In the static bliss of perpetual blue skies, skimpy clothing, ever-flowing effervescent natty ice and sunsets that lend themselves to postcards and dreams from the landlocked, it becomes natural to take paradise for granted. It’s easy to feel like life’s thrust and vigor require little less than a few phone calls and a few dollars to throw down on the next keg. This is the simple truth of I.V. It leads one to think that maybe the landlocked and the less ample-weathered populations of this world do not enjoy life to its fullest. And it can leave a migrant who has landed in this euphoria to assume that any sign of storms brewing on the horizon – literally – will send natives into their houses like scared turtles, retreating to their shells. This weekend, in the pure cleansing of a rare I.V. rainstorm, I found myself shedding the grasp of both of these biases in a brilliant expression of the will and perseverance this town’s population possesses when it comes to letting go of our inhibitions and raging, balls to the wall.
After a week of anticipation and taxing preparation (the creation of a Facebook event group), a number of my peers and I were getting soberly anxious for the highly (self) acclaimed dual birthday party known as Man vs. I.V. (see Facebook page). Kegs of quality – the likes of Firestone and Fat Tire – were to be ordered. The rockin’ local band named 15 and Drunk was set to perform. Attendance numbers were rumored to reach capacity levels, with an insanely raucous crowd of hooligans all looking to come together and get completely obliterated. Friday came. So did rain.
Well who the fuck wants to stand out in the rain all night watching a band get electrocuted while their expensive Firestone is quickly diluted right back to the mundane natty ice of every other weekend? On the other hand, the space inside for a band and the number of people who were expected to arrive could not possibly squeeze into one of the two-person apartments that Ron Wolfe squeezed six people into for an entirely reasonable price. There were two options that lay before us: We could curl up into our shells and wait for the Saturday sun to yield the party of tomorrow, or we could accept that Mother Nature isn’t always smiling with two scoops of raisins and rage as we had seen fit for the birthdays of our brothers. The first option, though appealing in its practicality, would not do. The second path would require a ladder, a whole lot of industrial plastic sheeting, many heavy objects, a little guess-how and insurmountable more fun.
So it was. We proceeded to rainproof the courtyard overlooking the ocean at an alternative, slightly more rain-proofable outside venue on the 6600 block of Del Playa with a massive 6 mm thick sheet of painters plastic held down with a bench-press. The following ensued: All in attendance got bum-drunk and got to know each other a whole lot better, the band rocked, equipment stayed dry and the rain-proofing apparatus didn’t fail till nearly 5 a.m. after all remaining rabble rousers had moved the after party inside and the band had packed up.
And the following epiphanies were presented to me: We should be damn thankful for the regular ease and simplicity of the slice of paradise we enjoy here. And two, I seriously underestimated the drive and conviction of this town. I mean, not that we cured cancer or led a movement of social progress or even helped one needy person. But I was shown a simple perseverance to achieve a set goal through tenacity and determination. So this week, I salute you I.V., to a weekend well raged.