I swear that I don’t have a gun.

Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Chris Bell, Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse.

They’re all members of the so called “27 club”, and for the unfamiliar, they are all rock stars who died at the age of 27.

I’m turning 27 tomorrow, and not that i’m comparing myself to any sort of legend, but the number 27 really got me thinking. Kurt Cobain changed punk music, changed rock music, launched grunge into the mainstream, became a legend, and then committed suicide, all before 27. I haven’t achieved a god damn thing musically, or otherwise, by the same age. It is a sobering thought.

Sure I’ve traveled a lot and made money and lost money and wrecked cars and drank beers and had lots of friends and girlfriends and played music and had a pretty great time, but I’ve yet to become the quasi-successful artist I thought I’d be.

I guess most people have given up on silly things like that by 27, which is probably why those people aren’t dead. There’s certainly a correlation there somewhere.

But the thing is, I’m still holding onto those aspirations. Hopefully I don’t die before I realise them.

Expect a similar post the day before my 33rd birthday.


Pigs is Pigs.

My therapist told me I had poor impulse control. Also, that the elemental symbol for water is h2o and that a lot of people used to watch a show called Seinfeld. It was a revelation, I’ll tell ya. He advised me that I should breathe deeply and count to ten before making rash decisions. I thought, well, hell, that doesn’t sound like a decision someone who makes rash decisions would make, but I’ll give it a try.

Matt C., Matt T., Chris Campbell, and I were working for a surveying company out in the frozen tundra that is rural Ohio in the winter. Matt C and I were doing 28 days in a row, with a long weekend to reward ourselves. I was getting sort of “all work and no play makes russell a dull boy allworkandnoplaymakesrusselladullboy” and Matt and I were supposed to spend the weekend snowboarding. Turns out, the two of us are pretty much at Rocket Power levels when it comes to snowboarding, but that’s another story entirely.

We thought we’d head into Pittsburgh that Friday night to get some spur of the moment tattoos (I got a crawfish, he’s adorable) and maybe drink a few beers before hitting the slopes the next morning. That’s how snowboarders talk: hitting the slopes. After a night of tattoos, eating burgers, drinking beers, and 80’s dancing, we decided to head on to the house we were still renting in Pittsburgh, and call it a night. Snow was still falling in tiny flurries. The Southside was crawling with women dressed like hookers and men dressed like bankers, and Matt and I were just trying to navigate through it in our huge survey truck.

Up the road a ways, someone had ran their sports car straight into a telephone pole, and the street was crawling with cops, so of course, I tried to play it cool. I wasn’t drunk, but the mere sight of red and blue lights sends me into frenzied paranoia (which says something about the Jungian effect the police have on our psyche). But, no matter how fucking Miles Davis I’d planned on being, fate and the radio and the whole universe had a different plan for me that night.

I heard the opening drum beat to the classic P.O.D song, “Youth of the Nation”, and immediately Matt and I burst into a jubilation of nostalgia. We rolled the windows down, despite the below freezing temperatures, to share with the world our excitement for P.O.D, who is arguably the best Christian Rock band ever. Arguably. As the windows came down, and I thrust my wailing, dancing arms out the window, a cop happened to drive by. As he drove by, I made eye contact with him, and gave him the finger. I’m not exactly sure why I did that. Sure, I hate cops. I mean, I really despise most of the little bastards. If you want to know why, take me out for a drink and I’ll be happy to launch into a brooding diatribe complete with a power point presentation on how the police state in this country is absolutely disgusting, and how it is filled with people who couldn’t make it through community college. And for some reason they have para-military grade weaponry.

At any rate, I gave the bastard the finger, which is entirely legal in the state of, well, I think just about everywhere. So this cop, who was previously responding to a wreck in the middle of Carson Street, whips around and follows my truck. I didn’t realise I was being tailed until I saw his lights come on, but I was already heading up the hill back to our house. The road up to Mt. Washington from the southside is a winding corkscrew that is basically the Mohalland drive of the Steel City. By the time I realised I was being pulled over, there wasn’t really a place to stop, so I drove until I found a driveway I could pull into, and then I just waited. I sat, with the radio still blaring P.O.D, and waited.

