I was still wet behind the ears in the industry, but already getting calls from national production companies traveling "upta Maine." One of these established companies was Planet Grande Pictures out of Malibu, California. They told me that they were following a high-profile celebrity who was coming up to the Lewiston-Auburn, Maine area for an athletic event.
They wouldn't dive into any details since they didn't want me blowing up the interwebs with teenage girl excitement and leaking information out to the public before they landed. You know, because us Maine folk aren't used to seeing 'dem big TV stars all up close and personal-like.
I reassured them by telling them I once had an awkward confrontation with Bob Marley.
Not the singer. The other one ...
I was hired.
When the production crew arrived, I met them at their Hilton hotel and had breakfast with the Executive Producer. I finally got the lowdown. Turns out they were here for the Dempsey Challenge; a "run, walk and cycle fundraising experience for The Patrick Dempsey Center in Lewiston, Maine."
At this point, I figured out who the celebrity was ...
It was McDreamy himself: Patrick Dempsey. Sadly, I knew absolutely nothing about him except that he's a star on the popular medical TV drama, Grey's Anatomy. In fact, the only movie I could remember seeing him in was Freedom Writers, where he played Hilary Swank's sexually frustrated husband. Yet I still sympathized with his character because an active sex life is way more important than teaching underprivileged intercity kids.
... I kid.
So I assumed he was some soap opera doucheketeer and thought nothing of it.
Eddie '12 was not impressed
Then I met the man. He walked into the hotel lobby and went out of his way to introduce himself to our crew despite being swarmed by family, friends, and fans. He shook my hand and talked about how excited he was to work with us.
Dammit, this guy was actually pretty cool. I wanted to hate him, but he was a genuine person who was passionate about the Dempsey Center, his tight-knit family, and fulfilling his adrenaline addiction.
Aujourd'hui, je suis le doucheketeer.
The show is called Patrick Dempsey: Racing Le Mans and was for the newly renamed Velocity Channel, which is a member of the Discovery family (Animal Planet, TLC, Science, etc.). Planet Grande Pictures had been following Dempsey as he prepared for the world’s oldest – and most intense – automotive endurance race: France’s 24 Hours of Le Mans.
The show also took a peek into Dempsey's personal life, which is what brought the crew up to Lewiston, Maine for The Dempsey Challenge. Every year, Patrick Dempsey and others ride their bicycles for up to 100 miles through Maine to raise money for The Patrick Dempsey Center for Cancer Hope & Healing. The Center provides free support, education and integrative medicine services to anyone impacted by cancer. Dempsey subsequently opened the place up after his mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, which relapsed five times.
Long story short: Patrick Dempsey is a Saint. And I'm a Dick.
Needless to say, I went from not caring at all about this actor who lives a life of being drooled over by mothers age 16-76, to being absolutely delighted to work with Mr. Dempsey.
But enough about my instant hetero-crush on Patrick [Can I call you, Patrick?], there was still work to be done. Patrick Dempsey was having a private event so that he and other bicyclists could prepare for the Dempsey Challenge. Our crew had to cover it. I was thrown into the mix as the minivan driver (prestigious title, I know). I would follow the swarm of adrenaline junkies as our Director of Photography and Executive Producer hung out of the van with Canon cameras so that they could capture everything.
You know that feeling you get when you're driving along; minding your own business, then suddenly a bicyclist appears just to the right of your vehicle? He's in his own little world with his headphones fastened to his head [blasting 80's New Wave, I assume], and you're thrown into the role of guardian angel. You're constantly checking your mirrors trying to predict his every move so that you don't turn him into a permanent pavement stain during your next planned turn. He starts tossing around hand gestures like he's calling a penalty in the NFL. It's a terrifying ordeal. Now, imagine that except with bicyclists surrounding your vehicle as you steer your way through Maine's unpredictable, winding country roads. Plus, add a few open doors with bodies hanging out of them as they scream directions into your ear holes, and you have my predicament.
Luckily, we got through the ordeal without flattening any biker shorts.
Try impressing a girl by wearing a pair of these bike shorts, and you'll be riding your bike straight home.
We headed back to the complex from where the cycling started and prepared for the post-ride interviews. McDreamy headed inside to freshen up. Meanwhile, we scouted for a proper sit-down interview location. We found a nice little spot in the shade, so we quickly set up our equipment. After that, we had some free time, so I went inside to use the wittle boy's room.
I entered the public bathroom and saw Captain Dempsey near the sinks. We both greeted each other as I walked over to the urinals to make yellow-business. At this point we were making small talk. You know, the casual "Hey, I have my dingus in my hand, but let's make noise with our mouths so that the sound of my pee stream in a quiet room is less awkward" routine.
Mission: Accomplished.
I walked over to the sink and washed my hands, because mama didn't raise no fool. Still doing the small talk routine:
Eddie: "Man, we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."
Patrick: "Yes we do, but it should definitely be interesting."
Patrick's thoughts: "Why is this dingleberry still talking to me?"
I finished washing my hands and turned to Dempsey to tell him that I'd see him upstairs.
Eddie: "Alright, I'll see you up..."
When I turned to Patrick Dempsey, he was bent over with his bare ass waving hello to me. Time stood still as this caught me by complete surprise. In that moment, my dumb brain started telling me that Dempsey had just laid the groundwork for the most unexpected [and impressive] mooning I've ever fallen victim to... and I've fallen victim to MANY strategic moonings.
Little did I know (but quickly realized 5 milliseconds later), he was actually getting changed in this public bathroom, but didn't require the extra security provided by the line of stalls. Why? Because he's Patrick stinkin' Dempsey. Since it's proper washroom etiquette not to look another male in the eyes within the confines of a dirty public bathroom, I was oblivious to the fact that he was changing right next to me.
But then my mind played another mischievous trick on me. My next thought was, "What if I snapped a picture?"
I know what you're thinking: "Oh my, Eddie. This is the story of how McDreamy made you change teams! No wonder you enjoyed the musical stylings of Sugar Ray so much."
Sadly, this was not the case. Despite Mr. Dempsey clearly having great manscaping abilities, this thought came with other intentions. A picture of Patrick Dempsey's buttocks would bring in a lot of money from most entertainment media outlets. Way more than performing grunt work on this show would.
I quickly shot that idea down. I would never do such a thing. Would I really want to risk my entire career over a TMZ photo opportunity? That would be a quick road to the production blacklist if I lifted my Blackberry out of my pocket. Especially if I selfie'd myself into it.
Plus, I only take boss selfies.
Time returned to its normal pace. I finally finished my sentence before rushing out of the room like I had just sharted.
Eddie: "...um... upstairs. Yeah, uh. Seeyoulaterbye!"
Patrick's thoughts: "Thank God he's gone. I can finally drop a deuce in peace."
... Hey, if a story happens in the bathroom, it's going to have a lot of bathroom humor ...
We both went back to work like it had never happened. He continued to be as professional and cool as always, and I continued to be my same, awkward self.
But I'll never forget my McSteamy encounter with McDreamy.
The divide amongst Americans intensifies daily. Fingers are pointed at an imbalance of power, politics, religion, and race while citizens reach out for anything to blame for this split in society. We jump to conclusions over risqué themes in video games, music, and movies, just because we desire quick answers to complex situations. The Entertainment, which used to bring us together, now stands in front of a firing squad.
One casualty: Hip-Hop.
Before games, the Crittenden High School football team in Marion, Kentucky motivates each other through the power of hip-hop using the song Put Your Hands up High by Gangstagrass and Emmy-nominated rapper T.O.N.E-z of FX Network’s ‘Justified’ fame. The players get into the spirit of competition through the rhythm and lyrics of his music; a spirit that unites the team towards a common goal.
T.O.N.E-z hears of this unity, which inspires the actor/artist to schedule a pep rally appearance and halftime performance to honor the Crittenden high school students. "I was extremely excited! I remember when I was in school and a huge fan of music and how I wished that artist would come and perform for us, I was not only excited but honored," states T.O.N.E-z. Word travels throughout the school, and the students are ecstatic to have T.O.N.E-z perform during their “Pink Out” breast cancer awareness game. The story makes the front page of the local newspaper as T.O.N.E-z flies into Nashville, TN and continues on a two-hour drive to Marion, Kentucky…
… to find out that his performance was cancelled.
