The Aliad, Unrated Extended Director's Cut Version
Friday, September 14th, was the appointed time for my 22nd birthday party, and coincidentally, the tenth anniversary of the death of my maternal grandmother. This night, like it's predecessor of a decade, would be long remembered, though thankfully for reasons less grim.
After the obligatory posse outing, I went over to Reese and Jason's, the host-place. It started out as a core cadre of my close friends and Reese's entourage, but slowly grew to include the eclectic lot of folk I call friends. A few people whom I had purposefully not invited showed up anyway, but I don't think there was any of the expected havoc. One person I did invite was the legendary Big Al Mason, who made his indelible mark on the gathering.
After I received my "birthday song" with Dan Cole pig-squeal screaming, Al went down hard and fast due to sucking back some Mad Dog 20/20. Before he went catatonic he did manage to stand up and start to sing me another birthday song...although he accidentally sang the Star-Spangled Banner instead. Everyone in earshot kind of just stared after "Oh say can you see" were the words pronounced by his intoxicated tongue, and he promptly collapsed back into his chosen chair. To commemorate this, I later changed my Facebook status to "Aaron Carpenter is the United States of America."
Meanwhile, we had a pretty good crowd show up, and partook in such activities as mattress surfing down the stairs. Big Al by this point had emptied the Gatorade jug full of Mad Dog, as well as a water bottle full of the same. He'd been offering the stuff to all sorts of people, but most abstained after taking a whiff of the grape-ish liquid. The last three I'd seen him offer it to were non-drinkers or DDs, so after getting turned down I think Al decided to keep it all for himself. That meant that, pretty quickly, Al was rendered silent - not a common event. He would occasionally mutter something that sounded like "blub blub lub blub," although he did manage to get out a few "Dude, you f*cking rocks"s out. Soon, however, Al was reduced to hand-signals: mainly the venerable thumbs-up sign.
Soon, Al decided that it was time to head outside. Getting him over the mattress in front of the door was quite the task, as was putting him in his car's back seat; I don't think I would have managed if I hadn't had the aid of the drunk-but-burly Dan Cole. We took most of Al's earthly possessions, for their own safety, and I think Dan expected Al to pass out in the car. From the vantage of his backseat, Mr Mason puked up what has become known as Lake Al. I was talking to someone outside and heard a huge splatter, which I knew couldn't be good. Since Reese's driveway is on an incline, the voluminous puddle was about 15 or 20 feet long. Last I checked, the stain was still there. But that was not the end.
Not long after this, it became apparent that Al had no interest in spending the night in his back seat. He kept saying "I wanna go home", which I didn't consider to be a good idea yet. Thinking that there was no way anything was left inside of Big Al, I helped him stagger back inside, traversing the mattress once again. He promptly collapsed in the bathroom and started to puke again. At first he was on target, but by the end of it all, his Mad Dog-addled purple vomit was all over half the floor. I hadn't gotten a good view of Lake Al, since it was dark outside, but this I could see in living color.
As we all know, Al is essentially a carnivore; I firmly believe that the only vegetables he will eat are French fries. The puke, ergo, was full of lovely little meaty chunks - and keep in mind that all this is amidst the smells of general vomit and Mad Dog grape. At least the man didn't release any other waste. As I witnessed this, I called out for aid, but people were leaving, preoccupied, unhearing, uncaring, or unable to help. Al refused the bread and water I offered him, which perplexed me because I, not being a heavy drinker, didn't really know what else to do. For the time being, I got him on his feet, and closed the bathroom door, forgetting it for now.
Al's barely-coherent request at that time was, still, to go home, and this still didn't seem wise. I put him in my passenger seat (crossing the doorway mattress a final time) and drove him to my place amidst a cadence of "Help me"s, plus a "too cold!" and a good deal of "blub blub lub blubs." At my apartment, Al said he needed to go to the bathroom, and I didn't ask any questions. We stood by my toilet for a while without result, but as soon as I put him on my couch, he puked for a third time. Luckily, none of the stuff got on any of my possessions. Proving unable to wipe the fluid off of himself, Al was then subjected to a vacuuming. I do believe that was a first for both of us.
My friends Ed and Cameron walked in on this, which I have to say was a little awkward. They had come to my place as backup, but also because we three we regrouping to go to another party...one would think I'd learned my lesson for the night. At this point it was just past 2:00 am. Big Al wanted to go back to my bathroom, and he said it was Number Two. He sat in there making indeterminable noises for a while, but when he finally staggered out of there, pants around his ankles, nothing had been done...which, I must admit, was fine by me.
