What Did You Do This Summer?

I was just being overwhelmed by the crippling terror following the realization that school starts in FIVE DAYS when I imagined back to being a little kid, going back to school. They ask you, "What did you do over your summer vacation?"

You know, I am forever accumulating wild stories of reckless times and close calls and assorted adventures and calamities, but this summer has got to be one for the record books.

I try and duly document as much as possible because
1) Due to the fact that I am deep down an emotional packrat and sentimental junkie, it's satisfying to be able to recall details of my own life later, especially when I'm locked into an impressive bender and have a tendency to get lost in the sauce and forget all kinds of rad things as they're happening around me.
and
2) Nearly 100,000 hits on my blog(s) have led me to believe that some people find this shitshow amusing and actually ENCOURAGE me to continue making an ass of myself by publicizing my exploits.

So here it is. What I Did This Summer, The Abridged Version

I drove a rock band on tour for 3 weeks, in the desert, in the mountains, in the rain, in a tornado, to warm beach houses and hot warehouses, from sea-level to 7,000 feet, in a van with no windows full of boys who don't shower, smoking cartons of cigarettes, drinking gallons of beer and vitamin water, couch-surfing, getting attacked by bees at a river, taking baths and shaving my legs in the ladies room at Jack In The Box, designated driving while GPSing directions on my phone while yelling at the boys and changing the song on the iPod while lighting my cigarette, while getting back on the highway after filling up the millionth tank of gas, still 23 hours straight-drive from home.

I shot a rock-and-roll wedding in Colorado, and then another in Oregon, where I spent most of the time doing morally reprehensible things.

I spent my days sitting on the porch with vodka snowcones and cigarettes, playing guitars with Luke and the other 25 boys who are always here at one point or another. I wrote a shitload of music. I smoked and ate and drank and abused myself till dawn. After dawn. Bike adventures, beer runs, be right back.

I shotgunned Sophia Coppola champagne in a can on the corner of 10th and Hoyt downtown, in a wedding dress and silver pumps.

I drove a bachelor party around town and had Smiley and Guil moon the entire population of upper Hawthorne.

I went to Soapbox Derby and was trashed by noon. Left with a bloody leg and a new respect for gin and pineapple.

I rafted down the river with the best crew in the world about a dozen times. Calamities, duct-tape holding boats together, totally disorganized, everyone's smokes always wet and nobody giving a flying fuck about anything other than sunbeams and good people and cold beers.

I spent a week in San Diego mostly drinking at the Del Mar Fair, climbed on strangers' cars, drank champagne on a party bus rented for my cousin's birthday, hopped in a car with a bunch of strangers to go swimming in the ocean at 4 AM, discovered Tapatio hot sauce in travel-sized packets and probably almost got my aunt arrested just for being in public with me on more than one occasion.

I spent 10 days in Los Angeles in the sketchiest part of downtown, where I stayed in (never left) an air-conditioned room with Brittney, beer and popsicles. Went to a party that Alexis Arquette invited Brittney to, where several trannies were picked up and brought back to the house and promptly stole my wedding ring and Brittney's Xanax and a shitload of her makeup. I blew $75 on my first night there at a random dive bar Brittney's probably unable to go back to now. Went to the LA Gun Club and blew shit away. Went to the beach, blacked out and woke up later with a little umbrella in my trucker hat.

I Craigslisted a ride to San Francisco and spent the next 7 days moving my shit every 24 hours due to a cataclysmic alignment of lodging circumstances. Drank greyhounds on a roof in the Mission and watched the city, listened to oldies and smoked cigarettes. Ate hella Mexican food. Buses and taxis and borrowed cars and walking from Ingleside to the Mission to Haight to Inner Richmond and back again, with a purse, then a mouth, then a body fulla booze. Spent about $80 more than necessary in Chinatown.

Drove home for 18 hours in another van full of boys. Shenanigans. Cases and cases of beer I didn't get any of. Motherfuckers still owe me $40, actually. Scotty's naked in the van. Sammy's naked on the couch. Puking in the parking lot, molested by a swamp donkey, Adderall to make it home.

I watched 5 seasons of House, 2 seasons of Dexter, 2 seasons of True Blood and 2 seasons of 30 Rock. I have no idea how many hours of television that is, but since I was watching it while I was working I was technically getting paid to do it so it's a dual accomplishment. And yeah, watching TV is an accomplishment. Shut it.

Through all of this tomfoolery I managed to work my scheduled hours, pay my bills and otherwise be a responsible human being. Thank you, thankyouverymuch.

I'm moving on Friday and Saturday.
Monday I start school.

Then the boys (and girls) come up from San Fran the next weekend and I will pretty much wreck the rest of my entire following week just recovering from their stay. I can't wait. If this summer is really going down, it's going down in flames.


I probably forgot all sorts of shit, but that's the long and short of it.

Goodbye, Summer 2K9. It's been real. Hazardous.