Storytime Sunday: Road Trippin' Balls

Or: Doc Hofmann is My Co-pilot

Note to children (those under 25) reading: Don't be like me, mmkay?

Have I mentioned my days of drug experimentation? Well, this was one of those days. One spring break a bunch of us did a long multi-part road trip down the west coast. We started in Walla Walla, Washington and went west to a cabin in the woods. We spent a few days there being shitshows, then it was time to drive down to San Francisco. We rolled out and headed down.

But wait! I had an appointment at Evergreen to keep along the way. When I experiment with something, I don't fuck around. So here I picked up a small pharmacy including mescaline, mushrooms, mescaline blended with MDMA (because why not?), and of course, LSD. Unlike everything else, the acid wasn't good to go - it had to be dosed out first. That meant dropping the liquid on sugar cubes and wrapping those in foil as our doses. Transaction done, weed smoked, I was on my way.

My two passengers dosed themselves when we left and started to come up around dusk. We were crossing into Oregon a little after sunset and I kept getting startled by headlights in my rear view mirror. I'd see the lights rushing up to me, then actually look at them in the mirror and they'd be keeping their distance. I can't be that high, can I? Damn, I did not mean to get that high if I'm driving.

Bright objects started getting a bit of bloom and trailers, and the shape of the roadway was really... far out, man. Oh shit. Then I remembered handling the freshly-dosed sugar cubes, still dripping acid solution, when we bought them. See, one of the fun things about acid is that it can be absorbed through your skin. Or my skin, as was the case.

So, driving into the night of this 16 hour drive, I was coming up on an unknown number of hits of acid. This left me in a predicament. I was already tripping and I didn't know how much higher I'd be flying soon, so I had to let someone else take over. But the two other people in my car were both on two hits and riding the snake. Simply getting a motel wasn't an option because that would fuck up the road trip schedule, and that would be terrible. I considered that, though. I also considered telling my passengers what was up.

I kept considering as I chain smoked and assessed all the way to Springfield. "Hey, guys! It's Springfield. The Springfield."

"Let's find the statue of Jebediah Springfield!"

So I pulled off the freeway and on to the deserted, 2 AM streets of Springfield, Oregon. The few street lights were very pretty and glowy and it felt a bit like being on a movie set. Alas, there was no statue at what seemed to be the town center. The place was begging for one - I could see the incorporeal pedestal it belonged on right there. But along the road leading away, we spotted something. There it was, the comic book store and, right next to it, the Kwik-E-Mart. We came for Simpsons, we got the Simpsons.

We kept going and pressed on through the trip. Er, night.

Around 5:30 AM we reached Grant's Pass and stopped for gas. Oregon has this stupid law where it's illegal to pump your own gas, so we had to deal with the attendants. And we were all saucer-eyed and tripping to varying degrees. The guy in my back seat was clinging to the ceiling hand grip and rocking back and forth with a deranged grin on his face. The guy in the front seat was maintaining his composure like a pro and avoiding any interaction. Me? I was fighting against permasmile and trying not to focus on any trippy things I saw. After that stress, we continued on our way.

Down Highway 199, going straight for the coast. We'd been periodically smoking weed along the way; we smoked more once we got outside Grant's Pass. Dawn was starting to creep up and as it started to get light out here was... snow? It was snowing, and driving through that was unbelievably trippy. I was most definitely still tripping and here was this drifting star field I was floating through. There might have been the car engine, but I could still 'hear' the silence of the snow over it. We danced around corners, we rocketed up hills, we entered another world when we passed through a tunnel.

It was around 7 AM when we came down out of the snow. The snow turned to drizzle turned to nothing as we crossed into California. As we came down out of the mountains, I finally felt like I might be coming down myself. Mostly. We crested a hill near the coast and it opened up into an utterly surreal sight of fields of sunflowers catching the morning rays. Just as the world opened up into that, the shuffle on the stereo pulled up "No Rain," and I knew everything would be just fine. Good thing, too - I was spent.

Problem: who was going to take over for me? Guy in the back seat volunteers. "I've come down enough." Well, if you say so. We pull over and swap positions. I gobble 2 hits of acid and curl up in the back seat as though to sleep. And we carry on.

I spent hours in awe of the sights - the glistening ocean, the alien trees, the twisted road. For a while I had my face pressed to the window in full perma-smile mode. It was glorious going down Highway 1 with a sleep-deprived, residually-tripping madman at the wheel, but that could only go on so long. He started getting swervy and jerky, and we can't have that with blind turns and 200' cliffs.

So he pulled over. Guy in the front seat? "I can't fit in your driver's seat!" He had a point. This guy was like 6-foot-20 and not going to squeeze under my steering wheel.

So this is how it's gonna be, guys? Really? I drive us more than 12 hours from bumfuck backwoods Washington to Crescent City, California, mostly on acid, and my only replacement driver is done for before we reach Mendocino. I'm supposed to take over again? Don't you guys remember when I ate all that acid this morning? Fine! Fine, someone's gotta do it.

