COLOMA X

A funny thing happened in Coloma, population 485, elevation 750, this year, our tenth trip to the land of milk and honey and gold: We learned the locals genuinely like our obnoxious and childish antics. And they each had their own -- often provocative and very adult -- way of showing it.

But before we get to the story of how two locals ended up dead in a ditch (not true, though Jamie did pass out before dinner), let’s start from the beginning.


Day 1 - Sunday

D.O. and Adam took exit 137 toward N. Shingles Springs Rd. (thanks you racist, redneck hicks. You’re real time savers) early Sunday morning and were on the American with a cooler full of cold ones by one. After stealing firewood from fellow campers like the little criminals we are, we built a raging inferno so we could, for the first time ever on this trip, cook dinner. The sausages and black beans were delectable.

Afterwards, we headed to Gringo’s for a pitcher, though our real mission was to build on the success of our trip earlier this summer when we befriended Kimber and Greg, once thought to be our arch enemies (we assumed they found us rude and annoying). To our dismay, Greg was working but Kimber wouldn’t be on shift until the following night – a key finding that would pay dividends in 24 hours.

Back at campsite N, we rekindled the fire (no matches!) and were enthusiastic when the rest of the crew arrived in time for a drink or five before calling it a night. Cheers to Eric and Stephanie.

Day 2 – Monday


With the goal of hitting the river by noon or one, we rose early and got a jump on the day, getting in the car on the way to Old Hangtown before 10. We visited our not-so-favorite hate-mongering store, took A Walk Down Memory Lane (we tried to, anyway. RIP, old friend), the hardware store, and had our traditional lunch at the Buttercup Pantry. Jamie (avocado melt), Sam (club sandwich) and D.O. (huevos rancheros) did, anyway. Zach and Adam? Well, they stuck to the tradition of getting the biggest disaster of a meal listed on the menu… Introducing the Pharmburger (bacon cheeseburger/chicken sandwich all in one) and the Texarkana Hamdog, a clusterfuck of fat, sodium and cholesterol on a plate. The components: hot dog bun open-faced filled with a bacon-wrapped hotdog then deep fried, covered with a cheeseburger and smothered in chili. The cherry on top? A fried egg. The Buttercup doesn’t keep a doctor on staff, but they probably should. Amanda’s a goddamn sweetheart though. Total catch.

The clerk at 49er Liquors isn’t nearly as friendly and still prohibits “browsing” since this is “not a library,” but we did anyway and still bought 40s. We headed back to the river for a full day of brass monkeys and black 8-balls, both of which are getting harder to drink the older we get. We enjoyed the sun, the booze (sort of) and held our annual event before happy hour with a one-dollar poker tournament that crowned Adam champion of Campsite N, Coloma, population 485, elevation 750, California, and the whole fucking world, for that matter. We showered up prison style (Sam “dropped the soap”) and were off to Gringo’s for an eventful evening.

We arrived at Gringo’s with gusto. We asked for burritos made with the delicate touch of an angel (we wanted the cheese melted first) and ate and drank our way through the evening waiting for our shot to talk to Kimber. In the meantime, we had the staff dial up Greg who informed us the night earlier that he was just a phone call away from a party. While Kimber closed up, Greg hooked up the pitcher. Kimber, true to her word from our warm-up trip earlier in the summer, gave us a ride back to the campsite where the drinks kept coming, an apple bong was erected and the free styling flowed just as you’d expect from a few drunken white guys. Greg called it a night – another party awaited (there’s always another party with Greg) – while Kimber hung out a little longer, so long, in fact, that she’ll never look at her Dodge minivan quite the same again. (Boooom!)

Day 3 - Tuesday


Another first for Coloma X: A trip to nearby Georgetown, a quaint mining town twice ravaged by fire ,where the streets are so wide parking spots line the middle of the road. We saw the hotels and bars (brothels, surely, though no dames were to be found) and took in the town’s history. Parra’s was our dining establishment of choice, home to the world famous wet burrito. Not sure what makes it world famous; it took us 10 years to find the town harboring it. We also grabbed some sandwiches from the general store and were soon back on the river – albeit a new, more rugged beach due to the heightened water level -- for another day of sun and fun.

Another happy hour and shower followed. After striking out at Marco’s for pizza, Sam and Jamie went to town at Coloma Club and then it was off to Gringo’s for Taco Tuesday.

