May 2007

Part 1: Party Like A Rockstar

By May of 2007 I’d been working for my boss “PA” for almost a year without being given much in return. So I was invited to come down with him and the entire company to a music festival in Wilmington, NC, which to my knowledge is the first road trip I’d ever been invited on in all 23 years of my life. And it is, to this date, the last. It was an excruciating 12 hour drive to the festival from NY, but once we were there, we were in the company of rockers, with free booze flowing at the concert venue and a beach nearby. How could I pass something like this up?

But there was one catch. There was a band we would be traveling with, and PA demanded that I film their every move with my trusty camcorder. They did 4 shows in 2 days, and if I missed one second of footage I would risk getting the axe on the best gig I had at the time. I would get the axe eventually (See “How Youtube Lost My Job"), but it sure as hell wasn’t going to be here.

So after 2 days of heavy drinking and beach/pool parties in Wilmington, I was asked (rather, forced) to accompany PA and two of the band members about 4 hours out of the way to Chapel Hill, where they had one gig which was pretty much them playing in front of a record store to 5 kids, and a second gig at Jack Spratt Coffee House, essentially a Starbucks. What PA did not tell me though, was that we knew no one there and had no place to stay. This small fact will factor in later.

I decided that since I’d come all the way out there to do utterly meaningless work – like let’s say if the band never makes it no one will ever care about my stupid videotape- that I should do something ballsy, something to make the people of Chapel Hill remember me. And there happened to be free booze at the coffee house gig for anyone associated with the band. So I got wasted.

At a certain point about halfway through the set, PA instructed me to get beer for the band so they could continue playing (the manager had the told the band they could play for as long as the booze was flowing) Simple order. But the bartender was nowhere to be seen. And I didn’t want to keep the band waiting, so I got behind the bar and began pouring the beer by myself.

And I could not continue, because although there was a band onstage performing, all eyes were on me. The entire room exploded in laughter. The band could not continue for about 5 minutes because everyone was laughing so hard. But PA was not amused. And since I was already pegged as the “drunk kid” in the room, I decided to push the ante even further.

At a certain point during near the end of their marathon set, I decided that their mics needed a little tweaking. So sitting near the unmanned contol board, I pushed one of the knobs up to 11- as far as it would go. And then a large sound filled the room, literally a wall of feedback. Everybody had to cover their ears, all 10 of the assembled crowd. And as PA came over to rectify the situation, he gave me one of the most priceless facial expressions that I have ever seen, an expression that can simply be described as “I hope you die a horrible and agonizing death, you bastard”.

Then the lead singer of the band began to make up lyrics about me on the spot: “Never, ever, let a drunk guy do your sound/Associating with raging drunks will come back around” I can’t make that shit up. The singer, let’s call him “Sec”, just happened to be a master of improvisation. I was immediately banished to the back of the room until the band was done.

I was hoping there would be a wild party afterwards, since I had heard much about Chapel Hill babes. A girl on her 21st birthday even offered to have the band come celebrate at a bar with her girlfriends. But they refused. Why? Because some dipshit who claimed to be a “producer” offered to have the band make a record in his studio. And they agreed- even though they had never met the guy in their lives, and their first record wasn’t even coming out for another fucking year. What pretentious jerks.

So we all headed over to this joke of a studio. It was in an abandoned warehouse, and some of the equipment looked like it could have been made by Fisher-Price. But stll, the band recorded. And not just one song, or two songs, but an entire record, which was an all-night session. And I was not feeling well. The previous two nights of hard drinking and loud volume, combined with the 15 or so beers I had consumed this night, all caught up to me at once. I was about to pass out.

Part 2: Another Night Goes To Hell

Then came my savior. Or so it seemed at the time. Following around the band all day were 2 women. One was the owner of the record store where the band had performed earlier, “Reena” . She was OK- looking. And then there was her obnoxious friend- a wart hog with no redeeming features whatsoever. PA looked at these two women, and laid it right out. “This kid is about to pass out, and he can’t do that here in the studio, while the band is making its next record. We need total concentration on this record, because our company is tired of promoting shitty records, and having a passed out guy in the studio is not conducive to genius. Take him home.”

