Until Spring Break in Key West, I never believed in the existence of parallel universes, attractive hair gel or guys that were only out for a piece of commitment. Who am I kidding -- I still don't believe in the existence of attractive hair gel, but as for the other two anomalies, I found them on Duval Street.
Now, unless you frequent New Orleans or Savannah, Ga., Key West's legal open container law makes you feel downright deviant. It's like loitering in the Harris Teeter parking lot or something.
"Run free children, run free with your drinks," the wind whispers, "frolic in the art room with Exacto knives, drive solo in the diamond carpool lane."
Now, Duval Street has something for everyone. There's respectable little joints such as Bare Bottoms, where apparently, if you hit it on the right night, the pages of Hustler come to life (multiple shower heads, multiple girls, multiple tan lines). There's Irish Kevin's, a chipper pub where you get heckled by Jared Michael Hobgood who chugs so many Guinnesses, you worry he'll get queasy, do the Technicolor yawn and find the pot of gold amongst his breakfast of marshmallow clovers. And then, of course, there's a smattering of dives for fried-shrimp-greasy old lubbers who curse their wedding ring tan lines.
So where, you're wondering, did I find this hair-raising, parallel universe among such a melting pot of porn star, Celtic, dirty-old skirt chasers? At none other than Foggerty's, the Jabberwocky of Key West. Dear lord, I was 1,182.39 miles away from Charlottesville but "it" was back -- just like Chucky in Child's Play III. The horror!
But what lay before me at Foggerty's was more bewildering than Chucky the satanic doll. There they were, clans from ACC colleges that were a shoo in for the NCAA tournament. UNC, Duke, Wake Forest. Oh Hail Mary no, not even that would save U.Va.
Silently, the college clans identified each other by the identical tribal symbols on their shirts (horse, crawfish or pig), rainbow sandals and unspoken motto: "Live preppy or die."
Male members stared at the mysterious females with a savage desire to mingle. After all, everyone did look light-years more attractive with their tans, and reputations could be reinvented in Spring Break territories. Yet the clans needed courage -- liquid courage. Safety beer goggles were put on, and collegiate boundaries were crossed.
"Me Tarzan, you Jane. Me wear collar shirt and no hair gel. You hot and look not contagious. Me buy you juice of the jungle."
Now, you'd think Duke guys would have had some game, considering their no. 1 seed in the tournament. But off the court, they had zero social stamina. Their starting players, known as Team Aqua, were a brunette twosome who wore the same aqua polo and received violent electric shocks if one strayed more than 10 feet away from the other. Their brilliant strategy: when Aqua 1 got exhausted hitting on my friend, Aqua 2 subbed in. Proof that the fake pass is not always effective.
("Pretending to be interested in what a girl is saying requires training and endurance," writes my imaginary author of "From Cozumel to Key West, How to Talk to Girls on Spring Break." His newest book "'Hey, Who's You're Hot Friend?' and the Other Worst 99 Questions to Ask a Girl" will be hitting bookshelves in May.)
Yet even more startling, one UNC guy made it apparent why they call it "Chapel" Hill. After a few nights talking to this guy, he popped the question: "What do you think about a long distance relationship?" He said it was fate that we met. I attributed it to the garrulous nature of humans of the opposite sex after putting back a few cold ones.
Who helped me out of that awkward silence? Talking Heads lead singer David Byrne, in his famous "Psycho Killer" number. "Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa, run-run, run-run-run-away."
And I did. But don't get me wrong, Spring Break was not all about meeting randoms in the parallel universe. There was tight bonding, too -- like nights when there were shortages of beds and three of us lay arm to arm in a double, like a tin of burnt sardines.
Those nights I dreamt that it was the Hoover administration. I was a redhead orphan with quite a fro, and all preppy guys from Foggerty's were attempting to dance to Jay-Z's "Hard Knock Life." But it was tough to continue my nightmare when one of my bedmates started acting out her dream and kept trying to spoon me.
Yes, Foggerty's bar was the dark side of the parallel Universe. The sun had seared our brains, and we were getting out of hand. We were not putting tray tables away or seats to the upright position, we were drinking beer before liquor, we were only using SPF 6. AHHH. We were peeling.
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