After we'd gotten Al a trash can and some bread and water, he fell asleep and I headed to the other party for a little while. I had a pretty good time, except that I learned that alcohol, square-toed shoes, and heel clicks don't mix terribly well. I sprained my ankle pretty badly, which left a large violet bruise that would help to make this the Night of the Purple Rain. Now, almost two weeks later, it's finally almost totally healed.
Going to sleep that night did not end the saga. I was awakened at six in the morning, after three hours of sleep by a bewildered Al Mason. Al had never been to my place before, so he was especially disoriented when he woke up on my couch, sans trousers and with a terrible headache and a shirt that smelled like vomit. Ready for action, I put on a bizarre outfit consisting of pajama pants, an old church camp t-shirt, a trenchcoat I found in the basement back home, mismatching socks (khaki and white), and my trademark aviator sunglasses. Oh, and also a bag full of ice tied around my ankle with a kitchen towel.
We searched my place for his keys, because I remembered taking them at some point. Actually, I remember the exact point; Al had offered them to a girl he'd just met ten seconds ago, and I'd decided to confiscate them. Not finding them, we went back to Reese's and, amidst the pre-noon chaos, found nothing except Dan Cole, wearing a Russian hat, passed out on the couch.
Al graciously bought me breakfast at Hih Burger (where pretty much the entire populace stared me down due to my attire and long hair), and we went back to Reese's for one last shot at the keys...at this point it looked as though we'd have to drive to Paducah and back to get his spare keys.
When we got to Reese's place, Al's car had been moved, sloppily. Maybe one wheel was on the grass, with the others on the road. Also, the keys were magically within. Later it would be revealed that this was Reese's doing - but Reese hadn't had it easy, because he'd had to push the thing. I had to borrow my friend Nate's jumper cables and jump the car, finally ending the saga.
If, however, that was the Iliad (or "Aliad", heheh), my Odyssey was still to come. After recuperating a bit, Reese's housemate Jason and I set to work cleaning up the bathroom. The door was still shut, which was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it had at least kept the smell in the room...but on the other, well, it had *really* kept the smell in the room. About the only good things were that some of the puke was indeed in the toilet (although some was on the wall), and that there are no windows in that room, so it had not been baked by the morning sun.
Nonetheless, it was still grunt work. I went in wielding a full roll of paper towels and some latex gloves, with a shirt tied around my face to screen the odor. Jason, similarly attired, came in behind me with an array of chemicals to sanitize the place. We set up a fan going into the room and another coming out, recycling the air at a desperate pace. Soon, all of the purple, meaty vomit was gone.
Thus ended my first time drinking with Lynn Alan Mason.
After the obligatory posse outing, I went over to Reese and Jason's, the host-place. It started out as a core cadre of my close friends and Reese's entourage, but slowly grew to include the eclectic lot of folk I call friends. A few people whom I had purposefully not invited showed up anyway, but I don't think there was any of the expected havoc. One person I did invite was the legendary Big Al Mason, who made his indelible mark on the gathering.
After I received my "birthday song" with Dan Cole pig-squeal screaming, Al went down hard and fast due to sucking back some Mad Dog 20/20. Before he went catatonic he did manage to stand up and start to sing me another birthday song...although he accidentally sang the Star-Spangled Banner instead. Everyone in earshot kind of just stared after "Oh say can you see" were the words pronounced by his intoxicated tongue, and he promptly collapsed back into his chosen chair. To commemorate this, I later changed my Facebook status to "Aaron Carpenter is the United States of America."
Meanwhile, we had a pretty good crowd show up, and partook in such activities as mattress surfing down the stairs. Big Al by this point had emptied the Gatorade jug full of Mad Dog, as well as a water bottle full of the same. He'd been offering the stuff to all sorts of people, but most abstained after taking a whiff of the grape-ish liquid. The last three I'd seen him offer it to were non-drinkers or DDs, so after getting turned down I think Al decided to keep it all for himself. That meant that, pretty quickly, Al was rendered silent - not a common event. He would occasionally mutter something that sounded like "blub blub lub blub," although he did manage to get out a few "Dude, you f*cking rocks"s out. Soon, however, Al was reduced to hand-signals: mainly the venerable thumbs-up sign.
Soon, Al decided that it was time to head outside. Getting him over the mattress in front of the door was quite the task, as was putting him in his car's back seat; I don't think I would have managed if I hadn't had the aid of the drunk-but-burly Dan Cole. We took most of Al's earthly possessions, for their own safety, and I think Dan expected Al to pass out in the car. From the vantage of his backseat, Mr Mason puked up what has become known as Lake Al. I was talking to someone outside and heard a huge splatter, which I knew couldn't be good. Since Reese's driveway is on an incline, the voluminous puddle was about 15 or 20 feet long. Last I checked, the stain was still there. But that was not the end.
