Fear And Loathing In Myrtle Beach: Part 1

On November 2nd, I traveled down to Myrtle Beach to take part in a three day boozefest that, rumor has it, was suppose to be a wedding. The trip began early Friday morning at 4am traveling with the best man and his wife. The trip, which would otherwise take eight hours, turned into a ten hour battle of wills:  my friend’s will not to give in and believe the directions his phone had given, and my will not to kill everyone in the car.

The trip can be summed up pretty easily with endless country songs and cheers for Trace Atkins every time he came on the radio. Surrounded by Romney posters and stickers in the back seat of a cramped Ford Focus, I was struggling to figure out which circle of hell I was actually in. Thankfully, I brought with me a flask filled with Peach Schnapps; sadly, I did not bring enough to black out. In retrospect, it actually made the trip last longer. If you’ve ever gone to a NASCAR race and sobered up halfway through, you understand the madness that was setting in.

Surrounded by cotton fields and swamps, I told myself if I heard another country song I’d have my own reenactment of the famous Nat Turner slave rebellion. An hour and a half out from Myrtle Beach, it was decided that we would make a quick stop at South Of The Border, a Mexican carnie attraction on the side of the interstate. Looking like the towns you’d find out in the desert, long forgotten by the military that never detonated a bomb there, it was a ghost town for the most part. Instead of getting back on the interstate we decided it would be a better idea to take the back-country roads to Myrtle.

Why we would do that you might ask? Well, I have no idea either. I guess my friend wanted to experience what Hoovervilles used to look like or why John Cougar Melloncamp writes music. The bright side of our tour, through the countryside where Deliverance is probably considered the greatest movie ever, I got to pick the music. I decided to repeatedly play “We Don’t Have To Take Our Clothes Off” by Jermaine Stewart.

We finally arrived in Myrtle Beach sometime in the early afternoon hours. On a side note, you’d be surprised how many black sheriffs run for reelection in South Carolina with the nickname “Bubba Gump.” My personal favorite was one named “Bunny Eye”; clearly Anne Coulter is right in asserting racism no longer exists.

We pulled up to the hotel and checked into our rooms. Mine, oddly enough, was the only one in the west wing of the hotel. The rest of the wedding party was over in the east wing. A very narrow building, I very literally felt like I was walking through a maze just to get to my room, making sure to note it took two rights, a left, a right, a left and then a merge into a hallway and I was there. For $70 a night, I was paying for a king sized bed, two bathrooms, full kitchen, full living room, a balcony with a decent view of the ocean and all the other fun things the hotel offered (unless you wanted HBO). I was told the rooms cost over three hundred in June.

We went out and bought groceries for our three-night stay. I bought liquor, Powerade, Tylenol and First Aid supplies (this isn’t my first rodeo, let’s be real). Upon returning, I went up to the groom’s room and gave him their wedding present, a meditating cat, which of course he loved. We agreed the bachelor party would start at 8 and I went back to my room to rest.

The bachelor party began with all the groomsmen finally reuniting. The groom, best man, and I played football together. The other two groomsmen were the groom’s longtime college roommate who I had never actually met sober, and the groom’s older brother. Being groomsman number two I spent a good part of my night trying to trip the best man in hopes of getting a promotion.

Our DD for the night was the boyfriend of one of the bride’s sisters, a very tan man who wore tight jeans and an Abercrombie and Fitch polo with his gelled hair. I called him Jersey Shore the rest of the night. We spent a great deal of the opening hours bar hopping and telling stories of our past encounters. The favorite story told was of the night I fell asleep standing at a urinal, waking up screaming I wouldn’t be taken alive, and challenging the midget who found me to a wrestling match. The pictures of that night have since been burned so I have no idea what they were talking about. The night finished with a strip club whose name I cannot remember.

The last bar we were at gave us cards for free entrance to the club, so we all saved $10. The head of security told us to sit wherever we liked and if we wished to be by the stage, he had no problem taking a bribe. I gave him a fifty and a smack on the ass, which he didn’t seem to appreciate too much. What we found at our table was a reenactment of Sodom and Gomorrah. Not being one for strip clubs I set at the head of the table away from the stage drinking high priced domestic beers. That led to a long night of conversations with strippers, some being fun, others being overly aggressive like hungry rats on the streets of Baltimore. Here are a few conversations that took place:

Stripper 1: Where you from, black bear? Do you have $25? You should come with me.

Me: VA and naw I’m ok thanks. Where are you from?

Stripper 1: Bosnia. Don’t be a pussy, I might eat your porridge. Come with me now.

Me: Do you hate Bill Clinton for messing with your beautiful civil war? I bet your father wasn’t a fan. Where are you going?
Stripper 3: Come with me now (grabbing my arm).

Me: No I’m ok thanks though. Where are you from?

Stripper 3: Ukraine, now come with me sailor Jerry.

Me: You played in Chernobyl as a child didn’t you? That’s a no no…hey where are you going?

Finally one came by who claimed to have a degree in English. I told her to tell me something I wouldn’t know, and she told me you can sing any Emily Dickinson poem to the tune from Gilligan’s Island. Impressed I started to sing Death quickly realizing I couldn’t remember the tune to Gilligan’s Island, but I did remember some random poem by Emily Dickinson. She then admitted that if she heard “Gangnam Style” one more time she was going to go crazy and asked if I’ve seen the David Lo Pan Style video on Youtube.  Being a lover of Big Trouble In Little China, this conversation went on for a good part of the night and only cost me 144 dollars.

Upon leaving I made a stop in the bathroom, where a shady looking gent asked me if I’d like to do some coke. Pausing, I looked in the mirror and asked him what year it was. He said, “2012. Why?” I replied, “I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t Boy George and this wasn’t 1983, so no, fuck off.” He didn’t seem to be too happy.

(Hotel Manager told me about this the next morning.)
Our DD dropped me off on my side of the hotel and I quickly got a cart and rolled into the lobby. Being too drunk to even know where I was, I proclaimed I have returned in my chariot and was ready to return to Camelot. A desk aid informed me where my room was and I tipped them $20, told them to refer to me as King Arthur the rest of my stay, and to take me to my room before Merlin finds out I’m making a fool of the court. This was the end of my first night in Myrtle Beach.