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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:

 

CONS:

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

 

PROS:
  • 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,
Chilly17

* means names were changed because I wanted to.

Donka Do Balls

Donka Do Balls



This lady sums up my last couple of days pretty succinctly:  donka fucking do balls.  Allergies, insomnia, $15k drop in the ole trading account and Gristedes is out of funyuns.  Donka fucking do balls.  I think mentioning the iPad giveaway ruined my karma – that concept is on hold until there is a karma reversal.  At least it’s Cinco de Mayo, so I’ll be able to legitimately start drinking at noon.

I can’t recall whether I’ve told my quatro de mayo story on here, could swear I have but on quatro de mayo last year I wrote the Haunting Poetry of Lady Gaga post.  So if I’m repeating myself, forgive me, I’m having a shitty week.  In 2000 my boy Jobu came to visit me when I lived in the anus/armpit of California, Fresno.  My SOATT (Significant Other At That Time, for those of you who suck at figuring out clever acronyms) was out of town, so we planned to light up the town.  The only problem was, I’d literally never been out in anus/armpit; all I really did in my twelve months there was sling pharma and watch movies.  So we headed off to a place that we knew would be crackalackin: Chevy’s restaurant (they make their own tortillas, right before your eyes!).

Holy shit, writing this shit must be good karma or something, my account has bounced $3,500 to the good.  Guess I’ll keep going with this….Anyhoo, after having some fajitas or whatnot, we retired to the bar area, where we encountered an extremely generous Viet Nam vet/tequila enthusiast.  This guy had some fairly outrageous conspiracy theories and was possibly smoking agent orange or similar on the side, but he was gregarious in his shot-sharing.  We hung there for a couple of hours until we began fearing for our lives a little bit, then – in a gambit rare for that era of impaired driving foolhardiness – snuck off to a taxi and asked to be delivered to the hottest club in town.

All I remember of that club was that it had some funky-assed neon blue lighting and a pre-Affliction clientele that would’ve made even today’s jersey shore-goers blanch.  We ordered a couple of long island teas, threw the ice on the floor, and slammed them like shots, in a METHOD that was popular in the day.  That’s where my recollection of the night ended for me.

I woke up in the comfort of my bed the next day at around 1:00 PM (it was a Friday so, ostensibly, I should’ve been working, but since I was a pharma rep I rarely worked on Mondays or Fridays) and had 37 voice mails on my cell and about 16 on my home phone (so quaint that we used to have both.)  The cell phone messages were pretty evenly split between SOATT and my man Jobu, who was nowhere to be found in my general apartment area.  So I started going through the vmails to figure out what happened – the first several were of the annoying “where are you” type.  Then it got more interesting.

The next one was an incoherent Jobu, slurring out “hey man, I lost my pants and they won’t let me back in the bar.”  At that point I had to step back from the message reconciliation process and try to figure out a couple of things.  Like, how can you lose your pants?  And, having lost your pants, how do you still have your phone?  It seems like your options are pretty limited when staggering around a strange town with no pants.  (My friends generally have a bad history with pants and puncture wounds, and they are generally all related to efforts to climb fences while hammered.  Bat Rastard used to live in constant fear of his mom finding out he’d immediately shredded some new article of clothing she bought him, but he still insisted on climbing fences.  Myself, I’m more of a gate person.)

It turns out some Fresno State coed found Jobu and, in a moment of compassion, gave him some pajama bottoms and allowed him to sleep on her couch.  (Don’t for a moment think there were any other “benefits” accrued in this situation – Jobu may be many things, but suave closer-of-deals he is/was not.)  Eventually I found out where he was and went and picked up his duck pajama clad ass.  (Seriously, there were little ducks on the pajamas.)  He didn’t recall how he lost his pants, but did have his cell phone and wallet; how exactly he lost em will remain a mystery, but my money is on fence-climbing.  Moral of the story: if you find yourself drinking tequila with a borderline insane Viet Nam vet in a Chevy’s in Fresno, remember to pick up a spare pair of pants before hitting the next bar.

Donka do balls: If you watch The Soup, you’ve certainly seen this lady 100x, but if you are just sitting around twiddling your fucking thumbs, I highly recommend this clip.  Certainly seems like she should’ve blown more like a .3 BAC here.

Long Version:


All you really need to know:



Later,

Chilly17

A Vegas Story

A Vegas Story



I haven’t been quite as active this week as I’d hoped…had buddies randomly show up in NYC the last two nights and unfortunately didn’t break my recent string of acting like an idiot.  The one good thing is that I think I’ll be pretty calm for Vegas tomorrow, since I feel like absolute dogshit right now….although that will prob change for the worse on Saturday when xmashangover shows up…

Anyhoo, even though I’m working on another “Matters of Grave Concern” piece, I figured since I will arrive in Vegas at noon thirty Friday I should relate my first ever Vegas story.  I made my first ever trip to LV back in 1997, in the nascent stages of my gambling love (also referred to as the Chilly Seventeen Endowment for Underprivileged Suquamish Millionares).  I was making the trip with some college buddies: Totalgreen, Majalah, and Longback.  It was MLK weekend and I for some unknown reason had a rare patch of time off, so I got in on Thursday night, a day before my buddies, and even optimistically brought my golf clubs (not a huge pain in the ass or anything).

