Misreply.org

Part 1: http://www.misreply.org/2008/drunken-fury-part-1-the-ordination/
Part 2: http://www.misreply.org/2008/drunken-fury-the-penn-years-part-2/

Unsure whether I should laugh or wince in pain, I got up from my fetal position on Bill’s bed. I looked up and Firn was still holding that damned chair above my head. “Dude…really…”, I barely made out in between fits of laughter, “chill”. Twice now had that chair been dropped on my head. The first was a sucker punch of sorts; I really wasn’t expecting him to actually do it. Bill egged him on a second time, as my egg shaped head met the cloth of the backrest yet again. Once for each case, Firn, good job.

“Why are we in here, my room is like six times the size.”
“Yea good point…I really have no idea, I just wanted to bust Bill’s balls about Diablo.”
“The kid failed Calc because of that game, and you are going to continue to torture him about it?”…I paused a bit and realized the comedy of my own statement, “Yea…good point.”

This seemed to be the trend that year. While it was in no way a regular occurrence, the few nights of debauchery that we had were well worth the year at Penn by themselves. This particular time, the second of our aptly named “Drunken Fury” get-togethers, happened to end with a chair on my head, and a session of Quake (You can truly tell a geek when some semblence of geekdom can shine through even after consuming enough booze to drown a small country).

A few weeks before that, Ryan’s girlfriend (actually,she was already his fiancee at the time…now an ex) had come up from Florida to visit us to celebrate our birthdays. Older than me by two weeks, her birthday being on the first of February and mine on the 16th, she decided to visit in between those two dates to bear witness to the genesis of Drunken Fury.

Preparations had been going on for the last week or so for this event. It was a typical faux Philadelphia winter; temperature varying from the uncanny 70 degree days in January to the negative 5 degree temperatures that week…but no snow. There’s just something not right about a NorthEast winter without snow…

“But dad, I want to build a fortress!”, I screamed as I looked at the four feet of snow outside.
“Yea…well, first you have to get the damned door open.”
After a few minutes of pushing, I stepped outside and breathed in the cool crisp air. I’d add “clean” to that list, but we’re in Philly, not Montana, and your chances of finding clean air are about as likely as getting the opportunity to bang Megan Fox tonight (unless you are banging Megan Fox tonight…in which case, I hate you). At age 11, wrapped up in three layers of clothing, a heavy waterproof jacket, hat, gloves, and boots, there is really nothing better than diving into a four foot mound of soft fresh snow. I don’t think anything else during the Blizzard of ’94 was more fun than that day in Fishtown.

That is the feeling that was missing that day. A cold February morning, no snow on the ground, just the knowledge that the days are going to be short and boring…but at least we had a dorm fridge full of Heineken, a bottle of Grey Goose, a fifth of Captain Morgan, and the loveliest liquor of them all: Bombay Sapphire.

“You going to help me with this shit?”, asked Ryan as I lazily looked up from whatever book it was that I happened to be reading.
“What are you talking about?”
“My TV…moving it in here.”
“Oh yea…give me a sec.”

Of the four of us at VP-313, Ryan tended to be the most impulsive of us all. In 2001, having a high definition TV was symbolic of godliness, so of course he had to have one. It arrived on a Saturday morning, and I felt bad for the Best Buy guys that had to carry the 150 pound juggernaut up three flights of stairs, as our dorm had no elevators. Helping carry it during move-out day, and subsequently moving it to my room at Doyne’s a few years later, I now know the torture those brave men faced. It’s not that it was really all that heavy, but it was unbalanced. What did you expect…it was a CRT, with heavy glass in the front, and oddly shaped plastic all around. A CRT…unheard of these days, but it was high def, goddamit (Not that the original XBox, Dreamcast, Gamecube, or the PS2 that we collectively owned would take advantage of it).

I felt bad for Bill…I really did. His girlfriend was over that night, so he wasn’t even able to fully enjoy the get together. Additionally, her random button mashing in Soul Calibur was coasting her to easy victories against Bill. I never really understood the term “whipped” until I saw the extent to which their relationship took it.

“Ok, who wants beer and who wants liquor?”, I asked as I grabbed a Heineken.
“Nothing for me”, replied Bill as Ryan grabbed the Bombay and poured it into a Styrofoam cup, filling it.
Everyone looked at Bill, anxious for his followup, “She’s not letting me drink yet.”

After fifteen minutes, Bill walked back into the room, followed by his girlfriend. Sharpie marker in hand, she laid out her terms. “He gets to have one drink, but I’m going to write shit all over his face.” As funny as we found it that she drew a few down arrows and boldly wrote “small penis” on his forehead, I wasn’t sure whether I was laughing at the sight of this or the sadness of the state of affairs. How could he let her do that…a man has to have some limits.

I took out the Italian Rum Cake my mom bought me and placed it on the chair. Within minutes, the sheer amount of rum in that cake had begun to seep through the box, staining the chair. “Well… I guess I’m not sitting on that one.”

We ate cake…then they left. I honestly did not even notice if Bill washed his face or not before leaving.

