Looking Back: Spring Break 1993 (Part I)

Looking Back: Spring Break 1993 (Part I)

mtv spring break 1993
I'm fatter now, but have better taste in pastels


1993 was a good year for the Chillster.  It started off with a smart, solitary New Year’s resolution: listen to more Billy Idol.  I acquired a Vital Idol cassette and my quality of life immediately improved.  I guess I should probably set the stage for you a little bit – as a junior at a military academy, we were just starting to get a little taste of freedom.  Finally, all the (turns out, largely apocryphal) hot locals on the prowl for clean-cut squares midshipmen were at our disposal, since we could more frequently go drinking at the multitude of local bars less-encumbered by Draconian curfews.  Beyond just freedom, I had another weapon at my disposal, something that looked like….this…


Actual vehicle not pictured, but throw a faux-personalized license plate on the front and you get the picture. Not exactly what the kids today would call a "P*ssy Wagon" but it could almost always get you from Point A to Point B


It’s difficult to explain military academy dynamics to folks who didn’t struggle through a similar environment.  Having a sh*tty Ford Ranger to driver, pretty much just on Saturday and Sunday – and only then thanks to the largesse of my (former – I will explain when I get to the Why Chilly Is A Huge Piece of Sh*t category of the site) friend R’s dad who let me park in his Annapolis driveway since non-Seniors couldn’t have cares on campus – was probably the equivalent of having a brand new Corvette at a university that played in meaningful basketball games.  Now Baltimore’s Inner Harbor (before Chris and Snoop got there), DC – hell even University of Delaware were all in play for us.  

The first thing my group of friends decided to do in 1993 was have a competition to see who could bang the most chicks in January.  (Ladies in the audience, of which there are at least two, I apologize for my candor, but it is important for the narrative. Well, not really important, but I’ve already typed a bunch of sh*t, so it’s important to me.)  At the time, I was unencumbered.  (Full disclosure: due to my journalistic integrity and fervor for accuracy, I was forced to fact-check my own memory.  And my own internal timeline must be f*cking wrong, because I know for sure I broke up with a girl named *Tanya after watching the 1993 NFC Championship Game at her f*cking apartment caused the 49ers to lose.  That had to be January of 1993 (and you can still f*ck off, Alvin Harper!).  But this whole story is less tidy then, because Billy Idol almost certainly gets less credit.  Although maybe “White Wedding” somehow caused Steve Young to suck? Anyway, that Tanya chick had a snake and a bird, too.  That was f*cking weird.  I remember going to her apartment for the first time, hearing some rustling in the other room and thinking “A KID! SHE’S GOT A FUCKING KID!” – but it turns out that it was just a ten foot python eating a mouse – no worries.  Based on my hard-hitting research I apparently dumped pseudnymous *Tanya on the 17th and then met the chick I will later discuss in a couple of weeks, but I like my cleaner, unresearched timeline more.  Also, *Tanya bought me a watch – which for some reason my friends gave me endless amounts of sh*t for.)

The competition to see who could have relations with the most consenting females had the potential to be lopsided.  See, despite the fact that this is my forum, I’m not going to sit here and overstate my abilities in this area.  I was more like the scrappy white guy who makes it to the majors more with grit and intangibles than estimable tools; scratching out a giggle here, a chuckle there the way David Eckstein worked the count down a run in the late innings.  My roommate – to protect his identity, I will call him *Brad – was apparently quite the handsome fellow, so all the lady-meeting stuff came easy to him.  I found him to be somewhat disgusting, but maybe because I saw him in his indigenous state, which somehow included bloody underwear after running five miles (relax – it was (allegedly) from chafing, nothing more sinister).

Since this is supposed to be about Spring Break, not some stupid contest that wasn’t really a contest since only about two of that crew ever really hooked up in bars anyway, I will cut to the chase.  My roommate, as expected, won in a walkover – sure he could land some pretty hot women when the opportunity was there, but his huge advantage was an uncanny ability to completely disregard his standards in certain situations – he would f*ck a 57 year-old Day’s Inn maid given the right “anything else you need?” glance.  How did Chilly fare?  As “Serial Relationship Guy”, I did what I normally did, stumbled upon a girlfriend.  Well, a kind of girlfriend.  A sort-of girlfriend.  Through the magic of Billy Idol, most likely, I met a very nice girl in one of the previously discussed local bars (RIP, Griffins). As I believe Jerry Seinfeld once said, she had many attributes desirable to men, including tallness, blondeness, curviness and prettiness. And she was (unfortunately) well-aware of her impact on her surroundings.  She once caused an accident on campus (no joke) from wearing her ridiculously tight jean shorts around.  (I know, jean shorts don’t rule, but these leaned more toward Daisy Dukes than midwestern jorts.)  It was just a small fender bender, but still impressive.  (Last humblebag on this topic (well, it’s probably mostly a brag) – she somehow sent me the same risque Valentine’s card that my Don juan roommate sent to his lady of the moment, now THAT was funny.)

