The monkey made me do it

Never camp with a wookie

I have a long-held tradition of leaving town for my birthday, conveniently planning a camping trip that will take my friends far away from the land of cake and balloons and focusing on the me. I also don't remind anyone of the birthday, and for the past few years have celebrated quietly and almost anonymously in the arms of mama nature (sometimes a friend remembers, but it's usually after a lot of alcohol and I rarely have to suffer through the entire birthday song before they either forget the words or pass out).

A few years ago, I decided to treat my friends to a long weekend in Long Beach. We car-camped at the state park, which meant that everyone dug out their largest, least-practical tents and comfortable bedding and the food was quite un-camperly. The bonfire raged the entire weekend, trying to salvage a patina of the great outdoors among our giant house-tents and fancy cheeses.

It is worthwhile to expound on the nature of this particular group of people. I was accompanied by Patty, who is one of my oldest and dearest friends despite the fact that our lives have veered into vastly different directions over the years. She would absolutely hate to live my life (in the city, surrounded by people and activities and drenched in art, working random artsy freelance jobs) and I would go crazy living hers (living secluded by a lake, working with numbers year-round, social life focused on home and family). She is the best person for me to take camping, as our different viewpoints usually mean that she will remember supplies I have forgotten and vice versa (now my twisted mind is chiming in, "she completes me... "[tear]). Kristin and Mike are two other longtime friends from my hometown who relocated to Seattle roughly the same time I did. They are not avid campers, but I convinced them that having the cars nearby (and a site near the bathrooms and showers) would allow for easy escape if they were attacked by a really big bug or something of equal traumatic value. The other two campers were a high school classmate that I had only recently gotten back in touch with, and a friend of his who was his vice president in their Star Wars Fan Club. The classmate and fan club president (I'll call him Darth) was and is the heaviest drinker I have ever met. He started in the morning, and didn't pass out until well after midnight. You could hear the echo of his kidneys and liver quietly weeping anytime you were within a yard of the man. His friend (who kinda looked like Chewbacca) carried a flask of whiskey with him and was of the loud-drunken-asshole variety. Everyone hated him immediately, partially because of his attempt to ingratiate himself through insults aimed at our appearances, beliefs, and all that we held dear. We managed to ignore him for a long while, until the drinking started and boundaries became vague.

On to that.

I should warn you right off that my memories of the night are a bit sideways. There are parts I don't remember. There are parts that I thought I remembered but were later pointed out to be physically/temporally impossible. There are parts that I have attempted to completely block out but that Patty insists on bringing back up on every subsequent camping trip. grr.

But anyways. We arrive in stages, with the early group of Patty, Kristin, Mike and I doing the healthy thing and going on a lovely scenic hike. When we get back to the site, the superfans have arrived and are beginning to pool the alcohol on the picnic table. Once we add ours, the mass of colorful bottles covers fully half the table, with racks of beer underneath. It is shaping up to be a good night. Immediately, detail-oriented Patty notices that I have somehow DARED to bring the same brand of rum that she did and is highly offended at my nerve. She challenges me to a fight, drinking contest, and possibly duel at twenty paces (slightly hampered by lack of things to duel with, other than rocks and squirrels). We begin a race to finish our full fifths of rum, using as few mixers as we could stand.

Soon, Patty decides that it's time to wrestle. She is weaving, the circle that she draws in the sand of the campsite looks like a new kind of amoeba and does not intersect with itself, which is fine considering that she only manages to keep one foot inside. She starts trash-talking, I start giggling uncontrollably and push her out of the circle. Patty hugs me and tries to pick me up. I lick her cheek and continue to giggle as she drops me and starts cursing. She tries to work out the duel details (sticks? thumb wrestling?) as I, flush with victory, decide to challenge Darth to a wrestling match. Darth is about 250 lbs. I fall down.

We are now at roughly half a bottle each, with the other campers doing their best to keep pace. Chewbacca decides that he needs to give us a sobriety test, and moves his finger in front of our eyes (only given his similar level of intoxication, it is a motion that goes in front, around, below, and almost IN our eyes). We attempt to walk a line and almost fall into the fire. We cannot remember the alphabet, forwards or backwards. I claim perfect sobriety despite the fact that I am swaying like bamboo in the wind. Patty loudly challenges everyone to wrestle, calls us all weaklings. I begin to think that maybe Chewbacca has just been misunderstood and is actually a nice guy (he was, after all, wise enough to agree with my sobriety judgement).

At 3/4 of a bottle, I am sitting next to the bonfire sharing a blanket with Chewbacca (I call him Chewy for short). Patty has been in the bathroom for half an hour. Once I realize this through the rum-fog, I go rescue her from her codependent relationship with the campground toilet and we somehow mutually support each other back to her tent. She lays down halfway out the tent door (for ease of vomiting). I have yet to release any of the alcohol currently reorganizing my digestive tract.

Nearing the end of my bottle, we begin to spout poetry in a way that only the truly intoxicated can appreciate. We recite early 90's booty rap lyrics William Shatner-style. I am sliding out of my chair, supported by only the hairy arm of my new soul-mate, and still can remember every line of Bobby Brown's "My Prerogative". I am proud, victorious. Still falling down a lot. Mix-a-Lot becomes "I like... big BUTTS... and... I cannot... LIE", sing-spoken dramatically. Shortly after this memory I (mercifully) black out completely.

Accoring to pictures, I make s'mores that end up in my hair, on my clothes, and somehow amazingly smeared in my shoe. According to witnesses, I also finished my bottle, finished other unprotected drinks, and went swimming. In the Pacific Ocean. In May. I have not been able to discover for certain if a swimsuit was involved.

I snap back into reality around the bonfire again, soaking wet, kissing Chewy (now in my mind the Epitome of Man). I am sad that the bottle is empty and my friends will not let me have any more. They are eyeing me strangely (one said later that my walking in the sand was eerily reminiscent of the "mime in a windstorm" act) and soon we all give up and collapse into our tents.

The next morning I do not realize for quite a long time that the wonderful, sensitive, ruggedly handsome Chewy of the night before is actually the same hairy abrasive jerk of the current morning. I avoid eye contact and am surrounded by friends in a manner usually reserved for herd animals in the wild (horns out, everyone).

From that night on, camping has always involved a high number of babysitters when alcohol is present. I have also never again reached that level of intoxication, or partied with anyone who could discuss the Clone Wars with any kind of authority. Life is better this way.

posted by LadyJay @ 8:30 AM