What happens when you take generally grumpy and introverted writers for a local small press and plop them into frightening and unfamiliar circumstances? Magic and smiles and unicorn farts, that’s what! Or at least that’s been the lesson of the lion’s share of our “Worst. Night. Ever.” installments.
And we know when it comes to our precious Blogtownies, unicorn farts just wont do. No. You want blood in the water, or drugs on the table, or some damn thing. So in order to make that happen we dug into the esoteric backwaters of Craigslist and Yahoo community calendars. It was a decent tactic, but one that backfired as not one, but two of my WNE events were canceled. Which is not to say I wasn’t uncomfortable at any point this weekend. Au contraire.
But you won’t be content with a touch of panic, and social anxiety peppered with self-loathing. You want the full emotional bludgeoning a “Worst. Night. Ever.” is supposed to provide. With that in mind, and because I love you (or hate myself), I’m PLACING MY FATE IN YOUR HANDS ONCE MORE!
Here’s the deal: The story of my WNE reboot starts, “Patrick Alan Coleman is placed in the trunk of Steve’s jet black 1969 Buick Electra and…” And? And, what?
You finish the story in the comments below. Then, my perfect, gorgeous, smart, funny co-workers pick their favorite idea, and at some later date I’m put in the trunk of Steve’s car and driven off to meet my fate.
Why? Because I’m a moron, obviously. So, get cracking! And if you’re interested, the story of my WNE failure and a disconcerting e-mail correspondence with punch party participants is directly after the jump.
After a last minute run-off it seemed I would be attending a Playshop of Self Discovery, but upon attempting to register for the event, I found it had disappeared. My fear was that playshop leader and synergy coach Angel True had discovered our little game and canceled the event to avoid what could have been an awkward and messy evening for everyone. The thought made me feel like a complete asshole. And not just an asshole, but an incredibly mean, insensitive, and judgemental asshole. I spent most of Friday with my guts tied up in knots trying figure out what to do. Shaking with fear of confrontation, I called True on Friday afternoon to ask about the playshop. I left a message.
But now the WNE was in jeopardy. Shortly after calling True, Ned, Erik, and Ezra summoned me into their office (otherwise known as the “jerk lounge” [but not for the reasons you might be thinking]).
“So what are you doing, man?” Erik asked.
“I don’t know. I think the Playshop isn’t happening,” I responded.
“PUNCH PARTY!” bellowed Ezra.
Ned simply stared at me in that way he does, snickering behind a toothy evil grin.
Before I knew it, and after some haranguing from the jerk lounge jerks, I had sent the following picture to an anonymous stranger on Craigslist (except without my face concealed):
- My manly physique
Yeah. A couple minutes after hitting send, I began to panic. What the FUCK did I just do? Now my guts were tied up in knots for a completely different reason. I felt nauseous. And the following e-mail exchange didn’t help:
Hey there,
Is this still going on tonight? Can I get some more info? Is it bare knuckled punching or do you have gear? Let me know. I’m interested in coming.
-Patrick
On Jun 25, 2010, at 11:38 AM, RED CATHEDRAL wrote:
Its in NE. Do you have a pic? I can email you back this afternoon with directions if you do.
Hey. This is my pic. Can you give me any more information? Is it bare knuckled punching? Any specific rules? Do I need a mouth gaurd or anything?
On Jun 25, 2010, at 5:20 PM, RED CATHEDRAL wrote:
bare knuckles gloves whatever ur wanting to do and u need a mouthgaurd only if u want to get hit in the face. this isnt fighting its trading punches. the guy whose hosting hasnt confirmed for tonight but we go at it at least 1-2x/wk and wanted to see if we could get some new guys in this week. um, so is that an old pic or is circadia open again?
Nope, that’s a current pic. Let me know if it’s happening, and where. Thanks
On Jun 25, 2010, at 5:34 PM, RED CATHEDRAL wrote:
well it will be in NE, near circadia towards st johns actually. guy hasnt got in touch yet. if it doesnt happen 2nite u can join in the next time we meet up. theres 3-4 of us at a time on the usual day, usually mon/thurs. if you can host im down for 1on1 anytime time allows. i got 1 last meeting today then hopefully ive heard from him when i check email next
I spent the rest of the night waiting for RED CATHEDRAL’s e-mail, the fucking thing hanging over me like a sword of Damocles all goddamn night long.
