Date Archives July 2007

It’s a bachelorette party! (hoot!)

July 12, 2007 15 Comments read Uncategorized

After I essentially purged everything that had ever been in my body on the 5th, it was time for Lesley’s bachelorette party. Out of concern for my well being, but slightly more concern about what might happen at the party, she suggested that we could call the entire thing off. Queasy or not, I wasn’t going to allow THAT to happen.

Our first stop was at Superb Video, the self-same porn store at which I used to work. If my grandparents ask: That summer, I worked at a ‘video’ store.

When I worked there, the building was grey (You can sort of see it in this picture that Felix took, three years ago.). Then, one night, the neon on the building started a small building fire, and I believe the pink paint job was to cover up the scorch marks. Lesley calls this color ‘titty pink’. I maintain that there is no paint chip name in existence that goes by that color.

Before we went inside, Lesley and I took little bets on who we thought still worked there.

I laid my monopoly money down on Steve and Fahri, since Harmony had married some guy from Russia for money so he could get a green card, and I imagined maintaining that sham takes more time and effort than she originally anticipated.

Lesley went with Steve and Ed, who could easily pass for Rob Zombie’s twin brother (the one with less ambition).

Steve (and I was just looking through my archives and I CAN’T BELIEVE I DIDN’T POST ABOUT THIS) and I once went to a strip club together; he has about 25 years on me, and, as I found out a bit too late, like his ladies YOUNG. I thought we were going as work buddies blowing off some steam. Apparently when some other guy started talking to me, he got super jealous and disappeared. He then gave me the silent treatment for weeks afterwards. Mature. And that’s why he’s still working at a porn store at nearly 50 years old.

That’s right. Lesley and I were BOTH right.

I was also right about Fahri.

I’d had the hots for Fahri the entire summer I worked there, and he completely ignored me. When we walked in the door, there he was, asking us for our IDs. I called him by name and asked him if he was really going to check MY ID. He did a double-take and said “…Melissa? Wow, you look great! What are you doing in town?”

I told him I was there for a wedding, and he asked me if I had a date, because he’d love to go with me, and asked me for a hug before I walked out the door because he was ‘not creepy like Steve’.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is validation.

Armed with a feathery penis boa, enough annoying paper noisemakers for everyone, and temporary tattoos for Lesley that suggested strange men might be able to touch some of her nether regions for the low purchase price of one dollar, we made our way to La Perla, where, as it turns out, you can ride a pepper.

This man was very, very enthusiastic about riding the pepper; hollering wasn’t enough–he also felt the need to vigorously smack his own ass, repeatedly. We witnessed this event incredulously while waiting for bellachiara6 to show up. It would just be the three of us all night, and while I myself would have preferred something a little more insane and frenetic, I think that Lesley appreciated it being a bit more low-key.

After dinner, it was my turn to ride the pepper, which was an awful decision considering I’d spent the majority of the day throwing up. I stand by my choice.

Before you continue, please note the effect my pepper-grinding is having on Lesley. That look in her eyes? Desire. Oh yeah.

After my pepper-riding adventure, we were off to the Safe House, where I had something special reserved for Lesley at 10pm–Her Majesty’s Secret Service, which is billed as ‘more than a drink, it’s an adventure!’. They only serve one per hour, thus, the reservation.

In order to enter the Safe House, you need to know the password. If you do not know the password, they force you to participate in some humiliating ritual, which is broadcast throughout the rest of the bar, so when you finally are allowed inside, everyone cheers and your humiliation is complete.

While we were waiting for Lesley to be whisked away, we drank and played ‘I never’; a drinking game in which everyone takes turns making statements such as ‘I never stole anything from a workplace’, etc. If you HAVE performed that activity, then you drink. We all learned some interesting things about one another in a very short time period. VERY interesting things. Additionally, every time someone mentioned ‘bachelorette’, we all simultaneously hollered ‘It’s a bachelorette party!’ and honked our noisemakers as loudly as possible. Seriously. All night long. To drunks, this never gets old or stops being funny.

Finally, someone came and escorted Lesley to the basement of the bar, where she was seated on a seat inside a bathtub. Nicki and I could watch her on closed-circuit TV (broadcast throughout the bar, again), and the bartender proceeded to interrogate her.

After he felt that she had sufficiently answered his questions, he flipped a switch, and her chair rose up from the basement through the first floor of the bar, where Her Majesty was hailed by adoring bar patrons, presented with a 24oz cranberry vodka, and played a special video in her honor.

At one point or another, I felt the urge, nay, the need to touch Nicki’s boobs. It’s a bachelorette party! (hoot!)

Lesley, proudly displaying her drink now that the embarrassing part is over; or rather, now that she’s drunk enough that embarrassment ceased to matter.

