The Party

Today we’re going to talk about getting drunk and having intercourse. That’s right, getting drunk and having intercourse. I am referring obviously to parties. House parties from high school, college and whatever the hell people do when they have actual responsibilities. There are always at least four typical actions or scenes that are guaranteed to happen if you get enough drunk people together in the confines of one residence. You have the loud drunk broad; the close-to-pass-out drunk dude; shit getting stolen and people who you’ve seen on campus or in class but have never spoken a word with pouring their heart out to you. Also if the host or hostess is having the get-together at their parents’ home they will most likely have a horrible time because of the above items and other consequences of allowing people to have no respect for any of your personal belongings.

Allow us now to enter the party. If you get there anytime after 11 or 1130 pm you’ll probably notice, as soon as you walk in the door, on the steps leading to the second floor, a young man with the look of death on his face, barely able to keep his balance on the step he is sitting on. This dude got too excited to come to this party and probably drank half a 26er of tequila in 45 minutes and then smoked a big doobie. He’d be lucky if he doesn’t get his soon-to-be partially digested BK meal on him, his friends, or the floor. He is, however, guaranteed to vomit.

Vomiting at parties is the biggest bummer to the puker; on the other hand, it is the funniest shit to any spectator outside of the splatter range. Everyone loves a good puke story. People, when they’re drunk, think it is acceptable to puke in the oddest of areas – full recycling bins, the floor of a garage, a half empty cup of rye & coke, a plastic bag with a hole in it, or a sink overflowing with dishes. The worst part about feeling sick at a party is the attention you get. When someone is on the verge of throwing up the last thing they want to hear is, “Ohh shit, you don’t look good man! Are you going to be OK? Are you going to puke?! You look like you’re going to puke! PUKE!” Just get the poor mofucka some tap water and direct him or her towards a drain.

This segues us neatly into the next character at the party – the drunk chick. Loud, obnoxious, barely knows anyone at the party, drank way too many sugary coolers and wants to be everyone’s best friend. Stay clear of this broad at all costs (unless she has yet to reach her sixth vodka stage and her cleavage is ample – you may then be able to get a liquor-tasting makout/boobie touching session in the bathroom before she raps herself around the towel bowl.)

The drunken chick can often play the duel role of the person you barely know talking to you way too much. You’ve probably seen them in class before but have never had a real conversation with him or her. This will likely be the first thing they bring up: “YOU arre in my sccccience CLASS!” The dialogue really has nowhere further to go from here. Get away from this and move to the region designated for smoking dope.

The proprietor of the party will usually have set up a series of rules and regulations that are scarcely obeyed and often result in great stress for the host. For example: people are supposed to take off their shoes – thus they often get stolen (by the way: who the fuck are these people stealing shoes? And who the frick wears someone else’s dirty, old footwear?) Also, they don’t want to allow people into certain parts of the home – these are the rooms that will logically now be used for sexual intercourse. And smoking is usually supposed to be outside – this means the neighbours can be easily awoken from various cusses and vulgar shouting.  It is awesome that people have parties but I wouldn’t want to be the homeowner that gets vomit, semen and ash all over my furniture.

As I am well versed in the realm of getting drunk and having sex with strangers I will advise any hopeful young adults to not get too drunk for fear of vomit, embarrassment and impotency. However get pretty drunk so you can thus tolerate the other drunks and maybe, just maybe, lower your standards enough to regret having sex with that somewhat familiar face from science class.

The Way Of The Road

Today we’re going to talk about last weekend…that’s right, last weekend. Victoria Day or “May 2-4” to the laypeople. It’s a holiday in Canada that falls on the third Monday of May. I believe Americans (according to a bi-national calendar sitting next to me from Parsons Welding Services LTD) celebrate Memorial Day the following weekend. Say what you want about our neighbours to the south but they know how to consume horrible and enjoyable items. US citizens get a statutory holiday every month. They can spend those long weekends drinking cheap beer, eating pre-made PB & J sandwiches; getting fat on the American Dream. While the USA is an easy target for critiques of social arrogance and ignorance alike, Canadians especially are particularly jealous of the American consumerist way of life and the span & availability of their market place.

I digress…I was speaking of the weekend previously. Most of us spend this holiday at the cottage getting loaded, wondering why it doesn’t always fall on the 24^th or who in the hell this “Victoria” is, at the same time cursing the almost guaranteed horribly rainy weather that compliments the weekend yearly (although in certain parts of Ontario it was mostly dry Friday through Monday – almost even too hot for my liking). I myself did not make a trip to a family cottage or a nearby campground. I did, however, embark on a voyage and weekend of questionable certainty, debatable excitement, controversial ingestion and excessive sloth.

