Monday

Monday, May 22nd, 2006 is widely considered to be the greatest day in the history of the Overhouse, the crowning achievement of all of the people involved. The below will soon be broken into chapters, but for now is posted in separate blogs, and then follows with pictures. The pictures represent the climax, and aftermath, of Monday.

Matt's Recollection

MONDAY.

The Infamous day. Who here hasn't guffawed at a MONDAY Garfield comic in their early teens?

Have YOU ever had a case of the MONDAY's?

I have. Along with my fellows Russell, Aaron, Goebs, The Enemy, and our roommate at the time Jimi.

You'll find the others MONDAY recollections at the end of this blog, to read them skip ahead.

To read my recollection of MONDAY, proceed.

These recollections may differ, and although no longer can anyone can be certain of the events of this Glorious day, we are all very certain that it happened.

It was a couple of years ago, and I was pretty fresh into a new promotion at The Hub Group. The game 'Wake Up Matt Radowski' was already in fashion, and I was feeling like an old man compared to these whippersnappers who got drunk and woke up old men all night. I recall one specific time when I arose just before my alarm went off at 5:30, only to find two beautiful drunk girls at my door, sent not as a boon, but as a taunt from my compadres: "Look at all the fun you are missing." I joined them for a drinking game anyway, but I had coffee, and mentally prepared myself for work, while they chugged beers, and mentally de-prepared themselves for anything.

So the weekend prior to MONDAY I did nothing. Friday I was tired, and Saturday just didn't brew up to much, and Sunday I had some responsibilities with my family, so a very uneventful, sober, and somber weekend happened for one Matt Radowski. On the other side of the coin, I knew my bandmates had been setting it up and knocking it down, and had been having much fun at the expense of their bodies and the general well being of the community.

All day at work on MONDAY I could hear the voice inside of my head: You are only old if you let yourself be old….don't let life pass you by… and I listened intently. The decision had been made. I would rush home from work a couple of hours early, procuring a bottle of Rum and a large Coke on the way, be drunk by 6, in bed by 9, and still be able to function as a normal human the next day.

And so the Rum drinking began. Now the usual (and proper) procedure for drinking Rum is in shots, chased with Coke, but the trick is to pour the next shot as soon as you down the last one. You do this so the shot stares back at you, reminds you of your impending doom, and speeds you toward that goal.

This was however not necessary on MONDAY, because upon entering the house I declared to Aaron that I want to get drunk, and he was down. So a friendly game of High/Low/Red/Black for Rum shots ensued. It was approximately this time when The Enemy arrived. In good sprits, but not for Rum. Pitchers of Keg Beer were acquired and were soon consumed. 3 jolly fellows merrily spending a late MONDAY afternoon together. Hooting and Whooping it up, having a gay old time. Soon even Jimi came down to join the fun.

You could understand then, how Russell's arrival home from work would cause quite a bit of excitement and merriment from this group of fellows, but you could not understand (and neither could we) how we raced outside and ripped him from his car, carrying him into the house, hooting, hollering, and (at least for me) punching Russell in the balls. It was not actually an angry punch, I remember being completely amazed by Russell's amazing ability to swoop his long arm over and grab a full beer glass off of an amplifier, drink some, and not spill a drip, all while being carried by 4 drunk hooligans into the Overhouse, it deserved a good punch in the balls.

Gosh things get hazy for the next couple of hours….I specifically remember Goebs showing up, Flaming Flying Paper Towel Rolls, The Drinking Game of Mushroom, The Brother's Johnson….I vaguely recall a burnt roof of my mouth, Malort, The Rolling Stones, Puking, Shelly and/or Shannon….I am completely uncertain whether the red stuff on the table and floor was pizza sauce or blood. Or Both.

So anyway, by now it was 9 o'clock. Proper Bar Time. The nearest pub to our house is The Instant Replay. It is the sort of bar I hate. Where old men go to die and mutter at strangers. The Kind of place that Russell hangs out at a lot. But first, and conveniently on the way, is the convenient store of Speedway. So we tramp off.

I was a speedway champion that day my friends. I remember proudly burnishing my Full box of Ritz and two bottles of Easy Cheese (American Dammit!) to the attendant and feeling like Rocky doing so. I may have felt that way because the guys were standing just outside, pounding on the windows and doors, and chanting either my name, Easy Cheese, or some awesome combination of both. I was now fully prepared for The Instant Replay, but even still, I was less prepared than some. The Enemy had grabbed our giant stuffed novelty dog (at least 4'2") and brought him along for the trip!!!