It wasn’t long until I heard someone screaming at us over a loud speaker, which infuriated me. I couldn’t exactly make out what they were saying, so I rolled down the window and told them to speak up, that I couldn’t understand them. They repeated themselves, over that god damn loud speaker, “TURN OFF THE VEHICLE.” I can’t explain how angry it makes me to be told what to do, by basically anyone who isn’t my Mom, so I politely screamed back at them, “NO. YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO. YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME.”

I sat and waited for someone to come up to the window, just steaming. I hadn’t broken any laws, and I couldn’t exactly figure out why the man in that god damn car was so angry with me. He kept screaming over the loud speaker, and I kept telling him to go to hell.

After a few minutes of this exchange had passed, three or four more police cars showed up, and within seconds, officers were at my door, screaming at me to get out of the car. I said no, that they could “fuck off”, and that’s when they pulled their guns on me.

In what probably amounted to a single turn of those peevish red and blue lights, I had been jerked outside the vehicle, pushed up against the truck, and had four police officers holding me down, guns pointed at me. I struggled and fought and kicked and spit and screamed vehemently, but I was overpowered and put in handcuffs, and ultimately, thrown inside of a paddy wagon.

“Seriously?” I yelled at one of the cops. “A paddy wagon? What is this, the 1930s?”

And I was carted off to jail, handcuffs digging into my skin.

“NO SIR. IT IS THE 2000’S.” One of them answered me.

“Oh thank god, we’ve got a fucking calendar over here.”

I kicked at the metal door in the dark. “I’M NOT DRUNK, YOU ASSHOLES. I’M BI-POLAR.

And then I was carted off to the Allegheny County Jail.

When to leave the party. Also, why I left Houston, again.

It’s a sinking, dizzying feeling at about two fifty five in the morning when everyone’s faces are starting to look a little sideways and the apparent seediness in everything starts welling up around you. The half-empty drink in your hand is getting warm, and every girl in the room is starting to look equal parts attractive and revolting.  You see that look in their eyes, and you’re sure they can see it in yours. It’s a sordid desperation, teetering on mania: the lurking id that is rising to the back of your throat, tasting like stomach acid and brown liquor.

This is the time of night that things start going wrong. This is the witching hour, when everyone’s demons start making timely appearances. The shady guy in the white beanie starts looking for things to steal, convinced that no one notices. The redneck with the “SOUTHERN PRIDE” tattoo starts talking loudly about the gun in his truck. Someone is yelling about a stolen bottle of Cirouq, whatever the hell that is. Guys with pony tails are looking for the drunkest girl in the party, often their only option for consensual sex. Drunken college girls recently liberated from their parent’s homes start grinding on one another in an orgiastic frenzy, riling up horny dudebros who obviously work out too much. Couples are fighting loudly in the hall, ending with fists in walls.  Every man with either alpha dog or napoleon complexes start taking off their shirts and taunting one another— “Come at me, bro!”

This is when completive minds realize they’ve come to a threshold: either embrace the Dionysian abyss, or get the hell out of there. I’ve prided myself on usually choosing the latter. I know when to leave the party. When things start to wind down and get weird and uncomfortable, it’s time for me to go home.

Even with my friends, and more often my acquaintances, are pulling at my arm saying, “Nah man, don’t go! Stay a while, have another drink”, I treat them as the little devils they are and brush them off my shoulders. I’ve avoided a lot of terrible situations this way. I’ve missed out on fist fights between friends, cops pulling naked guys out of steamy cars with fat girls, obnoxious 5 am karaoke contests hosted by wasted 19 year olds, and countless other half-remembered stories explained by hungover pals the next afternoon.

