Home Alone 5

I realize that this may be a tad tardy, but welcome back to the old reliable 1 Tuff Place. Version 3.0 is being broadcast in stunning high definition with a side of garlic mashed potatoes thrown in for good measure…never really understood (or cared enough to find out) what that phrase meant (“good measure”), but it sounds quasi-intelligent so we’re rolling with it. Coinciding with the grand reopening of 1 Tuff, there was a gala black tie affair at the original 1 Tufts Place over the weekend. Allow me to give a little back story and then we’ll dive right into the celebrity sightings, big announcements, and this year’s recipient of the annual Sports Dude Columnist of the Year Award.

Being unemployed since the first of the year has really given me a lot of perspective into how worthless I truly am. The majority of my days consist of arranging my busy schedule around reruns of Saved by the Bell, text messaging people in the real world (that is, those with jobs and futures), and revising plans for Flava Tribe’s eventual seat at the top of the music industry. As 1 Tuff version 3.0 slowly nudged its head out of my mind’s tight vagina I got word from up top that my parents, a loving pair who were cruelly burdened with such a prodigal son, were off to the land of highway hookers and Alzheimer’s infestations… Florida. At this point a dim light bulb radiated above my gargantuan skull. What better way to celebrate the reopening of an eminent American establishment such as 1 Tuff than with a star-studded charity event? So the plans were put in place and all six of my friends were notified with beautifully stenciled invitations alerting them to the house password, Fidelio. Similar to the NBA All-Star Weekend, the 2004 1 Tuff Weekend was a spectacular three-day festival, culminating in Saturday’s all-day homoerotic petting zoo and nighttime amateur booze-fest.

Upon returning from dropping the padres off at the airport, still mired in a vicious hangover-induced haze, I set about reenacting key scenes from Risky Business, Home Alone, and Sense & Sensibility (just call me a sucker for Victorian-era costume dramas). Following this bit of high comedy I received a phone call from an estranged friend living it up in the hedonism that is Minneapolis, Minnesota…or for those of you ignorant like myself, somewhere upstate. His unbridled enthusiasm could not be suppressed as he inappropriately exclaimed that Prince and his Paisley Park collective call Minneapolis home and so, illogically, could Flava Tribe as well. I called him a rag-ass, told him he’d sold me out for the last time, and spiked the phone to the ground with the grace of a young Brian Boitano. It was at this time that I noticed not only had I wandered into my parents’ room clad in an unflattering pair of boxer briefs, but I’d also left a whole lot of black sock fuzz in the carpet in my feverish pacing. Realizing that I wasn’t wearing any socks, coupled with the sock fuzz moving on its own and occasionally flying, I squealed like a schoolgirl named Sandy and, with hands flapping spastically near my shrieking mouth, ran out of the room to hide under my own bed. Five hours later I emerged from my bedroom with tear-stained cheeks, a “fresh” pair of undies, and a hardened resolve to find out who had been wearing magical socks in my parents’ room. Unfortunately, no magic was ever found, just a large infestation of swarming termites. I began the rewarding task of vacuuming up the critters under the constant paranoia that they were eating my flesh. After hundreds of vigorous slaps and scratches to my legs, arms, and back, I finally sucked up the last of the little bastards and enjoyed a celebratory vegetarian lunch…this time with a smile. It had been a harrowing morning, complete with swamp ass, increased blood pressure, and a furthering lack of self-respect.

Luckily, just as I began to fear every inch of my own home (actually accusing the walls of having ears…good ones, in fact) my alcoholic buddy Travis made an unannounced house call. If there were a studio audience in attendance Travis would have received a warm reception. I made the correct assumption that he could sense both that my parents were out of town and that I had a few drops of cheap wine left in a classy box inside my fridge. By the time he had sucked the box dry, eventually succumbing to licking the inside of the wine bladder, Travis made the unorthodox statement that he could beat CmcD (LI’s version of LeBron James) in a little game of roundball (LI’s version of basketball, just less stylish, whiter, and lumpier). I promptly pummeled him, but to call anything involving our match-up prompt would be grossly erroneous as we took close to seven timeouts in a game that ended 15-12. After I received a few minutes of pure oxygen and Travis a few shots of vodka, we devised a plan to “take the edge off” and picked up a thirty pack of Bud Light. A few hours later, I had devoured nearly an entire pizza myself, cursed Wyles Mallo for drinking all the bourbon in the house, and proclaimed Flava Tribe dissolved (we later made up in a scene unfit for this column). Just another day in the life…

Things continued along this path the next few days, bball during the day, blackouts at night…nothing out of the ordinary, except for an intense “Battle of the Bald” one-on-one battle between Karate Guy (Marv in the movie poster) and the inimitable Gelardi (often referenced in early Flava recordings…our muse, if you will). How quickly we all reverted back to our high school selves was quite remarkable, if not equally embarrassing and telling of our evolution. Enough sausage to fulfill a crazed German was packed nightly into 1 Tufts, guzzling beer sodas, playing video games, and watching sports…all working towards the advancement of the species.

The event that was to be staged on Saturday night was put on the backburner as we unveiled a filthy funnel (or beer bong for you “upstaters”) around dinner time and quickly swallowed three 18 packs of Bud Light. Although Travis was nowhere to be found, likely lost in a gutter or back alley somewhere, his spirit was with us as we resorted to boxed and bottled wines around 9ish. Tommy B (Harry in the movie poster) and I were left in a dirty ass house at 10pm watching a boxing match as everyone else went “downtown” to Huntington Village (geographically to the north)…but we were sipping some cheap wine so the swankiness made up for the impropriety of the other guests. I made it out that night (unlike most others) and swiftly went about embarrassing myself and all those around me with the aid of Jack, 151, and any and all vile tonics one can ingest. While most people (remember I view everyone as living a life of shame at home with their parents) see a parent-less weekend as a moment of libidinal liberation, looking to nest with the first promiscuous gal they find in a seedy bar, I took the high road and woke up the next morning to find myself fully dressed, on my living room couch with an empty bottle of Merlot by my side.