TwoFour

The group was small, but the heart was as big as the dent we put in my marijuana stock, and the sun shone like a duct tape horseshoe sailing through the spring air. From the moment Weebs and I pulled up to the 2001 Little Current Auto Show, I knew that there was a good stretch of memories lying in wait for us all. After wolfing down our undercooked cheese injected sausage and checking out all 3 (!) of the cars in the parking lot of the Valu-Mart – none of them even that cool, but all of them with their hoods popped - it was west we headed, to our hazy home and crazy cabin for the next five days. It was another 48 hours before the rest of the crew arrived, but we were able to keep ourselves busy, and well fed. Oh, yes, well fed. That can only mean one thing: The Feast.
After another thrashing at the hand of my short game, Weebs reluctantly agreed not to go home and cry….and so it was, that this year’s Feast fell on a fine Thursday evening just outside of Little Current on the Southern shores of the North Channel. We started with the Chicken Parmigiana, just because it looked so damn good. It was, but there was no time for sentiment, so it was onto the Pogos – a portion that would astound and amaze the average corn dog aficionado, but completely in tune with the traditions of the Feast. I must also add that this course was completely opposed to by Mr. McArton – that is, until he sank his teeth into the fabulous combination of assorted animal parts and deep fried corn bread. Calamari was the classy choice, and so it came in next, obviously.   Pickled eggs, are a new addition to the feast, but I must say that they are a welcome and ingenious adaptation (the Feast has always been about growth, and evolution, but especially growth) The pasta was easy to make, as there was already a pot of sauce ready to be heated up. Despite the huge carbohydrate infusion, this course went down with surprising ease. It also left just enough room for the Perogies. There were chips, assorted snacks in between all of these courses, of course, which is par for the course.
       At one point, Johnny asked who was coming up, so I told him that one of Miche’s friends, Ramona, was coming up. The evening ended with each of us occupying one of the couches in front of the fireplace, trying to read each other Trivial Pursuit questions, before, sadly, my peer, and co-conspirator was lost to the lure of slumber – an unfortunate foreshadowing to the rest of the weekend. Right before he passed out, my fallen comrade had two questions…First, “is Ramadan hot?”, and then, “Can she golf?”         Onto Friday, and the day of the arrival for the remainder of our 2-4 troupe, when Johnny would find the answer to his first question, and forget about everything else that had happened the night before, including the fact that her name was Ramona, and not an Islamic Holiday. The day came and went in much the same manner. Another loss on the links for Weebs, ( he won strokes by one, but I won ticks by one, and that was the game of the day) and another early start to the festivities.   Our clean-up agenda started with the opening of the beer, and ended with the closing of the dishwasher. We were ready to begin. The board sports were in full swing by the time beer # 2 was cracked, and would continue on through the night as people arrived. We were really “rolling” by the time Senor McGoode returned to the party with his entry into the Mustache competition. What can only be described (and was, often) as a Mexican / Scottish mix, was explained by the constant reminder from Kev that “But, it’s shaved right HERE!!” as he ran his finger up and down his upper lip. Quite the sight indeed, my friends.
      The night carried on in the usual manner, with a brief appearance from Neeber, who repaired to the same couch that had enveloped the beaten participants of the feast the night before. There was also a memorable appearance, from another Mexican, no less. Johnny, the one-eyed Mexican field worker, made several valiant efforts to be a part of whatever game it was that we were playing. He even “tried” - and I emphasize “tried” with good reason - to read a few of the cards.
       The evening drifted into night, and all of a sudden, it was time for sunshine and golf, yet again. Breakfast was the chili on the stove, cold, but yummy. The girls decided to stay behind and sunbathe naked - at least that’s what the boys chose to believe. Neeb, Waz and Brock would take on Weebs’, Kev, and Simon. By the 4th hole, Simon had a new nickname, and Neeb/Brock/Waz had a five stroke lead. Every shot, that anyone took, was greeted with the same oratorical treatment from Simon, the Beer Giant….with the ball in the air, it usually went something like this: “Bite…Bite, come back, that’s it….run, run…bite, that’s it…come back…fade….nice.” Thus was born The Golf Ball Whisperer. The name would evolve before the end of the weekend, but more on that in a bit. The winning team won, we had pickled eggs at the turn, and Waz almost took out the MVP of our sixsome.
      Approaching the ninth, our trusty Beer girl waited devotedly by the greenside bunker. Waz took about a 6 iron from 150 yards, and as soon as it hit the air, we didn’t need the Golf Ball Whisperer to tell us where it was heading. At least five of us screamed FORE at the same time, prompting the Beer Girl to dive out of her cart – IN THE WRONG DIRECTION!! From Weebs’ vantage point, he says it missed her by 3 feet, but surely it was six inches, and not an inch more!!! All the Golf Ball Whisperer could say, was, “Bite.” It did.
