At some point during my senior year, I took a "De-Cal" class entitled "Apocalypse in Film." De-Cal stands for Democratic Education at Cal (I'll pause here to allow you to get in your Berkeley/Hippy jokes and catch your breath). The class was held Tuesday evenings and was taught by a friend of mine who lived in the big 150-person co-op in which I lived. There were 15 people in the class. 10 of us were friends from the same co-op. Needless to say, the environment was...ummm...lax.

For the last class, we bought a bunch of 40s and watched Death Race 2000 starring David Carradine as "Frankenstein" and a young Sylvester Stallone as "Machine-Gun Joe Viterbo." (The plot summary from IMDB is priceless: A champion of a brutal cross-country car race of the future where pedestrians are run down for points has a change of heart while being hounded by rivals and a conspiracy seeking to stop the race. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0072856/).

The movie was fucking AWESOME! It was one of those films you have to see for a litany of reasons that have nothing to do with quality film-making--like Dolemite or Baseketball or Roots. Basking in the afterglow of the final class, the image of David Carradine in a full body, black leather gimp suit, and the empty 40oz bottles of Old English 800 littering the classroom floor, a group of us decided to go to Henry's for drinks.

Henry's is kind of small as bars in Berkeley go, but it's well-appointed with lighter-colored woods, decent lighting, a handful of booths ringing the room, and standing tables scattered throughout the middle of the floor. Henry's is attached to the Durant Hotel and, like any other hotel bar in the world, serves over-priced cocktails. When you consider that fact and combine it with the perpetual stench of unwashed barmats and the idea that Berkeley is still, at it's most basic level, a college town, you start to understand why Henry's is never busy. Like the English language or domestic violence, though, there are exceptions to every rule; two in this instance. One is football and basketball gamedays. The other? Two For Tuesdays (two for one cocktails, 10pm to close). Well, it was Tuesday. And it was 9:45 when we walked in.

I think there were 6 of us at the start of the night. By 11:30, and 5 rounds in, we were down to 3: me, Andy, and Remco. It was right around this point that Andy kicked the party into 5th gear. He went up to the sweaty Irish bartender and ordered a $100 bottle of champagne. During the course of their exchange, something miraculous happened and Andy started gesticulating wildly for me to come over to the bar

A: Dude, Seamus O'SweatGland over here just gave us a half hour of free drinks!

D: He what?! Why? Wait, who?

A: I guess because we've been tipping his sweaty ass all night and because I just bought a $100 bottle of champagne. He was saying something but I couldn't understand him over all the noise and all the sweat pouring off his forehead. It's like his fucking forehead is made out of a colander and somebody just drained a pot of sweat through it.

D: So you're telling me I can order whatever I want for the next 30 minutes?

A: Yep.

D: Anything?! Does he know he just made the biggest mistake of his life?

A: Dude, I know.

So I ordered drinks. LOTS OF DRINKS. Remco recounted the orgy of drink ordering to us a couple days later

R: You guys came over with the entire left side of the bar I think. DrunkRex, you had two bottles of champagne jammed between your elbows and your chest and you had like a dozen champagne flutes between all your fingers. I looked at you and I knew we were in trouble.

D: Did I do something bad?

R: No, not at that point anyway. You were just pulling over all these girls to start drinking with us. You were telling them that you were high rollin' to celebrate the end of the semester and that they should join us when we adjourn up to our suite in the hotel. YOU ACTUALLY USED THE WORD 'ADJOURN!' Fucking dork.

D: I have a big vocabulary

R: No, you just have a big fucking mouth

R: Oh and Andy, Jesus Christ kid...you were right behind him with two drinktrays stacked one on top of the other. One tray had 10 crown-and-cokes, the other had 10 redbull-and-vodkas.

A: Wow, that's a lot.

D: Remco, did we drink them all?

R: Yes. Jealously and aggressively.

D: Jealously?

R: Dude, people would walk by and say something when they saw how many drinks were at our table. The second they said something, you would lurch forward and bearhug the table and scream at them "THEY'RE MINE! I'M THE HIGH ROLLER BITCH!"

