nice suit and large microphone stepped up, chattering away into the mic. The sound system was so awful. Imagine a huge thumping bass all the time, then this jamoke appears and starts introducing the girls and you can't hear a single word he's saying since the treble is so loud and splashy it rattles my fillings. Anyways, the bachelorette got mad humped and grinded upon by a swarm of strippers, more than I knew this place had in employ. Then they were done, all walked down the stairs aimed directly at AA and I and sifted past us. I panicked and did everything I could to not laugh or ogle or do any sort of attention promoting activity.
The appeal of the strip club was fading. It was so bright, new and shiny at first, but now we had been there for an hour and it was losing it's varnish. We needed what we came for. So I turned to my left and found, surprise! a stripper standing there. And she was the real cute kind that makes you want to ask "Oh, darlin'...why? What are you doing here?" but of course it's completely inappropriate to ask that sort of a question. But I did ask when the show would be going on. She had no idea what I was talking about until I was brought to the point of vocalizing the word midgets. Then she went to ask the DJ. She came back very quickly and said ten minutes. Righteous. She even led us up to front row seats on the mainstage.
It started in no time. Two scantily clad women of very short stature got onstage and began prancing about in their high heels. All I heard about them was from a driver at Portland Pie, saying they were really miniature versions of really hot chicks. But that was not the story at all.
It was a blend of incredibility and unsettling. They were not turning me on. The audience loved them and hooted and hollered as they danced about removing clothing. But they were not proportional. I was baffled. I was amazed. I was drunk enough to give them money (and come on, I was front row, you have to tip). Real nervous, I looked to AA for support and validation. She gave me a two-dollar bill and I had a one dollar bill. I stood up next to some other dude with cash.
My only real mistake here was putting the two-dollar bill in my mouth.
Those things are circulated in that place so much. Some probably never leave the building. God knows what has gone down before Thomas Jefferson's eyes, and all over his face.
The one named Little Pixie came over, and shoved the dude standing next to me's face in her breasts, a common technique for removing the money. Then she came up to me. I was grinning like a idiot, but definitely drunk enough to go through with this. She took my hat off my head and rubbed it over her naughty parts. All the while holding eye contact with me. That part sticks with me. Then came the cleavage-cash-retrieval. I do not believe I actually made contact with what my buddies and I later referred to in a recounting of this story as "midgetits" ...
but maybe that's just what I want everyone to believe.
Once they were done, so was everybody else and a grand exodus occurred. We made it back to AA's car, our curiosity satiated. One of the more unique first dates I have ever been on.
One for the grandkids.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Quicksidenote on $2 Dollar Bills.
When my parents still did the weekend child exchange, we would meet for a brief period at the Friendly's across the street from Platinum and get ice cream. My mom, brother and I arrived an hour early on accident once, and since the offramp from 95 is right freakin' there, we watched my father in his Lincoln Mark VIII which my mother sarcastically referred to as the "pimp-mobile" leave the tollbooth, drive directly past Friendly's and park at Platinum Plus. My brother and I were old enough to be ecstatic with this, but my mother showed only bitterness as my father got out of his car and waltzed under the awning labelled "Topless Donut Bar."
He re-emerged twenty minutes later, got back in his car, and drove across the street.
"How're the donuts?!"
My mother spat like a throwing a dagger. He kind of chuckled it off and we were too amused by the situation for either of them to actually argue about it. When the choice words were chosen and said, we said goodbye to Mom and left, New Hampshire bound. Dad gave us each a $2 Dollar Bill which I kept in my wallet for quite some time after. He told us the donuts were delicious.
We did not meet at Friendly's ever again.
This is a Saturday night. This was the busiest night I've ever worked.
The 1st cook in had told me, the night prior, about a happening in town. That the local "Gentleman's Club," Platinum Plus would be hosting a special touring show of... you guessed it (from the title, you cheaters):
Midget Strippers.