As you can imagine, The Owner of The Instant Replay does not take well to people of our lively nature. They prefer patrons who may tear in their beer, or may actually go completely comatose while inside the establishment. The Bartender, Anna, on the other hand, was able to mildly put up with us for a round (or two?). Anna, had just enough patience to serve us, just enough ghetto to punt us out, and just enough curiosity to follow us back to the house, but now I'm jumping ahead.

So after a brief but violent Easy Cheese fight which included many people that did not wish to be included in a brief but violent Easy Cheese fight, and the complete spilling of at least 2 full beers, AND the giant stuffed dog at the bar, AND Maximum volume at a fairly quiet establishment, we were asked to leave. I do not remember how forcefully or sternly we were asked this, or by whom, but I remember all of us leaving together and pretty quickly, and since I consider herding drunk people a task more difficult than golf, whoever did it, and however it was done, must have been effective and efficient. Perhaps it was the collective drunk and looney consciousness that had evolved between all the members of Monday at that point, telling us that our carnage there had been maxed to the potential of the law, and it was time to take this freakshow elsewhere.

But then, perhaps not, because approximately 12 feet from exiting the entrance of the establishment a hoarse cry went up from the gallery: "Instant Replay! Instant Replay!" and we proceeded to perform an instant replay at The Instant Replay, barraging the bar for another quick moment, only to find out they would now not serve rapscallions such as our MONDAY contained.

Dog in Hand, but Easy Cheese Cans consumed then destroyed in route, our now motley crew arrived back at the Overhouse. Slightly angered by the rejection of the Instant Replay, and perhaps even more by whatever he was drinking, The Enemy proceeded to tear out the Dog's Throat. Fortunately, it was a giant stuffed dog, so blood and guts and entrails did not go flying all over. Unfortunately, it was a giant stuffed dog so small little pebbles of white styrofoam did go flying everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I am talking find them randomly in your laundry 3 years later everywhere. I am talking a foot deep throughout the entire living room everywhere. I am talking this is the moment I decide my action in the night is done and I head to bed everywhere.

The timing actually worked out to be just about perfect for me. Though the hours had been long, packed, and eventful, the approximate time of the decapitation of our poor stuffed canine coincided with the approximate time I had wished to be counting my sheep, getting refreshed and ready for a responsible day of white collar data managing and processing ere the rise of the sun.

And so, still very drunk, and now half covered in small styrofoam pellets I retired to my downstairs bedroom, stripped to my boxers, and went to bed. I had STRESSED to the partners my plan of an early bedtime throughout the night, but by now I had counted on a very disturbed night of sleep. I was hoping to slip off unnoticed in the general drunken haze and the blinding snowy styrofoam.

I was not. After perhaps 20 minutes of spinning I heard the familiar chant strike up from outside my bedroom door: "Oh I Woke up Matt Radowski, with no way to hold his head…" and panicked. At the time my bedroom was set up in a configuration where I had a couple of feet between my giant dresser and the wall, and quickly I dashed to this safehaven. I heard my door slide open, the scoundrels entered mid chant. After flinging my covers aside and discovering my absence, they quickly rallied again: "He is hiding in the garage!", and zoomed off to spurn my rest wherever they thought I may lay.

Adrenaline now in my veins, and escape on my mind, I quickly recouped and dashed out my door into the laundry area, but not fast enough; the failed raid in the garage had quickly turned the crew back to a more proper search of my room, and they were now at the back door, not five feet away. Panic stricken, I grabbed the only weapon that was nearby - an open gallon of laundry detergent - and proceeded to pummel the first through the door - Jimi. The next combatant, The Enemy proved to be much more of a struggle, and our clash soon entered the living room, laundry detergent flying everywhere.

Now I don't know if you know this, I didn't until late MONDAY, but laundry detergent is the most slippery substance known to man. Our living room, already covered in 'snow', was now also covered in 'Ice'. At once the participants began ice skating, slipping this way and that, and falling all over the place. I sat in the middle of maelstrom, in my boxers, pondering the silent freeway (and the sanity and safety of myself and friends), a disheveled mess.

It was at this precise and most perfect moment, that Anna (from Instant Replay) and her friend Pam appear within the door. I want to say we were embarrassed, all of us half naked, completely wasted, covered in styrofoam and laundry detergent, sitting around what might be blood, burnt paper towel rolls, knocked over chairs, empty pitchers of beer, and the mutilated corpse of a stuffed dog, but we wern't. In proper drunk fashion we begin to chant "Anna! Anna!" and in the midst of our chant, her friend turns the corner, sees the mess that is us, and promptly slips hard on the laundry detergent. I'm talking I just broke my arm hard. Luckily she didn't, because then all of us would have had to feel extremely bad for laughing so hard. By the end of our laughter they had left, probably at maximum speed, and most likely afraid for their lives. Somewhere around this time Russell returned the ball punch favor I gave him earlier.

