by David Banyas

Ft. Lauderdale, Panama City, Acapulco, and Mazatlan are now bursting at their borders with hormonally addled guys and girls who wish they had more skin to show and at the mere suggestion, do. For several days at Spring Break the landscape heaves and swells with bacchanalian rapture, the air is laden with hazes of alcohol, and a significant acreage of the sidewalks are covered with sawdust absorbing expelled contents from the stomachs of the country’s newest binge drinkers. The local economy spikes like an Alp as thousands of “Chips of the Ol’ Block” and “Daddy’s Girls” sponge and spend any and all money to ensure euphoria unbroken.

Nothing sleeps at night, unless it’s passed out. Thongs are no longer just footwear. T-shirts are worn wet or not at all. Mating rituals are reduced to a smile and a nod.
 
I wanted to find my beach Spring Break in the ‘Burg. And, in a way, I did.

Traditionally, the still chilled northeast is what Spring Breakers flee from for the balmy playgrounds of the southern beach coasts. However, if I was to find trouble right here in River City, I needed to equip myself with the tools that would act as a shoehorn to slip into Spring Break where it never occurs. 

I made a list and was able to cross nearly every item off. Sunglasses, blue lenses, slightly polarized. Hawaiian shirts, floral print, cruelly colored. Birkenstocks, dual suede straps. Swim trunks, surf style, matches shirt colors. Leis. Tiki torches. Bullfrog sunblock 45. Beach chair with leg support, easy fold and carry. Money, some mine. Scantily clad beach bunnies, one mine. Towel. Pork. Beer. Recreational drugs. Attitude. Checkity-check. Just needed a beach.

City Island’s concrete shore left much comfort to be desired from sleeping on the beach. The water didn’t exactly lap the shore, either. And while plenty of seagulls hovered and padded about to set the beach mood, not one single scantily clad beach bunny was about. In fact, no one was there but me. Driving the point home, I recalled that seagulls also like trash heaps. I imagined a park might be better.
While I drove to Negley Park in Lemoyne, passing the last snowfall of the season on all sides of the road, I nodded in time to the reggae thumping from my Chevy POS. At the park, I set my beach chair up, settled into it sporting full beach regalia including a nose with a thick layer of sunblock, popped a lager open and toasted the city across the river. After taking in the sun for a bit, I felt that I needed to get the city more involved in my party. So I went into the city, thumping and nodding all the way up to the Capitol steps. Propped the chair on the first landing looking down State Street, laid back in a triumphant appraisal of the Little City That Could: Harrisburg.

I shook my hand out in the recognizable surfer’s greeting with my little finger and thumb outstretched from my fist, shouting, “Par-Taaayy!” to passing motorists. Strangely, everyone ignored me. Apparently, the more conspicuous you appear against the usual grayed-out décor of Harrisburg, the less visible you become. So I took advantage of my invisibility and stood along Front Street with my “Aloha” sign and waving at the traffic heading home. None of my fellow ‘Burgians, not one, waved back.

Unruffled, I went to the only party animal I knew would be open to my celebratory enthusiasm: the statue of the newspaper reader on Front Street. He sported my leis and sunglasses without a word of resistance, and a passing motorist waved. In that moment, the Spring Break of Harrisburg broke.

The sun began to fall on the first day and I sought to transcend the reality of a cold city getting colder. I met with some old friends and made new ones over nachos, mixed drinks, and a few pitchers of lager and dark beer. Lips loosened and laughs cracked the stale evening. We became innocently obnoxious, becoming Woo!-guys and Woo!-girls, spilling just as much alcohol as we ingested. In a few hours, we had to move the party. At my girlfriend’s house, the girls put on bikinis, and the guys put on beach towels to mimic the skirts worn by native Hawaiian men. 

A friend who recently got back from New York asked if I wanted any lipstick and handed me what looked like the real thing. I was mystified. I pulled on it curiously and it came apart to reveal a chamber filled with an herb—THE herb. The lipstick was a clever pot pipe. Since it’s illegal, I admit nothing, but we all put on lipstick until the fridge was empty and everything was either extraordinarily interesting or hilarious.