No political correction. No "Little People" or "Dwarfism" mentioned at all. Plain and simple. Midget Strippers. Tiny Tina and Little Pixie. I was baffled. And, of course, concocting plans to go. I do not have some sort of tiny fetish, or even a strong desire to see dwarfs naked in the first place. My reasons were the same as the majority of people who went: the novelty. To be able to say "Yes. I saw this. This. Just. Happened." The pure principle of the experience.
This is the same reason I do a whole lot of things.
So I'm all geared up slammed with work, throwing dough, topping pies, cheesing, the entire time blabbering on to any co-worker foolish enough to come near about the midget strippers, trying to recruit an entourage to accompany me. There were few takers, but they all found my enthusiasm amusing. I even went so far as to send a mass text message to every self-respecting eccentric male I knew with a taste for the odder things in life, but alas, only sparked humor and jest. One response was an invitation to a Post-Halloween Costume/Keg Party a street over from mine, with people there I wanted to see. So I threw my outrageous midget stripper expedition to the wind.
At this Costume Keg Dance Beerpong Halloween Soirée, I enjoyed some Premium Australian Lager and sugarcookies of pumpkins and witches. And the large beautiful silver metal container of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I could have gotten on my knees and bowed, face down, in complete piety. And after enough of that I danced and chatted with Whitesnake, B-Bones, NFC, and AA (for "Amelia Airheart"). As I walked AA back to her home, she brought up the midget strippers! She expressed a great interest in seeing them as well, and I mentioned that I perhaps had heard they would be there another night. Plans were made.
The following night AA flew in and picked me up right from work. I had actually gotten off work a bit early so sat down at the counter and chummed with the South Portland guys for a bit and had some tallboys for confidence, for I should add, I have never been to a strip club before. And might I also say, what a strip club it was.
First of all, it was packed. Everyone wanted to come see the midget strippers. There were as many women present as men. The line for entering was long, and the bouncer wore a very nice red suit, and did a little number where without me really trying to walk past him, he put two fingers on my chest and said, "I.D."
He was quite bigger and stronger than me, but I felt like he had to let me know it. I got the picture, so he got my picture. Longhaired unshaven 16-year-old Travis, the living face of awkward. Hello, it said, pleased to meet you, I'm really quite nervous about everything. The polar opposite in the persona spectrum handed me my dignity back. He carded AA too, like a tool doing his macho tool job.
Right through the door we discovered a table covered in beer, with beer on the floor under it, and two ladies in some exotic form of underwear charging a lot of money for it. A clever ploy, strip club, but I'm not so weak. I spotted the bar across the way, giant mirror, hanging glasses, towering spires of liquor bottles with those funny little pourer spout caps. Instinct told me to head there and buy myself and the lady a drink...but...something stopped me, and broke my concentration.
There were naked women dancing onstage.
It was incredible. Just like in a movie but now here, right in front of me. Merely feet away. It was all so new and fascinating. They would climb soooooooo high on the poles, I feared they would hit their heads off the lighting instruments. Then they'd slid slash drop straight down and roll back out over the stage and have their crotch in some dudes face. I was wrong before, they were not completely naked. They had the tiniest little g-string things and the highest of platform heels. Some were hott, some were nott. I was not going to complain. They rotated between the mainstage and two other smaller stages. One entire wall was a mirror, so I thought there were six stages and three sets of twins for a little bit there, and way more people.
We snaked our way through the old men and the floor girls to the bar, and managed to get a spot at it. It took the just-a-bit-less-pretty-than-the-strippers bartenders to not be busy and help me out with a rum and coke and amaretto sour for AA. I did not appreciate the price of these beverages and neither did my debit card, but we came to an agreement that it was validated by the occasion. It was tasty, too. We enjoyed our time there, remarking on class the establishment had practically sticking to the walls. I turned to find one of my best friend's older brothers with a guy he knew that I met once, so I went up to him. He was pleased to see me and pleased to be in a strip club, asked if I had any good smoke on me, accepted my apology and went about his night. I could have had longer conversation with him, but I had to risk the bathroom, but it was not at all harrowing. Everyone in there was drunk and having a wonderful evening. The sanitation surprised me too.
