"Caveman Day"

This tale is powered by lots of Budweiser, so insert all typos up yer butt...

Thanks to work and school keeping me busy, I get one day off for the month of July, so I decided to make it worthwhile. I wasn't exactly sure what sounded like fun to do, but I knew that excessive amounts of alcohol were definitely going to factor into the situation. I didnt think I'd be able to out-do last year's July 4th festivities, when I found myself drinking beer with my pals Brian and Jayne while we stood in front of police barricades in the East Village while the stench of civil unrest hung heavily in the summer air. No matter what the case, I planned to pack a month's worth of drunken antics into twenty-four hours. It wasn't going to be easy, but I was severely up for the challenge.

Since I had (somehow) made a last-minute deadline for a Shakespearean argumentative analysis paper, only by hammering at the keyboard for almost twelve hours straight and forging numerous references and attributions, I decided to crash for a few hours and re-gain my drinking stamina. The "few hours" turned into ten, and when I woke up at four in the morning, my thirst for swill was as strong as ever. I brewed my version of a morning cup of coffee (Chivas and water) and flipped on the TV. Thank you, CNN, for the usual: two human interest stories, an Independence Day piece, more dirt on the president, and more diluted information about the recent rash of church burnings to plague the U.S.

Six hours, my weekly shower, a change of clothes and several drinks later, I had a decent buzz working and began calling people to determine where the holiday festivities were gonna happen. I left several messages for various drunkards in the area and finally got ahold of my best friends, Mark and his brother Mitch, the second guitar player and bassist for Smack Romantic, respectively. Fortunately, they hadn't made any plans and didn't have a gig that night, so we decided that we would sit around their house, swill beer, barbecue meat and talk shit all afternoon. Caveman Day was in the works.

I agreed to supply the barbecue mechanism and beer, and Mark & Mitch agreed to provide the meat and the location for the festivities. I went to a local grocery and wrote a bad check for two cases of beer, some charcoal and some Polish-style sausages, in case the other meat ran out prematurely. I returned home and loaded all the morning's acquisitions into my piece-o-shit car and headed southbound at seventy on I-35.

When I arrived in Norman (the sleepy college-town-type place responsible for my first official night in the drunk tank), I headed towards the Smack Romantic house/studio/crash pad and parked out front. I grabbed a case of beer in each hand, walked to the front door and began ramming the door with the beer, battering-ram style.

"Fuck off!" someone inside yelled-- my cue to open the door and peer inside.

I opened the door, displayed the beer and was allowed into the house, where a few people were sitting around watching TV and having their morning beers. Mark greeted me, took the beer from me to put in the refrigerator and advised I have a seat, as the rest of the house's occupants weren't yet awake. I cleared some space on the clothes and Hustler Magazine-covered couch, sat down and opened another beer. Mark advised that the ëfridge was already well-stocked, beer-wise, but that we could replace each cold can with a new one and that it wouldn't be too much of a problem. Having too much beer has never, ever been a problem with me!

A few friends from the "old days" heard I was in town, as they each stopped by with their newest respective girlfriends for me to check out. I must admit, there are some decent new models on the showroom, heh heh, and with relatively few miles on ëem as well! I drunkenly commented to my old friend Rustin, who'd stopped by with his girlfriend to say hello (they were out biking) that I'd really like the opportunity to smell his girlfriend's bicycle seat. Tasteless, tacky, trashed...

Rustin got a strange gleam in his eye-- a gleam that I haven't seen in about four years. I immediately sensed something was not right. Oh shit, I thought, Rustin's gonna beat my ass again, and I hadn't told a single Scot joke that day! I tensed my stomach, expecting not to even see his punch coming, as my sense were pretty numb by that time.

Rustin lunged for me and I tensed, partially because I was in no shape to fight and partially because I had opened a fresh beer not ten seconds before making the comment about his girlfriend and most certainly didn't want to drop a newly-opened beer.

His weight hit mine. My eyes slammed shut in a naturally defensive movement and I was ready to be rendered horizontal.

Instead, I was hoisted into the air, on my side, still holding the beer (naturally!), and was being cradled. Disoriented, my eyes jerked open and I could hear Rustin both screaming and laughing. Again, he had fooled me and I was being carried like a baby, or a drunk, or both, around the front yard.

"Grab the camera! Grab the fucking camera!" someone yelled.

Though it was somewhat difficult, I managed to pour the beer through the air and catch most of it in my mouth as Rustin was parading me around the front yard, while screaming, "Drunkard!" over and over at the top of his lungs. I expected some of the neighbors to wander outside onto their porches to see what all the noise was about, but Mark later told me that a lot of noise and screaming in nothing new on their block, so that answered my question.

The drunken fervor of the mood was, indeed, captured on film before someone handed the camera back to me and I, in my drunken stupor, dropped it.

I thanked Rustin for not beating the hell out of me and he observed that I haven't changed a bit-- I'm still the same sarcastic, obnoxious, drunken, perverted sumbitch that he's always known, which really made me feel good because I was afraid there for a while that I was beginning to mature and start accepting responsibilities, etc.

