Texas Forever

 

'Get to Trophy Club you fucking pussy, you're 12 drinks behind.'

I'm on a text chain with 20 numbers listed. I don't have any of them stored in my phone anymore. But it's an 847, so it's certainly a North shore kid who was in my frat.

"We're taking PG bombs. You're now 13 drinks behind. That's 13 fantasy points bitch.'

There is a subset of people who won't find that phrase endearing because, well maybe they just don't remember what it was like to live with 100 guys when you were at the peak of your irresponsibility. I knew that the second I walked into that bar that I was stepping into a time portal, to a time 10 years ago when nothing mattered and we certainly behaved like that was the case. A time when we would build cannons and launch potatoes at the house across the street, a time when we accidentally shut down water to the city of Bloomington because of our doomed attempt at a hockey rink in our courtyard.

I left Chicago in 2011. Even before I left, college friends were starting to drift apart. When we first graduated people had gone out together four nights a week. There was a constant text chain relaying pregame locations and late night bars to meet up at. We all lived within a mile of each other and spent every waking moment not at work trying to pretend we were still in college.

But over time that would fade, guys would start to get serious with their girlfriends, people moved away, people grew up. I lost touch with a lot of guys after I moved but I would still follow their journey on social media. I would like their engagement photos, I would read about the wedding.

This weekend proved an interesting opportunity to bring me back into the fold. The groom and I moved to Los Angeles within a few weeks of each other. John and I had always been close in college. Even though I was a year older, we would spend summers in Chicago and terrorize Kilroy's together on the reg. When he first heard I was moving to LA he immediately offered up his bedroom to me as he was out of town. Then when he got back he told me to stay on the couch for a while.

Even when I finally moved into a hippie commune in Encino, I was a frequent guest at 8811 Burton Way. We didn't have a ton on friends in LA. Many nights I would end up on the Versaille rooftop, drinking beers in the hot tub with John, Joey and Eric talking about nothing until 5 o clock in the morning.

We all eventually caught our LA footing and at the same time John found a perfect girl, also a Hoosier, also from the Greek System. Unfortunately they were not long for this world as work called them both away to Texas.

Their last month here they lived on the beach in what is now SnapChat's offices and I think we partied every night to send them off properly. And somehow I must have forgotten this, because it wasn't until I walked into that bar and saw them nearing blackout riding a mechanical bull in tandem that I realized...

Oh, this is going to be a frat wedding.

FRAT WEDDING - noun - A wedding in which the majority of the groom's friends and bride's friends were in the same Greek Organization. It can lead to excessive drinking, loud chanting and poor life decisions.

Friday morning I woke up with a larger hangover than I imagined. I hadn't even arrived at the bar until 1am but I found out right around 230am that the bar closing times in Texas are more of suggestions. Naturally I rolled out of bed and had a beer.

Already my phone was buzzing with notifications from the text chain.

"When do Austin bars open?"

"How many fantasy points for a black eye?"

"Someone bring an IV to my hotel room."

"Did anyone fuck last night?"

I felt the best way to quell my hangover was to take a trip to Barton Creek and find a rope swing. It didn't help, so naturally my next stop was to a liquor store to grab a six pack, hoping a little hair of the dog could bring me back to life.



By lunch time, I found myself at a bar called Searsucker, aptly named for the type of people that hang out there. Our table of 12 was ordering tequila shots by the dozen and beer by the pitcher at the ripe hour of noon. Catching up with guys I hadn't seen in four years, you would think we had been living together for the past few years. I guess that's just how it is when you get back together with the guys.

Lunch ended and I decided to pop by the new Chive offices in Austin. Behold the power of a photo blog dedicated to bad behavior.

A house with a name means one of two things: You are either going to a college live out populated by 10 bros and 40 handles of flavored Kamchatka.

Example 1:



That is my Senior live out house. We called it Shingles because it had a funky looking roof. I once broke into a CVS and stole a sign that said FREE SHINGLES SHOTS HERE. I thought it was hilarious.

The other thing a house with a name might mean is that you are going to a multi million dollar mansion...



Behold Gatsby West.

We arrived at Gatsby West on a party bus and were handed glasses of champagne upon entry. There were three separate bars set up and manned by models. This was not the first rehearsal dinner I had been to that had beautiful women working the bar, but it was the first time I had ever been to a rehearsal dinner that was sponsored by a vodka company.

What do you think happens when you put a bunch of former frat guys in a giant house with unlimited alcohol? Toss in a rowdy country band just for good measure and it's an all time banger.

A cigar roller had camped out in the Billiards room. There were passed out bodies in the movie theater. I heard that a married woman got banged in the pool house in the middle of the party.

Her husband was not in attendance.

I spent the majority of my evening ripping cigars and doing the aforementioned PG bombs in the Parlor. It turns out a PG bomb is just when you fill a wine glass to the top with Pinot Grigio and drink it in one gulp. This might explain why I still feel like shit today.

I blacked out around 1 in the morning so I missed the skinny dipping after party. I missed the group that tore down Maggie Mae's on dirty 6th street. My roommate brought home a girl for the second night in a row. I woke up in my clothes with nothing more than a tinge of regret.

This is the exact content of the text chain I saw when I woke up Saturday morning:

12am: Just landed how long is the party going?

'We're still going'

'Daddy's home.'

 

'Wine Chug'

'On my way!'

