The trials and tribulations of a Private Investigator can be both hilarious and terrifying. And boring as fuck. We'll focus on the hilarious and terrifying portions of the job, for the purpose of this entry. To give those of you who don't know a little background, Private Investigators are hired for a number of reasons. In their most basic terms, they are hired for insurance fraud or insurance fraud prevention, workers compensation claims, and domestic cases, (those are the real fun ones, where some rich c***t will call us and have us watch her husband cheating on her.) Good times!
During one particularly brisk morning in the grand city of Lawrence, MA, yours truly was set up to perform surveillance on a side street at 6 a.m. If you're white and just sitting in a parked car on a side street in Lawrence, you're a cop...except I'm not a cop. Armed with only a taser, a young fellow who looked less than reputable approached my car. Barely cracking my driver's side window, I said in the most ghetto voice I could muster. "What's up."
"Are you a cop."
"Nah dude."
"Ya'll want some crack."
"Ahhh....no thanks, I don't want any crack."
"Well what the fuck you doin' here?"
"I work for an insurance company, just looking for a car to go by." (I obviously didn't want to tell him that I was watching for one of his homies.)
"How 'bout you git the fuck outta here."
"No problem, I was just leaving."
It's not that I was afraid, (ok, maybe a little), but I had been in this same situation a bunch of times. It was just something about the guy coming strait out and asking if I wanted crack that kind of "got" me. I laughed as I drove away and called my boss. "Hey Gator, if you want some crack I found a good connects here in Lawrence."
"I'm all set Vin, thanks anyways."
One time I drove down to Fall River and had to find out if a woman was working at an African Hair Braiding salon and spa. I approached the door and walked in like I had been in an African Hair Braiding salon and spa a thousand times. "How's it going? I was looking to get a gift certificate for my girl." I had never seen a more confused face staring back at me. The black woman behind the counter was nearly speechless. After making some small talk, I was given a business card which read, "African Hair Braiding, specializing in all kinds of braids. Corn Rows-Kinky Twists-Micro Invisible-No Knots-Flat Twist-Weaves-And Many More." Seriously, that's on the card, I have it right in front of me. What the hell could "And Many More" mean, I thought.
I had a gun pulled on me in Dorchester, MA....and my car needed a jump. THAT was a fun conversation.
One guy who I was supervising at the time lived in Detroit and was boxed in by three other cars. He literally had to smash his way out of there, cause the cops sure as shit weren't gonna get there in time to save his white ass.
Another guy came out of his house wielding both a baseball bat and a golf club. "Why does he need both?" I thought. I actually let this joker get to my car. (A little inside information, by the way, we never sit in front of the house of the person we're watching, that would be stupid, so normally it's the neighbors we have to deal with.) I rolled my window down. "Can I help you insane fuck head?" I actually asked, "Can I help you good citizen?"
"Why are you here?"
"Before I tell you, are you gonna use either one of those weapons on me or my vehicle."
"It depends."
"Well here's my answer then...I'm working. That's all I need to tell you. Go call the cops and ask them, I checked in with them this morning. So before you run out here in your bathrobe wielding weapons like an asshole, why don't you go through the proper channels first. Sound good?"
"So the cops know you're out here?"
"Here's my cell phone, wanna call them."
He walked away, most likely feeling like a fool. Ha, neigbors! The P.I.'s natural enemy. They are like the snake to our mongoose.
I flew to California to watch a plastic surgeon, who "couldn't perform his duties" any longer. I watched this fool for five strait days drive his BMW to work, walk in with scrubs on, and take note of all the patients entering. On the last day of surveillance, I walked into the office and made an appointment with this unsuspecting lard to get a tattoo removed, something, of course, which I had no intention of doing. Armed with a hidden camera, I was able to get video of this clown exiting an exam room with scrubs and a mask on, and actually get him to tell me that he would be the one to perform my procedure. In an instant, his multi-million dollar, lifelong disability claim was destroyed. Sorry Charlie.
One of the more fun surveillance assignments I was given was done with another P.I. Oh, and I brought my dad along for shits and gigs. This family from Georgia who probably own some tobacco plantation or some such shit, hired my company to watch the wife of the wealthy husband while she was up in Massachusetts for a "fashion show." Needless to say, my partner and I, as well as my dad, watched this two-timing bitch cheat on her husband throughout the night. The best part was that my father and I ate and drank on the client's dime. At closing time, me and my dad sat in my car across the street from the Boston bar that the wife and her boytoy were attending. They exited and immediately started going at it against the wall, camera rolling. My father and I could not control our laughter. They were making out like two horny high school kids. I was actually embarrassed for them. Passerby watched with disgust as they kissed, groped, and fondled each other. "Money shot." I told my dad. The one surveillance he comes with me and we strike gold. This situation eventually brought me to court, in Georgia, to give a deposition. We watched the video in the lawyer's office. I got to describe what was taken in the video with this loser watching over my shoulder to make sure I was telling the truth. She could say nothing. She was caught red-handed. The rich family was so grateful that I caught this slut, that they gave me a nice bonus.
I know this wasn't the most entertaining entry, but I was bored. Stay tuned for my review of 2011, coming in the next couple weeks.
And hey, if you're legitimately hurt...collect the money you're due. If your wife our husband is paranoid, maybe you shouldn't be with them anyways. Private Investigator's are called into action only when there is reasonable cause. So don't hate. We keep your insurance premiums down and we keep lying, cheating douchebags in check, so remember...we're the good guys.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
I Bought A Pregnancy Test With My Laundry Quarters
No, not me personally...but this was how a friend of mine recently started a phone conversation with me. Yikes. I thought MY recent situation was bad! It kind of makes you appreciate the things you have, AND the things you DON'T have, like a zygote in your uterus and/or money.
If you read this on facebook, can you please comment on how YOU would respond to such a statement? I couldn't really tell right away from the tone of her voice how upset she was, or if she was upset at all. Was this a panicked phone call to a friend looking for advice, or was it just a topic for conversation? I felt like the first words to leave my lips would be critical. I had a very crucial and delicate decision to make, cause as we all know, bitches be crazy, and it would be my ass if I came back with the wrong response.
Many things ran through my mind in a flash as to what to say initially. My ideas ranged from simple, obvious questions, to trying to be consoling, to asking what I could do, to trying to make light of the situation, to utter dumbfoundedness. We'll use the name "Late Girl" for the purposes of this story. Examples of my first words included: "Oh shit Late Girl! Why do you think you're pregnant?" "How late are you?" "Wait, are you seeing someone right now?" "Ummm....did you take the test yet?" "Why did you feel the need to tell me you had to pay with quarters? Are you implying that you're poor, or are you saying you need to do laundry at my house?" "Ahhh...I know we're good friends, but am I the first person you should be telling this to?" "Did the guy not have a twenty he could have spotted you?" "Do you need to borrow money for tampons just in case it comes out negative?" "Shit Late Girl, you couldn't have waited a couple days to get a paycheck? I'm not an expert, but I'm pretty sure a couple days doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things." "Are you shitting me?" "So what are you gonna do if it's positive." "How much do those piss sticks cost?" "In theory, would you have to do any less laundry if you don't get your period, thus saving you quarters, or is the difference negligible?" "Is it too late for plan B?" "Do you need a hug?" "If you ARE pregnant, there's no chance it's MINE, is there?" OK, I made that last one up, a guy doesn't generally get a girl pregnant if it's been 3 years since they've slept together, and when it did happen, both of us passed out drunk before it was over.
Knowing the severity of the consequences had I said the wrong thing, I bought myself some more crucial seconds...precious time, by pausing a moment, and finally uttering the following in a confused tone: "Wait...Late Girl....say that again? What are you talking about?"
She sighed and repeated herself. "Laundry quarters Vinny...I walked into the pharmacy with a five-dollar bill and my Ziploc bag full of quarters. I walked up to the cashier with the cheapest pregnancy test I could find, a hood over my head, and shame filled embarrassment plastered on my face."
"Maybe if you had let something else get plastered on your face, you wouldn't have been in this situation."
"THAT'S NOT FUCKING FUNNY!"
I cringed for a second. Perhaps making light of the situation was the wrong way to go. After a few scary seconds; however, she laughed. Disaster averted, well relatively speaking. I suppose the overall disaster of the situation was still very much in play. "What am I gonna dooooooooo?" She whined.
How the fuck should I know? Was this a question of what is she gonna do if she's pregnant, where is she going to get more, actual paper money, or how is she gonna do her laundry? I suppose it was most likely a combination of all of the above.
"Well what are you waiting for? Why don't you take the test and see what it says? Wouldn't it resolve what is clearly an unanswered, stressful question?" Quickly transforming into consoling friend mode--"Tell you what, why don't you come by, take the test over here, and you can even bring your laundry...how does that sound?"
She thought it over for a second. "No, I'm just gonna take it in the morning, that's when your pee is most concentrated." I held my phone away from my ear, leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and sighed. I love Late Girl, I've been friends with her for half my life, we have shared many emotional conversations, consoled each other during break-ups, gave each other advice on life in general, and even shared genitals from time to time; but what the FUCK is she trying to get at right now. WHAT does she want me to say or do. There was no resolution that I could have come to at this very moment, with this very phone call.
"Listen, Late Girl, I don't know what you need. Just tell me what you want me to do. Do you need to borrow some money? Do you need to borrow my toilet or washing machine? Seriously dude, I'm fishing for shit to say to you right now."
"I don't KNOW Vinny, I'm just freaking out."
"Wait, who are you even banging?"
"It was just a hookup, we were drunk...don't judge me."
"Whatever Late Girl. Listen, just calm down, wait until the morning, take the test, and let me know what it says. We'll figure something out. Why is it that you felt the need to buy a test in such a hurry anyways? How long ago did you bang this clown?"
"Like 3 weeks ago."
"Wait...3 weeks ago? When were you supposed to get your period? What makes you think you're pregnant?"
"I was supposed to get my period like a couple days ago or something, but I threw up this morning."
The stupidity of her answer nearly made me collapse to my knees, especially because my friend is very intelligent. I'm a guy. I have no idea what it feels like to be pregnant, to have a period, or to have morning sickness. What I DO know, is that I've made a couple kids. I've been with the mother of my children as they found out they were pregnant, and what the general signs of pregnancy are. In fairness to Late Girl, she is a little younger than me and has never been pregnant, she only has one brother, and I suppose being a couple days late and throwing up could have possibly made her a little anxious....but was she shitting me?
Instead of completely tearing into her and breaking her balls without mercy, (juuuuuuust in case I wound up being wrong,) I took the high road. "You're not pregnant Late Girl. You probably ate some bad chicken or something. There's nothing to worry about right now except maybe getting your underwear clean, ok?"
"OK. Thanks Vinny, I just figured with you being a dad, you'd know about this stuff."
"What I do know is that before you use your last dime to buy a pregnancy test, call me FIRST next time, ok? Chances are you're not pregnant, and if you are, we'll figure something out, ok?"
"Alright Vinny, sorry to call you like this, I just get freaked out. It was such a mistake to....." Blah, blah, blah....she went on for like another 5 minutes and I just yupped her to death.
I never did get a call to find out if my friend's test came out positive. I'm assuming it didn't, since I probably would have received a not-too pleasant, tear filled, follow-up phone call 2-5 minutes later, or possibly in the morning. No call came. We haven't spoken in the last couple weeks, since this ridiculous call went down.
I guess the point of the story is to educate those of you out there who are about to spend your last bag of laundry quarters. Don't. And if you do, don't tell anyone about it, because it will probably end up as a blog entry on the Internet.
If you read this on facebook, can you please comment on how YOU would respond to such a statement? I couldn't really tell right away from the tone of her voice how upset she was, or if she was upset at all. Was this a panicked phone call to a friend looking for advice, or was it just a topic for conversation? I felt like the first words to leave my lips would be critical. I had a very crucial and delicate decision to make, cause as we all know, bitches be crazy, and it would be my ass if I came back with the wrong response.
Many things ran through my mind in a flash as to what to say initially. My ideas ranged from simple, obvious questions, to trying to be consoling, to asking what I could do, to trying to make light of the situation, to utter dumbfoundedness. We'll use the name "Late Girl" for the purposes of this story. Examples of my first words included: "Oh shit Late Girl! Why do you think you're pregnant?" "How late are you?" "Wait, are you seeing someone right now?" "Ummm....did you take the test yet?" "Why did you feel the need to tell me you had to pay with quarters? Are you implying that you're poor, or are you saying you need to do laundry at my house?" "Ahhh...I know we're good friends, but am I the first person you should be telling this to?" "Did the guy not have a twenty he could have spotted you?" "Do you need to borrow money for tampons just in case it comes out negative?" "Shit Late Girl, you couldn't have waited a couple days to get a paycheck? I'm not an expert, but I'm pretty sure a couple days doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things." "Are you shitting me?" "So what are you gonna do if it's positive." "How much do those piss sticks cost?" "In theory, would you have to do any less laundry if you don't get your period, thus saving you quarters, or is the difference negligible?" "Is it too late for plan B?" "Do you need a hug?" "If you ARE pregnant, there's no chance it's MINE, is there?" OK, I made that last one up, a guy doesn't generally get a girl pregnant if it's been 3 years since they've slept together, and when it did happen, both of us passed out drunk before it was over.
Knowing the severity of the consequences had I said the wrong thing, I bought myself some more crucial seconds...precious time, by pausing a moment, and finally uttering the following in a confused tone: "Wait...Late Girl....say that again? What are you talking about?"
She sighed and repeated herself. "Laundry quarters Vinny...I walked into the pharmacy with a five-dollar bill and my Ziploc bag full of quarters. I walked up to the cashier with the cheapest pregnancy test I could find, a hood over my head, and shame filled embarrassment plastered on my face."
"Maybe if you had let something else get plastered on your face, you wouldn't have been in this situation."
"THAT'S NOT FUCKING FUNNY!"
I cringed for a second. Perhaps making light of the situation was the wrong way to go. After a few scary seconds; however, she laughed. Disaster averted, well relatively speaking. I suppose the overall disaster of the situation was still very much in play. "What am I gonna dooooooooo?" She whined.
How the fuck should I know? Was this a question of what is she gonna do if she's pregnant, where is she going to get more, actual paper money, or how is she gonna do her laundry? I suppose it was most likely a combination of all of the above.
"Well what are you waiting for? Why don't you take the test and see what it says? Wouldn't it resolve what is clearly an unanswered, stressful question?" Quickly transforming into consoling friend mode--"Tell you what, why don't you come by, take the test over here, and you can even bring your laundry...how does that sound?"
She thought it over for a second. "No, I'm just gonna take it in the morning, that's when your pee is most concentrated." I held my phone away from my ear, leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and sighed. I love Late Girl, I've been friends with her for half my life, we have shared many emotional conversations, consoled each other during break-ups, gave each other advice on life in general, and even shared genitals from time to time; but what the FUCK is she trying to get at right now. WHAT does she want me to say or do. There was no resolution that I could have come to at this very moment, with this very phone call.
"Listen, Late Girl, I don't know what you need. Just tell me what you want me to do. Do you need to borrow some money? Do you need to borrow my toilet or washing machine? Seriously dude, I'm fishing for shit to say to you right now."
"I don't KNOW Vinny, I'm just freaking out."
"Wait, who are you even banging?"
"It was just a hookup, we were drunk...don't judge me."
"Whatever Late Girl. Listen, just calm down, wait until the morning, take the test, and let me know what it says. We'll figure something out. Why is it that you felt the need to buy a test in such a hurry anyways? How long ago did you bang this clown?"
"Like 3 weeks ago."
"Wait...3 weeks ago? When were you supposed to get your period? What makes you think you're pregnant?"
"I was supposed to get my period like a couple days ago or something, but I threw up this morning."
The stupidity of her answer nearly made me collapse to my knees, especially because my friend is very intelligent. I'm a guy. I have no idea what it feels like to be pregnant, to have a period, or to have morning sickness. What I DO know, is that I've made a couple kids. I've been with the mother of my children as they found out they were pregnant, and what the general signs of pregnancy are. In fairness to Late Girl, she is a little younger than me and has never been pregnant, she only has one brother, and I suppose being a couple days late and throwing up could have possibly made her a little anxious....but was she shitting me?
Instead of completely tearing into her and breaking her balls without mercy, (juuuuuuust in case I wound up being wrong,) I took the high road. "You're not pregnant Late Girl. You probably ate some bad chicken or something. There's nothing to worry about right now except maybe getting your underwear clean, ok?"
"OK. Thanks Vinny, I just figured with you being a dad, you'd know about this stuff."
"What I do know is that before you use your last dime to buy a pregnancy test, call me FIRST next time, ok? Chances are you're not pregnant, and if you are, we'll figure something out, ok?"
"Alright Vinny, sorry to call you like this, I just get freaked out. It was such a mistake to....." Blah, blah, blah....she went on for like another 5 minutes and I just yupped her to death.
