Saturday was a terrible night, so to remind myself of the times I used to actually like my friends, I dug through some old posts from back in the day. Here’s one:
“Yesterday was a good day, and much like Ice Cube, I didn’t even have to use my AK.
Hangover bright morning light, I put on Eye of the Tiger and play some Super Punch-Out! and shadow box until I make myself self conscious. The headache fades and Loren calls me, which strikes me as completely out of the blue since I had long since forgotten that he had called me the day before. He arrives with Chad, and we start the day off by walking the fine line between depressant and stimulant: Sparks.
Chad gets excited about something and begins dancing like an epileptic, Loren wants a picture. He tells Chad that he had god damn better rock out harder than he has ever rocked before, to which Chad obliges. By jumping off of my chair, getting his foot caught, and becoming another stain on my carpet and hole in my wall. We laugh and laugh, then ask if he’s okay, then laugh again.
At Loren’s new car he boasts of his impressive new sound system, and whips out a radio powered boom box marketed towards smurfs, pixies, leprechauns, and possibly gremlins. It is smaller than my hand, and sounds like somebody remembers all the wrong words to their favorite songs but nonetheless screams them through their toothless mouth into a tin can three blocks away.
Chad’s house, and awkward jokes and a convenient number of beers to steal. I tie a happy face balloon through the holes in my so-god-damned-metal belt that was stolen from a Halloween costume. Loren demands a super model style photo shoot with said balloon and a small metal hatchet. I of course deliver. We drink, Chad is late for everything in the world again, even things that have nothing to do with him, he is still late.
Amateur-grade drinking and driving and yelling half of the right words to Men at Work’s “Land Down Under,” in what starts off as Australian and quickly devolves into Indo-Chinese accents. We drop Chad off downtown. Loren then asks periodically throughout the night “what did we do with Chad?” as though we might’ve stuffed him into the trunk and forgot about him. Which has happened. Tuning drums ineptly in a storage locker coated in foam, the practice space downtown. Hippies playing rhythm guitar minus rhythm, and we leave to pick up Josh.
Seventeen wrong turns and two of the fastest laps of downtown Portland later we get the right highway. In celebration Loren plays a quick game of Get Robert Killed, but fortunately loses. I piss in Josh’s workplace, and much revelries are had on the way the fuck out of Troutdale. I smoke a cigarette with my head out the window like a dog, ears flapping in the wind at 75 miles an hour. I fall asleep. And wake up at the house party I forgot we were going to. I hate sleeping through the trip and waking at the destination, as for the next few hours I have to pretend like I know if I’m really awake or not. Wrestling with the dilemma that if I am asleep I should just take off my pants and fly around the room, it’s my dream, dammit, so I should have fun. If I am awake, however, I find myself making awkward explanations in the back of a police cruiser with drafty legs again.
We walk up to a house with some hip looking thirty somethings hanging about outside drinking. We sidle up and patiently wait for them to invite us in. After thirty uncomfortable seconds, they tell us they’re just hanging out on their porch, the parties across the street, and could we please fuck the fuck off thank you. Hipsters in the living room pulling patented pouts in faux leather wristbands writing poetry while they wait for enough people to arrive to socialize. Good start. We conquer a kitchen table and stave off indie conversation with bad jokes and table football. Everybody’s drinking red wine, we’re most of the way through another case of Pabst. More arrive, preening and dancing the mating dance of misunderstood PDX kids everywhere, which consists of “Have you heard of (blank)? No? Yeah, you wouldn’t have.” or “Have you heard of (blank)?” You have? Yeah they fuckin sold out, that’s why.”
Hey, emo kids:
Fuck YOU, artfags.
I drink and grind teeth. Loren suggests we go to… and I am already out the door. We get more beer at Safeway and 35 closed-deli-special chicken wings for a dollar fifty. Listening to a tiny radio and throwing tiny wings of chicken from his tiny car. Eventually, the car is surrounded in a halo of devastated bones and beer cans. We are laughing at how white trash we are, and then go back to the party. I get caught in a corner guarding beer and listening to somebody play keyboards and fight back what I can only imagine are tears of oppression.
Me: Man, I ate the hell out of that chicken.
Loren: Fuck yeah, chicken didn’t even knew what hit it! Never met a chicken with thirty wings before.
Me: Not one I couldn’t eat the fuck out of, anyway!
Loren: Fuckin A!
Highfives, chest bumps.
A space clears around us, after that. Waiting for what we came to see, Caitlin’s (from Desert City Soundtrack) new all girl rockaballoo. I discuss, again, the finer points on distinguishing between Gary Busey and Nick Nolte with Loren. He bets and loses two dollars to me that Gary’s son is Jack Busey (it’s Jake) and then they start. It all goes by too fast. And they’re fucking amazing. I tell Loren it might have been worth it.
Loren tells me that once in a while you gotta trek through all the mud before you hit the Rock.
We sing every last word wrong to an REO Speedwagon song on the way home.”
Ah…nostalgia. Maybe I won’t punch everybody in the world right in their fucking faces after all. I mean, that was pretty ambitious of me to promise. If I am to be honest with myself anyway, I’d only get through, at most, a third of the population before getting tired and heading back home to play some Zelda.