As the wallpaper on Tim’s computer, he had a picture of some deer having sex. It was normal doggy-style, or deery-style, but there was one small thing wrong. On the right was the doe, with the buck on top of her giving it to her, and then another buck giving that buck what for. So it was a bi-sexual deer threesome. It was hilarious. Now, Tim’s dad, Loren, is a man’s man. He works for the Forest Service, has a beard, wears flannel shirts, and is generally very outdoorsy. At this point in our lives, Tim was the exact opposite, but that’s neither here nor there. He came down to pick Tim up to go home for the weekend, and saw this striking optical anomaly. He immediately exclaimed “Boy, I’d like to see that in the woods!” as if it were some kind of woodsman’s pornography. Tim whipped around and said, “You would?” calling him out on his sick deviant bestiality fantasies. Loren was taken aback, but not for long. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d shoot the bucks.” Yeah right, Loren. You don’t have to hide from your feelings. We’ve all got our kinks. You should embrace your love for bisexual deer threesomes.

Being the music aficionados that we are, Kurt and I enjoy going to concerts. In May of 2001 we went to see MxPx and Good Charlotte at the State Theater in Detroit. I was working for a landscape company, and got home later than Kurt, who was working at Forest Akers Golf Course. It had rained been raining all day, but apparently not enough for my boss to send us home. So by the time I got home, we were in a hurry to get out the door and make the hour and a half journey to downtown Detroit. Kurt drove, like an animal, in the ‘bird. Everything was going smoothly until about an hour into the journey. We were cruising down I-96 in the fast lane at a pretty good clip. There was a cop on the shoulder, so I assume Kurt slowed down a somewhat lawful speed, but it was not enough. We weren’t pulled over, but as we came over a hill, the entire left lane was covered by a massive mud puddle. With no escape, we hit it full speed. Water crashed over the windshield which left us with absolutely zero visibility. As the Firebird hydroplaned, we started spinning. Kurt had no control of the car whatsoever. We were both screaming at the very top of our lungs, and we braced ourselves for the impact of the vehicle and the cement wall that divided the opposing traffic lanes. Amazingly, it never happened. The car screeched to a halt, and we got out to assess the damage. We had stopped facing the correct direction, mere inches from the wall. We had done a complete 360, and by some divine intervention, had not crashed into the concrete that we had previously been barreling by at break neck speeds. We both turned and looked behind us at the cop who was parked a hundred yards behind us. He had to have seen the whole thing, but the cruiser didn’t move. Kurt and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and got back in the car. Due to our dance with death, we were now running even later and were destined to miss the opening act. When we got to the show, it was clear it had already started. No kids in line. No hobos sparing for change. No one directing traffic. I’m sure if we had actually looked, we could have found a pay lot with other cars in it to park in. But Kurt was in a hurry. So he parked in an abandoned lot with no other cars in it. I thought for sure his car would be gone/vandalized/on blocks. But if he didn’t care, why should I? It wasn’t my 1986 Firebird, it was just my only way home. As we ran toward the theater, Kurt saw a sign: “Studio Apartments. $125 a month”. “Ballz!” he exclaimed. “We should get one of these! We could go to Tiger’s games and concerts everyday!” I naysay-ed the idea, because I did not have Hobo Stab Insurance at the time. We made it inside in time to catch Ultimate Fake Book’s last song. We moshed the night away, and when we left, there was the Firebird, 100% intact. We got in and drove home. Our near death a few hours earlier was now merely a memory.

