duck-shaped pain

2000-09-27
Where I Egg On A Useless Rivalry

The other night, I went to the bookstore for some rest and relaxation. It was just me, the employees and about 200 teens there that night. That's not an unusual number, despite what you might think - our local Large Chain Bookstore has become a popular teen destination in the last several years.

It's one of those things that sounds heartening -- what better place to hang out in than a bookstore? -- but isn't, really. They could pretty much sell anything -- hay, squeegees, fragile porcelain mice -- and the teens would still come, beckoned by the late closing time, plentiful chairs and creamy, foamy blender drinks. Not a lot of reading gets done -- sometimes you'll see ten girls sitting at one table all crowded around the newest Cosmopolitan or random groups of boys crowding around the photography section, hoping for breasts to look at, but that's about it.

It doesn't really bother me much -- there are much stupider things they could be doing. Grand Valley teens are known for their devotion to really stupid activities, things I thought were pretty pointless and lame back when I was a Grand Valley teen myself [1].

Driving up and down North Avenue, aimlessly. Parking your car in various parking lots along said street and honking at people driving. Drinking out in dirt on the BLM land near the airport. Drinking up on the monument (special bonus: someone falls OFF the monument, drunk). Drinking in the park. Drinking at your friend's mom's cousin's house who just happens to be out of town and who also has a pool and a keg fridge. You get the point.

There was one other pointless activity, though. I overheard some teens the other night at the bookstore, who, in planning their full evening, included said activity. It made me happy to think that such a useless tradition lives on to this day.

I refer, of course, to puking on Utah.

My town is about 30 miles from the Utah/Colorado border -- a 35-minute (25 on meth) drive from any popular drinking destination. It happens something like this:

Someone drinks a lot. They start to feel funny, and someone notices. They say, "Hey buddy, don't spew here -- spew in Utah!" A group of friends, well-wishers and fellow nauseants is assembled. The soberest one drives the car. They head straight for the interstate, maybe buying smokes and Skittles on the way, if someone is really in need, and head west. In the best of situations, all vomit is saved until the end of the journey. Sometimes it isn't, though, which fills this activity with an extra sense of risk. Finally, they reach the state border, and pull over next to the big "Welcome to Utah - This Is The Place!" sign and all who are so inclined heave out their guts in the traditional spewing spot. This is the place, indeed.

Now -- either you turn around right there (there isn't an exit -- you have to drive across the median strip) or you head down a few miles and turn around at the first ranch exit. A successful journey behind you, you return to your party or previous activity and share your story. If it's a big party, with lots of drinking, more than one Utah trip may have to be made in one night. You might have to go in shifts, even.

I don't know where this activity got its start, or what it even means, really -- but it's one of those weird, quintessentially small-town activities that people I knew in larger cities were really amused to hear about. Always glad to oblige.


[1] Just because I thought they were pointless and lame doesn't mean I didn't partake of them myself (all except for the driving around aimlessly part -- that didn't happen until college). There really wasn't anything else to do.

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