WhutsHappening

Glorious Oregon pt.4 (Part One)

We awoke in a little bit of a daze and donned sunglasses to go the The Black Rabbit Grill for breakfast.  I think I got an omelete but I can't really remember.  I know I got a bloody mary.  This and a smoke started out the day right, and after a little hanky-panky back at the room, it was time for golf.  I'd been trying to train for the occasion by golfing my local course, but it turned out it was just a pitch and put.  I borrowed a sand wedge and putter, bought a couple cigars, and yes, a pint, and we were on our way.  Sara chose to come out with the boys instead of tie ribbons with the girls (which later became a small point of contention.  Bridesmaids, keep in mind that to be a good Bridesmaid, you must not only satisfy the brides verbal requests, but also read her mind!).  It was me and Sara, Dane, Sara's cousin (all 6' 7" of him) and Chris, one of the other BM's fiance's (why is it that marriage seems to spread like a virulent infection.  Really...).  Chris was kicking all of our asses at first, basically by not playing like an idiot while we did.  It is amazing how hard a simple par 3 course can be if your first shot sucks.  The raging Oregon sun sucked the beer from our veins so we looked over every rise and fall for the drink cart, but lo, it was not there.  Somewhere around the 10th hole (of 21) we sent the now over-golf Sara back to the beer shack.  Now mind you we had some dozen foursomes on the course, all dudes, and all experiencing the same beer-withdrawals; but somehow my baby made it past the $100 dollar bribes to bring us two pitchers of Rubenator across the rolling hills-she may have had a halo, at this point, I believe. 

After giving up on whacking the little white balls, Sara became the ball retriever/discoverer.  I believe she found an average of 3 balls a hole over the last 10 holes, with the bramble-cuts to show how commited her search had been.  I worried about her bleeding, she worried about what the bride would say...

After a bit of time to clean up, the reception barbeque was fast-approaching.  Sara and I got into our slightly fancy clothes (once you move to the islands, your 'dress-up' clothing doesn't go beyond linen pants and a button-up shirt-a fact that I have no problem with) and decided to, you guessed it, grab a drink.  True to McMenamins high standards of random perfection, right past Sara's mom's room was a tiny little pub (called such, I believe).  We split a beer and a quessadilla, but were caught by Nicole, who kindly hid her concern as she explained that there was going to be lots of food at the barbeque.  We felt mothered, but understood.  It must be hard being a bride-kind of like putting on a show for your whole family, with a cast that only gets to practice once, and it is taped, live.  Salon.com had a great article on drawing the line as a bridesmaid that talked about requests for cosmetic surgery, and/or fitness programs.  My favorite was the bridesmaid for a mormon, who wasn't a mormon, and was asked to stand outside the church and ask people "Are you a believer in Jesus and the Book of Mormon?" and if not, not let them in the temple.  I am sorry, but Mormons just don't make any sense in the end, no matter how rich they are...

The barbeque was dank, and though it was just gourmet burgers, potato salad and chips, I'm sure it was like three grand, not counting the open bar.  I was in charge of the music, and I found an outlet and hid the Ipod dock in the shrubs.  Dire Straits, Jack Johnson and others played while the guests took thier seats.  Another priceless feature of weddings is the slapdash variety of ages and types of people, and the desultory development of thier interactions.  Sara and I sat next to Chris and Verinda, as well as the random cousins who spent most of the time discussing thier Magic Cards tip books, and the corresponding powers of thier main characters.  One of the kids was probably 12, and the other, of course, was only like 9.  I tried to talk magic with them to no avail-sometimes I am such an ignorant bastard.

TBC...

Glorious Oregon Pt. 3

Glorious Oregon pt. 3

The show was great even through the fence, and Death Cab jammed their flowing finale as the late summer sun disappeared through the evening trees.  With no specific agenda, we moseyed toward Lucky Staley's, the pool hall bar to continue our consumption of delicious draft beer.  Here we had some half dozen pool tables and an old-school billiard table, as well as my favorite bar pastime: Pinball.  I can't say exactly when the simple analog contraptions stole my heart, but the affair has been grand and varied for at least the last 4 years.  The very first tastes were much further back; Cyclone, Terminator, even FIFA soccer from 1994.  But the true romance began with the modern classics: Lord of the Rings, Pirates of the Caribbean, Simpsons, and most recently Family Guy.  During my time as a District Manager for Cutco in Eugene, working horrible 70 hour weeks in the middle of the summer, I could often be found spending my off-hours in the infamous Horsehead Pub and John Henry's with a pint of Mirror Pond and a few extra credits from hitting replays.  One of the joys of the beat Eugene pubs is the music is almost always solid-Radiohead, Star Sailor, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the likes; perfect background jams for the courtship of a big glass-covered maze.  After a year or so I was addicted.

My tiny Island is nearly sans pinball, so when I saw the Gone Fishin', and Royal Flush machines at Staley's, I was beyond stoked.  Soon enough I was settled in, this time with the Rubenator that flowed so free on the trip, and happy, but unimpressed with the formats for the games.  Can't stand it when they don't have even a few seconds of ball-save for those times when it shoots the ball straight down the middle.  The games kept me entertained until I was good and buzzed, and the rest of the family arrived.

Again, the Piebald family is rather large, as is the Ornel clan.  As one of the only relative strangers, I had the opportunity to observe the masses in their habitat: usually a festive, multi-generational reunion that brought out the drinker in all.  Pizza's were ordered, I personally bought a few cookies and oranges from the bar, and pitchers were a plenty.  I was privy to a three brother chat, Tim (Sara's Dad) and Tom and Kevin.  They were reminiscing on the injuries they had sustained at different times, disputing the number of stitches and severity of head wounds, and and recounting who had broken who's arm.  The energy of the whole pub, though it was a dimly lit and dark-wooded old place, was magnificent.  Here was a family that could drink steadily into the night without "assing-out" as we used to call in the Frat, or losing their ability to have a generally sensical conversation.  Groups moved and morphed as families came and went.  Soon after chatting with the old guys, I found myself hanging with just-graduated-from-highschool Cole who had acquired a glass drinking boot, about a pint and a half, which he fanagled ways to keep full throughout the night.  I ended up playing a game of pool with Matt, Tim's friend and coworker, who was one of the few 30-somethings there.  This garrulous chap wore a beard and long hair the likes of Grizzly Adams, but spoke softly.  I scratched on the Eight ball and they won, but all was fun, and all the games were just a means to mingle.  I joined the wedding party booth for a while, bartering a piece of cookie for a piece of pizza.  We'd all lost track of time, rightly so, and just kept ordering beers of different kinds taking breaks only to go for different types of smoke breaks.

As hours blended into one another so did families and friends, strangers and acquaintances, tastes and time and thoughts of sleep.  At some unknown hour Sara and I moseyed back the house right down the way from the pool hall.  We had pitch-and-put golf to look forward to the next day, as well as the reception barbecue, and of course beanbag game.  After a final smoke in the warm night we passed people from our wedding party as well as a two or three others going on at the same time.  We nodded goodnight to a few on the stoop, and found sweet sleep in our antique room on the second floor.  It was a good first day for all.

Glorious Oregon Pt. 4

Glorious Oregon and The Adult Playground, Pt 1.

Ever since moving to Hawaii last year and living amidst the paradise that people save all year to experience, my vacations have been back to old Glorious Oregon to search out the undiscovered nooks and crannies that bear little note when they are in your backyard.  Much like the Kiwis I used to meet in N Zed who had never been to the South Island though it was a short ferry ride to what was essentially a different country.

This meander back home was inspired by my girlfriends sisters wedding (ah, going to weddings with the partner, one of the secret symbols that things are getting serious) which due to brilliant foresight on the part of the families, was going to be at the McMenamins Edgefield, a quintessential complex of brews, gardens, eateries, and general adult distraction.  Built on the remnants of what was once a poor farm and then an old folks home, the maze of buildings range from the Main Lodge with massive porches touting rocking chairs and swings, to the Little Red Barn Bar in the midst of the vegetable garden, to the most recent addition of the soaking pools by the spa.  All of this was relayed to me sporadically over the preceding months as I was slowly deciding that it was worth $750 bucks to fly out for less than a week, both to support my wonderful GF, and to experience the abundance of the grounds at the expense of the parental units; I may be in my late 20's, but I'm gonna milk this "kid" thing for all it's worth before I find myself being father of the bride (hopefully not for three more decades). 

