Barely Holden On (Part 1)

As a brief aside, I was just in my car on the way to the store when I settled on a particular radio station that typically plays crappy adult contemporary light rock (I don’t know, the death metal station I typically listen to was probably at a commercial or something). Before I could change it I heard what sounded like a younger women calling in to talk to the DJ, who sounded like an older woman (not old in absolute terms, just relative to the caller). The DJ asked how she could help the caller so the caller launched into this horribly painful diatribe about how she was a mother of 3 and just had her seventh wedding anniversary though she and her husband couldn’t stand each other and there was no love left in the marriage and blah, blah, blah, and I thought to myself, “holy crap! This is the woman sitting next to me on the plane the other day!!!” Ok, it probably wasn’t, but still. The DJ was all sympathetic but the best shit she could come up with was, “have you two considered counseling?” Then she played some horrible, ear splitting, sappy song about, “where has the love gone, blah, blah, blah.” At first I was like, holy shit, this is an actual radio program??? And then I was like, holy shit, if only I’d known that all I needed to do to shut that woman up on the flight was to suggest she needed therapy then play her a song from my iPod, I’d still have that eyeball I gouged out of my head. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear about your problems, ma’am. Here, listen to this song. Whenever I’m feeling a little blue I like to put this song on, crank it up to 11, and let my worries just melt away. It’s by a nice young man named Ludacris and the song is called, ‘You’s A Ho’…”

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I just returned from my annual Labor Day Mancation. This is a yearly trip I take with my 6 high school buddies, the sanctity of which is on par with a pilgrimage to Mecca. For seven straight years, 5 or more of us have gathered somewhere in North America not only to enjoy each other's company as was the original intent, but also to fulfill some sort of primal necessity to absolutely live and define the word "Mancation” in all its glory: booze, gambling, filth, beef, beer, profanity, laziness, filth, pork, vulgarity, testosterone, filth… It may be better to describe it this way: If it's healthy to consume a pound or two of beef or pork in a three day period, we'll consume 10 each. If it's acceptable to drink 2 or 3 beers a night, we'll take down 12-15. If the FDA recommends 8 servings of fresh fruit and vegetables a day, the fruit will gather mold in the fridge. If it's normal for an adult male to bathe 3 times over the course of a 3 day weekend, I'll shower 5 times and the rest of the group will shower a total of 3, maybe 4 times.

In years past we’ve hit up such destinations as DC, Boston, and Chicago. This year we took a relaxing trip to Holden Beach, just south of Wilmington, North Carolina. The weather was perfect as Hurricane Hannah remained south of the Carolina’s, providing us with nothing but sunshine and the added bonus of some awesome waves. The trip was made more memorable by the presence of all 7 of us for the first time in 4 years.

Now, I love these guys to death but I can't possibly overstate how filthy this collection of people can be. I and one other guy retain our anal-retentiveness and cleanliness through the weekend without exception but three of the other guys that typically operate at normal levels of dude-filthiness magnify it 2 to 10-fold with an abundance of testosterone and the absence of estrogen for the weekend while the remaining two guys are, at all times, the filthiest human beings I've ever known to exist. Seriously. That combination makes this group the dirtiest collection of people to ever congregate for a weekend.

When you handle a raw piece of beef then wipe your hands off on your shirt, that's not healthy. When you have to fight with a house fly for a piece of cheese to put on your burger because it's been sitting out on the counter for several hours, that’s just gross. When you spill ketchup on the floor then walk away never to return to clean it up, that’s not simply because you're on vacation; that's how you live. When you tear out the pages a Where's Waldo book because the beach house wasn't originally stocked with any toilet paper… well that's actually just resourceful, but you get my point with this. I can survive most of the rest of the year illness-free because of the antibodies I develop during these Labor Day weekends.


More than just an excuse to get away from the wives and kids and not shower for a weekend (seriously, getting in the ocean does not qualify for a bath) these trips are based on two things for us: Tradition and Competition.

The first standing tradition is also a competition: the last person/people to arrive must drink a 40 of Steel Reserve on the first night. Last year I was one of the last two to arrive and I can say from experience, Steel Reserve tastes like steel. Actually, more like a steel turd. I know you think I'm exaggerating but seriously - gather up $1.50, go to your local gas station convenience store, buy a 40 of Steel Reserve, take a swig, then lick the chassis of your car, and you tell me if I'm exaggerating or not. I can also say from experience and a large body of evidence, drinking a Steel Reserve gives you a 50% chance of throwing up that night. If you're really unfortunate like one of the guys, you'll actually throw up right then and there and as a result of that, I can say with certainty, covering your mouth with your hand is not a practical nor effective way of containing the vomit. It is however a great way to give you friends a solid 15-20 minutes of side-splitting laughter at your expense.

At any rate, this year the competition was going to be tight. Five of us were flying into Wilmington on 3 separate flights, all scheduled to arrive within 15 minutes, while the other two were driving all night long and scheduled to arrive within 30 minutes. Fortunately Mother Nature did me a solid and one of the other suckers was delayed out of Philly, which landed that 40 of steel right in his belly. All I can say is, Waldo best run and hide fo’ realz because it’s liquid going in but it’s pure hell coming out.

Everything is competition and the next one was going to be finding out who would have to drive the rental from the airport to the beach. That’s a relatively minor thing, but like I said, pride, money, and beer are all equally weighted and my pride said I didn’t want to drive. Inevitably the deciding factor was going to be a game of rock-paper-scissors. I met another buddy in Charlotte on a layover and rather than subject ourselves to a stupid game of chance like that, we improved our odds remarkably by removing ourselves from the competition all together – we got drunk. That's why I had a double bourbon, a whiskey, and a shot of tequila at 9 am. You're probably thinking that's an odd combination. Well, so did my stomach. Thankfully it did the trick and neither of us had to drive. Unfortunately it seriously compromised my ability to navigate and we got lost several times on the way to the beach. Fortunately that was the last liquor I had all weekend, with the exception of one shot of vodka, which I'll explain later…