We had been hyping our welcome weekend party all summer. Being in our fourth year, though not all of us seniors, the seven of us had more than a couple friends. Not only was it welcome weekend, but also VonSteenburg’s first night back. We figured it would be an excellent party, but didn’t believe it would be substantially larger than any of our CV parties. How wrong we were. In preparation, we bought disposable sticky plastic to put over the carpet as to keep it from being ruined. We strategically placed couches in places that would block people from entering the living room, and force them downstairs. All of this was futile. We, as tenants, were pretty wasted from the get go. So much so, that Ryan pissed in the kitchen sink at about 9 pm. There were people standing all around, but in true VonSteenburg fashion, he heard not the objections, and went about the task at hand. Later, one of Jarrod’s friends tried to trek across the living room to the stairs, but was spotted by Ryan’s eagle-like vision. He immediately ran over to the young man, grabbed him by the face and exclaimed “No one’s allowed in the living room!” Ryan then proceeded to slam him to the ground by his face. This became known as the infamous “Face Mush” and I don’t think that kid ever returned. The party was, as the kids say, off the hook. We ended up with hundreds of people there, a lot of whom we didn’t even know. But it was a great time. With that many people, the basement quickly became a virtual oven, and people began spilling outside. But our landlord had been replacing our roof, so we had a giant construction dumpster in the backyard, which acted as a barrier between the road and the party, keeping the police from stopping. In the end, it turned out to be the most harmonious engagement we would have at 251. No fights, no thievery, no tickets, and we drank seven kegs of beer. We had hundreds of friends and strangers in our house, all together with a common goal: get drunk. I would say, in all, it was the perfect party. Although, I do feel bad for Mo and Becky. Kurt apparently told them it was a graffiti party, and it definitely was not. I think someone ended up ripping Mo’s shirt almost all the way off too. My apologies ladies. Sometimes the guys at 251 lie to you. And sometimes they try to rip your clothes off.

Steve’s car was an old escort hatchback with a dead deer’s hoof stuck in the grill, that he had nicknamed “Bucky”. He rarely drove whenever we went somewhere. For some unknown reason, he had driven to the bar one night, and after we closed it down, we headed back to the Hamster Cage to find Bucky to take Bell, Kurt, Steve and I home. For those of you who have never gotten drunk with Ryan Bell, just know this: after a few too many, he starts making snide remarks to every girl he sees. Whether he’s in a car or on foot, he’s yelling at every single one. Mostly, he tells them they’re fat or ugly or both, even though it’s usually not true. On this particular night, we found ourselves with a whole two blocks to walk to the car, so of course Bell had to start talking to the group walking ahead of us. It was a few girls and a guy, and when the girls rejected Bell’s advances, things went south. Unfortunately for them, there were also parked in the Hamster Cage, on the same level, just a few cars away. So they had to deal with Bell’s antics all the way back to the sanctity of their vehicle. Of course, one look at Bucky and they started to give it back saying “Nice car, Asshole!” To which Steve replied, “Hey! I’m not the one making fun of you.” At some point, the guy started to pipe up and defend the girls’ honor; this lead to the most pointless, ridiculous, inane fight that has ever happened. Kurt decided to get in the mix and exchanged some words with the other gentleman. Steve and I both just kind of stood there dumbfounded. Was a fight really going to erupt out of this? We tried to reason with Kurt, but that’s usually futile. So, of course, fisticuffs ensued. A couple punches, mostly wrestling. When it was over, which was about twenty seconds later, each party headed for their respective transportation. I saw a driver’s license on the ground, which I gave to the other guy along with my humblest apologies. We parted ways and went home. As it turns out, I did something foolish. Kurt, as you may have imagined, was wearing a plaid button-up shirt, in which the breast pocket held all his worldly possessions – which were just his ID and cigarettes. During the melee, his foe had ripped the breast pocket and these things had fallen out. So I gave the other guy Kurt’s ID, which I’m sure he went home and defecated on. Either that or the girls put it in their spank bank. One of the two. (What is the female equivalent of a spank bank? A rub tub? Vibe Library?)

