Shrouded By the Mists of Time
The following is a tome of yesteryear (or 2002, which ever you prefer) which chronicles a few days in the life of a young law school student en route to the Kentucky Derby, which falls on May 6th this year. Enjoy. -- JPL
Chapter 1: The following takes place on Friday, May 4th into the early morning of Saturday, May 5th in the THIRD Year of the DRUNKEN DONKEY:
*Finals Friday and Bo Plummer: Is He Awake or Not?
Our story commences on the morning of my last final, the one I had dreadedthe entire year and was more than lax to actually take: SecuritiesRegulations. For those non-business oriented types out there (read: Spider),the world of Sec Reg is filled with rules, fiduciary duties, and enoughnonsensical ideosynchrisies to confuse even the most hardy intellectual. Thetest started at 8:30, and I wrote non-stop until roughly 12. It was like Iwas trapped in some celestial vortex where time halted and my brain wavesbonded with the words on the page so as to render me oblivious to the outsideworld.
A few hours later I awakened to find myself complete with my secondyear of law school, and as I emerged from the front doors of the prison theycall Vandy Law, I saw the sun for the first time in about a week, and I dancedand cried among the daisies as I soaked in the beautiful rays of sunlight.But my euphoria quickly yielded to another blinding reality, that being my desperate hunger.
You see, for the last 4 weeks I had denied myself thefruits of the earth, the life-spring from which flows the cause of, andsolution to, all of my problems in life—beer. Euphoric, caloric, hoppy,flowing draughts of BEER. My desire was overwhelming, the call too much tobear. I quickly raced home, cracked open a 3 month old Miller Lite, andchugged until foamy goodness spewed down my oxford-shirt.
As I sat through aviewing of Spider-Man just a mere 45 minutes later I could still taste thebarley and grains in the rear of my mouth. I enjoyed Spider-Man, though Iwould hardly call it a great film. Perhaps I was disenchanted with life atthat point, tired beyond exhaustion as a result of my intense studying overexam time. Or perhaps I was distracted, knowing I would soon be in Louisville, drinking to my heart’s content and betting on ponies faster thanyou could say "Captain Morgan duck-taped to my crotch!!". And alas, I was off to Derby just a few hours later.
I came with myself, a few law school survivors, and a few of their friends. We arrived in L-ville around 7 or so, parked, and walked to find our contact. This was a dangerous man, known to make a complete ass of himself given enough alcohol and the proper forum. Of course, I am talking about Bo Plummer. OK, enough of the poetic non-sense—let’s just tell it how it is. Bo is waiting for us right by the entrance of the "Chow Wagon," or whatever the hell that waterfront festival is called the night before derby.
Bo looks well at first glance—he has his color, his trendy clothes, and gobs of hair upon his head (you almost couldn’t see his bald spot, but don’t tell him that. Oops, I think I just did!). This was all from far away, mind you, and he looked healthy as could be. When we got closer (and I am talking a few hundred feet or so), a familiar smell happened upon the wind. It was the smell of fun—elephant ears, hot dogs, beer—people drinking and smelling like beer—and more beer. At first I though this was just the festival atmosphere, but as Igot closer I noticed that our host, surely anxious for our arrival, lookedlike he had more than his fair share of drinks.
In other words, Bo was*toasted.*
We gave some hugs, some introductions, and then we proceeded into the festival. I guess Bo wasn’t that terribly oblivious to reality at thatpoint, because when I got some gold pin thing for getting into the festival, he took a look at it and threw a fit, saying how he had been going to that thing for like 15 years and had never got a gold pin. It was pretty funny. But later events clued me in that Bo wasn’t all there that night.
We neeed drinks, so Bo takes us over to the Beer wagons. We stand in line for 10minutes, get to the front where they ask us for our wristbands. We don’t have f*cking wristbands, and I look at Bo who is like, "Oh yeah, you needwristbands to get beer." Then he smiles like a sloppy drunk through that big gap in his teeth. So we go get wristbands, get these beer cards, then finally get some beer. Bo has taken off at this point to go find Micky and Mark. My friends are getting hungry and want to go to Joe’s Crab Shack (funny, that name reminds me of my bed Sophomore Year—sorry Bishop!!), so I go find Bo to see if he wants to join us. I find him talking to Micky and Mark, and I can’t get a straight answer out of him. That’s when Micky pulls me aside and tells me how f*cked up Bo is. This is Micky saying this mind you, so I take him pretty seriously since this guy knows a thing or two about drunkenness. So I tell Bo that we’ll meet him out at the bars in St. Matt’s, and that he should call me in a few hours. Cool w/him, so we go eat at this place.
