MAKING A MESS IN THE SWAMP

So the movie I’ve been touring with I HOPE THEY SERVE BEER IN HELL opens on September 25th at a theatre probably nearish you and I hope you come see it.

At the end of 6 weeks of being on a tour, I’ve been thinking “What Would Doogie Write?” Or what would the narrator at the end of “The Wonder Years” say. Or even what would Sarah Jessica Horseface clickety clack at the end of a “Sex and the City” episode.

Frankly, I am not sure if I learned anything or grew or matured in the slightest on this tour. If anything, I may have regressed emotionally and mentally. I pretty much went out and drank every night instead of going back to the hotel on the tour bus. After each show, I”d meet a group of guys and girls (okay, usually girls to be honest) and say “Take me out on the town; just make sure I get back to this address.” Then I would hand them a day sheet with the address of our shitty, way-out-of-the-way hotel. Since most of the shows were in the south and the Midwest, people were usually pretty accommodating and happy to be hanging out with Tucker’s proxy.

My first out-of-body experience happened in a bar in Gainesville, Florida. Crowded. Every guy was like 6″2′, backwards baseball caps. The wet tile floor suffused a smell so distinct, that fraternity rush week witches brew of day-old draft beer, sneaker grit, sweat, and the smallest waft of yesterday’s vomit. I sniffed in the Proustian wave of my undergraduate Saturdays, when I was still wide-eyed and convinced I might be a functional and contributing member of society. Ahhhh college.

Some Belushi-esque guy came over with shots and handed me my very own pitcher of the pisswater they had on tap. The shot went down - Jaeger bomb — and all I could think was how malicious shots have been getting now that extreme caffeine is part of the equation. What a chemical cocktease that is: ‘I need to sleep…I must fight!… I wanna watch TV…I’m gonna paint my apartment.’ Dealing with women’s mood swings in my generation is bad enough; I can’t imagine what these kids have to adapt to with confused college girls who have a WWIII of Red Bull, hard liquor, estrogen, and molestation memories being waged through their frantic neurons.

Now, I was aware the shot and the petrie dish of college “draft” beer wasn’t a good idea, but since the breakup of my relationship with my girlfriend, I decided to become a yes man and just say “yes” to whatever was offered me. So, I sat down on a wet stool and put the v of the pitcher to my lips. Mmmm, tepid and tasteless, the same flavor I remember from my collegiate experience.

I looked outside and there was a tall girl, about 6″1′, trying to get my attention. I wasn’t finished with my pitcher so I can’t say she was “cute,” nor could I understand what she wanted with me. That’s when I saw her look behind me to Tucker Max, who, per usual, was being bombarded by a bunch of guys who insist “Dude, I’m just like Tucker Max” or “That book is my Bible” or whatever sycophantic bullshit it is that makes them feel like they have the right to surround him like a prologue to prison gay porn. One woman put it best: “Tucker is like a mall Santa. They all want a turn on his lap and they all come up to him with their hopes and dreams…and questions about whether or not he’s the real deal.”

I knew Tucker would probably want to part the sea of Douchebags for a leggy blonde, so I called over to him.

‘Hey Tucker, this girl wants your attention,’ I said.

‘Sweetie, I can’t get you in if you”re under 21,’ he said with a shrug.

Something I had heard earlier struck me suddenly. Tucker is a huge college football fan and bleeds Kentucky blue. And, like all Ketuckians and most NCAAF fans, hates the Florida Gators and wishes Tim Tebow would get caught in a public bathroom gay sex scandal already.

‘Dude, go fuck her on the football field,’ I said.

Almost as if he was in the wings of a Broadway show and this was his big cue, Tucker instantaneously exited the bar to the giggly delight of the leggy blonde and the confused consternation of the Affliction tee-shirt wearing wannabes.

I drank my pitcher and had a bizarre conversation with a grad student with a rose tattoo on her left breast who kept dropping her thesis title on me. She was getting drunk Gecko eyes and I knew it was close to time for me to go back to hotel Sportscenter.

About 30 minutes later, Tucker came back with the girl. The illegal break-in into the football stadium and subsequent consummation of their love for each other in the world famous “Swamp” was announced, and high fives broke out faster than herpes 2 at a state school in Arizona. Word spread throughout the bar and the high-five fission reaction continued.

The music changed and DAVE MATTHEWS came on the corner jukebox. The dregs on my pitcher was all that remained.

I paused for a second and thought about it. Was I the biggest overgrown loser on the planet and should feel guilty…or was I being given the rarest of rare chances - the opportunity for a “DO OVER.” College again but knowing what I know now? I”ve fantasized hundreds of times about “If I could go back….”

Suddenly, I didn’t feel so bad. Suddenly the grad student with the environmental thesis and faded ink on her tit seemed slightly more interesting. And suddenly, I wanted a Jaeger Bomb….

This entry was posted on Friday, September 18th, 2009 at 12:54 pm and is filed under All blog entries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.