Monday, March 22, 2004
Tis The Season
So it's not a birthday for the blog necessarily, but I feel like there should be some pseudo holiday/Cinco de Mayo-esque/ excuse-for-drinking celebration, since it is spring break season after all. In college, I never did the typical shit. Seattle for the 'rents one year, stayed in SD another. Went to Joshua Tree when I was a Junior (a trip ultimately marked by Chachi's Bingeathon -- a story for another post perhaps, or rather, an itemized list of food), and Senior year it was NYC. But when I was a Sophomore in high school -- still a fairly uncorrupted lad applauded by DARE -- I had the quintessential Spring Break.
Somehow my band, Loophole, was scheduled to play SDSU's Greek Fucknpuke Fest in Lake Havasu. We arrived around 6am after driving all night through the desert. There was a long patch of beach to which 10 houseboats were docked. The bros and sorores had recently gone to bed, but some dude who'd passed out in the sand woke up when we walked up with armloads of equipment. Miraculously, he knew where to go. It was an 8 by 8 on the top of a houseboat that allowed just enough space to sit, as long you zigzagged your body around amplifiers and drums.
Around 11, people woke up and started partying. The lack of sleep, coffee/Skittle diet, and 90 degree heat made me lightheaded and a little nauseous. Then the kegs rolled out and I got to witness my first keg stand -- a special, coming-of-age moment in any boy's life. Somehow a plastic cup of Keystone Light wound up in my hand. Then another, and so on. I remember it tasting like pee. This wasn't due so much to my inexperience as it was to the fact that it was Keystone Light.
12pm - our first set. We played in our 8 by 8 to nary a glance. The temperature broke 100. A bro in board shorts started waving his arms frantically for us to stop. From his wild, PCP eyes, I assumed the cops had shown up or aliens were invading or he was having a heart attack. But no. He needed the microphone to emcee the wet t shirt contest. Well, that's how it started. Somewhere the contestants decided to buck the system (it was Spring Break after all) and make it an all-out Best Body competition. There was a vaguely homo-erotic moment when the bros fell over themselves cheering on their boy, Matt Harder ("Har-der, Har-der, Har-der!"). I drum-rolled the tense silence following "and the winner is...". Harder pulled out a victory. An all-male orgy ensued (but not in a gay way).
A couple hours later the boats set sail for the canyons in the middle of the lake. I could harldy sit upright at this point, but they wanted us to play again. We made it through half a set -- quite an accomplishment for drunk teenagers on a moving boat. We tried to stop but people from other boats demanded requests. We played "Loser" and the commaraderie of drunk people singing rallied me a little. But only a little. After a few minutes even the promise of naked chicks couldn't keep me awake. I crawled into a cubby hole about 3 feet high, curled up with luggage, and passed out.
When I woke up my mouth was a desert, but luckily everything stood still; the boats, docked. I looked out the small window and saw a chick gyrating topless to Nirvana's "Polly" (a quiet song about rape). She was alone, which made it even weirder. I got up and went to find Terry, but had to sit and settle my stomach. Drunk sorores thought I was really cute for being "that drummer who passed out" and petted me. I milked that for a while until I couldn't hold the puke down any longer. Tried to be modest and make my deposit in the bathroom, but nearly lost it in the hall when I saw that the toilet had overflowed all the way down the walkway. I barfed off the side of the boat (it was Spring Break after all).
The boats returned to shore, people mellowed out, I napped. Then around 9 the drinking picked up as if there had been no down time. They wanted us to play again. After our set (the set we'd played three times already), we started drinking again. I wanted to keep going long into the night to prove I could hang. I heard stories of Eero slipping off the deck into the water, John winning a dance contest, and Terry making out. But I must've said or did something to indicate I was done, 'cause after a few beers they stuffed me back in the cubby hole to pass out.
Some time in the middle of the night I woke up to Matt Harder pulling my blanket away: "I'm just gonna borrow this for a few minutes". Before I knew what was going on, he had cocooned himself in it. Out of fear of STDs, I let him keep it.
It had been the last day, so when we awoke we packed up our stuff. John found a used condom on his amp. We said some goodbyes to our new friends, loaded the van, and took off. A few miles out we hit up a greasy diner. Over pancakes and coffee, we talked excitedly about how we were definitely coming back next year.
