Freshmen Year (sigh).
I remember it like it was yesterday.
The apex of my drug abuse. The pinnacle of my alcoholism.
There is so much to remember from this time in my life. Just as any other college grad will tell you, freshman year in college is and forever will be the best time in your life. I don’t care if you got to tag team Kim Kardashian and Miley Cyrus while snorting Colombian-grade cocaine in junior-high; that first glimpse of freedom, the endless parties, unstinted drug use, the prideful “walks of shame”, not having a single fucking responsibility or care in the world. Nothing compares to it.
My freshman year was divided into two separate spheres of relative importance. The first third of the year is when I lived in the University Dorms and the latter part when I lived in the off-campus dorms, appropriately called, The Annex.
The Annex (sigh).
I’ve already described in great detail the apartment that I lived in while at The Annex, which in some respects is the type of light that I would like to cast upon the entire dorm complex. Filth, dirt, grime, disease, plague, mold, are just a few of the adjectives that could be used to portray these dorms.
My room was…uniquely decorated, but it at least maintained a reasonable level of sanitation. My friend’s room however, was a public safety hazard. And I say this literally. The owners threatened to call public health officials.
Because everyone living in the apartment was too far removed from reality (either through psychedelic drugs or unbelievable benders) to clean the kitchen or do dishes, some form of mutant bacterial society laid siege to the sink, becoming engrossed in a dark viscous substance. Walking through the front door was like being hit in the face with a sack of used tampons. The smell was so pungent and nauseating that it actually made the air in the house heavier.
Of course this single room does not truly capture the essence of The Annex. That would be like defining Al Pacino’s career by only watching 88 Minutes; it just doesn’t do it justice.
The atmosphere of binge drinking and drug culture could rival any project in New York City or South Central Los Angeles. Every single night was a constant onslaught of depravity and excess.
There were a core group of about twenty underage co-eds whose sole mission in life was to push the boundaries of the human body.
While Isla Vista is said to consume approximately 1% of all the alcohol in California, I wholeheartedly believe The Annex accounted for close to a quarter of that. Tuesday’s, Wednesday’s and Thursday’s were commonplace for kegs and cocaine marathons.
I remember when I first got into college, drinking was reserved for the weekends. Then after a few weeks, it turned into Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. By the time I was living in The Annex, I was drinking at least five days a week.
Let me break down a little math for you:
- On average The Annex purchased three kegs per week. (and this only includes Mondays – Thursday, because the weekends were reserved for hard drugs and cheap vodka)
- Each keg holds 155 beers
- That is 1860 oz. of beer per keg
- Light beer has approx. 110 calories per beer
- On any given night there are around fifteen people drinking from said keg.
- That means on average the per capita rate of consumption is 10.3 beers per night
- I lived in The Annex for 20 weeks
- Of those 20 weeks, I would say 13 of them constituted a week in which we bought three kegs
- Total beers consumed: 6045
- Beers per capita: 403
- Calories per capita: 44330
- Total brain cells killed: [my calculator screen: ERROR]
And remember, this was only during weekdays.
(part II)
I always drank, from when it was legal for me to drink. And there was never a time for me when the goal wasn't to get as hammered as I could possibly afford to.
- Stephen King
Time didn’t really exist during this time in my life. Days weren’t measured in hours, minutes, or seconds, but rather how many beers drank, cigarettes smoked, and money wasted. Each week came and went, bringing with it an assorted mixture of half-memories, all too congruous to differentiate from one another.
One of the unique aspects of The Annex was the blatant disregard for breaking shit.
There was destruction…LOTS of destruction. Of course, this wasn’t your run of the mill drunken shenanigans. Living in The Annex meant you were a step above the rest; a higher grade alcoholic and drug abuser, able to operate on a level that seemed to transcend the rest of your peers. It was our goal in life to push the boundaries of social disobedience. Windows were broken for the simple pleasure of watching glass break.
I’m not sure what it is, but there is some animalistic desire that lies deep within the male psyche that causes a profound need to destroy shit when inebriated. Tables, chairs, and kitchen appliances were mutilated and left for dead across the courtyard. At any given time, it was difficult to discern whether The Annex was a functioning off-campus dorm, or an abandoned refugee camp.
One weekend in particular is still vivid in my memory.
