Spring Break ’10, Texas.

We woke up Tuesday morning at 8:00, a shocking feat, and after a quick breakfast and some pick-me-up showers we were on the road. The road in question was I-44, which goes through the state of Missouri diagonally from St. Louis to the Oklahoma border. Missouri has always been interesting to me. Here we have a state that is anchored on the west and east with awesome cities—Kansas City and St. Louis, respectively—with hundreds of miles of absolutely nothing in between. On Tuesday, we traveled the hundreds of miles of in between. Things improved little when we reached the Oklahoma border, where not only did we have to drive through hundreds of miles of dull landscape, but we had to pay to do so—I hate toll roads. Our drive was briefly livened by some friendly Oklahomans driving a souped-up, CB antenna sporting pick-up loaded down with shingles. These hillbillies were the victims of KMart’s ‘conservative’ driving and when they finally got the chance to pass us they gave us the finger not only through the front window, but the back as well. Good times. The rest of our day long journey was uneventful, and we pulled into KMart’s driveway just in time to eat a little supper, watch a little Planet Earth, and hit the hay.

Wednesday, Texas. We began the day with a hasty breakfast prepared by yours truly, before heading out. Waking up around 11 everyday has its perks in the fact that rest of the world has been functioning for hours in preparation for your arrival. First, we ventured to the alternative school where KMart’s mom is the principal. We met a few interesting characters, then continued our journey, which took us to the Fort Worth Modern Art Museum. We may not seem like the art museum types, but we do like to appreciate the finer things in life from time to time and we spent an hour or so taking in an Andy Warhol exhibit. Class acts, that’s what we are. We grabbed a quick bite—Stronghand’s first Whataburger experience—then headed for the homestead. KMart’s mom was hosting a church group, so were quarantined to the back porch, where we took up station next to the firepit with a trusty cooler full of friendly longnecks. We tried to light a fire, but to no avail. Correction: by “tried to light a fire” I mean we squirted lighter fluid on a log and threw matches at it, then squirted more lighter fluid on it. The ensuing blaze was underwhelming. Once Bible study concluded, we turned the TV towards the window so Stronghand could watch American Idol while we floated in the pool. Luckily, someone had moved the cooler next to the pool, ensuring the beer didn’t go bad before it could all be drunk. After a few hours of soaking, we returned to our sleeping quarters for another restful night.

Thursday began with a drive from Ft. Worth to “the ranch” in nearby Rio Vista. After lunch at Fat Albert’s—classic smalltown joint—we went to KMart’s grandparents’ house. There, we met Mimi and Papaw, the saintly forebears of our own KMart. After some requisite chatting, Papaw offered to mix us a drink, since it was, after all, almost 2 o’clock. The offer was for a bourbon and water, which we all accepted. It’s a good thing we weren’t too picky because, according to Papaw “water’s all I got to mix it with and y’all don’t get any scotch.” We watched the first half of the A&M-Nebraska game while Papaw spouted wisdom to us from his easy chair. The most treasured gem was, of course, “Do your loving while you’re young, you can drink when you’re old.” What a guy. After a muddy rip around the pasture on the 4-wheeler we set to our “chores”, namely sweeping out the barn where KMart’s sister’s engagement part would take place on Saturday. This took, like, twenty minutes, followed by more bourbon and waters and shooting the same Dr. Pepper can over and over with a .22 until we ate supper and headed back to KMart’s house. I don’t know if it was the sun or the bourbon or just the last couple days catching up with us but we were lights out by 11 o’clock. Embarassing.

Friday saw the arrival of many party guests, including KMart’s sister and her husband-to-be, along with his family, his best man, and various relatives of both families. This jovial, party-like atmosphere was a change from the frat house, drink to get drunk attitude and I will say it was a welcome change. Finger foods abounded and a giant Shiner variety pack replaced Coors Light in our diet. Awesome. We put on our best “hanging out with adults” act and I must say we did an alright job at it. Well, at least I think so. The ladies headed off for a bridal shower, leaving us to our own devices. We ventured to the Stockyards, where KMart’s dad graciously paid the 12 dollar cover at Billy Bob’s Texas (thanks again, Mr. Martin). Billy Bob’s Texas is a giant ‘megabar’ that you could probably fit my entire hometown inside of. It features a bullriding arena and live music. Friday’s act was Mickey & the Motorcars. I would not recommend them to my friends. The stereotypical “Texas” crowd was out in spades. Cowboy hats, Wranglers, bigass beltbuckles, and starched shirts were the reg here, and along with the bright neon lights it was a definite change of scenery from the dingy bars stuffed with college kids we’re used to. After our spell in Billy Bob’s we headed downtown to a hookah bar. This was when the night took a turn for the strange. The hookah bar was staffed by sketchy looking Lebanese guys and smelled like falafel. So far, this does not differentiate from any hookah bar I have ever been to. The fact that Stronghand had to buy a one year membership ($10) and the hookah “lounge” was a tiny, crowded room furnished with tattered furniture and equally creepy blacklights and middle-aged dudes set this hookah bar apart from the rest. The tobacco was good though and our six-month hiatus did nothing to stop us from buzzing like bees. KMart’s parents, in wishing to avoid us coming back to the house at 3 a.m. had the foresight to get us a hotel in the lovely Park Central hotel downtown. This was a very cool old hotel in a very cool old building in a very cool old part of town. But, as I mentioned, it was old. Someone commented that it reminded them of the room Chigurh shoots up in No Country For Old Men while others thought it would make a great hideout for bank robbers. Either way, we were there for six hours, max, catching a little sleep before heading back to KMart’s for Saturday, the big day.

