My Mind on Shuffle

In honor of my buddy Jake's biannual return to the midwest this week, I present a story set in Wisconsin, land o' cheese.  Last summer my married friends, whom I refer to as AnK, but you know from my constant referrencing of his site (namely Andy and his goofy organum*) took a little road trip up north to visit Jake while he was home from New Orleans.  Another of our one-time roommates met us up there and a good time was to be had by all.

Although our "good times" are invariably laced with a great deal of alcohol, these good times kicked off in a far more relaxed (read, somewhat lame) fashion.  We got the party started by watching portions of the Shark Tale dvd.  I'm sure there was a logical reason for this, but I couldn't name it now if you paid me.  This viewing included the "teach you to dance" special features, where I was taught to do "The Hustle".  This will be important later.  Once we had tired of this activity (which took far too long) we went downtown…to bowl…at two in the afternoon…  Whooooooooooo!!!!

It was actually a pretty cool (and by that, I definitely do not mean temperature: apparently Wisconsin's a little behind on this cool new invention called A/C) little alley and we had all four lanes to ourselves.  More importantly, we were in complete control of the jukebox.  Even more importantly, like all good bowling alleys, their bar was open in the afternoon.  So we had some bowly good times.  I blew ass, as usual.  However, I also started working up my buzz by four in the afternoon which never hurts.

From there it was off to Wal-Mart (small town mecca) to lay in some provisions for the evening's festivities (read, beer and liquor).  Of course, this trip also included a stop by the local cheese shop.  Shark Tale, bowling, cheese…don't tell me we don't know how to rock it!

The main event for the evening was many spirited rounds of beirut (the mother of all drinking games).  Of course, Jake and I partnered up and proceeded to run the table for the majority of the evening.  Over the course of time, more people showed up and things were started to actually look like they were happening.  Blah blah blah…Party party party… You know the drill.

At some point in my alcohol induced haze, I decided that what I really wanted to accomplish for the night (aside from remaining blindingly drunk) was to crush a beer can on my head.  If you haven't tried this…don't.  After many many attempts (witnesses put the number at something approaching 12), I was left with a large red ring on my forehead, a minor headache (thank goodness for the numbing effects of alcohol abuse) and a plethora of slightly crushed cans.  For the record, I never did get a good crush on any of those little aluminum bastards.**  This however, was not the primary contributor to the title subject (my minor concussion).

That would have been caused by the massive piece of iron farm equipment.  You see, what happened was…  We were playing beirut in the garage.  One of the balls escaped behind an old plow of some sort.  I of course, dove across the floor to retrieve it.  This was not how I injured myself.  I managed to get hold of the ball without much problem.  The plan was then to roll over, throw the ball back and right myself all in one smooth motion.  Only problem was the aforementioned massive hunk of metal in the direct path of my head.  Kablaam!  No amount of alcohol was going to make me miss that one.  I saw a flash, but didn't really think much more than A) that sucked and 2) that was way less smooth than I thought it would be.  At the time, I didn't think much more of it.

The next morning, I awoke with a throbbing headache.  Once I was up and moving, I became exceedingly nauseous.  Granted, I had a lot to drink the night before, and these symptoms are not unheard of.  However, I have been hungover plenty of times, and this time was clearly different.  It wasn't until I had handed over my keys to Andy for the drive home*** that I put two and two together and realized that there was a good chance that I had inadvertantly concussed myself the night before.  Not necessarily my proudest moment.  But far from my worst either…

I nearly forgot! (I actual had to come back and edit this post).  The Hustle!  Despite my multiple head injuries, my most ridiculous contribution to that evening's hijinks was most definitely the fact that at the slightest provocation (ok, or sometimes with none) I would break out into an excessively exuberant (and uncoordinated) version of the hustle, complete with singing as taught by the fine folks on the dvd.  I can only imagine what this must have looked like to innocent bystanders.

*Organum is about as far from orgasm as you can get, despite the eerily similar spellings.  Well, unless there's some melismas and shit up in there, then organum is minorly orgasmic.  If you got any of that, you're as big a loser as I am, so suck it!

**I've since been informed that the secret to a good can crush is to twist the can as you blast it into your head.  This is not the kind of thing you think of when wasted.

***The fact that I let Andy drive my car (and across state lines, at that) clearly indicates that I was in some seriously bad shape.

It seems that this category could just as easily be labeled "drinking stories", but ah well, such is life…  Imagine if you will, senior year of college.  It was April.  This night was notable for two particular reasons: 1) My first experience making and imbibing jello shots and B) the Allen St Halfway Halloween Party.

