Boo PoPo

Few weekends have a theme as pronounced as this one. And this one screamed…

“Fuck the Police”

It started Friday when Nickname and a few of my peers decided that it was time they started learning the art of selling booze out of backpacks. Yup, the youngest upper classmen have stepped up to the log bench and started their own bonfire.

Or, maybe I should say that they attempted to step up. But a little scheduling snafu and a stupid freshman rained on it. And then PSafe came. So despite it being barely past 11 the fire was extinguished, though hopefully not along with our not-terribly-shitty reputations.

From there we all piled into cars and headed over to the scheduling snafu—a house party.

We got there right as things were at their peak. The music was good. The pong table was hot. And all my favorite people (including a recent alum that I’ve always had a strange, inexplicable liking towards) were there. I hit my party-groove and was sipping and mingling immediately.

Everything was smooth talking guys and wonderfully biting drinks when all of a sudden I heard the word that every underage kid dreads—COPS!

Normally the cops come, the homeowner goes outside to talk, the cops tell everyone to shut up, and we all disperse calmly. But this was in no way a normal situation.

The homeowner went outside, the cops talked, the homeowner came inside and told us to shut up, and the cops continued sitting outside.

Eventually all the youngins’ were advised to leave or risk a popo encounter, so I filled my car with Westchester and Mr. Jackson and tried to leave. But the cops had most of the roads out blocked. So a few crazy turns later we managed to make it back to campus. I promptly dropped them at the curb and made my way to the Minimalist’s where I learned the reason behind all the hooplah.

Apparently, a couple of girls who had been walking to the party got hit by a drunk driver. The names or condition of any of the girls is unknown.

And despite the fact that cops never showed up to Saturday’s shindig their presence was still felt in the form of a creepy old man.

DeVirgin, who was throwing the party, apparently has some more than slightly odd neighbors living behind him. And from what I can gather the middle-aged father heard to festive noise and decided that him, his Great Dane, and 16-year old son needed to join in. So they hopped the fence—with the dog—and told DeVirgin that if they weren’t allowed to get their party on then the cops would make sure no one could.

Because that’s the mature thing to do, right middle-aged man?

So they stayed. And the dog pooed in the house. And the son was nowhere to be found. And the father got far drunker than me and hit on everything that may have had a vagina between its legs.

The cops never showed, but needless to say, the presence of a man old enough to be my father and creepy enough to be on To Catch a Predator was in no way appreciated.

But I hate to end things on a sour note, so I’ll tell you something I did appreciate about this weekend:

I appreciate that Westchester and I have the same taste in so much and that she decided to go to my favorite veg-head restaurant for her birthday dinner.

And I appreciate all those lovely ladies.

Suitors Abound

This weekend kicked my ass, hurt my liver, scraped my legs and burned my shoulders. If there was ever a time when I needed a weekend to recover from my weekend I think it would be now. Seriously, I’m far worse for the wear right now.

It all started Friday when Roomie and I took Westchester to the airport to pick up her younger sister—Jailbait*. She was coming down for the weekend to soak up some sun and get away from some drama back home.

She soaked up some sun, but she wasn’t able to escape drama. She ended up creating plenty down here.

The night started out nice enough. We went out to an Asian vegetarian/vegan restaurant I’ve been dying to try. Dinner was lovely as was the coffee shop we stopped by after.

A little later we headed out to a party off-campus with a big posse of ladies.

In the little bit of time we were there (it wasn’t my crowd and there was a bonfire blazing) I had an interesting little encounter. I was approached by a guy who I barely knew—Arch Enemy**—who began the conversation: “We hate each other, right?”

Doesn’t that sound like the beginning of a beautiful friendship?

It actually turned out to be.

My group of girls ended up leave the house-party not too long after and heading over to the bonfire. It wasn’t quite roaring yet, but some of my friends—Tucker*** and Blondie****--were starting it. And by the time we got there GoodMan was just tapping the keg, I was still able to grab a seat around the fire so I could drink my first cup with Blondie, and not too long later people broke out the drums. I even ran into Arch Enemy again. Him and I ended up chatting quite a bit and before long he was telling people I was his long-term girlfriend (we’ve been dating since we were fetuses, apparently).

Everything was going great…until…Cesar stood up on a bench and announced that, for whatever reason, PSafe had called the cops and given them permission to come into the woods and restore order. WTF, PSafe? They never, ever, ever do this.

This announcement coincided with Tucker and Blondie deciding to leave and get sandwiches, so I was planning on heading out with them.

But on the trail I ran into Connecticut who, in his usual levelheaded, take-charge Repiblican fashion, calmed all the fleeing partiers and convinced me to return to the pit with him. At which point I refilled my cup and refound my “boyfriend.” Once again everything was going good.

Until…GoodMan and someone else ran up to the keg, grabbed it and ran off into the woods. WTF, guys? I was still drinking on that.

That’s when Country made the announcement that, yes, cops were in fact advancing upon us quickly. This fact was proven when I looked over and saw cops running through the woods yielding flashlights.