In March VonSteenburg and Branden moved to New York, but since all the furniture in the living room was OMH’s, he left it. Bell moved in with us in May, and brought more furniture. We had so many couches in that place we were running out of space for them. Bell’s couch ended up being placed along the wall outside my room, pointed at nothing and serving no purpose. I awoke one morning that summer to find someone I’d never met sleeping on Bell’s couch. I found it odd because we didn’t get crazy the night before, we didn’t have a party, and I don’t think anyone had any friends over. Everyone was already at work that morning, except Kurt and I. I woke Kurt up and asked if he knew who was sleeping downstairs. Being that he had no idea, we decided to wake the burly gentleman up and ask. We crept downstairs, gently woke the stranger up, and said “Hey man, do you know where you are?” He shot up, and looked around hoping for a glimpse of something familiar. He asked for someone whose name escapes me, because they didn’t live in our house. He was in town visiting a friend and got separated late in the evening. Once we figured that out he was just drunk and lost, he stuck out his hand and said, “Well, I’m Andy. Nice to meet you. Have you seen a hat and some flip-flops anywhere?” Ol’ Andy had apparently lost those two things on the way home from the bar, but they were nowhere in sight. So Andy gathered himself together, apologized and went on his merry way. Later on, Kurt found Andy’s hat and sandals near the sidewalk on the side of the house. It looked like he sat down to take a breather on his walk back to his friend’s house, then gave up and decided to crash at our house. Maybe we should’ve locked the door sometimes. Oh well, Kurt got a Texas hat and some flip-flops out of it.

When Sam and Evan moved out of their parents’ houses, they rented a house together with a couple other friends. One of those friends was a kid who affectionately came to be called Lanky Kid, or simply Lanky. He was tall and lanky, thus, his moniker was bestowed. I know those guys weren’t 21, because all my friends just turned 21 after we moved into 251. So Lanky would come to our parties with Sam and Evan to drink our beer and make a fool of himself, which happened two distinct times. The first occurred when he was inebriated and found himself making out in our kitchen with a girl he had just met. When Lanky was pressured by the girl’s friends to recite her name, he took a stab in the dark. “Nicole?” he answered. No. Not even close. Her name was Erin, and everyone let him have it. But I’m pretty sure that didn’t stop her from making out with him. I guess the kid has some game. Years later we would find out she didn’t know his name either and referred to him as “Orange Shirt Guy”.
Lanky’s second offense at 251 came from long night of drinking. (surprise, surprise) Our house was at the intersection of two of the busier side streets. Lanky thought that it would be a great idea to go stand along the side of the street and flip off all the cars as they approached the stop sign. He was alone, and severely intoxicated. Apparently, people don’t enjoy being given the international sign for “Fuck You!” when they’re in a drunken stupor, because 4 guys got out of a passing vehicle and began beating the shit out of Lanky. His roommate, Bert, tried to come to his rescue, but I don’t think he was overly convincing. Popular belief is the guys just eventually got tired of pummeling Lanky and moved on. He wasn’t severely injured, and it may have gotten him a sympathy make out from “Nicole”, who knows.
Lanky eventually became LWL’s merch guy, which basically gave him the right to show up to the venue with us, drink a lot and not ever sell anything. Maybe it’s because nobody wanted our crappy stuff, but I choose to blame Lanky
You can’t stop this guy from flippin’ the bird