Saturday, aka Judgment Day. We rushed home from the Park Central for some breakfast burritos; it’s always awesome to be staying in a real house where someone cooks you food. Quick showers and we were out the door. We’d spent a bit of Friday setting out tables and chairs in the barn so all that remained were a few last minute detail and testing out the sound system for the outstanding party playlist we had compiled, which featured such jams as “Rhinestone Cowboy” and “Kentucky Rain.” The rest of the day was spent milling around until we were allowed to tap the kegs. And tap them we did. The Texas Party was a marvel to behold. 50 pounds of brisket, 90 pounds of crawfish, sausage, potatoes, corn, mushrooms, onions and even some salad. This feast was improved on—no easy measure—by the two easy flowing barrels of monkeys in the corner. We laughed, we danced, we sang raucously. We became fast friends with total strangers. We drank. We reveled in the presence of two fine young people getting ready to tie the knot (congratulations, Stephanie and Chris). We set and broke our own kegstand records. I played flip cup on a team where I was the only one without kids. Someone’s mom tried to teach me to two-step. Good times were had by all. My hat is off to everyone who had a hand in that party, and I’m thankful that I was fortunate enough to attend. As the night wore on, though, the crowd thinned and the gusto for drinking beer waned. KMart disappeared to wander a pasture and I was fast asleep in our sleeping quarters—the back of the Nitro—before he returned.

Sunday was for recovery. Not much more can be said for a day where we had to be practically pummeled awake. Breakfast was ready, but the interest in sausage gravy and biscuits was at an all-time low. I struggled through a biscuit and a half while the adults looked on and laughed at our youthful stupor. We put away the tables and chairs, took out the trash and headed home for Planet Earth and naps. I had one ambitious beer with supper, but my enthusiasm for alcohol was pretty weak. We floated in the pool, watched some SportsCenter, looked at the pictures from the weekend, then grabbed some floor for a good night’s rest before Monday’s long ride back to Omaha.

We woke up Monday and wasted no time getting out the door. Our bags had been packed the night before and left by the door, so we made a quick escape after thanking our hosts (thank you, Martin family). Quick fact: I saw more donut shops in Ft. Worth than I have seen anywhere else in my entire life. This being so, we had to stop and check one out before we split town. We were served by the friendliest Japanese man wearing a towel on his head I have ever met in my life. This guy was awesome, and he gave us a free donut. Loaded up for the long haul, we took the northern road through Oklahoma and Kansas. On this drive we were dismayed to see snow for the first time in a week, forgetting tha spring break doesn’t always mean spring. More toll roads, more desolate, godforsaken brown countryside, and a few more plays of “Rhinestone Cowboy” and we were back to the place we call home, right here at 31/Chi.

Spring Break ’10, Saint Louis.

Spring break began for us on a bright and sunny Friday afternoon. Unlike most of our compadres, we couldn’t leave Thursday night due to poorly scheduled classes/clinicals. However, it is probably better that we weren’t present, since I received a text at noon Friday from my buddy—we’ll call him Beechnut—that read ‘Already got kicked out of my hotel. Epic.’ I feel like any added fratitude would have fueled the aforementioned chaos into Beechnut and me being ran out of the city entirely. Anyways, we loaded up the car—with KMart throwing all his stuff into a large plastic storage bin he referred to as his ‘TupperWare’—and hit the road. We headed south and we would have made fantastic time if not for one small inopportunity. The slow down happened just outside Kansas City, where the Missouri State Police pulled KMart over for a little chat about the excessive speed at which he was traveling through their fair state. This put us about 30 minutes off track. It was also at this time we learned that Creighton’s basketball team had lost, making this trip near superfluous. Pistol P cheered a cheer of anti-basketball tournament joy, and I balked at his treason. From there, equipped with an awesome pump-up playlist, it was smooth sailing. Well, for awhile, at least.
We cruised in to St. Louis around 10:00 and established base camp Stronghand’s posh residence. In my book, a 10 p.m. arrival in a city means a 10:30 arrival at the bars, but this pack of Marys just had to have their precious showers. Finally, around 11, we caught a cab and headed to Morgan Street, where we were set to rendezvous with some tried and true pals. However, more complications arose. Turns out, if your fake ID is a fake Missouri license, you probably shouldn’t try to use it in Missouri. What’s more, if your fake ID says you are from St. Louis, you probably shouldn’t try to use it in St. Louis. KMart—or any of us, I guess—had any of those thoughts, and before I knew it I was being dragged out of a crowded ball full of all my old—and a few new—pals to another cab that was to take us to out night time domicile. We rectified our losses by drinking all the beer in the house, and I mean all the beer, and watching 9 before retreating to sleep.