While it may be a crude and superficial analogy, I look at most situations in life the same way as I view a party. Things usually start out slow as individuals and groups start to trickle in. Most everyone’s intentions are benign at this point, and as their courage is lubricated, they start to get to know one another. Friendships are made, relationships rekindled, plans are formulated, laughter abounds. Then someone turns the music up, drinks are flowing freely, people are dancing to 90’s music, everyone is having a good time.

At around midnight, you’ve usually reached the apex of a party. You’re just the right kind of drunk, or high, or just happy, and everyone around you becomes a friend. The music is good, the company is good, the conversation is good. Enemies become friends and old disputes are forgiven. This is it, my friends, this is living! Yell prosit! Or Slainte! Or Cheers! Or La Haim! Or whatever cultural equivalent! Then snap a few pictures for posterity because an apex is usually followed by a slippery slope. You wish this could go on forever—hell, everyone does—but those windows of perfection never last.

Usually there are decisions made during this party zenith that lead to its eventual downfall. In that midnight elation and joyous excitement too many shots are taken, too strong of drinks are made, too many beers chugged, and this usually leads to the one a.m depression.  The spinning carousel starts to slow down. You’re reminded of why your new friends were former enemies, the grinning nostalgia turns to painful regret, plans are forgotten, old disputes brought back up, and by two a.m the music is annoying, the company tiresome, and the conversation is slurred and trite.

There are two types of people at two a.m–the discerning party goer who realizes it’s time to go home, or the delusional hanger-on who still thinks everyone is having a great time. You can imagine what kind of shoddy situations I’ve been spared from by having the former attitude. Maybe there is something to be said for one who sticks around until the end, helps clean up in the morning, and starts fresh the next day, but isn’t he often the one with hazy regrets and a pounding headache?

I’ve been criticized for being flippant, uncaring, and heartless as I left situations, business ventures, friendships, road trips, colleges, girlfriends, bands, entire groups of friends because I could tell that the party was over. Usually there were one or two people tugging at my arm asking me to stay, or calling me a sellout, but I recognize them as the drunken and delusional party goer, putting on some godawful record at four a.m, thinking the good times could never end.

Metaphorically, I never want to settle and wake up in a groggy unfamiliar bed next to a sloppy partner I barely recognize. Metaphorically, I don’t want to come to blows with a best friend who is really just an acquaintance. Metaphorically, I don’t want to throw up in a bathtub while Ke$ha plays loudly in the next room. Metaphorically, I don’t want to spend the next day aching all over trying to figure out what went wrong. I want to leave with my head held high, knowing I experienced the best that party had to offer, and move on before things get sour and painful.

Make some good friends, eat some good food, have some good drinks, get a good buzz, kiss the prettiest girl, and then move the fuck on before things get weird. Excuse me for mixing metaphors, but no one is going to think of you as a hero for going down with the ship. When you recognize that two a.m iceberg, find the first lifeboat and excuse yourself calmly. You’ll keep a lot of friends, have fewer regrettable memories, and save yourself a whole lot of pain. Call me a coward, but at least I know when the party is over.

Bus Trip Oh’ Ten: Episode 25- Skate down Haight

July 15th

I didn’t realize it, but yesterday marked exactly a month since we left the Kerrville Folk Festival behind, dirty heroes in a dirty school bus, headed due west. We’ve crossed six states since then; I’ve been sleep deprived in six states. Just thinking about that long month makes me realize just how tired I am.

Right now I’m sitting on the corner of Pacific and Divisadero in the beautiful, legendary city of San Francisco, at the top of an impossibly steep hill, waiting for Pual to catch up with me. I’m suspecting that he is taking a smoke break every fifteen feet, and I don’t really blame him. I haven’t noticed anyone else trying to walk up these hills; it’s a damn hike from block to block.

We drove into San Francisco late in the evening yesterday, sun glinting off the skyscrapers downtown, the bridge’s suspension casting long shadows over the bus as we crossed the bay and dove straight into the city, heading for Chrissy Field, where we figured we’d find parking. Pual insisted on driving into town,  and I told him if he got to drive through San Francisco, I got the Bixby Canyon Bridge.

“Fair trade”. He said, wrestling the steering wheel.