The ticket just fit in my budget, and I flew a red-eye a few days after Sara as I was not obligated to be there for all the wedding party preparations.  I have learned that the secret of Red-Eye travel is to make sure you are tired enough to fall asleep near the beginning of the journey, and just keep napping the whole way.  With only mild consumption of inebriates, success, and suddenly I'd time-warped to SFO, losing three hours and arriving around dawn.  Indubitably, my flight itinerary, which for reasons known only to the confounded arbiters of air travel, went north all the way to Seattle before returning south to PDX.  I made a few buddies while standing in front of the departures board staring at the dozens of delayed flights including ours to Seattle.  They were looking into a Eugene flight, and on to PDX and found a way on as well, instead of waiting to be stranded in Seattle.  Worst case scenario I was only 2 hours away and had quite a few connections in my old hometown.  I was the last person on the plane as the frazzled Asian ticket-tearer punched the computer and ran off to some other delayed flight gate.

Blink, yawn, and we're landing in Eugene.  Oh, Oregon, you really are as East coasters stereotype: an expanse of farmland interspersed with the odd College Town, and intersected by ranging, rugged roads to the West over the Coast Range to the churning shore, and elevating east over the Cascades into the high desert (see BEND in Off the Mountain, on the Trail).  But they don't know your secrets, being that you are the only real secret left after the west-going wolves took over California with their now-burst real-estate bubble.  But Oregon, those Little towns-Eugene, Corvallis, Bend, Ashland-are just jumping off points for innumerable destinations; chilly Triangle Lake hiding in the hills, Silver waterfalls flowing just to the east, Cougar Hot Springs tucked next to the cold western reservoir where only the locals know.  Even though it was summer, the deep greenery marked my brief return to what I called home for two-years after graduating from OSU just to the North.  Of course there was a track event going on in Runtown USA, Olympic Trials at famous Hayward Field I'm sure, and everyone friendly and organic.  I poked around the uncrowded gate and found my way onto a flight departing to Portland in an hour.  Even the Airport food prices weren't the shameful inflation of SFO, and I ate an $8 Focacio concoction as I dug the college kids and the general calm.

Another blip in time and I touched down at Portland International, 20 minutes earlier than I would have on my original itinerary.  My girl and her parents would be coming by on their way from Astoria, the coastal hometown where Sara and my younger sister had been best friends a decade ago.  Astoria has always been a tourist destination, both as the gateway from the Columbia to the Pacific, and historically as the end of the Oregon Trail.  John Jacob Astor was a wealthy fur trader (it seems all our namesake American Hero's have some skeletons in the closet: Jefferson's slave sex, Fords Naziizm, Rockefeller's worker suppresion and blatant political bribery.  Our town, and the Waldorf Astoria, were named after a baby seal clubber) and built the town up in the 19th century.  Once a Salmon Fishing and Logging Mecca, it hit hard times in the 90's as resources diminished, and rose like a phoenix into what Sunset Magazine called "one of the best places to retire".  For the urban youth, the Urban Cafe, and Fort George Brewery, have provided dependable diversions, whereas when I lived there we were reduced to smoking under the piers and going on "loopers" an activity that will have to be elaborated in a later blog. Sara's parents still resided in this dynamic coast town, her father a contractor/builder who had built and sold homes almost singlehandedly for the past 30 years.  He was a savvy, overworked dad of two beautiful daughters who'd gone from a party-happy young man raising his babies in a half-built house, to well-known local craftsman able to bankroll his eldest daughters three-day dream-wedding without missing a step.  Sara told me he had nails in his leg from an accident that he'd just shrugged off--back to work!

Her mother was a happy, strong woman who told me later she knew I loved her daughter partially because of the CD I'd made her, including Neal Young's Heart of Gold.  Hmmm.  Dad was the eldest of Ten siblings, all of whom would be at the wedding with their wives and husbands and offspring, and so I was in for the whole gauntlet of familial introductions and inquisitions and assessments that goes with being the boyfriend of the Maid of Honor, and the BF who whisked her off to some archaic volcanic Isle from whence no one had known her fate.  So I was in for a adventure on all ends.  Soon enough it began, as I saw the old blue Chevy with the bed-cover roll up to the recently renovated PDX arrivals area.  I tossed my small bag in the back amongst cases of wine, an assortment of wedges and putters for the Pitch and Put, workman's tools, and what would become one of the most exciting and contentious features for this Chicago-based side of the family: The Beanbag Toss Game.  For now it was small talk and travel empathy, but within hours we'd be filling 1L mason jars with chromatic micro-brews and shouting into the summer night.

Glorious Oregon Pt. 2

The Light of Day. OZ. pt.7

I trundled off from the fire-circle with no real direction in mind.  Surrounding the stages were the healing tents, a smaller practice fire circle, and a projector screen displaying sounds and images spliced and segued in logicless, spontaneous fashion--perfect for the complimentary minds that stood entranced by it.  I crossed my legs to watch what appeared to be a 50's movie, a stoic conversation between a man and a boy, spattered with Jerry-bear like dancing images, and occasionally morphing into Rorschach-blot-looking colored designs, and then back to the dialog-I felt like a goldfish, as each image became my reality, unrelated to the previous reality, and easily discarded for the next; blub blub.  I was in that zone where I was looking around for other people to share my wonder, but not secure enough in my state to be overtly social.  After an indeterminate amount of time, I wandered on alone, but still in vibrational sync with the great swath of international humanity all around me.  I could sense that Adrianna wanted to find me too, somehow, across the dark, pulsing night I worked my way back to the main stage and my Brasilian companeros.

Adrianna's trip had hit a bump in the road, and her tummy hurt a bit, I didn't hesitate at all to console, and care for her in the melodramatic LSD manner.  It was deep in the night now, and I couldn't tell how or where I was in my journey.  Between hugging and stroking and dancing and closing my eyes and opening my eyes and absorbing the night and light of harmony enveloping us, the night turned toward morning.  We healed each other and shared cigarettes and oohed and ahed.

"It's amazing no?" sounding more Italian than Brasilian  Adrianna would inquire regularly, often after a time-stopping make-out session.  We decided to watch sunrise from the big dirt burm back by the tent, and then find sleep.  There were innumerable couples and groups with us on the sunrise burm, time was meaningless in places like this, and our minds were exhausted from the nights inputs and exertions.  The sunrise was impeccable, shimmering over the Southwestern Desert.  We retired to Adrianna's tent in the last remaining cool morning hours, took each others clothes off released all our pent-up lust from the long night of penning up lust.  It was perfect, and we fell asleep in our underclothes with the tent door open, and soon the light breeze turned our daydreams into dreams.

We roused around 1:00 p.m., to the full heat of the day, and mild disorientation, smiling at each other, and the perfection of our affair.  I cruised back to my tent to eat some crackers and tuna, and hot cheese, and grab my shower stuff.  Showers consisted of a collection of plywood stalls, around pallets, and buckets to collect cold water from the two-story water drums; this was perfect.  The sweat and dust and drugs and sweat had formed an imperceptible halo around my body-my skin was visibly reddish, but the real layer around me was inches thick, just hot energy and chemicals and images from the night before.  I dumped the first bucket of cold water over my head and gasped with pleasure.  Found a piece of soap on the pallet and washed a bit, and then more cold water, balancing on the pallet, listening to world outside my roofless stall. 

When I came back to the tent, Liam and Sonya were there eating lunch-calm and well-rested, if not a little shaky. 

"Hey mate!" They called to me, "How was your night?" They asked in the same way you address someone that got really drunk the night before.

"Amazing, bruv, amazing.  Did you see the firedancers?  Awesome."

"Yeah we did.  Thanks for the goodies, by the way, we had a lot of fun."

"Wait til tonight, mang.  ECLIPSE.  6:30.  did you get your glasses?"

"No, where do we get them?"

We made loose plans to walk around that day, and explore.  Liam had discovered a bar in Lyndhurst, the tiny, defunct railroad town just down the road.  Mmmm, beer, strange how good it sounds even after a night of penultimate debauchery.  Audaciously, I even thought about my hard-drug supplies for the upcoming night, the night of the eclipse, 30-some seconds of totality, we wild ones congregated in the path of the umbral shadow, the eternal earth-shaking shadow of the moon blotting out the sun, stopping time and starting the tribes aworshiping, we would howl like wolves and babies and the sliver of life that we represented, only hours away.