I never did get a call to find out if my friend's test came out positive. I'm assuming it didn't, since I probably would have received a not-too pleasant, tear filled, follow-up phone call 2-5 minutes later, or possibly in the morning. No call came. We haven't spoken in the last couple weeks, since this ridiculous call went down.
I guess the point of the story is to educate those of you out there who are about to spend your last bag of laundry quarters. Don't. And if you do, don't tell anyone about it, because it will probably end up as a blog entry on the Internet.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Merry Christmas
Ah, the holidays! Depending on your point of view, either the happiest or shittiest time of year. First of all, can we stop with all the "Happy Holidays" bullshit? It's CHRISTMAS, ok? Can we just agree on that. Say it with me, "Merry Christmas!" It's ok...you're not going to get sneered at or be spit on or struck down by some God who isn't your God if you say Merry Christmas, I promise. Whenever I hear "Happy Holidays," because of political correctness, it makes me want to punch myself in the face until I'm unconscious. Who the hell do these people think they are trying to call a Christmas tree a "Holiday Tree?" So you're just going to forgo hundreds of years of tradition just to be politically correct?
Guess what? If you know someone is Jewish, wish them Happy Hanukkah, or Chanukah, or whatever the fuck...if you know someone celebrates Christmas, wish them a Merry Christmas. If you're not sure, go with the most popular one, the one that kids get a week off of school from...you guessed it, Merry Christmas!
Now listen, I'm the least religious person I know. My family is Catholic, and I went to Sunday school and occasionally church when I was a kid, but I would consider myself Agnostic. If you don't know what that means, go look it up, I'm not a fucking dictionary. My kids have not been baptised or Christened and they don't have Godparents. If they choose to pick a religion when they're older, that will be fine with me. I was not going to force something on them before they were able to sit up. Go ahead and judge me if you want to, but that's how my ex-wife and I are playing it.
Having said that, it's CHRISTMAS season. CHRISTMAS is the holiday that MOST people celebrate. If you're Jewish, that's awesome. Good for you. If you're Muslim, great! Taoist, Buddhist, Hindu, I don't give a flying, shit-covered fuck. If you are celebrating a holiday in December, you are celebrating Christmas. You know it, I know it, and so does the entire world....(except maybe the Middle East, but who cares about that desolate hell hole...even the sane Muslims know what's up.)
Disclaimer, by the way, before any nice, practicing Muslims try to track this IP address and get all uppity....relax. Everyone knows you're out there. Everyone knows that you can practice religion and pray to Allah or whoever you want to and everybody knows that the crazy Muslims shouldn't be lumped in with you, so just relax and put a sock in it already....jeezus. And another thing, if you get racially profiled at the airport, too fucking bad!! How many Asians have taken down an airplane? Somebody find out and get back to me. If you look like a Middle Eastern terrorist, just roll with it. I apologize on behalf of white people everywhere, but the extremists who happen to look like you fucked it up for the rest of you, so just sit there, get your luggage checked, and move on with your lives. Just to seem a lot less racist, because I'm NOT racist; in my opinion, any white kids who dress all Gothic and wear trench coats to school...what do they call them these days? Emo kids? I think THEY should be profiled too. Some people who look like you other Emo kids who just want to "Rage Against the Machine" and peacefully mind there own business and listen to heavy metal fucked it up for the rest of you...too bad. Deal with it. When my kids go to school in a couple years, you're damn right I'm going to personally check out every Emo kid and Muslim kid in their schools. Call me crazy, but you can thank Osama Bin Laden, Eric Reid, Eric Harris, and Dylan Klebold. I'll be damned if MY kids are gonna get shot up just because they want to play sports or are popular or aren't Muslim. Fuck that noise. I'll run a full background check on anybody I think is suspect, and I don't care what people think of me. These are the times we live in.
Back to the Holiday Season. Merry Christmas everyone. Merry Christmas especially to those Americans serving this year overseas and Merry Christmas to their families who will be spending Christmas thousands of miles away from their loved ones. Happy Hanukkah to the Jewish soldiers and THEIR families, and whatever else you want to say to them individually. Don't lump them all in to "Happy Holidays." Charlie Brown deserves better. Are they going to rename it "Charlie Brown's Holiday Special." How about Chevy Chase in "National Lampoon's Holiday Vacation." "A Holiday Story" where Ralphie shoots his eye out? I know, let's rename "A Christmas Carol" written by Charles Dickens in 1843 to "A Holiday Carol."
So this week's giant "Fuck You" goes to the politicians and corporations who think it's such a great idea to change every tradition that everyone has known since they were born.
Have some fucking common sense people. And this is coming from someone who asks, "What the hell has Jesus Christ done for me lately?"
Guess what? If you know someone is Jewish, wish them Happy Hanukkah, or Chanukah, or whatever the fuck...if you know someone celebrates Christmas, wish them a Merry Christmas. If you're not sure, go with the most popular one, the one that kids get a week off of school from...you guessed it, Merry Christmas!
Now listen, I'm the least religious person I know. My family is Catholic, and I went to Sunday school and occasionally church when I was a kid, but I would consider myself Agnostic. If you don't know what that means, go look it up, I'm not a fucking dictionary. My kids have not been baptised or Christened and they don't have Godparents. If they choose to pick a religion when they're older, that will be fine with me. I was not going to force something on them before they were able to sit up. Go ahead and judge me if you want to, but that's how my ex-wife and I are playing it.
Having said that, it's CHRISTMAS season. CHRISTMAS is the holiday that MOST people celebrate. If you're Jewish, that's awesome. Good for you. If you're Muslim, great! Taoist, Buddhist, Hindu, I don't give a flying, shit-covered fuck. If you are celebrating a holiday in December, you are celebrating Christmas. You know it, I know it, and so does the entire world....(except maybe the Middle East, but who cares about that desolate hell hole...even the sane Muslims know what's up.)
Disclaimer, by the way, before any nice, practicing Muslims try to track this IP address and get all uppity....relax. Everyone knows you're out there. Everyone knows that you can practice religion and pray to Allah or whoever you want to and everybody knows that the crazy Muslims shouldn't be lumped in with you, so just relax and put a sock in it already....jeezus. And another thing, if you get racially profiled at the airport, too fucking bad!! How many Asians have taken down an airplane? Somebody find out and get back to me. If you look like a Middle Eastern terrorist, just roll with it. I apologize on behalf of white people everywhere, but the extremists who happen to look like you fucked it up for the rest of you, so just sit there, get your luggage checked, and move on with your lives. Just to seem a lot less racist, because I'm NOT racist; in my opinion, any white kids who dress all Gothic and wear trench coats to school...what do they call them these days? Emo kids? I think THEY should be profiled too. Some people who look like you other Emo kids who just want to "Rage Against the Machine" and peacefully mind there own business and listen to heavy metal fucked it up for the rest of you...too bad. Deal with it. When my kids go to school in a couple years, you're damn right I'm going to personally check out every Emo kid and Muslim kid in their schools. Call me crazy, but you can thank Osama Bin Laden, Eric Reid, Eric Harris, and Dylan Klebold. I'll be damned if MY kids are gonna get shot up just because they want to play sports or are popular or aren't Muslim. Fuck that noise. I'll run a full background check on anybody I think is suspect, and I don't care what people think of me. These are the times we live in.
Back to the Holiday Season. Merry Christmas everyone. Merry Christmas especially to those Americans serving this year overseas and Merry Christmas to their families who will be spending Christmas thousands of miles away from their loved ones. Happy Hanukkah to the Jewish soldiers and THEIR families, and whatever else you want to say to them individually. Don't lump them all in to "Happy Holidays." Charlie Brown deserves better. Are they going to rename it "Charlie Brown's Holiday Special." How about Chevy Chase in "National Lampoon's Holiday Vacation." "A Holiday Story" where Ralphie shoots his eye out? I know, let's rename "A Christmas Carol" written by Charles Dickens in 1843 to "A Holiday Carol."
So this week's giant "Fuck You" goes to the politicians and corporations who think it's such a great idea to change every tradition that everyone has known since they were born.
Have some fucking common sense people. And this is coming from someone who asks, "What the hell has Jesus Christ done for me lately?"
Thursday, November 24, 2011
My Love for Alice's Restaurant
Is there a better day of the year than Thanksgiving? Not in my estimation. When you're younger, obviously, Christmas takes the top spot, but to have a day where so much good is celebrated is not something to be taken lightly.
Let's get the obvious out of the way. Most people love to eat. I know I do. There's no better feeling than stuffing yourself full of turkey and all the fixin's and plopping your fat ass on the couch, football on in the background, socializing with your family and/or friends, some of whom maybe you haven't seen in a while.
Before that; however, if you aren't hungover too much from the night before, the day usually starts with going to watch your old high school football team. Maybe you have some coffee or hot chocolate to keep you warm...maybe you have some Brandi..no judgement here. It's a good time to run into some old high school friends and people you haven't seen in a while and catch up.
After the game your day could go a number of ways. Maybe you go home and watch the parade for a bit. Maybe you're doing the cooking for the day. Maybe you're travelling and bundle the kids up and head to grammy's house. Perhaps you make some last minute adjustments to your fantasy football league. Whatever the case may be, the day is full of promise, turkey, and of course the noontime playing of Alice's Restaurant on the radio, one of my favorite traditions.
Despite everything that's good about Thanksgiving physically...the food, the family, the traditions...I think my favorite part about the holiday is that it gives me an excuse to look at the good things in my life. Not that I should need an excuse, but inevitably, it DOES give me a good reason. There are plenty of things in my life that I'm thankful for. My beautiful children, the family and friends in my life, the memories of the family and friends who aren't here any more, the Patriots, my relative good health...shit, I'm even thankful for all of my ex-wives. How often do I allow myself to say that? Not very often, I assure you. If any of you heathens are out there reading this, by the way...thank you for being fantastic mom's to our kids. I mean that with all my soul. And know, I guess, that I don't really think you're fire-breathing, god-forsaken succubi...I'm just having some fun with yas, you stupid bitches. (I would insert a smiley face right here or some other emoticon, but I'm not a homo.)
Another good thing about Thanksgiving? Once the day is over and you're in a turkey coma, you have 3 more days off of work and pounds of leftovers to bring home. What other holiday can claim those bonuses? Most importantly, allow yourself to remember those close to you that you've lost, and allow yourself to appreciate those who will eventually no longer be with us. It's important. Show thanks for them.
Happy Thanksgiving everybody. Really think about all the good in your life, even if you have piles of bad. There's 364 remaining days in the year for self-pity, so enjoy today. Use it to reflect on all the good, I promise it will make you feel like you're on top of the world, if only for one day, and even if you're in a really bad place in your life. Just remember the story of Alice's Restaurant. Hell, those clowns had nothing going for them, but when the dust settled, they had each other, and the promise of a great holiday to fall back on.
Let's get the obvious out of the way. Most people love to eat. I know I do. There's no better feeling than stuffing yourself full of turkey and all the fixin's and plopping your fat ass on the couch, football on in the background, socializing with your family and/or friends, some of whom maybe you haven't seen in a while.
Before that; however, if you aren't hungover too much from the night before, the day usually starts with going to watch your old high school football team. Maybe you have some coffee or hot chocolate to keep you warm...maybe you have some Brandi..no judgement here. It's a good time to run into some old high school friends and people you haven't seen in a while and catch up.
After the game your day could go a number of ways. Maybe you go home and watch the parade for a bit. Maybe you're doing the cooking for the day. Maybe you're travelling and bundle the kids up and head to grammy's house. Perhaps you make some last minute adjustments to your fantasy football league. Whatever the case may be, the day is full of promise, turkey, and of course the noontime playing of Alice's Restaurant on the radio, one of my favorite traditions.
Despite everything that's good about Thanksgiving physically...the food, the family, the traditions...I think my favorite part about the holiday is that it gives me an excuse to look at the good things in my life. Not that I should need an excuse, but inevitably, it DOES give me a good reason. There are plenty of things in my life that I'm thankful for. My beautiful children, the family and friends in my life, the memories of the family and friends who aren't here any more, the Patriots, my relative good health...shit, I'm even thankful for all of my ex-wives. How often do I allow myself to say that? Not very often, I assure you. If any of you heathens are out there reading this, by the way...thank you for being fantastic mom's to our kids. I mean that with all my soul. And know, I guess, that I don't really think you're fire-breathing, god-forsaken succubi...I'm just having some fun with yas, you stupid bitches. (I would insert a smiley face right here or some other emoticon, but I'm not a homo.)
Another good thing about Thanksgiving? Once the day is over and you're in a turkey coma, you have 3 more days off of work and pounds of leftovers to bring home. What other holiday can claim those bonuses? Most importantly, allow yourself to remember those close to you that you've lost, and allow yourself to appreciate those who will eventually no longer be with us. It's important. Show thanks for them.
Happy Thanksgiving everybody. Really think about all the good in your life, even if you have piles of bad. There's 364 remaining days in the year for self-pity, so enjoy today. Use it to reflect on all the good, I promise it will make you feel like you're on top of the world, if only for one day, and even if you're in a really bad place in your life. Just remember the story of Alice's Restaurant. Hell, those clowns had nothing going for them, but when the dust settled, they had each other, and the promise of a great holiday to fall back on.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Cold November Rain
Anyone who believes that money makes the man is either rich or ignorant, or both. I've come across some real assholes in my day...the majority of them have been business owners, beneficiaries, or other rich people with an undeserved sense of self worth...as if the fact that they have money automatically catapults them into some kind of "level" above the rest of us. The only people tolerable that have money are those who have worked their entire lives to earn it. If those SAME people, make their children work just as hard to earn money and respect as they grow, then all the better. I'm not saying that if you're a parent, and you can afford it, that you shouldn't help out your kids or close family or friends when they need help...but just handing them money and spoiling them will just turn them into douchebags...I've seen it countless times.
My real beef is with people, men or women, who have a big time title or even own a company and deal with their employees directly as if they were lesser forms of human. This goes out to these people directly. FUCK YOU! You think because you have more money or a better title then me, that makes you a better man? Nope. In fact, in most cases, it makes you one of the biggest assholes on the planet. And yes, of course I'm speaking from direct experience.
It's a shitty thing that there are people in this country and around the world who literally live in shacks and have to hunt their own food or play soccer with a fucking coconut. I've seen it. It's not cool. In the meantime, we have CEO's of companies who literally have anything and everything they want. It's always the people who work the hardest who make the least amount of money, too. Something's wrong with that. I know it will never change. It's the way it is. There's nothing we can do about it. We can't solve world hunger, we'll never have world peace, and the rich will always get richer before the poor get a meal.
All of the above sounds really preachy, I know, but it doesn't make it not true. I hate being poor. I hate living paycheck to paycheck and not being able to help out my family, who is also poor as fuck. I don't like filing unemployment every week and going to eviction hearings. I don't like getting laid off and having to withdraw my 401(k). I even bought an $8,000 ring from a jewelery store one time on a credit card and sold it for $2,000 at a pawn shop just so I could get some cash. And you know what the fucked up thing is? I'm a LUCKY one! I have my health, for now, and friends and family and wonderful kids who look up to me, no matter how much money I make or don't make. I don't have to worry about my kids getting dysentery because I live in a place where health care is available. It's not a perfect system, I know, but it's better than being in Somalia.
That's what irritates me about these smug fucks who can go out and buy whatever they want and send their kids to the best schools in the world and SAVE money and retire early and travel around the world. They have NO IDEA how lucky they are. They'll never understand. They'll say ignorant shit to poor tour guides like, "Gee, how much would it be to buy up a bunch of this land?" I'm not making that up, I was on a cruise during my honeymoon and some stuck up, cunt of a rich bitch from Manhattan actually asked our tour guide through the most poverty stricken part of the Dominican Republic. It took everything I had, and the begging of my wife at the time, not to wage an all out war against this absolute disease of a woman who had thousands of dollars of jewels but refused to give a dollar bill to any of the kids begging, (yes begging) for a buck from us rich Americans. It made me sick.
These facts make me realize; however, that THEY are the douchebags and the drains on society..not me, and certainly not the people who eat at soup kitchens or live in the streets. We're real people. You know who's fake? The people that pay thousands of dollars to go on cruises to places like the Dominican Republic and take a tour through what is easily the poorest place they've ever seen and instead of being enlightened, they snub their noses at these poor people who live day to day with no supermarket to buy food from, no running water, nothing. Compared to us, they have nothing. I'm ok with it...trust me. Better them than me. I'm not trying to sound cold, but seriously. At the same time, I make enough to barely keep a roof over my head and food on my kids table. At the same time, I'm not going to sit here and shit on people who have less than me.
So anyways, go fuck yourself rich people.
Also, I hate people who take slow right turns in their cars and I am REALLY not a fan of Jimmy Fallon.
My real beef is with people, men or women, who have a big time title or even own a company and deal with their employees directly as if they were lesser forms of human. This goes out to these people directly. FUCK YOU! You think because you have more money or a better title then me, that makes you a better man? Nope. In fact, in most cases, it makes you one of the biggest assholes on the planet. And yes, of course I'm speaking from direct experience.
