Tallahassee

Decent shut-eye the previous night made getting out of bed a bearable experience.  I hate mornings without exception. Being awake between the hours of 8am and 10am is as unnatural as intelligence in religion. I started working a night job in high school so I had an excuse for staying up all night.  I’ve orchestrated large portions of my life around not being up during those cruel morning hours. The only reason I quit the nightshift after finishing college was because I got tired of working with creeps and convicts. There are some rare diamonds among the nightshift thrash but years of listening to burnouts and potheads reinforce their lower-class mentality wears on a guy.

The extra sleep was a welcome bonus for the drive to Tallahassee. Corman volunteered to ride with me for the four hour drive. The weather was gorgeous as we barreled down the highway surrounded by lush jungle-like vegetation on either side. The only disruption from the deep green landscape was the occasional billboard. One of these billboards, or more accurately one billboard that appeared multiple times along the journey, led to what would perhaps become my biggest regret on tour.

A regret that led me to break my life’s cardinal rule.

If Corman and I weren’t separated by thousands of miles in everyday life, we’d be regular drinking buddies. Our conversations are always dynamic, centered on life, alcohol/drugs and literature. We agree on many fundamental beliefs about what makes a writer but there is a constant tug-of-war as we push one another’s perspectives. Ben is a talented writer. I like to fancy myself a writer, which people may or may not agree with (especially the vocal ones who frequent my comments section) but regardless of my talent, there is a still a common, unspoken understanding whenever I meet a fellow writer. I can’t quite define it but it rests somewhere among the pain, struggle and isolation inherent in the craft. Mark Ebner gave me the best advice I’ve received on the subject. He said regarding his own journalism “Sometimes you find a fleeting balance, but, for the most part, you have to get used to the downside of loneliness and near-despair that comes from such a precarious existence.” It made a ton of sense to me when he said it three years ago, it makes more sense now, and I wager it’ll register even deeper in the years to come.

During a particular intense discussion with Corman about new media publishing strategies, the small cerebral percentage not dedicated to the conversation registered a billboard about strippers. I didn’t process it until a few minutes later during a natural lull. Ben looked over with a raised eyebrow. I knew what he was going to say.

“Did that billboard say ‘Stripper Truck Stop’?”

“Twenty-four Hour Stripper Truck Stop,” I deadpanned, pausing a beat between each word.

There was a giddiness in Ben’s voice “What kind of toothless strippers are working at that place?”

“More importantly, what kind of toothless strippers are working the morning shift?”

Every twenty miles we would pass another billboard advertising this Holy Grail of downtrodden despair, this wonderful cross-section of bad decisions and broken homes, an oasis for the inbred imbeciles. I speculated there’d be a 1:1 ratio of c-sections to vaginas. Corman wondered they offered day care services. I couldn’t even fathom the clientele that would visit this place, let alone what pervert’s row would look like.

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard then up at the GPS, “We’re making decent time, you know. We should arrive in Tallahassee an hour ahead of the bus, well, half an hour at least.”

“Are you saying you want to check it out?”

I was already punching in some half-assed GPS calculations based on the last billboard we’d passed. Unfortunately, visiting the strip club would require us to go twenty minutes out of our way. The combined forty minutes of extra driving meant we’d have time to pop our head in at best, which is no way to submerse oneself in the truck stop stripper experience. Since it was our first big tour show after a lengthy drive, we decided it was best not to show up late smelling like cigarettes and gonorrhea.

I let out a defeated sigh “If there’s one, there’s got to be a bunch more. It must be a southern thing. I swear I’m stopping at the next one even if it means calling Jeff and asking permission, or better yet, calling Jeff and begging for forgiveness on the way out.”

As I mentioned, I broke my life’s one cardinal rule: When life presents an unexpected, interesting and unique opportunity, I must jump in with both feet.

It’s this very rule that led me to sitting in that van on the I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell movie tour. Abiding by the rule has provided me with countless stories, whether it’s a 3am drunken conversation with a homeless man or a 5pm LSD purchase from an untrustworthy hoodlum riding a probably-stolen bicycle.