I decided that being 21 and all, it was ridiculous that I had never had a jello shot.  To rectify this situation, I ran to everyone's favorite discount mega-store, Super Wal-Mart* and picked up a few packets of jello (orange and blue if I remember correctly).  On the way home I struck up Trails Inn Liquors (in retrospect this was a bizarre name for a store; what does that even mean?) for some Absolut and little plastic shot cups.  Now satisfied that I had procured all the necessary supplies I headed back to Casa Del Locust Ct.

Now I had done a little research on jello shots prior to my shopping spree.  I knew that the standard method of preparation was to replace 1/4 to 1/3 of the water in the jello recipe with vodka.  I decided this sounded too sissified (after all, we're already dealing with a chick "drink" anyway, right?) so I proceeded to mix mine with 1/2 water, 1/2 vodka.  This was Big Mistake Number 1.  Fast forward through the jello prep and I had two cookie sheets full of jello shots to pop in the fridge.  Fast forward again to the removal of fully chilled and set jello shots.

At this point the only Locust Cters around were myself, my teetotalling roommate and her friend from home, also a relative alcohol virgin.  Alright, I say to myself, more for me.  I start pounding those glowing, jiggling little bastards.  If you've never had a jello shot before, the whole idea is that you don't taste the alcohol.  I could definitely tell there was something in there, but decided to forge ahead, completely ignoring the fact that every two or three jello shots was the equivalent of one real shot.

Fast forward half an hour and one half sheet of jello shots.

Shayne (my non-drinking roommate) and her friend decide it's time to go play some basketball at the nearby park.  I think that sounds like a swell idea.  We stroll our way over there, and I'm feeling the glow.  I notice that I seem to suck way more than usual, but chalk it up to the dark and the fact that it doesn't take much to knock me off my already weak game.

Upon our return, Megan (roommate No. 2 in this story) is home.  She decides to join me as I continue my attack on the jiggling masses.  Shayne's friend also decides to partake.  Between the three of us we manage to nearly finish off those fruity suckers.  And by between the three of us, I mean that I inhaled almost an entire pan's worth while they combined to down the remaining half a pan.

At this point, I am well past sobriety, teetering on the edge of falling down drunk (a most literal term for myself, I'm afraid).  At this point someone calls from the Allen St Halfway Halloween Party** 

Halfway Halloween was basically an excuse for guys to look like even bigger morons and girls like complete and unabashed whores for a second time during the year, Halloween being the traditional first time.  I had been avoiding this party mostly cause I was still pouting over a break-up.  In my state of limited discretion, I decided this was dumb and it was time to go out.  Only one problem…I needed a costume.

I charged up to my room and immediately began trashing my closet, looking for anything that could approximate a costume.  Shayne came to my rescue with a straw hat.  I threw on a plaid shirt and PRESTO!  I was a cowboy!  A very very drunk cowboy wearing shorts but a cowboy nonetheless.  Shayne volunteered once again to chauffer my drunk-ass over to the party.  Upon arrival, I hit up the keg and did the mingle thing for a period of time.  At this point, the ridiculous amount of alcohol I had ingested via the jello shots was starting to catch up to me.  It was then that I stumbled upon my buddies running the "shots for a buck" table upstairs.

I immediately commandeered a spot as a designated pourer.  Shots-for-a-buck quickly became a one-for-you-one-for-me endeavor.  This is the last thing I remember from this evening.  The next morning I awoke extremely confused in the basement bathroom…of the townhouse across the street.  To this day I don't know if I made it there of my own accord or not.  The following portions of this story have been recreated by witnesses.

At some point in the shots-for-a-buck exersize, I began exhorting people to snort shots off the bottom of glasses.  How I decided this was even feasible, let alone a good idea, we may never know.  There are some photos of me in my straw hat lounging by the table.  At some point, I made my way to the bathroom and proceeded to boot a multi-colored jello/alcohol mixture all over the place.  I honestly have no recollection of this occuring.  I didn't find out about that part until a good month after the party.  In retrospect, I'm just glad I found the bathroom.

This must have been when I was removed from the party and carted across the street.  There were a series of pictures taken here of me in various states of repose curled around the toilet.  Beigler (one of the Allen Sters) was kind enough to post these online with captions such as "Farmer Jim Battles the Porcelain Bowl", "Down But Not Out", and "Farmer Jim loses the Battle…And the War".