Despite the fact that we were essentially in a relationship, she – let’s call her *Kandi -could not commit to calling it that (if I recall correctly, due to having fairly recently ended a BIG RELATIONSHIP).  With Spring Break fast approaching, I had some decisions to make.  My buddy, *Position (I know that name makes no sense to you, the reader – let’s just go with Pos for the sake of this post – no, not short for HIV+ or Piece of Sh*t) had just quit the *tennis (name of sport changed to protect identity) team and was ready to f*cking blow it out spring-break style.  Or at least to drink some Colt Ice and try to pick up girls from other academic institutions.  (Editor’s Note: F*ck, this might have to be a two-parter, we aren’t really even to Spring Break yet and we are at a thousand words almost).  I considered the merits of going on spring break with Pos vs. just staying around Maryland and having a lot of “friendly time” with my really-hot girlfriend-in-everything-but-title:



  • No guaranteed nakedity with hot ladies
  • 1,000 mile drive to warmth
  • Only had $150 and Texaco card


  • Would not bitch out on my homeboy
  • Presumably would be poolside with scantily-clad coeds in worst case scenario
  • Had $150 and a Texaco card


F*ck it, I had $150, he had $250 – that’s $400, a gas card, and a semi-reliable Ford Ranger.  We could probably party hard for like three weeks on that kind of dough, right?  A week would be no-f*cking-problem.  My not-quite GF, who went to a local college, was very understanding about my need to head down to Florida for a bit, which was nice (and, as it turns out, indicative that she likely had some male friends simultaneously coming into town for spring break.)  On what I’m pretty sure was a Friday afternoon, we were off.  Just the two of us, $400 and a Ford Ranger – it was just like a Levi’s commercial, except we weren’t in a vintage Mustang and there weren’t models in the backseat (in fact, there was no backseat).  No real plan in hand, we were just Florida-bound, I figured we would head down and crash at the Navy base in King’s Bay, Georgia in the middle of the night, then rise early to head to Daytona and rage.  My classes ended about two hours before *Pos’s, so I sat in my room and pounded two 32 ounce Snapples while I waited for him to finish up.
One note on those Snapples: due to my excitement over the impending Spring Breakage, I forgot to go to the bathroom before we left.  We left in the late afternoon.  As it turns out, there’s a bit of traffic in the D.C. area on Friday afternoon; the Beltway is a poor location for a bladder capacity test.  Eventually I found myself in the unfortunate position of having to kind of kneel on the seat to appropriate a different Snapple bottle as a makeshift urinal device.  Pos was delighted at my misfortune, until it became apparent that the “proceeds” might require more than one bottle; the laughter/fear combination helped create a volumetric flow rate that threatened the entire interior if uncontained.  The last few ounces generated Cuban Missile Crisis levels of apprehension, but the offending waste product was successfully capped and doubled as a potential projectile-to-be-used-later.

Turns out since I didn’t have military stickers, we couldn’t crash at the Navy base in Georgia, so we powered on down to Daytona, stayed at the Copacabana (I kid you not) and wandered down to the MTV beach party thing, where the only thing I can remember is “Gangsta Bitch” being played at roughly the same volume as a Blue Angels flyby.  (RIP, Apache.  Also, RIP Patrice O’Neal – NSFW language but hilarious and highly recommended, while I’m thinking about it.)

More later,

* means names were changed because I wanted to.

4 thoughts on “Looking Back: Spring Break 1993 (Part I)

  1. It looks like Gansta Bitch was filmed in post apocalyptic Detroit (which means sometime after 1968).
    Detroit is the shitties city on earth.

  2. Don’t you live in Detroit? What about Eminem and Clint Eastwood? Didn’t they bring Detroit back? I would suggest you come and visit Northwest Arkansas sometime before rushing to judgment (although you specified “city” so Detroit probably wins, but if you’d said “soul-crushing part of the country largely populated by 18 year olds with 3 kids and face tattoos” then it would’ve been competitive)

  3. Chilly, come visit Detroit and it will turn you into a card carrying member of the NRA.
    Note that Eminem and Clint don’t live in the D.
    Its a horrible place to visit and you don’t want to live there.
    For the record, I don’t live in Detroit, but I live close enough to smell it and it stinks.

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