My gut ached pleasantly the next morning (I woke up at 11:57 a.m.) from guffawing all night. I would have kept sleeping except the phone rang me out of my blackout. 

“Hey, David,” the voice was vaguely familiar. “It’s Tattoo Jim. Just making sure you’re showing up.” I could feel the still-inebriated neurons in my head shake themselves sober and snap into line, reconnecting me with my memory bank. My bravery inflated last night to the point of overruling my apprehensions and I had made a noontime appointment for my first tattoo. A brief inner struggle ensued. 

“Yes, Jim,” I wondered who was making me say this. “I’m running late, but I’m on the way.” I prayed that I didn’t promise anything to a piercing salon, too.

On the way to New Cumberland’s famed tattoo parlor, The Illustrated Man, I debated on the tattoo image, where to have it tattooed, and whether I should just turn around and go home. 

I got there at about half past noon and Tattoo Jim and his wife Marilyn played host like I was at their party. As I looked over the walls covered with artwork unmistakably of the tattoo ilk, we all talked about charged subjects from gun control to raising children and the responsibility of the media alongside parental guidance. Not necessarily agreeing but still giving credence to each of our views, it was one of the better conversations I’ve had this year.

I decided on a symbol that has multiple reflections of my personae. It represents my love of writing and my disdain for the homogenizing of society. It represents the ownership of things that we all find so important in life as well as the ridiculousness of it seen on skin. I decided to put the copyright symbol © on my left shoulder. I had one from the newspaper enlarged to where all of the imperfections of newsprint were visible. Jim printed the image onto transfer paper, rubbed some Mennen Speed Stick on my skin, which Jim says is better than any other transfer medium (they even sell it in tattoo supply catalogs), and pressed it on. 

Placement agreed upon, Jim armed himself with the needle and I steeled myself against its bite. Yes, it hurt, but my expectations of the pain were mercifully not met. Jim talked humorously about the different kinds of customers he’s had, saying that there has been a recent rash of young girls getting their first tattoo. Just then two teenage girls came in and began shopping the walls. We smiled.

He explained the differences of the needle tips for outlining and filling, the sterility of the operation throughout, and in general made me feel comfortable with everything going on. In fifteen minutes, he was done. I looked in the mirror, not quite sure that the notion that my body was forever changed had sunk in. The tattoo was exactly what I wanted and, in spite of the slight discomfort, I actually felt incredibly good. Jim dressed the tattoo, taught me the necessary first aid, and said that we were eternally linked via a small amount of ink. I thanked him, suppressing the urge to hug him like a brother. I left Jim in time to make a clothing optional pool party, being sure to keep my shoulder dry. I haven’t used my swimsuit yet.

I continued to celebrate Spring Break by having private luaus for two with my scantily clad beach bunny and reaching inebriation throughout the next days, but it all seemed to be on the down slope from the climax of the tattoo.

For most, Spring Break in Harrisburg is tucked beneath crisp air and morning-frosted windshields, behind non-budding trees, and is hidden in a town that turns in around 8 p.m. every weeknight and 11 p.m. on Saturday. But when looking at our town through blue sunglasses and an attitude that filters out “appropriate” activities for cold climates, spring can break ahead of schedule. 

Contact Jim or Marilyn at The Illustrated Man by calling 731-8287 or visiting their website, www.theillustratedman.com. Where the pipe was bought, I’ll never tell.

A New York State of Mind
By Lisa Hummel

Forget teeny-tiny bikinis and coconut oil, when I think ‘Spring Break’ I think city. A chance to get away from the often boring daily grind and head to the packed streets, throngs of people, and energy of Manhattan or Chicago, or, to a lesser extent, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. There’s something to be said about having a world of options at your fingertips, more than one big show or one standing room only night club to choose from, and a phone book thicker than three Harrisburg phone books combined. Spring break is a chance to wear your finest clothes — black, of course — and get ‘all dolled up’ for six days and seven nights of pure entertainment surrounded by some of the best dressed and best looking people anywhere in the country.

