Monday, January 23, 2012

No words can Explain, other than the ones that follow


Sitting here trying to recall a old trip I took at either the end of middle school or
freshman year is tough. Even more so when the alcohol blackout period of high school and the few years after is taken into consideration. Actually I find it a fun exercise to attempt to remember things from my days before I graduated.

 My brain works in mysterious ways, the way I recount information is a dumbfounding
ordeal, even unto me. For instance I might see a baby playing with a key chain and think of the time in elementary school when Kenny and I found a baby bird and mercy killed it because the mother wouldn’t care for it now it smelled of humans, this is only one small brick in my warped sensibility by the way.

So the other day when I was taking a relaxing soak in hot bath in attempt to go to
sleep, I thought about the recent Paula Deen Diabetes thing (which I don’t care about but the hole thing infuriates me so I'll probably write something about it soon), which made me think about those two raccoons from The Great Outdoors that really loved garbage, then I went to rabid squirrels. This is the chain of thought that made me remember my trip to Pine Ridge and Sugar Mountain shortly there after. Bothersome Huh?

-Pine Ridge-

I remember it was a pretty big trip. My friend James and I were in this church youth
group, shocking to those who know me that I actually had contact with the religious world (I was also involved in RA's too), that had planned this big group retreat to the mountains of North Carolina.  You know the kind of trip where you sing Kumbaya by the fire, which on a side note the church my parents went to had a camp-out at one of the congregation members farm and spent all day building a fire to do practically the same which I promptly ruined by hiding a six pack of soda in the wood pile so that when it started the soda would explode and put the fire out (I got banished to my tent for the rest of the event),  then talk about personal stories and make smores. This is something I would find uncomfortable now, but as it was a way to leave town for a few days and it was relatively free, I went.

I met James at his house with my bag packed with the essentials, my PlayStation with a
rf converter I made to hook it up to my portable TV, mini disc player with my Manson/NIN mix, clothes and batteries to supply the latter. We then went to the church to meet up in the parking lot. Every one started showing up while James and I walked through the youth building making sick jokes and looking forward to while also dreading the godly ordained activities, they made a three page itemized list for everyone.
While I can't remember the names of the activities I am sure they were called
something like: The Shepherd and The Flock, Baptism by Fire, Sister Mary's Pole Dancing Class, so on and such. Really the titles of these things sent shivers down my spine, and the last note on the page was "no music players allowed" so I stashed them at the bottom of the bag and proceeded to the van, after all its not my fault they actually trusted the honor system.

In order to kick things off we all formed a circle around the van and linked hands to
form a prayer chain, the whole time I was making a list of who I wouldn’t mind seeing naked and in possible compromising situations (I was twelve and perverted at the time, I wanted to see almost every girl naked), how long before I could ditch the program or at least what I needed to do to play along while not suffering internally. Prayer time over everyone piled into the van and we proceeded on the way.

What Pine Ridge, or possibly Pine Mountain I cant remember, looks like on the
approach is tough to say as by the time we actually got there the dense fog and snow if I recall exactly right only had me thinking that I didn’t want to be found dead in a wreck with these idiots. There was trees packed close together and a winding road with gravel on both banks, and it was all included with steep inclines and falling rock signs. The drive took about eight hours in total.
Pulling into the cabins, which were primarily arranged off of a road with
three branches, they didn't look all that bad. All were made like log cabins and in the center of all was a common house for group activities, which luckily we had en masse. We got out of the van and went on to our respective cabins. I got the back room in the cabin I was assigned to and begin to set up my prohibited items. I went and got James, then we played resident evil as Trent Reznor called the pigs.
The next morning we all met in the community cabin for  breakfast and then every one
had to share a secret to bring the group together. I muttered some made up story to appease the crowd and then we did the trust game to concrete our new found whole. The whole day kind of fades into one whole repressed memory to deny any sense that I was involved in anything that sappy. That night I went over to another one of the guys cabins and the true events transpired.

The rest of the guys, who I quickly learned were degenerates just like me, were
hanging out in a cabin separated from the rest of the group. Walking in rock music was blaring on a stereo as Jason was watching the door from the corner of his eyes to make sure no leaders were coming, which was stranger that he was one. Tim sucked down a cigarette as Justin looked through the phone book for a place that would deliver pizza to the place as he sucked down a beer. Now this was my type of social gathering. We broke out cards and poker chips and began a game, laugh, and cursed. We asked who had got laid, you know bible talk.
The final day we all did the last of the group activities and walked around the lodge
where I swear I say a squirrel hit another on the head with a nut and run away, hence the reason I remembered this event. But to be truthful this was me at my tamest, after all I was only twelve at the time. However every time I remember this trip I then automatically remember the church ski trip to Sugar Mountain. It is by far me at my most socially depraved as I was close to sixteen at the time.

