Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
Monday, May 22, 2006
Meisters, Part II
So where was I before I realized that modern attention spans are roughly the same as an over-caffeinated Yorkshire terrier and stopped writing? Oh yes, my friends and I had just duct taped the car back together and resumed our voyage to exotic Myrtle Beach. Right.
So when we got to the town proper, the freeway dumped us onto the main drag, crowded with teens driving low-rider trucks and blaring "Funky Cold Medina" at full volume. We took a left and drove to our hotel on the northern side of town, by which time the crowds had really pretty much petered out. If there was one central location in town where all the hot parties were happening and all the incredibly hot (and slutty, let's not forget slutty) girls hung out, we were basically as far away from it as we could be and still be in city limits.
No, for us, there were no Cuervo reps tossing out free tequila. There were not wet t-shirt contests. There were no hoards of local girls begging us to do body shots off of them. I did stumble across a bonfire one night, which was nice. But, if I'm absolutely honest with myself, I guess I didn't mind not being in the center of things. I've always hated huge crowds. I'm too gutless to ever have dreamed of sneaking into a bar while I was underage. I was, at that point, a virgin and wouldn't have known what to do with a vagina if I'd had someone calling out instructions through a megaphone.
We had a mellower Spring Break than your stereotypical MTV-style vomit-fest. We had plenty of alcohol with us and we drank it. We sat by the pool. We played tons of frisbee on the beach. We went to a miniature golf course. We saved money by eating cold cans of ravioli that we'd brought along to help stretch our travel budget that much further. (I remember that we had the world's most ineffective can opener and I grew increasingly frustrated with it over the course of our trip, at one point abandoning it in favor of smashing the can repeatedly with a rock.) We had a pretty good time.
There was a group of cute, nice girls on the same floor of the hotel as us and some of the guys hung out with them. I didn't, as there were three of them and five of us and I was always a student of the "no, you go ahead" school of female pursuit. I don't think the two of us who put in the most time with the girls were rewarded with anything overly promiscuous anyway.
The thing is, if we'd wanted to, we could've taken the time to drive south into the downtown area where all the really heavy partying was being done. This was proved possible by the three classmates of ours who drove down a day after us and crashed on our floor for free. I was not happy about this, especially as one of them was Mike VanCise, who I'd always thought was kind of a dick. He may have eventually grown into a wonderful person, but during high school, he was the type of guy who would horn in on your Spring Break plans and not chip in for the room and then help himself to the condoms you'd bought in a fever of optimism just because he actually had an opportunity to use them and you wouldn't need even one, much less a twelve pack. You know, that type of guy.
So our gate-crashing friends were doing the more traditional Spring Break. Actually, my friend Jason, driver of the wheel-popping whaling ship, didn't stick around the hotel as much as the other four of us, either. He accompanied Mike and the other floor-dwellers out a couple of nights. He also met a girl at some point during our trip and was, I believe, the only one of the five of us to have Spring Break sex. He really was the type of guy who could get laid in a convent, so it wasn't, I don't think, any great accomplishment for him.
The closest I came was the night I took a sulky, depressed walk down the beach and stumbled across a group of kids hanging out in front of their hotel. A girl in the group asked me a question (which might have been, "What kind of impact does mass production have on a mostly agrarian society?", but I don't honestly remember) that I took the time to stop and timidly answer. I remember thinking that, if she was talking to me, she was most likely making fun of me. But I stopped and talked anyway. Talking led to hanging out, which led to me going back to my hotel and grabbing a couple of beers, which I brought back to her hotel. We hung out for awhile longer and then I asked if I could kiss her. I am the sort of utter loser who asked girls before I kissed them. She said okay and we touched our tongues together for a few minutes before she passed out. It was an erotic carnival.
Anyway, that was about as good as it got for me, romantically. Which, I think, may have put me as high as number two out of the five of us. Nope, mostly that trip for me was drinking, swimming and watching Satisfaction on the free cable in our room. We must have watched that movie four or five times.
Which is why all of this has been dredged up for me the last few days. HBO, for some freaky reason, showed Satisfaction last week and I DVR'd it. Ye Gods, it's awful. First off, somebody let Justine Bateman sing. Then there's the script, which appears to have been written by a committee of kindergarten students. It's a movie, you see, about a group of hardscrabble kids from New Jersey, or some similar hardscrabble place. They steal a van and chase their dream to a beach community where Liam Neeson--who I can only assume took the part to pay back a gambling debt--hires them to play at his nightclub. Romance and bad music ensue. And somehow, Julia Roberts, Trini Alvarado and Debbie Harry all managed to get acting work after audiences saw this chunk, which shows just how forgiving the American public is.
But during our trip, we loved it. We lusted after Justine Bateman. We sang along when they did their dynamite cover of "Iko, Iko". We were drunk, I think.
Not "Kegmeisters" drunk. In fact, the trip bore very little resemblance to what we'd expected. But I can say that I went on a Spring Break trip. Once.