Church leaders and a few parents convinced the school's superintendent that T.O.N.E-z’s music catalog was too inappropriate for the students and his performance was scrapped. "The wonderful people who decided last minute after seeing me on the front page of the newspaper THAT DAY said my song was inappropriate for the kids," claimed T.O.N.E-z. The superintendent didn't want to promote the rapper's "values" despite T.O.N.E-z's inspirational lyrics, which are full of determination and redemption. "Serena Dickerson who handled my travel and lodging and promotion for the event called me in tears to break the news, I was VERY disappointed and somewhat angry for the kids who were looking forward to seeing me perform and found out I wasn't performing the same time I found out."
T.O.N.E-z remained positive. He would post on his Facebook: "I want to apologize, especially to the Crittenden football team and fans and the good folks I've personally met... Certain people in the community are not pleased with some of my lyrics, and I can understand that to a certain extent, but the song I was going to perform is the same song the football team plays every game... With that being said, God bless everyone here, especially the ones who cancelled my performance. I hold no ill thoughts or will toward you. I wish you guys the best."
Despite the cancellation, Put Your Hands Up High still blasts through the speakers during the high school football game. The students stand tall by also playing the theme from Footloose as an act of rebellion against their oppressors. "It showed how amazing the kids are and also how much more MATURE they are compared to the folks who banned me from performing," added T.O.N.E-z. "I made a Facebook status stating I felt like a 2014 Kevin Bacon. Jody Porter (science teacher & football PA announcer) didn't see my post but played the song from his own feelings and that showed great minds do think alike!"
I asked T.O.N.E-z if the cancellation had anything to do with people in power being biased against hip-hop due to racial discrimination. T.O.N.E-z responds, "Who knows why people do what they do. I don't know the exact reason but I'm 100% sure it was NOT because of lyrics or hip-hop."
Over the weeks to come, the citizens of Marion continued to standup for their music freedom, and now the town is inviting T.O.N.E-z back to perform at the historic Fohs Hall, where he will be the first rapper to ever play at the venue. "It was Serena Dickerson who made all that happen. She and her family plus hundreds of good people were disgusted by what occurred the first time I was there," says the artist. "So we came up with a date and a venue and got it all booked and locked in thanks to the help of some great people and huge hearts."
T.O.N.E-z was touched by the outcry and goes on to say, "It just showed me what I've always stated, that there are still amazing people in the world and we should not count our children out by assuming they're all mindless party going adolescents."
Despite the controversy in Kentucky, the rapper/actor has remained busy. T.O.N.E-z recently independently released an album titled Fog of War. "It's another look into my life from love, heartache, joy, fun, arrogance, tragedy, hate and how it shapes me every second of my existence."
To accompany the full-length album, he's also releasing a 5-Track EP titled Handcuffs. "Handcuffs is produced by the future of music, Rorschack. It's a different journey musically for me because his style of production is so unique and groundbreaking and full of ethnicity," claims the rapper. "It's 5 songs with heavy bass and spacey sounds under me performing different flows and word play. The first single and video is a song called Bar Tab which is my view of the club scene and how money and jewels should never be the reason man and woman connect." T.O.N.E-z recently finished production on the music video for Bar Tab, which will be released in the near future.
When asked if he will be performing any more acting gigs or sticking to music as we approach the sixth and final season of FX's critically-acclaimed show, Justified, T.O.N.E-z responds, "I'll be doing both! Justified is the best thing to happen for me career-wise but I have some movies and other TV shows in the works plus of course more music!"
Where's T.O.N.E-z heading to next? The Emmy-Nominated rapper positively exclaims, "To the top, straight to the TOP!"
Check out Fog of War as well as T.O.N.E-z's new single, Reality Check, on iTunes.
The final season of Justified premieres Tuesday, January 20th at 10PM only on FX.
My older brother, Joey, pulled a familiar plastic, blue bin towards the carpeted floor at the foot of our shared bunk bed. Joey was an 8 year old kid on a very distinguished mission. A mission that motivated him despite having a powered-on television in the room that was showcasing Fox Kids' Saturday morning cartoons.
My brother was going to build the best damn LEGO house the world had ever seen. And not even our mommy's delicious supper could pull him away from his foreseeable destiny.
Super Mario shapes FTW
Joey was always the architect of the family. He had the blueprints already drawn up in his 8 year old mind before he even sat down to lay down the very first brick.
Every block would be a different color than the one next to it, which is exactly the way a child's dream house had to be. There would be no roof, because the climate of our air conditioned room created a perfect living environment for the little LEGO men inside. He even included a 2nd floor so that the LEGO inhabitants would have a place to rest when they were getting sick of their annoying He-Man and Ghostbuster action figure neighbors.
"I have the power! ... to annoy you with my masculinity"
After the house was built, Joey would play around with the house for a few hours. But his mind was always roaming to the next grand project he could commit to.
Meanwhile, a rambunctious 6 year old watched from the shadows. This kid was previously playing with a SEGA Genesis, but NBA Jam was now paused.
Pippen's going to have to wait for that BOOM-Shakalaka
He clearly had his eyes on something else. Something more.
This child was me. And the moment Joey left his creation alone, I pounced onto his territory to claim it as my own.
While my brother was the creative architect, I was the one with the vivid imagination. I preferred messing with the lives of these little LEGO people so that they would commit to my crazy storylines and rules. All my brother did was create a setting for my mental scripts. This would usually end with immense destruction.
At the time, my young mind did not give the figures much to work with. My stories were usually basic fight scenes where I would mash the toys together until I decided there was a victor. Then I would throw in a simple poop joke and call it a day ...
... in fact I still do this.
"Because poop is funny!"
But this scene should be nothing new to your own interpretation of brothers. If you have an older sibling, then you understand the handy-down system. It was in full effect here. My brother would gain something, then outgrow it, and finally I'd take it away for my own use until I eventually destroyed it. This system worked with clothes, books, and parental attention as well.
Yet there was something else I wanted that my brother had been holding onto for far too long:
The top bunk.
I loved to complain to my mother that it was unfair that I wasn't allowed to sleep on the top bunk. It was common brother jealousy because my older brother, Joey, was sole owner of the untouchable mountain. My brother and I would fight constantly about it, but I just dealt with it because the bottom bunk gave me a place to hide my boogies on the wall parallel to my bed. Little green globs of ectoplasm that were hidden by the shadow of the mythical top bunk. I was a prison inmate etching into his cell the days since he last saw freedom.
Then, it happened. My mom finally felt that I was old enough to experience the top bunk. At the tender age of 6, I had finally grown up. I was ready to become a man.
For the first time since I started waking up for kindergarten, I actually looked forward to bed time. My brother and I use to sneak a video game or two in while we pretended to dose off, but I wasn't having any of that on this monumental night.
I put on my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles footy pajamas and triumphantly climbed to the top of the mountain.
Kinda like Uncle Joey here except way more boss.
I put my flag down onto the bed and finally claimed ownership of what was un-rightfully mine. That flag being my old blankey that use to be white, but due to nightmares and an uncontrollable bladder, had now magically turned yellow ... Well, not really "magically".
I laid upon my new pillaged kingdom with a sense of fulfillment. I put my hands behind my head and Ferris Bueller'd my way into sleepy time.
Day-bow-bow. Chick ... chicka-chick-ahhhhh
I'm pretty sure at this point I was having a pretty awesome dream about Zordon honoring me as the latest member of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. Since my favorite color red was taken by that dweeb Billy, I was going to go with Nickelodeon-Orange. I was positive that the Pink Ranger was going to dig my steez when I showed up in my new uniform.
When suddenly I was thrown out of my Megazord. Could this be the doings of that jezebel-wench Rita? Find out in the next episode of ...
I woke up to find my body teeter-tottering on the edge of my new top bunk.
By the way, you jus' got Inception'd
I tried to kick gravity in the face and pulled all my body weight towards the bed to stop myself from Mortal Kombating myself into the pit below.
It wasn't enough.
