Tuesday’s with Gooley- Episode 19

{disclaimer:  some new readers have not realized that I am NOT Gooley..  On Tuesdays my friend Gooley guest posts.  These are HIS stories.  His life. His Antics.  Every other post on this blog is written by me.  EXCEPT for the ones titled “Tuesday’s with Gooley”  Please don’t ever mistake MY messiness for his..  I am clean and I smell good}

A Family Oriented Beach Vacation. Yeah, Right.

This is a mess blog right?  Where we can feel free to celebrate our propensity and, in my case, aptitude to make a fool of one’s self? As much as I may pretend to be intelligent and will occasionally mask said propensity with veiled attempts of high-minded grandeur, in actuality, I am just a silly, messy, perpetual adolescent at heart. Yeah me.

I never know who, out of an ever increasing grab bag of my sub-personalities, will show up to the laptop for these increasingly odd and random snapshots into my life. The sub-personality dujour for this episode is Shameless Drunk Guy. Fortunately, He’s a happy guy with the soul of a clown and Magic Liver. Side note – In real time Big Balls just watched me pour a vodka from across the living room and commented while looking over his specs, “That’s a lot of vodka.” In my head I respond, “Bite me” but actually don’t respond at all and finish the strong pour as I sit at the laptop. Oh, for added flavor the TV is playing, “The Orgasm Special: a Real Sex Xtra” on HBO. Just inviting you in to my writing atmosphere.

I’m still stitching myself back together after a three day bender that ended last Saturday. If there are lapses, non sequiturs, or incomplete thoughts in the writing…just deal with it and simply fold it into the overall picture I’m trying to paint of my overblown state of mind. My brain is a smidge fried and I’m only now, over a week later, able to reconnect the synapses in hopes of describing last weekend’s follies… and perhaps figure out why the fuck I am the way I am??

No smooth transition. Here’s what’s up…

First, I am aware that I’ve written way too much about my college days so I hesitate to dip back into that well but in this case will. It is the playground on which I fully immersed myself in a retro regressive fantasy world in which I forgot completely that I am 43, have a mortgage, wear reading glasses, am in a relationship, pay taxes, eat organic, am a member of AARP (Don’t ask), exercise regularly and have a career. On this weekend I was the anti – me.

Reminder, I went back to visit friends for the annual college re-union. If you have followed the blog you know how important this weekend is in terms of reconnecting and forging forward while not getting trapped in an endless cycle of rehashed glory days stories. Didn’t happen and I am to blame! My ninja powers did not penetrate and somehow worked against me as I morphed into the beast of college past. I became “that guy” – the 19 year old dude-monster who measures his identity and prowess based on the amount of toxins consumed and kept down. It’s fascinating being me. By fascinating I mean confusing and confounding. It seems my intention to NOT be “that guy” was weak and not clearly stated to the Universe. So, the Universe smiled down upon me and had some fun. “Here you go, guy who thinks he knows some shit, play out this scenario and write about it…bitch.” With defenses down and no clear plan, I woke up Saturday morning possessed by a lesser known and forgotten superhero “SUPERDOUCHE,” The embodiment of all things obnoxious and cool…but not really. Sigh…Sad Sigh.

I arrived Thursday and drank…a lot. I drank a lot Friday night. Surprise. As it turned out, this was just practice for Saturday which I will describe to you in shameful detail as it will paint the picture of this tragic superhero. Here we go. I hope it’s entertaining. Because if it’s not then it’s just plain sad and has no redeeming value

Stage set: St Petersburg Beach Florida. Beachcomber “Resort.” Or as I like to call it, The White Trash Riviera. It is actually the perfect setting for our antics because nobody gives a fuck as long as you don’t actually pull the trigger on your concealed weapon. Our group had a block of rooms sequestered at the end of the hotel overlooking Jimmy-B’s bar. A treasure indeed… (Picture 50+ bleach blond bimbos on Bath Salts dancing to Metallica in tight halter tops…and the guys who love them.) I’ve never watched people dance to Metallica and Guns and Roses before. I’m sure Axl Rose did not picture this scene while churning out the lyrics to Welcome to the Jungle. We were able to see the dance floor from our patio perch gazing upon the dance floor through the floor to ceiling window as if it were a large screen TV set…The TV show would be an alcohol fueled episodic mash up of Cops and Bad Girls Club.  We have home video. It’s frightening. What’s more frightening is the video taken of the tragic dance floor scene was from the same camera that was creepily and proudly perched on a tripod above the bed of one of my esteemed friends. Yes. I’ll let you color inside the lines of that scenario.

I digress. Here’s my Saturday. Some of this is blurry but it encompasses 14 waking hours beginning at 10 am. Tropical storm Debby was gaining strength in the Gulf extinguishing any hope for sun and turning the beach party into a hurricane party.

I woke up, got out of bed, (did not) drag a comb across my head. I wisely took my vitamins, ate my hippie green protein bar and drank some organic orange juice. I hydrated from my water jug in anticipation of a day of drinking. I did not hydrate enough. These were the only good decisions I made all day. Oh – I showered, another good decision.

Creepy camera tripod room was just below mine and served as the wet bar for all of us throughout the weekend. It was my first stop. I waved hello to a few who had arrived as I wandered into the “bar” for my morning cocktail. (Morning cocktail? Hmmm not a good sign). I sat at a patio table with a few revelers as the storm formed and quietly enjoyed a few morning vodka drinks as people arrived and settled in. Then I think I went somewhere with somebody and got stoned on something and had a Jager shot or three. Then I sat down again for a few more cocktails as more people arrived and the party took shape.

