Someone Got Wacky Shacked

After several months of hoboing around the country (about which I will continue to report on in the next few posts), I have made my migratory return to the Sonoran desert like a half-retarded snowbird. On the way home, I acquired a miserable flu that I’ve had for a month now. I think some people call it walking pneumonia. It wasn’t difficult to figure out how it happened. My friends made certain that before leaving Virginia I would find myself as immunocompromised as possible and ready to be bombarded and subsequently fucked by any virus or bacteria I’d come into contact with on the plane.

They achieved such immunocompromization by luring me into debauchery, and eventually I achieved the pinnacle of human drunkenness. I set myself up for a good old classic wacky shack. I think that the Gainesville, FL punks Savage Brewtality have described this architectural achievement best:

“Wacky Shack is when you take any amount ‘found’ objects and pile them up on a buddy who is passed the fuck out. Often referred to as a ‘shaming’, this version encourages the piling on of boxes, furniture, and other large objects. So when the victim wakes up, he/she finds himself/herself in some sort of shack that is wacky. One rule is that you can’t ‘Wacky Shack’ someone in their own bed. Another is: the victim must still be wearing their shoes. Another fun twist is to create a ‘hand sandwich’. Grab two pieces of bread, some cheese and an assortment of condiments. Carefully place the hand of the ‘Wacky Shack-ee’ between said bread, cheese and condiments. But be careful. Don’t wake the meat!”

They have an album called The Last Slice that is about zombie Jesus and pizza and barbarians who party and getting thrashed. The album art says it all:


I spent the night drinking by a campfire with my friends, but then mysteriously disappeared into the house. Later, I was found lying on the kitchen floor next to the refrigerator with my hand in a bag of veggie chips. It was a sad sad scene, and the perfect opportunity to be shacked. I had previously assisted in wacky shack creation in years past, but this was my first time getting a shack all to myself:



As you can see there was even a still life involved, and if the photo documentation hadn’t occurred I never would have known about this masterpiece. At some point in the night, I must have crawled out from under the shack because I awoke in the morning on the living room couch. It was a miserably rough morning that involved a mandatory trip to Dunkin’ Donuts, stuffing all of my things into a suitcase as quickly as possible, and tearing up in my hungover state as I waved goodbye to my family and my friend Andrew from the airport security line.

The moment I stepped off the first plane I realized that I wasn’t just hungover. I was sick. The next long flight was miserable, so I kept ordering red wine to try to remain in denial of the impending doom. When I touched down in Arizona, Mickey picked me up from the Phoenix airport and I could barely speak. I had feverish chills and was dizzy. Mickey drove me down to Tucson the following day but not before I had a chance to give him the terrible flu.

I was a bedridden, incapacitated, worthless mess for about a week. Or shall I say couch-ridden as I’ve been couchsurfing at my friend Erik’s house since I’ve been back. We concurred that my efforts to move in and forcibly take command over a portion of Erik’s house that he likes to refer to as the “man-cave” are much like those of a colonizer. Furthermore, I managed to infect the indigenous people with my influenza and was nearly able to kill off half of the population in the process (the cat managed to walk away unscathed).

My lungs have still not fully recovered from the sickness and I still constantly hack up phlegm intermittently throughout the day. However, after the week on the couch I got antsy and started riding again and also started working. It probably did not help that I continued to party throughout the month of October as it was my birthday last week (and I do mean ALL of last week) and more recently Halloween. Furthermore I’m part German, so drinking beer all month must just be some sort of hereditary instinctive ritual.

-L

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