Being that Old Man Houghtaling and VonSteenburg were Turfies, their spring semester ended in March so that they could begin their internships at their respective golf establishments. In our house, we tried to split it up so that everyone had a bill to pay, so that one person had to front a lot of money for the other dead beats. OMH had the gas bill, and when he left, no one bothered to switch it out of his name. In addition, no one bothered to open the bills, pay the bills, acknowledge the shut off notices, or give a fuck about the gas at all. As promised, the gas company came and turned it off on us one day. It was late April by this point, so it was mildly warm and not having a furnace didn’t bother us too much. Our stove was electric, as was our dryer, so who cares? Oh wait. We forgot that the hot water heater runs on gas. This meant that not only was there no hot water for dishes, which were rarely used or done anyway, but most importantly no hot water for showers. Have you ever taken a cold shower? I’m not talking about a cool shower, or a semi-cold shower when the hot water is running out. I mean an absolutely freezing cold shower with water that has not seen any heat at all. It goes from the ground, to a holding tank in a basement, to your skin. Unequivocally, it is the coldest thing I have ever felt. Most of us had other places we could go to cleanse ourselves. Girlfriends, friends, people we met one time…we would go anywhere to get a hot shower. But on occasion, you would be in a pinch and HAVE TO take an ice cold shower. These never lasted more than sixty seconds. Get wet. Put some sort of soap on yourself. Rinse it off. Get the fuck out! Our lease was up in August and we were content to never pay that bill back. We could stick it out a couple months and then leave it behind, or so we thought. The city had to come do an inspection that summer, and our landlord informed us that if the gas wasn’t turned back on by inspection day we would be evicted. We had roughly three days to round up over $600, it might as well have been a million. None of us had more than a couple bucks to our name. We ended up calling OMH’s mom to get the $100 or so bucks he legitimately owed, and the rest of us borrowed from mothers/lovers/sisters/brothers or whoever else would lend to us. And by lend, I mean give, because we sucked at paying people back. Miraculously, we were able to come up with the dough and pay the gas company to turn the gas back on before the inspection. So our landlord was happy, for about a moBeing that Old Man Houghtaling and VonSteenburg were Turfies, their spring semester ended in March so that they could begin their internships at their respective golf establishments. In our house, we tried to split it up so that everyone had a bill to pay, so that one person had to front a lot of money for the other dead beats. OMH had the gas bill, and when he left, no one bothered to switch it out of his name. In addition, no one bothered to open the bills, pay the bills, acknowledge the shut off notices, or give a fuck about the gas at all. As promised, the gas company came and turned it off on us one day. It was late April by this point, so it was mildly warm and not having a furnace didn’t bother us too much. Our stove was electric, as was our dryer, so who cares? Oh wait. We forgot that the hot water heater runs on gas. This meant that not only was there no hot water for dishes, which were rarely used or done anyway, but most importantly no hot water for showers. Have you ever taken a cold shower? I’m not talking about a cool shower, or a semi-cold shower when the hot water is running out. I mean an absolutely freezing cold shower with water that has not seen any heat at all. It goes from the ground, to a holding tank in a basement, to your skin. Unequivocally, it is the coldest thing I have ever felt. Most of us had other places we could go to cleanse ourselves. Girlfriends, friends, people we met one time…we would go anywhere to get a hot shower. But on occasion, you would be in a pinch and HAVE TO take an ice cold shower. These never lasted more than sixty seconds. Get wet. Put some sort of soap on yourself. Rinse it off. Get the fuck out! Our lease was up in August and we were content to never pay that bill back. We could stick it out a couple months and then leave it behind, or so we thought. The city had to come do an inspection that summer, and our landlord informed us that if the gas wasn’t turned back on by inspection day we would be evicted. We had roughly three days to round up over $600, it might as well have been a million. None of us had more than a couple bucks to our name. We ended up calling OMH’s mom to get the $100 or so bucks he legitimately owed, and the rest of us borrowed from mothers/lovers/sisters/brothers or whoever else would lend to us. And by lend, I mean give, because we sucked at paying people back. Miraculously, we were able to come up with the dough and pay the gas company to turn the gas back on before the inspection. So our landlord was happy, for about a month…

One evening we got a pony keg and invited the regulars over to play drinking games. Steve also invited some of his track buddies that were staying in the E.L. over the summer. These guys had just finished their freshman year, and were not anywhere near 21. Our building had a big back deck on the river side, which was hidden from view and a good place to smoke a cigarette or just get out of a crowded, stuffy Cedar Village apartment. However, what most people didn’t know, was that the deck was private property and the adjoining sidewalk was public property. So you could be underage and drinking on the deck, but the second you stepped on the concrete, you were open to being arrested. These two gentlemen must not have been privy to this information, and walked off the deck toward the parking ramp. But before they reached their destination, two cops spotted them. Upon seeing the officers, the two boys came running back toward the apartment. The police were hot on their heels, and as the first guy opened the door to our apartment the cop tackled him into our closet. Realizing there was a police officer in our apartment, Kurt grabbed the keg and put it in the bathtub. As the boy was on the ground with the officer trying to cuff him, the subdued kid yelled out “Stop! Stop! I pooped my pants!” Alas, the cop did not stop, and dragged him outside. The police didn’t give us any grief, I think they thought the kid was just looking for any apartment to run into. So Steve’s teammate was arrested and we continued our game of Presidents and Assholes. We affectionately dubbed that kid “The Party Pooper” and to this day when he is around Steve says, “This is my buddy, you know ‘The Party Pooper’”. The kid still claims he only said that so the cop would get off him. I disagree.