The drive into San Francisco was a confirmation, affirmation; we had made it. We were officially there– we were out west, on the golden coast. The bus creeped across the Berkeley/San Fran bridge. Tyler, Ben, and Saray peered out the windows, half-squinting in the sun, while I stood at the bus door, thinking about my senior year of high school.

My best friend Bob and I had this plan, back in high school, that after graduation we would take this life changing road trip out west, to finally see the home of our forefathers, Rancid, Pennywise, Strung Out, god, Blink 182. We’d skateboard and go to punk shows and see what it was like to really live, out there, out west. We tried to recruit all of our friends, anticipating that we’d each need around five hundred dollars to survive the trip. We mapped it out, planned the stops along the way, and like most things of that nature, it never materialized.

So as we crossed the great San Fransisco Bay I thought of Bob, and of regret.

We did wind up finding parking near Chrissy Field, almost in view of the spectacular, iconic, Golden Gate bridge. We parked across from some old warehouse, not too far from  The Presidio. Since we were already in view of the great American icon that is the Golden Gate Bridge, we decided to see that first.

The walk along the beach was a long one– the bridge looked so much closer. It’s hard to appreciate how huge it is until you are right there, trudging towards it, bikers and joggers passing you without a glance. But once we got to the bridge, our feet planted firmly on the great golden gate bridge, a sight we’d never seen before, we were in a post card, and the long walk was well worth it.

I wanted to ride in the back of a convertible with John Stamos across the bay, but all I had was my longboard and my dirty, tired friends, so that would just have to do.  Pual and I ran amok on the walkway, high above the bay, jumping in tourists’ pictures, giving strangers high fives, skating doubles on my board, trying to keep the wind from stealing our hats– just excited to be in such an amazing place. How common these monuments can be in our collective psyche, as a nation, yet how alien and surreal it is when you are actually there, breathing the air of a post card print. 

What I like about my friends, this particular grup of people, is that we weren’t too cool to act impressed by something so grand. We weren’t above it, and god, how could anybody be above a sight like this? Such a Californian gem– downtown San Francisco stacked atop itself, the bay stretching out hazy blue below us–and here we are standing on a true piece of American genius and beauty, one of the most recognizable places in the world.

And sure, thousands of people cross this bridge every day, from all over the world, and its nothing. But when you’re standing there for the first time, when it’s you, and you’re looking east at a month and a half long trail, you’re there, you’re grand ol’ San Fran.


That night Ben, Tyler and I rode bikes to a sushi place that Ben found on his iPhone, while Pual hung out at a smoke shop on Haight (which at first glance seems to be a caricature of what it must have been before). Tyler, Ben, and I made the whole three mile ride up and down the most insane hills I’ve ever seen, as if the road has a natural rhythm, a crest and trough, like the bay pulses beneath the street. Everytihng I know about San Fransisco is from Tom Wolfe, Rancid songs, or Full House, and so far, all of that imagery has been justified. It’s all true, this place is goddamn beautiful.

So we followed directions from Ben’s iPhone to the Sushi Place that Yelp said was the best in town, and I couldn’t help but think thatlast year I was struggling in French or Spanish, asking locals where to get a cheap bite to eat, or referring to my Lonely Planet guidebook, and now i’m Back to the Future Marty Mcfly on a hoverboard for the first time, following directions from a phone.

I’m usually wary of the whole iPhone phenomenon. Mostly because it seems so science fiction to have everything you need—phone, internet, camera, GPS—right there in your coat pocket. “We’re in San Francisco,” Ben said, “We’ve gotta eat sushi while we’re here”. And within a couple of minutes he has a place pulled up that is not only within our price range, but he is reading people’s reviews word for word and we’re following his directions that his iPhone has mapped out for him, riding through the dark streets of San Fran. Maybe this doesn’t surprise anyone else, but for someone who hasn’t known how to download music since the days of Napster, and owns a pay as you go Wal-Mart phone, this sort of thing amazes me, and almost scares me. Continue reading

Bus Trip ‘Oh Ten:Episode 7-Train to Albuquerque

June 24th

Today, Michelle, Stephanie, and I rode bikes to downtown Santa Fe, even though Ben and Saray had sternly warned us that there was absolutely nothing to do. So after a six mile bike ride, and a stop at Taco Bell for lunch (I’m starting to have cravings for this place), we arrived at the historical downtown district.

