JMU: Knowing Not the Boundaries of Nausea

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Made an impromptu trek down to JMU on Thursday, 15 January 2004 for a recreation of New Year's Eve at 1145 J Ashby, home of both James (CannedJam) and Smitty (SmitHappens). I stayed only for the night. Any more and I might have exploded into a billion little pieces. Before I get into the night's running diary (Sports Guy-style), I want to link to two pictures that tell a pretty good story all by themselves:

Picture #1 (roughly 10:19 PM)--Left to Right: A mildly constipated Smitty, DanWho, James, Myself, Ryan, Piyum. This is early in the festivities, me on my secondish beer. I show this photograph for reference purposes only. Note the happiness on my face. Note the fact that I seem to be aware of picture-taking. Note that I do not look like I might fall over and pass out. Note all of this.

Picture #2 (of totally unknown time period)--Look at what I have become. I have zero recollection of this picture. Zero. Expressionless. Motionless. Eyes covered in more glass than a...house of...glass. Sure, my skin isn't green and aside form the glazed ocular region there's nothing overtly troubling about my appearance (no comments), but upon closer inspection anyone can tell that this is a man on the brink of something explosive. Recall this as you read.

On to the countdown...

9:45 PM--I arrive in the quaint little college town of Harrisonburg. I stop at the Ashby office to obtain a parking pass. Nada. Zilch. No guest passes. Typical. Ashby has gone downhill since I left. Totally.

9:47 PM--Someone outside the office ditches a parking spot. I race outside to my car.

9:47:04 PM--Parking spot taken by massive Escalade before I even reach the New Hottness ('96 Ford Escort Wagon). Motherf*cker.

9:48 - 9:57 PM--I circle the Ashby visitor's lots numerous times attempting to find a spot. It seems as though every time I enter a lot, someone is taking a spot of someone who has just left. Blind people with Parkinson's have had more success playing "Operation".

9:58 PM--I park my car and enter 1145 J. No one is expecting me, and in one of my finer moments, I enter into a room of about 15 people to, "Geoff Baio is here!!!!" and "What the f*ck are you doing here???", making me feel almost like a man. The situation is further heightened by my constant overuse of the 80's Transroom Point (TM) to anyone who yells to me. Ever closer to being a man. Almost.

10:04 PM--With the Parking Lot Authorities about to start towing, I resume my search for a visitor spot. One swipe through the back lot and I have my spot. Where the f*ck were you fifteen g*ddamn minutes ago?

10:07 PM--First beer is filled. I have not had anything to drink in roughly a month, so I make a conscious effort to pace myself. Unbeknownst to my liver, "conscious effort" clearly means "comatose noneffort", a stipulation that allows it to go completely out the window at any given time.

10:10 PM--Conscious effort to pace myself goes out window as I fill my second beer.

10: 25 PM--James comes out of his room with a 1/3 full Traveler of Jagermeister. Jokingly, I say, "James, why don't you chug that" in a comical Tough Guy voice. James, ever the misinterpreter of sarcasm, does so. A violent jerking takes over his face for a few seconds afterwards, and the chance of the first vomit is in the air. However, James recovers remarkably and proceeds to the kitchen to check the level of other liquors. I follow him in and remind him, "James, you better pace yourself. It's not a sprint, it's a marathon."

James, in all his infinite wisdom, spits back the Quote of the Night and current Quote of the Year:

"Yeah. Unless you're a Kenyan, then you can sprint the marathon."

Seriously, can anyone top that? And this man, drunk out of his mind, shot it off in .2 seconds. Brilliant.

10:47 PM--I'm headed to fill beer four or five, I can't recall which, and really feeling it. As I walk into the bathroom (where the keg is), two girls are having a conversation. I don't know what I came before, but I step in to hear, "Yeah, so thank God I have a great ass because my tits are pathetic."

Then they see me. Silence. Awkwardness. I'm shifting. For some reason, some unGodly reason, I picked up a toothbrush from the sink. Why? Why? What would propel me to do something like that? Nothing good is coming out of this situation. They're giving me a look like "What the hell are you doing in here?" I feel ashamed, but seriously, if you are going to discuss such issues over a keg at a party with 50 people at, don't you assume someone might hear you? Days later I'm still confused. I replace the toothbrush and get my beer.

11:13 PM--James, DanWho and I discuss what could be a breakthrough in the way we see history. Clearly, Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue in fourteen hundred and ninety-two. However, Cristobal (as I like to call him) was an Italian that sailed with the help of the Queen of Spain. Taking into account his nationality and the country backing his voyage, we decided he did NOT cross the Atlantic in the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, but in either a drop-top or T-top IROC. Possibly with hyrdraulics.

Occifer, can you get me a coff of cuppee? Sanks.

11:45 PM--1145 J's Steve, ever the host, hands out tiaras and plastic hats--reminiscent of the Derby Malcom McDowell wears in A Clockwork Orange--to the partygoers. I take a yellow derby to be cool. I'm ready for a little of the ol' ultraviolence. Then, without warning, my Male Vagina Meter goes off the charts as I realize the plastic has begun to burn my head.

