Local Wire

Booze Pig transforms into the mythical White Stag

I thought I'd never write about kegger house parties. I mean, I went to school in Wisconsin. But the other night, after pounding my fifth Stag press (a concoction served up at my favorite local hang, Shady's, that's like a vodka Red Bull, but they use a knockoff called "White Stag"), I suddenly found myself in the back seat of Jam-Tron's car.

Before the night goes further, I have to tell you that I've had a lot of these where am I? moments lately. Yes, I'm sure it has to do with my new affinity for the Stag press and its ability to black me out for hours at a time. (Never blacked out? You aren't drinking enough!) But it also has to do with cabin fever. I need a break from the windowless, piss-encrusted floors of Phoenix's dive bar scene. I've spent the past year watching old folks trying to kill themselves — one drink at a time. Granted, I love watching individuals slowly self-implode, but it can take its toll on your psyche. I try to balance the death march by occasionally mingling with the young, the idealistic, the disillusioned blind optimists. Shady's is no dive, and this party probably won't be either — thank God! I'm craving some upbeat, smiling drunken happiness.

I'm glad to see that Jam-Tron is behind the wheel and that Sparkle is navigating from shotgun. I am informed we are going to a "fucking house party" for some youngster who just graduated from nursing school. I can only imagine what is going to happen when we three deranged, half-mad fools stumble into this unsuspecting home. I'm glad there will be plenty of nurses around. I love nurses! There is nothing like a good woman who doesn't mind wiping up vomit. Or worse.

We pull up to some house in a nice Arcadia neighborhood straight out of the past. We're going old school, and it turns out I love it. We stumble into the backyard and into some weird party scene; the place is close to a sprawling acre, and there is a bonfire roaring next to a massive trampoline.

Instinctively, I head toward the fire and the quiet young fawns that surround it. I feel as though I'm a monstrous white stag foaming at the mouth during rutting season. I find a seat at the edge of the fire circle to plan my slow advance.

I'm smiling and leering at some young nurse people. I can imagine them with sponges, working away at my backside (hey, let a pig have his fantasy). I'm shaken from my creepy trance when a woman walks up and pulls her panties off and throws them in the fire! I'm not sure if this is some sort of nurse rite of passage, but, my God, it's sexy. I imagine myself getting up and pulling off my boxers. What the hell; I'm hammered! I start playing with the buttons on my pants when Sparkle — probably sensing danger — comes to my aid and pulls me away to take a position at the keg.

The keg is half-floating, but she still has plenty of nectar in her. Sparkle pumps (there is no bigger aphrodisiac), and out comes dark flowing fluid — no doubt an expensive microbrew for the graduate. I, on the other hand, have graduated from beer, and most likely will have the runs for the next 24 hours after slamming four of those things from Shady's. Good thing I didn't burn my underwear.

Slowly, the party moves from the backyard to the kitchen — time to eat, to soak up the booze! It's in this kitchen where things start taking a turn for the worse. Maybe it has to do with the cooked hot dogs I'm stuffing into my pockets. Sparkle grabs my hand as it grips a hot dog. Her eyes say no, but mine say yes. I pull away and stuff it in with around seven others in the same pocket.

I am rambling like an idiot to dozens of folks for who knows how long. It gets awkward when I find myself rubbing my crotch on maybe the sixth unsuspecting person, proclaiming, Can you feel my wiener? I look up to see number six happens to be a 6-foot-4 giant dude, and I'm dragged out of the kitchen, laughing, hauled off to the car by my friends. Come on — feel my wiener, damn you!

We fight in the car. I'm hitting Jam-Tron with my wiener and she's getting pissed. We pull up to my house where I'm literally pushed out of the car. I get my last two hits in with my meat when she rolls up her window. My wiener is severed in half as she peels out of my drive.

I'm finally home, laughing and lying on my floor, pulling hot dogs out of my pants as my dog chomps away happily. I am the provider, the master, the father, the elusive White Stag.

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C.M. Redding
Contact: C.M. Redding