I plummeted towards the floor as my arms flew violently [and Kermit-the-Frog-ly] through the air.
I tried to grab onto the bed ... the ladder ... my brother's sleeping face ... anything. But I ultimately whiffed.
Smashing into the floor below was now inevitable. Unlucky for me, there was a structure on the floor to break my fall. Another trophy that I had stolen earlier that day: My brother's multi-colored LEGO house.
I collided with the home, which immediately shattered into hundreds of pieces. The house now resembled a bowl of Fruity Pebbles after a 2 year old has their way with it. My body contorted with the layout of this new bed of nails.
If you've ever stepped on a LEGO, then you understand the volatile destruction that these little mines can create. I had just fallen a good 5 feet onto a whole unevenly built LEGO house.
I laid there motionless as the traumatizing experience slowly settled in. I let out a few silent moans and dieing-animal noises but my body couldn't let out a cry due to the immense shock over what just took place.
I slowly rotated my body, brushed off the multicolored bricks that were now stuck to my Ninja Turtles footy pajamas, and grabbed the first peg of the ladder to pick myself back up to my little toddler feet.
Somehow I was perfectly fine. Minus a few cat-like scratches on my back, I was surprisingly unscathed. All my experience watching Macho Man Randy Savage drop his patented elbow from the top rope onto other WWF wrestlers must have subliminally taught me how to take a decent bump.
"You're welcome Eddie! OHHHH YEAAH! DIG IT?!"
Not many children have lived to tell a tale similar to this, but somehow I survived. This experience shaped me into the man I am today.
Needless to say, I gave the top bunk back to my older brother and returned to my boogie-covered dungeon.
I learned a valuable lesson that night: Don't grow up too fast. Mo' responsibility and prestige, mo' problems. Bask in life when it's simple. Enjoy what you have now because sooner or later, you're going to be drowning in a sea of LEGO's
... LEGO's being a metaphor for debt ... [See what I did there?]
But that wasn't the only life lesson I gained through this experience. I also learned the ultimate revenge for anyone who disrespected me.
I have a love/hate relationship with the city of Boston. Most of my family is scattered throughout the area so my face is a frequent visitor. Also, it doesn't hurt that the city has a decent film/television community, which gets me a varying amount of work. But there is one thing that has prevented me from relocating to my "roots". Most people who have experienced the city can agree with me on this one: Everything to do with driving in Boston is disgustingly greasy.
I despise the puke layout of the roads;
The traffic is overbearing and nonsensical at times;
In order to drive half-way efficiently in Boston, the Masshole driving style must be adopted but takes years of mastering;
And it seems like most city drivers are petrified of letting anyone pass them or cut into their precious lane. I call this "tiny car penis syndrome". Because the mentality of many Bostonian drivers is that if anyone jumps in front of you, they're humiliating you by proclaiming you as less of a man; thus having a tiny member. So the moment a one spots your blinker, they'll speed up to ensure their manhood remains intact. This creates a frustrating ordeal where you end up playing car roulette with another driver whenever you're trying to crossover to an exit during rush hour. Who's more man enough to get as close to the other as possible without backing off? You better plan your maneuvers a few miles back because otherwise, you'll be the one left with the little vehicular peepee.
But I'm getting carried away with my frustrations. We've established that driving in Boston is a duck-fart. Luckily the human race has figured out ways around this ordeal. That's why when my birthday buddy, Oreo, and I turned 21, we decided to pool our money together to do it big. We were going to rent a luxurious limousine. We'd then drive from Londonderry, NH to Boston, MA like we were a couple of big-time, fancy-pants'd businessmen going to an important arrangement. Thus giving us an hour of pre-gaming before we arrived close to Faneuil Hall. (We were newbie 21 year olds and didn't understand the Boston bar scene so we decided to head to a recognizable busy area and go with the flow.)
I met up with Oreo at his place and soon learned just how interesting this night was going to be. Oreo received an unique birthday gift from one of his friends. It was a bottle of something very, very special.
This is the part where I introduce you to my best friend yet sworn enemy. His name is Jagermeister. He is an evil son-of-a-gun yet somehow knows how and where I hate like it. Jagermeister transforms Eddie into his evil twin brother, Balls Mahoney. Balls Mahoney has no shame and will do anything for the sake of entertainment. He cares for nothing except where the next drink will be, a guaranteed good time, and macaroni & cheese. You'll learn more about his relationship with mac & cheese when Balls Mahoney makes an appearance during Eddie's 22nd birthday in Portland, ME. But that's another story.
We all jumped into the limo and took off. If you've ever been in a limo, then you can guess what happened next. We played with every little gadget we could get our barely legal hands on.
Oreo: "Oh my God! Check these lights out! You can control how bright they are!"
Eddie: "There's even a fridge! We can put things in it and they'll get cold!"
Oreo: "Uh oh! We can change the music! Who's up for a little Wu-Tang Clan?"
Eddie: "Dude, there's a sunroof! We can Teen Wolf this bitch!"
Don't judge us, we're simpletons.
After we extinguished that from our systems, we started pouring the Jager. It began slowly--with Jager Bombs. Then, once the Red Bull ran out, we graduated to straight Jagermeister.
The drive was the quickest drive to Boston I've ever experienced. It was almost like we jumped into a black hole and were spat out into the city. The only problem: The Jager must not have made the jump. Because the bottle was still there, but the black deer blood inside was no where to be found.
Oh well.
As usual, the traffic in Boston was terrible, so we asked the limo driver to drop us off close enough to our destination so that we could walk the rest of the way. The limousine pulled over and we prepared to exit. We soon found where all that Jagermeister went. The moment each of us planted our feet on that Boston pavement and stood up, a feeling of lightheadedness took over. We were shaken and the night hadn't even begun yet.
Another realization; we had no idea where we were. So we did the only thing that confused New Hampshirites do when lost in Boston: Look for old, familiar monuments that you've seen in your 8th grade social studies textbook.
We walked around in circles for about a half hour before we finally found Faneuil Hall.
Now what?
Drink some more, I guess.
We went to a bar called the Purple Shamrock and suddenly alcoholic beverages started materializing right before my eyes. It's a phenomenon that happens to everyone on their birthday. I call it the Boozedini Complex. Close friends show up and suddenly alcoholic drinks magically appear in the hands of the birthday boy/girl, rendering him/her useless.
Our group was slowly accumulating. The best part about this birthday was the amount of characters we were able to muster up. I had friends visiting from all over the northeast for this interesting night. Just so I don't have to introduce every person, I'll go through the ones who play a role in this story:
Oreo
I mentioned him earlier. My birthday buddy who is also one of the funniest people I know. He has an infectious laugh, especially after someone makes an unconventional fart joke. Both of us had no idea what we were getting ourselves into that night.
Mary
This person is actually a male. He told me to use this name when bringing him up in any story, but he will forever be known to me as the Asian Sensation; More grind for ya dime; Stylin' & profilin' snazzy dressing son-of-a-lady-who-does-nails. Some feel uncomfortable around him, but you should know by now that I find uncomfortable situations hilarious. Mary was visiting:
Goku
I haven't hung out with Goku as much as his Mary, but I've been around him enough to know that he is a lot of fun to have in your entourage. Also a pharmacist so a warning to the elderly: This man currently has your life in his hands.
We were also with a group of University of New England students who vanished at some point, friends of Oreo's, and a random assortment of others who I can't remember due to later intoxication.
So we're all at the Purple Shamrock, and I was already in that sweet spot. Not quite set to auto-pilot, but certainly on my way. I had great group of people around me, which always puts me in a ravishing mood.
But--Balls Mahoney was starting to take over. I could feel him knocking on my
mind's door; ready to burst in and throw common-sense Eddie out into the
cold.
Balls Mahoney is convinced that rational thinking is an unneeded, dieing concept. At this point, he might have been right.
Then I heard music start up. LIVE music. One thing about intoxicated Eddie,
when he hears live music, he'll shut out everyone and go straight to the
source. He will then dance in mediocrity until he tires himself out, needs
another drink, or has to piss. 'Needs another drink' came first. Luckily, the Boozedini Complex struck again as a rum & coke hovered my way.
