Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Chick Magnet

While I am not the past master at drinking that young Scott appears to be, this past week I was reminded of one of my more heroic bouts with the bottle which is worthy of sharing if, for no other reason, it took place the first weekend I made Scott’s acquaintance. The event of which I speak involves me, more Lone Star than any sane man should drink, a Screwdriver the size of Idaho, Scott, 2,000 dirty hippies, and the eponymous Chick Magnet boxer shorts.

Burning Flipside is held every Memorial Day weekend in the Texas hill country, just a few miles west of Austin. For many people Burning Flipside, or Flipside as it is more commonly referred to, takes on a certain aura of spiritual homecoming and serves as a stop-gap in their struggle against reality between trips to Burning Man. I am sad to say that it does not hold a deep significance for me. For me Flipside is an opportunity to go camping with a group of friends, hang out, drink, and enjoy the floor show. My downfall is that every other activity I engage in at Flipside, be it hanging out, enjoying the floor show, or eating dinner, also involves drinking. This means that I will, in the five days I spend at Flipside, consume a heroic amount of beer and liquor. My alcohol intake for those five days is probably about a third of my alcohol intake for the entire year.

This past year I had taken an ample supply of Lone Star for drinking during the day, and then donated a couple of bottles of McCormick’s Vodka (for which I cannot find a website) to one of the donation bars out there to ensure my evenings would be filled with liquor-y goodness. This came back to bite me the night of the burn. I had spent most of the day in the creek drinking with a rotating cast of casual acquaintances and friends, however I knocked off about 4pm for a quick bite to eat and a little bit of a nap before the evening swung in to full gear.

I awoke from my nap still feeling that warm sensation of a light buzz. I got ready for the night’s activities, which included burning a huge freakin’ rocket-sculpture, and made my way down to the field where the burning was going to take place. After the burn I wandered into the aforementioned donation bar where I proceeded to drink. At some point Scott showed up and convinced the bartender to fess up with the end of a bottle of Jack, which we shared while BSing. I had met Scott earlier in the weekend, but he was bust doing things which shall not be mentioned on this blog, so we had not really hung out. For some reason this turned into the night where we hung out. I switched between the Screwdriver that Ate Manhattan and Jack Daniels for awhile. At this point I was very drunk and Scott decided he needed to escape the field for a bit and thus he beat feet for his car beneath the flimsy excuse of needing to get some cigars for us to smoke. I continued to drink. Scott walked about five miles to recover said cigars and return. I drank more and more and more. The Jack was all gone. I got a refill on the Olympian Screwdriver. I smoked a cigar.

At this point the evening starts to get a little hazy.

I remember trying to talk to Scott but then wandering off when I got the feeling I was interrupting him dropping some game on an unsuspecting young lady. Sadly, as it was to turn out, wandering off meant wandering back into the bar where I could be plied with more of the hooch. At this point in the evening this was officially a Bad Idea. There was a stripper pole in the bar. There were people making use of the pole. I might have said something fairly inappropriate to the people using the pole. I am not sure. About this time I realized I was way too wasted to be in public so I started the drunk stumble-walk back to our campsite.

Somewhere along the way I found I had to vomit. Not wanting to mess up the outdoors with my spew I opened the front pocket of my overalls and puked in there. I found this little fact out a couple of days later when I went to wash the overalls.

I made it back to camp and collapsed into a camp chair, which to my surprise, survived the evening. As I was sitting there in camp chatting with my campmates I started to be sick again. I was so drunk I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even turn my head. After about thirty minutes I managed to recover enough to realize that I was covered in my own sick and I was past the point of being sick and I needed to pass out. Right then.

I clambered out of the camp chair and slowly made my way to my tent, shucking clothes enroute. This trail of breadcrumbs was thankfully kicked into a pile in front of my tent the next morning by some kind soul.

I am sure you are now asking yourself why the title of this post is Chick Magnet. Well, fair reader, the last anyone saw of me that night as I beat a retreat from the field of battle were the bright yellow words ‘CHICK MAGNET’ emblazoned across the ass of my boxer shorts. A name I certainly lived up to that night.


On the Tipeler site, a friend posted this comment, which I thought was worthy of preserving:
Alas, I was witness to "Team ChickMagnet" in all its glory. A few of us were sitting in camp jibber jabbering around the vomit episodes. It was grand!! In between episodes, James was even capable of making jokes and somewhat carrying on with the conversations. There were a couple of newbies with us. One girl started to get up and leave but I think she realized she didn't know where to go so she sat back down. I assured her that it was "OKAY." THEN... dear god, when he finally ventured off to bed and his pants fell down around his ankles causing him to sort of shuffle off to his tent, I thought I would die! His boxers said CHICK MAGNET across the ass! In my state of mind, I couldn't help but think this was some sort of performance art. Really! Beautiful, just beautiful! I love you, Chick Magnet!!!
Thank you, Susan. I had completely forgotten that I was carrying on a conversation between chunder rounds.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Damn! I do believe that I was the one responsible for the Screwdriver that ate Manhatten, plus the refill, plus the bottle of Jack that made it's way into the hands of young Scott the Scot. Gotta love your friendly neighborhood Flipside Bartender ;)

1:42 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Stoopid Blogger...that was Me


1:43 PM  

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