-Sugar Mountain-

At sixteen I was ready to revolt and had enough ammo do to a bang up
job of it. The youth group, who I was apart of only to disguise my heathenist ways, had planned to attend the annual Ski Revival that was going on in the area. It entailed three trips to the different slopes around the area, Beech, Appalachian, and Sugar. As well as group services at a hotel mega conference hall in-between trips. As I loved to snowboard I got the necessary one hundred and twenty dollars for lodging and lift tickets and signed up, with James in tow my recently converted heathernist.
 I got him into the habit of raiding his moms liquor at thirteen and over the next few
years got him to change from gospel music to heavy metal, give up his star trek club by blowing up all his models with fireworks, and drop boy scouts. I actually feel kind of bad about the last thing as he was just shy of making eagle scout and would have been good on his collage applications but oh well. And truthfully I don’t think it was all my fault, even though his father called me the devil. I think James's girlfriend was more like the devil than me, but that’s a story he can tell better than me.

Anyways, back to the point, I planned with James the necessary equipment to attend.
We had game systems, all of the Christians most hated musical artist. James was fond of Busta Rhymes at the time, I stuck with Manson, Slipknot, and NIN with Smashing pumpkins threw in for color. I also had two one liter bottles of Sprite I protected with my life. And with supplies gathered we went to the church and sped on our way to the hotel.

We arrived at the hotel and went to our rooms, James and I were paired with Jess.
I immediately put my devilish charms to work so Jess had no problem as we hooked up the games to the TV. I actually talked him into helping as the whole thing was becoming problematic. After setup we had to go to a night service and then it was off to sleep. Let the depravity begin.
I awoke early, about six, and started drinking one of my sprites, which was actually a
bottle of vodka I had resealed with a lighter. By nine am I was trashed. I stumbled to the van, with my second bottle in my pack, and relaxed pleasantly warmed by liquor as I enjoyed the ride to Sugar Mountain. James was slightly confused by my demeanor but that would quickly fade to horror and uncontrollable laughter.

So the infamous trip begins by taking one blue square run called switchback or
something like that, which I would like to think I handled it in style as the second bottle hadn't fully kicked in, but you would have to ask James about that as the day quickly became a blur. So really this is what I remember:

After about one or two runs down Switchback I decided I was in no condition to ride
that trail, and decide that the green circle Easy Street run would be more attune to my impacted abilities. By impacted I mean I pretty much I just used my snowboard as a sled that I would just roll around on trying to "maintain".
Now while maintaining, in the aforementioned manner, shock unto me the usually non
judgmental and socially accepting of all a persons flaws Christian youth groups riding the lifts decided to poke fun at the unknowingly drunken individual below, in all likely hood I knew the guy yelling at me. Thinking about it now it probably was this kid named David Ray or something, the previous night David had body slammed Tim off of the hotel bed and busted Tim's eyebrow open, but whoever it was they kept on yelling its better if you stand up to ride.
Well normally I am in control of my social graces so that I never really come off as lewd
and very disturbed, but not so much this time and apparently this was the key that started the engine of sick and depraved Seth. I look up at the guy hanging from the lift and respond "How is Jesus going to fit on the cross with your fuckin' ass on it already."  It was apparently understandable sentence as a few parents with their kids by them turned toward me aghast with displeasure. Now no longer able to maintain as if I was sober, or even remotely possessing of a soul that should recoil in horror with the acts that I would soon display, to the god fearing folks which the slopes were comprised of today.
I think I might have dry humped some animate and inanimate objects, Every time our
main youth leader Chris would pass by I would just yell "Fucker" and then look around like I had no clue who said it. As I said for a full recount of the events I would have to ask James as apparently the stuff I do remember was the less sacrilegious of all. The day progressed into a mumble I blacked out at the hotel, after I have been told I had dining and dashed while saying "god bless you Tiny Tim." I might have said tiny vaginas I don’t recall.
And after all of this the youth group I was with had no idea it was me that did all of that. So on the ride back home I was told stories and asked if I had seen that crazy guy. Laughing and looking at James, while he turned away to act innocent I told him that the Sprite was actually vodka. He was more pissed I didn't share..

            -SM-

Sunday, January 22, 2012

In Progress, Madness before subterfuge


Requiem For a dream..Not the one where Jennifer Connelly does double dildo action with a hooker to score more heroin.