This past weekend I took the 7 hour plus Greyhound Bus trip from my mother’s borderline circus of a home in Hamilton (where I’ve been temporarily held up for the past month) to my sparsely furnished student apartment in downtown Ottawa. There was no accurate or obvious purpose to spend three nights in my empty, small, basement residence. I was scheduled to return to work near The Hammer the following week, I did not need to pick up any items of essential importance I had left at my place, I would to have purchase hot food because my refrigerator consisted mostly of rotting apples, stale juice and processed cheese slices, furthermore it would cost me about $100 for a round trip ticket plus entertainment (which I could scarcely afford with one paycheck to my name in the past 8 months). However I felt I needed to go down that road, sit on my used fake-leather coaches and seriously vegetate. I had no desirable plans to catch up with vague acquaintances from university or get drunk in local bars. Something simply compelled me to make that voyage – the door to the life I had abruptly and unexpectedly closed weeks early had to be re-opened and let air out.

I decided to take this sabbatical with a partner in crime. Smoking dope and getting drunk can only reach a certain level when a solo attempt is made. My accomplice and I were initially horrified that we may have to experience first-hand the oppression of civil liberties that is the prohibition of cannabis in this country. Thankfully the phrase “who you know” does not only apply to employment but also to drug use.

We hit the road with a little less weed than I thought was ideal. On the other hand alcohol would likely be limitless and we carried two mickeys of hard liquor on the bus (because of a text message miscommunication each of us thought we were in charge of bus-booze). The ride was long, dark and hot. I’ve now learned the hard way that most AC units on Greyhounds don’t reach the seats at the back – I can now imagine the Freedom Rides in the Deep South being even more uncomfortable than documented.  A young idealistic graduate student sat in front of us and chimed in on our conversation every so often with useless and arbitrary remarks. He offered to kick a sesh with us at the single rest stop somewhere outside Kingston. We purposely did not mention our stash and instead offered him a swig of CC in exchange for the half a joint he toked us.

The bus driver looked like the type of person that attended WWF fights in the 1980’s. The mustached Greyhound employee entertained us with stories of riots, graphic murder and intense repetition that accompany the trade. He shot the shit with us while we were slightly high and had consumed half our travel-alcohol. We stood in the light, cool rain and kept all the passengers on the bus waiting well past the 15 minutes allotted to the rest stop. The four of us discussed the current world economic situation and the popular, although censored, tragedy of a crazed lunatic on a Greyhound through Manitoba that stabbed, killed and partially cannibalized a fellow passenger while the rest of the travelers watched horrified from the side of the highway. The bloody and unquestionably evil catastrophe had lasted over three hours and the perpetrator was not held lawfully responsible for his actions because he was deemed to be clinically insane. It’s odd that someone could be of such an unsound mind to do that to a fellow human being but still be able to withstand the clusterfuck and disorganization that is a bus terminal.

We arrived in the 6-1-3 later than scheduled but sooner than we had anticipated. Bus travel is not a good thing and this fact cannot be ignored. It’ll take you 10 hours to get somewhere that would take less than 1 if you were on a plane. And it takes the same amount of time as driving on your own except you can’t choose when to stop, you’re with mostly strangers, you’re cramped – you actually have very little control over your own environment – and you won’t end up directly at your destination. A long trip on a bus is undoubtedly an exercise in human perseverance and mental strain. It is one of the few instances when alcohol is logically helpful. Lawrence of Arabia once said, “to not mind the pain.” You’d have to be a Buddhist Monk to not mind being on a non air-conditioned bus for 8 hours with the seating at full capacity. The key is to be somewhat like Tyler Durden when you’re on a long voyage like this.  Accept your fait: this is not a comfortable situation to be in for an excessive period of time. However don’t indulge in it too much – thinking outrageously about your surroundings on a trip like this can get someone’s head cut off (too soon?). Let the liquor put you in a light trance, keep hydrated, dress comfortable, think of your destination and don’t lose control till your bags touch the floor of your suite.

When we entered my stale-smelling apartment (the windows and doors had been locked shut for weeks, there was garbage left under the sink and water still in my bong) it was 2:30 am Saturday morning. I threw a six-pack of Bavaria I had put in my oversized undercarriage bag in the freezer and packed a bowl. It was at this moment I realized my Rogers Digital Cable Box had gone on the fritz sometime in the past month. I was too tired to fuck around with it or even look for a suitable movie to watch. I simply pressed play on the DVD player and put what was left of my energy into the immediate and indefinite consumption of dope and booze. What was last viewed through the player was a ripped copy of Season 1 of if not the most sensational & outlandish sitcom in modern syndicated television history it was certainly the best thing to come out of Canada in a generation. “The Show Case Original Series: Trailer Park Boys….”