It is in violation of my own rule where I hang my head in shame. There never was another twenty-four hour stripper truck stop on my travels – not even a billboard advertising one. But, on the bright side, I have something to look forward to, a new purpose in life. If anybody has experienced the wonders of such a place, please get in touch.

Towards the end of our drive, the conversation turned to a contemplative silence.  I used it as a cue for a personal revelation. “Sometimes I envision setting this van on fire,” I stared straight ahead at the road.

“What?”

“I think the last day I’m going to set the van on fire and plow into the tour bus at top speed.”

Corman laughed unable to get any words out.

“I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to bail out at the last minute or not.”

We arrived at our hotel with plenty of time to spare.  We were so early that I called Dave and asked if I could take the room keys and start putting luggage into the rooms. The bus bays were full with equipment so we’d packed the luggage into the van. If I could get everyone’s bags into the hotel, I’d be able to get a jump on the UPS pick up for the show’s swag. Dave was hesitant about messing around with the room keys. He told me to put the luggage in the hotel lobby instead.

I managed to get the UPS shipment with only a little bit of hassle from the UPS clerk since the boxes were under Jeff’s name. This would become a recurring and increasingly aggravating theme over the next few stops.

Everybody was in good spirits before the show. Tucker and Nils decided to make the pre-show, which had previously been a brief introduction with a few jokes before the movie started, into a full-fledged ordeal. They sat and bullshitted with the audience, often insulting people at random. It was here where they first asked audience members to tell their funniest stories. It was an idea that was win-win because everyone would either get to hear an entertaining story, or, far more likely, the story would be embarrassingly awful and Tucker, Nils and Dawes could bust on the teller to the audience’s amusement.

While the movie played, there was mention on the bus of having our first proper after party since the Seattle show. All I mean by proper after party is that Tucker mentions a specific bar during the after show Q&A and the fans show up to party. The crew decided they would have the tour bus drop them at the bar, which sucked for me. I still had to retrieve the driver from the hotel, bring him to the bus, take the van back to our hotel and then cab it over to the hotel. I bitched and moaned but nobody cared.

After bringing Jerry the driver back to the bus, I was approached by two girls who were among the last to leave after getting their books signed by Tucker. The shorter one, a cute bundle of concentrated enthusiasm, grabbed my arm, “Are you going to the bar for the after party?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged my shoulders, “I heard Tallahassee bars are pretty lame.”

“Pretty lame?” she shrieked, “no way. You come on down and we’ll show you how we party. We’re going there right now.”

Corman walked up carrying two folding chairs, which was the last of the equipment in the theater. He stopped to listen in.

“I have to the van to the hotel before I can head down,” I said. “After that, maybe I’ll see you down there.” The short girl took my cell number so she could text me if we had any troubles meeting up. I started walking to the bus.

Corman turned to me, “Wait.” He looked back at the girls. “Did you girls say you were going to the bar right now?”

They both nodded.

Ben walked up to me and shoved the chairs into my hands. “Take these and tell the guys on the bus I’ll meet them there.” He walked into the parking lot ahead of the girls saying “so where’d you park?”

I put the chairs away and told the crew Ben had found his own method of transportation. Then I got in the van and drove back to the hotel. On the way the short girl from earlier texted me multiple times asking where I was. Every time I messaged back my status update she’d respond with a disconcerting “kkk”. On one hand it could have been an over-enthusiastic version of the annoying “k” reply some texters use. On the other hand, considering we were in the south, I wasn’t sure if I had unwittingly joined a racist movement. I told myself that if she greeted me with the Hitler solute, I would only hang out with her if she was buying drinks.

Back at the hotel, the receptionist called me a cab. I briefly considered calling the whole night off as the day’s exhaustion was starting to set in and I had a morning drive. But I realized it wasn’t anything a few shots couldn’t fix. The cab ride was longer than I expected. By the time I dragged myself up to the bar door, I was aching for a drink. I pulled the door open and peered in through half-closed eyes. The bar’s energy almost knocked me on my ass.

