The Men’s Center took a trip up through the Pacific Northwest, opening up in Eugene, Oregon. We had the keys to an apartment and free reign to do whatever we wanted while we were in town. With a complete lack of regulation, it was time to get thoroughly rip roarin’.

Weed, California is a must-stop destination for folks with, ahem, alternative interests. Solely based up the town’s inexplicably stupid name (why anyone would name their home after the shit they have to pull out of the driveway is beyond me), Weed is a smoker’s mecca. We didn’t have any doja to enjoy, but standing under the eaves at a Burger King smoking Kools while it softly hails had to suffice.

Showing up in Eugene while the University of Oregon was on Spring Break did not bode well for our particular Friday night, but after robbing a fair amount of the booze at the house we crashed at, a cab came to pick us up and take us around. After giving us the run-around, telling his life story and desire to be a small-time criminal lawyer, the cabbie dropped us off at a mostly empty bar in the college district. A few games of pool, expensive beers and a litany of questioning looks from the numerous cougars in attendance pushed us to bid our farewell.

Luckily, we eventually wandered into a concert, and the one good thing about hippie bands (including a didgeridoo player and Kurt Cobain’s gay brother on keyboard) is that, in combination with booze, the good vibes overdose always leads to fighting. When that fighting involves a prototypical mountain man and a New Jersey outcast, not to mention the background bro-support from a middle-aged doo-rag enthusiast, shit starts to get fun again. While these guys continued to argue over who spilled whose drinks, I took a good mood straight to the bar.

Despite the full house for the jam band, the streets of downtown Eugene were empty. What few like-minded drunks in search of a good time I came across all turned out to have mental problems. Plus, they were all in cars and didn’t take too kindly to me flagging them down. Oh well, what the hell. They should have been drinking.

With no one around, we made our own party on foot.

Finally a relatively classy joint was found, and it was packed. All of the non-student population of Eugene was packed in this bar, and people just started buying us shots. With no concern over burning bridges with wild lies in a random city, we started filling in fake back stories for our travels. I became a photographer for numerous fake magazines, which turned into a real theme of the trip. Waving a camera in a girl’s face is the easiest way to find the friendliest women in town. Telling one that she is good looking and well dressed, whether that may or may not be the case, is particularly effective. Saying phrases like “Ooh, I like that” or “Yeah, keep working it” are also a boost, for most young women have been accustomed to hearing these things in fashion model-based rom coms throughout their lives.

Booze makes dudes feel very affectionate towards each other. Remember the “I love you man!” commercials? That was on point, because it’s happening all night. Mix a little techno in to get your genitalia pulsating, add some mood laser lighting, and you soon see the locals that you just met getting frisky on the dance floor. Who doesn’t want to dance-fuck their friends to Daft Punk?
Of course, the one thing that sucks about such a lasered-out, hip-ass dance floor is the confusion caused by the inordinate amount of lights usually firing at once. Combined with blurry, boozed-up vision, it’s nearly impossible to scope out who’s worth talking to and who is lame. Thus it’s a big plus when the DJ is courteous enough to start marking people as one or the other.

Of course, once people start making fun of the well-set system of light-coding, taking advantage of its costume opportunities, the utility of the program is eliminated.

The loc’s don’t take kindly to such shenanigans. In fact, Eugeners don’t much care for foreign folk coming into their bars, drinking their beer, chatting up their women and stealing their wallets. Who knew they could turn so fast?

Time to get the fuck out.