People in our group wanted to relocate so I obliged. Everyone finished their drinks and we went back into the streets of Boston. Sadly, Eddie was not with them. But Balls Mahoney was--and he was ready to blitzkrieg the city.
As we were walking to find the next bar, I started screaming to strangers "reminding" them about my birthday. Like it was some huge event that they should feel privileged to be apart of. I'll have to ask the other individuals with me because I can't remember exactly what I was saying, but I'm confident that I sounded like a defiled prince who was denied as the heir to his father's throne. I was looking for proper recognition, but despite Boston being the home to the bar in Cheers, nobody at these bars knows--or cares about--my name.
Oreo was the only one on my level. He was plastered and stumbling. I'm pretty sure at some point Oreo altered his voice to resemble a large, African-American woman on the daytime television show Maury as she defiantly yells at Maury Povich's angry, rambunctious audience before she finds out that 'He is NOT the father'.
Oreo: "Yooooou don't know meeeee!!! You might think you know me, but you don't know me! Keep hating 'cause you wish you looked like this!"
We continued walking through the
crowded streets when we suddenly ended up passing some of Boston's
finest. Several police officers were standing in a line, talking amongst
themselves. Each cop was straight-faced but you could tell that all of them
were eager to tackle any drunken idiot who decided that this night was a
good night to 'layeth the smackdown' because they failed at getting laid.
Suddenly, I became uncontrollably nervous. I went straight into 'Time to win an Oscar for Best Sober Performance by an Alcoholic Actor' mode. But then, I remembered a little tidbit of information: I was 21 years old now. I was not doing anything illegal.
My overbearing confidence returned to my body. I hitched up my pants and strutted through that line of intimidating lawmen. I tipped my cap to them to display that I had absolutely no shame for my own actions.
... yet.
We passed the officers and jumped into the line for a nearby club because some of the group wanted to put their dancing shoes on. Sadly, there was a $10 cover charge. Since a lot of our group, including myself, were poor college students and could not afford the expensive ways of Boston bar-hopping, factions of our group split up. Luckily, the Boozedini Complex occasionally took care of cover charges, so I ventured inside.
Mary, Goku, and I walked over to the bar to grab a drink. Mary looked at me, pushed me back, and delivered a devious stare into Balls Mahoney's soul. Oh no, this is what I was afraid of. You never let Mary buy you a drink, because Mary will find a way to mix your current state of mind with that one drink that will take it to the final level. And I don't say "final level" like it is an accomplishment. The final level is a sloppy, broken, incoherent, and mucky mindset where you don't return from until the following morning. And even then, your body, mind, and soul will still desire multiple days of water intake and tears outtake in order to return to your former human state.
Mary turned to the bartender. Normal Eddie would have developed an excuse to get out of this situation because he has common sense and knows that whatever Mary places in front of him will be the end of his night. Sadly, Balls Mahoney would have none of that.
Mary turned back around with a glass of water.
Holy schnikes! My friends actually cared about my well-being! I took the glass of water from Mary and took a big gulp from it.
I stopped.
I then slowly moved the glass away from my face, which was now displaying that look you get when you step into a fresh, steaming pile of dog shit.
My wincing eyes looked up and connected with Mary's. He had that same devious stare that was now paired with an evil ear-to-ear smirk.
This was a glass of straight Grey Goose vodka. I usually would never use a raunchy comparison like stepping in dog shit to describe Grey Goose, but in this moment I was not having it. My body and taste buds were not ready for this tomfoolery. Balls Mahoney would have chugged the whole thing if someone was so inclined to challenge him, but he also respects a fine beverage. There was too much money placed into this drink (especially being in the pricey drinking city of Boston) to mix it into a filthy toilet bowl within the next 5 minutes. So Balls Mahoney did something he has never done before: He passed up a drink.
Goku then snatched the glass from my hand and dominated it. This man might be a smaller man of Asian-New Jersey descent, but in that moment he proved to me that he had the liver of a Soviet fisherman.
Sadly, the denial of tasty beverage wasn't enough to save me from the abyss. Auto-pilot had finally kicked in. At this point, I was no longer a human being who could conduct himself in what society would define as "the normal way". I was now being operated by a horribly programmed machine who was only interested in completing simple tasks such as stumble, dance poorly, and of course continue drinking despite the obvious lines that have been crossed. Also, for some reason my face was stuck in a Guido duck face:
This picture shows what would happen if Pauly D from the Jersey Shore impregnated the runt of a lion's batch of cubs. The runt lion would produce this offspring. Must be my heritage catching up to me. Off-topic: I never order Corona. Boozedini strikes again.
This is the part where I started to black out. Before this night, I had never blacked out in my life. I was pretty proud of my brain's ability to retain information despite the ignorant things I've put it through. Every bad decision caught up with a vengeance.
I have no clue how long we stayed at that club. Luckily, I had a gaggle of loving friends with me who get off on posting embarrassing pictures of my unpromising dance maneuvers to Facebook. So I have digital evidence that I looked like a total jackass that night.
We finally left for the limo, but my dignity would remain in Boston.
The group we started with entered the limousine and we were on our way home. Sadly, the ride home was a lot different than the ride to the bars. The tag-team birthday boys were quieter than ever as they slowly realized where the night had taken their young, innocent minds. I was trying to recollect myself but was unable to establish clear thoughts as the loud music from the radio bounced my weakened brain from ear-to-ear. I believe it was still the Wu-Tang Clan.
Have you ever made an attempt to sit quietly and will yourself into being sober? You try to put mind over matter and prove to the gods of alcohol that you don't follow their so-called rules. Yeah, that's exactly what I was doing in this moment. And I was failing miserably.
The positive side of the situation was that I was not feeling physically ill.
*sniff sniff*
Suddenly, a putrid stench infiltrated my nose-buds. Something so diabolical, that Balls Mahoney himself instantly released the control that he previously had on Eddie's mind. A smell that was so dank, my alcohol-danger-meter instantly went from a 'serious yet controllable' 8 to a 'dangerous and prepare for evacuation' 10.
I looked up and squinted. I could barely make out a shadowy figure who was sitting across from me on the other side of the limo. His body was convulsing so violently that it made the girl from the Exorcist look more docile than a breast-feeding pug. He was shaking so much that even Michael J. Fox would have told him to "settle down". [And the award for most offensive joke of this blog post goes to ...]
It was my birthday buddy, Oreo. He was the one who suddenly decided to place his night's birthday presents right there in front of our guests. But I was the only one seeing this situation unfold. No one else in the limousine even acknowledged what was going on. It was a surreal Twilight Zone moment--until I joined the cast.
The nauseating smell was getting me uncomfortably sick at a very fast rate. I could feel the written bond I had with my stomach slowly deteriorate. I've always been proud of myself for maintaining an iron stomach that was capable of holding down items that had no business being held down, but in this moment, my body wanted to teach my mind a lesson. I still tried to clutch onto everything as I convinced myself that I was perfectly fine.
Eddie's mind: "Eddie, you're perfectly fine. Sure, it smells like a dead camel's butthole in the desert, but you've been through worse, right? C'mon, just think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts ... Remember when you got a toy batmobile for Christmas when you were like 9 years old? Man, that was awesome. You pushed that little thing throughout the whole house and stopped The Joker from taking control of the living room. See Eddie, there's no way you're going to pu----"
Eddie: "Eeeeeeuuuuugggghhh."
I decided to join the party. I convulsed as I tainted everything that's great about riding in a limo. I had just silently puked on myself and the floor of the limousine.
A limousine has an image of class, wealth, and luxury. I turned one into my own personal in-flight puke bag.
The peculiar thing is, no one noticed that I puked either. And two individuals were sitting right next to me. The birthday duo was able to get all the way to New Hampshire without being called out for our dastardly deeds.
We pulled into Oreo's mom's house. The limousine driver opened the door to let some of the passengers out. The inside lights turned on as he completed this task. Time for the moment of truth.
Everyone quickly realized what had happened to Oreo because his puddle was right next to the door leading to our precious freedom.
"Ewwww! Oreo puked!"
Oreo took the blame like a man. He wasn't capable of saying much, but he knew he was the culprit and owned up to the mess. Suddenly, the group noticed another pile. I tensed up.