It's a shitty thing that there are people in this country and around the world who literally live in shacks and have to hunt their own food or play soccer with a fucking coconut. I've seen it. It's not cool. In the meantime, we have CEO's of companies who literally have anything and everything they want. It's always the people who work the hardest who make the least amount of money, too. Something's wrong with that. I know it will never change. It's the way it is. There's nothing we can do about it. We can't solve world hunger, we'll never have world peace, and the rich will always get richer before the poor get a meal.
All of the above sounds really preachy, I know, but it doesn't make it not true. I hate being poor. I hate living paycheck to paycheck and not being able to help out my family, who is also poor as fuck. I don't like filing unemployment every week and going to eviction hearings. I don't like getting laid off and having to withdraw my 401(k). I even bought an $8,000 ring from a jewelery store one time on a credit card and sold it for $2,000 at a pawn shop just so I could get some cash. And you know what the fucked up thing is? I'm a LUCKY one! I have my health, for now, and friends and family and wonderful kids who look up to me, no matter how much money I make or don't make. I don't have to worry about my kids getting dysentery because I live in a place where health care is available. It's not a perfect system, I know, but it's better than being in Somalia.
That's what irritates me about these smug fucks who can go out and buy whatever they want and send their kids to the best schools in the world and SAVE money and retire early and travel around the world. They have NO IDEA how lucky they are. They'll never understand. They'll say ignorant shit to poor tour guides like, "Gee, how much would it be to buy up a bunch of this land?" I'm not making that up, I was on a cruise during my honeymoon and some stuck up, cunt of a rich bitch from Manhattan actually asked our tour guide through the most poverty stricken part of the Dominican Republic. It took everything I had, and the begging of my wife at the time, not to wage an all out war against this absolute disease of a woman who had thousands of dollars of jewels but refused to give a dollar bill to any of the kids begging, (yes begging) for a buck from us rich Americans. It made me sick.
These facts make me realize; however, that THEY are the douchebags and the drains on society..not me, and certainly not the people who eat at soup kitchens or live in the streets. We're real people. You know who's fake? The people that pay thousands of dollars to go on cruises to places like the Dominican Republic and take a tour through what is easily the poorest place they've ever seen and instead of being enlightened, they snub their noses at these poor people who live day to day with no supermarket to buy food from, no running water, nothing. Compared to us, they have nothing. I'm ok with it...trust me. Better them than me. I'm not trying to sound cold, but seriously. At the same time, I make enough to barely keep a roof over my head and food on my kids table. At the same time, I'm not going to sit here and shit on people who have less than me.
So anyways, go fuck yourself rich people.
Also, I hate people who take slow right turns in their cars and I am REALLY not a fan of Jimmy Fallon.
Monday, October 31, 2011
The Invasion of Montreal-Part deux
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Friday, October 21, 2011
The Invasion of Montreal
Part 1
How do you say, "Holy shit, that stripper just blew me in the back room for twenty bucks!" in French?
It doesn't matter, because for a couple of nights many years ago, when the Red Sox played a few road games against the now defunct Montreal Expos, the entire city was occupied by New Englanders. Everyone important enough within earshot spoke English!
Tangent alert:
First of all, Montreal, and on a broader scope, the province of Quebec...who the hell do you think you are? Speak English like the rest of the majority north of the Rio Grande. I understand that the area was initially settled by the French 300 years ago, but ya know what? Mexico was settled, (ok, ravaged) by the Spanish but they're at least smart enough to TRY to learn English.
Quebec is so arrogant that they thumb their noses at us in the states, which I suppose you could understand...but they do the same thing against the rest of their OWN COUNTRY!! They tried to secede from Canada in the 90's!! Does anyone remember this? Does anybody care? They wanted to be their own country! Really, Quebec? You wanted to secede from one of the most stable countries in the world, who have free health care and virtually no enemies, and start your OWN country? Is "douchebag" a French word? I think it is....
Quebec wanted to start their own government and literally become the country of Quebec. What the hell would the "country" of Quebec have to offer the world? Nobody cares about Celine Dion anymore. What would their main export be? Would they have a two-team hockey league? How would they self-sustain without leaching off America and the country that they just told to "fuck off?" "Ummm....yeah, Canada...I know we just told you to go fuck yourselves and became our own country and everything...but the only natural resource we have is moose, can you help us out?" This is not to mention the fact that every terrorist in the world would probably set up shop in the "country" of Quebec. They would practically have to rename the country West Lybia. If they're anything like their surrender monkey mother land, France, they would welcome the terrorists with open arms, give them homes, money, free health care. They wouldn't have to hide in caves, they could send suicide bombers down the Appalachian trail.
This was a REAL thing!! They voted on it, and it almost went down. Would nobody have stepped in and said, "Ya know what, this is probably a bad idea."
Anyways, back to the Invasion of Montreal:
Aren't the greatest adventures the ones that begin with a spur of the moment idea that seems so great at the time, you could swear you just invented space flight? That's how this road trip began. Me, four other guys sitting in my studio apartment, and a dream. The Sox were playing the Expos in Montreal, as I said, for a weekend series. I returned home from work at around 2 p.m. on the Friday and a few of my buddies came by my tiny studio apartment. B-Ride, his cousin JB, Gunny, and my brother Joey. Me, B-Ride, and Gunny were 20 years old. JB was 24, and Joey was only 15.
"What should we do tonight." A bar was out of the question. We could get booze, but then what? Have people over my place, affectionately know as the "Crack Shack." There was a bed, a love seat size sofa, and a small t.v. The kitchen was the size of a normal sized bathroom. Needless to say, our options were limited.
Someone, I forget who, threw it out there. "We should just drive to Montreal." It was meant to be a throw-away suggestion....a joke...but it was a spark that ignited the wheels of our young minds to turn. After a few minutes of everyone thinking the same thing but nobody saying anything, JB spoke up. "Why couldn't we go?" Joey was 15, he was out. B-Ride had something going on the next day. Me and Gunny were in. I did some quick math. "If we leave right now, we could be there by like 9 o'clock, we could go out, grab a hotel, and get tickets to the game tomorrow." Clearly a fool-proof plan, right? The only problem was that every one else in the entire northeast had the same idea. Looking back, it's shocking to me that we thought we were the only ones brilliant enough to head up to Montreal. What's even MORE retarded is how we thought that nobody else had this weekend planned and their hotels and game tickets secured for months. The excitement and spontaneity of the situation clouded our judgement. Yoda would clearly be very worried about us turning to the dark side if he had seen us at this point.
We got in the car, maybe a few hundred bucks between us, no bags, no supplies. We made a quick stop at the gas station and got some snacks and gas, and we were off. Our neighbors to the north had no idea what was in store for them.
How do you say, "Holy shit, that stripper just blew me in the back room for twenty bucks!" in French?
It doesn't matter, because for a couple of nights many years ago, when the Red Sox played a few road games against the now defunct Montreal Expos, the entire city was occupied by New Englanders. Everyone important enough within earshot spoke English!
Tangent alert:
First of all, Montreal, and on a broader scope, the province of Quebec...who the hell do you think you are? Speak English like the rest of the majority north of the Rio Grande. I understand that the area was initially settled by the French 300 years ago, but ya know what? Mexico was settled, (ok, ravaged) by the Spanish but they're at least smart enough to TRY to learn English.
Quebec is so arrogant that they thumb their noses at us in the states, which I suppose you could understand...but they do the same thing against the rest of their OWN COUNTRY!! They tried to secede from Canada in the 90's!! Does anyone remember this? Does anybody care? They wanted to be their own country! Really, Quebec? You wanted to secede from one of the most stable countries in the world, who have free health care and virtually no enemies, and start your OWN country? Is "douchebag" a French word? I think it is....
Quebec wanted to start their own government and literally become the country of Quebec. What the hell would the "country" of Quebec have to offer the world? Nobody cares about Celine Dion anymore. What would their main export be? Would they have a two-team hockey league? How would they self-sustain without leaching off America and the country that they just told to "fuck off?" "Ummm....yeah, Canada...I know we just told you to go fuck yourselves and became our own country and everything...but the only natural resource we have is moose, can you help us out?" This is not to mention the fact that every terrorist in the world would probably set up shop in the "country" of Quebec. They would practically have to rename the country West Lybia. If they're anything like their surrender monkey mother land, France, they would welcome the terrorists with open arms, give them homes, money, free health care. They wouldn't have to hide in caves, they could send suicide bombers down the Appalachian trail.
This was a REAL thing!! They voted on it, and it almost went down. Would nobody have stepped in and said, "Ya know what, this is probably a bad idea."
Anyways, back to the Invasion of Montreal:
Aren't the greatest adventures the ones that begin with a spur of the moment idea that seems so great at the time, you could swear you just invented space flight? That's how this road trip began. Me, four other guys sitting in my studio apartment, and a dream. The Sox were playing the Expos in Montreal, as I said, for a weekend series. I returned home from work at around 2 p.m. on the Friday and a few of my buddies came by my tiny studio apartment. B-Ride, his cousin JB, Gunny, and my brother Joey. Me, B-Ride, and Gunny were 20 years old. JB was 24, and Joey was only 15.
"What should we do tonight." A bar was out of the question. We could get booze, but then what? Have people over my place, affectionately know as the "Crack Shack." There was a bed, a love seat size sofa, and a small t.v. The kitchen was the size of a normal sized bathroom. Needless to say, our options were limited.
Someone, I forget who, threw it out there. "We should just drive to Montreal." It was meant to be a throw-away suggestion....a joke...but it was a spark that ignited the wheels of our young minds to turn. After a few minutes of everyone thinking the same thing but nobody saying anything, JB spoke up. "Why couldn't we go?" Joey was 15, he was out. B-Ride had something going on the next day. Me and Gunny were in. I did some quick math. "If we leave right now, we could be there by like 9 o'clock, we could go out, grab a hotel, and get tickets to the game tomorrow." Clearly a fool-proof plan, right? The only problem was that every one else in the entire northeast had the same idea. Looking back, it's shocking to me that we thought we were the only ones brilliant enough to head up to Montreal. What's even MORE retarded is how we thought that nobody else had this weekend planned and their hotels and game tickets secured for months. The excitement and spontaneity of the situation clouded our judgement. Yoda would clearly be very worried about us turning to the dark side if he had seen us at this point.
We got in the car, maybe a few hundred bucks between us, no bags, no supplies. We made a quick stop at the gas station and got some snacks and gas, and we were off. Our neighbors to the north had no idea what was in store for them.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Rock Bottom Is Not That Bad
Unless you're dead, I guess.
My point is, sometimes you get poop on your finger. You do your very best to wash it off, but sometimes it really stinks for a while. Eventually, the stench dissipates and you go back to forging your finger ahead into the butthole that is life, hoping that the next time...it comes out clean on the other end. Cause life is shit sometimes. One day you can have it all figured out, and then you go and do something stupid. More likely, you commit a series of shitty mistakes. That, coupled with dumb, blind, shitty luck...and there you have it. Rock bottom.
People can have tough times, even when they have the best intentions. For the most part; however, bad things seem to happen in spurts. For those unlucky enough, when it rains, it pours, as they say. No matter how big your heart is and how much you pour into life and relationships, it might not be enough.
One guy I know was about to turn 30 years old. He had a great job, made a ton of money, had a wife and son, and was even thrown a surprise 30th birthday party with all his friends and family in attendance. He was on top of the mountain. Nothing, in his mind, could go wrong.
One month later, his wife left him and took his son. He moved back with his parents. He had meaningless sex with numerous girls in order to attempt to fill the lonely void of being separated. This poor bastard moved into a shitty apartment by himself and battled with his now ex-wife. They divorced. He was laid off from his job. He got a new job offer, with a great salary, and the position was taken away two days before he was supposed to start. He found out his ex-wife was in a serious relationship; the "new guy" spending more time with his son than he did. His mom was very sick. He had a shitty relationship with his father. His friends started to become distant.
Finally, he met a new woman. He hit it off right away with her. He even went so far as to think they would spend the rest of their lives together. The bond was that strong. The problem was, his life was in such shambles that the new woman, rightfully so, decided that he couldn't handle a relationship until he got back on his feet, and broke it off after a few months. He was evicted from his apartment shortly after. His debt piled up. There were no lucrative job offers on the table. In a nutshell, this guy was fucked.
As my friend's 31st birthday approached, things seemed pretty dim, to say the least. There were two directions he could have gone. Give up, or give it all he had to turn things around. This man, yes MAN, turned things around. He said to me, when I asked him what his plan was, "Vinny....no matter what happens to me and to my life, the sun is going to rise tomorrow. There will be new opportunities. There's only one way to go but up, at this point. I'm a hard worker. I'll find a new place to live, a great job...and maybe, just maybe, things will work out with the perfect girl that I stumbled upon. And if not, I'll move on. Life is going to happen, but only if I take it by the balls."
"The sun is going to rise tomorrow." That really hit home for me. No matter how bad things get in life, the world doesn't care. A new day will begin, and then another, and then another. You could be homeless, alone, and broke....but the world and all it's inhabitants don't give a shit. So you have to make your own way. You have to say, "Ya know what, FUCK YOU. I don't care what you throw at me, I'm gonna be fine. I'm gonna take all this shit, all this bad karma, and use it as fuel to pour on the fire under my ass to make myself better. If that's not being a man, I don't know what is.
I'm inspired by this man, and make no mistake, he is a man. A good man, with a good heart and a relentless sense of bettering himself. He's my inspiration. I thought he would break. I thought he would give up. Shit, I thought he might down a bottle of pills and just take himself out of the equation...but he never even got close to that point. Life beat the shit out of him. He just got up, dusted himself off, cleaned the poop off his finger, and soldiered on. That's what a man does when faced with adversity.
At some point, you need to take control, regardless of the hopelessness of the situation. If you ever find yourself in such a position. You can give up, sit on your couch, and say "Fuck it." OR, you can get beat down, get back up, and give life the proverbial uppercut to the nuts. Tomorrow is always another day. As long as you have air in your lungs and blood is pumping through your veins...you have the ability to own your destiny. You have the ability to go out and get the job you need, or change your career to something you love. You have the ability to get yourself back on your feet financially. You can be a great parent to your children. Hell, maybe you can even find your true soul mate, as gay as that sounds. Who knows, maybe it can even be the woman you needed to prove yourself to. Maybe she'll move on. It doesn't matter. It's a product of bettering one's self that either she'll see, or someone else will
I'm pulling for my buddy, I really am. I've never seen anyone battle life like he has and continues to do so. I know that if I ever hit rock bottom, the sun will rise every day. New opportunities will present themselves, and when they do, you need to grab them by the balls, squeeze, and not let go until you have what you want.
If you're in the same position as my friend. Don't be a bitch. Be a man. Fuck everyone else. Fuck the entire planet. It's all about you, and what you do with your day. You might not accomplish everything you need to overnight...but you know what, you'll go to sleep tonight, the sun will rise, the new day will begin, and you'll have a fresh start to fight for what you need. It's not hard. Rock bottom is not that bad. Rock bottom is just a great excuse to make yourself the best man you can be.
My point is, sometimes you get poop on your finger. You do your very best to wash it off, but sometimes it really stinks for a while. Eventually, the stench dissipates and you go back to forging your finger ahead into the butthole that is life, hoping that the next time...it comes out clean on the other end. Cause life is shit sometimes. One day you can have it all figured out, and then you go and do something stupid. More likely, you commit a series of shitty mistakes. That, coupled with dumb, blind, shitty luck...and there you have it. Rock bottom.
People can have tough times, even when they have the best intentions. For the most part; however, bad things seem to happen in spurts. For those unlucky enough, when it rains, it pours, as they say. No matter how big your heart is and how much you pour into life and relationships, it might not be enough.
One guy I know was about to turn 30 years old. He had a great job, made a ton of money, had a wife and son, and was even thrown a surprise 30th birthday party with all his friends and family in attendance. He was on top of the mountain. Nothing, in his mind, could go wrong.
One month later, his wife left him and took his son. He moved back with his parents. He had meaningless sex with numerous girls in order to attempt to fill the lonely void of being separated. This poor bastard moved into a shitty apartment by himself and battled with his now ex-wife. They divorced. He was laid off from his job. He got a new job offer, with a great salary, and the position was taken away two days before he was supposed to start. He found out his ex-wife was in a serious relationship; the "new guy" spending more time with his son than he did. His mom was very sick. He had a shitty relationship with his father. His friends started to become distant.
Finally, he met a new woman. He hit it off right away with her. He even went so far as to think they would spend the rest of their lives together. The bond was that strong. The problem was, his life was in such shambles that the new woman, rightfully so, decided that he couldn't handle a relationship until he got back on his feet, and broke it off after a few months. He was evicted from his apartment shortly after. His debt piled up. There were no lucrative job offers on the table. In a nutshell, this guy was fucked.
