The 5 Reads Of Christmas
No. 1 - "The Chronicles Of The Palace"
By Gus
A place I have been known to frequent has been around for decades. Nestled in the small wooded area surrounded by Haverford, Springfield and Upper Darby townships is a little slice of party bliss. The trails are rigorous for newcomers. Use the fence for stability off of Pilgrim Lane, especially if it has rained in the days prior. Once at the bottom of the hill, chances are you will not be able to see much, but keep walking along the 2 ft. wide trail to your right. Like backpacking through the Himalayas, the trail goes down, up, then down again. What is this? A fork in the trail? What to do? Luckily you and your friends are with a St. Dot’s alum who guides you to the promise land. As if to be a prophet from above, he tells you, ever so calmly, “Turn right…” Next you come to a small moat, no big fucking deal. Once you hop over, you tread about 20 more yards in those dirty Timberlands and Nike sweats, hang a left through a couple dirt bike jumps and pass an old golf cart on the right. Right about now you should be feeling the hair on your balls tingle with excitement, for you and your comrades are about to engage in a crapulous shindig at THE PALACE.
What you see is nothing like your typical High School bangers. There is no music. The only light showing is that of the bonfire and cars passing on W. Rolling Road across the creek. You really don’t know who is there because you can’t tell faces more than an arm’s length away. The only thing you know for certain is its 8:00pm, and you have four hours to get plastered and make it to McDonalds for a McChicken and a laugh before walking home, sleeping out, or getting picked up by one of your boy’s parents.
So you make entry. Fist pounds for the boys and casual ass grabs for the ladies. $5 to the guy whose brother bought the keg and you’re ready to go. The thing that makes the palace, The Palace, is that there aren’t fucking drinking games that all the poindexters talk about in homeroom Monday morning. We don’t play “Kings”; we don’t play “Beer Pong.” We fill up our cups when they are empty; we rip heat pieces, fool around with the devils lettuce, and talk about sluts and slampigs. Then people start getting tipsy…
What you see is nothing like your typical High School bangers. There is no music. The only light showing is that of the bonfire and cars passing on W. Rolling Road across the creek. You really don’t know who is there because you can’t tell faces more than an arm’s length away. The only thing you know for certain is its 8:00pm, and you have four hours to get plastered and make it to McDonalds for a McChicken and a laugh before walking home, sleeping out, or getting picked up by one of your boy’s parents.
So you make entry. Fist pounds for the boys and casual ass grabs for the ladies. $5 to the guy whose brother bought the keg and you’re ready to go. The thing that makes the palace, The Palace, is that there aren’t fucking drinking games that all the poindexters talk about in homeroom Monday morning. We don’t play “Kings”; we don’t play “Beer Pong.” We fill up our cups when they are empty; we rip heat pieces, fool around with the devils lettuce, and talk about sluts and slampigs. Then people start getting tipsy…