School was about to wrap up, summer was fast approaching, and The Annex was about to erupt. Close to 90% of the hundred or so students who lived there attended Santa Barbara City College and were finishing their academic year, a month prior UCSB. It was the last day for people to move out, and this only meant one thing.
One. Last. Party.
This was not your normal party. It was more of a house cleaning, or more accurately, an attempt to destroy every useless piece of shit that one could find in any abandoned room.
My day started around eleven in the morning, the most perfect of times. It is that small window in your day right before that looming hangover, and just after your buzz has dried up, still giving you enough time to replenish the deficiency of dopamine and norepinephrine in your brain with the three wounded soldiers on your coffee table.
The overall tone around The Annex was somewhat somber. Everyone kind of just moped around, waiting for something to be said or done in the dire hope that something could change the fact that our time of fun in the sun was officially over.
(Well, not quite yet).
I along with my fellow Annexian’s began drinking early on this day. Handle pulls of sun-soaked vodka and piss warm beer became the norm of the afternoon. A two-day old keg of skunked miller light was set up next to the pool so we could take keg stands underwater. (In theory this was awesome, but very difficult in application)
By one in the afternoon everyone is completely bombed. The R.A.’s, who are supposed to be responsible supervisors for us, no longer care that we have a tapped keg in the courtyard. Music begins blasting from every open door in the courtyard, and so the assault began.
(part III)
What you might see as depravity is, to me, just another aspect of the human condition.
- Asia Argento
The Annex is a two story complex, shaped in a square, with a long narrow corridor that extended off from one side. The second story balcony is where each of us took our positions. Below us, a
Watching the chaos that ensued over the next hour or so was akin to a firefight in Fallujah. A constant shower of plastic and metal came pouring down from the clear Santa Barbara sky.
Lost in a day dream of obliteration and rage.
After exhausting all of our available resources, we all took a step back to examine the damage. Sure there may have been some civilian casualties, but when we looked back at the rubble, it shone a brightly that truly defined our shared year there at the Annex.
Just so you can truly comprehend the amount of destruction, here is a checklist of damage:
- Red Brick BBQ pit, disassembled (brick by brick) and thrown into the pool
- TV’s, printers, laptops, and desktops, all smashed into thousands of pieces
- Microwaves, mini-fridges, and toaster ovens, ripped apart limb from limb
- Chairs, beds, pillows, disemboweled and spread over the grass
- Full sectional couch set on fire and subsequently thrown in the pool
The Annex was truly and utterly destroyed. We had turned a once functional college dormitory into decimated run-down shell of a building.
By the time all the vomit inducing keg beer and ulcer causing vodka was gone for the day, there were only a few survivors. The sun was setting over the ocean and everyone was beginning to pack it in for the day, but myself and three others decided this was in no way a proper parting of ways to spend our last evening at The Annex.
DonJ, Pinky, Moze, and I come up with the only suitable send off the Annex truly deserves.
An 8-Ball of cocaine and two handles of vodka. The stuff that champions are made of.
The four of us pooled our funds and spread out to accumulate the necessary tools for destruction. Pinky and Moze were on alcohol duty, while DonJ and I had the job of locating that shady kid we all pretend is our friend because he sells us blow.
Fast forward thirty minutes, and we have all assumed our rightful positions around the coffee table. A large mirror lay out before us covered from north to south, east to west, with a cottony and tantalizing white sheet of chemicals and concentrated coca leaves. We pop open the first bottle, roll the first bill and begin our slow descent into the alcohol and cocaine-fiendish monsters that eventually take control of every man after hours of chasing the dragon.
Over the next 8 hours, the four of us snorted, and drank, and snorted, and drank…..then we snorted some more. If I didn’t have a deviated septum before this night, I’m pretty sure I did afterwards. Every half hour was an ebb and flow of stimulus and depress. Every line blown shot us up into the sky, and every double shot brought us right back down. It went on like a carousel for the entire night, up and down, and around and around.
Then it came, that undeniable moment in the night when you know you have hit rock bottom.
SUNRISE.
Any true drug abuser or alcoholic can tell you, sunrise is the most depressing moment when on a bender. It is not necessarily the sun that makes you depressed, but rather the fact you are now officially binge drinking and blowing lines of coke at six in the morning. When most people are beginning to wake up and start their day, when parents are getting ready to take their kids to school, you are submerging deeper and deeper into an abyss of regret…..this is approximately the time when you blow another line, and decide you are much better than these people.