"Look! Over there! Oreo must have crawled over near Eddie and puked next to him too! Poor Eddie!"
I dodged a bullet. Oreo was going to take the blame for both of our slippery mistakes. I was in the clear.
"Wait a second! That pile is Eddie's! Eddie puked too! You can see it on his shirt!"
Dammit. They got me. The birthday boys were caught red-handed. And we would have gotten away with it too. If it wasn't for those drunken kids... and that Jager too.
And to make matters worse, I was the last one to get dropped off. This meant that I was stuck to endure the drive of shame alone. The climax of which was when the driver finally opened the door just for me to stumble back into the world covered in my own filth. I couldn't even lift my head up to look him in the eye. Partially because I felt so guilty. Also, because I still had vomit residue on the side of my face.
It was after 2:30AM, and his precious work vehicle was Nickelodeon slime'd.
Despite this whole situation being a very embarrassing one for myself, I still wanted to share it. Because you should find positive in any situation you've put yourself into. If my mistakes have the ability to entertain even just a dozen people, then I see value in them, as long as no one but myself was hurt in the process.
My 21st birthday was a memorable one, and it started a tradition that I've followed ever since: Always start your birthday with a bottle of Jagermeister. Regrets are for tomorrow. My 22nd birthday would follow with that tradition ...
Ahhh Old Orchard Beach. Maine's answer to Cape Cod and the Jersey Shore. Except instead of uptight dudes with Boston Red Sox hats or orange Furby lookalikes running amok, you have middle aged parents escaping from their children to relive their golden years. The years when they could actually breathe and live a little.
But they're not alone. A warning about Old Orchard Beach: When the sun sets, be extremely cautious about what you say when interacting with anyone you don't know. I'm not saying that OOB is dangerous because it most certainly is not. I've lived within 30 minutes of this place for almost 6 years and have met a lot of great people in the area. But after the bars close, it can easily become a disgusting cesspool of the worst assholes the world has to offer.
Southern Maine gets a lot of tourism in the Summer. Russian parents send their children over to work the amusement park rides, French-Canadians vacation by car and then bicycle all over the area because they're afraid of airplanes and motorcycles (I assume), Vermonters are--well--sick of Vermont, and the swamp monsters from the northern outskirts of Maine put on disguises and come out of their natural habitats to see what the humans are up to.
[I've never been that far up north ... but I've heard stories]
And the one thing that all of these groups have in common? Everyone's looking to boink.
This means that the moment the bars close at the tender time of 1:00AM, the males go into a last-minute hunting mode. They've been unsuccessful in the clubs and bars all night, so they take their frustration to the streets. Hell, the only reason they wasted time at a club in the first place was to find someone to dry hump all night in hopes of taking them home to subtract the dry part.
Let me familiarize the mapping of late night OOB for you. It's a bunch of places to get drunk that surround a ton of greasy late night food places. Palace Playland is closed, because if it were still open, these goobers would be too busy playing skeeball and puking on the Galaxy Coaster to ever disperse. All of these establishments lead to the final yet most important ingredient to this catastrophic concoction: The Pier.
The Pier is the biggest club in the area, but when I say biggest club in the area, I mean it's Maine trying to be relevant as a club scene. Sadly, it ends up in a different category. The category of "Overpriced tourist traps that are only popular because they overlook a beach". A funny fact about places in Maine--If there's a cover charge, odds are the joint either A) Isn't worth the money and time it takes to actually step foot inside, or B) There's a band playing that's decent but will never hit the big time. The Pier falls under category A.
When the clock strikes 1AM, these bars let loose their demons into the night. Each bar has a different cast of intoxicated characters--and when they mix--it is highly unpredictable.
On this particular night, if there was an emergency, we had one of the best groups you could possibly assemble. Let's go through this story's cast of characters.
Toast
Nice dude but can hold his own. Sometimes says things that make you question your own sanity. He's now my roommate. This being said, I can confirm that jumping from our 3rd story window has crossed my mind.
BigToast
Toast's older brother. Imagine Toast but a lot more logical yet volatile. When contents aren't shook, he can be a blast to be around.
WonderBread
Don't let his name fool you, he's a lot more solid than bread. Speaks his mind, but can understand when there's a dangerous situation looming and can play Daddy. Doesn't hurt that he does mixed martial arts.
BeerSkin
Also trained in MMA. One of the nicest kids you'll meet. Although his smile isn't intimidating, he finds enjoyment in taking people larger than him to the ground--and can do it with ease. Luckily he has his girlfriend with him to keep him in check.
Pozzo
A good friend of ours who was visiting from Worcester, MA. This was a rare appearance for him, but he still found a way to make it into this particular story.
Then there was Chevrolet & I. Two wise asses who involuntarily stumble into trouble. We speak our minds and sometimes people don't like to hear it. Drunken Chevrolet a lot more so than me, but you'll learn that later.
This night seemed like it was going to be a drama-less night. Meet up at Toast and BigToast's house to pregame, take cabs over to Old Orchard Beach, walk to Hooligan's Landing for cheap beer, stay away from cougar hunting at the Brunswick, and then see where the night takes us. Everything was looking peachy.
We arrived at Hooligan's Landing relatively late, but had no problem making the best of it. Despite it being more packed than fudge, there was live music and good folk to keep us entertained. That was until the group realized that we were the youngest faces out of the whole bunch and that there were more attractive females to conquer elsewhere. So we ended up splitting into two groups. Most of the guys wanted to head over to The Pier for girl-scouting so BeerSkin, his girlfriend, and I went roaming the streets to locate a new spot.
We ended up at a small, shifty dive bar that had the population of 2 town folk in it and a total of 7 teeth between the both of them. So we did what we do best: Turn a despicable environment into a pleasant one. We ordered beers and began brainstorming ideas that would make this shit-covered popsicle actually edible. Pool table, television, arcade, drink deals, low-priced appetizers and wings. Every imbecile with an open mouth thinks they can run a bar when they're drunk. We were those imbeciles. Then the owner walked over. He didn't help his bar's case at all. He was the poster child for why this place deserved a proper burial. His lack of motivation for his own bar was the clearest example that he knew his bar was a crapsicle and that we should turn away--so we finished our beers and obliged.
It was around 12:30AM at this point, so we reluctantly decided to meet up with the rest of the group at The Pier. I couldn't believe how long the line to get in was. This wasn't my first rodeo here, so I knew what I was actually waiting for. I was waiting in a line of stragglers much like myself to pay a cover for a less than 15 minute indulgence in a packed club that has more sweaty dudes than girls and--odds are--I'm going to have to squeeze through a bunch of them to locate the overpriced light beer.
Total piss.
My excitement was at an all-time low. Then the bouncer announced that the cover has been raised due to capacity issues. Really? I now have to pay even more money for less than what I would have gotten by just arriving earlier?
That would have been the straw that broke the camel's back, but when the clock is inching towards last call and you have no time to make it to another bar, you learn how to suck it up.
I spent my time in line talking with a tipsy yet unintentionally funny French Canadian. I can't remember exactly what he mustered to say but I do recall him consistently asking about "de gurls" at The Pier. I stuck a "sacré bleu" in my response just because I'm extremely uncultured. I don't believe we spoke again after that.
The line shortened and we finally made it. We had time for one beer so that became the immediate priority. The bouncer pried the money from our hands and we headed in.
Then we reached the second line. The one at the bar. We once again had to stand behind an outlandishly ridiculous number of collared shirts; some of which were sadly popped. Luckily, some of our fallen soldiers were stuck in this commotion as well. We jumped ahead with them, grabbed a $5 Bud Light and $10+ shot, and went to the balcony overlooking the beach.
... In this moment, The Pier wasn't so bad. Staring off into the waves as they crash into the darkened sands. The moon shimmering off the ripples of the ocean. A cold, tasteless light beer in one hand and a shot glass filled with something that will undoubtedly burn because BigToast suggested it. A splendid moment.
Alright, that last paragraph came off way too poetic. But I had a long night, dammit! I had every right in the world to be a softy--but we were far from done. In fact, our debacles hadn't even begun.