So I get into a car with these two strange women, and drive with them like 10 minutes. This night might not end so bad after all. Then I got out of the car when they arrived at their house. But, only Reena got out. “Um, excuse me where are you going? This is my house. You’re staying with my friend” Reena said. The look on my face, and the reaction in my head can simply be described as “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

I almost vomited right there. This bitch is lucky I didn’t retch in her car. So, yes, I had to get back into the car with WartHog, and drive yet another 15 minutes before getting to her house. In the car, she talked about her boyfriend. A lot. She talked about her car. A lot. She even talked about knowing several gang members down the street from her. A lot.

She talked about stuff she KNEW I didn’t care about. So what did I do? I put on my fucking headphones, put the volume on my Ipod up to 11, and zoned out. Without her even realizing I wasn’t paying attention. After what seemed like forever, we got to her house, then I plopped down on her couch or something and passed out.

When I woke up the next morning, it was one of the only true “where the fuck am I” moments I have ever had. I didn’t recognize the house, and didn’t remember whose house it was. Didn't even remember who I was there with And then, I heard it. “BOOM! BOOM!” All the floorboards creaked and pounded as WartHog awakened. She came into the room and immediately began right where she had left off the night before- talking, talking, talking. I immediately got out my phone to call PA and get him to come rescue me. But wait, what is this? My phone was dead.

I desperately looked around her house to find anything resembling a charger. Nothing. Then I remembered, I was very far from PA. FUUUCK! After about half an hour of listening to her drone and listening to her farts, wart hog bodily functions, etc, I remembered something. PA had forgotten his sanity in agreeing with the band that they should make a record in this stranger’s studio, but somehow had remembered to exchange numbers with this fat girl. What a bizarre stroke of luck.

I called him through her phone, agreed to a meeting point, and told her to start her car. I was being rescued. But on the way, I would have to make a stop by her sister’s house. So here I was, with some complete stranger, going to this complete strangers sister’s house, and having to listen to Warthog as she explained to her sister who I was.

I saw her sister, first thing I said is “We just hooked up”. The look on her face was one of pure shock. I mean of course that was far from the truth- Warthog was fucking disgusting and I wouldn’t touch her with a 20 foot pole. But for all I had been through the last night, there was nothing I wanted more than a little entertainment.

As the two sisters fought and argued over whether Warthog had just cheated on her boyfriend with me, I snuck into Warthog’s sister’s room to see if she had Internet. There was a computer, and just as I was about to write a desperation Email to PA’s cell, a voice scared the hell out of me. In a thick Southern accent, “Um, who the fuck are yew”.

It was Warthog’s sister’s boyfriend. He was a skater-punk looking dude. I desperately explained to him the situation, and instead of being freaked out that a complete stranger was in his girlfriend’s room, he said to me “Dude, I just finished this documentary about the skateboarding scene in Durham. It has footage of me trying to turn this house into a skate park. Wanna watch it?”. I firmly replied "Um, no, you low-rent Bam Margera wannabe, I just wanna use the fucking Internet."

So I demanded he leave, took control of the computer, and decided to give WartHog’s sister poetic justice. She had questions over whether I really slept with Warthog, so to prove my point, I opened up a browser, went to a certain website, and pulled up a story entitled “Fucking A Fat Girl” (I won’t say anymore, for fear of the copyright infringement birds). I left it up there for the bitch, her sister, her boyfriend and all to read. That reaction was probably quite the shitshow, although I never got to see it.

Warthog was done chit-chatting her sister, and was ready to roll. My parting words to her sister were: “I’m just a dirty rockstar from the North. In five months you’re gonna wish YOU had slept with me.” Then finally, I got in WartHog's car and drove to the arranged meeting point. I met back up with PA, and began the drive back to Wilmington for another night of rock music and free booze. I thanked WartHog for “her hospitality” as I was switching to PA’s car. I meant more like “making me almost commit suicide.” My night with WartHog, and my Chapel Hill antics, were the talk of the company for the rest of the trip and the 12-hour drive home.