“The last time/that I saw you/you were crying”

Words from Coloma’s Simple Creation, words to live by. Fearful this is the state we’d find Kimber in, we tentatively entered, knowing Cameron, her younger brother in age, older in appearance, was on shift as well. Within minutes, we realized we must’ve received a rave review. Cameron was awesome! He showed us how to electrocute ourselves on a glowing Buddha and later whipped out his secret stash of pico de gallo, which, in retrospect, probably contained slow-acting poison. Regardless, it was da bomb.

Wanting to have guys’ night, we said our goodbyes to Cameron and Kimber. Kimber seemed bummed, but Muscles McGee, who had dropped by the night before to game on her, was back to keep her company and help her forget about us until this time next year.

Our final night of Coloma X was spent with whiskey, a fire and Zach’s flows. A post-CKT career awaits.

The last time/that I saw you…

Yours in savagery,

Adam, Jamie, David, Sam, Zach

For all the pictures, go here. Last year's post. Last year's pictures.

Coloma 2010

North Shingle Springs Road is a seven-mile stretch of highway that carves through the backcountry of El Dorado County, where little more than rundown farms, one-room schoolhouses and rolling hills exist. It’s non-descript, quiet and lightly trafficked, seldom used by anyone other than the residents living on its path.

It’s also the most direct way in and out of Coloma, Pop. 485, a fact unbeknownst to us until two right-wing, neo-Nazi racists showed us the way some nine years after we first set foot in this old gold-mining town.

To reach the end of this three-day adventure we must first discuss the beginning.

Davis

On Wednesday night, Zach, Adam and Jamie headed to Davis to stay the night with D.O. Not wanting to arrive empty-handed, the trio stopped off at the neighborhood KFC for a long-awaited and heavily hyped Double-Down. Turns out advertising’s a fickle bitch. The sandwich was an expensive, bun-less mess of sodium and saturated fat, void of the traditional KFC flavor that has endeared us to the brand for years. It’s also not made from real chicken, but the mutant drumsticks taste way better.

After civilized conversation with Ellen (thanks for the hospitality) and Emily (wonderful seeing you) that included Jamie getting baked out of his mind (he took a small hit), we hitched a ride to Aggie Liquors for a little somethin’-somethin’ before frequenting a local watering hole (Froggy’s. Where else?). We settled for vodka sodas (which we only sorta discreetly drank on the Davis streets), but the “Gorilla” shots the store’s proprietor pressured us to try were tempting. Ultimately, we decided that 151 and Wild Turkey would be a drink saved for another day.

Coloma Day 1

On our way out of Davis we stopped at Safeway to get “supplies” – 42 beers, six sandwiches, one bag of ice, one pack of ping-pong balls and a free watermelon – for the day.

An hour later, and after an uninspired game of “What’s in that Truck?” (Best response: “3^rd and 9 from the 27”), we reached Camp Lotus (via Placerville and Highway 49, mind you, not N. Shingle Springs Rd.).

The woman manning the check-in booth at Lotus is a raging whore who can sink to the bottom of the American River, for all we care.

Our “welcome” to Camp Lotus consisted of wrongly placing us at Campsite 5 (campsite 5!?!) only to give us flack when we asked to change to traditional Campsite N (she begrudgingly complied). We were also charged a day-use fee for arriving a little more than an hour ahead of check-in time. Campsite N was unoccupied when we arrived, but no matter.

Once settled, we headed to the river with beer, chairs, music and slightly calmed nerves for a day on the American. Our usually private beach was infested with fisherman and kids, but we found an even more secluded spot just a little further down the way.

Beers were consumed, Van Morrison was played too often and we were later greeted by Sam Marthinsen, who had to come late due to a work conflict (he was “chauffeuring” little kids), who invigorated the rest of us. More beers were consumed, showers were taken and we then “made it” to New Yosum’s (Starvin’ Dog Pizza) for some take-out.

The woman at the order window of Starvin’ Dog Pizza is a raging whore who can sink to the bottom of the American River, for all we care.

After pizza and some ill-advised one-dollar poker tournaments, Jamie and Sam challenged a group of Hmong to games of beer pong while the remaining three built a raging inferno and sang campfire songs until the last flame flickered out (we might have passed out).

Coloma Day 2

Friday morning announced its arrival with the sound of a crying baby.

The crying baby is a raging whore who can sink to the bottom of the American River, for all we care.

We got a jump on the day and headed into Placerville for a stroll through Old Hangtown that consisted of an annual photo, a stop in a darlin’ candy store and one in a terrifying store of anti-Semites that Jamie claims are “really nice guys”. Fuckin’ Goy.

