Originally posted: September 16, 2004.
The other night I got home from work late, slapped some seriously wimpy emo on my iPod, and went out for a run. If I believed in weather, I’d say it was a perfect night for a jog. And I was all smiles. But, I couldn’t figure out what the hell I was so happy about. It was already dark, and my only plans for the night were to run, eat some terrible microwavable crap for dinner, then try to cross out as many tasks and chores from my list as I could until I had to hit the sack. Not a terrible night, by any means. But nothing to account for the shit-eating grin on my already panting and sweating face.
And then I realized I was still completely amped from the past weekend. I had just spent 3 nights in San Diego having one of the most fun and funny weekends of my life, raising hell at my little brother Chris’s bachelor party… Holy moly, man…
THE ARRIVAL
So the weekend started for me at the airport in Atlanta. I met up with my buddy Z, whom we had all sufficiently humiliated just the other month at his bachelor party in Vegas. He was ready for a little payback, and was carrying a massive duffle bag full of items to do so. After a cup of coffee and a quick smoke in The Bubble – the small translucent room full of lost souls sucking on cigarettes and waiting to die – we hopped on the plane. Trip sucked. We were too excited to sleep or read, and ended up just passing a notepad back and forth, taking turns drawing a bunch of morbid, demented pictures – babies being eaten by snakes, etc.
We arrived in San Diego, hopped in a cab, and rode around downtown San Diego trying to find the meeting spot. After a bunch of phone calls, we finally spotted my older brother Dre – the badass PHD in economics who surfs before work – skateboarding across the street over towards our cab. Alright! We all traded bro-hugs and followed him to the pad.
Dre had rented a two-story 3 bedroom house a mere block from the beach that holds 10 people. Actually, it holds approx 14, if 4 don’t mind sleeping on tile… We walked in, and headed straight up to the open deck on the roof where we met up with Corey the Canadian – one of Chris’s first friends from back in Atlanta now living out in California; Leo – one of my first friends from Atlanta; and the star of the weekend – The Bachelor Chris.
Budweisers and Coors Lights flowed and laughs were had, and soon Mickey the Rat – another old Atlanta pal and someone who’s always willing to go toe-to-toe with me on the weird-ass conversations – showed up. The Thursday night gang had all arrived, and it was time for Chris’s first task…
TASK 1: JESSE JAMES
We unleashed Chris’s first costume for the weekend – Jesse James. You ever see that show “West Coast Choppers”? I haven’t, but I heard it’s pretty good. Yeah maybe, but it’s also become an extremely obnoxious trend. It signifies all that is the cheesy ballcap-turned-sideways-wearing Cali redneck. Perfect. Chris had to wear a red West Coast Choppers ball cap that came straight out of the factory with the requisite bent bill, a gray West Coast Choppers t-shirt, an obnoxious gold cross, and jean shorts. The dude was humiliated because, well, it didn’t really look like he was joking. Sadly, in the right bar, he could probably pick up quite a few pool-playing chicks.
Oh, and we told him that any time he talked to a stranger, he had to fit the following words into the conversation: “hella, panties, cum.” Nasty words.
It was pretty late by the time we got out, and we spent the rest of the night at some small empty bar. Man, you can sure tell the difference between the bars in California and the bars in Atlanta – and not just because of the fact you can’t smoke in Cali bars. But in Atlanta, a barman at the door of an empty bar will practically beg a large group of drinkers to come in. The dude at this one seemed almost flustered that we showed. Didn’t matter. We grabbed a table and drank pitchers of Redhook and shot the shit.
We headed back to the house and some of the dudes crashed out. Chris was all fired up for me to listen to some kick-ass Lucero tune on his iPod. I went out for a smoke and a listen, and it was damn good. The next song that came on was some slow sad tune from Onelinedrawing. Chris is a lot like me with music and you can tell his mood by the songs he’s got on his playlist. I immediately deduced that Chris must be kinda stressed lately. I wouldn’t be surprised, man. Wedding planning is stressful shit. I was hoping I could loan him an ear. I grabbed him and pulled him outside for a quick brotherly chat. Turns out, the iPod was just set to Shuffle, and the sad song was nothing more than random chance. Apparently I’m no Freud.
But we stood around outside for hours talking, doing the brother thing. Telling each other how stoked we are for each other, how the 3 brothers are always gonna be there for each other, etc. It was cool, you know, to be able to have a good long talk with my little brother just a few short weeks before he marries the girl he’s loved for more than a third of his life. Call me a sensitivo, but those kind of talks with my brothers are what keep me going. The feeling’s mutual, for sure, as we topped it off with bro-hugs and “Fisher Brothers Rule!!!”s.
