Stupor Bowl X

By Jeff Guerrero

It’s after midnight when I wheel the van into the parking lot of a neighborhood bar in the outskirts of Minneapolis. Although we’ve had the heater cranked for 14 hours straight, the moment I turn off the ignition the air temperature drops sharply. The sliding door opens and a rush of cold air turns the van into a walk-in freezer. A bearded man in Carhartt overalls shoves his head inside and shouts,

“Pittsburgh… Fuck yeah!”

Hurl’s obviously been drinking, but then that’s what we’re here for, too. Amidst a flurry of hugs and handshakes our host for the weekend calls out, “Who’s the Polish Hammer?”

Malice, Hammer’s miniature pinscher, responds with a less-than-menacing growl.

“Fuck yeah!” Hurl continues to take stock,

“Lockwood! Fuck yeah! Guerrero… Quartuccio…”

As we enter the pub a Dead Kennedys cover band breaks into Moon Over Marin and I’m utterly transfixed. Soon enough I notice the table of young women eager to register me for tomorrow’s affair, and I plunk down my $15. The registration kit includes a t-shirt, manifest, stickers and a pair of hand warmers—a telltale sign of things to come.

Back in Pittsburgh the weather forecast had called for a high of 1° F, and we briefly thought of staying home. Briefly. I for one was far too excited about my first visit to Minneapolis—birthplace of my grandparents and home to quite a few of my friends. Among those friends is a pretty well known guy named Hurl. Responsible for the world’s best known bike zine, Cars R Coffins. Hurl graciously offered to let our motley crew of Pennsyltucky rejects defile his bathroom for the weekend.

Continued