I was frightened for AA outside, so I was hasty, but I think I just worry about stuff like that too much. Near the alcove leading into the bathroom hallway was an excellent view of the stages, standing, looking over the seated masses of mostly couples. Some girlfriends in laps would stand up and shower the strippers with money, gaining special attention and sometimes physical interactions, like being half pulled on stage and basically romped about on. A man standing beside me remarked
This part [of the room] is best 'cause it's free!"
And he had a very good point.
We were near another section of the place that when I inspected was revealed to be the lapdance area. Just long comfortable benches with chicks writhing around on dudes. The strippers were in and out of there a lot with satisfied typically ugly men. One decrepit old fella walked up to me and immediately began talking to me with a throat filled with gravel and rusty nails.
WASTED OLD DUDE: There's...There's only four things you need in this world...
(he puts his hand on my shoulder)
TRAVIS: Oh, hey. Um, what's that?
WASTED OLD DUDE: Food, Fuckin', Fire and... Eating cunt.
TRAVIS: Really? Just those four?
WASTED OLD DUDE: Food, cuz you need to fuckin' eat. Fuckin'...cuz thats what we're here for. Fire, so you can keep warm while yer eatin' and fuckin'. And eating cunt... I just said that 'cuz I can't fuck no more.
TRAVIS: Well. That's...great.
And he let out this cantankerous laugh that sounded honestly painful but he had the happiest goddamn face on. We then turned and watched some women about to get married get sat down onstage. I knew she was getting married because of the little veil thing she was wearing. The MC of sorts, this short stockish blonde guy with a nice suit and large microphone stepped up, chattering away into the mic. The sound system was so awful. Imagine a huge thumping bass all the time, then this jamoke appears and starts introducing the girls and you can't hear a single word he's saying since the treble is so loud and splashy it rattles my fillings. Anyways, the bachelorette got mad humped and grinded upon by a swarm of strippers, more than I knew this place had in employ. Then they were done, all walked down the stairs aimed directly at AA and I and sifted past us. I panicked and did everything I could to not laugh or ogle or do any sort of attention promoting activity.
The appeal of the strip club was fading. It was so bright, new and shiny at first, but now we had been there for an hour and it was losing it's varnish. We needed what we came for. So I turned to my left and found, surprise! a stripper standing there. And she was the real cute kind that makes you want to ask "Oh, darlin'...why? What are you doing here?" but of course it's completely inappropriate to ask that sort of a question. But I did ask when the show would be going on. She had no idea what I was talking about until I was brought to the point of vocalizing the word midgets. Then she went to ask the DJ. She came back very quickly and said ten minutes. Righteous. She even led us up to front row seats on the mainstage.
It started in no time. Two scantily clad women of very short stature got onstage and began prancing about in their high heels. All I heard about them was from a driver at Portland Pie, saying they were really miniature versions of really hot chicks. But that was not the story at all.
It was a blend of incredibility and unsettling. They were not turning me on. The audience loved them and hooted and hollered as they danced about removing clothing. But they were not proportional. I was baffled. I was amazed. I was drunk enough to give them money (and come on, I was front row, you have to tip). Real nervous, I looked to AA for support and validation. She gave me a two-dollar bill and I had a one dollar bill. I stood up next to some other dude with cash.
My only real mistake here was putting the two-dollar bill in my mouth.
Those things are circulated in that place so much. Some probably never leave the building. God knows what has gone down before Thomas Jefferson's eyes, and all over his face.
The one named Little Pixie came over, and shoved the dude standing next to me's face in her breasts, a common technique for removing the money. Then she came up to me. I was grinning like a idiot, but definitely drunk enough to go through with this. She took my hat off my head and rubbed it over her naughty parts. All the while holding eye contact with me. That part sticks with me. Then came the cleavage-cash-retrieval. I do not believe I actually made contact with what my buddies and I later referred to in a recounting of this story as "midgetits" ...
but maybe that's just what I want everyone to believe.
Once they were done, so was everybody else and a grand exodus occurred. We made it back to AA's car, our curiosity satiated. One of the more unique first dates I have ever been on.