The next morning, I woke up, took the time to reorient myself and called Shayne to come escort me back to Locust.  Since that night, not my first bout of epic vodka-fueled stupidity, I have avoided vodka like the plague.  In fact, it was vodka that had caused me to awaken in that particular bathroom, in a house in which I did not live, on a previous occasion.  But that, I'm afraid, is a story for another day…

*I f-ing hate Wal-Mart, but this was before Valpo's Target really took off.

**My apartment was on Locust Ct, as previously mentioned.  I had another group of friends who lived in townhouses across the street from each other on Allen St, across town (the short way). 

If it seems like a lot of these flashbacks involve the consumption of alcoholic beverages, well…what can I tell you?  And for the kids out there, let it be officially stated that I do not support underage drinking.  (Unofficially?  Oh, unofficially, I'm all for it.)  At any rate, there are many events in your life that you'll remember forever, your first kiss, your first concert, your first car accident, the first time you wake up in bed with a stranger of the same sex…  And then there are the firsts which you'll never fully remember, but have them retold to you by those witness who were there, laughing their asses off, at the time.  This is one of the latter.  For the true ironic twist, a little pre-info: I had recently (like a week before this occured) lamented the fact that my short drinking history included no instances of lapsed consciousness.  This recounts the night I lost my blackout virginity (not the same thing as passing out and being gang-raped, thankfully.  I'm sorry, is gang-rape not funny?  Would being tea-bagged be the better joke there?  Help me out.)

 One random Friday way back whence sophomore year of college, my roommate and I were bored.  It was a beautiful spring day, classes were done for the week, the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, it was clear what had to be done.  It was time to start binge drinking.*  I mean, shoot, what else was there to do at four in the afternoon at Valpo?  So we recruited random friend #1 (hereby referred to as RF1, partly because I totally can't remember his name) and token-hot-chick-my-roommate-totally-could-have-nailed-if-he-didn't-have-a-girlfriend,-the-loser (hereby referred to as Hot Girl, cause I want to write THCMRTCHNIHDHAGTL even less than you want to read it).  Because I'd never tried it, we decided to attempt to join the "Century Club".**

Now, if you've never tried it, Century Club (the man's version of the ever-popular Power Hour) is much more difficult than it sounds.  Beer, or, I would imagine, any carbonated beverage is not well suited to shot form (any game that involves strategic burping is not easy).  Our beer of choice, Red Dog, is really not well suited to drinking in any form, but hey, three cans for a buck-that's value.  You don't believe me, I know.  Next time you're drinking, drink your beer in large gulps, once a minute.  Good.  Now do it again.  And again.  And again.  How're you feeling?  That's what I thought.  Now never doubt me again!  Jackass.  Where was I?

Ok, so roommate, RF1 and I were going to attempt the Century Club and Hot Girl was going to be our designated pourer.  Aaaaand, we're off.  Things are going well.  We've got the Dave playing in the background, we're shooting the shit, we're shooting beer on the minute…  At some point I say something stupid (surprise!!) and Hot Girl assigns me a Penalty Shot.  Let it be known that there is no such thing as a Penalty Shot in Century Club.  This is not hockey, here.  But hey, when Hot Girl tells you to drink, you drink (man rule #239).  She finds this inexplicably hilarious, and I'm doubling up for about ten minutes straight. 

We're cruising past the 30 minute mark, holding strong, feeling good…well, as good as you can with thirty shots of Red Dog in you…

40 minutes roll by and Roommate is starting to slow down…RF1 is going strong…Hot Girl is looking hot…I'm not doing to bad…

As we roll past the 50 minute mark, Roommate makes the dreaded bolt for the bathroom…RF1, no problems…Hot Girl, you guessed it, still hot…me, starting to feel it…

At 53 or so, Roommate returns…he has battled the beer gods and lost, he's out-the pussy…RF1 is kicking some Red Dog ass…Hot Girl, you're sick of hearing about and she no longer matters to the story, but she is still pouring…I'm really hurting…and whoops, there I go for the bathroom…

I return around the 60 minute mark.  The wise thing to do here is to follow Roommate's lead and bag it, rehydrate and get ready for the rest of the evening (remember, it's about five thirty at this point…in the afternoon).  However, upon seeing that RF1 is still alive and kicking, and not wanting to puss out like Roommate, I decide that the proper thing to do is "puke and rally".  So, not wanting an unfair advantage I do five shots in a minute to catch up from my bathroom break.  This is the last thing I really remember.  From here on out, this story has been reconstructed by the other characters present.