Limited to the confines of the Harrisburg city limits to find my Spring Break in the ’Burg — where a limited number of big shows and standing room only night clubs do exist on any given night, if you look hard enough — I gave up on discovering the packed streets and throngs of people and went right to the look part. If I couldn’t make it to the city, the city was coming to me, the city girl image, anyway. For one night I was going to be ‘all dolled up’ and, even if I went home and watched another re-run of “Friends,” I was going to prove that with the right look and the right mind set, the city and the party are never too far out of reach.

To test my theory, I bravely entered the door at Sculptured Images on Front Street in Wormleysburg with my best guinea pig behavior and let the skilled staff have at it. I wasn’t allowed to say a peep or offer too many suggestions and what ensued in the next three hours was pure fun. I went in wearing no make-up and without having done my hair and came out looking like someone I didn’t even recognize. Talk about attitude! I was right — it can be done. I’d never left the state and I felt like I was ready to take the big city by storm!

After getting the once-over from the staff — stylists Johnna Graci and Desiree Hebert and Sculptured Images owner/stylist Sara Muniz — Hebert sat me in a chair and shaped and plucked my eyebrows. Although she was excellent, I’ll admit that it was a tad painful (hint: have your brows waxed, Hebert swears it’s much easier and much less painful!) More than that, I’ll admit that I thought I liked my old eyebrows — or so I thought. When it was all done, I couldn’t believe the affect it had on my entire face. Even without a touch of make-up, the change was remarkable. I could feel the city girl emerging from the shadows and I hadn’t even been there a half-hour!

Feeling much like the make-over winner on some day time talk show, I was immediately transferred to Graci’s chair and watched in the mirror as she transformed my hair from stick straight to fabulously wavy. She threw soda can-sized thermal rollers in my tresses, plopped me under the dryer, and contemplated her next move all while Hebert gave me a facial. Again, she told me that, without the time constraints, I’d be much more relaxed and comfortable, but I assured her I was doing just fine. I had two professional stylists working on me at once, how could I even begin to complain? Hebert exfoliated, massaged, and applied a mask that, when all was said and done, made my face feel smoother than it had, maybe ever. She also added a soothing hand massage that was a nice finish to a relaxing experience.

Done with my facial and sufficiently curled, Graci and Hebert continued styling my hair. With five bobby pins, Graci took the curls and secured them on the top of my head, making it stand out and up. We were going for the big city look and the girls were making sure I had big hair. It was a great look, and, to my dismay, was not one I paid close enough attention to to do it again the next morning for work … I tried, and I failed. (I’ll have to go back!)

Done with eyebrows, face, and hair, Graci took me to the cosmetics counter where she turned me from ‘country mouse to city mouse’ in a manner of a few minutes and a few brush strokes. It was amazing. There were so many oohs and aahs in the salon that I couldn’t wait to get to a mirror and see the transformation for myself. I was not disappointed. Using Aveda cosmetics, Graci dabbed foundation, hid my flaws, applied blusher, and went straight to work on my eyes. With a distinct idea in mind, she applied eye shadow in shades that I wouldn’t normally give a passing glance when I’m in charge. Putting my desire to say ‘are you sure I should wear green eye shadow?’ aside, I let her go and go she did. She applied greens, she applied some blues, and she lined my eyes with a jet black eye pencil that evoked visions of Priscilla Presley in her Elvis days. She added a Marilyn Monroe-like mole to a spot where a faint birthmark usually calls home. And Hebert — with Graci’s finishing touch — made my lips the poutiest and shiniest lips this side of Dauphin County.

I couldn’t wait to pick up the mirror and look in and when I did I did a double take. Was that even me I was looking at? They swear that is was. By the time it was all over — some three hours later — I was honestly upset I wasn’t in the city! With a look like that, I had to have some five star place to go!

Finished, I donned my black leather jacket, zipped up my black leather boots, and was off to take on the big, bad confines of … Harrisburg. No matter, I had the look, I had the feel, and I watched “Friends” with the best big city attitude ever.
Spring Break in the ’Burg. My mission was accomplished within less the amount of time it would take me to get to the edge of Manhattan. A theory well worth proving.


Sculptured Images Wellness, Day Spa, and Salon is located at 204 South Front Street, Wormleysburg. Sculptured Images offers a variety of services not mentioned above, including an array of body treatments, facial treatments, nail care, and, of course, hair styling. For more information, call 730-9454 or go on the web: www.paonline.com/sculpturedimages.