For the first time possibly ever, we had a meal at the Buttercup Pantry where no one puked or did something ridiculously embarrassing. It was sorta boring, actually. And D.O. didn’t even get the Huevos Rancheros or Zach the Monte Christo. Traitors.

After brunch we browsed the “library” at 49'er Liquors and purchased gold in 40oz. increments. The gold was actually just shitty malt liquor that we still continue to drink on this trip despite no longer being 17 or liking malt liquor.

But tradition is tradition, so we took our 40s, chairs and music back out to the river for another day on the American that also included our annual draft. The only casualty of the day was Zach’s sunglasses (and Jamie), but he’s a fool for swimming a raging river with sunglasses on top of his head. Besides, it was more of a sacrifice than a casualty, anyway.

After a shower and cocktail hour, we headed into town for some shitty Mexican food at appropriately named Gringos. The place was a buzzin’, but that didn’t stop acting-manager Kimber from remembering us the moment we walked in. She was just as uptight (but soooo closet freak!) as we remembered, but New Keith 1 (Steve? Chris?) and New Keith 2 (Greg) were bitchin’ dudes who hooked up the burritos to our liking. Original Keith was apparently on a roadtrip with his new lady friend, getting high at every stop along the way.

Sam and D.O. engaged Heidi in a friendly game of quarters and talked-up some locals, but Kimber was tight-fisted and wouldn’t give us any free beer or food.

Kimber is a raging whore who can sink to the bottom of the American River, for all we care. (That’s not true. We like Kimber. We do. She just needs to let down her hair once in a while, figuratively and literally.)

After we outwore our welcome (not really, but sorta), we headed back for campfire. No more than 15 minutes later, two guys showed up at our campsite (now Campsite Q after Sam sweet-talked a different guy in the check-in booth who is not a raging whore who can sink to the bottom of the American River.). They were the two Coloma locals Sam befriended at Gringos. Nice fellas, they were. Then this happened:

Us: So where do you guys party around here.

Them: Folsom

Us: Oh. Not Sac.? How come?

Them: That’s where the Blacks and the Asians go.

The Blacks?!? The Asians?!? And that was the end of the fun. We also then noticed a few of us had on Kee Tov gear with the Jewish star, but luckily that went unnoticed.

Before things went south with Racist 1 and Racist 2, they told us how Highway 49 was a roundabout way to enter Coloma.

The next morning we got up and left. We didn’t drive back on Highway 49 through Placerville.

We took N. Shingle Springs Rd.

Yours in savagery,

Adam, Zach, Jamie, D.O., Sam

Coloma 2008!!!

Our trip to Coloma this year was a trip of firsts: The first time we went in July, not September. The first time we used the Davis pool. The first time we saw Kaitlin. The first time we never heard from Joel Fatherree, and therefore, the first time we spent two nights at Camp Lotus. Oh, and the first time we tea-bagged a statue.

On our way to see Joel in Sacramento, we pit-stopped in Davis, biding our time while waiting for a call. A call that would never come. We took a walking tour of campus, defiled a work of art, and then headed to the pool for some good old fashioned swimming people watching. After a snack at In-N-Out, we headed to Davis's shittiest bar, The G Street Pub, because Froggy's (our favorite Davis institution) was closed. We found out the hard way that beer doesn't pour itself. The only good thing about the G Street Pub was Zach's B-52s impression. We rendezvoused there with our old friend Kaitlin, but couldn't stay with her. Fucking boyfriend.

P.S. We fucking hate the G Street Pub.


We still hadn't heard from Joel, so we tried to find him at work. Matt from Maxim Healthcare didn't know Joel, but is a stand-up guy. With heavy hearts we headed for Old Hangtown and Coloma, CA pop. 175 485. By this point we had some catching up to do, so it only made sense to bring the flask of Johnnie Walker Black into the car with us. Time was a wastin. As we got sauced, we considered some adult entertainment off the road, but a dress code and our better judgement prevailed... as did the next round of scotch in the car.

A tame game of "What's in that truck?" included "the way I want to be remembered," "the great American novel," and "better times," and brought us into Placerville, along with a rousing rendition of American Pie.

We had never been to the Buttercup Pantry for dinner, but if we hadn't, we would never have met the sweet angel sent from heaven that is Autumn, 2 years of service. She didn't get us drunk or anything, but she's 27, has a 2 year old, and prefers the life in gold country to her old one in Antioch. We're not sure we agree, but we didn't get hidden tattoos at Zebra either. And if you're ever at the Buttercup Pantry try the Burger of Champions, it's the best in town.

