Stupid Things I Have Done, Part V

All of these seem to involve, at least tangentially, inebriation and music performance. Geez, must stop talking like an abstract...

Many stupid things I have done took place in Obscure Corner of the World, henceforth OCOW. It's a wacky place, where people of various heritages mix in the remote, forested reaches. On my first trip to OCOW, I went with three friends. One was an actor from New York, and the others his sister and her husband. We traveled by train to OCOW for days upon days, and you'd be amazed how a long train ride will really blow your mind. We started off very prim and proper, only drinking after the sun went down. But by the third day or so, we only made it until about noon before the beers were cracked and the vodka poured. We lived on ramen, savory pastries, instant coffee, and cheese.

Somehow, we made it to Big City in OCOW. Big City isn't really all that big, but by comparison to the absolutely empty nothing surrounding it, it's huge. Our friends in Big City had a surprise for us: One of them had been invited to a remote mountain village to act as guest star and MC at a big festival (this friend was an actor and local pop legend). He was going to take us with him in his new car.

The car was kind of like a Lincoln, but with serious tank-like qualities. This was good, because the roads are crap in OCOW. By the time we turned onto the final road toward the village, the path before us was just a boulder-strewn wash retreating into a deep ravine filled with massing black clouds. "Uh, which way do we go now?" I recall asking. When my friend pointed down the ravine, we all groaned.

The ride was bumpy, but lovely. High up in the mountains, we passed the beginning of a major river, where it still meandered in a hundred silvery streams in all directions, searching for its final flow. There were tiny hamlets with two rough wooden houses, surrounded by massive peaks unmarked by humans.

We finally arrived in the village, which sprawled out along a rocky mountain stream between a few large, bare hills. Above, the peaks rose, forested, frightening, and alluring. You wanted to get lost there, to wander over ridge after ridge.

But instead, we were taken into the school cafeteria and offered dinner. It was boiled meat, mostly, with homemade blood sausage and other carnivorous delights. And there was vodka. And candies and bread. That about sums up the fare in the village, the basic, traditional food of OCOW. I didn't fall in love with it for its cuisine, let's just say that.

Before long, everyone had eaten and drank more than enough, and we were shown into our rooms in a long wooden bunk house of sorts. There was a room for the girls and one for the boys. Though more women were clearly expected, my friend and I were along in the large dorm room. We picked iron cots next to the windows and settled in.

Not long after light's out, the door opened. The latch had yielded, and some man was barging into our room, muttering incoherently. We turned on the lights and yelled at him, recognizing him as the very drunk man who had introduced himself as a historian from a nearby area. He was so drunk out of his mind that he couldn't figure out why we were there, in his room, and why we were so angry. Soon, the hammer came down: The dreaded night watchwoman, a figure to be feared in these kind of places, worked him over in the way that only local women can do to their drunken male counterparts. The guy cringed, burped an apology, and crept away.

Soon, he was delighting us again by upchucking below our window. The charm of rural life!

The historian apologized the next day at breakfast. My actor buddy and I were the first ones of our party up, and we wandered, somewhat lost, over to the school. The historian and his comrades-in-booze were already taking the hair of the dog, and they raised their tumblers in our direction. While spooning our hot cereal (which is always awesome in OCOW. Love the stuff.), the now contrite historian came over and asked me to forgive his rudeness. I did, and he offered us a bottle of vodka. I told him, rather roughly, that we didn't want any vodka for breakfast. He nodded, giving me a sly little smile, and returned a moment later with something. Presenting it victoriously, he announced, "A dry white wine!" Nothing like wine and oatmeal and forced courtesy at 7 am.

But the historian wasn't even the most colorful drunk in the village. There was also Backwards Pants. We came to be very fond of him, and dubbed him BP because...wait for it... he always walked around with his pants on backwards!

His most memorable interaction with our crew came when we were dragged into performing for the festival. One of my friends played guitar. The rest of us sang. We sang a couple good ol' country songs, but our big closing number was a rendition of Warren Zevon's "Poor Pitiful Me." We added a very silly final verse, thinking no one would understand.

Never, ever assume, even in the wildest place, that no one will pick up on your stupid lyrics and your poetic reference to sitting on blocks of ice with your bare ass (what we added to the song). Very stupid. Blame it on the long train ride and the dry white wine. It turns out a grad student in anthropology--they're everywhere! They're everywhere!--was there, and wondered who the fuck we were, and why we were so damn stupid. She later told me so, when we met once again for the first time here in the States. Whoops.

The non-English speakers enjoyed our little concert, though. Except Backwards Pants, who got pissed at us after we wouldn't sing a song twice for him. He began to scream that he was going to launch a Minuteman missile at Los Angeles, thanks to us. Fortunately, this international incident was averted by some bad-ass local ladies, who dragged BP off.