As my friend's 31st birthday approached, things seemed pretty dim, to say the least. There were two directions he could have gone. Give up, or give it all he had to turn things around. This man, yes MAN, turned things around. He said to me, when I asked him what his plan was, "Vinny....no matter what happens to me and to my life, the sun is going to rise tomorrow. There will be new opportunities. There's only one way to go but up, at this point. I'm a hard worker. I'll find a new place to live, a great job...and maybe, just maybe, things will work out with the perfect girl that I stumbled upon. And if not, I'll move on. Life is going to happen, but only if I take it by the balls."
"The sun is going to rise tomorrow." That really hit home for me. No matter how bad things get in life, the world doesn't care. A new day will begin, and then another, and then another. You could be homeless, alone, and broke....but the world and all it's inhabitants don't give a shit. So you have to make your own way. You have to say, "Ya know what, FUCK YOU. I don't care what you throw at me, I'm gonna be fine. I'm gonna take all this shit, all this bad karma, and use it as fuel to pour on the fire under my ass to make myself better. If that's not being a man, I don't know what is.
I'm inspired by this man, and make no mistake, he is a man. A good man, with a good heart and a relentless sense of bettering himself. He's my inspiration. I thought he would break. I thought he would give up. Shit, I thought he might down a bottle of pills and just take himself out of the equation...but he never even got close to that point. Life beat the shit out of him. He just got up, dusted himself off, cleaned the poop off his finger, and soldiered on. That's what a man does when faced with adversity.
At some point, you need to take control, regardless of the hopelessness of the situation. If you ever find yourself in such a position. You can give up, sit on your couch, and say "Fuck it." OR, you can get beat down, get back up, and give life the proverbial uppercut to the nuts. Tomorrow is always another day. As long as you have air in your lungs and blood is pumping through your veins...you have the ability to own your destiny. You have the ability to go out and get the job you need, or change your career to something you love. You have the ability to get yourself back on your feet financially. You can be a great parent to your children. Hell, maybe you can even find your true soul mate, as gay as that sounds. Who knows, maybe it can even be the woman you needed to prove yourself to. Maybe she'll move on. It doesn't matter. It's a product of bettering one's self that either she'll see, or someone else will
I'm pulling for my buddy, I really am. I've never seen anyone battle life like he has and continues to do so. I know that if I ever hit rock bottom, the sun will rise every day. New opportunities will present themselves, and when they do, you need to grab them by the balls, squeeze, and not let go until you have what you want.
If you're in the same position as my friend. Don't be a bitch. Be a man. Fuck everyone else. Fuck the entire planet. It's all about you, and what you do with your day. You might not accomplish everything you need to overnight...but you know what, you'll go to sleep tonight, the sun will rise, the new day will begin, and you'll have a fresh start to fight for what you need. It's not hard. Rock bottom is not that bad. Rock bottom is just a great excuse to make yourself the best man you can be.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Woodstock '99
Where do I even begin? To quote the character David Ershon from The Other Guys, "I think the best way to tell the story is by starting at the end, briefly, then going back to the beginning, and then periodically returning to the end, maybe giving different characters' perspectives throughout. Just to give it a bit of dynamism, otherwise it's just sort of a linear story."
Using that formula, which was a pretty funny quote in the movie, actually has some story-telling merit, so here we go.
Woodstock '99 ended with a full blown riot. Thanks a lot Fred Durst. My friends and I escaped with our lives, but it seems like just barely. It was me, 4 other guys, (not the usual cast of characters) and 1 girl. My friend Lola was my number 1 concern as we emerged from the fiery hell that took place that night on the abandoned airfield in upstate New York. I was literally concerned for her safety. By the time The Red Hot Chili Peppers, who headlined the festival, had begun their set, we were dodging collapsing light towers, tipped over equipment trailers, upside-down vehicles, broken ATM machines being dragged through the mud, and naked hippies who were hell bent on burning the entire area to the ground.
It all started with us purchasing the tickets. We were in our late teens at the time and we were jazzed up. One of my friends and I decided we would volunteer to make the 5 hour drive to Rome, NY. I had a 1987 Plymouth Reliant hatchback...not exactly the most reliable vehicle in the world, as the model of the car would lead you to believe. Though it was more of a lack of options than a choice. My buddy had an equally old, equally unreliable vehicle. Would we make it there and back in these shitboxes? It was anyone's guess before we departed, but we didn't care. We had just graduated high school and it seemed like the timing was right for this to be a once in a lifetime opportunity. What teenager wouldn't want to go see 3 days worth of great bands and hang out with thousands of like-minded maniacs, both young and old. Besides, we had nothing better to do.
Off we went, desecrating the highway and back roads en route to the airfield to celebrate the 30th anniversary of the original Woodstock. The spirit of 1969 was with us...at least from what we had read about or heard from our parents. In this spirit, we stole road signs and vandalized bathrooms of gas stations along the way north. By the way, if you're wondering how 6 teenagers who just graduated high school and barely had part-time jobs could afford such a long road trip, remember gas was like 89 cents a gallon back then.
It was going to be a magical three days. All of the top bands from the 90's were there, a few classic rock legends, tens of thousands of people, a beer garden, a rave hangar, an unending city of tents, 100 degree weather, $6 bottles of water, and like a dozen portable toilets. What could possibly go wrong?
REALLY EVENT PLANNERS?? FUCKING REALLY!!
Well as you might imagine, the first 36 hours or so went ok. People listened to music, drank, did drugs, walked around naked, and generally had a good time meeting other happy people.
THEN, people became hot, tired, and hungry. In fact, at one point, my friend Lola and I picked up someone's dropped food that landed near our tent and ate it. My friends became buddies with these dudes dressed in ponchos and gas masks and called themselves the poncho villas, scaring the bejeezus out of anyone who approached. I don't have much else to say about this, but rest assured it was ridiculous.
By day three, people were getting very irritable...nope, that's not the word for it. The masses were ANGRY. Mutiny was in the air, and we could all feel the storm approaching. Temperatures had reached 100 degrees for the third strait day, and there was NO shade within miles. I'm talking not even a small, fluffy, high altitude cloud. There were no showers, barely any running water, and after 72 hours, everyone was too broke to afford even bottled water after getting ass-raped by the concession vendors for an entire weekend. Do you really think anyone was smart enough to pack their own supplies? Nope. People just got in their cars and drove. Most packed tents and MAYBE a day's worth of food/non-alcoholic drinks. Obviously, impending disaster was afoot.
Their were signs of this festering whitehead of a pimple ripening to the point of exploding all over the proverbial mirror which was "the airfield." We witnessed a group of people, who had somehow managed to lose every stitch of clothing, destroying a concession stand and making off with water, which they then dispensed to the masses. I'll never know for sure if this was the spark that ignited the powder keg, or if events like this were happening all around us...but this was the last stitch of reality and normalcy we had witnessed and would witness until we were the hell out of there.
But we had spent a lot of money on these tickets, and had driven all this way. We elected to soldier on into the last night of the festival, even though the lawlessness of the situation, and the reasoning and even dignity of the crowd had all but diminished.
And then Limp Bizkit took the stage. If you know their style of music then you already know that mixed with the above described scene, and lead singer Fred Durst practically begging for everyone to destroy the airfield by the end of their performance, riot was inevitable. As the final band, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, took the stage, it was getting scary. Legit scary. It wasn't so much the individual acts of atrocity that were going on that scared us, it was more the entirety of all the small incidents adding up into what amounted to a sea of crazed, drunk, drugged up lunatics. We as 19 year olds were not equipped to deal with these things. We hadn't yet had the life experience to either deal with it or join in. Had I been with my usual cohorts and it had occurred 5 years later, things might have gone quite differently.
Some of the sights we observed were nearly inhuman: including various young men and women urinating and defecating all over the place, just wherever they wanted; people lighting fires to things I didn't even think were flammable; tearing down fences, walls, staging, lighting towers and whatever the hell else stood more than a foot off the ground; and beating the shit out of the poor vendors who had the audacity to attempt to try to sell water. That was it for us. I had lost my 4 guy friends, but I had a responsibility to get Lola the hell out of this place that had clearly been forsaken by the Gods.
We made our way through the seemingly millions of bodies in our way and through impossible odds we found the Reliant, prayed for it to start, and got the hell out of there. The two of us hoped that the rest of our companions were alive, but we were headed home. I threw my Nikes out the window and began the long road back to reality.
Using that formula, which was a pretty funny quote in the movie, actually has some story-telling merit, so here we go.
Woodstock '99 ended with a full blown riot. Thanks a lot Fred Durst. My friends and I escaped with our lives, but it seems like just barely. It was me, 4 other guys, (not the usual cast of characters) and 1 girl. My friend Lola was my number 1 concern as we emerged from the fiery hell that took place that night on the abandoned airfield in upstate New York. I was literally concerned for her safety. By the time The Red Hot Chili Peppers, who headlined the festival, had begun their set, we were dodging collapsing light towers, tipped over equipment trailers, upside-down vehicles, broken ATM machines being dragged through the mud, and naked hippies who were hell bent on burning the entire area to the ground.
It all started with us purchasing the tickets. We were in our late teens at the time and we were jazzed up. One of my friends and I decided we would volunteer to make the 5 hour drive to Rome, NY. I had a 1987 Plymouth Reliant hatchback...not exactly the most reliable vehicle in the world, as the model of the car would lead you to believe. Though it was more of a lack of options than a choice. My buddy had an equally old, equally unreliable vehicle. Would we make it there and back in these shitboxes? It was anyone's guess before we departed, but we didn't care. We had just graduated high school and it seemed like the timing was right for this to be a once in a lifetime opportunity. What teenager wouldn't want to go see 3 days worth of great bands and hang out with thousands of like-minded maniacs, both young and old. Besides, we had nothing better to do.
Off we went, desecrating the highway and back roads en route to the airfield to celebrate the 30th anniversary of the original Woodstock. The spirit of 1969 was with us...at least from what we had read about or heard from our parents. In this spirit, we stole road signs and vandalized bathrooms of gas stations along the way north. By the way, if you're wondering how 6 teenagers who just graduated high school and barely had part-time jobs could afford such a long road trip, remember gas was like 89 cents a gallon back then.
It was going to be a magical three days. All of the top bands from the 90's were there, a few classic rock legends, tens of thousands of people, a beer garden, a rave hangar, an unending city of tents, 100 degree weather, $6 bottles of water, and like a dozen portable toilets. What could possibly go wrong?
REALLY EVENT PLANNERS?? FUCKING REALLY!!
Well as you might imagine, the first 36 hours or so went ok. People listened to music, drank, did drugs, walked around naked, and generally had a good time meeting other happy people.
THEN, people became hot, tired, and hungry. In fact, at one point, my friend Lola and I picked up someone's dropped food that landed near our tent and ate it. My friends became buddies with these dudes dressed in ponchos and gas masks and called themselves the poncho villas, scaring the bejeezus out of anyone who approached. I don't have much else to say about this, but rest assured it was ridiculous.
By day three, people were getting very irritable...nope, that's not the word for it. The masses were ANGRY. Mutiny was in the air, and we could all feel the storm approaching. Temperatures had reached 100 degrees for the third strait day, and there was NO shade within miles. I'm talking not even a small, fluffy, high altitude cloud. There were no showers, barely any running water, and after 72 hours, everyone was too broke to afford even bottled water after getting ass-raped by the concession vendors for an entire weekend. Do you really think anyone was smart enough to pack their own supplies? Nope. People just got in their cars and drove. Most packed tents and MAYBE a day's worth of food/non-alcoholic drinks. Obviously, impending disaster was afoot.
Their were signs of this festering whitehead of a pimple ripening to the point of exploding all over the proverbial mirror which was "the airfield." We witnessed a group of people, who had somehow managed to lose every stitch of clothing, destroying a concession stand and making off with water, which they then dispensed to the masses. I'll never know for sure if this was the spark that ignited the powder keg, or if events like this were happening all around us...but this was the last stitch of reality and normalcy we had witnessed and would witness until we were the hell out of there.
But we had spent a lot of money on these tickets, and had driven all this way. We elected to soldier on into the last night of the festival, even though the lawlessness of the situation, and the reasoning and even dignity of the crowd had all but diminished.
And then Limp Bizkit took the stage. If you know their style of music then you already know that mixed with the above described scene, and lead singer Fred Durst practically begging for everyone to destroy the airfield by the end of their performance, riot was inevitable. As the final band, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, took the stage, it was getting scary. Legit scary. It wasn't so much the individual acts of atrocity that were going on that scared us, it was more the entirety of all the small incidents adding up into what amounted to a sea of crazed, drunk, drugged up lunatics. We as 19 year olds were not equipped to deal with these things. We hadn't yet had the life experience to either deal with it or join in. Had I been with my usual cohorts and it had occurred 5 years later, things might have gone quite differently.
Some of the sights we observed were nearly inhuman: including various young men and women urinating and defecating all over the place, just wherever they wanted; people lighting fires to things I didn't even think were flammable; tearing down fences, walls, staging, lighting towers and whatever the hell else stood more than a foot off the ground; and beating the shit out of the poor vendors who had the audacity to attempt to try to sell water. That was it for us. I had lost my 4 guy friends, but I had a responsibility to get Lola the hell out of this place that had clearly been forsaken by the Gods.
We made our way through the seemingly millions of bodies in our way and through impossible odds we found the Reliant, prayed for it to start, and got the hell out of there. The two of us hoped that the rest of our companions were alive, but we were headed home. I threw my Nikes out the window and began the long road back to reality.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
"THE" Sacco River Trip-Part 3
Part 3
I don't know how many people have actually stripped naked and shit in an overly populated river before, but it can't have been too many times. We all thought it was epic and laughed hysterically for the remainder of the trip.
We somehow managed to get B-Ride back in one of the canoes, (we continued to stick Poor Bastard with him.) We even managed to get the kid's pants on. We probably should have made an attempt to get him to cool it on the vodka at this point, but any attempts would have been futile, and potentially dangerous. Like I said before, the line between funny angry B-Ride and violent angry B-Ride was a slippery slope, and none of us wanted to risk losing any teeth on this day. This thin line would soon be tested.
The hilarity of the river poop temporarily subsided and we continued our drinking until we were good and sauced. No matter how many beers we consumed; however, we would not be able to compare to the inebriation that B-Ride experienced. There was more to our perception of him than we had originally observed. He had always acted on the verge of crazy while drinking vodka, but he dropped a bomb on us shortly after the poop incident. During the time when he met up with the random campers and shotgunned a beer, he quietly and secretly also drank some mushroom tea. Bad combination. Hilarious, of course, but bad. Our cautious laughter barely hid our terror.
We soon drifted past a group of campers on the bank of the river. They consisted of some pretty hot girls and a group of about 5 "tough guys." If these clowns weren't as drunk as us, they were pretty close. All of us attempted to persuade the girls to ditch the losers and come with us. The logistics of this request were ridiculous, of course, due to the lack of room in our canoes, not to mention that these stuck up bitches wanted nothing to do with us, despite the fact that we were 10 times more awesome than the douchebags they were currently hanging out with. Undaunted, we continued our obnoxious yelling at the group. As our persistence was continually ignored, our compliments of the girls and ignoring of the guys soon turned to being plain mean to all of them. The guys eventually took exception and the yelling back and forth continued. One of them then grabbed a hatchet...yup, a hatchet, and began running after our canoes. I'm sure you've all tried running in waist deep water and I'm sure you can all figure out the results. This numbnuts waded after us, carrying on and swinging his ridiculous weapon like a moron. We admired his courage....wait, no we didn't, we made fun of his stupidity. One idiot with a rusty, dull hatchet would be no match for us. We even had the advantage of the high ground, being in the canoes. B-Ride was up for the challenge, you know, cause he was a bottle and a half deep in vodka and tripping balls on mushroom tea. Before he could jump in and most likely use his vodka super powers to annihilate their entire crew and possibly leave bodies scattered all over the beach, Slatz, ever the pacifist, managed to stop him by distracting him with a rock that was sticking out of the river.
"Hahahaha....that rock looks awesome!"
Mission accomplished and disaster averted...barely. To their credit, the other 4 guys from the campsite got the "B-Ride" of their group to settle down and we drifted past without confrontation. We felt lucky since if it was up to B-Ride, Joey, and Merph, (by far the most aggressive of our group), we would have beat up the guys, (and possibly the girls, who knows at this point), and burnt their entire campsite to the ground after stealing their supplies. It would have been just like medieval times or some shit.
The drinking continued as we began barrelling down the river, and we began to see fewer and fewer campers. It was now getting time to set up camp, but there were no more beaches, only swampy, muddy river banks with nests of millions of mosquitoes guarding the areas. The alcohol had muddied also any chance we had at a coherent thought...but after much deliberation, we elected to try to pull the canoes up onto the mud and set up our tents. As we tried this, B-Ride tipped over one of the canoes. Naturally, the canoe that tipped was the one holding the bag of my brother Joey. So now not only was his sleeping bag ruined from day 1, but virtually everything else he brought with him was soaked. He pretended to brush it off and tell B-Ride not to worry about it after he apologized about 39 times. Knowing my brother his entire life; however, I could tell he was steaming beneath his facade of calmness.