Day 2 dawned with us waking up in our unique sleeping set-up. Point of information: since Stronghand went to college, his mom and dad have since sold off their house in the suburbs and moved downtown to a very nice condo. However, this very nice space is not made to accommodate five dudes. We were given the run of a small bedroom with two twin beds and enough floor space to (kind of) fit three sleeping bags. KMart and Stronghand claimed the beds, leaving me, Pistol P and the Undertaker to sleep in a jumbled heap of sleeping bag on the floor. Negotiations came up to zip all three into some sort of “UltraBag” or “SuperSack” but these talks never came to fruition. Shame. We ate breakfast then spent our Saturday walking through the ‘Loop’. This is an area of St. Louis with some restaurants and shops and stuff. I’m not really crazy about it, but Pistol P loves it so he can flex his indie nuts in various record shops and vintage clothing stores. I did, however, score a lovely Boone’s Farm T-shirt that will be worked into my wardrobe often and the Undertaker scored a DVD copy of Big Trouble in Litle China. We viewed that cinematic masterpiece, maybe ate supper, then headed out once more, leaving poor, poor KMart behind. I might be a bad friend.
Nonetheless, we headed out, back to Morgan Street and the Morgan Street Brewery. This is one of the most interesting bars I have ever been to. I guess the story goes that it started as one bar and as they made more and more money they bought the bar next door, then the bar next door to that one, then repeated. The result is a conglomeration of 4 very distinct spaces all housed within one door. The first part is more of an alum area where the oldsters back in town for the tourney can chat about their mortgages. The second area is geared towards the “I Love College” crowd: dance floor, shitty DJ, a reek of sweat, cologne my brother wore in junior high, and Bacardi Limon. No thanks now, no thanks ever. Finally, if you had the stomach to soldier your way through this offal, you are rewarded with an area of the bar I alternatively referred to as “The Promised Land” or “Oregon” since the rigors and hazards of the journey there mirror those found in the classic original Apple game “Oregon Trail.” This backroom bar was great. For starters, not that many people went that far back in the bar, so the crowd was mostly people I knew and liked. Second, this small crowd equaled quick service at the bar. Third, and most importantly, it had tables and booths. Maybe I’m getting old, but I’ve discovered I would much rather post up in a booth than make laps through the bar, so ample seating is a must. This is where I stayed for the most part until the end of the evening, which came at bar close, which was—in a pleasant surprise—3 a.m. But my night was far from over. While the rest of the 31/Chi team hopped in a cab, I followed Beechnut to a nearby casino. Most of my knowledge of gambling comes from Kenny Rodgers’ classic “The Gambler” but at this point I was down for anything. The casino was a nightmare. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a casino at 3 in the morning, but it’s a nightmare. Everywhere you look, you are struck with the thought “I hope I never end up like this.” The casino part of the night is a little blurry, so I’ll try to recap the highlights: I lost 40 dollars in 4 hands of ten a hand blackjack, almost got my ass kicked by a bunch of middle-aged Wichita State fans, and watched my friends leave, one by one, shaking their heads at the money they’d just lost. Somewhere around 5 a.m., Beechnut and I crafted a master plan to see the sunrise at the Arch and began mass texting in search of company. Beechnut had been evicted from his hotel and my current crash-spot was in a different part of town so we headed towards a hotel where we knew a lot of Creighton kids were staying. After a walk through a rainy, eerily quiet Morgan Street we arrived to find a lobby of like-minded sunrise-seekers. About 30 people were sitting in the hotel lobby, consulting various online almanacs as to when the sun would appear. The consensus: 6:24. We had an hour and 10 minutes to wait, which sounds easy, but proved near impossible. The number in the lobby rapidly dwindled, while Beechnut and I were only able to hang in there with the aid of warm Bud Light and Packard Club Snuff. In the end, only seven people made it to the Gateway to the West to greet the day before stumbling back to the hotel to crash on the first available floor. In my case, this was the floor of the room shared by seven girls, who were probably very surprised to wake up and find the Geico caveman asleep by their door. After two hours of refreshing floor sleep, I scored a ride back to Stronghand’s place where our customary noontime breakfast was waiting. Over bagels I gathered that I was not the only one who had a late night adventure as Pistol P regaled us with a tale of friendly cab driver who took him to Jack in the Box for a late night meal and Stronghand’s dad treating KMart to his liquor cabinet.

How would we follow up the night before? How do five rough and rowdy college kids spend the day after a strange night of hard partying? We went to the zoo, drank some beers, went to Shutter Island (two thumbs up), then drank some more beer. Life was good. Monday saw the departure of Pistol P and the Undertaker, while Stronghand, KMart, and I prepared for our long, Tuesday drive to Texas. We were treated to a lovely supper by Stronghand’s mom and dad, and then drank some beers. Of course.