Bro Summit 2012: Spidery Death and The Meaning of Life
This past weekend was Bro Summit 2012.
Bro Summit 2012, a hearty combination of varied meats and spreadable cheeses. An all male liquid hetero-merry-go-round of extra excessive beer and liquor consumption. A medley of drinking games, fart jokes and actual, deathly poisonous farts. A gathering of uncloseted nerds nerding it up playing Magic the Gathering [of Nerds]. All major organs are currently on detox and will need around three more days of pampering to resume normal functionality, though the psychological scars may never heal.
Unfortunately there were very few pictures taken, as holding a camera or phone would require a free hand, and every free hand equals one less beer or bite of steak that could be funneled into my face right now. Even so I managed to snap a few, which is good because if I hadn’t these memories might be lost to the swirling sands of time. That’s a great way to say I’d be too drunk to remember. Here’s the first one I took while packing for Bro Summit on Friday, before any damage was done.
Bro Summit 2012 took place at an awesome old lakehouse right on Lake Winnipesaukee; Ben’s parents have a timeshare there. However for the first time in history, they were gone and we had the place all to ourselves. Time to crack some beers, put on the Thong Song and tear this place apart!
The five of us (Gov, Brian, Ben, Joe and yours truly) rolled in on Friday night around 9:30pm. Through an act of providence, Joe and I happened to take an exit off 93N on our way up, and found a Wendy’s. I’d gotten a bag o’ JBC’s for all the boys, which disappeared shortly after our arrival. Though we’d essentially all pledged not to get too drunk the first night in (we wanted to save that for Saturday), we ignored that sentiment immediately and easily slayed the first 30 rack in about an hour and a half, then started working our way through the second. Ben’s rocking 80’s playlist set the tone perfectly for drinking games, which we played until around midnight. Then dudes started dropping, retreating to empty rooms scattered throughout the house, while the last few of us stayed up to watch Spaceballs on VHS in the den. It was glorious.
Saturday we were off to a relatively early start at 9am. The walls of the lakehouse are very thin, so I woke up when I heard voices in the kitchen below me. I knew the time had come for me to do my job. I brushed my teeth using the water I’d brought in a nalgene bottle, (all the running water is just unfiltered lake water), and tumbled downstairs to begin cooking the bacon. Oh yes, the bacon. Of course I made the entire pack of bacon, which divided by five hungry dudes is two and a piece bacons per dude. Men were milling around the kitchen absorbing coffee like sponges, hovering over me and the frying bacon, circling like fucking vultures. I tried shooing them out to wait on the porch but it was useless, the smell was in the air. Fifteen or twenty minutes later the bacon was good to go, and it was on to the eggs, cheese and microwave sausages. You see, I had placed myself in charge of breakfast and I had a specific vision in mind. I am happy to say it went according to plan. Here is that vision:
I put the sandwich down just long enough to take that picture and it practically got eaten by another dude. Just kidding, they were all crafting their own masterpieces.
I realize now that I’ve talked way too much about only the first night and first morning; if I continue with play by plays of the entire weekend you’ll never read the whole thing. I’ll sum up so that I can get to the topic I want to focus on.
- Saturday midday we went into town and resupplied. Supplies included but were not limited to around 12lbs of assorted meat (robust sausages, a terrible amount of steak tips, more bacon, more eggs), spreadable cheese, pepperoni, two 30 racks, a bottle of Captain Morgans and a bottle of Wild Turkey 101
- Got back to the lakehouse around 3pm; excessive consumption of everything began
- Immediately began slamming rum and cokes
- Played Magic for a good two hours. Magic cannot be played alone, but I will protect the full identities of the other players so as to protect them from ridicule. Their initials are Ben B. and Joe S
- [blank section of time]
- More food (pepperoni, cheese, cheese, chips and guac? More cheese?)
- Shotgunned a beer with combat knife
- Jumped in the lake, very cold. The trick is to get a running start:
- Shower + rum and cokes to warm up. Assembled fire pit for later use.
At this point it was just becoming dusk. I remember going into the bathroom for my shower and having a lightbulb go off in my brain, but I was riproaringly drunk so my epiphany vanished almost immediately after making its stage entrance. It would return later.