My cue to leave. And leave I did, with a group of people (including Arch Enemy, Westchester and Jailbait) through the woods. We were forced to blaze our own trail in order to avoid being stopped, but we eventually made it to freedom and back to an apartment, where we immediately began drinking again. And where Westchester and Jailbait got into a rather heated fight. Jailbait, of course, was to blame.

Saturday “morning” proved to be quite hectic, as I woke up with just enough time to say g’bye to the Minimalist, run to my room, change and head out to the meadows to partake in an Easter Beer hunt with Tucker, Roomie, Westchester and Jailbait hosted by GoodMan. $3 for all the beer you can find. How else are you supposed to celebrate Jesus’ resurrections?

We ended up finding about 40 so I was sent out to get a cooler, blanket and food because we fully intended to camp out until we finished them all. 6 hours later we were burnt, drunk and on the verge of death, but we finished. And with just enough time to take a quick nap, dress, and begin drinking again. This time we went to a soccer party.

(Arch Enemy was supposed to be there (as he is currently trying to woo me), but he wasn’t feeling too hot so he promised to find me next weekend.)

After all day in the sun none of us were feeling our best, but we pushed through. Jailbait, though, did not. She acted her age by refusing to drink or talk to anyone (even though everyone was being perfectly nice and offering her drinks), but instead she opted for literally sitting in a corner texting for an hour. Then she called Westchester and demanded to be taken home. Luckily, Blondie was nice and sober enough to drive.

By the time we got back to the soccer house, though, the cops were sitting in their car across the street waiting to bust the place so Blondie, Connecticut, a random girl, and I headed back to campus where we once again took to the woods with some 40s for a bonfire.

The bonfire ended up being one of the worst decisions ever because I’m 99% sure it was thrown by a bunch of neo-Nazis (or Unibombers), none of which go to school here. And most of which head shaved heads.

Blondie protected me from their advances and we left not too long later. We ended up back at his apartment watching Fox and the Hound (one of my absolute favorites!).

I got home around 4, completely exhausted and vowing never to drink again (this week). Fat chance of that because I woke to a text from the Minimalist inviting me to help him and the guys kill the rest of the keg. Oh dear God!

*Jailbait-Westchester’s 17-year-old sister. She’s a junior in high school and sure acts it.

**Arch Enemy-a guy I’d met at a party a month or so back who, for whatever reason, I decided I very much hated. It was mutual at the time.

***Tucker-one of the leading Republicans and an occasional rugglet, who tucks in every shirt every time.

****Blondie-a cross-country boy with blonde hair, blue eyes and oodles of sweet, easy charm.

*****Connecticut-the epitome of an affluent, Northeastern Republican. He’s got curly blonde hair, which he parts on the side.

The "I Love Free Alcohol" Weekend

Thank-you, MLK. Your unending commitment to nonviolence and the persevering spirit of men ended the soul crushing oppression that too many endured for far too long. You, and others like you, have set an example that we will be trying to live up to for generations to come. For that, and this most amazing 3-day weekend, I thank-you.

Oh yes, my weekend has been chock-full-o-craziness and surprisingly warm weather. (It’s 60 degrees and sunny!) That warm weather inspired Country and his crew to come out of hibernation and host the first bonfire of the year. That would have been the perfect way to kick off the weekend—free beer, sex-on-a-stick outfit (black over-the-knee boots, black leggings, short white tank dress, Sgt Pepper jacket), all my friends—if it weren’t for Mr. Jackson ignoring boundaries and hitting on me and a rugglet I’m quite platonically fond of getting alcohol poisoning. He’s alright now; recuperating safely at home.

Saturday brought on a team run and weight lifting session, deciding not to go with Mr. Jackson and Pollock* for an overnight to Pollock’s house (no need to confuse the poor boy even more), banding together with Westchester and Roomie-Dearest to take Newbie** under our wings, and one of the BEST parties of the year. The party: Ladies for Haiti, meaning girls drank free. The location: the Firehouse. Reasons it was awesome: free booze, dancing on a table to Michael Jackson, slapping a random creeper, getting busted by 6 cop cars (overkill much?), another sex-on-a-stick outfit (same boots, black rose-print high waisted skirt from Twin, gray v-neck), Roomie-Dearest going home with Country and me going home with the Minimalist.

While Roomie-Dearest ate up some shrooms on Sunday, I ate up a delicious burrito bowl and some licorice while watching Tough Love 2 online. Completely unproductive, but wonderful nonetheless. Later that night wasn’t so wonderful.

The party: Dance Party for Dr. King. The location: Country’s apartment. Reasons it wasn’t so awesome: the music wasn’t quite right, Mr. Jackson got too fucked up too soon and had to be taken home, a creeper was majorly creeping, and the Minimalist and I had our first fight. He apologized at the eleventh hour as I was putting on my coat to walk home and I returned with him.

Call me a pushover, but he looked genuinely upset about things.

And now I’m finishing an article for the paper and procrastinating clean my very messy room, all the while a delicious piece of chocolate cake soaks in rum for Mr. Jackson’s birthday.

G’afternoon. G’evening. And g’night.

*Pollock-a rugglet and good friend of Mr. Jackson

**Newbie-a transfer that just moved in down the hall. She's nice, but quiet. We'll change that.