WE WERE ALREADY DRUNK AS HELL. We'd been at a birthday party in an apartment near the airport drinking beer and vodka for hours. The cocaine kept us operating at a normal frequency despite the gallons of booze we poured into our faces.
The partygoers might have wondered why the three of us were ducking into the bathroom every 20 minutes. They might have thought it odd that two men and one woman would lock themselves in the crapper. Any questions they had about what we were doing in there were cleared up when we all clamored out, holding our noses, snorting and sniffing.
We bailed before the party wound down. We wished the birthday girl well and bowed out. The night, however, would not be denied.
Jon navigated his pickup onto Pacific Highway and into Point Loma. We passed Deja Vu, and from the backseat, Susan called out, "Let's go to a strip club!"
March Jon looked at me and said, "I'm in. We can go to Pacer's for a pitcher."
"What the hell," I said. "I haven't been to one in years," tacitly casting my vote in favor of strip-club activity for the Democratic Republic of Jon's truck. We slid into the parking lot and found our spot on the far end, away from the street lamps.
One more snooter for each nostril from the little spoon covered in white powder and we bounded out of the truck and toward the club unhinged. There was an exchange at the door. Identification for a stamp. Money for a "VIP" card -- which, despite the name, everyone gets. My frustration grew. I thought we were going to have to go to a classroom to learn passwords and handshakes, and all I wanted to do was barrel in through the door. I was coming apart. After what was probably 20 seconds -- to me it was a week -- the black velvet curtain was pulled away to allow our entrance.
Once inside we chose a dark hidden alleyway where the security couldn't see us passing the brown vial back and forth. Susan brought over a pitcher of awful beer. It tasted like it was brewed in a fake leg, but we gulped it down with our eyes closed and brows furrowed.
"This is it!" I shouted. The coke had obviously overpowered the liquor. "Big, round butts, fake boobs, terrible beer, and wrestling on television. The American Dream!"
WHAT I WILL AND WON'T WATCH THIS WEEK
Thursday, March 10
NBC 7, 2:00 p.m.
Passions is nuttier than a squirrel turd. Instead of avoiding daytime soap clichés, Passions uses them as a jumping-off point. At any given time during its airing, tune in for ten minutes. Orangutans, aliens, and witchcraft will be your reward. But don't watch the full hour, or your brain will detach and fall down into your ass.
NICK 47, 5:00 p.m.
My roommates have queued the SpongeBob movie in Netflix. Each day we take a little time and devote it to tracking down magic mushrooms. Before the end of the month, if everything goes well, I should be gnawing on the coffee table while undersea absurdity unfolds in front of my eyes.
Friday, March 11
COMEDY 48, 2:00 a.m.
This is a parody of reality TV shows involving cartoon characters living together in a mansion. It is also the nastiest show on TV. Episodes I've seen include the Princess pinching a loaf onto a pizza and Captain Hero getting tied up and whipped. Drawn Together may be what drives me to buy a TiVo.
The Warriors (1979)
My friends are making a trip to New York in April. They've been trying to get me to go with them, but I've been stubborn. "I won't have the money. I'll be busy. It'll be too cold." Kip promised if I went to New York with them we could walk the path of the warriors, retracing their steps from the Bronx to Coney Island. I'm rearranging my schedule, budgeting my cash, and looking for a winter jacket at the time of this printing.
Saturday, March 12
WB 5, 7:30 a.m.
I celebrated a birthday by taking ten of my friends to see the Smurf movie. The theatre was giving away a Smurf seesaw toy to one lucky kid. We chose our seats, sat down. The whole time I had my fingers crossed and I was whispering, "Please let it be me. Please let it be me." Timmy Brown, seated directly to my right, was randomly chosen. Oh, how unfair. It was my birthday! I let that frustration build until later that week, when I socked Timmy in his arm as hard as I could.
Sunday, March 13
Billfishing Xtreme Release League
ESPN2 28, 7:00 a.m.
Last summer Jess, Tom, and I took a boat out every weekend to fish. We'd each bring a 12-pack. By noon the bottom of the small craft was thick with empty cans. One day I attempted to jump from the bow to a nearby pier and ended up doing the splits between the two. After fishing we stopped at a local tavern to play pool, and I left wet footprints on the concrete floor. As lame as that trip was, it was the most "Xtreme" fishing I've ever done.
Monday, March 14
LIFE 38, 8:30 a.m.
I was a very impressionable young man. For a month after reading my first Spider-Man comic, I wore blue and red tights. My dad ordered my mom to never watch Designing Women again after he found me on the back porch sipping a mint julep and spinning a parasol over my head. "My, my, my, isn't it a hot one today?" were the last words I spoke in a slow Georgia drawl.
Tuesday, March 15
NBC 7, 7:00 a.m.
Morning shows are the most misguided programs. In the TV world they are the bubbly coworker who shouts, "Good morning!" She sings at her desk and thinks everyone is dying to hear how her weekend went. When really all we want is half of the lights left off and a strong cup of coffee.