For now, we smoked another sweet bowl with the Aussies, I got to say hello to Taku, who had found his Japanese friends and a big googly smile, and milled about in the sun.  I watched the naked hippies chasing the water truck as it sprayed down the dust, white skin wetted, and then soaped, and then wetted by the moving spray.  Clouds flowered softly above, the horizon white, the buzz tangible.  Adrianna, Liam Sonja and I decided to walk/hitch to shack of a bar that we'd heard about, which we did in the back of a truck leaving the festival site on their way to Lyndhurst.  Lyndhurst really was a one-horse town, though where that horse was was was anyone's guess, beyond the weathered-wood bar that we found perched gray in the expanse of red and blue.  The porch that hadn't seen more than a dozen people since the railroad had stopped coming through here in the 60's, was strewn with the colorful beat people of the world, and their guitars, and scarves, and cares.  Green Victoria Bitter cans were everywhere, and suddenly my excitement grew again; oh the joys of beer in the heat, with your friends.  Liam and Sonja already had a plastic jug of wine, which we'd been swilling along the way.

I found the large female proprietor to find out if I could get yet another cash advance, as I already spent most of my money on food and drugs, and the festival.  Miraculously, the overwhelmed Aussie said yeah, they could do it, and added 400 AUD to my bill for 2 six packs of VB, and two 25 packs of Weatherford Cigarettes.  I felt that same whoop of vibrant possibility as I turned back to Adrianna's smile with my booty.

"Ah, VB, muinto bon," she said and gave me a kiss in front of the dirty crowd.  We found a place on the porch to drink and smoke for a while.  Somehow we decided to walk back to the campsite, some mile or so away.  It was hot, in the 90's, but we had beer, and each other.  We passed by old tractors, and pond of some sort, bust mostly scrub and dirt.  Occasionally, Adrianna and I would stop and make out.

"I can't believe!" She would exclaim, "It's amazing, no?" Our compatibility was no less.

"Get a Desert!" Liam shouted at us in his British lilt, kissing Sonja and smiling.  I laughed and looked back toward the campsite, now with a handful of beers in my system. I still wore the same oversized bright board shorts, and sunhat, and Reef's, and a cigarette hung from my happy lips.  I was addicted to it all, as I always had been; not any specific drug, but the vivacity of the combination, the risk and ridiculousness of what we'd created.  The Rainbow flags fluttered, and the artists sat making and vending their goods, marking the main entrance, the music had never stopped, not for a moment, and wouldn't until just before the eclipse.  The kids were all dancing, or napping, or drinking, or meeting their lovers, or even leading their deaf students around the zoo of humanity as one Canadian character was doing.  We didn't even have nationalities anymore, we were just eclipsers, lucky, lucky, once in a lifetime lovers of life.  It is a moment in time that will live in my heart forever and ever: raw, young, perfect loving life, in the middle of nowhere.  AAAHHHH...

http://www.ozdoof.com/outdoorevents/OEF2002/index.html

Part 6.   Part 8

In the thick of it. (Outback PT. 6)

And that was the kind of night it was, one that only in retrospect do you realize how perfectly the stars had aligned (literally), and how fleeting those pure moments of youth, unspoiled by American influence or social inhibition.  It really was a thing of beauty, and as we intermitantly danced, socialized, smoked, and kissed, the crowd swirled around us, and if we'd been in a movie, the camera would have ascended, moving away from our bonded group until we disappeared into the mass of humanity, and until the mass of humanity disappeared into the desert, and then back all the way into space, looking down on the Milky Way.

For now though, we moved, and grinned, changing our spots on the dancefloor occasionally.  I left my small Lowe Alpine pack and slippers near one of the posts holding the stretched art above our heads, like a little oasis I would stop back at when I needed water.  As Chic's gift kicked into my bloodstream, the night transformed into a mental adventure within a physical one.  Adrianna eventually wandered off with some of her Brasiliana's for some Portugese chatting and bonding, and I was left with good friends Liam and Sonya.  Thier trip was going great, and we were all stomping like rock stars that hadn't been on tour for a while.  In between zony little personal danceventures, we would give each other little back rubs and I would smoke more effervescent menthols.  We took a break and wandered over to the mushroom stage, which was much smaller (basically a DJ poking out of a little hut of giant mushroom's), and the music and lighting changed dramatically.  From the crazy mainstages laser beams, red and yellow strobes, and peaking synths and bass beats, to the green and purple smoky flat-lasers (the ones that look like they are scanning you) and the low bpm cosmic thuds, it was a sweet transition, and of course our demeanor had no choice but to change with it.  The Mushroom Stage left us all in a sweet, if not introspective, mood as we weaved a little more slowly to the chill sounds coming out of the oversized tuft of mushrooms; there were even a few on the corner of the turntable, just to complete the effect.

We eventually headed back over to the main stage area, mostly to see who, and what we could back in the more upbeat zone.  By this point we were all pretty deep in our little mind adventures, and our surroundings did nothing but aid and abet our transcendentalism and tripping.  I had the sense to bust out my disposable camera and capture the two cyborg robots dancing around the floor, one blue, and one orange.  Their torsos were all inorganic, with dials and and lights, and huge shoulder pads, but their heads were human, albeit orange and blue, respectively.  As they bounced through the crowd they attracted mini fan clubs that would follow them for a while, before finding some other mesmerizing novelty to space out to.

Sometime in the depth of the night, we ended up by the firedancer circle, one of my personal favorite parts of electronic music festivals.  Whether it be staff, poi, or sword, the tracers and roaring heat of the flame evoke that visceral, triabal vibration--the polynesians have been fire dancing for centuries, and the ravers took the ancient tradition and made it into a modern dance.  Now it was that blend of tradition and modern fuel and cloth that was painting yellow circles in the night.  First a male with a fire staff came out and put baton-spinning gymnast to shame with his huge throws and catches of the flaming rod, and at one point was spinning staff above his head while lying on his back.  Then his hot-ass girly friend came out with the fire poi, and started putting all the men, and probably half the women, in a trance.  They wore what looked like home-made animal hide vests, and boots, and belts, and glistened in the firelight.

Eventually the woman made her way to my part of the circel of spectators, and my stupified, drugged out smile must have attracted her attention.  She locked eyes with me and smiled a flirty show-woman smile, and with poi balls out the side, started slinking toward me.  She shortened the strings on the flaming balls, and moved them in front of her creating a firey swirl some inches from her nose.  Next, she took it to the next level, and turned around, and then proceeded to do a back bend, while still spinning the flames.  As I sat mesmerized, she bent all the way down to her knees and again made eye contact with me, but upside down.  The crowd loved it and hooted and hollered with glee.  I couldn't help but feel part of the show, connected to this hot woman as she exposed her breasts to me in the firelight.

She stood up, and after a few more coreographed maneuvers with her partner, their flames were spent, and the next guys started.  After the girding of loins by this firey temptress, I felt like looking for Adrianna again.  I set off away  from the crowd again to find my fortune.

Part 5.    The Light of Day. OZ. pt.7

Glory Days: An Old Derelict Looks Back on his Bethany Beach Senior Week

Around this time of year, over a million teenagers make one big step towards the loss of illusion and the painful tolchok to the head known as adulthood. An event of pomp and circumstance celebrates 18 years of acceptable co-dependence and the process from being a helpless baby to a fully-fledged derelict with an alcohol addiction. Yes, high school graduation is a great day for all, full of joy and wonder and happiness but back in Baltimore high school graduation truly only means one thing, namely the beginning of Senor Week.

It’s a time-honored tradition whereupon a freshly-minted legal adult and a bunch of his buddies and partners I crime get houses and hotel rooms in Ocean City or, in our case, nearby Bethany, and spend a week getting properly twisted, a last hurrah to the freedom of adolescence. So it is with this in mind - and the fact that next year will be my 10-year-reunion so this is my last chance to wax philosophically about senior week before it gets creepy – I am going to take you all back to a simpler time, a better time, and give a little rundown of what transpired during my reckless experiment in booze, beach, and belige in the sleepy hamlet of Bethany Beach Delaware. Without further ado, I present to you Senior Week 1999.