(EDITOR'S NOTE--I just want to say that this in no way reflects upon the graciousness of our hosts. Steve could not have realize the hat would burn my forehead so. The gesture was a phenomenal one, and has the chemicals not reacted unfavorably with my delicate skin, I would have kept it on.)

What's funny is that I must not have been the only one, because all of a sudden there is a wave of people passing hats off to others. It's like a big game of Musical Plastic New Year's Hats. I'm worried we might spontaneously generate a leper colony. However, Ryan approaches with some champagne (the good Andre kind), and I forget in a glorious fit of cheap sparkling wine.

11:50 PM - roughly 3:00 AM--This time period is clouded in thick fog. After the champagne hit, I really lost myself. I barely remember the Fake Ball Drop, though I do remember yelling. I remember standing on the couch. I remember wandering and talking and bits and pieces, but nothing comprehensible. So let's fast forward.

Roughly 3:00 AM--My friend Nicole is attempting to walk back to Southview, about a half mile away, by herself. Now I'm a jerk and an assh*le, but one thing you can never allow is for females to walk home by themselves, even at the relatively safe JMU. Note one thing: I know I have in my head that I have to make it back to Ashby, as my case for my contacts is in my bag in my car there. Note this.

Post 3:00 AM walking--I recall little, but I do remember at one point I'm feeling very, very sick. Stomach rumbling. And Nicole is pointing to Hunter's Ridge and saying, "I live that way." Note that Hunter's Ridge is in the opposite direction of Southview. Things are looking progressively worse.

Later--Somehow we find her place. Upon entering Nicole, ever the gracious hostess, is offering me drink, cereal, and aspirin like a concerned grandmother. My stomach is bubbling like a tar pit and I tell myself "Yep, I have to puke." Unfortunately, my inner monologue has collapsed, and I emit this verbally. Nicole, still the gracious hostess, near screams, "Can you make it to the bathroom?"

My answer comes in the form of me placing my fist over my mouth, creating a two points of pressure at either side of my mouth. As the vomit erupts through my esophegus and behind my teeth, I know that no good can come of what is about to happen. I figure, not in a sober manner, that I can hold the vomit in my mouth until I reach the bathroom. Unfortunately for all involved, my legs are not carrying me in that direction. The half-digested beer and gastric acid hit my lips with surprising force, and the pressure of my fist on the outside forces the vomit in--and I cannot overstate this--absolutely high-velocity gushing streams through the narrow gaps on the side of my mouth. As I spray, my legs finally kick into motion and I run for the nearest toilet. Nicole, whom I have never heard swear in my entire life, screams, "NOT ON THE F*CKING CARPET!!!!!!"

I have no idea when--I wake up facedown on the tile in the bathroom. Somehow my aim was true and all the vomit hit the commode water. I even managed to flush. However, the tile has left cross-mark imprint on my face. This hurts. I stand up wobbly and rinse my mouth out. The floor looks better than the tile.

Christ knows when--I wake up on the floor. I can feel the imprint of the grainy carpet superimposed over the cross-mark imprint of the tile. I forget where I am. That couch looks good though.

F*ck if I know--I wake up on the couch. I have forgotten where I am again. It takes me three minutes to right myself. My eyes hurt. I realize that New Year's Eve has truly come and gone, and hurray. Another in the books, and in the trenches. I feel my face. The grain of the couch has superimposed itself over the grain of the carpet and the cross-mark of the tile in an imprint on my delicate face. Before I pass out, I think to myself that I must look like the Swamp Thing.

And there you have it. In the morning (well, afternoon) I have the second worst hangover of my life (the worst being Homecoming day 2000 when I had consumed two Steel Reserves the night before at Melrose. God help us all.) and want to die, knowing I have a three-hour car ride home. I return to the carnage that is 1145 J and retrieve my bag. I brush my teeth and remove my contacts. Smitty, James, Nicole and I are chatting. I present James and Smitty with a bad porn tape that I'm desperate to get rid of. The actual conversation that followed:

SMITTY: Wow, 222 minutes of porn. Thanks.
JAMES: How could you ever watch that much porn?
GEOFF: I usually end up only watching about seven minutes at a time.

Sometimes I wish I weren't so verbal.

I show them a picture of Jameson, who used to be my dog, and Nicole exclaims "EEEEWWWWW." This conversation follows:

GEOFF: Hey, c'mon, that's my dog!
NICOLE: Sorry, I don't really like any animals.
JAMES: Not even bunnies?
NICOLE: Ew, no, bunnies carry rabies.

Finally, as I'm discussing my trip to the PA State Farm Show, we talk about Alpacas. Nicole is looking at me confused. The conversation that follows:

GEOFF: Have you ever seen an Alpaca?
NICOLE: No, what is it?
GEOFF: It's like a really, really, really f*cking dumb, more useless Llama.
NICOLE: Oh. I thought you were talking about computers.
JAMES: I think that's Compaq.

Truth is stranger than fiction. Truly.

My excursion ended with an everlasting motorcarriage trip home and a four-hour stint at American Eagle to boot. I was hungover until noon the next day. Numerous times I considered stopping the car to ralph, but in the end I persevered.

Just like any other JMU weekend.

Next weekend: I tackle the Nation's Capital.