I only have a half a tank of gas… so beer trumps petroleum, right now. At some point during Saturday morning I joined Joe in his before breakfast beverages, I can’t let a friend drink alone. There were several empty boxes next to the garbage, emblazoned with the words 18 pack, so I was not the only person helping Joe keep the Busch Beer people in business. Joe spends a lot of time on the road, between here and Troy, New York…which is where awesome people are created in bulk. Troy is the birth place of Uncle Sam, the shirt collar and some of the craziest bastards I’ve ever met in my life. I’ve come across some demented people in my day, so that’s quite the compliment. If you’re ever up that way I recommend you check out their public library, it’s got glass floors…how effing cool is that?
Troy is a recurring topic of conversation in my life. My boyfriend and 90% of the people he socializes with are from there. Some of them have decided to make Fort Lauderdale their home, which means Fort Lauderdale has more insane people per capita. This is alright by me, it’s a good kind of crazy. As far as I can tell there’s a tremendous amount of pride that comes with being from Troy. The city and its inhabitants have a reputation of being kinda rough around the edges. I spent a little time there last spring, I didn’t see any of that. What I saw was a place that blossomed during the Industrial Revolution, had a bit of an economic downturn and is now bracing for a comeback. The architecture is beautiful and the people are genuine. They say what’s on their minds, I appreciate that quality. I have a t-shirt from there. On the back, the sentence “Troy…what!” is written. I’m wearing it right now as a matter of fact. It was something I heard a lot when I was up there, I found it to be funny. It’s a phrase that, when said without the appropriate posturing, means nothing. But when you say it standing, in the aggressive, universal, “Hey asshole, what are you gonna do about it?” position, takes on a whole new meaning. You all know the gesture that I’m talking about. If I walked up to a group of my friends, pounded on my chest, declaring “Fort Lauderdale…what!” they’d probably disown me. If you do that to a group of people from Troy, they might laugh and hug you. These guys are different, there’s a sense of community, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
When Joe visits my boyfriend, he parks his ginormous truck in the parking lot next to the condominium complex. Often times, we’ll go out and lose track of him throughout the evening. He always wanders back to his truck and sleeps off the insanity. This weekend was no different. We lost him before the sun went down, I’m not sure where he went, but my boyfriend went to check on him sometime in the wee hours of Sunday morning while I was sleeping. After he located him and made sure he still had a pulse, he and that merry band of Troy-born pranksters that are always around, decided it would be a good idea to give Joe’s truck a bathroom. They “borrowed” a port-o-potty from a Super Bowl celebration that was being set up in a parking lot nearby and lifted it on to the bed of Joe’s rig.
I saw video of this. Joe was not exactly pleased and requested that they remove it immediately. They did and returned it to its original location. Joe also said he was going to stop drinking…he didn’t. This all occurred while Joe was wearing my underwear. I’m not exactly sure how this fits in. If my memory serves me correct the series of events went a little something like this: after Joe and I enjoyed our beers on Saturday… he concluded that the only thing that could improve his morning was wearing my undies. Most people would find this odd, I can’t say that it surprised me. I’d just watched him sing Snoop Dog’s “Gin and Juice,” and do his own little choreographed dance when he got to the “laid back, with my mind on my money and my money on my mind” part. He looked more like an auxiliary member of the Village People than he did a gangster rapper when he leaned back in his chair and raised his arms to make a c-like shape. There was no music and no one else was singing. Joe is white, bald, lanky, has several deer tattoos, and is rarely seen wearing a t-shirt that doesn’t have a fish on it. He’s not exactly who you’d expect to hear singing about Compton. He’s also not the kind of guy you expect to see sporting Victoria and all of her secrets.
I got more sideways glances than he did. Several people asked me why I was letting a grown man wear my underwear…I answered with the obvious “why not?” It’s not like I was going to ask for them back, so…technically, he was wearing his underwear. Fast forward a several hours, after the foolishness, I awake to find my boyfriend, his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend sitting in a circle, cleaning greasy footprints off of my boyfriend’s very white carpet. I knew there was an interesting story behind it, but I didn’t ask. I’d eventually hear all about it so…I went back to bed. Evidently, the Karma Fairy repaid them for their port-o-potty stunt and the roommate stepped in a grease puddle while standing on the back of Joe’s truck. After they stood around giggling and recording their mischief, they came home and he unknowingly tracked the grease all through the condo. No worries, they got it all cleaned up. Until the next day, when his roommate put on the very same greasy sneakers and then paced around during an intense phone conversation. It looked like a live version of the Family Circus comics, when the kids run all over the house and the artist tracks their movement with the black dotted lines. Since I don’t live there and it isn’t my carpet, I found this to be epically hilarious.
Later that morning, while buying supplies for the Super Bowl celebration, someone rented a carpet cleaner. They took turns shampooing the rug while Joe and I sat poolside, drinking beer and watching the game. Aside from me looking at him and laughing, we didn’t verbally reference the underwear incident…that was yesterday’s lunacy. After Joe left, my boyfriend asked if the weekend was going to be a blog entry. I considered not writing about it, because I wasn’t sure if I wanted the world to know that I willingly associate with a group men still acting like frat boys. I decided I would take the Troy approach…yeah this happened, what are you gonna do about it?