As 5 of us set up tents, literally being consumed alive by mosquitoes, B-Ride elected to punish himself for his indiscretions by fighting an oak tree. Though he packs a powerful punch, he was no match for the 200 year old behemoth tree. Literally shattering his knuckles, he continued to punch the tree until his little brother got in his way. B-Ride took exception to this, and the line from funny to angry had officially been breached. He went on a tirade from which there was no escape. Things were getting ugly. We couldn't stay at this spot. It was too muddy to even stand, let alone set up tents, and the bugs were just too much. We were doomed. We needed to hit the river again, but it was getting dark and we had no idea if the camping areas would just get worse the further we went.
Our salvation came in the form of two locals who drove past us slowly in a small boat. They reminded me of a couple of the gator hunters from the show "Swamp People." B-Ride's brother, clearly tired of having to deal with him, flagged the hillbillies down. We knew we needed help, but was this the answer? We asked them if there were any camping sites further down river. They said no, and even though we knew that they probably traversed this same river a thousand times...we had no choice but to believe them. One of us would have to board their vessel and travel with them down the river to look for a decent spot to camp. We knew this was a bad idea, but we were out of options. B-Ride's brother bravely volunteered, jumped onto the yokels boat, and they drove out of site.
"You guys know that we might never see him again, right?" Nails stated the obvious.
"He had a good run." Slatz figured.
Morale was at an all time low. Millions of mosquitoes, bloated on the feast of our alcohol infused blood, began dropping dead of alcohol poisoning. After a while, we began to seriously ponder the fate of B-Ride's brother. Time had lost all meaning, B-Ride's hand had swollen up to the size of a cantaloupe, and hope was nearly completely lost, when we heard the hum of the small boat's motor returning to our hell. B-Ride's brother hopped out, hugging the clowns as though they had been friends their entire lives.
"Saddle up boys, me Jed and Amos found a decent spot about a half hour away." Catching our second wind, we broke down the tents, loaded up the canoes, and got 3 of them in the river. Joey's canoe, which we had tipped upside-down on up on the bank to attempt to dry it out, was the last one in. Some how, some way, B-Ride managed to tip the gatdamn thing over again....with Joey's shit inside, once again.
"Fuck it." He said, beaten but not broken. "Let's get the hell out of here."
The drinking and eating continued throughout the short trip to the new campsite and beyond. We setup camp, made a fire, and enjoyed our final night in the wilderness. As it turns out, we long overshot our second day on the river, and by the third day, we made it to the end in about an hour. Whoops.
We waited in the hot sun for our shuttle to arrive while we sweated out the ridiculous amounts of booze we had pickled ourselves with.
"Maybe next year we'll just camp on dry ground somewhere."
I don't know how many people have actually stripped naked and shit in an overly populated river before, but it can't have been too many times. We all thought it was epic and laughed hysterically for the remainder of the trip.
We somehow managed to get B-Ride back in one of the canoes, (we continued to stick Poor Bastard with him.) We even managed to get the kid's pants on. We probably should have made an attempt to get him to cool it on the vodka at this point, but any attempts would have been futile, and potentially dangerous. Like I said before, the line between funny angry B-Ride and violent angry B-Ride was a slippery slope, and none of us wanted to risk losing any teeth on this day. This thin line would soon be tested.
The hilarity of the river poop temporarily subsided and we continued our drinking until we were good and sauced. No matter how many beers we consumed; however, we would not be able to compare to the inebriation that B-Ride experienced. There was more to our perception of him than we had originally observed. He had always acted on the verge of crazy while drinking vodka, but he dropped a bomb on us shortly after the poop incident. During the time when he met up with the random campers and shotgunned a beer, he quietly and secretly also drank some mushroom tea. Bad combination. Hilarious, of course, but bad. Our cautious laughter barely hid our terror.
We soon drifted past a group of campers on the bank of the river. They consisted of some pretty hot girls and a group of about 5 "tough guys." If these clowns weren't as drunk as us, they were pretty close. All of us attempted to persuade the girls to ditch the losers and come with us. The logistics of this request were ridiculous, of course, due to the lack of room in our canoes, not to mention that these stuck up bitches wanted nothing to do with us, despite the fact that we were 10 times more awesome than the douchebags they were currently hanging out with. Undaunted, we continued our obnoxious yelling at the group. As our persistence was continually ignored, our compliments of the girls and ignoring of the guys soon turned to being plain mean to all of them. The guys eventually took exception and the yelling back and forth continued. One of them then grabbed a hatchet...yup, a hatchet, and began running after our canoes. I'm sure you've all tried running in waist deep water and I'm sure you can all figure out the results. This numbnuts waded after us, carrying on and swinging his ridiculous weapon like a moron. We admired his courage....wait, no we didn't, we made fun of his stupidity. One idiot with a rusty, dull hatchet would be no match for us. We even had the advantage of the high ground, being in the canoes. B-Ride was up for the challenge, you know, cause he was a bottle and a half deep in vodka and tripping balls on mushroom tea. Before he could jump in and most likely use his vodka super powers to annihilate their entire crew and possibly leave bodies scattered all over the beach, Slatz, ever the pacifist, managed to stop him by distracting him with a rock that was sticking out of the river.
"Hahahaha....that rock looks awesome!"
Mission accomplished and disaster averted...barely. To their credit, the other 4 guys from the campsite got the "B-Ride" of their group to settle down and we drifted past without confrontation. We felt lucky since if it was up to B-Ride, Joey, and Merph, (by far the most aggressive of our group), we would have beat up the guys, (and possibly the girls, who knows at this point), and burnt their entire campsite to the ground after stealing their supplies. It would have been just like medieval times or some shit.
The drinking continued as we began barrelling down the river, and we began to see fewer and fewer campers. It was now getting time to set up camp, but there were no more beaches, only swampy, muddy river banks with nests of millions of mosquitoes guarding the areas. The alcohol had muddied also any chance we had at a coherent thought...but after much deliberation, we elected to try to pull the canoes up onto the mud and set up our tents. As we tried this, B-Ride tipped over one of the canoes. Naturally, the canoe that tipped was the one holding the bag of my brother Joey. So now not only was his sleeping bag ruined from day 1, but virtually everything else he brought with him was soaked. He pretended to brush it off and tell B-Ride not to worry about it after he apologized about 39 times. Knowing my brother his entire life; however, I could tell he was steaming beneath his facade of calmness.
As 5 of us set up tents, literally being consumed alive by mosquitoes, B-Ride elected to punish himself for his indiscretions by fighting an oak tree. Though he packs a powerful punch, he was no match for the 200 year old behemoth tree. Literally shattering his knuckles, he continued to punch the tree until his little brother got in his way. B-Ride took exception to this, and the line from funny to angry had officially been breached. He went on a tirade from which there was no escape. Things were getting ugly. We couldn't stay at this spot. It was too muddy to even stand, let alone set up tents, and the bugs were just too much. We were doomed. We needed to hit the river again, but it was getting dark and we had no idea if the camping areas would just get worse the further we went.
Our salvation came in the form of two locals who drove past us slowly in a small boat. They reminded me of a couple of the gator hunters from the show "Swamp People." B-Ride's brother, clearly tired of having to deal with him, flagged the hillbillies down. We knew we needed help, but was this the answer? We asked them if there were any camping sites further down river. They said no, and even though we knew that they probably traversed this same river a thousand times...we had no choice but to believe them. One of us would have to board their vessel and travel with them down the river to look for a decent spot to camp. We knew this was a bad idea, but we were out of options. B-Ride's brother bravely volunteered, jumped onto the yokels boat, and they drove out of site.
"You guys know that we might never see him again, right?" Nails stated the obvious.
"He had a good run." Slatz figured.
Morale was at an all time low. Millions of mosquitoes, bloated on the feast of our alcohol infused blood, began dropping dead of alcohol poisoning. After a while, we began to seriously ponder the fate of B-Ride's brother. Time had lost all meaning, B-Ride's hand had swollen up to the size of a cantaloupe, and hope was nearly completely lost, when we heard the hum of the small boat's motor returning to our hell. B-Ride's brother hopped out, hugging the clowns as though they had been friends their entire lives.
"Saddle up boys, me Jed and Amos found a decent spot about a half hour away." Catching our second wind, we broke down the tents, loaded up the canoes, and got 3 of them in the river. Joey's canoe, which we had tipped upside-down on up on the bank to attempt to dry it out, was the last one in. Some how, some way, B-Ride managed to tip the gatdamn thing over again....with Joey's shit inside, once again.
"Fuck it." He said, beaten but not broken. "Let's get the hell out of here."
The drinking and eating continued throughout the short trip to the new campsite and beyond. We setup camp, made a fire, and enjoyed our final night in the wilderness. As it turns out, we long overshot our second day on the river, and by the third day, we made it to the end in about an hour. Whoops.
We waited in the hot sun for our shuttle to arrive while we sweated out the ridiculous amounts of booze we had pickled ourselves with.
"Maybe next year we'll just camp on dry ground somewhere."
Monday, September 19, 2011
"THE" Sacco River Trip-Part 2
Part 2:
We awoke on day 2, as planned, still drunk from the day/night before. As it was incredibly hot, the tents in which we passed out became like greenhouses very early in the morning. I left my tent to, remarkably, B-Ride cooking breakfast on the grill. Two bottles of vodka were nearby, and one of them had been cracked. It was 7:15 a.m. Not surprisingly, the lesbians had already packed up camp and had headed on down the river. Screw them for judging us.
A little something you should know about B-Ride. Vodka is his kryptonite...or his spinach, depending on how you look at it. He is the gentlest soul you'd ever hope to meet when sober or just drinking beer. But when he gets vodka coursing through his veins...he is literally uncontrollable. I knew right away it would be a long day. The rest of our group had begun to trickle out of their tents, and each gave the other a look of sheer terror. B-Ride drinking vodka at 7:15 a.m. was both exciting and horrifying. Either way, we knew the day would be memorable. We all went swimming in the river to wash some of the grime from the previous day off of us and ready ourselves for a delicious breakfast of eggs, bacon, and sausage. It didn't take long for B-Ride to begin to feel the effects of the devil's cough medicine, and though he successfully pulled off breakfast, (he actually cooks even better when drunk) we could tell from his eyes and his goofy smile that the vodka had begun to take over.
By this point, Joey had realized his sleeping bag was garbage. As expected, he shrugged it off and let it roll off his shoulders. My brother is great like that. Slatz and I gave each other an approving nod as Joey actually laughed at the situation.
We packed up camp without issue and began our second leg down the Sacco River. Slatz and I were in one canoe, Merph and Nails paired up in one, Joey and B-Ride's little brother took one, and B-Ride took the canoe with the poor bastard that came up with his little brother. It didn't take long for the vodka coursing through B-Ride's veins to take control. While the rest of us chugged beer like normal people and floated in a strait line down the river, B-Ride and poor bastard zig-zagged from bank to bank. B-Ride's laughter could be heard up and down the Sacco. It was getting ugly and we knew it.
At one point, some campers had called B-Ride over to their site on the bank of the river, clearly either intrigued or annoyed by his boisterous behavior. When B-Ride drinks vodka, he gets violent drunk. Sometimes jokingly violent, other times angry violent...and the line is very, very thin. As we looked back to see what was going on, we didn't know what to expect as he approached the campers. We couldn't hear the conversation, but could tell by the body language that the interaction had gone well. After shotgunning a beer and firing the can into the previously pristine river, B-Ride and poor bastard said goodbye to their new friends and tried frantically to catch the rest of us. This only caused them to zig-zag more and we had to pull over and wait for these clowns. Poor bastard was actually helpless. He was stuck with B-Ride and there was nothing he could say or do to try to get him to cooperate and steer the canoe straight.
After about 10 minutes and another quarter bottle of vodka, B-Ride reached the rest of us. Out of nowhere, he jumped up out of his own canoe and dove onto the one occupied by Nails and Merph. He subsequently smashed both legs and his face on the business end of the canoe, and fell into the river, laughing the entire time. It was even clearer at this point that it was going to be a disaster from here on out, and our fun trip would soon turn into a mission to control the runaway train that was B-Ride on vodka. Amazingly, the canoe that B-Ride face planted into didn't capsize, but he DID wind up in the river, and it didn't seem to bother him. In fact, he seemed so exhilarated by the experience that he tossed his bathing suit off and threw it onto his canoe, horrifying poor bastard. We just watched, as he was now completely naked, standing waist high in the Sacco water. There was really nothing else we could have done. Reason was out the window, and if anyone attempted to approach him to control the situation, they surely would have wound up with a black eye or chipped tooth or worse. We were helpless...and B-Ride knew it.
He stood in the river as we watched him, wondering in amazement what his next move could possibly be. Luckily there was nobody around at this particular time, meaning the rest of us didn't have to explain ourselves. We thought B-Ride had passed out standing up since he stood perfectly still for about a minute, but we couldn't have been more wrong. We would soon find out why.
Suddenly his face was filled with euphoria and he let out just the slightest giggle. "I just pooped! HAHAHAHA!! I feel like a dolphin." We all laughed but we weren't even really surprised. A couple of us even thought he was joking until there it was, clear as day... a giant log of poop floating down the river.
"Not cool man." Merph said, obligatorily. B-Ride just laughed. I just felt bad for the poor sumbitches down river who would eventually come across this tree branch sized poop. I could only hope. We eventually got B-Ride back in one of the canoes, shrugging off the atrocity that he had just committed. At least his ass was clean, we figured. It had just been hosed down by a naturally flowing ass douche, after all.
It was only mid-day, and we were just getting warmed up. Our canoes hurtled further down the river into the unknown.
Part 3 and the conclusion to follow....
We awoke on day 2, as planned, still drunk from the day/night before. As it was incredibly hot, the tents in which we passed out became like greenhouses very early in the morning. I left my tent to, remarkably, B-Ride cooking breakfast on the grill. Two bottles of vodka were nearby, and one of them had been cracked. It was 7:15 a.m. Not surprisingly, the lesbians had already packed up camp and had headed on down the river. Screw them for judging us.
A little something you should know about B-Ride. Vodka is his kryptonite...or his spinach, depending on how you look at it. He is the gentlest soul you'd ever hope to meet when sober or just drinking beer. But when he gets vodka coursing through his veins...he is literally uncontrollable. I knew right away it would be a long day. The rest of our group had begun to trickle out of their tents, and each gave the other a look of sheer terror. B-Ride drinking vodka at 7:15 a.m. was both exciting and horrifying. Either way, we knew the day would be memorable. We all went swimming in the river to wash some of the grime from the previous day off of us and ready ourselves for a delicious breakfast of eggs, bacon, and sausage. It didn't take long for B-Ride to begin to feel the effects of the devil's cough medicine, and though he successfully pulled off breakfast, (he actually cooks even better when drunk) we could tell from his eyes and his goofy smile that the vodka had begun to take over.
By this point, Joey had realized his sleeping bag was garbage. As expected, he shrugged it off and let it roll off his shoulders. My brother is great like that. Slatz and I gave each other an approving nod as Joey actually laughed at the situation.
We packed up camp without issue and began our second leg down the Sacco River. Slatz and I were in one canoe, Merph and Nails paired up in one, Joey and B-Ride's little brother took one, and B-Ride took the canoe with the poor bastard that came up with his little brother. It didn't take long for the vodka coursing through B-Ride's veins to take control. While the rest of us chugged beer like normal people and floated in a strait line down the river, B-Ride and poor bastard zig-zagged from bank to bank. B-Ride's laughter could be heard up and down the Sacco. It was getting ugly and we knew it.
At one point, some campers had called B-Ride over to their site on the bank of the river, clearly either intrigued or annoyed by his boisterous behavior. When B-Ride drinks vodka, he gets violent drunk. Sometimes jokingly violent, other times angry violent...and the line is very, very thin. As we looked back to see what was going on, we didn't know what to expect as he approached the campers. We couldn't hear the conversation, but could tell by the body language that the interaction had gone well. After shotgunning a beer and firing the can into the previously pristine river, B-Ride and poor bastard said goodbye to their new friends and tried frantically to catch the rest of us. This only caused them to zig-zag more and we had to pull over and wait for these clowns. Poor bastard was actually helpless. He was stuck with B-Ride and there was nothing he could say or do to try to get him to cooperate and steer the canoe straight.
After about 10 minutes and another quarter bottle of vodka, B-Ride reached the rest of us. Out of nowhere, he jumped up out of his own canoe and dove onto the one occupied by Nails and Merph. He subsequently smashed both legs and his face on the business end of the canoe, and fell into the river, laughing the entire time. It was even clearer at this point that it was going to be a disaster from here on out, and our fun trip would soon turn into a mission to control the runaway train that was B-Ride on vodka. Amazingly, the canoe that B-Ride face planted into didn't capsize, but he DID wind up in the river, and it didn't seem to bother him. In fact, he seemed so exhilarated by the experience that he tossed his bathing suit off and threw it onto his canoe, horrifying poor bastard. We just watched, as he was now completely naked, standing waist high in the Sacco water. There was really nothing else we could have done. Reason was out the window, and if anyone attempted to approach him to control the situation, they surely would have wound up with a black eye or chipped tooth or worse. We were helpless...and B-Ride knew it.