Not long after this, it became apparent that Al had no interest in spending the night in his back seat. He kept saying "I wanna go home", which I didn't consider to be a good idea yet. Thinking that there was no way anything was left inside of Big Al, I helped him stagger back inside, traversing the mattress once again. He promptly collapsed in the bathroom and started to puke again. At first he was on target, but by the end of it all, his Mad Dog-addled purple vomit was all over half the floor. I hadn't gotten a good view of Lake Al, since it was dark outside, but this I could see in living color.
As we all know, Al is essentially a carnivore; I firmly believe that the only vegetables he will eat are French fries. The puke, ergo, was full of lovely little meaty chunks - and keep in mind that all this is amidst the smells of general vomit and Mad Dog grape. At least the man didn't release any other waste. As I witnessed this, I called out for aid, but people were leaving, preoccupied, unhearing, uncaring, or unable to help. Al refused the bread and water I offered him, which perplexed me because I, not being a heavy drinker, didn't really know what else to do. For the time being, I got him on his feet, and closed the bathroom door, forgetting it for now.
Al's barely-coherent request at that time was, still, to go home, and this still didn't seem wise. I put him in my passenger seat (crossing the doorway mattress a final time) and drove him to my place amidst a cadence of "Help me"s, plus a "too cold!" and a good deal of "blub blub lub blubs." At my apartment, Al said he needed to go to the bathroom, and I didn't ask any questions. We stood by my toilet for a while without result, but as soon as I put him on my couch, he puked for a third time. Luckily, none of the stuff got on any of my possessions. Proving unable to wipe the fluid off of himself, Al was then subjected to a vacuuming. I do believe that was a first for both of us.
My friends Ed and Cameron walked in on this, which I have to say was a little awkward. They had come to my place as backup, but also because we three we regrouping to go to another party...one would think I'd learned my lesson for the night. At this point it was just past 2:00 am. Big Al wanted to go back to my bathroom, and he said it was Number Two. He sat in there making indeterminable noises for a while, but when he finally staggered out of there, pants around his ankles, nothing had been done...which, I must admit, was fine by me.
After we'd gotten Al a trash can and some bread and water, he fell asleep and I headed to the other party for a little while. I had a pretty good time, except that I learned that alcohol, square-toed shoes, and heel clicks don't mix terribly well. I sprained my ankle pretty badly, which left a large violet bruise that would help to make this the Night of the Purple Rain. Now, almost two weeks later, it's finally almost totally healed.
Going to sleep that night did not end the saga. I was awakened at six in the morning, after three hours of sleep by a bewildered Al Mason. Al had never been to my place before, so he was especially disoriented when he woke up on my couch, sans trousers and with a terrible headache and a shirt that smelled like vomit. Ready for action, I put on a bizarre outfit consisting of pajama pants, an old church camp t-shirt, a trenchcoat I found in the basement back home, mismatching socks (khaki and white), and my trademark aviator sunglasses. Oh, and also a bag full of ice tied around my ankle with a kitchen towel.
We searched my place for his keys, because I remembered taking them at some point. Actually, I remember the exact point; Al had offered them to a girl he'd just met ten seconds ago, and I'd decided to confiscate them. Not finding them, we went back to Reese's and, amidst the pre-noon chaos, found nothing except Dan Cole, wearing a Russian hat, passed out on the couch.
Al graciously bought me breakfast at Hih Burger (where pretty much the entire populace stared me down due to my attire and long hair), and we went back to Reese's for one last shot at the keys...at this point it looked as though we'd have to drive to Paducah and back to get his spare keys.
When we got to Reese's place, Al's car had been moved, sloppily. Maybe one wheel was on the grass, with the others on the road. Also, the keys were magically within. Later it would be revealed that this was Reese's doing - but Reese hadn't had it easy, because he'd had to push the thing. I had to borrow my friend Nate's jumper cables and jump the car, finally ending the saga.
If, however, that was the Iliad (or "Aliad", heheh), my Odyssey was still to come. After recuperating a bit, Reese's housemate Jason and I set to work cleaning up the bathroom. The door was still shut, which was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it had at least kept the smell in the room...but on the other, well, it had *really* kept the smell in the room. About the only good things were that some of the puke was indeed in the toilet (although some was on the wall), and that there are no windows in that room, so it had not been baked by the morning sun.
Nonetheless, it was still grunt work. I went in wielding a full roll of paper towels and some latex gloves, with a shirt tied around my face to screen the odor. Jason, similarly attired, came in behind me with an array of chemicals to sanitize the place. We set up a fan going into the room and another coming out, recycling the air at a desperate pace. Soon, all of the purple, meaty vomit was gone.
Thus ended my first time drinking with Lynn Alan Mason.