All of the buildings were in Spanish colonial style, and the small streets, boutiques, and cafes with their crowded terraces reminded me of Madrid in miniature. We checked out some shops and galleries, including a basement shop that held terrific Dinosaur fossils and all sorts of statues from antiquity. I excitedly pointed out Hadrosaur femurs and Trilobites, like an eight year old museum curator.

Later, we went to the Loretto Cathedral, the famous chapel that houses the mystical double spiral staircase that is an engineering mystery. The original carpenter building the chapel died suddenly, and it wasn’t until the chapel was almost completed that they realized there was no staircase to the choir loft. Due to the chapel’s size, a standard staircase wouldn’t do. Legend says that the sisters of the Cathedral prayed earnestly, for nine days,  for a carpenter to come and build a staircase. A day after their prayer session as over, a stranger showed up and said he would build their staircase but needed total privacy. He locked himself in the chapel for three months,  built the stair case, and then left without taking any payment. The nuns never even learned his name.

Continue reading

Kerrville Folk Festival: No Shirt Sunburnt Shoulders
August 20, 2010, 2:00 pm
Filed under: Adventures, Party | Tags: , ,

June 4th

Last night I filled a KerrCup up with RC and Canadian Hunter –classy, I know–and wandered around the ranch. I wound up with Michelle and Tyler at my staff leader, Gengis’ camp. A dark, mustachioed guy named David (pronounced Da-veed) insisted I come with him to his camp and help him bring back some bloody marys, so we hiked up to his camp, back in the trees at the highest point on the ranch. He also insisted I finish the rest of my whiskey and cola so he could fill my cup with vodka and spicy v8, a most unappetizing concoction. So I chugged my drink and he poured mostly v8 in my cup, which wasn’t so bad after all.

Back at Gengis’ camp we sat in a circle of wooden benches under a canopy of lowhanging trees, a great colourful picture of Buddha hung from one of the branches, which I regarded more as vague hippie spiritualism than anything else. Johnny Palmer showed up with his girlfriend (with whom, according to Michelle, he is in a poly-amorous relationship). He was wearing a cut off shirt to show off his colorful tattoos, short cut off jeanshorts, a bolo hat, and for some reason, a fucking bandanna around his neck. Shameless, Hipster.

Continue reading

Bob’s Getting Old Party

Yes yes, I haven’t updated in a while. Things have been crazy with work (yes I actually do that) and friends and parties and SXSW and this is the first chance I’ve really had to sit down and write. I was telling my mom yesterday, when I found out I had to plan my friend’s bachelor party, that my work is never done, and how crazy that is because it doesn’t really seem like I do much. She said it only gets worse when you have a family and a real job and things like that, but I feel like the family I have now (you know, those kids I have, derek pual and so on…) already take up so much of my time…

I need to move out to the country with five cute dogs and just write and roll around in the dirt.

Anyway…the party TWO Saturdays ago….

Saturday was Bob’s blowout bash of a birthday party. We had spent the past two weeks or so preparing for it, and had sunk about three hundred or so dollars into it, and we were all counting on it to be a big success, especially bob, who hadn’t really had time off between school and work for about a month.

Most of my friends from danbury showed up early to help set up and get things ready for the party. Before 5 o’clock everything was set up and ready to go, including a moon bounce slide, over a hundred balloons, some with helium, some not, the P.A. for the dance music, chairs outside, a pinata full of beef jerky, zebra cakes, and other various items, squirtguns full of liquor, two and a half kegs, and lots of crazy lights.

Now all that was left to do was wait. And wait we did. No one that wasn’t one of our close friends showed up until about eight thirty, which was pretty expected. At about nine or so, people started flowing in and it didn’t really slow down for the rest of the night.