The food was good, but the servers were fucked up. Every 30 minutes or so, the lights would go down in the restaurant, and all the servers would stop and start dancing to some ridiculous song like the Macarena. The whole episode scarred me so bad that I just kept drinking heavily. We eventually leave the bar and take off in our cars towards what I thought was St. Matt’s bar district. But that turned out to be an adventure all its own. Bo gives me all these really f*cked up directions. I tell him we are going south, he tells me to go west. We go west, he tells me to go south. Then he’s like, "Just go down the highway, and we’ll stop along the highway, get out of our cars and wave at you! You’ll see us along the road!!" Jesus,that’s all I need is Bo to wander out to the middle of the highway in his f*cked up state. So the kid just keeps belching directions in a slurred cacophany of sound, and by the time I could tell he was too f*cked up to thinkstraight let alone give directions, we are totally lost. To top it all off, mine and Bo’s cell phones both are almost out of batteries.
My friends are now super pissed and wondering where we are at midnight on Friday somewhere in the Ville. So with my cell phone’s last breath I call the Plummer’s and ask them to give us directions to their house from where we were, because their son is an absolute train-wreck spewing mental diarrhea everywhere.
We eventually caravan into the Plummer’s, where Bo’s dad is waiting for us all. We all get our bags in, talk to Mark for a while, and saunter on down to St. Matt’s to find Bo and company. When we arrive, Bo is a frickin’ mess. The kid is leaning againstthe cigarette machine, having his hair stroked by various Kentucky women. I walk up to him about to chew him out for getting us lost, but when I looked into those glazed over eyes, I could tell I wasn’t speaking to a human being anymore. I think Bo actually drank himself living dead. Instead I just laughed, hugged him, and enjoyed the rest of my evening in the company offriends and drink.
I managed to wake up fairly early on Derby Day, suffering the effects of a hangover but adrenalized by the prospect of an all day party. We all get up and start eating some wonderful breakfast that the Plummers prepare around10:30--all except for Bo.
We all get our crap together and make some runs for supplies (i.e. about 25 pints of liquor), regrouping around 11:30. Still no Bo.
We start playing some "beersketball" in the backyard, where you take a chug of beer everytime somebody hits a free throw in 21, ending around 12:30. We hear rumblings, and Bo finally gets up.
He officially declares himself brain dead to the world and disavows drinking for the entire day. Normally, as a card-carrying member ofthe DD, this would get you punched in the penis, especially on Derby Day. However, having seen the shattered man that was Bo Plummer the night beforeand the resurrected version that morning, I couldn’t help but agree with him. We all pack up, stop at the liquor store and stock up on yet more pint bottles (except for Bo, of course), and head off to Derby.
Tomorrow:*Derby Day and Yard Poop & *Spider Gone Wild and Stuck in L'Ville.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Sadly, this tale was never finished in writing, but rather passed along in spoken word to Tony. So if you dare, ask him sometime to explain just what the hell "yard poop" means.
**********
Chapter 1: The following takes place on Friday, May 4th into the early morning of Saturday, May 5th in the THIRD Year of the DRUNKEN DONKEY:
*Finals Friday and Bo Plummer: Is He Awake or Not?
Our story commences on the morning of my last final, the one I had dreadedthe entire year and was more than lax to actually take: SecuritiesRegulations. For those non-business oriented types out there (read: Spider),the world of Sec Reg is filled with rules, fiduciary duties, and enoughnonsensical ideosynchrisies to confuse even the most hardy intellectual. Thetest started at 8:30, and I wrote non-stop until roughly 12. It was like Iwas trapped in some celestial vortex where time halted and my brain wavesbonded with the words on the page so as to render me oblivious to the outsideworld.
A few hours later I awakened to find myself complete with my secondyear of law school, and as I emerged from the front doors of the prison theycall Vandy Law, I saw the sun for the first time in about a week, and I dancedand cried among the daisies as I soaked in the beautiful rays of sunlight.But my euphoria quickly yielded to another blinding reality, that being my desperate hunger.
You see, for the last 4 weeks I had denied myself thefruits of the earth, the life-spring from which flows the cause of, andsolution to, all of my problems in life—beer. Euphoric, caloric, hoppy,flowing draughts of BEER. My desire was overwhelming, the call too much tobear. I quickly raced home, cracked open a 3 month old Miller Lite, andchugged until foamy goodness spewed down my oxford-shirt.
As I sat through aviewing of Spider-Man just a mere 45 minutes later I could still taste thebarley and grains in the rear of my mouth. I enjoyed Spider-Man, though Iwould hardly call it a great film. Perhaps I was disenchanted with life atthat point, tired beyond exhaustion as a result of my intense studying overexam time. Or perhaps I was distracted, knowing I would soon be in Louisville, drinking to my heart’s content and betting on ponies faster thanyou could say "Captain Morgan duck-taped to my crotch!!". And alas, I was off to Derby just a few hours later.
I came with myself, a few law school survivors, and a few of their friends. We arrived in L-ville around 7 or so, parked, and walked to find our contact. This was a dangerous man, known to make a complete ass of himself given enough alcohol and the proper forum. Of course, I am talking about Bo Plummer. OK, enough of the poetic non-sense—let’s just tell it how it is. Bo is waiting for us right by the entrance of the "Chow Wagon," or whatever the hell that waterfront festival is called the night before derby.