He stood in the river as we watched him, wondering in amazement what his next move could possibly be. Luckily there was nobody around at this particular time, meaning the rest of us didn't have to explain ourselves. We thought B-Ride had passed out standing up since he stood perfectly still for about a minute, but we couldn't have been more wrong. We would soon find out why.
Suddenly his face was filled with euphoria and he let out just the slightest giggle. "I just pooped! HAHAHAHA!! I feel like a dolphin." We all laughed but we weren't even really surprised. A couple of us even thought he was joking until there it was, clear as day... a giant log of poop floating down the river.
"Not cool man." Merph said, obligatorily. B-Ride just laughed. I just felt bad for the poor sumbitches down river who would eventually come across this tree branch sized poop. I could only hope. We eventually got B-Ride back in one of the canoes, shrugging off the atrocity that he had just committed. At least his ass was clean, we figured. It had just been hosed down by a naturally flowing ass douche, after all.
It was only mid-day, and we were just getting warmed up. Our canoes hurtled further down the river into the unknown.
Part 3 and the conclusion to follow....
Thursday, September 15, 2011
"THE" Sacco River Trip- Part 1
This is the victorious legend of a fellowship of young men, who by the end of a long journey, became slightly better men, with an enormous tail to tell. It includes small defeats, large victories, and ultimately a story so epic, it needs to be told through the eyes of several of us who lived through it, and over several chapters. The following is part 1 of "THE" Sacco River Trip:
PART 1
8 men in their 20's with hundreds of beers, four bottles of liquor, two of which were vodka, 4 canoes, zero toilet paper, hundreds of other 20 somethings, and a river. What could go wrong?
My crew and I found out exactly that a while ago. I made the trip up north with my friends B-Ride, Nails, Merph, Slatz, my brother Joey, B-Ride's brother and one of his buddies. We ventured up north from Massachusetts to the Sacco River, a spot where young people flock every summer. A magical place where the alcohol flows almost as quickly as the river itself. It's a summertime tradition for most guys and girls in their 20's to head up for a few days of drunken debauchery while floating lazily down a river and ultimately to a shuttle which drives you back to your vehicle. As per usual with my crew of misfits and troubled souls, we took things just a bit further than most would dream. I'm sure everyone has their own war stories about the Sacco, and I'm not attempting to one-up anyone. I'll just say that there are some aspects to the following that I'm sure nobody has ever experienced.
We departed on a Friday morning in two SUV's, stopping only for gas, some food, enough water to possibly keep us hydrated for about half a day, and enough booze to destroy a thousand livers. There were 8 of us, we had no responsibilities for the weekend, and we were on a mission to get shitfaced drunk come hell, or more appropriately in this case, high water.
Upon arrival at the canoe rental place, we were getting fired up. The weather was hot but nice, we were all single, (well, most of us anyways, but we were in a different state, so it doesn't count), and there were scantily clad young females at every turn. We loaded our camping supplies, food, and most importantly, booze into the 4 canoes that we had rented until they were overflowing. So much so that we actually bought a floating cooler that we tied to the back of one of the canoes in order to fit our copious amount of beer. Our next mission was to carry the canoes to the drop-in point in the river. This was necessitated by the fact that nobody listened to my obvious idea of loading the canoes near the drop-in point, thus negating the need to physically carry the canoes about 50 feet, completely full of supplies and now weighing hundreds of pounds. My friends are not sharpest knives in the drawer. In fact, aside from Slatz and myself, most of my buddies are half retarded in some aspects of life. I love them all, but that's a fact, and I think each of them to a man would admit the same.
We shoved off and cracked the first beers. We were on our way to three days of summer fun, or so we thought. The first day was routine enough. We got drunk, but no more than anybody else, got used to piloting the canoes, and made it to what amounted to the first check point of the journey, a beach about half way down the river where we made camp and set up the grill and a campfire. We bought some firewood, listened to music, and even made some friends with others who camped at the same spot. Throughout the day, we had each consumed about 20-30 beers and got roasted in the unforgiving August sun. It probably would have been in our best interest to drink some water at this point, but fuck that, so we just kept pounding well into the night. B-Ride, who is a great cook, took control of the grill and fixed up some delicious shit. I can't remember what it was because I was a mess by this point.
The drunker we got that night, the more belligerent we became, which led to us turning into obnoxious assholes and annoying the other nearby campers. This seemed strange to us since basically the only rule on the Sacco was that were no rules and being as intoxicated as possible was the general goal of everyone there. It especially got under Nails' skin, and he began to take exception to the bitching of some kids nearby. Nails, along with myself, is one of the smaller of the guys in our crew, but also, along with myself, one of the feistier ones. Knowing that we had a large group of pretty big guys behind us, led by B-Ride, who is a brick shithouse, Nails and I were fearless. We had no problem dealing with the situation ourselves, but it certainly helped to have some big guns for support if needed. We started yelling back at some of the pussies who were giving us shit and nothing came of it except we actually had some moral support from two girls in the tent adjacent to ours. They came out and approached me and Nails. They weren't particularly attractive, but they weren't dumpster fires either. They were nice enough and we started shooting the shit with them. After some small talk it was learned that the two were girlfriends and aside from getting drunk, were just as into checking out the hot girls all around us as we were. This of course intrigued us and we decided that we would allow them to tag along with us for the rest of the trip.
We invited the lesbians to our campsite for some of B-Ride's delicious concoction of meats and grilled vegetables, but they declined, retreating back into their tent. We figured the only thing on the menu for them on this night was each other's vaginas. We told them we'd catch up with them later and sauntered back to our friends.
While we ate, we dried some towels, bathing suits, and sleeping bags that got a little wet during the first day on the water. We did this by propping the items up on long sticks that we stuck in the sand near our campfire. Merph and Joey took off up the beach to acquire some more fire wood. Slatz and I sat around the campfire while the rest of our group were off doing whatever. Somehow during this time one of the sticks holding Joey's sleeping bag tipped over directly into the fire. As we had been drinking strait for 10 hours, our reaction time was like a slow ass sloth. Slatz and I fished the sleeping bag out of the fire, giggling like the lesbians in the tent next door the whole time. By the time we extinguished the flame, the sleeping bag was a complete loss. As it turns out, sleeping bags are incredibly flammable.
"Shit, that thing's ruined. Joey is gonna be pissed." I said. My brother is like a powder keg with a pretty short fuse for stupidity. He can be mellow and very reasonable, more so than myself, but he has the Irish temper when something upsets him, and it usually makes for a miserable experience for anyone within ear shot, or punching distance.
"Well, what are you gonna do? It's probably not even his sleeping bag." Slatz reasoned. This was true, Joey had a knack for acquiring items from other people over the years. The fact remained; however, that the sleeping bag was ruined, and even though it was a hot weekend, not having anything to at least sleep on when you're lying on nothing but the floor of a tent is shitty.
We did the only logical thing, and we hung the sleeping bag up. It was charred, black, and had holes all the way through it. We placed it carefully back on it's stick and sat down like nothing had happened. Our hope was that nobody would notice until it was light out in the morning, and then we could blame it on somebody else. Not that it was our fault that it was burnt in the first place, but we preferred not to be associated with the event at all. Luckily, before Merph and Joey returned, B-Ride came over to the fire with a group of guys and girls and we socialized with them for a while. B-Ride immediately noticed the charred sleeping bag and let out his signature giggle. "Joey's gonna be pissed, hahahahaha!"
We were all drunk enough that this event could set Joey off, as he often does when this inebriated. Luckily by the morning during such partying, he usually wakes up with a clearer head, less rage, and soiled pants, thus allowing him to see the humor in the given situation.
Until then, we needed a distraction. As he and Merph approached carrying the wood, we placed the stick holding the sleeping bag onto the dark ground, away from the fire, and hoped he wouldn't notice. We next asked the kids who had come over to hang out with us to take a picture of our group. The picture turned out to be an Internet sensation to the people who we acquainted ourselves with. Everyone had their best drunken poses working and pie eyed expressions on their faces. I elected to take a different route. I stood in back of Slatz, clad in my red Sloth tee shirt from the Goonies. I pulled my nuts through my fly and placed them gently on Slatz' shoulder as the flash from the camera lit up the beach. The resulting picture can't be published here, but rest assured, it was a classic.
It was taken with one of those disposable cameras, so nobody could see the resulting image right away, but I made sure everyone there knew what the picture would look like, my nuts resting right next to Slatz' smiling face. I left my balls out long enough for everyone to notice and get a good laugh. Our new friends didn't find it so amusing and made haste back to their own site. I decided to tuck my balls back in my pants to avoid having to register as a sex offender.
Most everyone passed out a short time later, making sure they each drank enough that they'd still be drunk when we woke up to avoid hangovers...one of the many tricks that binge drinkers keep up their sleeves. Nails and I; however, had other things in mind. "Should we go see if the lesbians want to try some penis?" Nails asked me. I didn't respond but merely stood up and began stumbling towards their tent. Our first task was to find out if they sounded like they were awake, and furthermore, to find out if there was any heavy petting going on.
We heard some muffled sounds. Nails snapped his head up and looked at me with a wide grin as he pointed frantically down at the tent. I leaned in for a closer listen, apparently forgetting the fact that I had consumed about 40 beers during the course of the day. I quickly lost my balance and became top-heavy, falling on the tent and sending screams through the now relatively quiet beach.
"WHAT THE FUCK!!" The lesbians scrambled to unzip the fallen tent as I tried to get back to my feet. The task became more difficult as I was being punched and kicked through the nylon walls. I caught Nails' eyes briefly and the look on his face said both, "Uh-oh" while at the same time said, "This is hilarious."
By the time the lesbians got out of the tent and I got on my feet, half the beach was awake and looking in our direction. Nails tried to salvage the situation. "We were going to take a piss and tripped over your tent, sorry about that." The girls saw right through the silly-ass expression on his face as he tried to hold back his laughter. They looked at me. "Honestly girls, I wanted to see if you two wanted to hang out."
"What do you mean 'hang out?' Didn't you think we were sleeping." The bitchier lesbian scolded.
"It didn't sound like it...." Nails said under his breath.
I figured humor was my only way out of this jam. "Honestly ladies, I thought you may have caught a glimpse of my balls earlier and figured me and Nailsy here could try to convert you."
"Get the fuck away from us!"
Not a problem.
Coming soon, part 2....
PART 1
8 men in their 20's with hundreds of beers, four bottles of liquor, two of which were vodka, 4 canoes, zero toilet paper, hundreds of other 20 somethings, and a river. What could go wrong?
My crew and I found out exactly that a while ago. I made the trip up north with my friends B-Ride, Nails, Merph, Slatz, my brother Joey, B-Ride's brother and one of his buddies. We ventured up north from Massachusetts to the Sacco River, a spot where young people flock every summer. A magical place where the alcohol flows almost as quickly as the river itself. It's a summertime tradition for most guys and girls in their 20's to head up for a few days of drunken debauchery while floating lazily down a river and ultimately to a shuttle which drives you back to your vehicle. As per usual with my crew of misfits and troubled souls, we took things just a bit further than most would dream. I'm sure everyone has their own war stories about the Sacco, and I'm not attempting to one-up anyone. I'll just say that there are some aspects to the following that I'm sure nobody has ever experienced.
We departed on a Friday morning in two SUV's, stopping only for gas, some food, enough water to possibly keep us hydrated for about half a day, and enough booze to destroy a thousand livers. There were 8 of us, we had no responsibilities for the weekend, and we were on a mission to get shitfaced drunk come hell, or more appropriately in this case, high water.
Upon arrival at the canoe rental place, we were getting fired up. The weather was hot but nice, we were all single, (well, most of us anyways, but we were in a different state, so it doesn't count), and there were scantily clad young females at every turn. We loaded our camping supplies, food, and most importantly, booze into the 4 canoes that we had rented until they were overflowing. So much so that we actually bought a floating cooler that we tied to the back of one of the canoes in order to fit our copious amount of beer. Our next mission was to carry the canoes to the drop-in point in the river. This was necessitated by the fact that nobody listened to my obvious idea of loading the canoes near the drop-in point, thus negating the need to physically carry the canoes about 50 feet, completely full of supplies and now weighing hundreds of pounds. My friends are not sharpest knives in the drawer. In fact, aside from Slatz and myself, most of my buddies are half retarded in some aspects of life. I love them all, but that's a fact, and I think each of them to a man would admit the same.
We shoved off and cracked the first beers. We were on our way to three days of summer fun, or so we thought. The first day was routine enough. We got drunk, but no more than anybody else, got used to piloting the canoes, and made it to what amounted to the first check point of the journey, a beach about half way down the river where we made camp and set up the grill and a campfire. We bought some firewood, listened to music, and even made some friends with others who camped at the same spot. Throughout the day, we had each consumed about 20-30 beers and got roasted in the unforgiving August sun. It probably would have been in our best interest to drink some water at this point, but fuck that, so we just kept pounding well into the night. B-Ride, who is a great cook, took control of the grill and fixed up some delicious shit. I can't remember what it was because I was a mess by this point.
The drunker we got that night, the more belligerent we became, which led to us turning into obnoxious assholes and annoying the other nearby campers. This seemed strange to us since basically the only rule on the Sacco was that were no rules and being as intoxicated as possible was the general goal of everyone there. It especially got under Nails' skin, and he began to take exception to the bitching of some kids nearby. Nails, along with myself, is one of the smaller of the guys in our crew, but also, along with myself, one of the feistier ones. Knowing that we had a large group of pretty big guys behind us, led by B-Ride, who is a brick shithouse, Nails and I were fearless. We had no problem dealing with the situation ourselves, but it certainly helped to have some big guns for support if needed. We started yelling back at some of the pussies who were giving us shit and nothing came of it except we actually had some moral support from two girls in the tent adjacent to ours. They came out and approached me and Nails. They weren't particularly attractive, but they weren't dumpster fires either. They were nice enough and we started shooting the shit with them. After some small talk it was learned that the two were girlfriends and aside from getting drunk, were just as into checking out the hot girls all around us as we were. This of course intrigued us and we decided that we would allow them to tag along with us for the rest of the trip.
We invited the lesbians to our campsite for some of B-Ride's delicious concoction of meats and grilled vegetables, but they declined, retreating back into their tent. We figured the only thing on the menu for them on this night was each other's vaginas. We told them we'd catch up with them later and sauntered back to our friends.
While we ate, we dried some towels, bathing suits, and sleeping bags that got a little wet during the first day on the water. We did this by propping the items up on long sticks that we stuck in the sand near our campfire. Merph and Joey took off up the beach to acquire some more fire wood. Slatz and I sat around the campfire while the rest of our group were off doing whatever. Somehow during this time one of the sticks holding Joey's sleeping bag tipped over directly into the fire. As we had been drinking strait for 10 hours, our reaction time was like a slow ass sloth. Slatz and I fished the sleeping bag out of the fire, giggling like the lesbians in the tent next door the whole time. By the time we extinguished the flame, the sleeping bag was a complete loss. As it turns out, sleeping bags are incredibly flammable.
"Shit, that thing's ruined. Joey is gonna be pissed." I said. My brother is like a powder keg with a pretty short fuse for stupidity. He can be mellow and very reasonable, more so than myself, but he has the Irish temper when something upsets him, and it usually makes for a miserable experience for anyone within ear shot, or punching distance.
"Well, what are you gonna do? It's probably not even his sleeping bag." Slatz reasoned. This was true, Joey had a knack for acquiring items from other people over the years. The fact remained; however, that the sleeping bag was ruined, and even though it was a hot weekend, not having anything to at least sleep on when you're lying on nothing but the floor of a tent is shitty.
We did the only logical thing, and we hung the sleeping bag up. It was charred, black, and had holes all the way through it. We placed it carefully back on it's stick and sat down like nothing had happened. Our hope was that nobody would notice until it was light out in the morning, and then we could blame it on somebody else. Not that it was our fault that it was burnt in the first place, but we preferred not to be associated with the event at all. Luckily, before Merph and Joey returned, B-Ride came over to the fire with a group of guys and girls and we socialized with them for a while. B-Ride immediately noticed the charred sleeping bag and let out his signature giggle. "Joey's gonna be pissed, hahahahaha!"
We were all drunk enough that this event could set Joey off, as he often does when this inebriated. Luckily by the morning during such partying, he usually wakes up with a clearer head, less rage, and soiled pants, thus allowing him to see the humor in the given situation.
