Remember When…
If you grew up in the Midwest, by the time you hit the 8th
grade one of your friends’ stoner brothers had at one point turned you on to America’s
greatest classic rock band – Dave Matthews or DMB or the symbol “dancing
Nancy” if you were an expert. After years of making the 2 hour trek up to
Wisconsin’s beautiful Alpine valley (and by beautiful I mean a soggy ass hill
made wet by gallons of cheap beer, underage tears, and hot hormonal piss) Ti
Bag and I were coming up on our 13th concert, and had had enough of
the tie dye and the bong hits and the three hour electric violin sessions. The
jig was up and well, senior year we were not jumping off the Dave Matthews
satellite bridge just because everyone else was.
As time grew near and the heat of the Chicago summer became
further unbearable, we caved. Our plan was to join our caravan of 20-something
idiotic friends and enjoy the 2 day festival without tickets to either show. The day to take off came and we
packed my Mom’s Navigator with enough weed, pringles, and Natty Light to keep
Snoop Dogg’s entourage chill for a week.
We rolled into the green pastured parking lot listening
to Dave, and cheersing beers to Dave, while hitting a sweet bong, well, named
Dave. We set up camp, tailgating like hundreds of others and began to party. Too many beer bongs later, the sun was in the air and we began to sweat. Our buzzes turned into
sloppy drunks as we all zombied into the arena dehydrated but with bladders full of
fizzy draft. Suddenly in our foggy haze Ti Bag and I remembered – shit, we didn't have tickets. WHAT A COUPLE OF IDIOTS! I didn't drive all the way here
and loan out my Mom’s car for clam bake sessions and secret midnight hand jobs
with strangers for nothing. Our friends waved a boozey good bye as they coughed
and sputtered into the show – Ti and I stood in front of the metal detectors
and watched on longingly like small disappointed children, still too short to ride the
Iron Wolf.
Back to the Navigator we went hand in and hand across the hot
muddy grounds, cursing our choice AND our stupidity at gambling away our doc
martins to a couple of underfed hippies who wanted to arm wrestle. Let’s try
and jump a fence, she said. No, we aren't that tall. Let’s try and run right
past security, I chirped. No, none of them are cute enough to search our lady
parts in case we got caught. Make a party of our own until our friends exit the
show after Dave’s 3rd encore, of the same song, lasting 90 minutes
or more, most likely involving a remix version of “Back to Being Friends?” YES!
High fives all around.
We now had several hours and a couple of acres of land to
wreak havoc on. We put our sweaty heads together and thought, “WWAGD”,
what would a groupie do? Suddenly it came to us - Steal all the beeeeers! And
that’s just what we did. We ran back to the Nav and grabbed 2 kids’ sleeping
bags from the back trunk as booze holders. (Side note: Either one of our guy friends planned on
luring 12-year-olds back to our camp ground for a “s’more” or these guys were
packing their sweaty ass balls into the same hot cum sacks they’d been using
since their camp counselor touched them in Indian Guides) Either way the bags
were thin and light and could hold a lot of goodies. What are goodies you may ask? Please reference the
below video as we begin this montage (Goodies Montage)
We decided to first crack into broken down broncos and pick-up
trucks with open tail gates. The dumpier the car, the drunker the
customer, the more likely they were to leave the goods outside. Full cases of warm
PBR and unopened plastic bottles of Skol plus a few unsmoked one hitters left us
elated. This lot was our oyster and the beers were ours for the taking. Once
our sacks became too weighed down we ran back to the Nav and dumped our
jewels. The first round was successful but we knew we could do better.
Next it was onto family style vehicles: explorers, mini vans,
and a few safe dependable Hondas donned with “Proud Cary Grove Mom” stickers on
the back window. Suddenly our loot appreciated in value. We began to delight in
the world of Bud light, Miller light, Marlboro light and weed that no longer resembled
cat nip or old man dryer lint. Our bags began to overfloweth with a variety of
middle class libations. Once full we dumped the sacks, then
headed out on our most important mission.