Apparently, I held out until about 80 or so at which point I gave up and slumped in our stolen lounge chair(now that I think about it, we stole a lounge chair freshman year and sophomore year we placed one of our room-supplied lounge chairs in the actual lounge because we didn't have room for it, but I digress), semi-conscious.  At some point I bolted upright from the chair, wandered across the room and face planted into my open closet (imagine the image of a tree falling in a forest, complete keel-over).

So there I am, head buried in my laundry basket (into which I, miraculously, merely dry-heaved).  After chilling out there for a while, I somehow made it across the room and curled up on the floor half under my desk.  I believe that seemed like a good idea because the garbage can seemed like a much more apt vomit receptacle than the laundry basket.  You know, just in case.

At some point, I hauled myself into bed (the top bunk no less!) to "sleep it off".  At around nine (PM, these events have transpired over one afternoon, the night is still young here), Roommate busts in asking me if I want to go to some off-campus party.  I rouse myself enough to notice that it is, in fact only nine o'clock and that I am, most definitely, already hung over.  I tell him, predictably, to shove it and "fall back asleep" (or pass back out, your call).***

The next day, Roommate and I debriefed and I finally had it.  My first blackout story.

*"Binge drinking" is a term almost exclusively reserved for the context of "in a study on underage binge drinking".  I have never heard any exchange such as, "Want to drink?" "Screw that, let's binge drink!" Or, "Man, it's totally time to start binge drinking."  I think part of this is due to the fact that, at least in college, to refer to drinking as binge drinking is pure redundancy.

**One hundred shots of beer in one hundred minutes. 

***This party ended with Roommate sprinting back to our room in the middle of the night, completely wasted and telling me one of the best stories ever.  One which I am, most unfortunately, not allowed to repeat.  It was obviously pretty good since he ran about four miles at two in the morning, bombed off his ass.  And now you all hate me for not telling you.  Sorry.

A couple of notes before we begin.  This category (Oh…Memories…) is a spot for me to place old musings and funny stories from “back in the day”.  The category title is much funnier for the about four of you who may read this that are actually familiar with the obscure song My Kristen by the uber-obscure artist Shwa Losben.*  Alright, on with the show.

This particular story revolves around the events of our Halloween party held at the inimitable Locust Ct Apartment (phone number, I kid you not: 464-FUNK).  This party included such highlights as my Rapper-in-the-style-of-Nelly costume.  As with any proper college party, or you know, random Tuesday night, there was alcohol involved.  I was, needless to say, slightly…inebriated.**

At one point a group of us were gathered around the coffee table “playing” circle of death. (I was mostly annoying people with the fact that I was completely oblivious to such minor details as when it was my turn, what the rules were, etc.)  Sitting next to me on the couch was a member of the opposite sex with whom I was acquainted, but not terribly familiar (name withheld).  At some point during this rousing game, she either laughed or leaned over to pick something up, or possibly didn’t move at all and brought her head somewhere vaguely in the vicinity of my knee.  At this point I let loose with a line that will forever live in infamy, the, as titled, ”pick up line” in question: “If you were trying to go down on me, you missed“.

Now, aside from the fact that this line is ridiculous, completely offensive and uncalled for, it’s amusing in and of itself.  But what truly puts this line over the top is that it worked.  This co-ed in question and myself would end up “hooking up”*** and subsequently dating for a while.  Later, upon discussing when the attraction started, she would refer to the party in question.  Whether this all came about because of or despite my oh-so-suave line is for you to judge.

*Lyrics for My Kristen by Shwa Losben:

My Kristen, I realize that we only went on twelve dates / But I kind of wish you’d acknowledge my existence / but oh, that’s just me / And hey I like to not return phone calls, as much as the next guy / but you hold the record for 1999 / congratu-fuckin-lations, you make me sick / and oh, it’s gotta be because I’m Jewish / My Kristen, do you remember that night at the Pike party / when you were grinding with three random guys / and the you pretended like you didn’t even know me / oh…memories… / and yes yes and I don’t know and yes and never again / is that her, and did she see you, and why didn’t she acknowledge you / and do you feel like a douchebag and when are you gonna call her again? / ….lick my nutsack.

Brilliance, look him up.  My other favorite?  My Cock Is Known As a Nation That Harbors Terrorists.

**This party also produced the following exchange the next morning:

Me: Man, I’m so proud of myself!

Roommate: Why’s that?

Me: I didn’t fall down once last night! (Something I am even more prone to do when intoxicated).

Roommate: Dude, you fell down like ten times.

Me: Oh.

***Of course, in my case, “hooking up” is best defined as “clandestinely kissing while half asleep watching tv at three in the morning”.  Why?  How do you define it….slut.