Sunday, October 24, 2010

Rocky Balboa and other stories of the weekend.

Wednesday night proved to be a nice bit of civility compared to the mayhem of most nights. Matt, Michael and I braved the cold for a screening of Howl at Amherst Cinema. We were the only three bodies in the theatre, which was mildly depressing for a town that is completely made up of students. Anyway, having bought Howl in San Francisco and reading up on the beat generation it was nice to see how poetry, animation, court cases and interview tapes can converge into frames of celluloid.

The reserved night out was short lived, as I was rubber-armed into another night out on Thursday. The usual band of misfits (sans Michael) planned a relatively quiet night out to stave off boredom. Lee-Roy and I sat on the bus, while John waited for Max to arrive. Having arranged for the driver to wait, it was both shocking and hilarious when he drove off with our two compadres outside with their jaws dropped.

We managed to all meet up at ABC, drinking the more experimental beers this part of the country has on offer. Again, I tried a pumpkin beer, but this one was rather bland. The warm beer glass it was served in was of no help either. Regardless, we had already planned on leaving when I finished the pint. We ventured further down the road to the Spoke bar, finding it well populated compared to the Tuesday when we spurned the option of drinking there.

We enjoyed some $6 pitchers or terrible lite beer, watched the Guinness promo people offer shots of the black stuff (serious, Americans are shite at drinking etiquette), but generally kept the night quiet. My conversations at the pizza shop forced us to miss a few buses, but this was rectified when a nearly empty one came from out of nowhere and took us home.
Beastie Boy

Friday was still remarkably unproductive, and I only managed to fit in a tiny skate before I made it to Michael's building. Along with Richard, the three of us jumped in the car of one of Michael's friends and performed a covert beer mission. It is incredibly frustrating for a 24-year-old to feel like a fugitive every time I want to buy a 6 pack of beer, but that's exactly how it is. Then again, it is illegal to buy it for people under 21....which we were doing.

The group of us tried to make it to the ice-hockey game. We had sunk a few beers and lined up an hour before the start. However, this wasn't early enough. We were all lined up, but suddenly this system failed and everyone bullrushed to the doors. We were stuck in a mob that had no idea how to in a crowd. Worse, the police and security also had no idea what to do. We waited and were squashed for a while before it became apparent we weren't getting it. It was tragic, Dicky Peach lost his glasses and everyone else seemed to get in. Yet, when the police began tasering we thought it was best we missed the game.

That night began with assisting Dick Peach's football manager career, though the 400 hours he has put into the game lead me to believe he doesn't need it. After downing the beers, the collective that had gathered headed for a bus to the north part of Amherst. We were supposed to head to Hobart, but a conversation on the bus to some people covered in face paint and glow-sticks led me to follow them. We walked through Brandywine, leaving behind my group of friends and taking me to a party where the numbers had gotten a bit out of control. Once I found my friends, we mingled at the party, but there were so many people at the party there was no chance of getting in.

Sam and Richard had gotten lost/left the party at some point. Kate and I decided to leave as well and meet up with everyone at Hobart. As we did I saw someone I knew and had a brief conversation. From there I tried to get past one drunk guy but he was having none of it.
Dicky Peach, when he still has the ability to speak.

He grabbed both my wrists and wouldn't let me through. Whatever, I'd dealt with idiots like this before. I asked the people around if they knew him and if they could get him to let go, apparently no one did. Again, I told him to let go, but he refused and mumbled some reasons for why I couldn't go through. Now, I'm not a big guy and I'm in terrible shape, so I know the easiest way for me to win a fight is to run in the opposite way. Normally I would have tried this, but since he wouldn't let go my patience waned and I ended up getting my hands free enough to shove this guy out the way. People around began to clear and my aggression was met by the fool who wouldn't let go of me. Before things got messy (for me more than likely), just like in nightclubs, two massive guys got in the way and separated us. By this stage the ignorant prick was spurting off quips about me being an illegal immigrant, but by this stage I was more than happy to continue on my path to leave. I'm not going to lie, it would have felt great to plant a fist on this guy's chin - he had definitely deserved it for his immigration opinions alone - but the truth is I'm too small, was too drunk and didn't need to get involved in any more trouble. If anything, someone else would have done the job for me by the end of the night, this idiot was asking for trouble.

There was no triumphant Rocky Balboa sprint to the next party, instead I managed to get Kate and I a bit lost before making it to Hobart. Inside the party had mostly died, but I still managed to show enough arse-crack to offend some people and leave the joint. Alex, the famed liability, showed up late at the party. We left him behind, but he would not reappear until the next mid day...covered in sharpie. His ignominious return was enough to write him off for the next night.

We all went back to Sylvan, ordered 6 pounds of boneless wings and devoured the flavoursome, fried chicken. The room was silent save for the sloppy noise of people chomping down on saucy chicken. It was equally disgusting as it was hilarious but we didn't care, we just wanted massive amounts of chicken.

I skated down to the bottle shop on Saturday evening, barely falling off, but still receiving a giant foot cramp. The passers-by nodded in approval of my genius idea of carting beer around on a skateboard, but are not privy to what happens when you open the shaken up beverage. The beer was not opened for a few hours, as we all planned on returning to Ollie's room for a few games. What started off quietly very quickly went downhill.
Look at the fucking hipster. Pre-gaming the drinking games.

I wore a cardboard box on my head for a long time, but not before I had to start taking off clothes. It was my rule, and one that I continually tripped up on. Very quickly I was down to my underwear, and at this stage, again poured beer all over my clothes...this time my jeans. Again, my arse was showing, much to the dismay of those in the room, but I believe they were all sufficiently wrecked to not notice or remember.

Wrecked as well, I joined the group in an uphill stumble to a party. The guys from sunset were there, as were some people from a few of my classes. A few of us headed downstairs where some music playing, but on our way noticed the Josef Fritzl-esque underground room that featured a mattress and filthy basement like things.

Things got very blurry at this stage. I'm told I covered Michael in beer, and he subsequently wrestled me/dried himself on my clothes. I also spent a bunch of time talking to Kim from Texas, and when it came time to getting her number found out that wasn't her name. Oops. A bunch of guys got worked up over the UFC (it's a bunch of dudes hugging on a mat)

In my excitement for the Rangers vs Celtic game I taught a bunch of Americans some Rangers chants. Yet, my return at god-knows-what AM meant I completely missed the game. Oh well, the result was enough to temporarily cure my much deserved hangover. Before that had even happened, I went back to Cashin to see Alex, only this time I apparently threw a chair at him.  All in good fun you understand.

Today I put life on hold. Having missed the Rangers game Sam, Richard, his suite-mate John and I went for a kick-around. It was the only real thing I achieved all day and pointed out to me what terrible shape I'm in. Oh well, it was still great, even if the highlights were people ending up on their arse.

These weekends are beginning to hurt, but given Halloween is next week it's hardly going to let up. But hey, if anything, they gave me something to write about.

Allen Ginsburg - Ballad of the Skeletons
It was my glance at the Beat generation, and still a great song/poem. It would be fantastic if they made a film about this. Also, Paul McCartney does the music!

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