The ice storm which decended unexpectedly early this morning has saved me from the chore of attending our annual meeting today (and possibly tomorrow). I hope all of the folks from our fairer-weather offices are enjoying this big piece of Midwestern cock in the ass. Perhaps management will now revisit holding the annual meeting in a geographic location with fairer weather (Vega$$$ was always a fun trip). However, this pause in the action has given me cause to remember one of the more interesting ice storms from years past.
It was December 1992--junior year of college. Fall Quarter ended right before Thanksgiving, but I was back on campus to take part in a sponsored fellowship program. The program was designed to give college students (namely, liberal arts types who would have few--if any--real-world skills upon graduation) some exposure to higher academia. I know my choices upon graduation were library science, a Masters/PhD program and law school. Whoops. Poor planning.
As part of the program, we were supposed to read a text and then discuss it over the next two days in small groups led by one of the regular faculty. Despite having several weeks to read the book, I had decided that my evenings were better spent at the bar downing vodka iced tea ("Ice Picks" were what we called them due to the effect they had on the head the next morning), drinking Milwaukee's Best (fully-leaded, NOT light) while playing SNES (NCAA College Basketball and PGA Tour Golf), pulling tubes and using the whipped cream dispenser (nitrous cartridges, no cream). In my defense, I was just coming off of my single greatest colossal fucking-up of a relationship ever, so all forms of escapism were welcomed. But that is another story for another day.
By the time D-Day rolled around, I had read exactly zero out of 200+ pages of text. Truly commendable, even for me. Luckily, our small-group instructor was a Psychology teacher, and one of the coller profs on the faculty to boot. So, about three minutes into the discussion, I flip the text to some page in the first chapter, scan a few lines, and then proceed to ask a question about absolute reality versus perceived reality (or some other intellectual masturbatory bullshit that had nothing to do with the discussion). After two hours of lively debate haing nothing to do with the text, class was dismissed. Score one for the hedonists.
On to Phase II. As part of this fellowship program, we went to a major university with a significant PhD presence in liberal arts fields. I don't want to give away too much detail here, but let's just say it was in a City in Iowa. Sadly, seeing some of the PhD candidates languishig for what seemed an interminable sentence (one guy had been there eight years!) probably turned me off to academia. Or maybe that was a good thing. Hard to tell some day. The only notable mention portion of this trip was hitting an indie record store and snagging the CDs from which the music in this Comment was ripped. I must say that my musical jusgment has always been fairly decent, mental state notwithstanding.
So, we finally make it back from that University in that City in Iowa. It was about 7PM, so Ripper (not his real name, but the name he went by) and I decided to go to the "classy" bar in town and drink Ice Picks. At this point, we notice that it is starting to mist and temps are falling. It was only five or six blocks to le bar, so no bother. After our second round, we came to the conclusion that DOUBLE Ice Picks was a much better idea. Hell, we could have been drinking straight vodka at that point. We were having a grand time, exchanging petulant liberal arts student stories (he was a high-IQ "whoops" kid; I was a high-IQ "firstborn"; differing thoughts on psychotherapy; tits versus ass; bong versus joint; all the high points).
Well, $90 and three hours later or so, we were pretty well-lit. The server was a friend of ours, so most of the two singles 10 drinks we each consumed were on the house; needless to say, the tip was 80% of the bill. So, Ripper and I walked--skated, more like it--back to the TKE house.
Editor's Note: I was not a TKE, but I was friends with many TKEs in college. I often caught a lot of shit from my own house for being so ecumenical in my taste in friends. The crosses we must bear...
Unfortunately, upon returning to the TKE house, we learned that my best friend, Tim (this is Tim from "Tim and Tony and the Jello room" from a recent Music post--yet ANOTHER story to be told later) was being called home by his father for good. Evidently his C average was not sufficient to justify the amount of drinking, smoking and drugging that was taking place, at least not for the son of a prestigious East Coast private gentlemen's prepatory academy.
Naturally, being the somber, emo kids that we were, we just moped around and cried. Oh, wait, that was someone else. We (there were about 16 people hanging out) passed the hat, took half of the money to the liquor store and took the other half to a local...peddler of eccentricities and such. Holy fucking blowout, Batman. I do not know what time we stopped, but I know it was before sunrise because I did not remember getting blinded by the light when I exited for my own residence at the end of the fete.
Mind you, the freezing rain had continued steadily throughout the whole night. There was a good half-inch of ice or more on the ground by the time I left. Of course, being the keen observer of the obvious that I was (and still am, apparently), I noticed a case of Mountain Dew by the door on my way out. Of course, this was a palette-style case (single layer of cans in a flimsy cardboard box), but I had it covered: I had mad skills. I also had some kleptomania issues that surfaced when I was wasted. So there I am, taking baby steps, traversing the treacherous 100 feet or so back to my house of ill repute, case of Mountain Dew balanced in one hand, Camel filter hanging off my lip a la Keith Richards, beer in hand. I was amazed that I made it without issue.
When I awoke the next...afternoon, I had quite the splitting headache. This one was weird. It wasn't on the temple or in the medulla region or a frontal love stabbing. Rather, I felt like there was a knife sticking out of my eyebrow. Well, after sucking down a couple Camels--but unable to find that fucking Mountain Dew!--I went to find something to drink to wash down the handfull of Tylenol that were most necessary. After digging up a clean cup and stumbling to the bathroom, everything became illuminated.
The gash ran most of the way across my left eyebrow. I think the scar is still there--if I ever go Bob Geldof as "Pink" and shave them off, I'll see if I can get a picture. Somehow or another, the wound was closed, and the scab was not all that noticeable. I guess leaving the window to my room open (I had a heated waterbed) was an inadvertent win for me. And now I remembered where that fucking soda was. Sure enough, 24 scattered cans of Mountain Dew were scattered about the stoop of the house. And there was the empty beer can and the half-smoked cigarette. And there, glistening in the almost-winter sun, was the corner of the stoop covered in a frozen streak of my blood.
The best part about that night? That only rated about a five on a scale of 10, with 10 being completely obliterated. Again, other stories for other times.