So I took over driving again, and let me tell you, Highway 1 is an... interesting drive when you're tripping. I fortunately learned quickly: don't get engrossed by the pretty images, if they suck you in you're dead. Cars coming the other direction were heart attack inducing when they actually passed, but for the most part, while stressful, it was also oddly zen. I was connected to the car and fully open to the magnificent natural beauty around me. The smooth g-forces of each turn, the almost rhythmic rising from and falling toward the ocean along the roller coaster roadway. The sea spray and the spring foliage enveloped me in a blanket of smells. And it was such a beautiful day, with swarms of itty bitty UFOs on the ocean surface, all flickering in the sunlight.

But I couldn't keep it up. The only thing keeping me awake at this point was the fact that I was tripping. So we pulled into a market in (I think) Stewarts Point - it was somewhere not too far north of Jenner is all I know for certain. I didn't think I could go on. Big guy was going to have to squeeze in there. He wasn't so sure about that - said he'd think about it while I bought energy drinks. So I went in, I purchased a Monster and two Red Bulls, and I walked out with the receipt... for $6.66. That was a trip. Though it was more of a trip for the big guy. He saw the 666 was was like, "alright, it's a sign. Let's do this!"

Big guy took off driving and I pounded my energy drink, again starting to come down. This situation lasted all the way to... Inverness. Maybe - probably not even that far, though my memory is kind of fuzzy (can't imagine why). His knee was killing him and someone else had to take over. Other guy was curled up like a baby in the back seat. Alright, all on me again. As always.

So I'm still tripping a little and now kept awake by energy drinks, at least, and we're in the home stretch. We just have to make it to Foster City and we can pass out. I drive us through rural Marin County and we trip out on the farms and cows. Remembering how close I used to live to the cows, I tripped out harder.

I was so strung out. Soooo strung out. I was shaky and weak and twitchy, but dammit, we were going to make it. We slipped down onto the 101 and I was almost overwhelmed by all the cars and traffic and buildings and oh my god so busy! But that was just the start. We stopped for more energy drinks (in Greenbrae, I think), and I pounded one on the drive down through Marin.

I wasn't properly tripping at this point, I don't think, but distances, proportions, and perspective were still all weird. And so it was that I got on the Golden Gate Bridge, with its 2-feet-more-narrow-than-standard lanes and no median. The lanes looked like they got narrower and narrower and all the other cars seemed huge and smothering. I was gripping the steering wheel for dear life and biting down on my cigarette.

I barely remember the rest of the drive, just floating through San Francisco and riding the current down 101. We pulled into the Residence Inn parking lot, and thus ended that leg of the journey, nearly 24 hours after leaving.

To be continued...

Storytime Sunday: Grand Theft Golf Cart

In which Rachel comes within 15 feet of being arrested as an accessory to grand theft.

Boredom and insulation from consequences breeds a certain kind of adventurous nihilism. There are no consequences, so clearly nothing matters. But that just invites pushing the boundaries, seeing how far you can go until there actually are consequences.

Getting caught smoking weed on campus 3 times and ignored smoking at least as many? No consequences. Going to work drunk, and even drinking at work? Nothing. Stealing benches from the school and proudly displaying them outside my house? Pfft. Smoking cigarettes inside the computer lab in front of the publicly-accessible webcam? Please. I don't remember if this was before or after I biked through the library naked.

Whitman was a game preserve, where we were protected from responsibility. And we were going to (incrementally) take that as far as possible.

So it was one fateful... I honestly don't know what night - Tuesday and Saturday were about the same then. Some night a bunch of us were getting drunk. Anyway, this one guy, let's call him C., proposed stealing a golf cart from the school. He said he'd stolen it before, it's really easy. He just needs to stick his Leatherman in the key slot and turn. However, he's already in trouble with the school (somehow, I don't remember how he pulled that off), so he needed someone else to take the fall if they got caught. Nothing matters, so K. volunteers as driver/fall guy.

The plan we didn't realize we made was to all go on a joyride. Or at least, I didn't realize until it was happening.

I heard a putt-putt going down the dark street, then a "heeeyyyy~~". The golf cart was ours.

Seven of us (if I'm not mistaken) piled onto that one golf cart. It was one of those maintenance golf carts, so it had a flat bed in back; four of us piled on there. Another three crammed into the front seat. And we were off.

Off where? WHO CARES? Past Hunter Conservatory, up the street, back between the buildings. "WOOOOOOOOO!" Zigging and zagging all over the damn place. Where to next? How about we buzz Prentiss (the girls' dorms)? Yeah! Not that we voted on any of it, we just rationalized it after K. drunkenly swerved in that direction.

So we swerved between the dorms, down the path, through the sprinklers - don't touch the brakes! - almost into a bench, past the music building... We were about to go back out onto the street, off to who knows where.

"Police!" Fuck. K. brought the cart to a halt just at the (far) edge of the sidewalk.

"Step out of the vehicle." 4 drunk college students proceeded to fall off the back.

"Have you all been drinking?" Eeyup. Very drinking.