Now, the rest of this post is in no real order, chronologically or otherwise. I did two 5 hr energy shots (that’s ten full hours of jittery, unhealthy energy) before the party started, and drank quite a bit. It’s not that my memory is foggy, its just that i don’t have a very good grasp of time and space when i’m sober, much less when i’m hopped up on energy drinks and doing beer bongs in the kitchen. But I feel like this will be a accurate representation of the night: total chaos, and as Tyler pointed out later, a certain feeling of order to that chaos. Most of the night played out like scenes from a 90’s party montage.

(this pretty much sums it up)

The party started off slowly. The first guests to arrive were people I had seen out on friday nights, but didn’t really know. Rachel invited about 3000 people that we didn’t know, which was fine by me. Everyone just sort of mulled and drank a bunch of our free beer. Well, it wasn’t exactly free. Derek posted up on the front porch hustling people for “donations” for a cup for the keg. The idea was that most people would feel at least a little obligated to give a few bucks, but most people just claimed to be broke, or gave a dollar or so. Derek was persistent though and did end up making back most of the money we spent on the keg. Every time he would get ten or fifteen dollars in the jar, he would take it out and pocket it, leaving only a few dollars, so the jar looked empty. Typical busker’s move.

The house was pretty full around 10 or so, and most of the hipsters we didn’t now had left, full of our free beer, by that time. People were jumping and sliding around on the moonbounce, there was a whole lot of dancing going on amidst 100 or so balloons in the living room, Kory and Josh were shooting malibu shots out of a shot-gun style watergun into peoples mouths (faces) and the people seemed to be having a pretty good time.

Leif was dancing around in a traditional Afghani robe and hat that was hand made for him in afganistan. Nobody could figure out why, and everyone just called it his Durka Durka suit. He became “that guy” in a good sense. Well, in a “that guy that’s wearing the weird terrorist costume” way, anyhow.

Stephanie’s sister showed up with a birthday cake that said “Why ya’ll gotta waste my flavor?!?!”, which is both a reference to Bob’s favorite movie, Can’t Hardly Wait, and a hilarious thing to put on a cake. She also immediately ruined the surprise that Stephanie was coming to the party. Thanks Hannah. I’ll be sure to put you in charge of the surprise party committee.

When Stephanie did show up, I tried to get Rachel to pretend make out with me to make her angry. Rachel turned me down for a pretend make-out, and everyone though Steph was a creep for showing up unannounced. I was excited to see my beautiful girlfriend, who had worked all day and still driven to the party. She showed up with cupcakes with the Bro heart drawn on the top in icing (sorta trumped the Can’t Hardly Wait Cake, sorry Hannah), and I gave her lots of hugs and kisses. I showed her around the house and we danced for a while and showed off the awesome cupcakes to all of our friends.

(the family that plays together…)

I saw helen out on the porch from the living room, and ran out to greet her only to see Tyler there as well. A surprise Hannah hadn’t ruined for me. I jumped in his arms like a baby and we sat out on the porch for a while and talked to Bobert, Pual and Derek.

Tyler and I explained to Bobert( who was wearing a luchador mask he had stolen from some party) that he and Waterhead were like mythical creatures, and how great it was that they were back in the mix. Its sort of like having Bigfoot and Nessie broing down, giving each other fist bumps and such. Not because they look like creatures (although, bobert is sorta Sasqutchy) but because the things they have done are in the realm of legend. We recounted stories of Bobert, as he laughed in that high pitch chipmunk laugh of his and turned completely red, eyes all squinty.

Candy and Morgan showed up with MORE CAKE and CUPCAKES. Awesome. Those girls never fail to deliver. Well, at least Morgan never fails to deliver cake. Which is pretty sweet.