Imagine though, if PA had never gotten her number. I would have been stranded there in some redneck North Carolina town- stuck with this complete stranger, her sister, and Low-Rent Bam Margera. And what if Warthog’s boyfriend was a serial killer and was going to cut me up with his gang member friends and put me in a dumpster somewhere when he found me sleeping in her house. Who knows? You can never trust a stranger. But thankfully, I’m still sitting here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work on my own Fat Girl Story.

October 2007

If you cannot tell already, music festivals are gonna be the death of me. There is nothing more I love than music, EXCEPT for consuming lots of alcohol while listening to music. I have a fear of large crowds, which is usually not assuaged unless I am absolutely shit-faced. This is why music festivals are endurance tests for me on the rare occasions when I do go to them. Or in this case, when they come right into my backyard- Lower East Side, NYC.

For five days every year, thousands of bands come down to the Lower East Side for an amazing event called the CMJ Music Marathon. For me this year though, the "marathon" involved (similar to Marathon Monday) had nothing to do with music. It's so hard for me to stand in a crowd and listen to loud music, loud applause, etc, without a drink in my hand. In this case, I just let my alcoholism run rampant, and drank each of the four nights I attended the festival. The first three nights, although full of good rock'n'roll and fun times, were relatively free of "Something's Always Wrong"-caliber stories. They were mostly just me stumbling around the Lower East Side, going from free show to free show. Some highlights from the first three nights:

-Walking into a local bar only because they served a shot called "Fuck Yeah Global Warming" I took it.

-Finding a tambourine at a bar, and since there was a solo artist performing, drunkenly deciding that he needed some "accompaniment". He was not amused by the drunk kid filling in on tambourine, and kindly dispatched one of his roadies to get me to "shut the fuck up with the damn tambourine" (Note: PA, from "Road Trip From Hell" was sitting right next to me when this happened. Somehow, since I no longer work for his company, he found it hilarious)

-Getting totally scammed yet again. Since I now consider myself a writer, I like to support other writers. But after about 10 PBRS, I could not draw the line. This guy came up to me and asked me to check out his book. It was called "The Passion of Sir Shizzle Monizzle". Looked funny at the time. So I bought it. It turned out to be a religious pamphlet disguised as a funny book. I desperately want my 2 bucks back. BASTARD!

But the final night was when the real action happened. Although I had drank three straight nights, one of the bands I had been waiting to see the whole time was playing an early show, I decided to start early and gun it for the rest of the night, daring the repercussions of the last three nights to catch up to me. Let's see how this turned out:

3:45 PM: I arrive on the LES scene. Since I know it's gonna be a long night, I grab a slice of pizza. The closest thing to a "meal" I will eat the rest of the day. I make sure it's completely out of my system, before I find it: The Fader Lounge. It is a relative heaven (living in NYC, anything that comes for cheap is paradise, and anything that comes free is Heaven), with FREE bands all afternoon, FREE Guitar Hero (the world's coolest video game) access, and most importantly, FREE Bud Lights and Southern Comfort punch cocktails all afternoon.

4:00: In celebration of this fact, I grab a free Bud at the bar area and announce, to no one at all: "4 in the afternoon, 4th straight night! Here we go baby!" before literally slamming it.

5:00: After a good hour of Guitar Hero and free Bud, I head over to the show I am there to see.

5:35: The band goes on. I will describe them as "Frat Metal". I don't mean in a sense that it's metal that frat boys like, I mean literally that there's an entire fucking fraternity onstage singing along to heavy metal tunes, while the "band" (guys with instruments) blaze through ferocious guitar solos and pounding riffs straight out of a Slayer song.