The bars declared closing time so we finished off whatever we had that was ingestible and stumbled out into the night along with the horny herds of Old Orchard Beach tourists.
But we were seasoned veterans to this region. We knew it was greasy food time. And I had a craving for french fries like you wouldn't believe.
I looked into my wallet. No dough.
The greediness of The Pier had squeezed me dry for every last dime I had. The establishment with the fries I desired only took cash. Woe was me.
I had to divert my attention before I lost my mind over those salty delights. So greasy food time transformed into a stereotypical white boy circle.
When BeerSkin, Toast, and I drink, sometimes we convince ourselves that we're the second coming of Run-DMC. Toast started beat-boxing. I added a few catlike noises. Then BeerSkin laid down the mayonnaise.
Here's an example from another night so you can get a good idea of what this delightful travesty sounded like:
Then a stranger-danger Caucasian male joined in. Somehow we must have forgotten that we were still in the whitest state in America and were going to attract all sorts of wannabe Eminems.
Don't believe that Maine is the whitest state? This is via ABC News:
"Maine tops the nation with 96.9 percent of its population described as white, while 96.7 percent of Vermont and 96 percent of New Hampshire are white, according to the census."
That's a losing statistic in my book. I can't believe Maine is whiter than Vermont. I also can't believe I just typed 'Whitest State in America' into a Google search bar. Anyways ...
This guy was terrible, but he was having so much fun that we couldn't stop him. It sounded more like monotone grumbling than anything mildly comprehensible. I'm not saying we're anywhere close to good, but this guy made us sound like the Beastie Boys. [RIP MCA]
BeerSkin, Toast, and I then shared a moment of realization. There was a very good possibility that we looked as ridiculous as this guy; especially now through association.
We quickly decided that our fun must come to an end and broke up the band. We started to walk away from this cluster of horny goats so that we could more easily wave down a taxi.
We were about 100 yards away from the center of Old Orchard Beach when suddenly I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around and spotted a wild cougar pouncing towards me. She was trying to catch up.
The best part--she was waving around a giant bucket of french fries! My optimistic yet sloshed mind went with "Hey! Some random woman wants my body! And she's going to feed me! What a doll!" It's like the Gods answered my prayers and sent this experienced angel to deliver to me what my drunken body truly desired. She's not of ripe age, but a man's got to do what a man's got to do in order to get his hands on that golden crispness. And I'm not talking about the overly tanned cougar's leathery skin.
She grew closer. Alright, she's not nearly as decent looking as she was when we had a football field between us. This was no Cougar. This was a certified Mountain Lion tipping the age-scale close to Saber Tooth Tiger. And I realized something--she didn't look happy.
Then the screaming began.
WildMountainLion: "Who the fuck do you think you are?! You have some kind of nerve saying that to us!"
Eddie: "Um, saying what? Is there a problem?"
WildMountainLion: "You know exactly what I'm talking about you little shit! I should beat your ass right here!"
Eddie: "Alright, calm down lady. I don't even know who you are. How could I have ever said something to you?"
Here's a tip when trying to calm someone down. NEVER actually tell the person to 'calm down'.
WildMountainLion: "You walked by us back there and said 'It smells like whores around here'!"
I seriously don't recall ever saying this statement. I mean, it's certainly something I would say to get a laugh out of my equally immature friends. I'm not denying that fact, but I would have never walked up to a group of strange mountain lions and said they smelled like whores--even though that's exactly what Old Orchard Beach smells like.
As I continued to fail at calming WildMountainLion down, the rest of the group took notice. BigToast was the first one over.
BigToast: "Listen , we don't want any trouble. This must have been a misunderstanding."
Now that's being the voice of reason. Sadly, BigToast wasn't the only one she heard. In fact, I guarantee she wasn't even listening to him, because behind BigToast was Chevrolet.
Chevrolet: "Who the hell are you, old lady? Get the fuck out of here!"
Oh dear, this is taking a turn for the worst. Chevrolet gave her exactly what she wanted--Something to actually bitch about. She took all of her anger that was being wasted on me and threw it in the direction of Chevrolet. Someone in our group told everyone to keep walking so that we could avoid this situation. WildMountainLion and her group continued keep pace with us. There's actually a video of this whole ordeal online:
Alright, you got me. That was The Lost World: Jurassic Park, but it's basically the same thing. I'm the people running and Chevrolet is Jeff Goldblum in a red convertible leading the beast away from me. Except instead of using his incredibly fast car and a baby dino to attract the mother, he's using generic insults. I assume you've figured out who the Tyrannosaurus Rex is portraying.
We needed a savior. Who in our group could possibly calm this lunatic down so that we didn't end up in a heated brawl with a gang of old cats who were each missing 7 of their 9 lives. Enter: Toast. With the most sincere of voices ...
Toast: "Don't be mad at my friend for calling you a whore just because you are one."
... Didn't help--At all. WildMountainLion devolved into RabidMountainLion. Her nonsensical yelling toward Chevrolet grew ferociously as her group stood behind her. But Chevrolet still had one card in his pocket. The card that most males refuse to use due to the drastic consequences that follow.
Chevrolet: "You know, I don't usually use this word but fuck it. YOU'RE A CUNT!"
This is the part where everyone prepares for the worst. We were in for the long haul with this one, boys.
No matter what a woman's level of insanity is at, you always refrain from using that word. Because that simple yet powerful four letter word can be the difference between a misunderstanding and a night in the pokey.
RabidMountainLion lost it and went for a more physical offense. The only weapon she had at her disposal was that delicious bucket of fries in her hand. She took that bucket, turned it sideways, and hit Chevrolet as hard as she could with it. Every greasy, ketchup soaked fry flew out onto Chevrolet's face and clothes. I no longer cared about the drama. In my mind, this situation was now a mourning of those golden beauties.
Chevrolet: "These fries smell like your vag! They're greasy like it too!"
RabidMountainLion "FUCK YOU! I'm going to get my husband to kick your ass!"
Pozzo was doing his best to calm everyone down, but would show quick glimpses of bipolar disorder every time he opened his mouth.
Pozzo: "Everyone, we have to calm down--BUT FUCK YOU, YOU'RE CRAZY!--We can't let this situation get out of hand--AND FUCK YOUR HUSBAND! WHERE IS HE? I'LL FIGHT HIM!"
A male who we assumed was the husband looked like he was about to step out of RabidMountainLion's shadows. BigToast walked over to him and gave a very stern look to the gentleman.
BigToast: "Listen buddy, look at that man over there."
BigToast pointed at WonderBread who was now dragging Chevrolet away in a full nelson.
BigToast: "You don't want to fuck with him. And I guarantee that you certainly don't want to fuck with me."
That poor husband came to his senses real quick. He made the smartest decision of his life by stepping away from a situation that could have gotten a lot worse than it already was. Chevrolet was still screaming while WonderBread had him locked.
Chevrolet: "Dammit, I just bought this shirt today at the GoodWill! You owe me a new shirt!"
At that point, we looked like a group of guys being stalked by a few slabs of poorly cut leather. Innocent bystanders took notice. A cop pulled up and rolled down his window.
Cop: "What seems to be the problem?"
This is the first and only time in my life that I've actually been relieved to see a cop. To the untrained eye, we would most likely be considered at fault because we're 'young & stupid kids', but Chevrolet had the greasy red evidence all over his shirt which proves we were assaulted.
BigToast: "No, we're fine."
Cop: "Okay, have a good night."
...
I've never seen an officer so not interested in helping. He literally drove up to our traveling mini riot, asked one question, and drove away. We were on our own again.
Luckily, we reached her motel and she realized she was too pooped to continue berating us. RabidMountainLion stood in front of her motel and continued yelling wasted profanities at us while we just continued on with our lives.
This is the best advice I can give you if you're ever attacked
by a wild mountain lion. Tire her out. Because--odds are--her stamina
won't be remotely close to yours. Plus, sooner or later she's going to come to the conclusion that she'd rather be watching daytime soap operas and Judge Judy than be dealing with your young shenanigans.
We got far enough where we didn't have to listen to her terrible screechy voice. We found a cab and most of our group jumped in while BigToast, Pozzo, and I walked down another street in search of a ride as well.