It wasn’t long before waterhead showed up with some friends. He looked like he was high out of his mind, but I was too busy dancing with Stephanie out on the dancefloor to really notice. Leif and Matt were stripped down to their manties (man panties), grinding away at some girl. HG was out “pop locking and dropping” it on the dance floor with either hannah or Candy or maybe both, and Tyler– obviously under the impression that it was a 7th grade spring fling– was standing around popping balloons.


It was the apex of the party. Malibu shotguns were being fired everywhere. People were doing double barreled beer bongs in the kitchen. I was pole dancing on the bar (I got a five dollar bill in my buttcrack). The dance floor was packed. Balloons were popping…(tyler)… I figured It was the best time to light the birfday candles and sing bob happy birthday.

Scott watched worriedly as I brought the blue- carpet destroying icing out to the dance floor and started chanting “Bob bob bob!”. Within moments the entire party was chanting Bob’s name enthusiastically as bob danced around with a smile on his face. Scott later recounted that the chant of “BOB BOB BOB” may have been the lamest chant ever. But it was a pretty glorious thing to witness. Bob took a huge bite out of the cake, and I went around offering the face staining monstrosity to everyone in the party. People started taking huge globs of it and sticking their faces in it and before I knew it there was an all out icing war going on in our house. Somehow the carpet wasn’t completely ruined, but the bathroom was covered in cake by the end of the night, and so were a bunch of beaming faces.

After the cake fight, it was Pinata-thirty. We all went out to the back porch where pooh bear was hanging by a rope around his neck. Bob was given the luchadore mask, and HG’s DC comics pajama pants to tie around his head. He beat the hell out of ol’ pooh bear, who was hanging there cute and defenseless, as the crowd cheered him on. A blood sport, pinata smashing is. Bob, looking like a guy who had way too much pent up anger, beat pooh down from his rope, and proceeded to body slam him (with great form) into submission. Pooh’s gooey insides came rushing out onto the concrete and everyone rushed to claim the spoils of war: zebra cakes, HG’s broken rear view mirror, beef jerky, Josh’s box of Horchata, condoms and a “little bottle of lube”, combos, sunflower seeds, goldfish, and not a half eaten cheeseburger (because Gardy got hungry during the party and scrapped it out of there). Within seconds everything was gone. I started shooting Horchata into everyone’s mouths. Derek spat it all back in my face. Awesome. I had cake in my beard and horchata covering my glasses. Bob wound up with poor Winnie the pooh’s disembodied head, wearing it like a warrior wearing the pelt of his kill. If Bob wasn’t a celebrity before this moment (it being his birthday and all) he was now. He became pooh head for the remainder of the party.

(the stuff nightmares are made of)

We all went back inside to dance and eat cake. And wash horchata off of our faces. Leif had to fix the keg about a million times. Kory and Josh were running around making sure people had enough malibu shot in and around their mouths. I danced with stephanie some more, got mad at her for stupid things, got over it, danced some more.  Gardy, who seemed to be absent from the entire episode, was apparently changing shirts three times (after being covered in cake twice) and searching for his keys that were lost on the moon bounce.

We were all inside, dancing with pooh-head bob and Matt and Pual and whoever else, when out of nowhere Waterhead ran in screaming, “Russell, Russell! People are having sex on the moon bounce!”. So I rounded up everyone on the dancefloor with the rallying cry of “EVERYBODY TO THE MOON BOUNCE!!!”, which was surprisingly effective. Within minutes half of the house was jumping up and down on the moon bounce, while some skanky girl was pounding away at some drunk ass guy. Immediately everyone was creeped out by the situation, and I heard waterhead say “ew that’s nastttty”, and we all left, feeling a little defiled. Everyone but Bobert and bob, apparently,  in typical creeper fashion.