One for the grandkids.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Quicksidenote on $2 Dollar Bills.
When my parents still did the weekend child exchange, we would meet for a brief period at the Friendly's across the street from Platinum and get ice cream. My mom, brother and I arrived an hour early on accident once, and since the offramp from 95 is right freakin' there, we watched my father in his Lincoln Mark VIII which my mother sarcastically referred to as the "pimp-mobile" leave the tollbooth, drive directly past Friendly's and park at Platinum Plus. My brother and I were old enough to be ecstatic with this, but my mother showed only bitterness as my father got out of his car and waltzed under the awning labelled "Topless Donut Bar."
He re-emerged twenty minutes later, got back in his car, and drove across the street.
"How're the donuts?!"
My mother spat like a throwing a dagger. He kind of chuckled it off and we were too amused by the situation for either of them to actually argue about it. When the choice words were chosen and said, we said goodbye to Mom and left, New Hampshire bound. Dad gave us each a $2 Dollar Bill which I kept in my wallet for quite some time after. He told us the donuts were delicious.
We did not meet at Friendly's ever again.
10.07.2007
"A Hard Conversation"
Is a term I coined with a good friend and associate of mine, hereby referred to as JT, (for "Justice Train.") during a particular course of events.
Beginning rightly, as these things often do, with a night of fun and drinking. Our setting was JT's dormitory residence, a nice open place for people to co-inhabit pleasantly and engage conversation while imbibing beverages. It is almost perfect for this actually. The architects knew what they were doing. And so, it was built, ergo the people did come.
The gentlemen living across the hall made the dealbreaking decision to open up their doors to our soirée, make it a "cross-hall party," which is simultaneously totallyawesome and extremely irresponsible. Awesome and irresponsible are familiar bedfellows I've discovered during my time here on Earth. I was enjoying my predictable preference of Pabst Blue Ribbon and having a smashing time, and whatever Gods were at work, bending reality and feasibility, so that not a single noise complaint or RA's presence was summoned all deserve a hearty virgin sacrifice in honor and thanks. Actually, I should get on that soon...
Anyways. To push the proverbial envelope of our debauchery and merriment, JT and I also stole away from the happenings into the white-lit parking lot behind the building. With mixed company, we slipped into his car and zestfully lit aflame the meticulously prepared twisted rolls of paper and plant. We did this highly controversial act of recreation thrice, with mixed company each time, with little to no signs of the enemy. The party went through it's arcs, cycles and stages, leading to the night's end and my penchant crashing on the couch.
As the morning light rose and his other roommates emerged and went about their personal daily businesses, I stirred and writhed. While I could not actively recall all the events of the night prior, my skull did with painful accuracy. I decided to remain unconscious until this bad boy blew over. I was awoken a second time. First, by a familiar and lovely aroma. My eyes opened to JT, like a gentle mother archetype, sitting beside me on the couch nestling a fresh jibba up under my nose. In a time, in a different place, circumstances far different from the ones we both were in, and if I were a different gender, I could have proposed to him. Alas, we were both straight dudes, best friends and in relationships, but the feelings were still there. And that can not be ignored. FUN FACT: if you've never been high before, it is the most efficient cure for a lethal hangover.
This is the best way to wake up. We were giddy with the future prospects of how good breakfast was going to be and how this aching in my head's death was imminent, we rushed back out to his car. As we burned the mother down, we reflected on the party, mentioning highlights, and clearing up lapses in memory. It was to no surprise still hazy in the vehicle's interior, and with this little Good Morning Marijuana rebuttal, the box was pretty hot and smokey. I had some difficulty peering through the front windshield. But when I did, the entire mood of the day took a drastic turn for the worst. My heart stopped. We did not even exhale in shock as time slowed to molasses and we watched the very single sole thing that two stoned kids ever, ever want to see slowly roll past:
A police cruiser.
The fuzz. The enemy.