At one point, Lesley complained that the penis boa was too ‘goddamn itchy’, and that she wasn’t going to wear it anymore. *Someone* had to wear it, so I stepped up to the plate. Miss Drunky McDrunkerson herself. This picture was taken shortly before we left. I commanded that she put that drink down before we went anywhere, and she did an admirable job. After she finished her drink, it was around 1am, and she really didn’t want to go anywhere else. No strip clubs, no other bars, just home. Maybe to watch a movie. I demanded that she gave me the keys before we even left the bar, as there was no way in hell I’d let her drive after pounding an insane amount of alcohol into her system. She once again donned the penis boa, and stumbled down the street towards the parking garage. We made it back to the car, put our glassware into the trunk, and once we were inside, she leaned over and whispered urgently “Melissa? … MELISSA. I LOST THE PENIS BOA. I have to go get it, ok? I have to go get it. I’ll be back.” She then proceeded to go back to the elevator area, and even though we’d only ridden down on one car, opened up every single elevator (there were four of them) to make sure that the boa hadn’t, I don’t know, WARPED into a different car. We didn’t end up finding it, and she was not a happy camper.

She was also not a happy camper when we got onto the highway; I had to stop at the Pilot gas station on Ryan Road for her to expel the contents of her stomach. She may have even stood in front of the toilet, waved a wand and screamed ‘EXPELLIARMUS’ and pointed at her stomach. I don’t know. But I like imagining it.

That’s when I knew that (A) the evening was over, and (B)I’d done a good job. No matter how low-key someone wants their bachelorette party, unless the bride to be is throwing up two days prior to her wedding, someone really fucked up.

Who needs the Kwik-E-Mart? Let’s hurl a Brick-E-Mart! The Kwik-E-Mart is real…D’oh!

July 12, 2007 21 Comments read Attractions

What better way to spend 7/11 than AT a 7/11 that has been transformed into a Kwik-E-Mart?

I’m not too proud to admit that marketing works on me. If I watch an infomercial long enough, I will likely want to buy the product, even if it’s for something I could never, ever find a use for. Yes! I need a tomato massager! My tomatoes are, at this moment, going unmassaged! And sitting in a grocery store a few miles away because I don’t even buy tomatoes! THE HORROR! Only 2 low payments of $19.95!

Armed with that knowledge about myself, how could I resist what has got to be one of the greatest marketing ploys of all time?

First, I went to the Simpsons Movie website and worked out what I’ll look like when I get my big comedy break and am drawn in on the show as ‘Chesty LaRue’. Note the kicky eyewear!

Then I picked up v1c1ous, whom I haven’t seen in approximately a year’s time (!!), and we headed across the water to become the people that P.T. Barnum was talking about. My minute was 5:04am on April 21st in 1982–however, the ‘sucker’ thing has lasted for an entire lifetime.

We settled on orange cream squishees. Sean tried the Woohoo! Blue Vanilla, and wasn’t impressed, and frankly, I just didn’t want blue teeth. Are orange teeth acceptable? When compared to blue, I’m going to go ahead and say YES.

We loitered outside the Kwik-E-Mart for a few hours, playing the part of Springfield no-goodniks. Ne’er do wells. Crumbums.

Oddly enough, before yesterday, I had never loitered anywhere before. However, standing out in the warm summer air with an ice cold squishee just felt…right, somehow.

We ended up hanging out so long that we struck up a conversation with the security guard, and learned that (a) his name was Peter, (b) he’s attending the Art Institute for Industrial Design, and (c) security guards have many, many interesting stories to tell. He was a very cool guy, and was not only ok with our loitering, but actually encouraged us to come back today and chat longer. He also once made a to-scale 1/4 size model of Bender. Conclusion: Peter is awesome.

The purple things in the upper-left corner of the picture is a part of the Experience Music Project.

We ended up staying so long that it was pitch black by the time we left, carting home six-packs of Buzz cola and Radioactive Man comic books.

Stay tuned for my next post: The Bachelorette Party!

I love you like a rocket in the middle of the night

July 11, 2007 28 Comments read Travel

July 4th isn’t so much a celebration of our shared history as it is an excuse to recreate the Battle of Iowa Jima in 1/4th scale using gigatons of high-powered fireworks quasi-legally purchased at shady roadside stands along I-94.

Furthermore, you shouldn’t DARE leave the safety of the nearest fallout shelter once the sun has left the sky on the 4th, since that’s when beer and latent pyromania come together in spectacular fashion on every single block in Brew City and WOE be unto anyone in a vehicle or on foot once the festivities get underway.

hotshotrobot was kind enough to extend me an invitation to the celebration he was attending, and I, in turn, felt that I would be remiss as a guest to show up without a case of beer and the aforementioned fireworks.