Stepping inside, a wave of awe swept over me that was only surpassed by the wave of jealously I felt at never having the opportunity to attend a US college. This was the college bar experience as I’d always imagined it. The place was packed. To my left, there were three full sized beer pong tables encircled by many more pool tables. To my right, tables and chairs crammed together leading up to a bobbing mass of people on the dance floor. I squeezed passed every college party archetype imaginable, ditzy cheerleader blondes, douchey frat boys with beach shorts and backwards ball caps, skanky rocker chicks all tits and tattoos,  nerdy science majors using booze to surmount social awkwardness. Tucker’s table wasn’t hard to spot. It was the one in the center of the bar surrounded by three dozen people, including the girls Corman drove down with, all vying for his attention. I didn’t even bother trying to get a seat. I headed straight for the bar, quickly realizing I was far too sober (and old) to enjoy, let alone tolerate, the current atmosphere. I ordered three double gin and 7’s.

Hold on a second before you call me a fag. I realize it’s not the manliest drink. Some might even ask whether I ordered it with a side of panties. But, rest assured, as a thoroughly experienced alcoholic, there is nothing I can down quicker than a double gin and 7. Something about the combination doesn’t even register alcohol in my brain. Line me up twenty double gin and 7’s and I’ll be in jail faster than you can say “hey queer, why don’t you down these twenty drinks and then go make out with dudes.”

After handing me the drinks the bartender leaned in, “that’ll be six dollars.”

“What, excuse me?” I had to hear it again. I even checked one more time to make sure he didn’t say sixteen or even sixty. But nope, six fucking dollars. My god, is this what heaven feels like?

After refreshing my spirit with the gins, I ordered two more and made my way to the beer pong table where Corman and Charlie were facing off in an intense old west beer pong showdown. I slapped them on the back and took a seat at the middle of the table so I could see who was winning before aligning myself.

This was my first proper introduction to an individual I like to call Asshole Charlie. You see, back at the Seattle after party I’d briefly met this person. I wasn’t sure if it was a fluke occurrence brought about by the crazed Seattle atmosphere. But watching Asshole Charlie trash talk random strangers and shout vulgar comments at the females cheering him on, I knew he was a true character.

In every day life, Charlie Hoehn is a mild mannered, contemplative, all-American gentleman. He’s approachable and easy to talk to whether you want to make dick jokes or discuss marketing strategies for social networking websites. When the time comes for Charlie to get down to business, such as his filming sessions on tour with Greg and Bill Dawes, he kicks it into high gear. Charlie zeroes in on his task with intense focus and not even the best boner joke will distract him. And then there is the third Charlie Hoehn who is quite a contrast from the first two. He is Asshole Charlie.

Asshole Charlie is created by a very specific recipe: Mix 1 part Charlie Hoehn and 1 part any drop of alcohol on the planet.

Asshole Charlie was in full-effect at the beer pong table. He was simultaneously taking shots and providing his own commentary reminiscent of the NBA Jam videogames. Every time he hit a shot he would do a mini-lap around the table high-fiving and swearing at everyone in range. It didn’t matter if he knew them or not, or if they were male or female.

“Nice shot, Charlie,” I’d say elbowing him as he walked by.

“Fuck you, Griffin. You can’t handle this shit,” he’d say jamming two thumbs into his chest before smacking some random girl’s ass.

I know all about drunken alter-egos. Back in my more youthful days mine was known as hard-liquor Griffin. He was legendary in his own time, mainly for not wearing a shirt at inappropriate times. Hard-liquor Griffin, unlike Asshole Charlie, required at least a quarter bottle of 80-proof booze before making an appearance. Sadly, an astronomical alcohol tolerance has all but ended my alter-ego’s drunken antics. Today my regular persona and my drunken persona have kind of merged into one chaotic mess, which is why I wear belly-revealing half shirts most days.