'Hurry the fuck up'

'15 minutes'

'BD Riley's'

'Moving Bars'

'WINE CHUG'

'DADDDDDDDYYYYYY'

'Suck my balls!'

'Come downtown I had to put my wife to bed'

 

'Next stop Chugging Monkey'

'I just took 18 shots, not all heroes wear capes'



'How many fantasy points for passing out with your head out the window?'

'Moeller you pussy.'

'Guys, don't forget golf is in four hours.'

 

I didn't make it to golf.

I swore to myself that I would make it for a full night on Saturday. I was only halfway through the trip and we were just about to arrive at the main course. I've still got it baby. I can make this happen. I will bring home a chick tonight.

Saturday's lunch was full of more arguing about fantasy points. I had no idea my power to influence a weekend could be so great.

'You should lose points for pissing the bed.'

'It wasn't mentioned in the article, that's bullshit.'

'Well puking in an Uber should be double negative points. I heard John had to give the driver 100 bucks.'

'Isn't double negative a positive?'

'Shut up!'

I ended up drinking two Shiner Bocks at lunch because my head was throbbing. I also managed to put down $40 worth of barbecue yet still I felt like shit. It didn't help that the Austin heat was cooking up a full 99 degrees and something like 110 percent humidity. I was dreading how sweaty I would become on the dance floor later that night.

I realized while I was getting ready that I had accidentally brought an incredibly dark navy sport coat to pair with black pants, what a fucking loser. No matter, it's not about me, I thought. People will be focused on the bride and groom.

Well that was patently untrue since the first thing I heard from five guys after I entered the ceremony 30 seconds before the bride walked down the aisle was how much of an idiot I looked like.

During the ceremony I found myself crying, though it's unclear if I was overcome with emotion or my endorphine balance was just too fucked up. Sometimes I tear up in the midst of a bender. Fortunately for me the actual wedding itself was short and no one commented on the fact that I was shaking.

The fact that it rained on the brief walk to the reception was a Godsend because no one would be able to tell if I was sweating or just wet.

I walked in and found the bridal party already lining up an obnoxious row of PG bombs.

'Come on Moeller, all the frat guys are going to do one.'

We had all done three by the time that I made my way to Table 4.

7:00  The first groomsman has taken his shirt off. Speeches are still an hour away.

7:30 I am asked to settle a dispute of whether a dance floor make out actually has to be on a dance floor.

8:00 A member at my table is assured that the bar will be open all night and it is unnecessary to steal wine bottles.

And then it was time for speeches.

During the speeches I cried for the second time of the day. The speeches made me want to get married, have a daughter, have a son. But the best man's speech really brought the house down. It reminded me the real reason we all come together for these weekends. It's not to see how many times we can scream 'Saturdays are for the boys!' It's not to tell Johnny that we are doing collarbone shots off of him because all the girls said no.



It's because John and Meg are incredible people. Their families are incredible. And this is the moment that they will remember the rest of their lives.

But ya also so we can rip our shirts off and party.

The Spazmatics start playing and we are treated to two hours of lunacy.

The bride and groom do an interpretive dance on how they first met.



And at some point we decide to do the Jewish chair thing even though the bride and groom weren't Jewish.

Sorry, that video won't load.

And here is a picture of Jon Vender.



Of course there was limbo, there was double dutch, and yes eventually even yours truly took his shirt off. Everyone was doing it, why not?

After the reception we were taken to an after party in downtown Austin. Maybe it was on 6th, I don't know. One of the groomsman jumped over the bar and started serving everyone free shots. The last thing I remember hearing was PROSECO BOMBS!!!!

I imagine it is just a PG bomb with proseco.

*Buzz Buzz*

I roll over, I'm passed out in my bed, this time naked but no girls are to be found. I grab my phone.

'Who made it to the pool party last night?'

'Extremely disappointed I wasn't invited...'

'I heard there was some significant female nudity'

'It has been described to me as an orgy'

'MVP [REDACTED] was there.'

'Female nudity is my favorite kind of nudity'

'Johnny's least favorite.'

'All clothes were removed post pizza. Things were seen. Actions were taken.'

'I highly advise against playing Marco Polo when everyone is naked. Never know what you're going to grab.'

'Dicks out for Harambe.'

'Any injuries?'

 

'I'm heading to the bar for Irish Car Bombs.'

'How many fantasy points did [redacted] end up with?'

'All of them. All hail [redacted] your weekend MVP'

It was Sunday, the day the depression usually sets in.

I still had another full day in Austin. We were supposed to float the Guadalupe but decided to just go hang at the W hotel, drink fruity beverages and rot by the pool.

So ends a wonderful weekend full of good friends and memories I will never forget. We will all go back to our lives and possibly go years without seeing each other. If we are ever in the same town maybe we'll meet for a drink or maybe not. But it's ok, because those four years in college bonded us forever and the next time I see you it will be as if we never left one another's side.

I got back to work the next Monday after waking up at 2am to catch a lift back to LAX and I wanted to die. I rode the wave until Wednesday and probably spent four hours trying to figure out how to write this post.

Should I give out awards?

Should I rank everyone's performance?

Or should I just tell everyone what happened and see how much they believe.

I decided to pick the latter. And a lot of people won't understand half of what I've written, but it's not for them, it's for the people that do.

Until next time, rest up boys. I fully expect for there to be a sequel.