Until then, we needed a distraction. As he and Merph approached carrying the wood, we placed the stick holding the sleeping bag onto the dark ground, away from the fire, and hoped he wouldn't notice. We next asked the kids who had come over to hang out with us to take a picture of our group. The picture turned out to be an Internet sensation to the people who we acquainted ourselves with. Everyone had their best drunken poses working and pie eyed expressions on their faces. I elected to take a different route. I stood in back of Slatz, clad in my red Sloth tee shirt from the Goonies. I pulled my nuts through my fly and placed them gently on Slatz' shoulder as the flash from the camera lit up the beach. The resulting picture can't be published here, but rest assured, it was a classic.
It was taken with one of those disposable cameras, so nobody could see the resulting image right away, but I made sure everyone there knew what the picture would look like, my nuts resting right next to Slatz' smiling face. I left my balls out long enough for everyone to notice and get a good laugh. Our new friends didn't find it so amusing and made haste back to their own site. I decided to tuck my balls back in my pants to avoid having to register as a sex offender.
Most everyone passed out a short time later, making sure they each drank enough that they'd still be drunk when we woke up to avoid hangovers...one of the many tricks that binge drinkers keep up their sleeves. Nails and I; however, had other things in mind. "Should we go see if the lesbians want to try some penis?" Nails asked me. I didn't respond but merely stood up and began stumbling towards their tent. Our first task was to find out if they sounded like they were awake, and furthermore, to find out if there was any heavy petting going on.
We heard some muffled sounds. Nails snapped his head up and looked at me with a wide grin as he pointed frantically down at the tent. I leaned in for a closer listen, apparently forgetting the fact that I had consumed about 40 beers during the course of the day. I quickly lost my balance and became top-heavy, falling on the tent and sending screams through the now relatively quiet beach.
"WHAT THE FUCK!!" The lesbians scrambled to unzip the fallen tent as I tried to get back to my feet. The task became more difficult as I was being punched and kicked through the nylon walls. I caught Nails' eyes briefly and the look on his face said both, "Uh-oh" while at the same time said, "This is hilarious."
By the time the lesbians got out of the tent and I got on my feet, half the beach was awake and looking in our direction. Nails tried to salvage the situation. "We were going to take a piss and tripped over your tent, sorry about that." The girls saw right through the silly-ass expression on his face as he tried to hold back his laughter. They looked at me. "Honestly girls, I wanted to see if you two wanted to hang out."
"What do you mean 'hang out?' Didn't you think we were sleeping." The bitchier lesbian scolded.
"It didn't sound like it...." Nails said under his breath.
I figured humor was my only way out of this jam. "Honestly ladies, I thought you may have caught a glimpse of my balls earlier and figured me and Nailsy here could try to convert you."
"Get the fuck away from us!"
Not a problem.
Coming soon, part 2....
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Broken Hand, Shattered Egos
A few years back my friends and I got in a bar fight. Huge surprise right?
Me, Nails, Merph and my brother Joey Mac were drinking at a shitty bar. The only reason we were at this dump is because my buddy B-ride bartended there and we figured we'd get some food before we went out to an actual bar. It was a Friday night, not too late, and the place was dead. We shot the shit and busted balls and were having a decent time getting drunk. Joey was 20 at the time so he was drinking illegally, but other than that, we were having a decent time, behaving ourselves, and minding our own business.
Let me preface this story by explaining a little bit about my buddy Merph. He's a big dude and he gets riled up faster than Mike Tyson. He's not overly friendly with strangers, and he holds grudges with the best of 'em. Saying that, he's also one of the most loyal friends anyone could ask for. If you're his friend, he has your back without question. The problem is, he's such a troublemaker, that usually it's his friends who need to have his back.
So here we are, the 4 of us sitting at the bar and B-ride behind it. Merph is drinking vodka, so we're pretty happy that there is nobody else in the bar; until wouldn't you know it, a couple of douchebags walk in and sit right next to him. They're drunk, loud, and clearly grating on Merph within seconds. He looks over at the rest of us with the unmistakable face that he gets right before he goes off. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who caught it. I looked at Nails, who at the time had a broken hand. I looked at my brother, who was underage and could get B-ride in all kinds of trouble if the shit hit the fan. I thought to myself, "Damn, looks like I'm gonna be the only one who is of any use when Merph tells these kids to shut the fuck up and if they take exception."
Merph looked over at Douchebag #1. The kid had the audacity to say "what's up" to Merph. Not in a tough guy way, but more in a friendly drunken kind of way. He might have even offered to buy Merph a drink. It didn't matter, he could have offered to blow Merph and it wouldn't have made a difference. Merph had made up his mind.
"Kid, shut the fuck up, stop looking at me." That got our attention. We let out a collective sigh, like "Here we go again, thanks Merph!"
B-ride, ever the pacifist, even though he's built like a brick shithouse, attempted to diffuse the situation. He tried everything. He made jokes, he bought the Douchebags drinks, and honestly, nobody really thought anything would come of it because there was only two of them.
In Merph's defense, the kids WERE douchebags. They started to get defensive and invited Merph outside, which of course riled up and surprised the rest of us. There were 4 of us, even though Nails had the broken right hand, and only 2 of them. What could they hope to accomplish? Regardless, Nails and the McRoberts brothers, followed Merph and the douchebags into the parking lot. B-ride pleaded with Merph to let it go, but his attempts were falling on deaf ears. We entered the parking lot, which was empty aside from a few cars and much to our surprise, a large limo bus. Merph had blinders on was seeing red. Right before he went in for the kill, I put my arm out to stop him. I was the only one who had realized it at this point, but the douchebags had led us into a trap. A hornets nest. A rolling bachelor party. "Fuck."
Douchebag #1 and #2 briefly entered the bus as the four of us prepared for what would surely be a beat-down of epic proportions. It was too late to turn tail and head back inside. We would stay and fight, broken hand and shattered egos in tow.
Douchbags #1 and #2 exited the bus followed by Douchebags #3 through #14. You know that scene at the end of Lord of the Rings: Return of the King? Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and the hobbits are surrounded by the Orocai and are about to make their final stand. They are all back to back and ready to go down in a blaze of glory. That was the 4 of us, except we didn't have swords or axes or bows. We had an angry drunk who wasn't thinking clearly, two feisty Irishman on the smaller side who could throw a fist or two around, and Nails with the broken hand. As they approached, I made a last ditch effort to talk Merph down. I wasn't scared, but we were clearly outgunned and outmanned. "I don't suppose there's any room for diplomacy, is there Merph?"
As if I wasn't even there, Merph charged the busload of bachelor party attendees like he was William fucking Wallace. Granted, one on one, Merph probably would have handled each one of these clowns, but 14 against 3.5 were not good odds. Without much of a choice left, the rest of us followed, even Nails with the broken hand, God love him. Merph's charge led him strait to Douchebag #1, who he quickly knocked out cold with a single haymaker. That was about the extent of our victory. He was descended upon by the rest of the army and was pretty much rolled up. Nails and Joey stuck together and fended off several attacks while standing back to back. I didn't see much of what went on with those two, because most of the angry mob was focused on Merph. I put my head down and barrelled into the group of douchebags who were on top of Merph. Merph was doing ok to not wind up in the hospital, mainly due to his sheer size and drunken rage, but he didn't stand a chance against so many other dudes. I jumped up at full speed and turned my body into the backs of several of the assailants, throwing blind punches and knocking them off balance, drawing some attention. If Merph was gonna take a beating, I was going to at least take some of it with him. Despite the punches and kicks connected to both of us, we continued to call them pussies and other things, doing our best to avoid serious injury.
Just when all hope was lost, out bursted B-ride from the kitchen of the bar like Gandalf. He started picking dudes up with one hand and tossing them like rag dolls across the parking lot. I swear it looked like he came riding out on a horse with a bright white light surrounding them. It was glorious. He pulled the gang of deceitful, trap-setting pussies off of me and Merph, and sent the entire douchebag army running.
He yelled at me, since Joey was underage. "Get Joey the fuck out of here!" I didn't argue, B-ride had just dispersed an entire angry mob single handedly...who was I to argue?
My brother and I beat feet just as the cops arrived. One tried to stop us to ask what our role was in this fracus. I didn't look at him as my face would clearly have lied to him, "Not sure, sir, we were just leaving."
We reconvened later to tell our battle stories. As it turns out, all of us avoided trips to the clink or the hospital. The douchebags weren't so lucky. Karma ruined their evening in the form of the boys in blue. Was it Merph's fault that the fight started? Of course. But what cop would believe that 4 guys purposely took on an entire busfull of drunk guys in the middle of their bachelor party? So even though we lost the battle, we felt as though we had won the war.
I guess if you're going to trick someone, even someone as legitimately in the wrong as Merph was, into a trap like that, you need to be able to suffer the consequences of Karma.
Me, Nails, Merph and my brother Joey Mac were drinking at a shitty bar. The only reason we were at this dump is because my buddy B-ride bartended there and we figured we'd get some food before we went out to an actual bar. It was a Friday night, not too late, and the place was dead. We shot the shit and busted balls and were having a decent time getting drunk. Joey was 20 at the time so he was drinking illegally, but other than that, we were having a decent time, behaving ourselves, and minding our own business.
Let me preface this story by explaining a little bit about my buddy Merph. He's a big dude and he gets riled up faster than Mike Tyson. He's not overly friendly with strangers, and he holds grudges with the best of 'em. Saying that, he's also one of the most loyal friends anyone could ask for. If you're his friend, he has your back without question. The problem is, he's such a troublemaker, that usually it's his friends who need to have his back.
So here we are, the 4 of us sitting at the bar and B-ride behind it. Merph is drinking vodka, so we're pretty happy that there is nobody else in the bar; until wouldn't you know it, a couple of douchebags walk in and sit right next to him. They're drunk, loud, and clearly grating on Merph within seconds. He looks over at the rest of us with the unmistakable face that he gets right before he goes off. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who caught it. I looked at Nails, who at the time had a broken hand. I looked at my brother, who was underage and could get B-ride in all kinds of trouble if the shit hit the fan. I thought to myself, "Damn, looks like I'm gonna be the only one who is of any use when Merph tells these kids to shut the fuck up and if they take exception."
Merph looked over at Douchebag #1. The kid had the audacity to say "what's up" to Merph. Not in a tough guy way, but more in a friendly drunken kind of way. He might have even offered to buy Merph a drink. It didn't matter, he could have offered to blow Merph and it wouldn't have made a difference. Merph had made up his mind.
"Kid, shut the fuck up, stop looking at me." That got our attention. We let out a collective sigh, like "Here we go again, thanks Merph!"
B-ride, ever the pacifist, even though he's built like a brick shithouse, attempted to diffuse the situation. He tried everything. He made jokes, he bought the Douchebags drinks, and honestly, nobody really thought anything would come of it because there was only two of them.
In Merph's defense, the kids WERE douchebags. They started to get defensive and invited Merph outside, which of course riled up and surprised the rest of us. There were 4 of us, even though Nails had the broken right hand, and only 2 of them. What could they hope to accomplish? Regardless, Nails and the McRoberts brothers, followed Merph and the douchebags into the parking lot. B-ride pleaded with Merph to let it go, but his attempts were falling on deaf ears. We entered the parking lot, which was empty aside from a few cars and much to our surprise, a large limo bus. Merph had blinders on was seeing red. Right before he went in for the kill, I put my arm out to stop him. I was the only one who had realized it at this point, but the douchebags had led us into a trap. A hornets nest. A rolling bachelor party. "Fuck."
Douchebag #1 and #2 briefly entered the bus as the four of us prepared for what would surely be a beat-down of epic proportions. It was too late to turn tail and head back inside. We would stay and fight, broken hand and shattered egos in tow.
Douchbags #1 and #2 exited the bus followed by Douchebags #3 through #14. You know that scene at the end of Lord of the Rings: Return of the King? Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and the hobbits are surrounded by the Orocai and are about to make their final stand. They are all back to back and ready to go down in a blaze of glory. That was the 4 of us, except we didn't have swords or axes or bows. We had an angry drunk who wasn't thinking clearly, two feisty Irishman on the smaller side who could throw a fist or two around, and Nails with the broken hand. As they approached, I made a last ditch effort to talk Merph down. I wasn't scared, but we were clearly outgunned and outmanned. "I don't suppose there's any room for diplomacy, is there Merph?"
As if I wasn't even there, Merph charged the busload of bachelor party attendees like he was William fucking Wallace. Granted, one on one, Merph probably would have handled each one of these clowns, but 14 against 3.5 were not good odds. Without much of a choice left, the rest of us followed, even Nails with the broken hand, God love him. Merph's charge led him strait to Douchebag #1, who he quickly knocked out cold with a single haymaker. That was about the extent of our victory. He was descended upon by the rest of the army and was pretty much rolled up. Nails and Joey stuck together and fended off several attacks while standing back to back. I didn't see much of what went on with those two, because most of the angry mob was focused on Merph. I put my head down and barrelled into the group of douchebags who were on top of Merph. Merph was doing ok to not wind up in the hospital, mainly due to his sheer size and drunken rage, but he didn't stand a chance against so many other dudes. I jumped up at full speed and turned my body into the backs of several of the assailants, throwing blind punches and knocking them off balance, drawing some attention. If Merph was gonna take a beating, I was going to at least take some of it with him. Despite the punches and kicks connected to both of us, we continued to call them pussies and other things, doing our best to avoid serious injury.
Just when all hope was lost, out bursted B-ride from the kitchen of the bar like Gandalf. He started picking dudes up with one hand and tossing them like rag dolls across the parking lot. I swear it looked like he came riding out on a horse with a bright white light surrounding them. It was glorious. He pulled the gang of deceitful, trap-setting pussies off of me and Merph, and sent the entire douchebag army running.
He yelled at me, since Joey was underage. "Get Joey the fuck out of here!" I didn't argue, B-ride had just dispersed an entire angry mob single handedly...who was I to argue?
My brother and I beat feet just as the cops arrived. One tried to stop us to ask what our role was in this fracus. I didn't look at him as my face would clearly have lied to him, "Not sure, sir, we were just leaving."
We reconvened later to tell our battle stories. As it turns out, all of us avoided trips to the clink or the hospital. The douchebags weren't so lucky. Karma ruined their evening in the form of the boys in blue. Was it Merph's fault that the fight started? Of course. But what cop would believe that 4 guys purposely took on an entire busfull of drunk guys in the middle of their bachelor party? So even though we lost the battle, we felt as though we had won the war.
I guess if you're going to trick someone, even someone as legitimately in the wrong as Merph was, into a trap like that, you need to be able to suffer the consequences of Karma.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Titletown U.S.A.
Is there any doubt that Boston is currently the sports mecca of the universe?
Consider what we've witnessed over the last 10 years: The Patriots have won 3 Super Bowls and 4 conference championships. The Red Sox have won 2 world championships. The Celtics have won 1 title and also 2 conference championships and were minutes away from winning a second title. The Bruins have even won 1 Stanley Cup. Boston is a pro sports town; but for those who care, Boston College has even won 3 men's ice hockey national championships and were the runners up in two more. There has historically never been such an epic run of titles spanning the four major pro sports for a single city. Go take a look...not even close. Fans in the Boston area have been so spoiled over the last decade, that we're disappointed when our teams don't at least make it to their respective championship games or series.
I'm of course biased, but have we also not witnessed some of the greatest players and coaches that this area has ever seen?
We have been lucky enough to watch Tom Brady; the greatest quarterback who has ever played football in the history of the sport. He has been coached for his entire career by Bill Belichik; the greatest football coach who has ever lived. Brady has the highest winning percentage of any quarterback in the history of the game. He won the first 9 postseason games of his career. He was the first player to ever win a league MVP unanimously. He holds the record for most touchdowns in a single season. He owns the highest touchdown to interception ratio of all former and present quarterbacks. He's married to a Brazilian supermodel. The dude can grow a mullet and would still be awesome. The number of team records the Patriots have amassed over the last 10 years are too numerous to name, but they include the two longest winning streaks in league history.
We've seen the greatest series comeback in the history of sports. Prior to 2004, no MLB team had overcome a 3 games to none series deficit. EVER. Modern baseball history dates back to 1903. The Red Sox performed this incredible feat after losing game 3 IN FENWAY PARK while allowing 19 runs in that game. Led by the best clutch hitter in Red Sox history, David Ortiz, the greatest stolen base in the history of the game by David Roberts, and an incredibly gutsy pitching performance by Curt Schilling in game 6, who basically won the game on one foot. (Everyone knows the story of the sutured ankle and bloody sock.) They took game 7 from a stunned Yankees team and celebrated their first Championship in 86 years, in the Bronx. I get chills even thinking about it. They went on to sweep the St. Louis Cardinals in the World Series. They won it all again in 2007, of course, and are 8-0 in World Series games over the aforementioned time period.
The Celtics were led to their championship by 3 future hall of famers. Paul Pierce is the second highest scorer in the Celtics storied history. He passed Larry Bird this past season. Read that again. Out of ALL the Celtics greats, (26 hall of famers), Paul Pierce is second on the all-time scoring list, trailing only John Havlicek. He even has an outside chance to pass Havlicek to take over the top spot in team history. When Danny Ainge brought in Ray Allen and Kevin Garnett, the two other future hall of famers, basketball was back here in Boston, reviving the storied history of the team who has won the most championships in NBA history.