      The golf completed, and Weeb’s defeated for the third straight day, it was back to the cottage to check up on the naked sunbathing girls. It wasn’t long before we slipped into a game of BeerBall. The origins of BeerBall are storied and steeped in tradition – Johnny and I came up with it the day before when we were looking for a way to get drunk really fast. It worked. Let me explain the game. Five beers are stationed in a horseshoe configuration around the basketball hoop. Each station is worth a different number of points, ranging from 1 to 3. Each player has three minutes to try and sink as many baskets from any of the stations. The player must sink at least one from all five positions before trying to sink from a successfully completed position for the second time. Here’s where the fun starts, though…before each shot, the shooter must take a swig of beer. If that shooter manages to polish off a beer, he (or she, and I must say that the chicks were in the zone – giv’em props for their hops, baby) can call BEER, and stop the clock until a new one is provided…the clock only starts up again when the ball is released. Good times, and the drunken goal was reached with ease after not much more than one round.
      Later on that night, the second newly minted sport was created, almost accidentally. With Neeb, Simon and Weebs’ occupying their places on the couches, the Late Night Boys went to watch the stars. The Acclaim was (very) carefully directed to the cow pasture where the Late Night Boys enjoyed a nice chat, and a little Tron. On the way back, unbeknownst to Waz and Brock, Kev was unwittingly coming up with the greatest sport ever invented (again, like the beer girl almost getting hit by the ball, revisionist history is usually more factual than what ACTUALLY happened). About 500 meters from the cottage, Kev informed us that he had not touched the gas yet. About 400 meters from the cottage, the car stopped, Kev looked at us and said…”OK, who’s next?” The sport of coasting was born, and back up the hill we headed. I managed to get within 20 feet of the cottage, and Waz was able to get to the basketball hoop across from the barn. Pretty good, we thought, until the next night when Kev surprised us all by having to STOP the car within inches of the cottage….well done, Kev, you are the inaugural Coasting Champ.
       Sunday had one purpose. Horseshoes. Oh, and some tasty brownies. There was one problem, though…we only had three horseshoes. Like the visionary he is, though, Kev had a plan and a dream that he would not let die. The idea was to make our own horseshoe using sticks with rocks duct-taped to them for weight. Of course, everybody laughed, and said “Kevin. That is a dumb idea, and you are stupid to think it. Ha Ha Ha Ha.” BOY, were we wrong. Feeling challenged but confident, Kev went into the shop with his apprentice, The Golf Ball Whisperer….they were able to come up with something resembling the shape of a horseshoe, but there was the issue of weight, and durability. In fact, in the first test, The apprentice ripped the wooden horseshoe in half. A little (a lot) of duct tape and some flat rocks later, the finest handmade, functioning, wooden horseshoe was born. The tournament was on. Despite some controversy about rules that Miche has since conceded error to, the event was an unqualified success. Along the way, the Golf Ball Whisperer adopted a new, and you must agree, much more poetic nickname, the Horseshoe Whisperer, for obvious reasons. In the end, it was Kev, the veteran thrower, and legendary innovator, teamed with the plucky rookie, Ramadan who took the title in a bug-shortened final, with Weebs and Brock not putting up much of a fight, because that chili wasn’t getting any warmer, and the bugs kept rolling in.
       The night progressed with the usual assortment of board sports, and the assurance of Ramadan, that she was “goin’ all night, BABY!” It was just past dinner time, when the Scottish Mexican eyed a pamphlet advertising a meatball pizza. It wasn’t much longer after that, that we were piling into the cars to meet the delivery dude at the gate. Despite the Scottish Mexican’s attempt at off-roading on the way home, we made it back to enjoy the pizza, and finally have the voting for the mustache competition. All weekend, it was pretty clear who the favourite was – the Parisian Porn Star, Johnny, whose, lip art looked like it was the first facial hair he had ever grown. Also in the hunt, though, was a Rasta handle-barred Waz, and the aforementioned Scottish Mexican. Proving that porn mustaches were all the rage this year, the host also sported a 1970’s Ron Jeremy jobbie. The winner proved to be Weebs’, followed closely by Waz, Brock and Senor McGoode. The losers were clearly The Horseshoe Whisperer and Neeb and his little friend. (I mention his little friend because, although he wasn’t seen the whole weekend, Neeb was kind enough to order a beer for him anytime someone was heading to the fridge…”Get us a beer, would you mate?” was the usual line.) Ramadan lasted longer than the couch-heads, but did not “ go all night, baby.” She didn’t even stay up to see Kev set the World Coasting record, that will, HOPEFULLY for the sake of the kitchen, never be beaten. The girls also failed to stay up for a real late night feast of meat sundaes (Waz’ creation of cold cuts in a bowl with mustard as a topping) or Kev’s chili burrito with roast beef and ham performing as the shell.
      The final morning came, and everyone but Neeb and the host were heroically able to leave before 8:30. (Despite the warnings of the veteran host, who knew when to leave to avoid the traffic) Johnny finished off the now three day old chili for breakfast, and it was another 2-4 in the history books.
      While this account obviously skims over the little things, which are really what it’s all about, it should reflect the general vibe of what the whole deal is all about. Sunsets from the roof, real basketball games with the twin towers, Iron Maiden, Cranium..good times all, but good friends are really all that matters. Thanks guys, for making the 2-4 a memorable one, and being exactly who you are. I look forward to thinking of new ways to put ourselves in danger with you for a long time to come. Cheers.