Then--I saw it. Another bucket of french fries that was abandoned on the side of the road like an old dog. This was no mirage. It was calling me.
My hunger took over. I stumbled over to the abandoned bucket like I was a homeless person who hadn't eaten in days. I was going to eat those nasty leftovers. Thankfully, I had friends with me.
BigToast: "What the hell are you doing?"
Eddie: "Who just leaves a bucket of fries on the side of the road? I'm going to eat these."
BigToast: "No, you're not. That's disgusting. You don't know where those have been."
Eddie: "They were in someone's possession and now they're here. It's not like someone placed their bucket down and peed all over the fries so no one could have them. That's not logical. It's hobo food. Some genuine person just couldn't finish them and left them for someone who was hungrier--like me."
BigToast: "I can't let you touch those."
Eddie: "C'mon, just one fry."
BigToast: "You leave me no choice."
We both made a dash for the bucket. BigToast beat me to it and kicked it so it landed upside down. Once again, fries were wasted upon the pavement of Old Orchard Beach. Reality set in--I was a thirsty traveler stuck in the desert. I finally found my water only to have it taken away from me. On that eventful night, fries were not happening. I bitched a little bit, but deep down I knew that it was for the best.
We finally waved down a taxi and jumped in. We told the cabdriver of our adventures. Of course, he didn't give 2 shits. We had to be optimists though. We endured a mountain lion attack and lived to tell the tale.
I was a Junior at the University of New England in Biddeford, Maine, and I still had never experienced a true Spring Break. And when I say the words "Spring Break", I don't mean staying at your parents house in East BumFuck USA for a week as you spend a random assortment of unmotivated nights in your old high school buddy's basement drinking whatever cheap malt liquor you can afford. I'm talking about a REAL Spring Break. One where you go to a mystical land that is littered with a limitless supply of eager college girls and possibilities to ruin your future professional career. Where alcohol flows endlessly like the Waterfall of the Gods in Iceland. An exotic getaway where you wake up everyday to a liquid breakfast only because you made way too many terrible decisions the night before and have to be physically ready to do it all over again.
In 2010, I would finally experience my first Spring Break.
A family member with a connection to a travel agent informed me that she, her boyfriend, and a few of her close friends were heading to a resort in Cancun, and the more people who she could rope in, the cheaper the price was going to be. She said we can get it as low as $800 a person if we could round up the right group.
From afar, $800 seems like a hefty price, but let's put this into perspective. That $800 includes a week of meals, alcohol, housing, most resort amenities (gym, pools, beach, etc.), AND the plane tickets.
I'd have to be certified-cat-lady-crazy to say no.
So I took a peek at my checking account ... $124.78.
I was shit out of luck on financing this trip by myself. Luckily I have another family member who was a lot more financially stable and wanted to go. I found my in. He helped me finance the trip and the rest was history.
Our plane landed in Cancun while our dignity was left sidelined in the States. This was going to be a week where the only real rule we were going to live by was "Don't drink the tap water". And even that was a rule I expected to break. Dysentery is just something that our weak alcohol-battered bodies would have to endure so that we can truly experience what Cancun has to offer.
After stepping off the plane, we immediately came face-to-face with Mexico Fact #1: A lot of the country is poor and will do anything for a small tip. This airport was full of locals who were ready to suck the droopy dick of American consumerism just for some coin that will go towards putting food on their los ninos' plates. This fact became apparent when 2 locals quickly snatched our bags and carried them 10 feet to the designated taxi area. Both men stood with their right hand out as if they deserved recognition for this noble act of bravery. Lucky for them, they hit us at just the right time. We were silly tourists with our heads still in the clouds. Long story short: little Jose & Maria ate well that night.
Our taxi arrived at the resort and we received our official reentry wristbands, but we would then learn how unready we really were.
We flew out of Boston, Massachusetts where I believe there was still remnants of snow on the ground. As a result, when we walked across the resort's pool area, we were the only sweaty assholes still in jeans and with our jackets dangling around our arms.
Then we realized something ... we could begin drinking immediately.
We flamboyantly ran to our rooms. Of course we had that all too common moment where you walk into your new room and have to touch everything while commenting about how great or shitty it is. One person sits on the edge of the bed and bounces up and down as they comment on softness and noise control. The other complains about the high price of making a call to the United States through the resort phone. You know, the usual.
After completing this common act of human tomfoolery and changing out of our New England uniforms, we were ready for our first shot. It isn't hard to predict which kind of alcohol we began with. None other than the devil's water. The type of alcohol that has caused more irrational crime than any other: Tequila!
One of the members of our group bought a bottle of Patron at the Cancun airport for a ridiculously low price. We would find out later that this price was actually expensive for Mexico. That was airport prices. I swear you can trade half-chewed fingernails for Mexican tequila. It is that cheap.
The Patron burnt my esophagus. We were now officially in Cancun and it was time to make our triumphant return to the pool area.
Let me explain an all inclusive resort to you. EVERYTHING is plentiful. Unlimited food, drinks, and characters surround you at all times. For individuals that haven't developed the ability to pace themselves, this is a recipe for destruction. I am usually good at knowing my own limits, but with these circumstances, I was in way over my head.
I sat at a bar in the middle of a pool. Half of my body was submerged in dirty pool water that contained a higher alcohol by volume percentage than Bud Light while the other half was waving for the bartender's attention. I was in heaven. And you know what goes good with heaven? Mai Tai's.
One of our group's females laid out the groundwork for our first night. We were going to head to the largest club in Latin America and we were going to have the time of our lives. Girls Gone Wild was scheduled to be filming there and it had all the ingredients to be very memorable. Boy, was she right but in the worst of ways.
Everyone left the pool area to get presentable. The guys were good to go in less than 30 minutes, while the girls continued to drag ass. So we decided to eat the time away at the dinner buffet.
We grabbed our food and sat at the first open table we could find. Then a cute Mexican waitress walked up to our table.
BonitaWaitress: ¿Qué quieres beber?
GroupMember: Wait, we can order whatever drink we want right now?
BonitaWaitress: Sí.
It was still taking us some time to realize how unrestricted we were. It's like withholding a bag of Halloween candy from a 8 year old for a month before finally giving him complete control over the contents. That 8 year old is going to ravish that bag the moment he has a chance.
This is right around the time that LMFAO's terrible party song "Shots" was playing all over the radio so we decided to go down the line.
Jager bombs!
Lemon drops!
Buttery nipples!
Jell-o shots!
Kamikaze!
Three Wise Men!
Fuck all that shit,
Give me some tequila!
Mexico Fact #2: No matter what alcoholic beverage you order, the bartender will somehow find a way to include tequila in it. We even ordered a shot of whiskey and ended up with tequila. And if you're drinking a cerveza (beer), everyone is still going to yell "Tequila!" in your face. It's just something you have to get use to.
We got through a round of flaming 151 shots, which surprisingly didn't burn any nasal hairs off of anyone, when the girls finally showed up.
The gentlemen are already deep in the bucket. We are teeter-tottering on insanity and it wasn't even 8pm yet.
Most girls would be annoyed, but these girls knew the drill and decided that catching up was a much better option than complaining.
So we went through the song again. We may have even thrown in a few rainbow shots due to the inclusion of females.
At this point the entire group is a sight to behold and turning into the entertainment for the entire resort restaurant. Across from us was a giant group of Asians sitting at a large table that resembled the Great Wall of China. They were loving us and doing that stereotypical shy Asian schoolgirl laugh where they cover their mouths and giggle after everything we say or do. We had found our first friends.
We stood up and went over to talk to them. You know that moment in the night where you change positioning and suddenly you're not the same person you once was? Every drink you've had throughout your escapade taps you on the back and reminds you that you're not Superman. This was that moment. We were officially not fit for public.
While walking the short 10 foot distance between the two tables, one of the male members from our group slips and completely eats shit on what I presume is a tequila-soaked floor. It was one of those dramatic falls fit for a Looney Tunes cartoon. Now, not only had we found our first friends, we had also found our first action to giggle hysterically at for the rest of the night.