This combination of lots of guys onstage, very loud music, and a relatively small crowd (there were almost more people onstage than there were in the audience), makes me very happy. So happy, in fact, that I slam a few more beers. Remember, it's only 6PM we're talking about. The band's set is so intense that they only break for applause around 3 times. During one of which, I scream out "Crank That Soulja Boy" as a request. The band members, and everyone in the audience, just look at me confused. I get a good laugh from this (As of when I am writing this, October 2007, the "Soulja Boy" is an extremely popular song and dance among black people in America. But by the time you are reading this, and possibly even by next month, the dance will be long forgotten, faded into pop culture obscurity, somewhere between Alf and Unk).

By the time the band has ended their set, somewhere around 6:10, I am elated I had just seen such a cool show. This was, by far, the high point of the entire evening. As I would soon discover, when you're drunk at 6PM, it's all downhill from there. I began to walk back to the Fader Lounge, and noticed it was still light out and I was already stumbling. If it's Saint Patrick's day or a tailgate party or something and everyone else is getting as drunk around you, then its OK to be drunk this early. But if it is not, and everyone else is sober, coming home from work and whatnot, which they were at this time, it's a Screaming Red Flag.

6:20: Once I get back to the Fader Lounge it's on to the Soco and Punch cocktails.

6:35: I perch myself at the Guitar Hero console. Somehow, when your mind is slowing down as a result of alcohol, you become euphoric and think you're great at everything. In this case, I thought I was hitting all the right notes. "I am a Guitar Hero champion", I loudly proclaim.

7:00: After about five more Soco/Punch cocktails, I begin to feel drowsy. Keep in mind, this punch tasted great. It was one of the best-masked drinks I'd ever tasted. The alcohol in there was so well-masked that you could drink it straight for a while and everything's going good, then next thing you know it's five hours later, you're passed out on the street, you have no idea where you are, and all your shit is stolen.

7:15: I get a call from my supervisor at work. Our conversation goes like this:

Supervisor: Hi Scotty

Me (with loud music, loud chatter in background): Oh, supervisor, hey what's up man?

Supervisor: Are you OK? Just making sure you know you have a shift tomorrow night

Me: Oh yeah that sounds groovy man.

Supervisor: I can't hear you. Sounds like a lot of static. I will call back tomorrow. (click)

7:30: I find a cool chair to sit on.

7:45: I am napping. The Friday Happy Hour crowd has shuffled in and the room is packed. Yet no one seems to mind me taking a little catnap on the chair. I am so lucky no one jacked my shit. I credit this to the fact that they were giving away so much free stuff (CDs galore, handbags, magazines, etc) at the festival that people must have thought "ehh, what's another backpack? what's another Ipod?."

8 :00: I wake up, and play another half hour of Guitar Hero, while consuming even more Soco Punches.

8:30: The Lounge closes. It is time to go. By this point I was so drowsy, I just wanted to find a nice spot in a nice bar where I could just take another nice long nap and refresh myself for the night. After about 20 minutes wandering around, I found the perfect bar, a space which for the festival, had been transformed into "The Viper Room".

9:00: I walk into the bar, find a nice couch in front of the main room, and start my nap.

9:10: The bouncer shakes me a few times, tells me "you can't sleep here". OK, this is how drunk I was at the time. I figured I would take another drink. NOT WATER, which I should have done, but another drink, to keep myself awake. OK, it was drinking too much that was making me drowsy, and somehow in this state of mind, I was such a dumbass as to order another one. I look at the specials, and I see they have one for "Citron". I never had tried it before, and since it sounded like "citrus", I figured it was some kind of orange juice mix. But upon my first sip, I was horrified to find that it was STRAIGHT VODKA I was sipping.

9:15: Feeling bad about spending money on a drink that I did not know was fucking vodka, I chug as much as I feel safe at the time. Thankfully, since I had gotten that pizza out of my system hours earlier, I am in no danger of throwing up. However, I am about to hit a fucking wall, thank you citron. I go down to the basement, since I figure the bouncers can't find me down there. I find my little nook in the back of the basement.

9:20: I continue my nap, but soon, everything I had consumed today, as well as everything from the past three days, catches up to me all at once.

