Memories
Don't know what brought this up, but I had a flash back to the good ol' days when I was a real party animal. Something about the weather, the feel of the night, the hungover feeling you get when you party too much the night before. Y'know, things from back in the day that always come back at the weirdest moments.
For instance, right now, I remember climbing Bong Hill in Athens. I was 6 sheets to the wing, dressed all preppy (because that's how you dressed back then), along with Paul and some other kid who I've completely forgotten. The clearest memory is standing at the top of the hill, overlooking the city at 3 in the am, the wind blowing up the hill. I felt like the God of the Night, Chaos, and Party Animals overlooking his domain.
Good times.
But that is not the memory that comes to mind. At least, not when I started his post many weeks ago. Good thing I remembered this post.
There I was, walking down Woody Hayes Blvd, minding my own business, when outta the blue comes this image of Angie, the party animalette I used to hang with (she wished I would date her, but...). There we were, in the middle of the night, at this guys house. She was trying to score some weed for us to party with, and I was already 6 sheets to the wind (as you've probably noticed, I'm always 6 sheets to the wind. 7 sheets I usually don't remember well).
Anyway, for whatever reason, I needed to completely demolish this tree. I don't recall that it had done anything bad to me, but I was just in that mood. So there I was, punching and kicking and cursing this tree, totally in my own little world when I hear this gruff voice saying, "What the hell are you doing?"
I turned around and there's this guy standing there with a shotgun pointed right at me. I think my punkass comment was, "WTF do you want?"
"I'm tired of you a$$holes destroying my mailbox!" The gun is still pointed at me, by the way.
"I ain't touching yo damn mailbox," I said. Oh, I tend to talk hick when I get overly drunk, so bear wit may. :) "Look at it!" Then I turned to walk away.
"I'm not done with you, punk!" This guy is really getting pissed.
I turned back to him, spread my arms wide, and said, "Do yo wursht."
About that time I'm surrounded by Angie, Noelle, Dan, and the dude Noelle was dating at the time (it changed weekly). "It's cool," Dan said. "No damage done. We're leaving now."
Then they bustled me into the car and we left. Boy, did I get reamed by them or what. Not because I was acting stupid, but because they couldn't get their weed.
C'est la vie!
Of course, that wasn't the only time I had a gun pointed at me, but that's a story for another day, kittens.
For instance, right now, I remember climbing Bong Hill in Athens. I was 6 sheets to the wing, dressed all preppy (because that's how you dressed back then), along with Paul and some other kid who I've completely forgotten. The clearest memory is standing at the top of the hill, overlooking the city at 3 in the am, the wind blowing up the hill. I felt like the God of the Night, Chaos, and Party Animals overlooking his domain.
Good times.
But that is not the memory that comes to mind. At least, not when I started his post many weeks ago. Good thing I remembered this post.
There I was, walking down Woody Hayes Blvd, minding my own business, when outta the blue comes this image of Angie, the party animalette I used to hang with (she wished I would date her, but...). There we were, in the middle of the night, at this guys house. She was trying to score some weed for us to party with, and I was already 6 sheets to the wind (as you've probably noticed, I'm always 6 sheets to the wind. 7 sheets I usually don't remember well).
Anyway, for whatever reason, I needed to completely demolish this tree. I don't recall that it had done anything bad to me, but I was just in that mood. So there I was, punching and kicking and cursing this tree, totally in my own little world when I hear this gruff voice saying, "What the hell are you doing?"
I turned around and there's this guy standing there with a shotgun pointed right at me. I think my punkass comment was, "WTF do you want?"
"I'm tired of you a$$holes destroying my mailbox!" The gun is still pointed at me, by the way.
"I ain't touching yo damn mailbox," I said. Oh, I tend to talk hick when I get overly drunk, so bear wit may. :) "Look at it!" Then I turned to walk away.
"I'm not done with you, punk!" This guy is really getting pissed.
I turned back to him, spread my arms wide, and said, "Do yo wursht."
About that time I'm surrounded by Angie, Noelle, Dan, and the dude Noelle was dating at the time (it changed weekly). "It's cool," Dan said. "No damage done. We're leaving now."
Then they bustled me into the car and we left. Boy, did I get reamed by them or what. Not because I was acting stupid, but because they couldn't get their weed.
C'est la vie!
Of course, that wasn't the only time I had a gun pointed at me, but that's a story for another day, kittens.
posted by bagelbuoy at 09:57
1 Comments:
Well, your story reminds me that I am headed back to Pennsylvania for my 35th high school reunion just after Thanksgiving. At some point during the first night (traditionally spent at a local bar), just such stories will flow far more freely than whatever it is we will all be judiciously drinking. We had mellowed considerably by our late forties five years ago, and I expect the process has continued into our fifties, but we will still get an "are-we-the-same-people-who?" laugh out of the story of a passed out R____'s sudden projectile vomiting into P____'s concerned face during a party at J____'s when his parents were out of town. Then in the light of the next day (of the reunion), we will cluck with concern about the behavior of our college-aged (now the youngest of our) kids.
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