Then one of the girls in our group reminded us of something... we were going to a club tonight--And the bus was leaving real soon. This meant we actually had to assemble ourselves so we could look and act at least half-human.
We got as far away from alcohol as we could with the intention to save our already savaged minds. We waited outside for the bus as one gentlemen took out a Cuban cigar and proceeded to share it with the group like it was a fat blunt being passed around a Cypress Hill concert.
Didn't help. If anything, it made things worse.
Then the bus arrived. If you've ever wondered why other countries hate us, take a ride on a bus filled with American Spring Break tourists in a land where they believe they have no consequence. Surprisingly, we were the quiet ones taking a back seat to these other drunken assholes.
This is that moment of clarity where you look at the other obnoxious Americans and wonder if that's what you've looked like all night. I took this moment in by quieting down and putting my life into perspective. Another member of our group, the infamous "WildCard", thought anger was a better solution. He went from happy drunk to "Everyone is pissing me off" drunk the moment he placed a foot in that bus. And I don't blame him. These people sucked, and even in my drunken state I could sense this.
Our group spent the whole bus ride calming down WildCard so that he wouldn't toss one of these jabronis through an emergency exit window.
The bus arrived at the club but the damage was done. The group's mood was tainted. But Cancun has a special way of fixing that. Everything was forgotten the moment we stepped foot into this club. This club is exactly what MTV and Girls Gone Wild commercials say Spring Break is suppose to be: Heavy-duty lazers, a thick coating of fog, beautiful & carefree women, crappy house music, belligerent dancing, and a destiny of craziness.
Suddenly we're all uplifted. The family member who planned this whole trip picked a table and proclaimed it home base just in case anyone got lost in the shuffle.
In order to put emphasis on our taking of land, WildCard decided that this was a great moment to revert back to his animal instincts and piss all over the spot in a club FILLED with people. How he accomplished this undetected impresses me to this day. I was positive that we were going to get kicked out of the club within the first 5 minutes.
Luckily, we trucked on. The girls were being like all girls and wanted to dance the excess sugary drinks off so we walked down to the first floor. Here is the moment where my night changed dramatically.
I've never seen a dance floor so packed. I had no idea how anyone could do anything except vibrate their head furiously to the beat of the song. It was that ridiculous.
I was in the front of our group leading them towards this diabolical dance floor so I decided to do my best Moses impersonation by parting this Red Sea of drunken insecurity.
This was right around the time when Jersey Shore was turning into a terrifying phenomenon. It was MTV's biggest hit since the days when they actually recognized and played music. Somehow this terrible show influenced my next action. I raised up my drunken, little hand like it was our nation's flag and imitated those Guido dweebs by fist pumping and rushing the floor just so my group could follow me into battle.
I guess I should have told someone else my plan before putting it into action. Because when I successfully got through this collection of future mistakes, I turned around to find myself alone. No one had actually followed my courageous fist pumping flag and I was officially stranded.
This had to be karma for fist pumping in the first place. No man should ever fist pump, even if you're using it as a survival mechanism like I did. Me getting lost was the world coming together and correcting my mistake.
I tried to follow my footsteps back to Go, but it was already a lost cause. Being in that state of mind, it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. I bumped rigorously around the never ending ocean of douchery, but to no avail.
Wait! We had a home base! I was surely saved!
I looked around for our pee soaked home base but nothing looked recognizable. I was so out of it that I was seriously convinced that someone had played a sick joke and completely rearranged the whole club while I was downstairs. There was no empty table so I assumed somewhere in this club was a group of overly-dolled up girls sitting in WildCard's piss while complaining about how the club smells like digested Dos Equis. Silly girls.
I was out of reliable options. So my next motion was to just wait outside until I ran into someone remotely recognizable.
Another dead end. Later on I would find out that WildCard was also missing in action, which is why everyone assumed we were somewhere looking after each other. The buddy system is an excellent concept, but this meant I was shit out of luck.
So there I was, sitting on a curb in a foreign land with my head in my hands. Lost, confused, and drunk. I lifted my head up from my palms and studied my surroundings--searching for an escape.
I saw hot chicks and a cameraman. Hmmm... not exactly what I was expecting but also not a bad sight.
As I was at my lowest point, Girls Gone Wild would coincidentally decide that this was a great time to film hot girls strutting into the club. I was in the background questioning every decision I had made that day, and by sheer luck, I became a background character for the crummiest booby extravaganza in the world.
I'm not motivated enough to mark "Buy a Girls Gone Wild DVD" off of my bucket list anytime soon, so I'm not even sure if this one sad moment in my life made it into their video. Hell, I haven't even seen one of their annoying infomercials in years to know if they're still doing what they do worst. If anyone out there is a GGW fanatic and has the deluxe Spring Break box set, which I pray does not exist, please let me know if this clip is somehow in there.
Anyways, back to the story.
Curb. Drunk. Lost. Foreign. Those are the primary elements in needing a taxi. Remember that part earlier where I said I was poor? Yeah, that was still in effect. I looked in my wallet and found a crisp $5 bill. The bus ride to the club from the resort was obnoxiously long, so I thought there was no way $5 could get me back there.
But in this moment, a nation's poverty level might save my life. I waved down the first taxi I could find with the beautiful American bill.
Eddie: Hola! Hola! Me lost. Have to go to mi casa... I mean resort-o!
MexicanTaxiDriver: Que?
Dammit, I wished I had taken Spanish I & II more seriously back in high school.
Eddie: Ugh... ugh... 5 dollars or pesos, whatever. How far can that get me?
MexicanTaxiDriver: Si, si.
I jumped in. He turned to me,
MexicanTaxiDrive: Que resort?
OH FUCK. I couldn't even remember the name of my own resort! Of all the tidbits I could forget, this was the highest on the list. I rummaged through my pockets looking for some kind of evidence. I had nothing.
Eddie: I... I don't think I know ...
At this point I raised my arms in confusion to break our speech barrier and show him non-verbally what I meant.
Then something caught my eye. The greatest invention in drunken tourist history was around my wrist. My own personal "If lost, please return to blah blah blah": My reentry wristband! I got overly excited and pointed frantically at it to the taxi driver.
Eddie: Oh! Hoteles Solaris!!! Hoteles Solaris!!!
Success. We sped off, but it didn't take long for me to return to an uneasy state. My mind raced:
What if there's 2 Hoteles Solaris' in Mexico?
What if he takes me to the wrong one?
What if $5 wasn't enough?
Would he drop me off half way?
I don't even know what direction I'm heading. How would I get back?
Would he bring me to the side of the road and steal my clothes?
How much are organs worth on the black market?
Oh no! He wants my organs! I know it ...
I sat in the backseat ready to defend myself from his first advance towards my precious organs. It was the quietest cab ride I've ever experienced.
He pulled up to the resort and dropped me off. I didn't even thank the kind man because I was that much on edge. Looking back on it, I really wish I had because that Mexican taxi driver was essentially my guardian angel. He's somewhere out there today--spreading his wings and guiding lost Spring Break souls back to safety. Either that or he was murdered by a Mexican cartel and had his own organs stolen. Either/or.
At this point, drunk recollection took over my body. Earlier I couldn't remember the simple name of my resort, but I could now somehow trace the correct path back to my room. The drunken mind is an astounding yet unpredictable thing.
I stumbled my way back to the exact room number. But--of course--I had no key card. I knocked loudly on the door. No answer. Everyone must have still been at the club.
Luckily, I was still in survival mode. I ripped my shirt off and rolled it into a ball. Tossed in on the floor and made a pillow out of it. In this mental zone, I could have eaten a Mexican rat for nutrition if I was starved enough.
I laid on my makeshift welfare bed.
Jager bombsLemon dropsButtery NipplesJell-o ShotsKamikazeThree Wise MenFuck all that shitGet me some Gin
There I was, laying shirtless in the middle of the night outside my room in a foreign country, and I couldn't help but start laughing hysterically to myself due to a realization.
This was only Day 1.
I woke up from my slumber to a member of our group kicking me in the side.
GroupMember: "DO YOU KNOW HOW FUCKING SCARED WE WERE?! Don't ever do that shit again!"
Eddie: "You were scared? I was lost in fucking Mexico!"