It’s noon.

With a cocktail in hand, someone suggests we go to the bar for shots. Of course. So I finish my 10thish vodka on the way to the bar for more Jaeger and another vodka. We chat about all things important while solving worldly problems before I drifted back into the fold and adjacent to creepy “bar” hotel room. Unbeknownst to me I was aggressively being drafted into a vintage beer drinking game involving pitchers of beer and a quarter. Thanks Dan McNuts…If you knew my pre-consumption you may have recruited differently. Somehow, my ninja skills squirmed through inebriation and I sunk the first two quarters into the pitcher forcing the other team (four 19 year olds) to drink the whole pitcher. The game is called anchorman. I felt like an empowered drunk superhero magically (or sadly) possessed by Bacchus and the power of Greyskull…or some weirdo cartoon shit like that. We played this game far too long and I believe it ended in some version of a draw. In actuality, I lost because A. I don’t drink beer. B. I drank about 10 beers in 20 minutes. At least I had an audience. I think I may have scared a teenager or two. Not sure, but I can only imagine walking in to a game with crazy Sasquatch eyes caused a shutter or two.

It’s 2pm.

I ate some pizza and have vague and random memories of loud drunk conversations about past shenanigans. I had a few more drinks. Then, I saw some of my favorite children looking bored. Hey kids, Let’s go swimming! So we did. It’s raining now and the pool is empty. Kids don’t care and I can’t feel my face so, like the Pied Piper I lead 6ish of us to the pool for some wholesome play. It’s always a good idea to let your kids play with the messiest mortal on the beach during a tropical storm along the White Trash Riviera. Good lord….my guardian angels must be Green Berets with high honors. If child services were doing a sting operation I would have a mug shot or two if my crazy eyes didn’t break the lens first.

So I’m flipping one seven year old girl (a McNuts offspring) 10 ft. high doing aerial summersaults while tossing Nerf balls to others for maybe 1.5 hours. We had a blast and somehow nobody got hurt and I’m not in jail for reckless endangerment. Thank you Irish heritage for giving me the alcohol sponge gene that carried me through this fateful day.

It’s 4pm.

I exit the pool and again join the fray. Things get fuzzy. More pizza. No more vodka. So I reunite with my good old friend Jack Daniels. He’s awesome:) And a Jaegerbomb?? Whatever that is. Then more stories and loud talk and some random weird drama involving hallucinating girlfriends and bird attacks in hotel bathrooms. I vaguely remember shaking off a tragic anti-MILF named Crystal who actually enjoys dancing to Metallica. Thanks…But NOOOO. Then the special brownies came out. I ate one before working through any decision process. It was delicious.

It’s 8ish…I guess??

Things get morphed, drunkier and blurrier and then the brownies kick in. For a while I try to include this warbly new state of consciousness into the social setting. Clearly this is not matching up, so I backed away from the fray and meandered to the sanctuary of my hotel room to begin a relationship with the monkeys in my bed cover. Yes, they were friendly monkeys with big smiles and they enjoyed doing cartwheels. I thought that they would enjoy some music so I reached for the iPod to select a playlist. We were happy and content. I believe this is when I texted HMM.

{Note from HMM:  Gooley asked that I include a screen picture of our text conversation.  I will not.  It was a mess.  Like… a BIG MESS.  And that’s coming from me…the Queen of all things messy..  And I can also say that the 4 phone calls I recieved from him throughout that day were no picnic either.   Now.. back to this fucking debocle}

I was warm and happy in my chosen sanctuary UNTIL drunk and loud people came into my room and disrupted the monkey music party. Dr. McNuts, Toby, a young lad I beat in Anchorman, and Tequila were suddenly my nemesis. I smiled and stuffed the monkeys under the covers for later. There was loud drunk banter. I think I even recorded some of it….may post if I find. Then I made a break for it….after a shot of Tequila!! I said goodbye to the monkeys and left the chatter behind to wander in the rain. Then, while sitting at a fountain huddled over my phone, tragically messy and looking for monkeys, I call Big Balls.  Brilliant idea. I remember describing how the tile patterns were marching in unison as I and my phone became drenched by Debby. I’m lucky BB was between Martinis so he could absorb what was, I am sure, an odd lot of words strung together from a context in which he has no experience. I imagine he was entertained and perhaps a bit worried. In the middle of the conversation a well-intentioned man tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was OK. I looked up and watched him jump back as his eyes met with my Crazy Sasquatch gaze. I tried to soften that blow but he was off and running. BB heard it live and laughed.

So, that was the gist of my day. This is where I would normally try to wax philosophical and attempt to extract some learning or nugget of truth. What’s the point? Did you read this shit? There’s even stuff I can’t even write about that contributed to my day. I’ll just say that after my week long hangover, BB confirmed that my eyes are back to normal and I can face the world again. Really, it took that long. Clearly, I’m shameless. I’m a mess. And I’m grateful that I can still pay my mortgage read through my reading glasses….3000 miles away from the scene of the Grime.

Oh. I had fun and will do it again next year.  HMM will join me so it will be much mellower.   HAHAHA. That is all.