Just to refresh your memory, starting today I will randomly draw a name from my Friends List and make that person the subject of a status update where I will cull from memory some funny or interesting anecdote about the person. I’ll do this once a day until I work my way through the entire list. When you’ve been selected, I will also post this note to your wall and tag 5 of our mutual acquaintances in the hopes it will spur some nostalgic commentary.
Up first is Justin Smith – a Duxbury dude who I first became friends with midway through our sojourn at UMASS Amherst. Justin, or Juice to his homies, and I seem to have some cosmic kismet relationship going on as we both stayed very close through the years and have found all of our later major milestones to be in complete alignment. The day he announced he was marrying his paramour Jen, I dropped the bomb that I was marrying Andi. Our weddings were weeks apart. Our first children (Morgan on his side and Colin on mine) were born about a month apart. Our second children (Cameron on his side and Aria on mine) were roughly 2 months apart. He also shares the exact same birth date (month, day, year) with my wife. It’s so spooky that the moment he kicks the bucket, I’ve informed him that I am NOT under any circumstances attending the services for I have to get busy living before I get busy dying. I’m probably the only person on the planet with a wake up call for his grand demise.
Anyway – that’s enough preamble. Here’s one fond memory plucked from a huge host of them.
About a year or two after I exited college, Juice gave me a call looking to see if I wanted to head West for a wild weekend of debauchery. We hadn’t a plan nor a place to stay but we knew some people who remained on campus at UMASS so we figured we’d make it all up as we went. So – we went and pinballed from dorm to dorm until we cobbled together a scheme for the evening – one that would see us returning to our favorite watering hole, a local pub creatively called The Pub.
The night we arrived at The Pub and noshed on some of their fine food, yes – Pub fare, before chasing it with six or several frosty brews. The call of Cantaloop beckoned and we, two single bachelors, hit the dance floor looking to wrassle up some fine fillies, or at the very least, an oxen or two. At some point on that dance floor, I made the drunked boast that I would go the rest of the night sans pants – knowing full well that the boxers I was wearing were both securely fastened and accessorized nicely to my ensemble. With trou dropped, in the midst of a bustling dance floor, we continued the evening before reuniting with a couple of Justin’s acquaintances from the UMASS Daily Collegian who told us they were headed to an off-campus soiree. The Party Train was set to depart and we hopped on board, leaving my dignity behind as I carried on clutching my cargos.
As we arrived at the party we were greeted with a line that stretched seemingly around the block. How could we, two alumni past their prime, vault the velvet ropes? The dilemma dissipated when we reached the head of the line and the “bouncer”, who had just turned away a gaggle of giggling coeds, took one look at my gams and pronounced “THIS MAN HAS NO PANTS – HE MAY ENTER!!!” We were then given the guided tour to the basement where a sea of pressed flesh stood between us and the Holy Grail, a triple-decker keg stand of Heffenreffer’s finest. (Remember, these were poor college students and I believe with the deposit you ended up banking more coin than the liquor store if you chose to take your life in your own hands and sip from that moldy malt liquor).
Anyway, our host made a similar proclamation about my purloined pantalones and that crowd parted like the Red Sea – giving Juice and I and our female companionship unfettered access to that vile vino they were shilling.
The rest of the evening is a blur so we’ll fast forward several hours and multiple miles to the next day when I returned home to my rented townhouse in Mansfield, MA which I shared with my buddies Joe D. and Sean O. As I waltzed in the door, I spied Joe sitting in his favorite easy chair getting ready for an afternoon of pigskin. He took one look at me and did a spittake. With one piercing line of inquiry he summed the whole night up.
“Where the hell are your pants?”