(For those keeping track, we've now met a Summer and an Autumn over the years, we look forward to meeting you soon Winter and Spring.)

We took a piece of the pantry with us, we hope the next patrons at table 14 didn't need salt or pepper. Then we made the drive to Coloma, for the first time at night, and were delighted to find that the Crickens were not at Campsite N after all. We stole some firewood (don't get caught), and enjoyed another Coloma first, beer pong! Well, we're not sure we enjoyed it. After a hilarious round of Shabooyah (and a not so friendly request to be quiet), we crashed.

We rose the next morning and spent some time learning about Coloma's history. Oh, we mean Culloma (who knew?). After a chat with the blacksmith we headed back to Old Hangtown, where a less friendly waitress served us brunch. No chili fries or burgers this year. The chili fries though, are awesome.


The warmongering store still exists, and it's still populated by a group of guys that resemble the cast of American History X. And we don't mean Elliott Gould. And we do mean the neo-nazi skinheads. We were surprised to see this. Guess they ran out of "I heart the Third Reich" flags.

The Hangman's Tree was as difficult to stomach as ever, not only because of the cold bitch behind the bar, that should have been working at the G Street Pub. We fucking hate the G Street Pub. The help made no attempt at conversation, and didn't even let us sample the Das Komet.


49'er Liquors yielded it's usual porn library, expired OJ, and the sweet golden nectar of the gods, and by that we don't mean nectar at all, and we do mean Old E. We headed to the river, had a fantasy draft of Kee Tov counselors (something like that anyway), and enjoyed our favorite few hours of the year.

After a shower and Happy Hour at campsite N, we made our way to Marco's. We were distraught to find out that Grant no longer owns the joint, but we reveled in the fact that the Marco's staff was so lenient about letting us bring in our own booze. That didn't matter much for Jamie though, because at this point he didn't need any more.

"Hey, is that your friend passed out down there by the fence?"

The other 3 of us tried to work our free beer magic with Katrina (who had a terrible haircut) but all we got was some vino and the butt of a pitcher from 6-year old Cole's mom. You never know when your camp counseling experience will get you free beer. When we weren't allowed to help the staff do dishes we stumbled to the Coloma Club. We made a new friend at a picnic table outside who didn't have any dope but thought we might.



Once inside the club, all hell broke loose. Actually the only thing that was loose was D.O.'s wallet. We saw some more Mallard staff and some former ECHS gauchos. Looking for food, D.O. made a trek into the kitchen - the first time he didn't get caught, the second time he did. Chris was a good sport and even let Adam pull the tap. We got a free Coloma Kool-Aid, which still remains the most disgusting drink we're ever had. Chris likes them though, and he was in a tornado once.

Our parting gift was 4 free bags of chips, which we enjoyed while once again stealing firewood. We got caught but stole it anyway. We built a raging inferno, exploded a glow stick, and called it a night.

Thus ended another great trip, and if you're wondering about crazy Ray, we were told "eh, he's probably in jail."

We've also been told that it's always good to end with a quote, so here goes:

"My name is Jamie (yeah!)
and I get low (yeah!)
when my dick's (yeah!)
in ...
ROLL CALL!"

Yours in savagery,
Jamie, D.O., Adam, and Zach

All the pictures from the trip are here. Last year's story is here.

Coloma 2007!!!

Change was afoot this year in Coloma... and Placerville... and Davis (!) for that matter. After failing to reach Joel Fatherree (He's in Sacramento! He's dating Brianna! He likes her better than Brandis! He's got the hookup on Enterprise rental cars!) until it was too late, we turned to another former Kee Tov counselor who welcomed us with the kind of hospitality to which we've grown accustomed.

D.S.S.

Davis.

It was just D.O. and the twins that first night, which is probably good because those hoes (hitchhiking! Cady - check out that spelling - and Erika) could not have fit more than three in the backseat. And we really needed to get to Jack in the Box. Of course our appetites had been whetted by a few rounds at Froggy's (Beam on the house!) and some PBR with our host.

The next morning it was off to Old Hangtown, and time for some "What's in that truck?" where answers included "The Quadratic Equation," and "The hand that rocks the cradle." Placerville provided its usual charm (POW-MIA: Bring them home or Send us back!) but get this... there's a new parking ordinance, and the natives are not happy, and neither were we - until we got a couple of stiff drinks served up by Shelly at the Hangman's Tree.