I graduate and it’s a fun event and I’m happy and my parents are proud, so proud they’ve organized a party for me but since I’m an asshole teenager who don’t respect nothing I quickly thank everybody for coming, eat a quick bite, and pack my bag for the next week or 5 days or however long, it’s hard to know. Then dirty De(V)ito, a future writer for the infamous Wuts-Happening and a depraved individual such as myself, rolls up in his silver Saturn full of 30-packs of Busch Light and I wave goodbye at my confused patrons as I exit my own party as if I’m Paris Hilton making a paid cameo, although it’s before anybody knows who the fuck Paris Hilton is.

The second we’re on the highway De(V)ito pulls out a joint he rolled since he’s the master and we puff good and hard and each crack a beer for the drive since it’s going to be a few hours over the Bay Bridge and then Route 50 veering just North when the time comes to roll over the Ocean City Bay into North OC and then onto Coastal Highway up over the state line into Bethany en route to our hotel, en route to the rest of our lives.

We pull into our room at the Rusty Pelican or something like that, a rotten little working man's motel just outside the center of Bethany that I think has become a Holiday Inn Express, the cheapest we could find and check in with the foreign man behind the desk eyeing us funny and saying “No booze and no smoking”.

“Absolutely not sir, we’re respectable young men and contrary to our age group are here to unwind and relax by the beach.” After we pull the car around behind a dumpster so the view from the office is partially obstructed we unload the 6 30-packs DeVito and I have brought, one for each day, and stash them under our little dresser. DeVito takes off quickly to the house where the Roland Park juniors are staying a little south but I take my surfboard out for a quick paddle, an hour or so to clear my head and think about my accomplishments and my failure before coming in to shower, grab a few beers, and take off down Coastal Highway on my old school Bad Boy Club skateboard with Black Fly wheels to meet up and get into some good old-fashioned healthy debauchery.

Of course by the time I arrive the Beirut is already set up, in a compartment under the house and DeVito is playing one on one versus Carey with their feet in the sand and as I get into the mix I come to the realization that there’s probably few things more pleasurable than playing Beirut with sand between your toes.

After the usually revelry and comedy DeVito and I and Kimbo, who was there despite being a Junior, make our way down the street a little to the beach house where the rest of our Gilman classmates had gotten a nice respectable 4-bedroom booze factory and we all toast to our graduation and our youth and secretly we’re all wondering what the fuck we’re going to do with ourselves but nobody dares say this out load for the sake of not disrupting the good vibrations.

Some Bryn Mawr junior who had also come up, as we weren’t really hanging out with the Bryn Mawr seniors at that time, throw on the new Red Hot Chili Peppers CD just like at the Post Prom late night a week or so before and just like then, and in general just like girls always tend to do, they keep on playing “Scar Tissue" and “The Other Side” over and over again and it’s a bittersweet indulgence in the fleeting innocence of young addiction.

Eventually my motelmate and I find our way back to the RPCS Juniors’ house where we play a few more latenight Beirut games and have a little puff with the young ‘uns celebrating our Senior Week with us and we pass out on couches and the first night’s over.

The next morning we wake up and grab fast food breakfasts and hang around the place until early afternoon when we head back to our motel to re-collect and drink from our private stash. A girl calls me, some random slore I’d lost my V-card to a few weeks before at a random graduation party on the sprawling lands of a RPCS hip hop party girl, and I tell her to come on up to my motel for a second round.

“I don’t have a car. Could you pick me up?”

I tell her I’m too drunk to drive and so she catches the OC drunk bus up from 35th street until it ends in the mid 100’s where she has to get a cab the rest of the way to our motel. She arrives and DeVito leaves and she and I fuck like monkeys on the bed until her friend, who had accompanied her but left us to our deed, opens the door and shrieks at the girl hopping up and down on my lap on the sleazy rotten motel bed. We laugh and decide to move into the shower where we play around a little more and it’s just what the doctor ordered. Then she asks if I could maybe drive her back down but I say no, I’m still too drunk so she shrugs and takes another 50 dollar cab to catch another ride on the OC 1 dollar bus back down to her place.

As soon as her cab is far enough away that I don’t have to worry about her seeing I’m fully functional and just didn’t want to drive her back down, I hop back onto my skateboard and roll down to the houses for another night of revelry. It starts off with a little Beirut at the RPCS junior house,  kicking it on the porch since it's summer time and the living is easy with a nice phatty blunt in my mouth and then it’s on to the Gilman seniors’ house for some Spinners and girls dancing while we guys make rude comments about each others’ mothers. At this point a girl who had just graduated from Garrison and about whom I harbor vicious longings kidnaps me and drives me in her early-90’s Jeep Cherokee, one of those boxy ones that everybody seemingly had back then, to the Garrison house. We party there and late-night I end up at the RPCS Seniors’ house, a group of girls who had fallen out of favor with most of the other Gilman guys but I consider acceptable and welcome drinking companions, and I end up falling asleep late-night on their couch into sweet intoxicated dreams.

The next night DeVito and myself and probably a few others make our way to Grotto Pizza, a delicious little shore treat where they put the tomato sauce on top of the mozzarella and the chicken fingers are just like Lunch-lady Dorine used to make them and it’s good piled on top of all the booze in our developing livers. I drive us to the Gilman guys’ house where we have a few drinks and play some Beirut and nobody goes to the beach because it’s been cloudy and rainy all week but for some reason Shields and I decide to go surfing – or maybe it was Black and I, I just borrowed Shields’ trunks? – not sure, impossible to fully remember a booze-filled depraved week from 9 years ago – but regardless I paddle out into ugly, choppy water in green trunks with elastic instead of laces holding them up and I’m pretty drunk, off-balance and certainly in no condition to physically exert myself and after getting wrecked for a half an hour and constantly fighting currents trying to take me to Rehomo I decide to give up on the surfing and get my head back into the drinking game.

That night the RPCS girls have another party and drinks will flow, maybe some blood will spill but certainly a crowd of derelicts are rolling on E-Bombs and a couple heads are playing around with GHB but I’m still a respectable American so I content myself to drink cheap watered-down weasel piss and smoke swaggy joints with my buddies and lament the fact that, despite all the heavy consumption I can’t seem to get myself properly intoxicated.

The next day I do something about that. I start drinking when I wake up at 10 and push it hard all day. Close to 5, about a 12-pack deep and not looking to stop anytime soon, I find myself at the RPCS juniors’ sandy-floored Beirut table playing some top-shelf ping-pong with the masters of the sport, long before all the west-coasters adopted it, misnamed it, and fucked it up with lame rules and inconsistent table sizes as if the only thing central to Beirut is ping pong balls and cups. That’s like saying the only thing you need to play basketball is a loop of some sort and a rubber ball and fuck such regulations as 10-foot tall hoops and 3-point lines. At some point it devolves into something similar but certainly not the same and when you go from the pros to the minor leagues it can be somewhat frustrating.

Around 7 I turn from the table after knocking down a good 6 or so beers in less that 45 minutes from playing one-on-one 10-cup and get to the bathroom door in time to volume boot a frozen rope of bile and stomach liner like it’s a crossbow dart aimed almost perfectly into the toilet and somehow I avoid making a mess.

That night the Gilman seniors hold a party at their house and they turn a dining room table into a Beirut table as it is regulation, though a little sloppy, and outside people are playing flip cup and finally I feel like I’m getting the good drunk I’d been chasing all week.

I pose for pictures with friends as I finally remembered my camera, strange cross-sections like one of Shields, a girl whose younger sister I had been previously dating, me, and the girl’s friend who was the fore-mentioned co-ed I’d been secretly pining for when she kidnapped me to go to the Garrison house.

The next thing I remember I’m waking up on a couch in the living room, alone and in silence, and Bee-nut flicks of the light and tells me the party’s over. Apparently I’d been sitting out on their patio where the flip-cup was happening, started throwing up over their fence into some bushes, and passed out. The cops came and some helpful friends dragged me inside so I could pass out on the couch and so I ended up missing most of the party, passing out at 11 just as things had been heating up. This drunk thing is like a goddamned slingshot, how would I figure it out? If you drink too little it’s just not as fun and if you drink too much you miss it completely. I would spend the rest of my life chasing that perfect drunk, occasionally hitting it but probably more than often overshooting the bullseye.

From this point it’s a final mixture of confusion and booze. A few more parties – who knows if the party ever really ends? – and bittersweet reminiscences and conversations, the deep substance-addled ones that are embarrassing but at the same time enlightening and make you feel awkward but at the same time closer to whomever you been conversing. Friends are tired, painful hangovers and all and draping themselves in American Flags or blankets. A few’d been rolling for a good 3 or 4 days straight and are hitting the low cycle where the dopamine’s all gone and certainly suicide isn’t far from the realm of agreeable possibilities. Yet through all of this it is innocent, it is fun and brighter than the great chase would become.