Our last trek out we decided to hit the richies – Beamer, Benz,
or Bentley, my cup is never empty. OK but let’s get real – this place is filled
with a bunch of smooth move hippies raging on a hill who hate the man and
refuse to manscape. The nicest vehicle on the lot was my Mom’s. The next best
option included a few rogue land rovers, 1 Saab (douche) and a smattering of
Audis driven by 18-year-olds who jacked their Dad’s car, in hopes of getting pussy. These
were the gold mines: Handles of Absolute, boxes of 100’s on the passenger seat,
actual potted plants fresh for the taking, and full coolers bursting at the seams
with clean chilled gas station ice and an assortment of Coronas. There was even
a satchel of limes neatly diced. That’s it – we had taken it all and we were
exhausted: Our bare feet cracked and full of mud, our fingers and palms burned
raw from pulling the kiddy sleeping bags across the half grassed lot. We
arrived back at the Nav and unloaded our earnings then began to count our stock.
As I got up to beer 192, I heard a Pssst from behind me. I
turned in the dark and was face to face with a couple bros: 2 brunette
brothers, around the age of 30, one swaying awkwardly and looking like he could
yack at any minute. Shit, we’d been caught and now we were going to jail for,
well, stealin all the beeeeers! I started stuttering as I tried to explain the
madness behind our thievery when the bro who didn't look like he was going to
yack presented us with 2 tickets. You want them – My brother’s pretty sick.
SURE! How about $20 for both. ABSOLUTELY. I dove into my purse and handed them
the dough. We immediately locked up the Nav, slicked a quick bra, then sprinted
toward the metal detectors. We were let into the concert immediately as I jumped on my hot
pink Nokia and called the troops.
Halfway past the sluts to the right and the Abercrombie models
to my left we found our friends, bobbing and swaying to the white people
grooves. Dave was still playing “Please Bartender” and we rounded out the
chorus with him. Finally, we were in the show, with our peeps, where we
belonged. I inhaled the green smoke and the beer and the sweat and realized it
would be my last time standing among friends, enjoying the Crash album live
frontsies and backsies. (To explain: Dave likes to play the Crash album in
order from song 1-10, then mixes it
up by taking it home, song 10-1. It’s always a crowd pleaser and only takes 6 ½
hours to get through)
I finally felt relaxed after my 2 hour Cross Fit work out, closed my eyes and devoured the music. Just when I thought I had finally entered my zone I felt thick arms and shoulders encompass my legs. Suddenly I
was lifted over someone’s head, and thrown over their shoulder like a sack of
beeeeers. Without even getting a glimpse at the mad man’s face, the thick tree trunks
below me began their long gallant sprint down the hill as I bumped along behind
shrieking and crying for help. With my arms outstretched and fingers extended I
prayed someone, anyone, would STOP the wild stranger before we Crashed (no pun
intended) or I peed.
With no one in sight to help I accepted my fate of death at
Dave. Really I deserved it. I had just looted every car, truck and cooler in
the vicinity. I was going to die here – on this hill, wearing bad denim. Before my
perfect accomplished life had time to flash before my eyes, I saw a blonde boy
bound down the hill, jaw open and arms swimming freely. Suddenly his limbs
extended ten feet and his hands flew out like inspector gadget – the BFG was on
the move and the gourd under my hips had no idea. I felt the gentle giants’
long fingers slip under my arms as he ripped me away from the ogre, tucking my body under his pits like airmail, then sprinted back up the hill to safety on legs longer than
most. He placed me back at my rightful spot on the grass and handed me a beer. Dave had just concluded a
long winded yodel embellishment then jumped straight into “Back to Being Friends”. I threw my arms in the air, exuberant. (Side note: We get it, Dave. You’re pals who want to fuck but still remain friends in
the morning when you wake up awkwardly next to each other, yet you still want to kick the bitch out before french toast time. Just be honest with her and stop with the tom foolery poetry.)
When the show ended, we all walked back to the lot and piled into my SUV, people
gasped and questioned the stolen goods on board. Plastic and aluminum and glass
were practically toppling out of every door and window. To fix the situation we
each began our own personal journey of alleviating some space. Pop, twist,
uncork, pour: Sooner than later items were eliminated as we stretched out and
made room for limbs to sit and buckles to belt. Our 18 year old bodies
intertwined as we smoked and laughed and threw cartel out onto the grassy floor. Hey Waz,
it’s too quiet in here, yelled one of our friends. I reached over to the CD player and turned on
Dave as I took a pull from the bottle of Skol. No one complained. It was the last time.
Cheers to Beer Kidnap and Summers Ending,
WAZ
WAZ
No comments:
Post a Comment