The Bruins even captured the hearts of fans here in New England who had all but given up hope of them ever winning a cup again. Led by the greatest historical performance ever by a goaltender by Tim Thomas, the Bruins went on a magical run through the playoffs; winning 3 game 7's, including one in Vancouver to beat the Canucks and take home the cup.
I was raised a Boston sports fan. I have loved my teams since I can remember. I remember the first time I saw the field at Fenway Park. I remember the first time my ass froze to the metal bench at the old Foxboro stadium. I remember the stories my father told me while we watched the Celts and B's in the old Boston Garden. My father is a die hard fan. His father is a die hard fan. It's in my blood. My son will be a die hard fan.
The success and history I've been lucky enough to witness since 2001 is not lost on me. I realize how lucky we here in Beantown have been over the past decade. For someone who lives and dies with every game, every touchdown, every broken record, every walk-off home run, sudden death goal, and buzzer beating, game-winning 3 pointer; it's been an unforgettable run. I hope the next 10 years brings even a fraction of the success that we've witnessed here recently. Boston is not just one of the greatest, historically significantly cities in the world, it's by far the greatest sports town in this country or any other.
Consider what we've witnessed over the last 10 years: The Patriots have won 3 Super Bowls and 4 conference championships. The Red Sox have won 2 world championships. The Celtics have won 1 title and also 2 conference championships and were minutes away from winning a second title. The Bruins have even won 1 Stanley Cup. Boston is a pro sports town; but for those who care, Boston College has even won 3 men's ice hockey national championships and were the runners up in two more. There has historically never been such an epic run of titles spanning the four major pro sports for a single city. Go take a look...not even close. Fans in the Boston area have been so spoiled over the last decade, that we're disappointed when our teams don't at least make it to their respective championship games or series.
I'm of course biased, but have we also not witnessed some of the greatest players and coaches that this area has ever seen?
We have been lucky enough to watch Tom Brady; the greatest quarterback who has ever played football in the history of the sport. He has been coached for his entire career by Bill Belichik; the greatest football coach who has ever lived. Brady has the highest winning percentage of any quarterback in the history of the game. He won the first 9 postseason games of his career. He was the first player to ever win a league MVP unanimously. He holds the record for most touchdowns in a single season. He owns the highest touchdown to interception ratio of all former and present quarterbacks. He's married to a Brazilian supermodel. The dude can grow a mullet and would still be awesome. The number of team records the Patriots have amassed over the last 10 years are too numerous to name, but they include the two longest winning streaks in league history.
We've seen the greatest series comeback in the history of sports. Prior to 2004, no MLB team had overcome a 3 games to none series deficit. EVER. Modern baseball history dates back to 1903. The Red Sox performed this incredible feat after losing game 3 IN FENWAY PARK while allowing 19 runs in that game. Led by the best clutch hitter in Red Sox history, David Ortiz, the greatest stolen base in the history of the game by David Roberts, and an incredibly gutsy pitching performance by Curt Schilling in game 6, who basically won the game on one foot. (Everyone knows the story of the sutured ankle and bloody sock.) They took game 7 from a stunned Yankees team and celebrated their first Championship in 86 years, in the Bronx. I get chills even thinking about it. They went on to sweep the St. Louis Cardinals in the World Series. They won it all again in 2007, of course, and are 8-0 in World Series games over the aforementioned time period.
The Celtics were led to their championship by 3 future hall of famers. Paul Pierce is the second highest scorer in the Celtics storied history. He passed Larry Bird this past season. Read that again. Out of ALL the Celtics greats, (26 hall of famers), Paul Pierce is second on the all-time scoring list, trailing only John Havlicek. He even has an outside chance to pass Havlicek to take over the top spot in team history. When Danny Ainge brought in Ray Allen and Kevin Garnett, the two other future hall of famers, basketball was back here in Boston, reviving the storied history of the team who has won the most championships in NBA history.
The Bruins even captured the hearts of fans here in New England who had all but given up hope of them ever winning a cup again. Led by the greatest historical performance ever by a goaltender by Tim Thomas, the Bruins went on a magical run through the playoffs; winning 3 game 7's, including one in Vancouver to beat the Canucks and take home the cup.
I was raised a Boston sports fan. I have loved my teams since I can remember. I remember the first time I saw the field at Fenway Park. I remember the first time my ass froze to the metal bench at the old Foxboro stadium. I remember the stories my father told me while we watched the Celts and B's in the old Boston Garden. My father is a die hard fan. His father is a die hard fan. It's in my blood. My son will be a die hard fan.
The success and history I've been lucky enough to witness since 2001 is not lost on me. I realize how lucky we here in Beantown have been over the past decade. For someone who lives and dies with every game, every touchdown, every broken record, every walk-off home run, sudden death goal, and buzzer beating, game-winning 3 pointer; it's been an unforgettable run. I hope the next 10 years brings even a fraction of the success that we've witnessed here recently. Boston is not just one of the greatest, historically significantly cities in the world, it's by far the greatest sports town in this country or any other.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
A Magic Mushroom Ride
I don't generally condone the use of psychedelic drugs, so let me start by letting you know that everyone involved in this story wound up OK...at least those that I know of. In fact, just to make the story more "trippy" I'll try telling it in reverse, Momento style.
I woke up in my own bed, in my own house, with no random stranger, and no hangover. My face hurt a bit, but that was it. Right away I knew that either I won the night, or something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. I sat for a minute at the edge of my bed, attempting to piece the previous night together. I knew that I had caused some kind of trouble; but what? I first checked my pockets and wallet to see what kind of financial damage I did. I didn't appear to have put a big dent into my cash and my keys were in my pocket. WINNING!! This night was clearly unlike most others that I couldn't remember, which generally involves me penniless and missing multiple personal belongings. I looked out my bedroom window to see what condition/parking position my vehicle was parked in. Uh-oh...first sign of trouble. My vehicle was unaccounted for. In it's stead was my buddy J's car, parked askew in my driveway.
It was freezing out so I bundled up and went out to inspect the car. It was unlocked and my buddy J was shaking and curled up in the fetal position in the back seat, near frozen vomit on the floor of the car behind the passenger's seat. "Oh shit."
6 hours earlier:
I checked my face in the mirror of a dirty bathroom in one of the shadiest bars I had ever been in. My lip was bloody and one of my front teeth was chipped. I inspected my face more closely and realized that my pupils had engulfed my iris' completely and my cheeks were melting into my shoulders. I let out a single "ha."
I walked out of the bathroom and even though I'm sure I opened the door with my hands, it felt like I swam through it. It felt as though the eyes of every douche bag and ugly girl in this college dive were fixed directly on me. I made my way towards the door where my buddies J and B were waiting to leave. B had a black eye and a bloody lip. J was a standing 8-count. Passed out on his feet. Within minutes of puking and basically being held up by B, (who's eyes were also saucers.) B grinned like the Cheshire cat and proclaimed, "Time to go dude." This was followed by a laugh that far exceeded the situation that it called for.
Off we went, out of the craphole and into the unknown hell which was downtown Providence, dragging J behind us. The sky was purple and red and our steps were unsteady. Everything was hilarious. Being that this lame city closes just about everything by 2 a.m., we needed to find some food. Fast. We found a crappy little pizza place that was crowded with the drunks that had spilled out of the nearby bars and clubs. We got J to a booth where he slumped into a booth and slept as if he was in the comfort of his own bed. Before B and I could get our food, J had managed to destroy the booth and the floor with some of the most vile vomit you'd ever have the displeasure of being around.
With everyone in the place, including the Mexican dishwasher, up in arms and about to give us a gang beating, we hauled ass out of there, dragging our passed out, puke-covered friend. We hopped into a cab after the cabby asked if we were "Doug."
"Yup, that's us, take us to our vehicle, kind cabby!"
We arrived at J's car and made the trek up I-95, feeling as though we were riding in a hovercraft. J continued puking all over the backseat. Somehow I managed to get B home and then myself back home. I couldn't bring J to his house in his current state, so he came with me. I was sufficiently convinced that he had puked up everything in his system, so I would let him sleep it off on my couch. The problem was, he wouldn't get out of the car when we got home. "Dude, you're gonna freeze to death if you don't come inside." He was undeterred, and refused to budge from his spot in the backseat. "Fine asshole, freeze. I'll be in my nice warm house." I went inside, tucked myself in, and fell asleep. I don't remember what I dreamt about, but they were colorful dreams.
3 hours earlier than before:
J, B, and I entered the shady bar in Providence and B immediately bumped into a small table that was loaded with empty and sandbagged beer bottles. Every one of them crashed to the ground, most of them breaking. The entire bar stopped what they were doing and looked at B, who is built like a brick shithouse. He grinned and held his arms out. "WHAT!!" He laughed hysterically and nobody did a thing. He wasn't even trying to act tough, he just recognized the hilarity of the situation. It was then that we realized we owned this place and could do anything we wanted. Not even the bouncers were going to mess with us. It may have had something to do with the crazy look we had on our faces. Maybe people DID care what we were doing, but we couldn't tell, because to me and B, everyone blended together into a colorful, moving blob, indecipherable from a 2 year old's finger painting.
J, the responsible one of our little group up to this point, began rifling down shots of Jack. B and I ordered beers, but they were mainly just for show. We were all set. "Dude, punch me in the face!" B implored me to do this. Some college guys and girls standing nearby heard him boisterously make this odd request. He is twice my size, but in my current state, he didn't have to ask twice. I reached back and gave him what probably amounted to a 3/4 strength right hook to his cheek. This instantly horrified everyone who could see us. "OK dude, give me one back." I braced for impact and felt his fist make impact with my mouth. Although it caused some damage, it didn't hurt, and my face seemed to sink into itself. We bled and laughed like hyenas. The bouncers, thinking a fight was going on, approached us to break it up. "Nah dude, it's cool...check this out." I punched B back, a little harder, splitting his lip open. More laughter. B jabbed me in the face and took a chunk out of my front tooth. The bouncer, not knowing what to do, asked us to leave. Apparently my face was bleeding pretty good, so the bouncer made me go to the bathroom and clean myself up.
4 hours before before:
Me, J, and B were sitting in my basement, trying to decide what to do with our night.
Me: "We could go to Providence."
J: "That's lame."
B: "I don't feel like driving down there."
Long pause.
Me: "I got these shrooms...."
J: "I'm not eating those, but I'll drive and just drink a bit. I got shit to do tomorrow so I can't get too messed up. Then you two clowns won't have to worry about driving home feeling like you're piloting the space shuttle."
I already knew that B would travel down this dark, dangerous road with me by the look on his face. "You sure J? You'll be fine by tomorrow."
"Nah, you guys go ahead."
As you already know, J was the one who got the most fucked up, couldn't drive us home, and wound up having to blow off his obligations due to the ridiculous hangover he had. I wound up driving the hovercraft 20 miles home. B and I somehow managed to destroy a dozen beer bottles and beat the shit out of each other in the middle of a crowded bar with zero consequences, and neither one of us were hungover the next day.
The moral of the story? Sometimes you're just better off tripping on mushrooms.
I woke up in my own bed, in my own house, with no random stranger, and no hangover. My face hurt a bit, but that was it. Right away I knew that either I won the night, or something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. I sat for a minute at the edge of my bed, attempting to piece the previous night together. I knew that I had caused some kind of trouble; but what? I first checked my pockets and wallet to see what kind of financial damage I did. I didn't appear to have put a big dent into my cash and my keys were in my pocket. WINNING!! This night was clearly unlike most others that I couldn't remember, which generally involves me penniless and missing multiple personal belongings. I looked out my bedroom window to see what condition/parking position my vehicle was parked in. Uh-oh...first sign of trouble. My vehicle was unaccounted for. In it's stead was my buddy J's car, parked askew in my driveway.
It was freezing out so I bundled up and went out to inspect the car. It was unlocked and my buddy J was shaking and curled up in the fetal position in the back seat, near frozen vomit on the floor of the car behind the passenger's seat. "Oh shit."
6 hours earlier:
I checked my face in the mirror of a dirty bathroom in one of the shadiest bars I had ever been in. My lip was bloody and one of my front teeth was chipped. I inspected my face more closely and realized that my pupils had engulfed my iris' completely and my cheeks were melting into my shoulders. I let out a single "ha."
I walked out of the bathroom and even though I'm sure I opened the door with my hands, it felt like I swam through it. It felt as though the eyes of every douche bag and ugly girl in this college dive were fixed directly on me. I made my way towards the door where my buddies J and B were waiting to leave. B had a black eye and a bloody lip. J was a standing 8-count. Passed out on his feet. Within minutes of puking and basically being held up by B, (who's eyes were also saucers.) B grinned like the Cheshire cat and proclaimed, "Time to go dude." This was followed by a laugh that far exceeded the situation that it called for.
Off we went, out of the craphole and into the unknown hell which was downtown Providence, dragging J behind us. The sky was purple and red and our steps were unsteady. Everything was hilarious. Being that this lame city closes just about everything by 2 a.m., we needed to find some food. Fast. We found a crappy little pizza place that was crowded with the drunks that had spilled out of the nearby bars and clubs. We got J to a booth where he slumped into a booth and slept as if he was in the comfort of his own bed. Before B and I could get our food, J had managed to destroy the booth and the floor with some of the most vile vomit you'd ever have the displeasure of being around.
With everyone in the place, including the Mexican dishwasher, up in arms and about to give us a gang beating, we hauled ass out of there, dragging our passed out, puke-covered friend. We hopped into a cab after the cabby asked if we were "Doug."
"Yup, that's us, take us to our vehicle, kind cabby!"
We arrived at J's car and made the trek up I-95, feeling as though we were riding in a hovercraft. J continued puking all over the backseat. Somehow I managed to get B home and then myself back home. I couldn't bring J to his house in his current state, so he came with me. I was sufficiently convinced that he had puked up everything in his system, so I would let him sleep it off on my couch. The problem was, he wouldn't get out of the car when we got home. "Dude, you're gonna freeze to death if you don't come inside." He was undeterred, and refused to budge from his spot in the backseat. "Fine asshole, freeze. I'll be in my nice warm house." I went inside, tucked myself in, and fell asleep. I don't remember what I dreamt about, but they were colorful dreams.
3 hours earlier than before:
J, B, and I entered the shady bar in Providence and B immediately bumped into a small table that was loaded with empty and sandbagged beer bottles. Every one of them crashed to the ground, most of them breaking. The entire bar stopped what they were doing and looked at B, who is built like a brick shithouse. He grinned and held his arms out. "WHAT!!" He laughed hysterically and nobody did a thing. He wasn't even trying to act tough, he just recognized the hilarity of the situation. It was then that we realized we owned this place and could do anything we wanted. Not even the bouncers were going to mess with us. It may have had something to do with the crazy look we had on our faces. Maybe people DID care what we were doing, but we couldn't tell, because to me and B, everyone blended together into a colorful, moving blob, indecipherable from a 2 year old's finger painting.
J, the responsible one of our little group up to this point, began rifling down shots of Jack. B and I ordered beers, but they were mainly just for show. We were all set. "Dude, punch me in the face!" B implored me to do this. Some college guys and girls standing nearby heard him boisterously make this odd request. He is twice my size, but in my current state, he didn't have to ask twice. I reached back and gave him what probably amounted to a 3/4 strength right hook to his cheek. This instantly horrified everyone who could see us. "OK dude, give me one back." I braced for impact and felt his fist make impact with my mouth. Although it caused some damage, it didn't hurt, and my face seemed to sink into itself. We bled and laughed like hyenas. The bouncers, thinking a fight was going on, approached us to break it up. "Nah dude, it's cool...check this out." I punched B back, a little harder, splitting his lip open. More laughter. B jabbed me in the face and took a chunk out of my front tooth. The bouncer, not knowing what to do, asked us to leave. Apparently my face was bleeding pretty good, so the bouncer made me go to the bathroom and clean myself up.
4 hours before before:
Me, J, and B were sitting in my basement, trying to decide what to do with our night.
Me: "We could go to Providence."
J: "That's lame."
B: "I don't feel like driving down there."
Long pause.
Me: "I got these shrooms...."
J: "I'm not eating those, but I'll drive and just drink a bit. I got shit to do tomorrow so I can't get too messed up. Then you two clowns won't have to worry about driving home feeling like you're piloting the space shuttle."
I already knew that B would travel down this dark, dangerous road with me by the look on his face. "You sure J? You'll be fine by tomorrow."
"Nah, you guys go ahead."
As you already know, J was the one who got the most fucked up, couldn't drive us home, and wound up having to blow off his obligations due to the ridiculous hangover he had. I wound up driving the hovercraft 20 miles home. B and I somehow managed to destroy a dozen beer bottles and beat the shit out of each other in the middle of a crowded bar with zero consequences, and neither one of us were hungover the next day.
The moral of the story? Sometimes you're just better off tripping on mushrooms.
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