Now the river called to us. Cold brass monkeys, a black 8 ball for just-arrived Jamie, and a new addition... a Mickey's 40 for the one and only Sam Marthinsen. After our beloved river time and a happy hour back at the camp site we made our way back to Marco's where we got some bad news - the only place in town that was open was the dreaded Yosum's, where we are still wanted dead or alive. Grant, the 25 year old owner of Marco's was kind enough to let us eat our pizza (Sam went in to get it) at his place, and made up for the lack of food by providing ten Coronas at a buck a pop.

At this point we were losing steam (and Jamie, to a "power nap"), so we walked to the Coloma Club for a second wind. Our time at this old west saloon was highlighted by a chance rendezvous with with the staff of Albany's own Club Mallard (!) and a Coloma Kool-Aid (Zach: "We're not gonna pay for it, but we'll tip you." Chris and his Betty Ford Clinic hat were fine with that). Trust us on the Coloma Kool-Aid - You'd be better off drinking a Jonestown Kool-Aid.

Back at Campsite N we wielded mighty blades (some more safely than others - don't worry D.O. still has both arms), built a towering inferno, and drank one last ill-advised pint of Johnnie Walker Black Label with a Cuban cigar.

Jamie passed out, Adam puked, Zach "lost reception" while talking to Sonja, called her back, then puked again. And that was the night.

Yours in savagery,

D.O., Adam, Zach, Jamie, and SAM!

Photos from the trip are here. Last year's story is here.

Coloma 2006!!!

Robert Frost once wrote, "Good fences make good neighbors...and I took the road less traveled by." We didn't abide by either of those sayings, having burned bridges, torn down walls, and traveled the same road all others pursuing gold had done before us. This is the story from the last two days. Let us take it from the top.

STOCKTON:

We rolled into town with one thing on our mind: Find Ramon Guerrero and let him feed us brain tacos from his truck of gold. Rumor has it that his tacos are made by the Virgin Mary. Turns out, though, that Mary gets Sundays off. We settled for the offerings of Taqueria San Felipe. Try the burrito. It's the second best in town.

With our bellies full, we were ready to take down a cooler of skippy, or, as Joel's buds call it, donkey juice. Soon after we headed to a party so Hoover could find girls "with low self-esteem and who make bad decisions." Joel, as always, welcomed us with open arms -- he's still with Brandeis, by the way -- and Jamie passed out next to a fence. Meanwhile, Vince used to say "hi." Now he's tatted and rides a plastic motorcycle.

OLD HANGTOWN:

Some things don't change, like playing "what's in that truck?" on the way to Placerville. Answers included "the color purple" and "two truths and a lie." Sticking to tradition, we feasted at the Buttercup Pantry and took full advantage of its clean restroom. Afterward, Jamie needed a hat, so we ventured in to the military surplus store, where, according to a flag on the wall, "our cause was just" in Vietnam. Disgusted, but in full need of a drink, we went for rounds at the Hangman's Tree. Maybe it was Labor Day, maybe it was Matt the barkeep, but we had some of the best treatment one can find this side of an Oriental massage parlor: top-shelf liquor in our extremely stiff wells, shots on the house and in our stomach. And like that we were off to Coloma: city of gold. City of dreams.

COLOMA:

The census is a funny thing. One year a population can be 175, the next it can triple in size. A simple count is all it takes. Welcome to Coloma, Pop. 485. Once over the population boom, we secured Site N at Camp Lotus, and grabbed our OE 40s and Sunny Delights and headed to the river. After a well-spent afternoon, Jamie and us went our separate ways (work came a callin'). We then headed to dinner, staying well away from Yosum's where we had, just a year before, poured gasoline and dropped 100 matches on the metaphorical bridge. (So we pissed all over the place and yelled at some people.) We also struck out at Marco's where we'd be rude not to congratulate the owners who welcomed Sarah Jane into the world on Sunday. She's a healthy 8 pounds, 2 ounces!

We then settled for a right-winged shithole called the River Shack where the food was cold and our hearts were colder. Luckily, the Coloma Club was across the way. They say everything's bigger in Texas, but Kim is a small, small man. He is a big, big drunk though and he bought us a pitcher. Chantelle (mashed potatoes) and Chris (free booze, free onion rings) took care of us, making the Coloma Club worthy of a return next year. Warning: The Coloma Kool-Aid ("the wickedest drink that goes down smooth," says the Bartender's Bible) will fuck you up worse than its Jonestown counterpart.

Yours in savagery,

Zach, D.O., Jamie, and Adam


P.S. For all the pictures go here. For pictures from last year go here.