I LoVermont
It was a Deep Creek weekend.
I was 19 this weekend, and it felt fan-fucking tastic. Partying in a rented-out house in the hills of Vermont with 13 amazing people and more booze and mind-altering substances than a Cyprus Hill concert. It's good to be young.
When I was 19 a bunch of my freshman year friends and I spent a weekend in Deep Creek, Maryland. Population 52, I think. Today that weekend is a giant blur in my mind, much like this weekend will be 7 years from now. I remember bits and pieces. I remember buying a 30-pack of
Natural Bohemian at the local gas station and it costing $8.99. I remember standing on the deck with my girlfriend Meredith and being completely aware that it was going to be one of those moments that I'd never forgot. And I remember bbq-ing, running around the big back yard with no pants on, playing an intense game of Asshole, and singing "Piano Man" at the top of my lungs at 4:30 in the morning. That's what Deep Creek weekends are all about, and unfortunately they're a whole lot easier to come by when you're 19 than when you're in your mid-20's.
I knew that when Dan's cousin Big Al invited me along to a weekend getaway in Vermont it would be one of those weekends. I also knew it was going to be in February, right around the time I started a new job and when the Post Show would be back in full swing. I should have said no, especially when I found out the gang was leaving on Friday morning and coming back Monday night. But I didn't. Maybe I was experiencing a mid-midlife crisis or something, but then and there I decided that there was no way I would miss this Deep Creek weekend. I compromised-- I took off Friday, but forced myself to leave at 5:30 in the morning Monday-- and luckily everything worked out. And I definitely made the right decision.
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"All I do is listen to Pavement and think about the early 90's."
That was the first thing I said to
Dan as I turned off my iPod and approached his car in Hoboken on Friday morning. I then told him I wasn't going to get in the car unless (a) we listened to nothing but music made from 1990-1996 on the ride up, and (b) he promised he would have a detailed discussion with me about grunge music and the effect it had on a generation of awkward 13-year-olds who just started appreciating music at its peak. We did both.
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We would have made it to our destination in record time were it not for the fact that the directions ended a mile short of where we were supposed to end up. Being a mile away from a place you've never been before in the middle of Vermont as the sun is setting and the roads are freezing and you have absolutely no cell phone service has all the makings of a bad horror film. At one point when Dan got out of the car to ask somebody for directions I thought it'd be funny to steal his ID and put it in my wallet. That way, later in the weekend, when we went to a bar and he reached to pull it out it wouldn't be there and he'd freak out. Seemed like a funny idea. However, as time passed and we weren't any closer to finding the house and it started feeling more and more like we were going to eventually be forced to run through the snowy woods to get away from a vicious axe murderer, I decided it'd be best to fess up and give him his ID back. Just in case.
We never found the house. Instead, we found another car doing the same thing we were doing, and eventually we found Big Al. Or Big Al found us. He lead us to the place-- which was incredible-- and the weekend began.
There was drinking. There was smoking. There was flip cup, beer pong, Asshole, and Golf (the card game. The one that involves drinking, not putting.) I woke up Saturday morning wondering where I was exactly and how I got into bed. I'll never know the answer to the latter. I have no problem with that.
Leading up to the weekend I talked a lot about skiing. I've only been skiing twice in my life... with varying results. The first time I ever hit the slopes I bet my friends I wouldn't fall. I just had a feeling that I'd be a natural. I was right. I didn't fall once (except for a ski-lift incident that I'd rather not get into), and by the end of the day I was tackling the Intermediate slopes with no problem. I was a pro. The second time I went skiing, about a year later, I cracked two ribs. I guess I wasn't as natural as I thought. But cracking my ribs taught me two things: 1. don't get cocky when you've only had limited success with something, and 2. don't go down a black diamond when you're really not all too good at stopping or controlling your speed. I haven't done either since.
Anyway, all of my ski talk was for naught. I didn't go skiing-- hell, I barely touched snow all weekend-- even though I still plan on telling everybody at work that I did. I don't think I can justify going to Vermont for a weekend and drinking in a SKI LODGE all day Saturday without actually going skiing. So I'm going to lie. You heard it here first.
The bar at the ski lodge-- Cuzzins-- was one of the highlights of the trip. We spent a few hours there drinking buckets and buckets of beer and singing along with a comedian/performer/entertainer/god,
Bruce Jacques. This guy was unbelievable. He was like a cruise ship performer without a boat who stopped updating his act in 1994. With the exception of a 45 second "My Humps" bit, the second most up-to-date parody he did was Eddie Vedder singing "Jeremy." Wig and all. Amazing. He also dressed up like Madonna (wig, cone bra), Devo (glasses, flower pot), Bon Jovi (wig, tights), and Axl Rose (wig, drug problem.) When you're in Vermont you have no choice but to embrace this sort of thing, and I totally did.
Saturday night I was the first one to pass out. I don't remember everybody coming into the room and singing 3 Ace of Base songs at the top of their lungs to wake me up, either. Apparently it happened and apparently it's on video. Apparently.
Sunday I learned a lot. I learned that when you plan on leaving Vermont at 10pm after the Superbowl it's inevitably going to start snowing. I learned that convincing a drunk girl to run around with a bucket on her head while everybody chants "Buckethead! Buckethead!" is never going to get old. I learned that I only enjoy Bob Marley when I'm officially "fucked up" and that watching an attractive girl sing along to Tom Petty only makes her that much more attractive. And I learned that if you're a girl who drunkenly makes me something to eat at 3 o'clock in the morning there's a 96% chance I'm going to propose to you and only kind of be kidding.
Going to work Monday on an hour-and-a-half of sleep was rough. I was miserable. In part because I was exhausted, and in part because the weekend was over. I don't have any more Deep Creek weekends on the horizon... but I guess I'm not supposed to. A wise man once said "you can't be 19 forever."
I think.
Right?
Isn't that a quote or something?
I really have no clue,
I could be making it up.
Yeah.
I'm still drunk.
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b at 7:06 PM