The rest of the night is awash in meat, Magic, fire and alcohol. Someone got the steak tips going beautifully on the grill. There were leftover sausages from lunch. Joe made beans and we husked ears of corn while taking shots. We ate meat until we couldn’t anymore, then drank until we could start [m]eating again.
Night fell and the fire rose. There’s something about sitting around a firepit that will never get old to me.
It feels right, it smells right, and it’s the perfect environment for S’mores, which we also ate. All of a sudden, rain. Sheets of rain. We ran inside and played LCR until we literally couldn’t anymore, gorging on steak tips like seagulls nipping at a whale carcass. Someone popped [my old VHS that has been relegated to the lakehouse for all time] Dumb and Dumber into the trusty VCR, and we retired to our respective
fartrooms bedrooms for the night. It was man heaven in a man haven.
Author’s Note: Apparently Joe had trouble sleeping and was laying awake in his room at around 4am. The walls are very thin at the lakehouse; he said he could hear everyone just farting it up and groaning/giggling all night in their own separate rooms. Except me, because my body is a finely tuned 100% efficient energy machine that produces no waste whatsoever. I don’t even poop.
The next day I woke up first, went downstairs to where the good bathroom was and pooped an entire steak. Let’s not talk anymore about that, but upon entering the bathroom I immediately remembered my epiphany and ran up and got my phone.
It was the spiders. Tons of spiders; spiders everywhere. I was surrounded by spidery death.
There were at least five more, big and small, setting up shop on the ceiling of the good bathroom, but the photos came out fuzzy. Anyway I think you get the picture. Baby spiders were building baby spiderwebs, just like the generations before them. Also, since I think spiders are cannibals, they knew to stay out of their neighbor’s yards. I know that spiders don’t go to spider school to learn this (or how to build a web) and that this boils down to some kind of instinct, but seeing generations of spiders above me as I unleashed steamy hell got my mind churning.
It was the spiders that made me remember the meaning of life. Yesterday when my brain was demolished, I must have looked at the ceiling and had a flash of translucence. The thought probably remained in my head just long enough to make an impression before I flushed it all away (nice metaphor?).
Anyway, the purpose of life is two-fold. Stay with me.
1. Be you as hard as you can be.
Pursue what you love and what makes you feel right, whatever it is. Art, math, music, biology, fitness, whatever. Whatever it is. Like arguing? Go be a lawyer. Like playing video games? Be a software tester. It doesn’t matter what it is, but you have to be you. Don’t just pursue your passion; master it, or come as close to mastering it as your passion allows. Are you a black belt in something? That’s great! But you haven’t mastered jack; come talk to me when you’re a fifth or sixth degree.
And one more subpoint on #1, you should probably be doing that anyway, even if you think my blog is bullshit. Also, why are you reading it then?
2. Pass the knowledge.
Ok, so you like drumming and you’re Travis Barker on the drums. You like insulting people and you’re Jeff Ross. You hate crime and you’re Batman. You’re still learning, always learning, but you are a master of your craft, a poster child of pursuing your passion. You made it. But realize, it’s finite. You won’t be around forever; do you want your knowledge, your unique interpretation of your skill set to die with you? Your responsibility is now to the continuation of the art or talent that you’ve sacrificed so much of your life for. Who will rock the drums like you do in 100 years? Who will call people fat and stupid with your own biting brand of brilliance? Who will be able to throw a batarang with such precision as to knock guns out of two criminals’ hands in under a second?
Think of an art, a martial art, or the ability to play an instrument. Unless you’re a prodigy (hint: you’re not) you’re not born with the ability to make music, draw a perfect circle or take someone’s center off balance. These and others are skills learned over decades, perhaps years of training depending on your focus, sacrifice and lastly, natural ability.
Do you want that skill and knowledge to go to waste, to be lost? Every Batman needs a Nightwing. Arthritis will claim the Dark Knight eventually, and when it does the only thing that will comfort him is the knowledge that there’s someone else out there bustin’ skulls his way.
Teach. Teach your trade, impart your knowledge; pass it forward to the next generation. No one else in the whole world has your knowledge or your expertise in your field, but it’s your responsibility to get the power to change that. Not everybody gets this chance. Share your experience and in doing so immortalize a skill, or maybe if you’re lucky, an ideal.
There, sitting on the toilet at Ben’s lakehouse, reeking of booze and surrounded by spidery death, I crapped out a steak, and the meaning of life came to me.
I now do my best to pass it forward to you.