We certainly didn’t realize it, as few youth ever do, but it certainly was some of the freest, most nostalgic moments of our lives. Not the best time, mind you, because certainly I love my life a little more every day as I continue heading in the direction I’ve always known I’ve wanted. But back then things were a bit easier, confusing but at the same time very exciting, as if everything just meant more and was new and fresh and every party was something different, every girl was something mysterious and hangovers didn’t exist and the great spit was a cause celebre that everybody looked forward to, that night in “rare form” that was so legendary to us mixed adolescents.

  The final day the sun comes out and DeVito and myself and a young man who would become the legendary DJ Hoff walk around the Bethany boardwalk, getting food and taking in the tourist scene. Hoff and DeVito would stay in the hotel for another day but I have to get back, see my family and save some money and all that jazz.

On the ride home I don’t think about the fact that high school was officially over. That from that point forward everything becomes a lot more difficult, a lot more real, a lot more scary though also a lot more exhilarating. I didn’t think about my good friends I’d rarely see once I made my great crossing to California nor did I think about how much I’d miss my hometown, my family and my room.

I thought about the fact that my parents were leaving in 2 days to go to a B and B for some romantic reason and I would have to continue the great party. I thought about calling whoever I’d have to call up and having a blow out. And most importantly I thought about how I’d procure a Beirut table and where I’d set it up in my parents’ house. Because at that time in your life, what’s more important than a proper Beirut setup? Nothing.

Descent into the magical land (Outback Pt. 5)

I love reading my journals from this time, when the festival had actually started, and the feelings began to flow, because they are disjointed, distracted, or just plain missing. Sometimes when you are traveling, and really get yourself into something, you don't even have time to take a breath, to stop your inertia to reflect on it. It is an indivisible creation, a muon, or a string, or whatever the smallest particle is these days. Or maybe it is an atom, or a molecule, a fusing of disparate parts, but all swirling and vibrating and linking to form a greater energy than existed before. Harmonious disorder, quantum humanity.
As Taku and I traced a path toward the lights and sound, we began passing the fringe elements of the event, both animal and mineral. As at all festivals, there is no place that is not considered a dancefloor, so we snuck past moving bodies long before we could see the stage. We noticed the village area to our right, but decided to bypass the entry to reach the mainstage. We walked with wonder, stepping lightly, and scanning the scene as we proceeded with wide eyes and crazy grins.
"Ina!"
"Oru!"
"Haahahahhah, Taku, this is crazy. Sounds so good!" We were nearing the stages, and the bass was now really reaching our core. Soon it would be hard to communicate with anyone without yelling. WE somehow were smart enough to put a little bit of T.P. in our ears, which was eventually lost to the dusty dancefloor. Strange stretched cloth banners with holes in them glowed ultraviolet white, marking the fringes of the center stage. We were approaching from the extreme left of the stage, so couldn't see much, but occasionally a green laser would pierce through the early night and strike us in the chest, or squiggle on a space-butterfly frolicking with her friends nearby. The sound systems at these things, and the skill level of the musicians, are both overwhelming. Bass pulses could come out as wahing thump, and the synthetic sounds that accompany the downbeat will take you on little adventures in your head. We both began to walk-dance now, feeling fucking good, and now entering a fabulous parallel dimension called a fucking Eclipse Festival.
By random good fortune, we ran into the Brasiliernos on the edge of the main dancefloor. They were under the radiant rainbow lights, and under the anenome light spire that would twist to the beat, shaking its hundreds of glowing plastic arms, and under what must have been a clear, starry night, shining down on us all. We hugged and patted and smiled at each other, all linked hand to shoulder in a little drug-dance huddle for a while. Someone had already purchased one of those electricity balls that shoot lightning at your fingers when you touch them and of course its purple electric fingers, and its warmth, were popular with all.
It turned out that the BRA crew had done some acid, and were doing all right, but Adrianna was feeling a little ill, a little overwhelmed. Fabricio and Andre already seemed have their carinas, so I couldn't help but console her a bit. It seemed no odd thing to give her a neck and back rub, even as I bobbed side to side in my big shorts. We had a little mellow dance circle going when, low and behold, Sonya and Liam roll up, Sonja with her magenta-streaked dew and easy countenance, and skinny, grinning Liam, with his inconsistent chin stubble as sporadic and Taku's, with that Limey accent and deadpan hilarity.
"Hey!!" WE all shouted, but most of our communication was done via stomping and waving to the rhythm. From our spot we could see the DJ's now, bobbing away with one hand holding a headphone to one ear, and the other twisting dials and adjusting his fader, as well as the insane, computer-generated graphic displays taking place behind on the big screen.

I explained to S and L that Taku and I had ingested some inebriants, and they could too if they wanted. Neither had ever experimented before, but we decided a half each would be a good start to things. In a gloriously fun little ritual, we busted the sample in two, and they each threw back there heads and swallowed some precious H2O. We all grinned again.

Taku ended up finding one of his fire-dancing homeboys, and was headed to the firedancing area on the other side of the crowd. We planned to meet up, hugged, and off he went, smiling and jabbering excitedly in Japanese. Feeling the vibration more and more, letting the music thump into my cerebelum, I gazed around at this epic scene. It seemed we'd forgotton to pack our costume, but the other half of the dancing crowd had not, and sported wings, facepaint, scarves (or was it just in my head), if not crazy pants, moon shoes, and sparklers. It all swirled into the euphoric daze that is a trance festival on good shit, and I found myself shoeless, dancing with Adrianna. We hadn't spoken much, but there are stats on how much words really communicate anyway. Quite simply, we were destined to be each others' companions for these few short days in the desert. Our simple, in-sync jibs and jabs and stomps turned into a closer, private vibration. First our cheeks touched, sending those first shocks to the nervous system, the new skin of the opposite sex. We danced that way for a while before moving away. Everyone was in thier own little worlds, but still part of our little solar system among the spinning galaxy of people. I devolved into a bare-chested, barefoot, long-haired tribesman as the dancing warmed us all up. The whole crew seemed to also see that Adrianna and I would be a pair for this escape from reality-I was probably the last to know it; it felt so good just touching skin, I wasn't even thinking of the inevitable next steps. Slowly, our cheek dances began to be soft face skin mini-orgies, but slow, classy ones. When we finally slipped far enough back for our lips to touch, our minds turned momentarily inside out, and we just absorbed the whole moment for a bit, and the short day that we'd all had to bond, and what led us to this beacon of life in a desolate land. We pulled apart like surfacing from cool, clean water.
"It's amazing, no?" Adrianna said.
"It's amazing. Wow." We didn't have to talk too much, it was too loud, and we were already harmony, as we shared a Marlboro Menthol, and wavered from side to side to the rythem.

The night did not so much progress, as it evolved, being written in valiant fashion by our little bus and our connectivity. We moved our crew a little closer to the center, and it was there that the backbeat took a major switch, as a new DJ stepped in. This new groove had some laser to it, some bleeping, muted, digital loop that started out calm, and built. As in most electronic music, and especially new Trance, the beat, builds, and then drops, not down, but like a bomb, exploding in your eardrums and head, and squeezing out your most expresive moves and emotion. The crowd cheered our musical Dungeon Master as he gave everyone thier fix, telling our life with his beats. As the scene peaked, another familiar, and funny face appeared out of the crowd. It was Chick from OZ and he was wearing bug glasses and some sort of vest, and smiling at me. Shit, we were all smiling, or making The Blue Steel face as we twisted our wrists to the electro beats.
"Willie! Hey mate, how you goin?" Chick inquired, amused at my enthusiasm, and Adrianna on my arm.
"Great man, how are you." I, of course, gave him a hug.
"Stick out your tongue." Chick shouted.
"Wha?"
"Stick out your tongue!"
I did, and the young laddy opened a small metal vile, and placed a tiny square of paper on my tongue. A gift, from my new friend, that he deemed me ready to recieve.
"Holy shit man. I'll see you later? Whhooooooooo!" I put my hands up and jumped from foot to foot, my bare feet flattening the earth along with the hundreds around me. I turned back to Adrianna, took a few delicious drags of the menthol cigarette, and pressed my lips up against hers, sweet lordy, and we stood there, eyes closed, cigarette out to the side, swirling in the ethereal cosmic soup under the light of our good fortune.