Despite Charlie’s grandiose showmanship, Ben was quietly draining shot after shot from the other end of the table. Ben will admit that he’s not the greatest athlete on earth, but when it comes to games that involve standing in one place – beer pong, putting, darts – Ben has a natural gift. He also has another natural gift that I can’t quite explain – the gift of random strangers buying him shots. Every time I looked over somebody was handing shots to Ben. By the end of the first game I had moved my chair to Ben’s corner because a) he was beating Charlie, and b) random people would buy me shots by association.

At this particular bar in Tallahassee, they invoked the beer pong “Redemption” rule. When one player would sink his final shot, the other player had an opportunity to take a final shot. He could keep shooting as long as he made each shot, whether it be into one cup or several, and upon successfully clearing the cup(s) would force a single cup sudden death overtime.

Charlie, having lost his last game to Ben, was probably off trash talking his reflection in the bathroom mirror. A new challenger had taken his place. The effects of double-digit whiskey shots were beginning to show on Ben. If he wasn’t taking his next throw, he was downing shots. After a particular round of shots, Ben nonchalantly looked up at me and said, “Take my next throw. I’ll be right back,” before walking off for the bathroom. There was no hint of panic in his voice. It wasn’t until I saw the commotion over a puddle of puke on the floor that I put two and two together.

“Did Ben puke?” I asked Jaimee after tossing an air-ball for my first ever shot of beer pong. Jaimee confirmed Ben puked mid-stride, which was hard for me to believe considering how calm he was seconds before. The craziest part was that the opponent across the table, a bleached haired frat boy in a Seminoles t-shirt, didn’t notice either and the puke puddle was a mere three feet to his left. When I took over there was only a single cup remaining on Fratty’s side. By the time Ben returned, acting casual and not acknowledging whatsoever that he’d just dramatically thrown up a few minutes earlier, there was still one cup remaining on Fratty’s side. Unfortunately, I’d had to drink three cups from our side. Ben took his position at the end of the table just in time to watch the ping pong ball sail into our final cup. The guy at the other end of the table cheered and taunted as I took the last swig of beer. The crowd started to part even though Ben was in place to take the Redemption shot. With little fanfare, Ben arched the ball into the cup causing everyone to stop dead in their tracks.  After a split-second of silence, the place erupted in a unison “OHHHHHHH!” Fratty grimaced with a hand on his forehead. I guess nobody ever hits the redemption shot.

Now the crowd gathered around thicker than ever before. Corman let the opponent shoot first. He missed the lone cup. Then Ben fired another perfect shot flush into the cup, ending the game. People cheered. Ben had become the local legend for a night. His reward was multiple shots bought by bystanders. Nils shoved everyone aside as the next challenger to Ben’s throne – a match that would also determine bragging rights on the bus. I congratulated Corman on the win and headed the fuck away before Ben capped his historic win with more barfing. On my way to the table where Tucker, Asshole Charlie and Jeff were sitting, Fratty the beer pong loser stepped over and hit my arm. “You’re lucky your friend came back to save your ass. I had you beat.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I pointed down at his flip-flops. “But at least I’m not standing in puke.”

At the table, Tucker had grown tired of the constant stream of fans. He told at least three girls to each get a taxi and text him when they’re inside. First one to text gets to come back to the hotel with him. Surprisingly, and yet not really, all three straight-armed one another to the door like fat ladies fighting for a Walmart six dollar toaster on Black Friday.

I began my let’s find the sanest girl at the table game. While there’s nothing wrong with vapid attention whores that typically attend the Tucker Max Show, they do tend to be somewhat lacking in the intelligent conversation department. “I’m, like, doing my degree in communications, but I’m totally going to use it to get, like, a job marketing beauty products in LA because I know this guy that, like, knows somebody there and I could work with celebrities and stuff.” Due to the morning drives, I didn’t quite have the time to drink the seventy beers necessary to make such conversation tolerable.