A few more old friends stopped by to extend 4th-o-July wishes, and then we began cooking the meat...

By the time the meat was cooked and ready to eat, Mark, Mitch and I were beginning to enter the realm of the severely intoxicated. We each definitely needed to eat if we were going to make it to sundown, when we planned to head over to a local park to see a fireworks display.

The three of us sat peacefully in the living room, though I'm relatively certain it wasn't a pretty picture. Envision three very drunk guys, each holding a large rib or similar severed portion of a farm animal in one hand, a beer in the other hand, watching porno movies, while trying to out-gross one another with a cacophony of burps, farts, and tasteless comments in general...lovely, I know.

Oh yeah, for the record, I think I won the portion for the best comment during a porno movie's cum-shot when I burped (loudly) and had a piece of meat fly out of my mouth while shouting, "Yeah, goddamnit! Eat yer fuckin' dinner, bitch!" as the woman on the TV screen imbibed several squirts of the male's semen.

Ahh, yes...Caveman Day was well at hand.

Since we three were still pretty trashed after having eaten, we decided to take naps and let our bodies filter out some of the alcohol that was slowing our systems. As we sat on the couches, our eyelids growing ever-heavy, I decided that I was not going to spend my one day of the month off asleep. I jumped up, grabbed a beer and shouted, "Fuck this! Let's jam!"

Since we *were* sitting in the middle of a combination house/rehearsal studio, we decided that the best thing to awaken ourselves would be a nice, noisy, drunken jam session, just like the ones we had in the "old days," except that none of the equipment was stolen, for a change. Mark strapped on his guitar and plugged in, as did Mitch with his bass; I jumped behind the drums, grabbed two of the sticks and began beating the shit out of any drum head or cymbal that dared get in my way.

i Mitch later said that I was actually a pretty good drummer, despite the fact that I had to frequently stop playing in order to drink more beer. But the practice house was unconditioned and was therefore extremely hot, I argued, and pounding drums was no easy task, especially when the drummer's seeing two of everything!

We improvised a few G.G. Allin songs, including "Cunt-Sucking Cannibal" and "Suck My Ass, It Smells," as well as a few others whose names escape me at the moment, and continued swilling beer until the sun went down.

When nighttime finally set in, we knew it was almost time for the fireworks. Especially punctuating the nightfall was the arrival of Brian, Jayne, and Gail, who arrived with more beer, thankfully, as our reserves were running alarmingly low. We somehow crammed all the beer into two huge coolers and set out for the park.

My memory at this particular point is hazy at best, so I accept no responsibility whatsoever.

The fireworks show was okay, I think, as I spent most of the time in line to piss. I do, however, distinctly recall striking up a conversation with a redneck in from of me in the line, who, through the course of our discussion, advised that if I ever made it over to Germany, there are women over there who will (for a nominal fee) allow me to lay on the floor with a piece of plexiglass over my face, while the woman squats over me and defecates. I asked the man if he had witnessed such a thrilling event. He said that he hadn't, but rather had, "only heard about it." Yeah, right.

I finally got to piss, caught up with the rest of the group and we headed back to the house to drink more beer.

I specifically recall what events led up to this point, but I remember sitting on the porch in the thick summer air with everyone and the topic turned to accepting dares. In our drunken hazes, we dared one another to perform stupid and menial tasks for the enjoyment of others, and then Brian turned to me and smiled.

"Hey Joel, are you drunk?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, I believe I am," I replied.
"I dare you to get naked," Brian said.
"Naw, it's not gonna be like that," I began. "Not this year."
"You pussy!" Mitch screamed. "Go on! I double-dog-dare you to get naked!"

So I didn't.

I calmly stood and began unlacing my boots. Brian and Mitch started laughing, as they didn't think I would strip past my boxers. Their laughs turned into semi-shocked groans of disbelief when I handed my boxers to Mitch's girlfriend to hold for me, and sat casually on the porch having a conversation with her, while I was totally naked.

One thing in particular stands out in my mind-- Mitch's girlfriend maintained constant eye contact with me during the conversation, despite my asking her repeatedly to look down for the hell of it. I think perhaps out of respect for Mitch (or sheer embarrassment for me), she didn't.

In any case, I felt much better, as it was a hot, humid night outside and the absence of any clothes sure made the weather much more bearable. Plus, I was able to efficiently harass the shit outta everyone there by walking around naked, until Mark finally began screaming, "Goddamnit, you drunkard! Put some clothes on!" I opted to put on some running shorts I'd brought along, though I intentionally allowed my weenie to hang out for a while longer.

It was, after all, a double-dog-dare.

I'd say it was a pretty good 4th-o-July. Lots of beer, barbecued meat, pornos, flatulence and belching, fireworks, more beer, punk rock and me running around naked for a while.

I'm glad the Fourth of July still means something-- Caveman Day!

Cheers!
JOEL