Given my love of drinking and gaming, one might think that me arriving a day early was a decision fraught with danger.  Not so, my friends, not so.  See, I had a system.  I had $1,000 to gamble for the entire trip, so what I was gonna do was just chill at a low limit blackjack table that Thursday night, have a few beers and then get some shut eye so that I’d be ready to rock when everyone else showed early Friday evening.  Foolproof.

I got to the MGM Grand at like 9:00 PM and was down at the tables shortly thereafter.  This is important, because I had zero cash while traveling and pulled out $500 when I got there (please note that that is later than midnight eastern and that $500 was my max amount for daily ATM withdrawal).  What a wonderful place!I was astonished that you could order specific brands of beer in bottles, all complimentary.  I sat down at a $10 blackjack table and immediately went on a soul-crushing downward spiral where I lost like 73 hands in a row.  Cut losses and retreat?  Never.

A thinking man plans for negative contingencies, and so I had packed my checkbook.  I raced through that first $500 in approximately 32 minutes – but I had five Bud Lights in that time frame, so it wasn’t all bad.  The kind proprietors in Vegas are very cool about cashing checks, even for complete strangers.  Up to a limit of course, that limit at the time being $500 for newasses such as myself.  No problem, all I needed to do was quickly double up and then I’m back to even and can get some fucking chicken fingers and call it a night.

Lady Luck was not my friend on that Thursday night – I continued to get spanked like Maggie Gyllenhaal in Secretary.  I amped up the drinking to ease the pain, mixing in some of the hard stuff on an empty stomach.  By 10:45 I was down $1k, which was my limit for the weekend.  Fuck it, limits are made to be temporarily exceeded, right?  Unfortunately, I had maxed out my bank account and my check cashing privileges at the MGM Grand.  No problem, there are like 45 casinos, I’ll just go across to New York, New York and cash another five hundy.  Except those cagey casino fuckers are all interconnected; the word was out: Chilly was maxed out as far as LV was concerned.  Fuck.  Time to angrily stumble to bed.

I woke up on Friday at 11:00 AM rocking a horrific hangover and the slow realization that my cash flow problems weren’t going away soon.  I couldn’t hit the ATM until 9:00 PM and my reinforcements didn’t arrive until that evening.  I was starving and had only $5 to my name.  Somehow I couldn’t even order room service until Longback showed up with his credit card (there were some “hiccups” with my credit back in the day).  Fuck.  Being a resourceful degenerate, I did what any rational thinker would do in that situation.  I decided to find a check cashing establishment.


Many services provided
A great place to hear some interesting stories


These places are great; sure, they charge usurious rates and trap poor people into a vicious cycle, but they also represent a precious commodity to those in dire straits.  That commodity?  Hope.  I figured there were tons of these places in Vegas, so I just set off on foot, procuring a cheeseburger at the Shell station with my last remaining $5 (not a good choice, by the way).  Even in January, Vegas can get kind of warm.  I walked past a college campus (UNLV?), numerous construction sites, and all manner of seedy storefronts.  No check cashing joints to be seen.  At about two hours in, I was sweating approximately as much as Shaq in a bikram spin class.  At two and a half hours, I passed a casino that I swear was exactly the same as the off-strip place Chevy Chase goes to in Vegas Vacation.  At three hours, I started seeing literal mirages, not the hotel/casino kind of mirages.

And then, through the shimmering haze, in a strip mall so similar to all the other strip malls, I saw it.  CHECKS CASHED.  Thank God – I was very near to going fetal right on the griddle-temperature sidewalk.  The kind gentleman only charged me $75 to cash a $500 check (after doing a background investigation that took roughly the same amount of time as your average senate confirmation hearing).  Covered in sweat, exhausted and possibly suffering from E. Coli poisoning, I have never been happier to pay a 15% fee for a check that he was 100% positive would not bounce since he spoke to my bank for like an hour.

So happy to have some cash, I decided that I’d swing back by that Vacation casino, win $200 and then take a cab back to MGM where I’d eat a gourmet meal featuring the finest fried offerings.  The plan was foolproof.  Inside, the casino was as bizarre as its exterior suggested: War and I think Uno were prominent table games.  Minimum bets were $0.25.  I sidled up to a $1 high roller blackjack table and pulled out $200, determined to double up and then leave.

And, shockingly, I could not lose at that fucked up Vacation casino.  After about an hour, I was up $1300.  At the first sign of a setback, I got my ass into a cab and went back to MGM, up $300 for the trip.  Honestly, I’m not sure it even really existed as given my state of dehyrdation, exhaustion and desperation, hallucinations were definitely not out of the question.  Whatever, I was suddenly flush, hallucinations or no.  My buddies arrived later to see a possible crime scene (an extended family of chicken fingers and mozzarella sticks had met their unfortunate and grisly demise).  I finally did make it to the fetal position, and I slept like a newborn baby.  Everything worked out just as planned; I was fully funded heading into the group portion of the weekend.  Sweet – things were about to get interesting.


More later,

Chilly17, optimistically planning to finish this on the plane but glad I’m not dragging fucking golf clubs