A: HAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAA

R: No Andy, it was not attractive.

1:45am rolled around and all the drinks were gone. At least that's what Remco said. He also said that Seamus O'SweatGland cut us off when I went up to the bar to get another drink. Remco recounted the exchange to me only a few weeks ago when he was back in town visiting

D: Hey Seamus, gimme a nightcap. I think I'll ha--

S: A nightcap!? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA

R: That's when I mouthed "water" to the bartender and he gave you a plastic Solo cup full of ice water

D: Did I drink it?

R: You took a long drink from it, said it tasted like Latvian well-water, and threw it on the floor.

D: Oh...

By the grace of God (I think), I remember the next 40 minutes or so. It was just before the stroke of 2 when Remco, Andy, and I decided to collect ourselves and leave. Remco had consumed nowhere near what Andy and I had put down so he lucidly thanked the bartender for his sweaty patience and bid us farewell. While Andy was in the bathroom doing whatever it was he was doing, I got it into my head that I wanted a souvenir from the bar to commemorate the night.

I looked around and didn't see anything to my liking. Coasters? eh. Bar towels? they stink. Champagne flutes? Ohhhhhhh. I peered around sneakily like I was the Pink Fucking Panther and slid one, top first, into the waistband of my pants. Well that was easy enough, I said to myself...so I started shaking out the last drops from every single champagne flute on the table and tucking them one-by-one into my waistband, finally covering them with my shirt so as to be undetectable. Two things here:

1) when you have a BANDOLIER OF CHAMPAGNE FLUTES IN YOUR PANTS it is never, never, NEVER undetectable.

2) around the closing time of a smallish bar in which you have just consumed enough alcohol to tranquilize a water buffalo, it is very unlikely that someone isn't watching you. AT ALL TIMES.

Andy finally returned from the bathroom and we made our way toward the door. Of course, one of the bouncers stops me.

B: Lift up your shirt.

D: No! No fucking way!

B: Lift up your fucking shirt!!

I dropped my head like Kubiak whenever Parker Lewis would scold him and I lifted up my shirt. The other bouncer, who I suppose had not been watching me for the last half hour, saw my flute-bandolier and cracked up laughing.

B2: Okay brother, let's put those back.

The guy started reaching into my belt to yank them out...I was not pleased

D: Hey Hey Hey buddy! Keep your hands to yourself. I'll do it! I'll fucking do it! Jesus Christ, I thought this was Two for Tuesdays not Two Man Hands Down my Pants for Tuesdays.

I went back to our table and started removing the champagne flutes. Instead of placing them neatly on the table, though, I started dropping them. And tossing them. And flinging them over my shoulder. And trying to catch them behind my back. Before the bouncers were able to get over to me, grab me by the arms and force me out the front door and down the steps, I had shattered 7 of my souvenirs. I was sad.

It was about 2:15 at this point and Andy and I were standing in front of Henry's laughing like drunken hyenas. It wasn't until the next morning that I understood how thorough and complete our Red Bull fueled rampage was. After grabbing a couple of bockwursts from the Top Dog down the street, we began our trek up Durant Ave toward the co-op. This particular section of Durant is pretty steep at points and is lined with small businesses as well as large fraternity and sorority houses. Tuesday night being garbage night in this area, the sidewalks were pock-marked with those large 50-gallon garbage cans on wheels.

I ran and jumped on the back of the first one I saw and tried to ride it like a shopping cart. It worked for about 10 feet until I fell backward, the garbage can slid from out under me and it spilled its contents down the middle of the street. Andy thought it looked fun, so he tried. Andy is tall, a touch gawkish, and generally un-athletic. SLAM! Right into the pavement. This angered Andy very much so he did what came naturally to him--he picked up the entire FULL garbage can and hurled it onto the hood of an Isuzu Rodeo (Author's Note: If you happen to be in the market for a small, late-model SUV let me just tell you that the Isuzu Rodeo did not fare well in low-velocity, front-end impact tests with large plastic garbage cans).