Bob watched as Bobert kept jumping over the mid-coitus couple, as the girl grabbed at his jeans. The drunk guy, apparently confused, leaped at Bobert and attempted to knock him down (whether or not he was wearing pants, I’m not sure) Bobert deflected the guy’s attack and thunderpunched him to the ground, knocking him out cold immediately. I ran outside just in time to see two guys carrying the passed-out-cold, shirtless, drunk ass to his car. Leif, Matt, Bobert and Bob were in the back yard screaming “YEAH REP THAT SHIT” exposing their Bro heart tattoos. Of course, I got excited at the idea of being in a violent gang, and showed my gang-insignia off as well. Stephanie rolled her eyes, and we all howled and stuff. I heard the statement “Don’t f*ck with the bros” about thirty times, a statement which Bobert’s friend Alonzo decided later that week, was probably written on Moses’ tablet, and he either forgot it or dropped it or something. Everyone got a little nervous at a possible manslaughter, but we went on with the party anyway. We’re not the kind of people to let something like that ruin our good time.

Later on, Bobert informed me that he had brought everything we needed to go “tire burning”. Which includes two truck tires, a rope to latch them together, and a rope to tie them to the truck. Against my better judgment, and to Stephanie’s dismay, I chugged a beer, put a handful of sunflower seeds in my mouth, and boarded the death trap tied to bobert’s truck. Pual got on with me, and to the sound of cheers (which will probably be my death knell at some point) Bobert drove off into the neighborhood.

We were sitting inside the tires, trying desperately to keep our asses from scraping the road, as Bobert drove like a madman, weaving past parked cars, taking wide turns, and sending us sliding, burnt tire smell in our noses, with every movement his truck made.

At one point he turned too wide and hit the curb, which meant that we were also going to hit the curve. Tucker screamed from the back of the truck, where he was taping the entire thing, and pual and I went flying in the air. I somehow stayed on the tire, but Pual wasn’t as lucky. He ended up on the sidewalk, rolling about 15 feet, and suffering ample amounts of road rash on his side. The trooper that he is, he jumped back into his tire and we drove back down the street. Halfway down the block to our house, the latch holding the tires together came loose and sent me flying.

I should have been scared to death during this entire event, but for some reason (beer) I wasn’t. I got up, dusted myself off, spit out some sunflower seeds and ran up to the house. Pual examined his gnarly wounds, and we went back to the party.

A little while later we got word that some of the guys Pual invited were across the street breaking windows. It turned into sort of a huge thing, with Scott and Matt raising hell, Bobert trying to take care of business, lots of drunk people screaming back and forth. Eventually we got them to leave, and although everyone had mostly calmed down, the mood of the party was sort of dampened.

Not long after that, we were all still in the parking lot/front yard when Morgan came outside and broke down crying at the end of the driveway. Gardy tried comforting her crying ass, I told her to shut the f*ck up, got mad at the sound of a crying girl (one of my pet peeves) and went back inside. Apparently (here lie hearsay) Morgan had commented that Josh had a small penis when he wouldn’t let her lead him to his bedroom. He responded with an, “oh yeah?” and went to the bar where the mic was plugged in and yelled out over the PA, where people in the back yard, on the moon bounce could hear “WELL YOU’RE THE FATTEST BITCH AT THIS PARTY”.

(this guy)

I’m sure you could hear a pin drop. Josh laughed. Candy yelled. Scott was disappointed because this might mean no more cake. Not long after this, Yvette drenched someone’s (who’s wishes to remain nameless) shirt with water, he poured beer on her head, everyone got mad at him, and she left.

(wonder who it could be…)

Pual woke up to a mystery girl trying to kiss rape him in his sleep. I wanted to sleep with my girlfriend but leif, matt, derek, HG, bob and bobert were in my room. The party was over.

Except no, it wasn’t. Josh, who had been in the bathroom with some girl named Chicken Head, came out and put some LMFAO on full blast in a room where 5 people were sleeping. I put pants on, yelled at him, and tried to go back to sleep.

The next morning we had a pretty big mess to clean up. The kitchen floor had been covered in cake icing and beer to the point that people (tyler and I) were sliding across it like an ice skating rink. There were about a million deflated and sad balloons all over the place, broken pinata and nonsense was all over the house…and so on.

Stephanie and I did most of the cleaning. Bob bought a mop and mopped the kitchen. Steve cleaned about ten pounds of cake off of the bathroom floor.