We saw him. He saw us. We freaked the fuck out. Luckily our panic did not make us punch out the windows, crawl out of the car and flee screaming in terror for the woods in futile hope of losing our pursuers. Instead we were paralyzed with fear, watching in horror as the cop glided past, then stopped his vehicle. He began to turn around.
JT started his car, we might have been talking to each other and ourselves at a low volume but I have no clue what we said. I'm just pretty sure it involved "fuck," "shit," "Jesus," and "damn." We pulled out of our spot slowly and rolled down our windows making sure the smoke did not just billow out like a mushroom cloud of teenage delinquency but instead seep and dissipate smoothly and incognito. The cruiser turned around and began to follow right behind us. JT went instinctively for his pack of Cam Lights, and I jitterly asked for one too. I am not a smoker of tobacco, nor supporter of the habit by any means. This was a cautionary measure at best, and at worst something, anything, to keep my nerves down. And did we start gunning those suckers down. The cop flashed no lights. Emitted no "Whoop Woop" noises. Just followed very closely behind us as we turned out of the parking lot and headed down a road further into campus. I made a distinct effort to visibly flick my cigarette ash out the window, as if to say, with my hands:
"Yes, Officer, just harmless cigarette smoke in here. Please don't arrest me and ruin what little happiness there is left in this cold, dark, facist world, you facist fucking pig fuck. I mean, please restore my faith in the law and those who serve and protect us. I love you."
We reached a stop sign, our blinker going. He stopped in time with us.
No blinker.
This was when I looked over to my good friend and said, "Get yourself ready for a hard conversation."
And here is where the miracle took place. We turned right. The cruiser turned left.
We could not contain our reactions. The adrenaline rush, the fear, the pure ecstasy of relief. I mean, it would ONLY have just been confiscation of our contraband, $650 fine each, and possible summons. Or maybe just a warning. But to us it was a black and white matter, and we were only seeing the black before being blinded by the white. There was no doubt in my mind our goose was decapitated, unfeathered, cleaned, cut and cooked. Clear your place, and go straight to bed with no dessert. The Ultimate shame. The careless stoners getting caught.
But nay. We survived that day. We did not have that conversation, and lived on to tell our tale. Or, you know, at least put it on the Internet.
Beginning rightly, as these things often do, with a night of fun and drinking. Our setting was JT's dormitory residence, a nice open place for people to co-inhabit pleasantly and engage conversation while imbibing beverages. It is almost perfect for this actually. The architects knew what they were doing. And so, it was built, ergo the people did come.
The gentlemen living across the hall made the dealbreaking decision to open up their doors to our soirée, make it a "cross-hall party," which is simultaneously totallyawesome and extremely irresponsible. Awesome and irresponsible are familiar bedfellows I've discovered during my time here on Earth. I was enjoying my predictable preference of Pabst Blue Ribbon and having a smashing time, and whatever Gods were at work, bending reality and feasibility, so that not a single noise complaint or RA's presence was summoned all deserve a hearty virgin sacrifice in honor and thanks. Actually, I should get on that soon...
Anyways. To push the proverbial envelope of our debauchery and merriment, JT and I also stole away from the happenings into the white-lit parking lot behind the building. With mixed company, we slipped into his car and zestfully lit aflame the meticulously prepared twisted rolls of paper and plant. We did this highly controversial act of recreation thrice, with mixed company each time, with little to no signs of the enemy. The party went through it's arcs, cycles and stages, leading to the night's end and my penchant crashing on the couch.
As the morning light rose and his other roommates emerged and went about their personal daily businesses, I stirred and writhed. While I could not actively recall all the events of the night prior, my skull did with painful accuracy. I decided to remain unconscious until this bad boy blew over. I was awoken a second time. First, by a familiar and lovely aroma. My eyes opened to JT, like a gentle mother archetype, sitting beside me on the couch nestling a fresh jibba up under my nose. In a time, in a different place, circumstances far different from the ones we both were in, and if I were a different gender, I could have proposed to him. Alas, we were both straight dudes, best friends and in relationships, but the feelings were still there. And that can not be ignored. FUN FACT: if you've never been high before, it is the most efficient cure for a lethal hangover.