There happened to be two girls at the table that looked both annoyed and out of place. I struck up a conversation because they clearly weren’t in the who gets to fuck Tucker running, and I was intrigued. The closest one seemed intelligent and mild-mannered. I couldn’t really hear the other one over the noise. After some standard chatting I came out and asked them what their deal was. Turned out the girl I was talking to was part of the press that had been at the movie and on our bus for an interview after the show. It all made sense. What’s more is the reporter was not all that thrilled with the movie and seemed even less impressed with the real life antics displayed at the bar that night. I called her a square and questioned her tastes in “art,” a conversation that spilled into the cab back to the tour bus at our hotel.

On the bus, I had a steady buzz rolling. My attempts to convince this young reporter that I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell could be anything but our generation’s comedic masterpiece became more brazen.  “What the hell do you mean you weren’t impressed?”

“I don’t know. It was just offensive and not that funny.”

“Wait, wait,” I said taking a swig of beer, “are you saying that it’s subjectively not funny because of your personal tastes or objectively not funny?”

“Well, my job as a critic entails both my opinion and considering the readers’ tastes. Regardless, in the end it comes down to giving my honest impression. It wasn’t as funny as a movie like Wedding Crashers, and that’s why I’m giving it two stars.”

I choked and coughed on my beer, “Two stars?… I hope that’s out of two.”

“Nope, four,” she crossed her legs, a little proud of herself.

At this point the whole charade took center stage with Ben and Charlie egging me on. After all, the crew knew this movie was going to get trashed by most reviewers. We fully expected a bunch of zero or one stars. Perhaps what faux-upset me in the reporter’s instance was the middle-of-the-road two star rating. “That’s like a non-decision.” I threw a bottle cap at the floor. “You can’t pick two stars. Besides Wedding Crashers had a 40 million dollar budget,” I bullshitted figures. “How are we supposed to compete with that? The movie’s charm is in its subtlety, in its intelligent humor. Indie film with a big heart. Great acting! Jesse fucking Bradford, COME ON!”

The girl laughed along and even started to come around. Within the hour (and a few beers later) she had rethought her initial position and was willing to give it 3 stars out of 4.

“3.5,” I stood up spilling beer on myself.

“You’re pushing it pal,” the reporter giggled.

Meanwhile the reporter’s friend from the bar had been giving off unfriendly vibes all night. Not that she didn’t want to be there, but more that she was unwilling to let loose. The whole afraid to have fun because she might smile act. Corman was doing a good job of keeping her occupied and attempting to offer up conversation.

We all lie to ourselves. Internal disillusion is the comfortable buffer that prevents us from collapsing into a sobbing mess every morning after we get out of bed. It’s a complex world. We’ve been raised in a society that taught us we were special; one that assured us we mattered in the world. Except the world today has achieved a level of interconnectedness unimaginable a few decades ago. No longer are we only aware of the goings-on of our local village or city. We hear the globe’s infinite chatter.  We are now faced with the crushing reality that, in the grand scheme, we do not matter.

Nearly seven billion people scurry around the planet and 99.99999% don’t give a fuck about you.

Inherently, there’s nothing wrong with the fact most people don’t care. Our own cognitive abilities, if we except Dunbar’s number, limit us to about 150 meaningful relationships at one time. Nonetheless, simply because we can’t intimately know everyone, doesn’t mean we don’t all want everyone to know about us. Our jobs are supposed to matter. We’re not merely cogs in a machine, are we? Our material possessions are a reflection of our success; our relationships a reflection of our upbringing, intelligence, attractiveness and social merit; our off-spring are all our greatest qualities passed down into fresh genetics, right?

Here’s an experiment, try asking a close acquaintance what his or her biggest problem is in life. You’ll probably learn it’s something to do with a job or a relationship. Now try convincing this acquaintance that he or she is the reason for the problem’s existence. Then, get ready for a whole mess of cognitive dissonance mixed with denial. Taking responsibility for our lives and for our futures is a long and difficult process. We’ll think of two thousand excuses for working a miserable cubicle job instead of taking the handful of actions necessary to get a more enjoyable profession.