However, the four of us decided that the sunrise was not going to hinder us on our quest make this night legendary.
Now, for those of you uneducated on the ability and deity like power of Craigslist, allow me to enlighten you. It is a website that allows you to locate hookers, whores, and prostitutes anywhere you are on God’s Green Earth. It’s the same website that produced the Craigslist Killer of Massachusetts, who went around murdering these economically deprived whores. Obviously, at six o’ clock in the morning, brazenly shit faced and coked up out of our skulls, Pinky, DonJ, Moze, and I believe it the greatest idea of all time to begin calling some of these ladies of the….morning?
Here are some of the examples of the conversations:
Whore #1: “Hello”
Ryan: “Hey…is this Candy from the Craigslist ad?”
Whore #1: “Yes”
Ryan: “So you are a real-life whore?”
Whore #1: click…
Ryan: “hello…hello…?”
(Apparently whores don’t like to be called derogatory names)
Whore #2: “Hello”
Ryan: “Hey…is this Mandy from the Craigslist ad?”
Whore #2: “Yeah”
Ryan: “So what kind of prices do you charge”
Whore #2: “$500 an hour sweetheart”
Ryan: “that price better come with an 8-ball and some Grey Goose.”
Whore #2: “What?”
Ryan: “you really overcharge”
Whore #3: “Hello”
Ryan: “Hey…is this Porsche from the Craigslist ad?”
Whore #3: “It sure is”
Ryan: “Cool. What kind of price you charging these days?”
Whore #3: “$450 an hour”
Ryan: “So if I finish in ten minutes, do I get a discount?”
Whore #3: “…uhhhhh”
Ryan: “Lemme ask you something else. Do I have to wear a condom, because I’m allergic to them?”
Whore #3: “Well unles-----”
Ryan: “Oh, by the way, do you have current STD test documentation”
Whore #4: “Hello”
Ryan: “Hey…is this Jasmine from the Craigslist ad?”
Whore #4: “Yes, this is her”
Ryan: “Do you have a black pimp?
Whore #4: “No.”
Ryan: “Is your dad supportive of your lifestyle choices?”
Whore #4: click…
We quickly become bored of mocking the pitiful life of local whores and decide that we are going to get one to come over and attempt to negotiate some type of exchange of money for sex. I make the call.
Whore #5: “Hello”
Ryan: “Hey…is this Missy from the Craigslist ad?”
Whore #5: “Yeah”
Ryan: “So you workin’ this morning?”
Whore #5: “I will for the right guy.”
Ryan: “Alright, so how much would you charge to come over and fuck two guys?”
(FYI - We had absolutely no money between the four of us. All of our worldly possessions had been snorted, drank, or inhaled throughout the night)
Whore #5: “That’s gunna run you about $750”
Ryan: “C’mon…how bout we give you some coke and knock that price down a little bit”
Whore #5: “Hahaha…you can give me some but the price ain’t changin’”
Ryan: “Hahaha….C’mon, we are good lookin’ college guys, not some fat middle aged D-bag. How bout $350?
Whore #5: “uhhmmm…fine, $650.”
Ryan: “$550”
Whore #5: “O.K.”
Ryan: “Awesome. Do you know where the Annex is in Isla Vista?
Whore #5: “Yeah. I’ll call you in a half hour when I’m outside.”
Ryan: “K. See you in a bit”
Over the next thirty minutes I continually bombard my nose and brain with a healthy supply of cocaine and vodka. Then I get the phone call…
Whore #5: “Hey, I’m outside”
Ryan: “Cool…I’ll be right out”
I take one last shot of vodka, and then am out the door to go and fetch my lady of the night.
There she stood, outside her tiny navy blue Volkswagen Jetta. All $550 can buy at 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning.
I was a little taken aback by what I was looking at. The chick that we ordered off of Craigslist was clearly a young, white, dirty blonde haired female. The girl that was standing outside my dorm…was definitely NOT that girl. Now while most pictures posted do no definitively show the whore’s face, you can still develop a very close sense based on the ass, lips (the other kind), cup size, and skin tone.