Although my body trembled with desire upon spotting a firework for sale that was so large, I could have easily built a comfortable nest in its spent carcass, my pyrotechnics fund was on a tight budget this year, and I couldn’t quite justify spending $179 on sixty seconds of joy. starladear13 and I instead shopped around, picking up roman candles, shooting fountains, and evil little divebombing planes, wisely avoiding anything that made too much noise, as while the 4th is all about red, white, and blue, we didn’t want to draw any additional blue and red flashing lights to our location, as I’m fairly certain that cops don’t take checks as a form of bribery. Especially when the word ‘bribe’ is written in the memo field. ESPECIALLY when that check is going to bounce higher than a gymnast on speed hitting a trampoline at thirty miles per hour.

I’m used to buying my fireworks at the reservations now, where so long as you explode everything on property, there are no issues with Johnny Law, so when the woman at the register asked me if I had a permit, I didn’t know what to say or do. “N–” (nudge from Lesley) “Yes. Yes I do.” “Can I see it?” “….Noooooo. No. No, you can’t. It’s mine.”

The cashier gave me a look which clearly indicated, “You are an idiot and I hate you,” and made me purchase a fireworks permit, which is a total joke as it just gives permission to carry them, but not to light them.

Everyone at the party was very friendly and welcoming, and we drank, chatted, and laughed until dusk, when the real festivities began. In a strange sort of ‘steps from Kevin Bacon’ interconnectedness, my friend Nicki (bellachiara6) used to work with Josh, who is in a band with hotshotrobot, who danced a cha-cha with Tricia Helfer, who has a caricature of Kevin Bacon framed on her wall. Spooky.

America, FUCK YEAH.

We ended up lighting many a firework off of the porch, only venturing down to street level when it was absolutely necessary. Many bottle rocket fuses were twisted together in a spectacle that would have made Whitesnake proud.

Roman candles intitally proved problematic as the ground was too hard for them to be partially buried, and they clearly could not be laid flat. Eventually, we decided to risk the loss of appendages and held them while firing, chanting ‘USA! USA! USA!’ after each particularly awesome explosion. Someone (not me) suggested that we really ought to be shouting ‘China! China! China!’, which, while more accurate, is probably asking to be pelted with PBR cans.

Of course, things eventually got out of hand when someone (also not me) aimed a roman candle directly at two sorority girls walking by. Now, I’m as much for shooting explosives at that sort of girl as anyone, but if you’re going to do it, you really need to make sure that they (a)can’t identify you and (b)don’t come up, asking to light explosives of their own afterwards. Someone (again, not me) screamed to stop shooting things at the ‘sweet honeys’, and this devolved into nearly everyone on the porch chanting ‘sweet honeys, sweet honeys’ in a pure moment of mob mentality.

These ‘sweet honeys’ came up onto the porch and asked to light off some fireworks. One of the lightings went off without incident. The other? Well…she was handed a beer cup with two bottle rockets inside, with their fuses twisted together. Someone lit it for her, and one of the rockets shot off into the night. In ecstatic glee, she pulled the cup back towards her body…with a bottle rocket fuse still burning inside the cup. This action caused her to light her hair on fire. She screamed and started waving the cup around, pointing the still-burning-bottle at several people. There was panic on the porch as everyone scattered like cockroaches when a light is flipped on. The rocket shot off into a nearby bush, the hair was extinguished, and the sweet honeys left for safer pastures.

We saved the best for last. Something called the ‘Saturn Mega Ninja Orgasm Battery Rocketface MOTHERFUCKER 2000’…something like that. And it was, as promised, pretty damn awesome.

After the fireworks spectacles, cheeserock showed up, who was an absolute DELIGHT and I wish I could have spent more time with her. As it was, Lesley and I were in no position to drive anywhere, so I decided to go for gold and teach my liver who is the boss around these parts.

The problem, for me, with getting drunk is that no matter how much I drink, I NEVER FORGET the stupid things I say or do afterwards. So, the next morning, when I woke up in the fetal position on my beanbag chair bed, I all-too-clearly recalled slurring at hotshotrobot with a squinty eye like a surly, insane Clint Eastwood, that I thought he was very cute, and the ‘terrified animal caught in a trap’ face he made. These are the days of our lives!

It’s not that I don’t stand by my statement: He IS cute. It’s just…given the option of SAYING it and not saying it, why do I never, ever, err on the side of not saying it? Also, how is it that I can remember everything I said or did, but couldn’t remember to bring both my cell phone and my jacket back to Bristol with me? That mystery might be greater than that of the Sphinx or even the Face on Mars.

Still, the party was awesome sauce. If I had known Wisconsin could be fun a few years ago, I might have stayed.