This is the best way to wake up. We were giddy with the future prospects of how good breakfast was going to be and how this aching in my head's death was imminent, we rushed back out to his car. As we burned the mother down, we reflected on the party, mentioning highlights, and clearing up lapses in memory. It was to no surprise still hazy in the vehicle's interior, and with this little Good Morning Marijuana rebuttal, the box was pretty hot and smokey. I had some difficulty peering through the front windshield. But when I did, the entire mood of the day took a drastic turn for the worst. My heart stopped. We did not even exhale in shock as time slowed to molasses and we watched the very single sole thing that two stoned kids ever, ever want to see slowly roll past:
A police cruiser.
The fuzz. The enemy.
We saw him. He saw us. We freaked the fuck out. Luckily our panic did not make us punch out the windows, crawl out of the car and flee screaming in terror for the woods in futile hope of losing our pursuers. Instead we were paralyzed with fear, watching in horror as the cop glided past, then stopped his vehicle. He began to turn around.
JT started his car, we might have been talking to each other and ourselves at a low volume but I have no clue what we said. I'm just pretty sure it involved "fuck," "shit," "Jesus," and "damn." We pulled out of our spot slowly and rolled down our windows making sure the smoke did not just billow out like a mushroom cloud of teenage delinquency but instead seep and dissipate smoothly and incognito. The cruiser turned around and began to follow right behind us. JT went instinctively for his pack of Cam Lights, and I jitterly asked for one too. I am not a smoker of tobacco, nor supporter of the habit by any means. This was a cautionary measure at best, and at worst something, anything, to keep my nerves down. And did we start gunning those suckers down. The cop flashed no lights. Emitted no "Whoop Woop" noises. Just followed very closely behind us as we turned out of the parking lot and headed down a road further into campus. I made a distinct effort to visibly flick my cigarette ash out the window, as if to say, with my hands:
"Yes, Officer, just harmless cigarette smoke in here. Please don't arrest me and ruin what little happiness there is left in this cold, dark, facist world, you facist fucking pig fuck. I mean, please restore my faith in the law and those who serve and protect us. I love you."
We reached a stop sign, our blinker going. He stopped in time with us.
No blinker.
This was when I looked over to my good friend and said, "Get yourself ready for a hard conversation."
And here is where the miracle took place. We turned right. The cruiser turned left.
We could not contain our reactions. The adrenaline rush, the fear, the pure ecstasy of relief. I mean, it would ONLY have just been confiscation of our contraband, $650 fine each, and possible summons. Or maybe just a warning. But to us it was a black and white matter, and we were only seeing the black before being blinded by the white. There was no doubt in my mind our goose was decapitated, unfeathered, cleaned, cut and cooked. Clear your place, and go straight to bed with no dessert. The Ultimate shame. The careless stoners getting caught.
But nay. We survived that day. We did not have that conversation, and lived on to tell our tale. Or, you know, at least put it on the Internet.
4.14.2007
Cupid
So all I hear all day is "Are you going to the party?" or "What are you going to be tonight? Tonight? The party! The party at the Big House!" I never officially received an invite to the Halloween party, but attained confirmation that my presence would be accepted and welcomed, if not desired already. This made me feel obliged to attend. The steps: Dress up, Find a Ride, Drink my Eyes Out, Find a Way back Home. I've spent few nights with lesser goals. There were a couple issues that compromised my imbibing of alcohol till my eyes were removed, such as my duty to wake up and go to a tech rehearsal at 9:00 a.m. EST the next day. It was going to be a risk, but one I was willing to run. Consumption control was demanded. I was ready to roll with this.
My costume, bee tee double you, consisted exclusively of pretty wings, a bow and arrow and adult diapers. Cupid. I decided to go as Cupid. I had the rest of the day to prepare my get-up.