How do I put this lightly? She was significantly…darker than the picture she had posted.
(Looking back, I really shouldn’t be that surprised that hookers post false pictures of themselves to try and entice customers, but to go as far as putting up a picture of someone who is clearly a different race is just comical and ballsy on so many levels. Kudos to the hooker.)
This whore is still hot and I’m way too fucked up to complain, so I disregard the obvious melanin disparity and take the hooker inside. DonJ, Pinky, and Moze stare up at the two of us with those unmistakable coke-head eyes, glazed over and big as saucers.
I remember thinking to myself at that precise moment…There is no possible way this is going to end well.
We go through the customary question and answer of any trick and her john(s).
The John(s) Questions:
- Are you a cop?
- Are you at least eighteen?
- Do you have any diseases?
- Are you sure you’re not a cop?
- Can I see your I.D.?
- How many kids do you have?
- Is your pimp black?
- Do you have condoms?
- Do you mind if we call you whore?
The Trick’s Questions:
- Where’s my money?
- Are you a cop?
- Seriously, where’s my money?
After about 5 minutes Whore #5 begins to realize that perhaps going over to a college dorm room at 6 a.m. expecting $500 from a bunch of coked up kids was not the brightest idea in the world. I try to negotiate with the whore by offering her what I think was a very generous compensation…the two rolled up $5 dollar bills (covered in mucous, cocaine, and blood) sitting on the coffee table. She scoffs at my first offer, acting as if she is above such a deal.
Things are obviously beginning to go sour, when my friend DonJ pretty much seals our fate of getting no pussy.
DonJ: “So, I’ve never been with a colored girl before…are you the same as a white chick?”
Whore #5 (while starting to pack up her things): “Ohhhhh noooo you didn’t just say that!!!” (imagine Mo’Nique said this and snapped her fingers while doing the little uhhh-uhhhh girlfriend tone…..just like that, it was priceless)
Ryan: “What I think he meant was that you look different from the picture you posted online”
Whore #5: “That’s it, I’m calling my pimp”
DonJ: “We can still hook up I guess…I mean you’re still hot”
Whore #5: “Ya’ll are gunna get fucked up”
Whore #5 proceeded to stomp herself directly out of the Annex, all in a huff, while the four of us scurry downstairs to a different room just in case the pimp came around looking to backhand one of us with a fistful of baby powder. One can never be too careful in these situations.
Our night came to a complete and exhaustive end at about 7 a.m. on that Sunday morning. Everyone’s nose was dried up, crusted, and bloody; our stomachs ravaged by the half gallon of vodka sloshing it’s way down our digestive system, and of course the adrenaline pumping through our veins in the fear of Whore #5’s alleged black pimp.
It was right about 7:15 a.m. when we all hit the proverbial wall. Our minds, bodies, and spirits had reached the tipping point. Having gone about twenty hours strait of non-stop drinking and drug use, we began to retreat into our respective corners. It was like that same atmosphere in “Requiem For A Dream,” toward the end of the movie when each character is completely alone, suffering, and wanting nothing more than to pull the trigger and end it. Such is the life of cocaine and alcohol benders.
After DonJ, Moze, and Pinky had retreated to their respective areas of solace, I planted myself on the couch: sweaty, alone, spun, exhausted, dehydrated, and curled up into the fetal position, praying to gods I didn’t believe in to make the pain and suffering come to a quick end.
Unfortunately, they were out for the day.
Instead I was stuck on the couch, pumping vodka through every pore in my body and having light hallucinations from lack of sleep. Nick Cage looked better in the final stages of “Leaving Las Vegas” than I did right at the moment.
I slept from 11 a.m. on Sunday until 8 a.m. on Monday morning when I had to get up and go turn in my paper for some ridiculous philosophy class. (I had written it earlier in the week so I could still drink and snort like Michael Irvin over the weekend)
The class ended at 8:50 a.m., and I stumble in at 9:00, wearing board shorts, a white T-shirt covered in snot and dried blood, my eyes completely glassy and red, hair disheveled. The entire class is gone except for the professor and a couple TA’s. I have my paper in one hand, skateboard in the other. My professor takes on look at me,
Professor: “You look like shit”
Ryan: “Thanks.”
POST SCRIPT:
I got an A on that paper.