When in college, the majority of kids move practically every year. For the most part, you upgrade to better digs than the year before. Moving from the dorms to your first apartment is a very big deal. After you’ve settled in, people start coming over to assess your new abode. Dudes don’t really need much information: “Here’s the beer. Here’s where you pee. If you’re too drunk to go home, sleep wherever you can, but not on my goddamn bed. The end.” But if you’re lucky enough to have a lady come over, then the all important Tour comes into play. There is an art to tour guiding. It’s light hearted and unobtrusive. It meanders through the living space with jokes about your roommates, and what pigs they are. It doesn’t linger in the bathroom for fear of what said roommates may have done in there recently and so she doesn’t notice that the shower hasn’t been cleaned in years because you signed the cleaning waiver so you could move in early thinking you’d do it yourself but you never did. You show her your cabinet in the kitchen full of spaghetti noodles and sauce to prove you can cook for yourself. You hide the trash so she can’t see the Taco Bell wrappers because you don’t know shit about cooking and your mom gave you that spaghetti but you know the mice will eat it before you do. But no matter where your tour begins or what you choose to include (or hide), know this: the tour ends in your bedroom. I cannot emphasize that enough. The tour ends in your bedroom. Make sure it’s clean. Make sure it doesn’t smell funky. Make sure you’ve hidden the porno well. Clean the sheets you’ve been sweating and drooling on. Let her walk in first and let the door close halfway behind you. Show her around your postage stamp sized living quarters. Don’t you dare say, “This is where the magic happens” or no magic will ever happen there, I guarantee. Have her sit on your bed, sit beside her and see where it leads. Godspeed, good sir.

We went to high school with Katie Howell, and we hung out with her and her roommates quite a bit. Like us, she roomed with the same people her entire college career. (Katie and I “went together” in sixth grade. It was retarded, but it always seems to be brought up when we hang out. The most exciting event in our relationship was when she walked with me to get my hair cut, both of us with our trumpets in tow. Katie Tisdale used to help me write notes to her on the bus. It’s still ridiculously embarrassing to think about, almost 20 years later) So anyway, it was a nice summer day and she invited us to come over to their apartment for a barbeque. We gladly accepted, picked up some beer and were on our way. I, for some reason, was really into Rolling Rock at the time, but the store did not have any cold. Nonetheless, I bought a twelver and had to stash them one at a time in the cramped freezer in order to get them cold fast enough. All day, I was up and down the stairs to grab a slightly cold beer out of the freezer, and replace it with a piss warm one. It was really a very pleasant afternoon full of barbequing, tossing the pigskin, and throwing back some brews. Their apartment complex, slightly better than ours, had a volleyball court, so we started playing that. Due to the combination of sun and beer, I was pretty wasted. Normally, I can hold my own in an athletic event. I’m not going to place first in a foot race, beat anyone at 21, or excel at any other feat of strength, but I can hold my own. Volleyball is usually a safe bet. Not a lot of running, try to hit the ball in front of you, someone taller will hit it over. (being 5’9” really sucks on multiple levels) But on this day, my inebriation outweighed my athletic prowess. The only thing I remember was standing in the backcourt, seeing the ball coming, thinking I was going to hit it, not hitting it, it hitting me in the face, and me falling down. It was sickening. It was sad. It was shameful. I then took myself out of the game for fear of further embarrassment, and the fact that I was zero help to my team. I don’t know if I have played volleyball since that day, which is probably for the best.