Self-reflection and honesty is the solution to many of life’s superficial problems. Admitting that something in your life is unfavorable and that you are at least 50% of the reason for it being so, is a huge first step. Working to improve it is the journey that follows. The problems aren’t always easy to solve but as soon as you admit that there is a problem and take personal responsibility for it, you’ve not put yourself in a position to fix it – and even doing that will make you happier in the long run.

The best scenario to see self-deception at play is one that involves alcohol. Internal denial loves to manifest itself via the contrast of action and words. Ms. I’m Happy With My Boyfriend demonstrates her love by grinding and kissing another man all night. Mr. My Job Rocks I Make Six Figures smashes his PDA against the wall when the boss calls telling him he has to work through the weekend… again.

On the tour bus, the reporter’s friend happened to be Ms. I Haven’t Had Sex For Over A Year Because I’m Waiting For The Perfect Guy And Have High Standards. She would have been an attractive dirty blond if she smiled once in a while.  Apparently she had emerged from a bad relationship a year ago. I can’t remember if she was dumped or cheated on but something left her bitter. Of course, she never came out and said she was bitter in anyway. Instead, I interpreted this from her oft-folded arms, her cool demeanor and her uncharmingly snarky conversation habits. Even when she was caught off guard with a funny joke and had a good honest laugh, the sparkle momentarily returning to her eye, she’d shut it down with pursed lips and forehead wrinkles.

It was her choice not to get laid; it had nothing to do with the fact she came off like a miserable ice queen.

As the night wore on and slurring became the common form of communication, Bill Dawes walked onto the bus with his trademark smile. He cracked a few jokes before taking a seat beside the ice queen girl. He put his arm around her. “I just had sex,” he said with a child-like grin sweeping across his face.

“That’s nice,” the girl smiled before folding her arms.

I figured I’d bring Bill up to speed. “She hasn’t had sex in over a year. By choice.”

Bill turned up the melodrama. “A whole year? Oh my. Why would you ever wait so long?”

The girl looked down and away, “Because I wanted to.”

“Well that’s a shame I just had amazing sex, or else I might be able to help you with the problem,” Bill said somberly before perking up again. “Although, it has been a while since I double dipped. I wonder if I’m even capable of going for round two. It hasn’t been much time, but I could pull it off.”

I was sideways with laughter on the other bench. Dawes has a way of pushing people’s buttons without upsetting them too much.

The girl was having a tough time forcing the smile from her face and she compensated with exaggerated negative body language. It only inspired Bill to continue, “Aw come on frigid girl. How about you give me a kiss? Just one quick peck.”

“No,” the girl said, turning to face Bill. “I will not.” She moved her face closer.

“One little kiss,” Bill tapped his finger on his lips. “A tiny kiss for fun, doesn’t mean anything.”

To my utter shock, the girl leaned over and gave him an extended kiss. As soon as she pulled away Bill blurted, “Ahhh, got you. I ate that last girl’s pussy. Now you have pussy juice on your lips.”

Everybody laughed, including the ice queen who smacked him repeatedly on the shoulder. When she was done hitting him, she draped her legs across his lap. Tony Hawk couldn’t pull a 180 like that. The shock of the situation had over taken my ability to laugh. I watched as the girl started aggressively grabbing Bill’s face and kissing him until she was sitting right on his lap.

Bill let out a deep sigh, “Fiiiiiiiiine. I guess we can go have sex.” He stood up and extended his hand. The girl grabbed it and with a quick ‘don’t judge me’ look to her reporter friend walked off the bus with Bill.

The reporter sat up straight and took a sip from her beer. “I can’t believe she just did that. There’s no way she’s going to go through with it. I’ve known her for years and I’ve never seen her do anything like this.”

“She’s not coming back. You’ll see her in the morning,” I said.

“Well, hopefully she enjoys herself.”

“You know Bill is doing her a huge favor. I may be wrong here, but in my books that’s worth rating the movie at least a 3.5.”