Beachside Boozin' & Cruisin'

    What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the phrases “”sorority girls”” and “”big, round, hollow, hot air-filled objects”” in the same sentence?

    Well, of course, there’s “”that,”” but there’s also the festive, annual booze-drenched event known as the Intersorority Volleyball Tournament, or ISVT (pronounced “”iss-vet””) for short, where women go up against their Greek counterparts from other colleges in fierce, grueling, bloodcurdling volleyball action that leaves many a “”sister”” crying in her Zima.

    Loyal readers of the Lounge will recall reading about, in these very pages, the debacle that was ISVT 2000. ISVT 2001 was very much like ISVT 2000, meaning that it included bottles and bottles of premium, high-octane booze and occurred in the springtime. Let us reflect, through a muddled lens, on this sauced-up spectacle.

    It all began poolside, as most stellar weekends do, with tall 40-ounce bottles of premium malt liquor. My associate Satchel and I had headed up to Long Beach, Calif. on Friday, a day before the actual event, in order to inflict even more damage to our already ragged, decrepit livers. The first order of business once we hit town and before the sun went down was to head out to the local corner store and purchase a couple of foat doggs.

    As an inhabitant of the LBC, I was morally and contractually obligated to drink a St. Ides 40, while Satchel, being a NorCal, opted for the Olde English. The Crooked Letta, you see, is more of a heady, tangy brew and is available at all reputable LB stores, while the eight-ball has a more refreshing, mild, almost piney taste that appeals to a wider array of palates.

    Anyway, those were gone as fast as they were acquired, and it was off to do the drunken bar tour of the greater Long Beach area. We started off at Joe Jost’s, a traditional local haunt, where we sipped on ice-cold schooners of Pabst Blue Ribbon, grubbed on Joe’s specials with pickled eggs and shot a round of pool.

    Or at least I think that’s what we did. Through hazy recollections and gathered sources it has become vaguely understood that the bar tour ended a scant two stops later, two stops which were directly next door to each other, with the final stop visited only after we had been kicked out of the one prior for reckless drunkery and boisterous behavior.

    Let it be said, however, that Limerick’s, the bar from which our exit was hastened, served but beer, while Crow’s, the haunt into which we crawled, served mostly cocktails — stiff cocktails, which I thought to be fortuitous at the time. The next morning though, I woke up covered in hundreds of dollars’ worth of bar tabs, scribbled on with what looked to be the ravings of a frenzied derelict, but on further inspection turned out to be my signatures.

    Ouch, and my head hurt even worse. Maybe it had something to do with the tumble I took into the bathtub the night before, taking the shower curtain down with me. My dear friends, upset and sympathetic at my plight, proceeded to laugh, point and snap pictures of me as I flopped around, trying to overcome my drunken discombobulation and exit the tub.

    I awoke with what felt like wild, coked-up jackals rabidly gnawing their way through my fragile skull. Dehabilitated by one of the most excruciating, incapacitating hangovers I’ve ever experienced, I faced the day, realizing that there was only one feasible course of action available, and it tormented my beleaguered dome to no end.

    Yes, a bottle of rum, the good stuff (Ralphs generic brand, not Albertson’s generic brand) and a large Coke from the deli (primarily for the cup and the ice) and we were well back on our way to mental solvency. With each swag of this vile concoction, my murky thought process became a little more translucent, and soon I was almost able to walk.

    As soon as we were capable of walking, we headed to the beach, where swarms and swarms of daft sorority chicks and the frat guys that love them had congregated to … um, watch volleyball or something like that. Or maybe a few people were. Everyone I saw or spoke to had heard there was a volleyball tourney being played in the midst of the drunken fracas but confessed no further knowledge of the subject, and went back to greedily imbibing the contents of his cup or bottle.

    Then there was a whole lot of glorious whooping and hollering and carrying on like plastered bastards, which was buckets of fun — except when, at one point, some kook dropped his drawers to take a picture with this girl and got all upset when we started pelting him with a mixture of potato salad and sand (it’s even sicker than it sounds).

    When faced with a mix of San Diego dudes and thugafied LB locals, though, he slunk away in a huff, covered in potatoes and shame. More debauchery and acts of outright depravity on the beach followed, but these are either too vulgar or too forgettable to enshrine in print.

    It was time to move on to the next chapter, the Burroughs family home, where my dear mom and pop once again took in a large crew of sauced San Diegans. This time, though, instead of the sole vodka offering, moms came through with a bottle of El Capitan and a jug o’ Skyy to soothe our parched throats. We took to the Jacuzzi with a vengeance, passing the bottles around and throwing beers across the pool.

    This sort of thing often leads to troublesome and disturbing occurrences, and this time was no different. Soon I was crouched, tiger-style in the beautifully manicured poolside planter, purging my belly of its pure liquor contents. Of course, once finished, I was faced with only the Morgan to cleanse my mouth. Thus it was done, and I was none the worse for wear.

    Poor Puma also felt the pain of war, opening a serious gash in his chin that, on more sober days, would warrant a visit to the hospital for sutures, but on this day a small towel and another draft were all that the doctor ordered. Soon after, the booze was gone and we were back to the pad for grub.

    It was about this time that a pal of mine, one A-Buck, approached my mother and queried her about the presence of any “”lettuce”” in the house.

    “”No way,”” she replied, aghast at the notion, then adding, “”Anyway, you’re the guest — you should be the one supplying the lettuce.””

    From that point on all is blurry at best, and lost to the ages at worst. I do recall ordering pint after pint from the first bar we patronized, pitcher after pitcher at the next and then being kicked out of the outside of another local LB bar for simply drinking a beer on the sidewalk. Then I woke up in a heap on the floor of Big B’s crib with a drunken grin and a pile of crushed Coors Light cans next to my pillow.

    It was a long drive home.

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