Still smarting from his initial ass plant, Andy ran up to the next garbage can and kicked it. He fucking drop-kicked it! I've never seen anything like it. He ran full speed toward the can and pulled a Pele. He fucking booted a full 50-gallon garbage can 4 feet into the street! I swear if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes I would have never thought it possible. For some reason, it was this little act of defiance that made us run up the street like mischievous little school kids...until we came upon the next set of garbage cans.

At this point we decided to mix it up a bit and impersonate mountain goats. I stumbled to the opposite sidewalk, turned the first can and ran full speed across the street with it. Andy did the same thing from his side of the street until we met somewhere in the middle with a thunderous, refuse-laden crash. We did that all the way to the top of Durant Ave no less that 7 more times. I think, at one point, I was actually covered in coffee grounds and used ketchup packets. You'd be amazed at the amount of recoil you get when two 6'5" Germans run head-on into each other with full 50-gallon garbage cans on wheels.

By the time we reached the top of Durant and turned onto Piedmont for the final stretch home, we were filthy, sweaty, drunk, and exhausted. I was about to pass out on the grassy island in the middle of the street when the lights and siren from a BPD squad car opened up on us from behind. Crap.

This is where I blacked out. I don't remember anything until I woke up sprawled out on the cold cement floor of Berkeley City Jail with no shoes and a pool of bright red vomit dried like a Rorschach inkblot next to my head. I awoke at the feet of a snoring, shoeless, homeless black man without the slightest clue as to what happened or where I was. At the same time, unfortunately, I knew EXACTLY what had happened and EXACTLY where I was. I looked around at the cinderblock walls painted in 1970s major-appliance yellow foolishly looking for a clock. I found a surprisingly clean stainless steel toilet and sink basin, two gray benches, three homeless guys, and a bevy of grammatically incorrect graffiti etched into the walls by, most certainly, a long line of Mexican 'bangers from Berkeley and North Oakland.

Regardless, I needed to know what time it was. I had to be at work at 9am. I started banging on the quadruple-paned, wire-meshed Plexiglas of the observation windows. I was banging with both fists screaming about my "rights" and my "one phone call" and "Amnesty International" and "the smelly homeless guys." The desk sergeant on duty laughed right at me...the first 10 times I banged on the window. Then she started to get pissed. Really pissed. Like banging her nightstick against the window pissed. Finally she came over and told me through the glass that it was 5:40am, that I would be released around 6, and that I should shut the fuck up already. For the first time in the last 12 hours, I did the smart thing and shut the fuck up.

At 6 on the nose, the heavy steel door of our holding cell opened and an officer motioned for me and the stinking, homeless black man whose feet I used as a pillow to come out. We were scheduled for release. After some simple paper work I was informed that, this being my first offense, I was not being charged and, in the words of the desk sergeant, "was only detained in order to sober up and avoid becoming a complete goddamn menace to the city of Berkeley." I apologized sincerely and turned to leave when the desk sergeant stopped me again

DS: Oh, and Mr. Parker, tell your friends to stop calling the station and impersonating attorneys. One more time, and I'll have THEM in jail there with you.

I had no fucking clue what she was talking about so I just nodded and made my way to the elevator that beckoned my release into the cold morning air.

I walked through the front doors of the station and there was Andy at the curb leaning up against his car. His eyes were wide and bright and a huge smile was painted across his face. He was coked out of his head. I slid gingerly into the front passenger seat and leaned my head back only to have it smacked rambunctiously by our friend Robin. Oh yeah, he was coked up too. He's English though, and he's over here on an exchange program, so I can't say I was really surprised.

D: Andy, what the fuck happened? Why was I there by myself? Did you get released early? What happened with those cops?

A: HAHAHAHAHA! They didn't arrest me. You don't remember?!

D: No Andy, I remember every fucking moment. That's why I'm sitting here asking you instead of passing the fuck back out and fighting off a cerebral hemorrhage.

A & R: HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA......HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAA

D: Dicks.

A: Oh man, you were on fire with those cops. They stopped us right in front of the Chi Psi House, threw us against the squad car and went through our wallets.