"Which one of you was driving?" Okay, K., now's the time to be the fall guy.

"I'm going to ask again, which one of you was driving?" Any minute here, K.

K. was not going to be the fall guy.

Another cop arrived. A sergeant. He surveyed the scene, turned to the cop next to him and said "I was expecting a drunk Bill Murray."

K. eventually did confess in a manner so anticlimactic I don't even remember it happening. Or maybe I would have remembered if I wasn't freaking out because, oh yeah, cops.

"Are you all Whitman students?" Sighs of relief all around. Yep, yep, yep, "kinda." Goddammit, C., they don't need to get into full time vs. part time vs. no time.

We were all Whitman students, so what did that mean? "We'll call security and..." The cop could barely keep a straight face here, "see if they want to do anything."

There was one hard-ass among the cops, always going on about C.'s "weapon" (his Leatherman) and being generally annoyed and bitchy. Then there were the rest of the cops arrayed at this scene. Shaking their heads, resisting laughter, cracking jokes between each other. I guess there are worse things they could get called to.

One of the cops reminded us how lucky we were which side of the sidewalk we were on when they caught us. This side of the sidewalk, Whitman security gets us, that side of the sidewalk the po-po gets us. Po-po gets us for theft in excess of $1,000 - i.e., Grand Theft Golf Cart. (Not that Whitman would ultimately press charges, but still - they don't have beer in those jail cells.) But we were on this side so...

Finally security arrived to tell us to go home and sleep it off. Well, okay, he did ask for all our names and student ID numbers first. He was very official about it and everything. And then he sent us home, said we'd be hearing about disciplinary action later. Uh-huh. So can we go now?

We could go, and that could only mean one thing: go back home and drink and party more. "WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

P.S.: There never was any disciplinary action. No one even heard a peep from admin except for K., who was summoned for a Talking To. No consequences. Nothing matters.

Storytime Sunday: This Ceiling Sure Looks Inviting

Tequila has a tendency of convincing you certain things are good ideas. None of them are actually good ideas.

My last year at Whitman, I lived in a party house. Like, had a giant living room / foyer where we held bumpin' concerts regularly. Rosaacs, it was called (because it was on the corner of Rose and Isaacs streets). We had a lot of adventures. One night the guy who would become my roommate there called me up and asked "wanna go commit some federal crimes?" But that's another story.

There were four of us. There was me, obviously. There was J., a hilarious manly man astronomy major who tried (unsuccessfully) to switch to archaeology; he basically ran the house, he ran the concerts and loves Old Granddad, Pink Floyd, and dirty blues. There was S., a Swazi astronomy-math combined major who smoked whole trees of pot and drank cheap beer constantly (along with stealing my and Jake's booze); when he got deported, we found his room even messier than mine, with bottles of piss accumulated among the beer cans knee deep in places. And there was I., the diabetic sophomore who always got blacked out and lost his insulin pump; it's a miracle he survived.

We were hanging out drinking one winter night with friends mostly from the FUSH (Fucked Up Shit House). We = me and J.; I. and S. were off getting fucked up elsewhere. So all of we were hanging out in the kitchen taking bong rips and shots (except J. - he'd never touch weed). One of the FUSH people noticed a hatch in the ceiling. "What's up there," he asked.

J. shrugged. "I dunno!"

I took my shot of tequila. "Only one way to find out." See, at that point I'd been in the habit of crawling into tiny spaces for some reason. Crawling into walls, you know, like this. So I figured, fuck it, let's check this out. Tequila said it was a good idea, at least.

J. grabbed a ladder and set it up underneath. I wrestled my way to the top and pushed the square up, then slid it to the side. "Whoooaaaaa..." There were pipes in there. And a crawlspace big enough to hang out in. And... what's that against the wall there? I pulled myself up, sticking to the 2x4s and keeping my weight off the drywall ceiling.

"Hey, someone pass me the tequila," I called down. One of my friends dutifully handed it up.

Just drinking tequila in the ceiling. WCGW?

I was enjoying my ceiling tequila, but there was something missing. There's something about confined spaces that just screams "hotbox me!" So I drank a little more tequila and asked for the pipe and a lighter. You know what happened next.

I was getting comfortable up there. As I drank more tequila people started to wonder if I ever planned to come down. I wasn't thinking that far ahead. I had my Hornitos and I was happy. But all good things must come to an end. Eventually I was summoned to climb down. Easy enough. Just shuffle backwards along the 2x4s same way I came in. What could possibly go wrong?

I was going along all right, laughing like an idiot the whole way, when something fell out from under me.

You see those pipes there? Yeah, they're actually important.

As you can see, I couldn't stop laughing at my fail, face-arming myself because my palms were occupied holding me up. Once I calmed down enough, I shuffled over and climbed back down through the opening that was actually supposed to be there.

Repairing it was an adventure. J. took charge - it wasn't the first time he'd had to replace drywall in that house. We went to Home Depot, got a sheet, took it home, drank some bourbon, cut it, replaced the old sheet, drank some beer, spackled, painted, good as new.

Then we drank more. The end.

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