In the thick of it. (Outback PT. 6)  Part. 4

The Florida Trip to Nowhere, The finale

Continued from The Spring Break Trip to Nowhere Part 2

The first thing we did when we got to Ft. Lauderdale was to take a nap. We got in mid day and napped for about 5 hours. It was necessary in order to continue the bender that followed. That night, we decided to stay around the hotel and party since there were several bars and restaurants. We decided to have dinner at a Bayou style place, whose name I can't remember. After dinner, we walked around and ended up at Howl at the Moon.   There was one of the best concerts I had ever scene. It had a dual piano and both musicians were the trekkies of the music industry. They were two tools, but they could fucking wail. Between their abilities with instruments and great voices, they did an unbelievable job. Not only did they do a great job with classics, they really created a rambunctious atmosphere. Wow, what a scene. Drinking booze and ripping grits while in this party-like scene can bring the savage beast out of the most docile of people. The only people that stayed out this night were John, Tal, and I. It was a pretty cool scene. Now that said, we really did not get after it so to speak. We still drank until everything was spinning, but it was not too extreme.

The next day we woke up somewhat early, like 11, grabbed some grub, and headed to the beach. The beach was pretty nice. Now the main issue that occurred was the fact that dehydration set in. Between the booze, drugs, grits, and the humidity, my body was more shriveled up than Nicole Ritchie when she was anorexic. We stopped for lunch at Chee Burger Chee Burger, which is an ideal place if hungover. They are a chain of grease food. Even their salads drip. It is fucking awesome. After that the few that ate lunch headed back onto the beach to meet up with the rest of the crew. Luckily, it became overcast, which made it an ideal day to throw on a t-shirt, chill on the beach, and eat enough boomers to get a great body high but not trip. Tal, the two girls, and I literally chilled on the beach for a few hours while the rest of the pussies retired to nap land. We ate some grub and a swinging type table outside for dinner. During our meal,, a crack head named Larrol came by and drew us. It had to be the funniest fucking picture I have ever scene. He told my boy Tal that he was a young Ronald Reagan because of his stubble, whatever the fuck that means. That night was a shit show. We went around Ft. Lauderdale and got fucking twsisted. In fact, I got so drunk that I had to call one of my friends to find me in the back stairwell. After stopping off at a few of the bars in our hotel area and running into a bunch of fags in a queer ass frat, we decided to get the fuck out of the dodge and hit the downtown area. I’m sorry, but due to my drunken state a lot of the names have slipped from what used to be my brain. The best thing about this bar was the fact that the hot ass bartenders and cocktail bitches would walk across the bar, grab your head and pour a shot down your throat.  It was pretty fucking sweet. I blacked out and came back into reality being stuck in the outside stairwell. After being rescued by my boy Nav, I headed upstairs and booted directly into the toilet. This was the 2nd time someone had thrown up, since he had thrown up a dry mix of fucking garbage the day before and not even cleaned it up. It was nasty. We had barely been there and the place was a fucking mess.

The next day was painful. That night, we had a bunch of people over for a pregame and then decided to to go the piano bar Howling at the Moon. It was cool to see them again with everyone. It was once again a pretty low key night.

That next day, about 15 of us went deep sea fishing. It was a fucking waste of money. No one caught a single fish and everyone got pretty sea sick. As one of our friends put it, “I would have paid $80 not to do it.” That night was an awesome evening, though. My cousin lives in Ft. Lauderdale and actually works the VIP room at one of the top clubs in the area, the Blue Martini. He hooked us up with a table and cut the prices of our drinks big time. We felt like bawlers, getting drunks and inviting drunken swamp donkeys up. He was not there at first so we told the bouncer and pushed us in past the line. It was cool as shit. So after killing a few bottles we headed back to the same bar as the night before. IT was a mess. Two of our group was actually held up during a blow buy that went bad. The next thing I know, I am getting in a cab and waking up the next day in the same clothes as I wore the night before. That day, we went swimming in the pool and got a few e-bombs. After eating a few each, we headed out that night. While most of ours did not have any affect, the one person in our group who took the good shit rolled face.

The next day, we made our way to the airport. I’m sorry that I could not remember a lot of names, but if you go on a week bender without taking one night off, your bound to forget everything.

Falling Down Miss Jackson's Hole (The Conclusion to a Skitown bender)

Continued from Firing Down Lines from Miss Jackson's Hole

We woke up with razors in our blood and fire in our eyes. It was Gaper Fool’s day, April 1^st, and it was time for the derelict locals to run the mountain, to mock all the squares who come to visit for a week of relaxation on blue square groomers and over-priced fireplace suites. I dressed up in a perfect gaper uniform of windpants and a Slim Shady wear thermal; Josh wore a pair of baggy khakis and a Timberland hoodie, emoting the redneck gaper inside of him. We stopped at Bubba’s for their working man’s breakfast – a secret heaping of eggs, sausage, potatoes, and an enormous biscuit, not offered on the menu and reserved for locals. It’s about 4 pounds of food and costs less than 5 bucks – but it’s not for tourists.

From there we rode up the bus, again using somebody else’s pass so I could go for free. At the base of the mountain, in the parking lot, Josh and I took our first shots. We’d packed heavy for today, looking to emulate a feat we’d accomplished 2 years prior. We killed a fifth of rum between us on closing day, taking one shot each for every lift. We also pounded a few beers, smoked salad bowls of kief, hash, dank, and a sprinkling of powder, and by the end we literally felt like we were flying on our last run down the mountain. This year, despite it being my re-introduction to the altitude and only the 5^th day of the season back on my snowboard, we figured we should one-up that feat. On us we had a fifth of Captain in a new plastic bottle, 6 PBR cans, a gram of blow, and a fresh joint rolled by the master, Josh himself.

We took the fun to the Gondola where the party had already begun, the locals descending on the hapless rich gapers like the caddie swim session from Caddie Shack. Lots of hideous old neon one-pieces and skiers wearing Starter Jackets and jeans. One guy was jabbering on an old fake cell-phone loudly the whole time he was in the lift line and on the lift, yelling fake stock quotes in a suit while skiing, the prefect joke on all those fuckers looking to turn Jackson to Aspen so their stock broker friends can ruin another perfectly good mountain town and turn the savage expanses of Wyoming into another Disney-on-snow Colorado.

The ride up, two gapers shared the gondy with us and we took turns making fun of them without them realizing we were making fun of them. Talking about how huge the hits in the kiddie park were and how epic the conditions were and how we were gonna tackle some of the epic blues and how we hoped we didn’t fall. At the top we threw on our gear, Josh and I passing the bottle back and forth to take a shot each, then charged down to Thunder lift. We were yelling like jackasses, gouging the snow and riding backwards but pretending it was an accident. There’s something so amazingly liberating about trying to ride as shitty as possible and/or trying to just appear like you don’t know what you’re doing. It’s fun to jump around act like a fucking idiot and in all honesty my favorite thing to do when snowboarding, whether gaper fool’s or not, is to throw myself around and really just play in the snow.

At Thunder we ran into an old friend, Lora, who was riding with Phil, I think. She was a ripping skier, one of the best girls I’d ever met and the only one I knew who actually skied a bit better than her boyfriend when I lived there. She was visiting from France or Switzerland or some shit (what the fuck – I move to Lagayna, CA, she moves to a European mountain – God I need to reassess my values) and wearing a bright turquoise one-piece. She and Phil joined the two of us and we rolled up the lift, a 4-person crew, passing the rum back and forth. Josh and I chased our shots with a beer each, then rolled down to the top of Thunder Bumps. This was where the magic happened. This was where everybody would line up, like some goddamned snowy Mardi Gras, all dressed as absolutely absurd as possible. Some people held to the theme and dressed like gapers. Some just dressed weird or wore ski race suits or some other costume, which in all honesty really fucking pisses me off. Goddamnit, what the fuck is happening to this world when motherfucking locals from a mothercunting ski mountain can’t keep to a motherfucking theme based around mockery of the bitch-asses who were forcing Jackson Hole to re-make their main entrance road because it confuses fucking retards who wonder why the goddamn road is "going past" the resort?!!! I don’t want to see some slore dressed like a moo cow unless overtop she’s wearing a shirt that says "Texas State University" or "Kansas" where the fattest gapers come from.

