The Story of Blue Meany's Favorite(ish) Adolescent Memory -- co-written by Lort@b
Hey, Dom and Dom's readers! Blue Meany here, to will tell you right now that Dom is going to regret giving me guest-posting privileges. Why, you ask? Well, because I waited until I was under the influence of Super-Duper-Happy-Swoopy pain pills to write here, that's why. So now you're going to get not only my Favorite(ish) Adolescent Moment, but My Favorite(ish) Adolescent Moment, As Told While In A State Strikingly Similar To The One In Which I Actually Spent Most Of My Adolescence.
Since my adolescence somehow pulled off being simultaneously the most enjoyable ("Whee, I have lots and lots of friends, plus I've just discovered beer, liquor and psychotropic substances!") and the most depressing time of my life ("F%$&! For I have also just discovered the concept of being grounded, and that yelling back at Mom and Dad usually does not turn that experience into Fun for the Whole Family."), trying to narrow it all down to find one "favorite" experience would be akin to trying to decide which exact drop of Jagermeister in the JagerBomb was the one that caused the projectile vomiting next to the front door of the bar.
So, with less further ado than you may have expected from a circulatory system full of Lortab, here is the First Favorite(ish) Moment Which Popped into my head.
It is late June, 1996. I am thirteen and a half years old (shut up -- everyone knows that at that age, every "and a half" matters) and have already crossed over the parental line between "She's just going through a phase" and "She is going to have to be locked in a cage or something, because OH HELL NO."
School has just ended for the summer, and my best friend Sarah (the one I had been inseparable from since we were in diapers) and I decide that tonight would be the perfect night to lie to our parents, go out with a couple of 17-year-old boys (because they are SO much more mature, you know? And they have cars and facial hair and treat us like objects because they are manly, and test out that old "laws are made to be broken" axiom.
We hop into Dave's car, and we and his wingman head out to Bumf%$&, Upstate New York, for a "field party" -- the ideal type of party for underage alkies like us, because generally you have to wander through the woods for a while before you find it, and I have never met a cop who enjoys long walks in the woods.
This time, though, we don't make it to the field party, because we come across a much-more-convenient "woods party," complete with roaring campfire and roughly one full cooler of beer per person. Drinking, carousing, illegal-substance-ingesting, and blurrily-remembered exploits of a sexual nature ensue. Sometime shortly before dawn, we wake up covered in dew and figure, "Hmm. We are thirteen and a half and fourteen years old, and our parents, whom we have never before disappeared on for an entire night, are probably already going to inflict several types of pain on us when we get home. Therefore, it would make perfect sense to take as long to get there as creatively possible. Teenage-Girl Logic rules!"
About an hour later, we have Dave drop us off in a shopping plaza about two miles from our street, because we don't want our parents to see us being dropped off by an Older Boy (we are geniuses, obviously). The shopping center, incidentally, happens to contain the studio of our favorite Top 40 radio station.
It is now 6:30 a.m., and we really have to pee. Which stores in the shopping plaza are open, that we may use their restrooms? Oh, just, you know, none. BUT, the radio station is open, and we have no shame.
We: [KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK]
Radio Station Employee: "What. Are you doing here. At 6:30 a.m."
We [looking pitiful and tragically young]: "Can we use your bathroom? Nothing is open and we've been out all night and pleeeease because we are so cute?"
RSE [sighs in patented Condescending Adult manner]: "Okay, come on in."
We: "Yay!"
After emerging from the restroom looking a tiny bit less like we just spent the night in the woods drinking what had to be gallons of [shudder] Milwaukee's Best, we thank the employee and turn to go.
"HEY!" comes a shout from the broadcasting room. "You girls get in here!"
Being teenaged girls who loooooove this station "because they play, like, ALL the new Alanis Morissette songs," we warp-speed on in there.
"How old are you two?" asks the morning-show deejay who just called us.
"Thirteen and a half" "Fourteen," we reply too quickly, instantly hoping to all that is holy that he doesn't somehow know our parents and our phone numbers and isn't going to have us arrested due to the heavenly redolance of cheap beer mixed with morning breath that we are invasively forcing into his senses.
He gaped at us. "You're fourteen and thirteen" ("and a half," I indignantly add under my breath) "and you were out the entire night partying, and instead of going home, you end up here?"
"Yeeeeup," we confirm. "Uh, you're not going to call the cops on us or anything, are you?"
"Hell no!" he booms. "But you two? Are going to be on our morning show. We let you use our bathroom, and now you're going to be our special morning-show guests."
"Well, of COURSE!" we exclaim. "But, would you mind if we changed our names on the air ... just in case our parents happen to be listening to your station this morning?"
He agrees, and for the next three hours we are Zoe and Bianca, The Oooh and Aaah Girls, which is nowhere near as pornographic as it sounds, but which earns us pseudo-fame, three free CDs each (keeping in mind that this is 1996, and CDs are still kind of the New Big Thing) (mine were Dave Matthews' "Crash," the single of "Mo' Money, Mo' Problems" and the single of "Invisible Man" by -- and I'm warning you to all to just shut your f%$&ing joke-hole right now -- 98 Degrees), and a story to tell for the rest of our lives, which kind of makes up for the fact that once we arrive home, we are forbidden to leave again until -- well, I can't remember exactly, but I believe it involved four horsemen and an antichrist.
And thus began my secret love affair with a radio deejay.
Or not. But hey, I needed some way to tie this story up, seeing as how I can't really just end it with "Thanks to prescription pain medication, this took me two and a half hours to write!"
Or can I?
Thanks, Dom!
Posted by bluemeany
Wednesday, Feb. 21, 2007
go back | random brainstorm | go forth
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