When the punch party failed to materialize, it was all up to True, who called me the following day to let me know not enough people had signed up for the class. He’d cancelled it. He was a very pleasant, helpful person. I felt even more like an asshole.
I thought about chasing down the remaining two events, but I didn’t have the energy. Better just to throw myself back into the lion’s den. And here we are.
I sacrifice myself to appease the churlish Blogtown gods. Don’t say I never did nuthin’ for ya.
God, you failed at getting punched? Jesus… how depressing for you.
WNE seems to have given up the ghost of lulz.
Odd that you would say that, Graham. Or should I say…
NONE OTHER THAN RED “ACTUALLY GRAHAM” CATHEDRAL!
Your guilt/anxiety is disproportionately excessive.
Someone really does need to punch that right out of you.
Yes, but you are forgetting to help finish the story! Or are you guys just kinda “meh” about the whole concept now?
Well. I know someone who can give you tips about being thrown in a trunk for entertainment purposes.
His name rhymes with Shmatomic Shmantern.
I don’t know if I could have thought of a better handle for the Punch Party guy than RED CATHEDRAL. Sounds like the bad guy’s code name in a Tom Clancy novel.
Patrick Alan Coleman is placed in the truck of Steve’s jet black 1969 Buick Electra and somebody gives the police an anonymous tip-off about a guy driving around with a man in his trunk. Hilarity ensues.
I’ve enjoyed all the WNE before and after posts. But they’ve been entertaining to read independent of how bad the night actually turned out for you jerks. This development illustrates that maybe gunning for total shithouse maybe isn’t the way to go.
I say just go for activities you would never go to in a million years, but might be fun anyway. Such adventures to include:
Ned Gets a Professional Beard Shampoo
Sarah Mirk and the Case of the Monster Truck Rally
The Interns All Learn a Krav Maga
Etc.
Patrick Alan Coleman is placed in the trunk of Steve’s jet black 1969 Buick Electra on a balmy Saturday night. He is wearing a mesh tanktop emblazoned in gold with the words “PARTY KING” and Hammer pants outfitted with a secret pocket full of lollipops that can only be accessed through the fly. (optional accessory: a mask of his choosing)
The Electra pulls up in front of the Barracuda night club. Erik Henrickson exits the shotgun seat wearing a boombox around his neck that plays Yello’s “Oh Yeah” on loop. Ezra and Ned exit the rear seats and pull Patrick out of the trunk with a flourish. They then flank him, throwing confetti while Patrick makes the rounds of the club handing out lollipops to women and men. He then gets on stage and burns a picture of Matt Davis. The boombox stops. All men leave silently.
This experiment has turned into a totes-Mc-dismal-Mc-failure (other than Margie “I actually have balls” Skinner going the extra mile). Time for some new schtick.
So I vote “meh”.
Patrick Alan Coleman is placed in the trunk of Steve’s jet black 1969 Buick Electra and is armed with a sign reading “I’m with Stupid” and proceeds to jump out at stoplights and stand next to Mattress World sign holders for the duration of three stop light cycles.
Patrick Alan Coleman is placed in the trunk of Steve’s jet black 1969 Buick Electra and is hit in the face with a cold Double Down “sandwich” from KFC. He sobs uncontrollably before finally eating it…in its entirety.
Inventory
Patrick Alan Coleman is placed in the trunk of Steve’s jet black 1969 Buick Electra and is subsequently driven to Corvallis, a city oft-mocked but little visited. Once there, he exits the car and attempts to actually enjoy himself for the evening, searching for some light or life in rural America. Can it be done? Does our hickish neighbor actually contain offerings that an urbane Portlander can enjoy, or is it merely a blot on the map, a cultural sinkhole redolent with cattle and conservative voters? Is there anywhere in Oregon outside our safe harbor of Portland where our demographic can thrive, or are we alone, adrift in a sea of rural despondence?