I don't remember going to sleep. I don't know how much longer this went on for. I don't recall how the night ended. I'm not sure it ever has, perhaps it still goes on somewhere in some snow-globe on the mantle of the absurd. In fact, I hope so.

I certainly (with much more certainty than any of the 'facts' discussed above) hope so.

Aaron's Recollection

Monday: A Celebration of Life

"Quiet weekend" I thought to myself as I was cutting limes on a Monday morning barshift at Chili's North Plainfield, Home of the All-Day-Everyday-Happy-Hour. It was Monday, May 22nd 2006 and Billy "The Tall Texan" Walker had died the day before. Monday morning barshifts were more social gatherings with Southwestern Eggrolls, where we learned to curse in Spanish, than they were anything resembling a serious job or challenge. I graduated from Columbia one week earlier and had subsequently initiated a one to three month moratorium on responsibility. I didn't work on Tuesdays, so when I left Chili's at 4:15, I was up for anything.

Matt, Russ, Jimi Frey and I had been living at The Overhouse for one year and had only just begun to scratch the surface of what was possible at our new location. Between being unincorporated, living between 2 churches and having a landlord who lived 1,400 miles away, it felt like we were annexed from the rest of the country, we had diplomatic immunity and we abused it like Peter Griffin or the bad guy from Lethal Weapon 2 (a showcase of Joe Peci's immense diversity.) The Overhouse was a manufacturer of good times. And so it is with this perpetual chance that I came to be at this point in space and time, driving home from Chili's and into a celebration of life, an entrance into a new era: Post-Monday. My first recollections are of a giddy Matt Radowski greeting me, as enthusiastic as a child on Christmas morning, but yet unaware of the enormity of the present we were all about to open, to tell me that he wanted to get sloppy drunk tonight to make up for a dull weekend and requested that I join him. It was no later than 4:30 when we glugged our first shot of Captain Morgan and chugged our first beer; life was good.

The next beneficiary of "Matt's Boring Weekend Compensation Plan" was Justin Goebel. As his grey pickup came speeding up the drive around 5 o'clock, Matt and I were playing our first or second drinking game at the dining room table. I recall greeting Goebs quite enthusiastically, a lot of laughing and cheering, and demanding that he immediately chug a beer; a situation he adapts to with ease. The Kegerator was flowing in the garage as the three of us played Mushroom, a game where the loser chugs a full, usually room temperature, beer. I recall Goebs losing each time, but acknowledge that between the passage of time, the enormity of Monday legend, and my own hazy memory, this, as well as other recollections, may be slightly off. Regardless, by the time The Enemy and Jimi Frey arrived, within 10 or 15 minutes of each other, sobriety was as distant to us as A1689-zD1, we were already intrepidly smashed. After the two newcomers chugged their orientation beers and a game or two of Asshole, I spotted Russell in the Overvan and the five of us scurried outside to greet him, to show him what we had done. We were five, but had the enthusiasm, spirit, and courage of an entire army. We stormed the van, opened the window, and each grabbed one of Russell's limbs, extracting him from the van. It didn't take very long for him to transition from "Hey, what the hell are you guys doing" to "This is awesome!" We carried him, helpless, from the van and into the house. In what is one of my top 5 Monday moments, he managed to grab a full beer off the table as we carried him through the garage, and didn't spill a single drop. If we ever construct a Monday monument or statue, that scene warrants serious consideration.

The team was complete. We carried Russell inside and we celebrated. We played drinking games, we blasted DJ Quik ("Safe and Sound" was our party soundtrack for at least 2 years), and we celebrated. I'm sure a lot happened in the next hour or so, but I can't recall specifics. The next event I remember is walking to Instant Reply, our local dive bar, and stopping at Speedway on the way. As Matt paid for his purchases, the rest of us wildly cheered him on from outside, flailing about and chanting things like "Cigar-ettes, Cigar-ettes!" and "Speed-way, Speed-way!" We crossed Route 30 and entered the bar, a low-key, shot 'n beer, don't get tooo happy kind of place. I should probably mention that we left the house with a 7th member: a giant stuffed dog, presumably won at Six Flags or a carnival, donated to the charity, and claimed by Russell at his thrift store warehouse job, and given new life at The Overhouse. We'll refer to him as Dog. We carried Dog with us and gave him his own barstool at the bar. Between him and our generally outrageous behavior, the bar was none too pleased when they realized what we were, a freakshow. They had never seen our kind, and didn't necessarily care to. The owner, Frank, watched us like a Greek Hawk, waiting for us to do something that he could kick us out for. To his credit, he gave a warning, telling us we were disturbing the solum silence that Instant Replay patrons enjoy so much and if it continued he would have to ask us to leave. He made a comment about Dog, which I thought was hilarious, the 800 pound elephant in the room, taking up a barstool. I asked Dog if he wanted anything and ordered him a shot of Mad Dog 20/20, Anna, the bartender, was unamused. We swilled a few pitchers of High Life and had a good 'ol time. I like to think that after a little while we merrily interacted with other people, but cannot recall with any confidence, as I mostly remember the perplexed and terrified looks on their faces. We made a loud and triumphant exit and you could hear a collective exhale from the bar as we walked out the door. We were only a few feet from the door when it dawned on me: the name of the bar is Instant Replay! What a perfect opportunity to use that like it has never been used before. We turned around and walked back into the bar, yelling "Instant Replay!" For them, it was the equivalent of a Cub's fan watching an 8th inning replay of Game 6 of the 2003 NLCS; painful to say the least. Frank immediately came over and asked us to leave, which I think we all expected to happen. We thanked him for a lovely night and made another grandeur exit before heading home.