TASK 2 – SPRING BREAK, SOUTHERN STYLE
I woke up on the couch about four hours later, ate breakfast and drank Bloody Marys and Budweisers at a local diner with the guys. A little later I tugged on my tight jeans, grabbed my iPod, and headed down to the beach to watch the rest of the gang surf. I stood on the sand, shirtless in jeans, smoking cigs and drinking warm beers as the guys all took turns catching waves. The sun was hot as shit. I spent a long time talking with Mickey the Rat about all kinds of weird shit. Can’t remember what it was exactly, but it definitely had a weird ass meta-physical idiot spin to it. We drank more beers. The sun continued to fry my back. Z pissed on Corey’s leg. By the end of the morning, my back was red as a cliche involving something red, and hurt like hell. I had not laid down once, which leads to the conclusion that my burnt back is a symptom of some seriously shitty posture.
We headed back to the pad for Task 2, a Red Neck Spring Break. We all slapped on tank tops, bandanas, and jean shorts rolled up practically to our balls. We listened to shitty early 90s hip hop from a mix tape I made called “Drunk & Stupid.” We watched Chris funnel beers from a gorgeous flowing funnel that Corey made specifically for this event. It was a big red beauty with pink tiger fur wrapped around the tube. The top was covered in ridiculous stickers I made on my computer with such brilliant monikers as “Unibonger” and “Show Your Tits” and “FukinGonuts”. You know, all the Spring Break classics.
Blake showed up a little later, already dressed in redneck attire. I knew Blake from back at UGA. He was a couple years younger and once, as a wide-eyed freshman at a party, asked me for some advice on how to get involved in movie shit around school. After graduation, he moved to L.A. and sold a screenplay to a major studio. No shit. Dude’s an official “screenwriter.” I’ve never even finished one, and he’s making a living off ‘em. Wow. Good thing he took my advice back in school. Uh yeah, right…
That afternoon Collin and Mike T. showed up. Collin is a cool guy who’s married to an old friend of everyone’s, Alyssa from Atlanta. Mike T’s a cool guy dating Collin’s sister. I’d met Collin once or twice, Mike never, but immediately felt like old pals with the guys. It’s easy when everyone’s cool and everyone pretty much knows each other from old drunken stories told by mutual friends…
More beer was consumed.
TASK 3 – RATE MY BUNS
To continue with the redneck Spring Break, we introduced Chris to his next task. We handed him a tank top – it was an original Bones design of Chris in a fake mustache and his “Jersey Rick” outfit holding a Budweiser, with the words MUFF DIVER around him. And yeah, “DIVER” was on top of the good ole’ Diver Down symbol. It was a horrible shirt. Man, just say, “muff diver” out loud once or twice… Sucks, right?
On the back of the shirt were the words “Rate My Buns” – Z’s wife, Lauren’s brilliant idea.
We handed him a pair of green Speedos – the same pair we made Z wear around a pool in Vegas at his bachelor party.
Chris’s task was to head down to the beach and get 15 strangers to rate his ass, and write their rating on his tank top.
We watched the poor guy jog up and down the path outside the beach, begging strangers to check him out. Most would look at the sicko in the bandana, tank top, and Speedos, and walk away, offended. Some old dude stood on his upper level deck, laughing at him. We all stood on the beach, drinking beers, laughing at him as well. At one point, Chris came back and said, “Dudes, I’m gonna get my ass kicked.” I pointed to the group of nearly 10 of us still wearing bandanas, tank tops, and jean shorts, and said, “No one’s gonna mess with this crowd.” I sure as hell wouldn’t. Dudes who wear bandanas and tanktops are from one of two camps – Clubbers or Ass Kickers. And I didn’t see any club around, mother fuckers.
After he got 15 signatures on his shirt, we told him he’d have to get one final one – a signature from the old dude on the upper level deck. He looked at us with pure disgust, then proceeded to yell up to the guy on his deck and beg him to come down and rate his ass. The dude wouldn’t do it, so Chris took off his tank top and threw it up to the old guy’s wife. Poor Chris stood there in nothing but a bright green Speedo, waiting for the shirt to come floating back down to him.
Ahhh, good stuff…
THE WALK OF THE REDNECKS
We allowed Chris to go back to the place and change into some regular duds – a tank top, jean shorts, and a bandana, or course. When he returned, we began our trek into town to begin the night. But where does a large group of rednecks go on vacation in San Diego? Hooters, of course! We walked to the fabulous family establishment with all the locals staring at this pathetic parade of tourists who must have taken a wrong turn at Panama City.
As we neared Hooters, something dawned on me. Every time you see a group of inbred rednecks out on the town, one of them always seems to have some form of physical impediment. I decided that that man should be me, and walked into the restaurant with a gimp leg and a ridiculously exaggerated limp. We all grabbed a seat at a large table and laughed about how all the waitresses were probably in the kitchen yelling at each other: “That’s your table, Alice!” “No, I’m on break, it’s yours!” “I’m not serving those assholes!” “Veronica, it’s YOUR table.” Poor poor Veronica…
Z and I decided to head outside for a smoke. On our way back in we stopped at the souvenir stand to buy Chris a Hooters tee. Cause Hooters tees are stupid. The manager told us he’d get all the Hooters girls to sign it for Chris. “That’d be great,” we replied, and then limped back to the table.