We stood atop, 4 stoic bastards exploring just how far down the rabbit hole goes. I had packed all my booze into my Liquid Lounger, a portable cooler backpack with speakers and an iPod jack built in. While we stood there I unzipped the padding over the stereo and switched it on. I turned on my iPod and began blaring hardcore punk music, getting fired up and ready for a bit of the old ultra-violence. Eventually there were people built up around us on the top of the run and we began to descend, like a swarm of drunken bees, weaving into and out of moguls with reckless abandon, consciously throwing out the window all the years of discipline and skill we’d accumulated to slip and slide down the mountain while drinking beers, yelling at each other in thick southern accents, eye up moguls for credit card airs that we patted each other on the back afterwards. 2 days before, on Josh’s skis I had tried a daffy with no air and nearly knocked the wind out of myself; but on gaper fool’s we were throwing our bodies around like rag dolls blowing in the Teton breeze. Josh and Lora specifically kept on running into each other, getting their skis tied up and taking a few legitimately painful hit and tangles. But with the booze flowing freely, the sun shining bright and the dismal, snowless winter almost over, we felt no pain. Again up Thunder and down the bumps, although Josh and I decided to lose Lora to do a few key bumps in the trees. Crazy creatures were all around, vibrations of debauchery I’d not felt in many moons and as my brain slowly shut down my instincts picked up and there, in those open Wyoming woods, my soul was beginning to return to the wild and for a few blessed hours I was free.

After a few more laps we decided to head over to Sublette and there we ran into Tyler. He was skiing in a big polka dot muu-muu with an umbrella and while it’s not mocking a gaper directly, Tyler’s whole life is one giant affront to gapers everywhere (the only Jackson local I know who lived there for a whole season and clipped or otherwise scammed tickets every day because he didn’t have a pass). He joined our crowd of merry pranksters, Lora disappeared, and I think Tyler, Josh, Phil and I did keybumps riding up the lift – but it’s hard to be sure because my brain was being scrambled and fried like that egg in those old 80’s anti-drug commercials and in reality the whole day was a haze. I remember Tyler hucking one of the rocks right above Sublette lift to everybody’s drunken cheers, holding out his umbrella, and watching as the wind from the drop blue it back and completely ruined it. He came up to us, laughed, threw the umbrella in a trash can and smiled as he said, "It’s my roommate’s." I remember some bowl tokes were in there somewhere. Again with the shots of rum – lots of rum – and more PBR’s. Eventually we decided to make our way to Casper, where the Gaper Day mountain party moves in the afternoon. Already people had lined up on all the picnic benches, big old pitchers of Boozy the Clown’s secret sauce. All the who’s who of the town showed up the freaks and the geeks all sucking on the tit of the Dionysian cow and laughing and smiling because they all knew that finally the miserable snowless season they’d all suffered through was coming to an end and while the year before had been nothing but epic skiing and riding to exhaustion, this season had been one enormous drunkfest from green flag to red. And I was proud to have come up from sea level and to be out boozing all but the best of them. Josh and I disappeared behind the Casper Lodge and restaurant for more key bumps, then came around to rejoin the party, kill the beers in our pockets, and order pitchers which seemed to be appearing out of nowhere as if sent by God to make sure we were good and drunk for Gaper day. Josh and I started pounding the rum, double fisting with a pitcher in the other hand for balance, and then, after all that booze and all those drugs, we decided that the best idea would be to do a few laps of Casper lift. Finally we finished the rum and downed the rest of a pitcher of beer with each consecutive lap. The mountain closed and we took it to the bottom, taking it to the streets, where they’d set up a big free concert in the parking lot.

We decided to duck into the Mangy Moose to buy a few PBR tall boys, the official drink of Jackson Hole, and walked around in the sunbaked mud and ice of the base where other drunken locals sat around, shirts off, sunning themselves and talking loudly and happily. We swung into the VC for a beer or two, the locals official apres nestled between my old jobs at the TGR offices and Wildernest Sports. We were  loud and bombastic, drunken fools are we all if nothing more.

The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering around. Tyler had gone to work, I think, and Graham had joined us or something. I really don’t know but what I do know is that that redheaded fucker who was the lead singer for the Spin Doctors was performing, a hippie burnt out musician in a crowd of hippie burnt out athletes, belting out acoustic versions of "Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong" and "Two Princes" and "Jimmy Olsen’s Blues" from the legendarily forgettable "Pocket Full of Kryptonite."

Eventually Josh and I were on the bus back to town, dinged out of our minds, drunk, high, completely twisted, our brains nothing more than puddles of goo sloshing around between our ears. I turned on the stereo in my liquid lounger and played the songs from the Jackson sequences from TGR’s "Soul Purpose" (premiering the year I lived up there) and "High Life" (arguably the best TGR and in that case big mountain ski movie of all time). "Rescue Me" by who the fuck knows and Boy Sets Fire’s "The Rookie".

Back at Josh’s house we took Phatty bong rips, then sat in the hot tub as the sun began to set over the Tetons. Slowly the drugs and the booze and all the shit was slipping out of my body and as Josh somehow went off to work, I was beginning to finally nod to sleep. Then Phil rolled in, began lining up some more of the ding, and then I was back in the thick of it, again feeling awake, again not being able to go to sleep until 2 in the morning.

The next day we woke up to a few inches of fresh powder. They couldn’t believe it. This morning was the first day it snowed in months. Everybody was amped, running around like a bunch of banshees, throwing on our gear, grabbing our powder planks, and climbing into Josh’s truck. He had been scheduled to work this day. In fact, he had been suspended from being a ski instructor for the last month for calling some little fucker an "Asshole" (after which the kid whipped out his little Razr phone, called his dad, and complained). Today was supposed to be his first day back at work. Josh decided fuck it and fuck them. No way would he waste the last powder day of a dry season for some little shithead children wanting to learn how to ski. No, we were powder fiends, on and off the mountain, and today we had a beautiful little gift. Today would be my big day of the season.

Graham was working the gondola so he let us up for free – the only person I know who moves to Jackson for half a season and still agrees to work on one of his only powder days – and from there we made our way to Thunder, then to Sublette and finally to the surface lift up Rendezvous Bowl. The used to take people up but now that it was gone, there was only a cold, windy chairlift that blew down most of the time. We thought it would be epic but other than the first few turns it was crud, just dusty on crusty and I was scared so would be the rest of the mountain. Thank God that wasn’t the case.

The Sublette woods were firing and we found knee-high powder stashes with almost every turn. We hooted and hollered, yelling out prayers to the gods for blessing us with one great day and I was sure it was a reward for our previous day’s intense rabble-rousing. If one pushes the human spirit and body to the limit, he is always rewarded, or so says Buddha, the Dalai Lama, and Gary Busey, my three spiritual gurus. Josh and Phil were hucking as was Tyler, decent 5-10 foot drops into a foot or so of thick Spring powder. We lapped Mushroom Chutes under thunder, then back to Sublette for a few Alta chute runs, a line or so down Expert Chutes, and the back to Mushroom Chutes where the snow was its softest and fluffiest. Graham joined us on a lunch break at Thunder and we were charging it, powering through the trees, mini white rooms all over, and I was throwing spray fans like I was surfing a frozen wave. One of our last runs through Mushroom chutes I found myself aat a particularly tight little drop at the bottom of which was a tree you had to turn at quickly and hard right after threading the needle between two trees barely 2 feet apart. I dropped in, layed in my edge to avoid the tree waiting for me at the bottom, and found my little powder trough was just a little dust on crust and instead of turning hard I slid helplessly against an ice patch, slammed into a tree, and scorpioned into an outcropping of pines with a dead thud and a slight snap echoing from my feet.

"Fuck" I yelled out and Graham rode down to ask me if I was okay. I untangled myself from the trees, looked at my board, slid down a little into Amphitheatre and sat down for a few seconds.

"Dude, do you wanna come down with me?"