Andy then proceeded to recount the entire interaction with the cops. It went something like this:

Cops: We've been following right behind you almost all the way up Durant

A: I'm sorry officer. We got out of hand

D: All the way up Durant!? Wow, that's a long ways. Why the hell didn't you fucking stop us earlier!?

C: Listen buddy, I didn't MAKE you knock over all those garbage cans.

D: What garbage cans?

C: (to Andy) Listen, if you want to get out of here as quickly and easily as possible and make life easier for ALL of us, I suggest you shut your friend up and get busy picking up every single one of those garbage cans.

D: ALL OF THEM!?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!? LOOK AT ALL THOSE CANS!? THERE'S SHIT EVERYWHERE! THERE'S NO WAY I'M PICKING UP ALL OF THAT....IT'LL TAKE FOREVER!!

C: Okay, let's go.

And, according to Andy, on went the cuffs and off went the DrunkRex in the back of a squad car. During the car ride home I mentioned to him what the desk sergeant said about impersonating attorneys. He and Robin burst into fits of hysterical laughter. Andy almost crashed into a school he was laughing so hard. Once they calmed down, Robin clued me in.

R: When Andy got home, I was sitting in the kitchen eating some pot stickers. He came in and said you had just been arrested for some of your drunken antics. I'm honestly surprised it took this long, but no matter. We went up to his room, did a bunch of lines, and started to think of ways to get you out of jail. Andy called the police department and determined exactly which station you were being held in. Then we called the station and I pretended to be your father's personal lawyer. I told them he was a high profile international financier and that it would be in their best interest to release you post haste.

D: Did you actually say 'post haste'?

A: Oh yeah, man. We had a script and everything. They were getting pretty pissed at us by the time we found out when you were going to be released though.

R: They finally told us just to be down at the station at 6. So we figured we'd leave well enough alone

D: Did you really say my father was in international financier?

A: A high profile international financier

D: Jesus.

When we got back to the co-op Robin went to sleep and Andy and I went into the kitchen. We were both starving so Andy made us each a plate of cheesy scrambled eggs and sausage. I passed out at a table in the dining room with my cheek stuck to my release papers. Andy came in a couple minutes later with two HUGE plates of eggs and woke me up by shoving it into my head. He said he used a dozen eggs for each of us...he's from Minnesota, what do you want from me? I started shoveling the eggs into my head with a determination even I did not know I possessed. I probably should have had a spoon in each hand just to cut out the down time. Half way through the plate, though, my stomach rebelled and I projectile vomited a chunky orange stream at my feet.

That was my cue. To pass out? Oh no, to go to work. I got up from the table, walked upstairs, stumbled into the shower...WITH ALL MY CLOTHES ON...and leaned against the shower wall until I could stand up straight with my eyes open. 45 minutes later I was dressed in my catering black-and-whites, driving to some computer company in Emeryville in order to setup a fucking ice cream social for the programming division, and wishing with all my being for the sweet sweet release of death.

No such luck. Instead, I spent 3 hours explaining to a babbling sea of unwashed Indian computer programmers which of the three-gallon ice cream tubs open in front of them was chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!?! ITS CHOCOLATE, VANILLA, AND STRAWBERRY! DO THEY NOT HAVE THE COLOR RED IN INDIA!?! HEY SANJAY! THE STRAWBERRY IS THE ONE THE COLOR OF THE FUCKING DOT ON YOUR MOM'S FOREHEAD!

Yeah, I'm still a little bitter about that day. So what...fuck you!

Epilogue

Everyone I've ever met who's been to college and wasn't an irredeemable failure at life has a certain type of alcohol that they will NOT touch. For some it's whiskey. For many...many many many...it's tequila. Regardless, this pathological hatred is almost always born out of some epically traumatic night of drinking and ethically questionable behavior. For me, that drink is Red Bull Vodka and this night was that night. Now, whenever someone offers me a Red Bull drink I look them square in the face with a dead-pan expression and say "No. I don't want to go to jail. Again." They usually get the picture.

Posted by nils at 8:43 PM

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