Arriving back at The Overhouse, the celebration continued. It was still relatively early at this point, 9 o'clock perhaps. We drank straight from pitchers of beer, played Two Ball, listened to more DJ Quik and wrestled with Dog. Then something very significant happened: Dog started to bleed. Little white balls of Styrofoam began to spill out of a tear in his skin. One by one they poured out, slowly and only if you jostled him a certain way. I went in for the kill, tearing open the wound and hemorrhaging the Styrofoam balls everywhere! We cheered. Soon we were like a pride of lions, hungry and feasting on our kill. We had sacrificed Dog in the name of Monday. The little white balls covered the floor, we had barely emptied out the head, yet the living room was nearly covered. We continued to tear it apart, throwing it at one another until all the stuffing was extracted and only the skin of remained. The living room floor was covered with 2 inches of Styrofoam snow. We high-fived and celebrated like we had never celebrated before. We were the mad ones, the ones Kerouac wrote of in "On the Road," we were out of our minds and on top of the world.

At some point, possibly soon after we got home from Instant Replay, Matt decided that his goal and vision for the night had been realized, and went off to bed (his bedroom was downstairs at that point). This is a key detail I can't recall, whether or not Matt was a part of tearing Dog apart. Part of me says that the mother in him, even in this drunken, celebratory state, would have protested such a mess, but part of me acknowledges the nature and carelessness of the night; I'm sure he clears it up in his recollection of Monday. Either way, at some point he had gone to bed. I think it was when the rest of us were in the garage filling up pitchers, as he thought he could sneak off unnoticed. Well, for our first year or two in the house, we used to play a game called "Wake Up Matt Radowksi." It was a lot of fun and is the reason he now sleeps with a hammer next to his bed. So obviously, it didn't take very long for us to storm into his room and wake him up; though I'm sure between the noise and the fear, it was near impossible to fall asleep. We attacked, ripping open the meagerly locked door, surrounding his bed and demanding that he see the night through to its bloody end. In only his boxers, he made a futile, but committed, attempt at resistance. We laughed. He managed to get us to leave the room, with promises of rejoining the party, but he lied! We came storming back to his door, where he met us and demanded we retreat immediately. In an act of panic, self-defense and pure genius, he grabbed a gallon of laundry detergent and threatened to pour it on us if we didn't stop these shenanigans immediately. We sent The Enemy at him first and Matt violently shook the gallon at him, sending a stream of detergent sailing through the air and onto The Enemy. It was not enough. Ten thousand gallons of laundry detergent is not enough to stop the force and will of these 5 drunk idiots, determined to Wake Up Matt Radowski! He continued to pour the detergent on all of us, including himself, as we forced him from his room and into the living room playland. We celebrated.

The downstairs floor was now covered with 2 inches of Styrofoam balls and a layer of laundry detergent, snow and ice. The detergent made the hardwood floors more slippery than ice and it was everywhere. We rolled around in it. We grabbed handfulls of the Styrofoam/detergent sludge and smeared each other's faces with it. It was in our eyes, ears, noses and certainly in every nook and cranny of the living room. In the middle of this scene, with us rolling around, half-naked, on the living room floor, Anna and her friend Pam walked in the back door. Pam immediately slipped and fell to the floor, Anna clung to the walls so as not to do the same. Pam got up, they watched us for a few seconds and they left. There was nothing for them there, this was far too intense and bizarre for them to understand.

This is my last recollection of the night: laying on the floor, watching them leave, and laughing uncontrollably for the next 45 minutes. I don't remember going to sleep, I don't remember anyone else going to sleep. The moment doesn't end in my mind, it lives on forever. I woke up the following day and walked downstairs. The house was empty, the dog gutted and resting heroically on the floor. Try as I may, there are no words to describe what had happened the night before.