Bo looks well at first glance—he has his color, his trendy clothes, and gobs of hair upon his head (you almost couldn’t see his bald spot, but don’t tell him that. Oops, I think I just did!). This was all from far away, mind you, and he looked healthy as could be. When we got closer (and I am talking a few hundred feet or so), a familiar smell happened upon the wind. It was the smell of fun—elephant ears, hot dogs, beer—people drinking and smelling like beer—and more beer. At first I though this was just the festival atmosphere, but as Igot closer I noticed that our host, surely anxious for our arrival, lookedlike he had more than his fair share of drinks.
In other words, Bo was*toasted.*
We gave some hugs, some introductions, and then we proceeded into the festival. I guess Bo wasn’t that terribly oblivious to reality at thatpoint, because when I got some gold pin thing for getting into the festival, he took a look at it and threw a fit, saying how he had been going to that thing for like 15 years and had never got a gold pin. It was pretty funny. But later events clued me in that Bo wasn’t all there that night.
We neeed drinks, so Bo takes us over to the Beer wagons. We stand in line for 10minutes, get to the front where they ask us for our wristbands. We don’t have f*cking wristbands, and I look at Bo who is like, "Oh yeah, you needwristbands to get beer." Then he smiles like a sloppy drunk through that big gap in his teeth. So we go get wristbands, get these beer cards, then finally get some beer. Bo has taken off at this point to go find Micky and Mark. My friends are getting hungry and want to go to Joe’s Crab Shack (funny, that name reminds me of my bed Sophomore Year—sorry Bishop!!), so I go find Bo to see if he wants to join us. I find him talking to Micky and Mark, and I can’t get a straight answer out of him. That’s when Micky pulls me aside and tells me how f*cked up Bo is. This is Micky saying this mind you, so I take him pretty seriously since this guy knows a thing or two about drunkenness. So I tell Bo that we’ll meet him out at the bars in St. Matt’s, and that he should call me in a few hours. Cool w/him, so we go eat at this place.
The food was good, but the servers were fucked up. Every 30 minutes or so, the lights would go down in the restaurant, and all the servers would stop and start dancing to some ridiculous song like the Macarena. The whole episode scarred me so bad that I just kept drinking heavily. We eventually leave the bar and take off in our cars towards what I thought was St. Matt’s bar district. But that turned out to be an adventure all its own. Bo gives me all these really f*cked up directions. I tell him we are going south, he tells me to go west. We go west, he tells me to go south. Then he’s like, "Just go down the highway, and we’ll stop along the highway, get out of our cars and wave at you! You’ll see us along the road!!" Jesus,that’s all I need is Bo to wander out to the middle of the highway in his f*cked up state. So the kid just keeps belching directions in a slurred cacophany of sound, and by the time I could tell he was too f*cked up to thinkstraight let alone give directions, we are totally lost. To top it all off, mine and Bo’s cell phones both are almost out of batteries.
My friends are now super pissed and wondering where we are at midnight on Friday somewhere in the Ville. So with my cell phone’s last breath I call the Plummer’s and ask them to give us directions to their house from where we were, because their son is an absolute train-wreck spewing mental diarrhea everywhere.
We eventually caravan into the Plummer’s, where Bo’s dad is waiting for us all. We all get our bags in, talk to Mark for a while, and saunter on down to St. Matt’s to find Bo and company. When we arrive, Bo is a frickin’ mess. The kid is leaning againstthe cigarette machine, having his hair stroked by various Kentucky women. I walk up to him about to chew him out for getting us lost, but when I looked into those glazed over eyes, I could tell I wasn’t speaking to a human being anymore. I think Bo actually drank himself living dead. Instead I just laughed, hugged him, and enjoyed the rest of my evening in the company offriends and drink.
I managed to wake up fairly early on Derby Day, suffering the effects of a hangover but adrenalized by the prospect of an all day party. We all get up and start eating some wonderful breakfast that the Plummers prepare around10:30--all except for Bo.
We all get our crap together and make some runs for supplies (i.e. about 25 pints of liquor), regrouping around 11:30. Still no Bo.
We start playing some "beersketball" in the backyard, where you take a chug of beer everytime somebody hits a free throw in 21, ending around 12:30. We hear rumblings, and Bo finally gets up.
He officially declares himself brain dead to the world and disavows drinking for the entire day. Normally, as a card-carrying member ofthe DD, this would get you punched in the penis, especially on Derby Day. However, having seen the shattered man that was Bo Plummer the night beforeand the resurrected version that morning, I couldn’t help but agree with him. We all pack up, stop at the liquor store and stock up on yet more pint bottles (except for Bo, of course), and head off to Derby.
Tomorrow:*Derby Day and Yard Poop & *Spider Gone Wild and Stuck in L'Ville.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Sadly, this tale was never finished in writing, but rather passed along in spoken word to Tony. So if you dare, ask him sometime to explain just what the hell "yard poop" means.
tale spun by Cherith Cutestory at 8:01 AM
1 Comments:
All I have to say is, I don't remember it, therefore it didn't happen.
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