At one point in the night, some dude on a mic insisted that Chris and some other random dude celebrating something random, stand up at the front of the restaurant. A couple of Hooters girls pulled his all-new Hooters shirt onto him, and then stuffed it with two balloons. A metaphor for breasts, apparently. Excuse me, let me get back in character: a metaphor for titties, bro. They then made him put a hotdog in his hand (or was it his mouth?) and pretend like he was serving tables. It was weird and awkward. Guess they meant to embarrass him. I think the Speedo from a couple hours earlier had already accomplished that.
We then decided that we all needed some tattoos, so we pulled out a marker and started drawing all kinds of perverted and morbid shit on each other. I think Dre ended up with a Weed leaf on one arm, I had “THUG WIFE” on mine, Collin had a baby getting eaten by a snake on his arm, Leo had a baby in front of a lighting bolt on one arm and an anarchy sign with “COUNTING CROWS” encircling it on the other. Some of the tattoos were a lot more crass, and preferably not to be repeated.
We paid our tab, and I limped after the gang as we headed to our next destination. We decided it should be a club. On the way there we met up with Kevin B, another old friendly as hell Atlanta pal who now travels the country helping to start up new bars. He had just flown in from Texas, or somewhere like that (I don’t know directions), to celebrate with Chris.
We also hooked up with The Kid and Blackout, a couple of cool-ass punks from L.A. The Kid is Chris’s old roommate and a guy who just might have the best attitude about life that one could have. His dialogue is a mixture of Brooklyn Brawler and L.A. punk, and it rules. You talk to him for more than two minutes, and you find yourself using the word “bro” in between every other word. His buddy Duke, with a back full of tattoos, looks like he could kick the shit out of you and 10 of your friends, but is actually nice as shit. I met him for the first time this weekend, and thought the dude ruled.
Our gang fully united, we walked up to the door of some bumpin’ club. I guess. I’m not sure what a “bumpin’ club” is, but I guess it’s probably what we walked up to. The doorman told us we couldn’t wear our sunglasses (it was night) or our bandanas into the club. There’s a gang thing going on in L.A., and apparently our fluorescent pink and orange bandanas must have made us look like the all-new flamboyant foil to the Crips and the Bloods. Personally, I wouldn’t think you’d have to be a gang to shoot us. I think anyone would have been happy to do it. Anyway, we followed his orders, showed our IDs and entered the bar. We turned around and noticed that they weren’t letting Mickey the Rat into the bar. Ironically, he was the only guy who wasn’t dressed up like a complete idiot redneck. He had an ID, but not a driver’s license on him. He explained to the doormen how the law works, and they begrudgingly let him.
Dude, this place was jam packed with beautiful girls. I don’t know where they all could have come from. It’s like they were flown in. It was mind-blowing. Blake and I started up a conversation with a couple of them. The one I was talking to was stunning. 10 minutes later, we were still talking. Who woulda thought? I remember thinking, “Wow, this new haircut of mine sure is making a difference.” I then realized that my hair was probably a complete mess from being under a bandana all day, and I was wearing a shitty dirty tank top and rolled up jean shorts. What the hell is going on here? What the hell is she talking to me for? SAN DIEGO RULES!
That kinda thing was happening all night. I’m pretty sure girls were just amused by the group of idiots completely out of their element. But damnit, I’m telling you, I met more hot girls in one night in a tank top than I probably did in a year in a ponytail.
Oh, sweet sweet regret…
At one point I was using the urinal and felt something warm on my leg. What the fuck!! I turned to the guy next to me and said, “You piss on my leg again and I’ll break your neck.” He looked over at me, emotionless, then walked away. I bent down and observed my leg. Dry. Oops, I just about started a fight over what was probably nothing but the breeze. Lay off the drinks, Bones. Heh.
The majority of the night at the club was just a bunch of cool ass dudes shooting the shit. I had a blast getting to know the ones I hadn’t met before. It was great. And it’s gonna be rad seeing them all again at Chris’s wedding and laughing like we’d known each other since the days of sneaking out and trying to buy cigarettes without an ID.
We ended the night back at the house, about 4 dudes larger. It was probably 3am. I had been drinking beers since that morning. My brain was still functioning just fine, but my body was a turd. I was talking with The Kid, and in mid-conversation, I told him, “Sorry man, I’m done.” I headed upstairs and crashed out next to my brother Dre. Dead dog.
I snoozed through the next couple hours of music being played at full blast on the roof deck. I snoozed through the loud laughs and yells and crunching beer cans. And I snoozed through the cops walking into the house, up the stairs, and telling Kevin B (the one responsible enough to talk to them) that if they had to come back for another noise complaint within 24 hours, he was going to jail.
We didn’t have to pick anyone up from the slammer that next morning, so I guess they all heeded the cops’ warnings.
Damnit, that was a helluva couple of nights. Felt like 10. And there was another full day and full night to go. And the best was yet to come…
TO BE CONTINUED…