9:25: I am completely passed out in the basement of the "Viper Room".

10:10: I am disturbed by lots of lights and sounds. I feel massive shaking, almost like an earthquake.

10:15: I open my eyes, to see a massive bouncer, the same one who had awakened me before, shaking me violently and telling me I have had too much to drink. The room is crowded and there is a band onstage. As this point though, it was all flashing lights and colors. I had no idea where the fuck I am. Is this the Fader Lounge? Is this Madison Square Garden? Am I dreaming all of this? It takes around 5 more minutes of continued shaking to get me back to my senses. After that, the bouncer gives up on shaking and simply yanks me up with one massive pull, telling me to leave and never come back. At this point I am still dazed and confused, stumbling through the crowded room. People are pushing and shoving me- I hear one "Get the fuck away from me you drunk, I'm trying to hear this band" before I finally reach the stairs towards the exit. I am most likely banned from this bar for life. Whatever. Fuck them.

10:25: If I were any normal person, I would have packed it in for the night, considering the fact that I had just passed out at a bar. But not me. Earlier, I had gotten a call from my buddy 'Sportskid" telling me he had an open bar uptown from 11 to 12. At this point I figure fuck, I've had enough of the whole music festival scene. I might as well go to a place where normal 9-to-5 people such as Sportskid- normal, citizens-of-the-working-class people, are getting drunk. And the venue where he had an open bar was one of those places. I figure that everyone else is getting so wasted that they wouldn't notice my haphazard condition. Boy I was wrong.

11:00: The first thing Sportskid says to me when I show up there is "Man, you are not in good shape". And coming from this guy, that means a lot. Just a little background on Sportskid. Out of all of my buddies, he has seen me drunk the most times, beginning in college, and continuing in Manhattan. He has probably witnessed 9 of my 10 worst drinking binges (including the previous New Year's, when he assisted my mom in carrying my lifeless, vomit-soaked body up a full flight of stairs and tossing me into bed. THAT's bad).

11:15: After slamming 5 or 6 beers himself, to unwind from a full week doing actual work, Sportskid has a change of heart. "You know what man, fuck it. Get yourself a beer" he tells me. So I saunter up to the bar for perhaps the 1200th time today and wait in line for about 5 minutes before the bartender takes one look in my eyes and says "Uh uh kid, we can't serve you"

11:20: After arguing with her for five more minutes, she finally gives me water. A few girls waiting in line demand to sniff my drink, just to make sure it's water and not vodka. They are concerned. Hmm, maybe that's something I should have done earlier, if my dumb ass wasn't too drunk to see.

11:40: After reviewing the situation, Sportskid hands me a beer.

12:00 AM: Sportskid tells me that he was planning to stay in the city and drink with me for awhile, but after seeing my condition, he is planning to take the next train home from Penn. Once again, leaving me alone in this frazzled state.

12:30: After Sportskid leaves, I stumble into yet another bar in this neighborhood. This one is a rock bar where they are playing music loud enough that people might not notice my condition. I walk to the back of the bar, where there is a lounge area. Uh oh, you know what's coming next.

12:40: I am resting in the lounge area, eyes half shut. In danger of passing out yet again.

1:00: With my eyes barely open, I notice that there is a stripper pole in the lounge area, extending to the 20-foot high ceiling. Then, wait a second, I notice there is a girl ON THE CEILING. She has somehow climbed all the way up the pole, and is doing gymnastics on the ceiling. Somehow, this gravity-defying spectacle is enough to snap me out of my alcohol-addled trance. When I wake up fully, she is gone. After a few more minutes of pondering whether I had really witnessed such a feat of athleticism, the music takes control over me. I begin to dance.

1:30: After a half-hour of dancing, I finally get the balls to get another glass of water. And another slice of pizza next door.

1:45: I am in a cab home

2:15: My dad is yelling something to me, something about me slamming the door when hes sleeping or making too much noise upon my entrance. Whatever. I am passed out again, but On My Own Bed! Awesome. Rock N Roll.