Looking around, it was your average drab dorm room. It being an Ivy League school, perhaps I expected plush carpeting, diamond chandeliers, and my own personal butler; it was not the case. It seems that no matter what the school, and no matter how much money you throw away to get that lousy piece of paper, it never really changes…every school, no matter how different, is exactly the same.

The walls were gray, the ceilings white, with paper thin grey carpeting all around. The windows barely opened, perhaps a safety precaution to the inevitable drunken person that would attempt to lean out that window. The windows barely opened, but people still found ways to kill themselves that year by “mistakenly” falling out of their window from one of the top floors at Towers, or by stumbling over the railing on the roof of the frat house across the street. Arriving early in the morning on move-in day, I managed to snag the second largest room in the suite. The largest was occupied by Mike, our asian suite-mate who had a fetish for school books and microwaving chicken, since he moved in a week earlier due to his duties as campus IT. Ry and Bill got shafted even more, since their rooms were about the size of a county jail cell. The idea, as it was originally envisioned, was that the person with the largest room would switch mid-year with the person who had the smallest room. The people who had the other two rooms, likewise, would switch. In reality, this never occurred, and the end result was that most of our suite mini-parties would end up taking place in my room.

Tonight, however, four of us found ourselves in Bill’s room — the smallest room. This made sense at the time…somehow, although I could not begin to fathom what our train of thought was that night. I’m fairly certain that alcohol had something to do with it. I mean, hell, Firn was 2 cases in, and everyone else was having a good time as well. Tonight, Matt from next door wasn’t joining us; I don’t remember whether it was because he was recovering from his vodka+Mt. Dew (“Never again!”), or whether he was scared to repeat it.

“Grab the chair, Firn”, Bill egged on as I sat down on the bed next to Ryan. There really was no room in there at this point, so I figured that moving a chair would be a good idea…I said nothing. Bill points to me and says “you won’t drop it on his head”, to which Firn responded with a resounding “oh yea?”.

to be continued

I turned to Ewald and said: “At least he will be the best wingman ever now”.
He turned to me with his typical half-smile half-scowl and retorted: “Yea, either that or he will be the biggest cock-block in the world”.

Imagine this scene: We are standing outside of a Christian Seminary surrounded by at least 200 priests and as many seminarians along with their families and friends. Surprisingly, with me and Ewald there, somehow the holy water was not boiling and the walls of the chapel did not erupt in spontaneous flame.

After high school not many people kept in touch, contrary to their “K.I.T. call me at xxx-xxx-xxxx” inscriptions in everyone’s yearbooks, but a few of us were here celebrating Spaz’s ordination into Deaconhood. I haven’t seen Lily in years, ever since graduation, but she had not really changed at all. Neither did Nicolo or Kelly. Granted it’s only been seven years, but it’s amazing to see how subtly everything changes. Conversation carries on just like it did those seven years ago, but somehow it is different. The subjects of conversation are similar, save for the substitution of “job” for “class”, and “engaged to” for “hooking up with”, but everyone seems more distant than before…more engulfed in the business and problems of their own life. Except for Ewald…he is always good for an off topic and completely uncouth comment, and we loved him for it.

“I swear to God, if Father [removed] comes over here and says something, I’m going to fucking punch him in the mouth.”

Good old E.

Just a half hour earlier, approximately half of our section could barely contain laughter due to Ewald’s off-color comments, and the rest claimed that they would go to hell just for being in his presence, but I just sat there trying not to look too visibly entertained during what is supposed to be a solemn and holy ceremony.

I think that particular Mass had everything possible:
* 200+ priests – check
* 200+ seminarians – check
* 600 parents and friends – check
* A priest drill sergeant – wait..what?

I whispered to Ewald and Gina, “I feel like I’m in a concentration camp, or the army or something with this dude”, as I pointed to the priest that was barking out orders on how we were to sit, how we were to line up for communion, and how we were to return to our pews. “Yes, drill sergeant!” I whispered to my friends as Father Captain Blood gave us the precise instructions we had grown to expect over the last five minutes.

* an alcoholic seminarian, dubbed Deacon Chug – che…ck?

With the plethora of priests, deacons and ministers vastly outnumbering the communion recipients, there was a substantial amount of leftover wine in the chalice of Deacon Chug. However, instead of either sharing it with the rest of the clergy, or calmly sipping the rest of it as to not waste it; this particular Deacon did something I had never thought I would witness during an Ordination Mass….or any Mass ever: He took the chalice to his mouth, threw his head back, and chugged the remining wine like a freshman at a college party.

“Chug Chug Chug”, Ewald said while barely keeping a straight face.

—-

“Chug Chug Chug!” we yelled at Firn as he took another can of beer from our fridge at Penn and put it to his lips. For a college freshman, Firn was a god among men when it came to the raw consumption of alcohol. Ryan, Bill and I simply watched in amazement, being freshmen ourselves at the time.

Firn was starting his second CASE of Coors Light and showed no signs of stopping…

(to be continued)