Still Life With A Wooden Pecker
by Brian E. Phillips

Now that I have your attention, what am I going to do with it? Simple. There’s only one thing to do: talk about sex. And, I am going to tell you a story. A love story? Perhaps, but more than that, a story of sex and politics and our natural attraction to all things sexual. 

It all began two weeks ago when someone asked me what I did on Spring Break. I laughed and said the first thing that popped into my head. “I got laid.” The plot further thickened when I read the story of a local representative named Lawless. It was at that time that I decided I was going to have my own Sex Faire.

I decided right there and right then that I was going to spend my Spring Break week turning all of Lawless’ rants upside down. I would become an outlaw for Pennsylvania love. What higher purpose, what greater mission can an outlaw have than to remind people that sex is not dirty, but rather something fun? I envisioned a week of strip clubs, porn shops, and an interview with Larry Flynt. I didn’t quite land that interview, but I did get to visit a few sex shops and I even went to Fantasies. And you know what? I had a blast.

Now, before your imaginations get the best of you and you envision some sort of exotic journal about how I bounced from headboard to headboard scoring chicks on a daily basis in every strip bar from here to D.C. and back, know that is not what this story is about. Maybe 10 years ago it might have been, but today I am just a boring guy who finds pleasure in a very traditional and monogamous relationship. Boring? Maybe sometimes, but this week of my life was a wee bit different. In fact, I took my fiancé with me.

Excitement Video in Camp Hill, for those of you missing all of the brouhaha surrounding its opening, is a sex shop. So, maybe people aren’t hanging out having intercourse and there are no little dark booths in the back where you can deposit a quarter for two minutes of an old grainy “X” movie, but it definitely specializes in all things sexual. You name it, they’ve got it. The only thing that I didn’t see was books. They are called “bookstores,” but they are not. I couldn’t find a book anywhere. The closest thing that I could find was a magazine with a pair of flowered panties as an added bonus gift.

I did, however, find plenty of porn. Walls and walls of videos. And an assortment of DVDs that puts even Blockbuster to shame. Included in these thousands of titles was everything from polished hard body flicks to amateur home movies. There is something for every lifestyle and every inclination. Fetish, group sex, voyeurism. You name it; they have: 15 to 50 titles available for rent or purchase.

After taking the time to check out all of the titles and noticing not one that I recognized (not even Deep Throat), I decided it was time for us to see what else they had. After taking a short moment to look through the magazine section and deciding on purple or pink panties, we wandered toward the front of the store to check out the toys. Inflatable, vibrating, life size, incredible replicas of the human anatomy. Gizmos, devices, from a vibrating fig leaf that Eve would have been lucky to find to an Auto Helper which provides pleasure in the comfort and conveniences of your own car and plugs right into your cigarette lighter.

So we did it. Survived the ‘raunchy’ experience of visiting a Sex Shop. It’s hard to believe that so much is made out of pornography. It seems so ordinary — well, maybe not ordinary, but certainly not worthy of all the attention that such matters are given. I mostly laughed. It can be and is anything that you want it to be. Offensive, funny, a turn on or not. It is all in what you make of it. And people seem to want to make a lot more out of it than what it deserves. Sex is natural. We are attracted to each other, why should we be intimidated or afraid of our own desires?

My Spring Break was a success. Later in the week, we went to Adult World and even checked out a couple of strippers. I had a great week being an outlaw, talking, discussing, and exploring all things taboo, and realizing what an idiot Representative Lawless is. Harrisburg and the surrounding areas are no different than the rest of the world. York has its Cupid’s Corner, Harrisburg has its Adult World, and the West Shore has Excitement Video. We are as sexual as the rest of the country. We just need to realize this. And accept it. The only thing that Penn State and the Womyn’s Concern group did was accept their place in the world and offer students a chance to explore things that they are want to know and offer direction that could make them better lovers. If nothing less, the condoms and free contraceptives will make them safer lovers. And for that, the University should be rewarded, not berated or fiscally punished.

And as for the question of getting laid on this Spring Break, did I? Well, what do you think?

CLICK HERE for the MODE Staff's Spring Break Soundtrack.

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