2005-06-27
They still MAKE Boones Farm?!!!!
Ooof.
This weekend... Oh Lordy.
We returned late last night from our Annual Low Brow Cuss Fest Beerapalooza Weekend up north. This is an annual affair during which 20 30-something year olds (and me) party like 70s metal rock stars, try to find new uses for the F word, drink Pabst Blue Ribbon and BOONES FARM WINE (I am NOT kidding), eat something very frightening called "Hobo Stew", all while listening ONLY to 70s heavy metal music because "everything written after 1977 sucks ass."
Music Ranttangent:
Look. I think Bon Scott was a genius with the rest of the world, but a little AC/DC goes a long way. So does Striker, Rat, and K.I.S.S. One of the guys, Brutus, who has the most tattoos, the shiniest head (a proud head shaver since he was 14) and the biggest neck, will NOT listen to ANYTHING but heavy metal from the 70s. Heavy metal HE knows and LIKES, which as far as I can tell consists of 2 albums (AC/DC Stiff Upper Lip and The Fucking Very Best of KISS). We've tried to introduce him to newer bands we think he might enjoy, not only because they are actually good but because people are screaming unintelligibly, but he will have none of it.
Every now and then our host, Roddy O'BongBreath, would commandeer the boom box and put on his "1,000 of Me Favorite Irish Drinking Ditties" because, you see, he's Irish. Classic Irish drinking songs. Many many Irish drinking songs. 1,000 of them to be exact. Those Irish sure liked to drink and sing. A lot.
Okay, look Irish people. Unless you're Irish that shit SUCKS. Turn it off. Now.
By the end of the weekend I would have happily endured to a 3-day music fest of Barry Manilow, Kenny G., and Yani. And I hate those assholes.
End of Music Ranttangent.
This annual head banging bash is with HB's boyhood friends -- the guys he grew up with in Detroit -- some of whom he used to play C.H.I.P.S with on their bikes. (I think HB played "Jon", because he was blonde, and Brutus got to play "Ponch" because he could swing a Spanish accent -- and I think he had hair back then.) I love to ask him questions about this: "Did you have cop uniforms and everything? Badges? Did you solve crimes? Who hummed the theme song? Did you keep your gun in your basket?" Definitely one of those childhood memories he should NOT have shared with his loving wife.
I'm glad I never told him about playing "Brady Bunch" with Susie Clark. (I was Marsha, okay? Shut up. You're just jealous.)
And really, I don't want to be mean -- none of HB's friends have low brows, I mean, not in the classic Neanderthal sense, but most of them have very VISIBLE brows because most of them have been shaving their heads since they were adolescents. And also, the tattoos. They all have tattoos. Lots of them. There is a 14 tattoo minimum with this crowd, and the only way they let ME in is because I tell them that every private part I own is tattooed with Steven Tyler's lips, and no, they can't see them. Not that there is anything wrong with tattoos or a nice shiny noggin. But, like monster truck rallies and chocolate enemas, I just don't get it.
The other predominant activity is to systematically destroy any semblance of the English language. It's a toss up what is harder on my ears: listening to the KISS reunion album 10 times in a row or a good round of "We Be Stupid". These people can slaughter the English language like nobody's business. They are Kings. They are unbeatable. They are the Dale Ernhards of language abuse. Shakespeare's anti-Christ.
By the end of the weekend I find myself slipping ...
Paddy O'BongBreath: Where's my fucking lighter. Has anyone fucking seen my fucking lighter? I need to fucking light this bowl of sweet ass fucking pot, fucking right now..
Me: I ain't seen it.
Ain't = bad
Seen = bad
(Ain't + Seen in same sentence) * (used by Babs) = Sweet Baby Jesus I have gone to the dark side.
Please understand that at this point I was well into my third liter of Chardonnay (which I have had to HIDE so no one tries to put sugar in it or mix it with Hawaiian punch), and it was only 10:00am. That's how you survive these things. Drink, scratch, swear, spit.
But truthfully, these are wonderful people. Funny, sweet, tattooed people with shiny heads and t-shirts with clever epitaphs like "SUCK MY HAIRY BALLS". I love them all. It's not that I'm all that classy, either. Believe me when I say I am NOT, but I do find it a little trying to hang out with these folks for a prolonged period of time -- my liver and my brains start to deteriorate like piss on cotton candy (see?) When discussions of a week-long Carnival Cruise comes up it's all I can do not to have a complete break down and I start babbling excuses: "We are SO fucking busy that week -- what? Oh, any week actually -- all of next year, in fact! Busy busy busy....The year after that, too.") Understand that I'm at least 8 years older than most of them, I grew up on Motown, and I graduated with a BA in English. We're just... uhm... different. That's all. But different in a GOOD way. Yeah.
Besides, HB loves these guys and it's fun to watch the inner-headbanger come out of him. Because you can take the nice catholic boy out of Detroit, but you can never get away from the guys you used to play C.H.I.P.S with on your 10-speed.
Now just give me a kiss (a-like thissssssssssssssssss)
Rock on.
xquzme at sometime today