                    Walking along the beach I see a party that seems to be pretty lively. There is a roaring bonfire and a few smaller fires going with makeshift grills. Just before the beach line there is a big house with cameras being set up or taken down. I cant really tell. I smack my half empty beer on my leg and consider the options, knowing far too well I intend to crash the party.
          The sun is about an hour from setting and the sea breeze feels nice so I sat by the fire for a few minutes while I plan my back story. Out the corner of my eye I notice a familiar wiry looking guy turning prawns on one of the grills. I walk over sure of my story that confirms I was invited and say hey.  Standing by the grill with an intense smile on his face as he looks at the prawns is Ferran Adria, dressed in a black jacket with white shirt and blue jeans, looking like every casual photo of him around on the internet.
          I am in awe as I am standing at arms length to one of my heroes. I fumble for words slightly as all I say is "those look fuckin' great," he chuckles and hands me one. Some freak of nature turn of event occurs and I am no longer socially awkward. Questions and conversation happens easily, I talk about food, sports, any and almost everything. He tells me he too walked by and decided to crash the party so he could cook treats he garnered from the nearby ocean, and that it is apparently a cast party for a new VH-1 show called Bama Shore, an attempt to gain some raitings by copying that MTV show.

           The conversation goes far too easy for meeting someone that I hold such huge regard for. I grab a smoke from my pack and light it up sitting by the bonfire and looking at the beach house across the way, Ferran mumbles something as a guy walks towards us. He looks like some jersey shore washout, bleached blond spiky hair and a wife beater. He looks at me and asks if I can spare a smoke, I slide the two I had out under my leg and tell him no, but he notices that I hid them and begins to get upset. As he walks away yelling like a gangster wanna be, I turn to Adria and laugh about the fact I have an unopened pack still in my pocket.  Ferran chuckles as the giant douche-bag eyes light up.
          The guy hears this and starts laughing and asking why I find this funny? He asks if I find this funny as he points a revolver at me. I laugh even harder as I say something about him being a bleached pussy. He threatens about pulling the trigger and as I tire with the whole act I grab his hand, hold the gun to my head, and pull the trigger six times. No shots ring out and I laugh in triumph as he once again furiously yells about the comedic value in the events that transpired.
         This time he pulls out an 9mm and ask if I want to try my luck again, I snatch the gun and aim it in the air pulling the trigger fifteen times, the gun actually fires on the third pull then never again I laugh and begin to pistol whip him on the nose. Blood spurts out of the freshly open gash, he screams as he storms off that he will be back with his "boyz". I tell him to watch this as I call the cops and tell them the story of some drunken guy assaulting me with a handgun and firing shots off into the air, smirking like a possessed demon at the VH-1 washout across from me. The party is starting to seem boring so I bid Ferran farewell as I walk past the beach house to go back to my car.
   If by magic I'm transported to a decaying neighborhood. Walking the litter strewn streets during the dark night, buildings that are falling apart and boarded up stare down at me as if they are remembering days of past grandeur. I am apparently on some desolate road in Alabama as all the cars parked on have the plates to match. Cop cars go squealing by as I turn down a side road and trash the gloves I was wearing for some unknown reason, as I get closer to my car the whole area gets an ominous feeling to it as i notice a red Mazda parked a little to close to my car. By a little too close I mean fused to the front quarter panel of my car. Having just got the car and unsure what my insurance would actually cover I get enraged and for some unfathomable reason try to pull the cars apart with my bare hands. This startles a group of inbred hicks who seem to have passed out in my car from too much booze and heroin. A random good Samaritan starts to scream at them to get out as it appears that they stole his car only to crash into mine. The driver only rolls his eyes as his head bobbles and attempts to start my car.
    One of the passengers stumbles out and runs off to the north as the Samaritan rushes of to follow, phone in hand. I think that my previous stunt at the beach house might have put a damper on any police response so I do the only reasonable thing and smash in the window and start to punch the driver in the jaw. As I do the car starts and he slowly works the two machines apart and drives away. I decide that running to the police station a few blocks away while attempting to reach them on the phone is the best course of action. I take off like a spider monkey running though a dense jungle, as I pass through one block a woman looks down and exclaims, "you don wanna go dis way," I ignore the warning and proceed on as I run through the block and jump on to some tables in what is now a Mexican restaurant, with blaring cantina music. Groups of people are sitting at some of the tables as I give them peace signs and apologize as I knock food around from the tables. They just smile or say "go get 'em," or "no problem" as I clamber on.

         Suddenly I gaze around the abrupt change of scenery as I hazily recall past events. My room is dark while music echoes from my TV. I remember something about my wrecked car, or at least what could have been my wrecked car but there were no actual bumper stickers on my vehicle in real life. And for some ungodly reason I could have swore I was just in some horrid Alabama beach-slum town talking to Ferran Adria about the exact topics covered in his books, which he recited verbatim. Slightly confused and trying to put the previous events in their rightful place seems to be an all too daunting task at three am so I just try to recall why I would even dream about this. And to be truthful I am more worried that if dreams are your brains attempt to remember events and information, how warped is mine to remember in this fashion. Ah well time for more bourbon.



       -SM-