"No, fuck it. This is probably my last day of the season, might as well push on." I’d hurt my ankle before the trip and had brought an ankle brace which I’d worn every day but this one. Now that ankle was throbbing. I met with Josh and Phil at the base and told them I’d eaten it hard. Graham testified to how bad it was, that he was afraid I was going to die when my helmet crunched into a tree. He continued down but I rode with Josh and Phil for a few more hours, occasionally complaining about my ankle but mostly keeping quiet and quietly wincing with every backside carve and every transfer to my frontside edge. Especially then. We made it over to Casper and ducked into the Palace for a spinach smoke and rode a bit more. The pain went away slightly but it was becoming harder and harder to put any weight on my front foot and trying to push through the pain was exhausting me even more. Maybe I’d finally hit my limit. We finished around 3:30 and I hobbled to the truck alongside Josh and Phil. Back at the apartment I took off my boot, wincing as it slipped over my ankle, and revealed a half-tennis-ball sized swell.

"Fuck dude, you weren’t kidding."

"Yeah. I think I might have broken one of the small bones in it. A navicular fracture, y’know?"

"Damn. Well do you wanna bowl toke?"

"Sure." We packed the bowl and made our way out to the hot tub, smoking in the free Wyoming air with the river running through it and ducks floating down, quacking under the fresh open air and the big high alpine sun. That night we mostly smoked bowls and drank beers. Josh cooked up a spaghetti and and meatball and garlic bread dinner and we relaxed. He and Phil were planning on waking up at 6 to hike Glory Bowl for the last powder faces of the year; I was done. My body was all but broken, my organs were shot, and my soul was going through painful withdrawal every day.

You see I’ve never been as happy, like completely sublimely happy and content, as I was when living in Jackson. Living in the lowlands, I’ve learned to ignore that and to mask my discontent under a façade of cheesy jokes amongst the working stiffs of society, pretending to care about the gapers I worked with’s tales of skiing epic corduroy at Mammoth, and to accept the societal conditioning that a lifestyle not focused on making money is a childish dream. But being back up there, I’m able to put it all into perspective and it’s like all those poisons, the false prophets and social ills that plague our lives when we work the 9 to 5 in the lowlands and still strive for the "American Dream" when we all know it died a good 50 years ago, had started to ooze out of my pores, like a spiritual master cleanse or a colonic for the soul, and all of a sudden I looked at my life and felt horrible about myself. What the fuck was I doing? Why the fuck did I pretend to give a fuck what all those losers at Wet Seal (and yes, basically everybody I worked with at Wet Seal was an enormous loser in the eyes of the grand universal watcher with the exception of 3 or 4 people) thought – why did I even want to keep my job there? Why was I once again pretending to be something I wasn’t? It was like Baltimore all over again.

The next day they left early and I just barely heard them as they stepped over me to gear up for the hike. I woke up, smoked a bowl, and went to work collecting all my shit that had become strewn all over their bare-bones apartment and packing it all back up, made ever more difficult because I couldn’t put any weight on my ankle. Eventually I found a few pain pills after hopping up the stairs to Josh’s bathroom, then forced myself to put weight on my ankle and keep it loose as I knew soon enough I would be hustling through airports and would need the ability to use both legs. Josh and Phil got home around 1 and we smoked a final bowl in the hot tub. I got out, threw my wet trunks in a plastic bag in my ski bag, said goodbye to Phil, and loaded my gear into the back of Josh’s truck. On the way to the airport Josh and I talked about how great it was seeing each other. I told him how envious I was of his life and how so much of me wants to live there but I knew I had to do something big with my life before I could return to the Hole and become comfortable and happy again. He told me he knew, from day 1 he knew Jackson Hole is too small a town for me and that someday, once I’ve achieved Hunter S. Thompson notoriety I’d return.

"But still, I miss you up here, bro. You gotta get back sooner rather than later."

"Well if I haven’t made some good steps by 2008, I’ll be back for the winter."

"First year the tram’s up, nice."

"Yeah man, for sure." He helped me unload my shit from the car. I had put my ankle brace on for the flight, painfully since I had rubbed my ankle and my heel practically raw from its seams and although it supported me it also dug into my wounds with every step. Still, it allowed me to give him a big hug and a wave, then drag my board bag, my suitcase, and wear my Liquid Lounger to the check-in. I got to the wsmall waiting area in the tiny airport and stared. It'’ the most beautiful flight gate ever, with wide open expansive windows that stare hard upon the Grand Teton, the highest point, a 2-day summit (or 1 for the truly hardcore) almost always topped with snow. I stared out into the majestic peaks and wondered again "What the fuck am I doing with my life? Why do I leave this for the hideous rat race, propagated by the everyday normal and the uninteresting of American society? The gapers? Seriously, why do I turn my back on this happiness and fulfillment for a dream that I’m not even sure is really mine?" I opened my weird metaphysical and anthropological book, "Sex Drugs, Einstein, and Elves", and read about one nerdy guy’s musings about all the random shit he knows and while it had been an eye-opener for some crazy kuunt I knew, it just seemed like a nerd with a little too much time on his hands for research. He was making connections many of which I’d already begun to make without spending years avoiding the arts of socialization and while interesting, I didn’t find it any more special than an encyclopedia. Essentially he connected the dots for those too stupid to figure shit out on their own. OK, the idea that DMT might not be a psychotropic drug but actually a portal to another dimension is kinda rad. And I liked the fact he brought up that the English language is really just a mixture of other languages. Still, I boarded the plane disgruntled, made my switch over in SLC, and ordered a whiskey neat. Good bye, Jackson Hole. Goodbye, my soul. God bless booze. I hate gapers.

Spring Break Trip to nowhere pt. 2 by Kyle

Continued from The Florida Trip to Nowhere Part 1 by Kyle     

The next day was spent asleep. We went out for a few hours, but it was windy and a little cold. There was also some shitty rain. The cool thing about Florida is that you can see a storm from around a mile away. It also at least a drizzle for 5 minutes everyday. The next night is when we really got after it. After milling around all day., we ordered some pizza and made our way out to the heart of Miami. After drinking a few beers and taking a few shots of Jaeger, we headed out. There had been talks of blow, which turns into a night of pining and pondering. After taking few pictures in front of the Versace Mansion - which by the way, is an amazing sight to see; That type of property in that location is unreal - we went throughout the area, from bar to bar. We ran into another group from Delaware. In fact, one of the girls I had a crush on in Freshman year, but it just never worked out. So after a few shots and some mind numbing small talk, we headed back out to see what else this town had. We ended up in a huge fucking club. Some of the highlights included buying obscene numbers of Red Bull vodkas. In one club, we fell into a bunch of blow. We literally walked into a bathroom my friend tripped, and fell into a stall where some dude was ripping a few keys. Only in Miami. So after buying 2 balls, we headed on our way out. Although we could tell we were shorted about a quarter of a gram each bag, it still did the trick. Beggers can’t be choosers, especially with drugs. We finally made it to our destination. This club that we went to was crazy. It was half outdoors with a large canopy like cover, and half indoors. It was crazy. It was like seeing 10 Paris Hiltons and Jessica Albas. Every girl was smoking and either was Latino or had blond hair. I decided to be smooth and buy two Red Bull vodkas, one for myself and one for some slonky I was trying to stick. First of all, the girl looked like Keira Knightly so she was already ten levels higher than me, but I continued jawing and fidgeting, probably really freaking her the fuck out. On top of that I decided to buy a drink that can be considered a bit of an upper. So after getting the two small solos full of the poison, I got the bill. Two redbull vodkas were 34 bucks. At the time I paid it, but holy fuck. Not even big Ben Rothlisberger would pay that amount. So after the girl ducked out I met up with the rest of the crew, who were sitting at a large round table right on the outside of the dance floor. Due to our vampirical cravings, and reckless abandonment, we took p-funk and key bumps either under the table or sitting straight up. Fuck it we thought, we were invincible (I wonder what caused that nostalgic feeling). The rest of the night was a blur. The next day we had to wake up and return the car before one. We were so hungover and giving Nick so much shit, that he had a mid-day crisis and broke his glasses while tossing them at us. So we dropped the Charger off and rode in our friends car. Luckily, they had rented a nice big ass SUV, so a few of us piled in and made our way to Ft. Lauderdale. Ft. Lauderdale is great. It is a cleaner version of Miami. It has the clubs and the bars, and the restaurant and stores, but without the guidos. That next day we got situated in Tal’s parents time share and headed to the beach. This place was sick due to location. It was the Marriot Beach Place Towers. It was like the Grand Central Station of the beach. There were several sick restaurants, including hooters, and bunch of different bars including a piano bar, and a few courtyard vendors. IT had a nice view that looked over the bay and a group of multi-million dollar estates. It was fucking awesome. To be continued in Florida Trip to Nowhere, Finale.