I’ve decided to start putting down on blog some of the stories I have from my days at the Dredge House. So I’ll start by telling you what the Dredge House is. Or was, rather.

Just out of high school, I went straight into college. That didn’t work out too well, so my Pop said, “Son, if you’re not going to do it my way, you’ll have to do it your way.” I told him I had no problem with that. “But your way means your house, your car, your job, your money…” Oh. I see. So I had to move out. He gave me a couple of weeks I think. Well during the last couple of days of my stay at the Spacey Senior residence, my buddy TJ got kicked out of his house too. I invited him to stay with me for the final few days in my parents’ house, and we commenced to searching for new living arrangements.

We found a house in Denton, about two miles from the infamous Fry Street. You know, the straight side of Denton. It was really wild how it worked out too, because the house we found for rent was right around the corner from my sister and her boyfriend. So TJ and I moved in and put our names on the lease, then proceeded to move in our girlfriends, our girlfriends’ girlfriends, their boyfriends and just about everyone else in a similar situation. So this was Amy and Tonya and Trip and Wil and Stan and Mikey and Katy and Joi and Jason and Katrina (not the hurricane) and – well I think that’s about it. Oh, and Stuart, because he was in the band.

So it was a packed house, and a constant party. There were two things that were guaranteed when you would get home to the Dredge House: Number one, someone was always awake and drinking. There were enough people there that the Law of Statistical Averages and Beer Consumption of 1979 – which stated that with enough people in the sample, at any given time one of them would be drinking – was truly in well effect. Number two, someone was always getting sexed. Bath tub, master bedroom, hall closet, kitchen table, Crab Couch in the living room in plain view of everyone… It didn’t matter what time it was. If you wanted to walk in on someone having sexy time, you just start looking in all the rooms of the house.

It got to the point where we had so many girls in the house that I would sometimes come out of my room and see two or three sitting on the couch watching television, and I’d not know any of them. But in the open relationship I had with Amy, I was allowed to partake of whatever extra-relationshipial engagements I felt were necessary. Amy, of course was open about this mostly because she didn’t know. But back then, I wasn’t married, so if there were a nice set of boobs that needed some attention, I was happy to oblige. Kind of like now. I kid, I kid.

Anyway, it was called the Dredge House because Dredge was the name of our band. I was the drummer, TJ was the singer, and Stu played bass. In the picture I’m actually singing the one song I sang back then. TJ is on the drums. Just about every Friday when we’d get home from work (on the days we actually went in), we’d put beer in the fridge (20-pack of Lonestar, $7.50, three each) and get the instruments ready. Because there’d undoubtedly be at least 10 or 15 people waiting patiently for us to play. People we mostly didn’t know. I doubt the house was ever locked the whole year we lived there. We had an open-door policy. Meaning our door was almost never closed. Literally. Someone was always opening it to go out and puke or smoke or have sex on the porch.

There were fights on the front porch, foot chases in our driveway, escaping dogs from our massive backyard, pot plants growing in our garden (of which I had no knowledge at the time of their growing), people breaking in and busting our glasses, cops coming by to check up on us, dropped guitars (on purpose), stolen vacuum cleaners, a girl who tried to commit suicide in my bathtub while three guys stood watching, people putting eggs on the skillet and walking off, completely forgetting about them (until several hours later, good lord), and many more happenings I think are worthy of mentioning in some fair amount of detail.

So now that you know what the Dredge House was, and that it was always happening, you’re properly prepared for some of the stories I intend to share with you here. Some of them will sound ridiculously ridiculous. Others will sound like complete bullshit, but I promise you, dear reader, I will be telling the truth, the – well, maybe not the whole truth, that could be dangerous! – but definitely nothing but the truth.

Here are some of the stories to come:

• • Weiland, The Racist Dog

• • The Great Mate Swap of 1994

• • Lisa, the Notorious Cereal Thief

• • Old Guy and the Onion Incident

• • Amy’s Initiation to the Dark Side

• • Tyson and the Coffee Table Cocaine Incident

• • Oh, You Mean We Have to Pay These Bills?

• • Blue Thunder and the Exploding Truck Door

• • Beth, My Sister, and the Open-Door Policy that Failed Me

• Jessie and the 23 Index

Clearly I have a few stories to share. I’ll be giving you one about every week or so. I feel they need to be told at some point, and certainly need to be journaled for at least my recollection. It was the wildest year of my life, and I still have the scars and burn marks to prove it. See you next week, friends.