I’m not proud of what I have to share, but I can tell you that 20 years later I still laugh when reminiscing about the debauchery of my bachelorhood.
In the early 1990’s I was a young buck in the big city (San Francisco). My roommate, “Chop” [for the sake of his wife, his children, his career, and his eternal salvation I’ve changed his name] and I lived in a 300 sq foot flat that could only be described as “penitentiary-chic.” No climate control, no dishwasher, concrete walls, an alley that festered disease, and to my knowledge, no working locks. Oh….it was also 15 strides from 3 bars commonly referred to as The Triangle, just South of Union Street in downtown San Francisco. For the next several posts, I’m going to get in the Wayback Machine and do my best to recall some of the funnier moments in an alcohol-ravaged time period…there is no benefit to this knowledge, you may actually be dumber after reading it, and may God have mercy on our souls.
Moms are moms, no matter how old you are. My Mom missed her boy in San Francisco (home is still in Texas), so there were frequent CARE packages delivered to the “Palace.” Occasionally, pure Gold was delivered in the form of home-made Chex Mix. My Mom makes the most wicked Chex Mix EVER….double up on the good stuff, spicy as hell, lose the peanuts, cooked in a turkey baster to accommodate the volume wolfed down by the males in my household. Now, on a gloriously hungover Saturday morning, a 5 lb. box of said snack arrived at our doorstep, and me & Chop got down to the business of plowing through the entire contents.
One thing I should mention – while delicious, Mom’s particular recipe has one devastating side effect. The internal gas produced by her concoction is not only voluminous, but the smell is a piercing combination of Lawry’s™ seasoning, steel wool, vomit after-taste, and a pungent sweetness that can only be described as “shartle.” Mixed with hangover beer stench….well, it’s just beyond proper definition.
Within 30 minutes of consumption, the beginning shots were fired in what would forever be referred to as the “Fart Sauna.” For hours, Chop and I perfected a routine ~ laying on opposite sides of the room, you’d hear a distinct “pffffffffffffffft”, an uncontrollable giggle, followed by the process of “wafting” the smell throughout the room with our respective couch blanket. This went on for hours. It occurred to us that we may be in the midst of something special, so we began sealing the room ~ towels were wedged under doors, shades were drawn, hallways were blocked off, creating a very warm, steamy petri dish. True greatness is often missed when not witnessed by outsiders, so we made a call to our upstairs neighbors, Carrie and “Hot girl” and told them a package had been delivered for them, and they should come get it on the front stoop (how chivalrous). We heard the distinctive clomping of the stairs above us as they came to retrieve the package, the opening of their front door, and then……magic. Clearly audible over the muffled laughs and Chex Howitzer blasts, we hear Carrie say, “Jesus….what in the world is that smell?” We’re now in tears, as we realize concrete and wood cannot contain the power of our Cloud. Again, “Seriously, do you smell that? Did something die?”, and “where the hell is our package?” ….
[knock knock knock] – “guys, where is our package? it smells like warm sh*t out here!” Chop and I shuffled to the door, wafting our blankets like Condors coming in for a Trout kill, and opened the door to the outside world for the first time in 16 hours. Carrie – “Hey, where’s our…………………………………oh sweet Mother of God, is that YOU GUYS????”
Now picture two young men in wool socks, boxers, hangover hair and blankets flapping madly, laughing so hard we can’t quite speak, we can only produce loud “CACAW!” sounds, as we manage an impromptu fart-bird dance on the front porch. Good times, man.
And that, my friends, is what dudes do. NEXT INSTALLMENT – “Garbage Moving Day”