A quick routine chilly walk to Hannaford's and twelve dollars and ninety-five cents later, and I had myself a twenty pack of Small/Medium Depends Underwear. Adult diapers. That's correct. I also bought a bag of imitation crab meat, but that was not costume-related. Got back to good ol' 266 Andrews and test-drove a pair. Snug, comfortable and secure. But showed off way too much... me. It then took about eight more layers of adult diaper before I felt comfortably concealed.
So off we departed for Portland. The party was pretty happenin' by the time we got there. There were some issues though, such as the fact that I only knew about four of the 30-plus people gathered. I stuck around the other USM fellows and was prompted to change into my costume. I declothed to reveal my diaper, wings and brandished my bow and arrow of Love. My friends liked it, but the majority of the drunk (considerably older) strangers at the party did not as much as I had hoped. They acted rather offended/disgusted/confused/upset. It was even suggested to me, verbally, I put my clothes back on. Shamed, I did so. And found my way to a cauldron of free jello shots... (my mood lightened).
Some great costumes there: Nathan's roommate as an exact depiction of Hellboy. Katharine as Catharine the Great (horse and all). The best was none other than the host himself, in a spot-on Raoul Duke/Hunter S. Thompson get-up. Straight out of Fear and Loathing. Brilliantly done!
Long story shortened, after a considerable amount of alcohol I took my clothes back off. I also felt more comfortable with the arrival of more people I knew, such as jessemiajackandykrisiankatecoreymichaelalindsay. They all liked my costume. The mass of strangers, now significantly more intoxicated, grew indifferent if not amused. I made some new friends. Revelled with some old ones. Bummed some beers off of them. Shot some young lovers with imaginary arrows. Reached a fair-weathered level of drunk and was not sad to depart when we did. The ride home was a bit blurry. I think the alcohol in all the previously digested jello was being assimilated by my stomach at that point.
I made it to bed and was able to wake up the next morning in time for rehearsal.
All in all, a good darned time for a theatre major to have a couple nights before All Hallow's Eve.
My costume, bee tee double you, consisted exclusively of pretty wings, a bow and arrow and adult diapers. Cupid. I decided to go as Cupid. I had the rest of the day to prepare my get-up.
A quick routine chilly walk to Hannaford's and twelve dollars and ninety-five cents later, and I had myself a twenty pack of Small/Medium Depends Underwear. Adult diapers. That's correct. I also bought a bag of imitation crab meat, but that was not costume-related. Got back to good ol' 266 Andrews and test-drove a pair. Snug, comfortable and secure. But showed off way too much... me. It then took about eight more layers of adult diaper before I felt comfortably concealed.
So off we departed for Portland. The party was pretty happenin' by the time we got there. There were some issues though, such as the fact that I only knew about four of the 30-plus people gathered. I stuck around the other USM fellows and was prompted to change into my costume. I declothed to reveal my diaper, wings and brandished my bow and arrow of Love. My friends liked it, but the majority of the drunk (considerably older) strangers at the party did not as much as I had hoped. They acted rather offended/disgusted/confused/upset. It was even suggested to me, verbally, I put my clothes back on. Shamed, I did so. And found my way to a cauldron of free jello shots... (my mood lightened).
Some great costumes there: Nathan's roommate as an exact depiction of Hellboy. Katharine as Catharine the Great (horse and all). The best was none other than the host himself, in a spot-on Raoul Duke/Hunter S. Thompson get-up. Straight out of Fear and Loathing. Brilliantly done!
Long story shortened, after a considerable amount of alcohol I took my clothes back off. I also felt more comfortable with the arrival of more people I knew, such as jessemiajackandykrisiankatecoreymichaelalindsay. They all liked my costume. The mass of strangers, now significantly more intoxicated, grew indifferent if not amused. I made some new friends. Revelled with some old ones. Bummed some beers off of them. Shot some young lovers with imaginary arrows. Reached a fair-weathered level of drunk and was not sad to depart when we did. The ride home was a bit blurry. I think the alcohol in all the previously digested jello was being assimilated by my stomach at that point.
I made it to bed and was able to wake up the next morning in time for rehearsal.
All in all, a good darned time for a theatre major to have a couple nights before All Hallow's Eve.
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