DARE's sent me hate mail ever since.
So it's not a birthday for the blog necessarily, but I feel like there should be some pseudo holiday/Cinco de Mayo-esque/ excuse-for-drinking celebration, since it is spring break season after all. In college, I never did the typical shit. Seattle for the 'rents one year, stayed in SD another. Went to Joshua Tree when I was a Junior (a trip ultimately marked by Chachi's Bingeathon -- a story for another post perhaps, or rather, an itemized list of food), and Senior year it was NYC. But when I was a Sophomore in high school -- still a fairly uncorrupted lad applauded by DARE -- I had the quintessential Spring Break.
Somehow my band, Loophole, was scheduled to play SDSU's Greek Fucknpuke Fest in Lake Havasu. We arrived around 6am after driving all night through the desert. There was a long patch of beach to which 10 houseboats were docked. The bros and sorores had recently gone to bed, but some dude who'd passed out in the sand woke up when we walked up with armloads of equipment. Miraculously, he knew where to go. It was an 8 by 8 on the top of a houseboat that allowed just enough space to sit, as long you zigzagged your body around amplifiers and drums.
Around 11, people woke up and started partying. The lack of sleep, coffee/Skittle diet, and 90 degree heat made me lightheaded and a little nauseous. Then the kegs rolled out and I got to witness my first keg stand -- a special, coming-of-age moment in any boy's life. Somehow a plastic cup of Keystone Light wound up in my hand. Then another, and so on. I remember it tasting like pee. This wasn't due so much to my inexperience as it was to the fact that it was Keystone Light.
12pm - our first set. We played in our 8 by 8 to nary a glance. The temperature broke 100. A bro in board shorts started waving his arms frantically for us to stop. From his wild, PCP eyes, I assumed the cops had shown up or aliens were invading or he was having a heart attack. But no. He needed the microphone to emcee the wet t shirt contest. Well, that's how it started. Somewhere the contestants decided to buck the system (it was Spring Break after all) and make it an all-out Best Body competition. There was a vaguely homo-erotic moment when the bros fell over themselves cheering on their boy, Matt Harder ("Har-der, Har-der, Har-der!"). I drum-rolled the tense silence following "and the winner is...". Harder pulled out a victory. An all-male orgy ensued (but not in a gay way).
A couple hours later the boats set sail for the canyons in the middle of the lake. I could harldy sit upright at this point, but they wanted us to play again. We made it through half a set -- quite an accomplishment for drunk teenagers on a moving boat. We tried to stop but people from other boats demanded requests. We played "Loser" and the commaraderie of drunk people singing rallied me a little. But only a little. After a few minutes even the promise of naked chicks couldn't keep me awake. I crawled into a cubby hole about 3 feet high, curled up with luggage, and passed out.
When I woke up my mouth was a desert, but luckily everything stood still; the boats, docked. I looked out the small window and saw a chick gyrating topless to Nirvana's "Polly" (a quiet song about rape). She was alone, which made it even weirder. I got up and went to find Terry, but had to sit and settle my stomach. Drunk sorores thought I was really cute for being "that drummer who passed out" and petted me. I milked that for a while until I couldn't hold the puke down any longer. Tried to be modest and make my deposit in the bathroom, but nearly lost it in the hall when I saw that the toilet had overflowed all the way down the walkway. I barfed off the side of the boat (it was Spring Break after all).
The boats returned to shore, people mellowed out, I napped. Then around 9 the drinking picked up as if there had been no down time. They wanted us to play again. After our set (the set we'd played three times already), we started drinking again. I wanted to keep going long into the night to prove I could hang. I heard stories of Eero slipping off the deck into the water, John winning a dance contest, and Terry making out. But I must've said or did something to indicate I was done, 'cause after a few beers they stuffed me back in the cubby hole to pass out.
Some time in the middle of the night I woke up to Matt Harder pulling my blanket away: "I'm just gonna borrow this for a few minutes". Before I knew what was going on, he had cocooned himself in it. Out of fear of STDs, I let him keep it.
It had been the last day, so when we awoke we packed up our stuff. John found a used condom on his amp. We said some goodbyes to our new friends, loaded the van, and took off. A few miles out we hit up a greasy diner. Over pancakes and coffee, we talked excitedly about how we were definitely coming back next year.
DARE's sent me hate mail ever since.
