PHOTOS
Ryan Thomas creates a puddle of milk (1) (2)
BJ Summers exalts over his puddle....
...dances around in his underpants...
...and plays with his nipples.
Karin Vengsheol goes berzerk...
...and licks chocolate off Mariko's Neck
Moriya Vanderhoef is just proud to have drunk 2/3 of her milk.
Mariko drinks soy milk. She is weak.
The trophy we had made to honor Ryan for his fine accomplishment.
Ryan Thomas, amonth later, accepting his trophy for his fine accomplishment
Milk Day 2002. A remarkable affair. Love was found. Milk was drunk. A legend was born. The lot of us met at the corner of Cambie St. and Broadway in Vancouver, at noon of that day. Stars in our eyes and gallons of milk in our hands. BJ and his heathen girlfriend Mariko were there, as were Karin Vengsheol and her creepy ex-boyfriend, Russel. Mariko had brought her friend Owen James along, whom none of us had ever met, and a short while after my then-girlfriend Moriya and I arrived, we were joined by our friend Ryan Thomas, for whom a great destiny was waiting in the wings. Finally, shortly after arriving at the park, we were joined by the illustrious Phil Ng, whom none but I had ever met before. Many introductions were made, as we staked out our spots on the ceremonial hill and Mariko started filming the event for posterity. Before long, we were set to begin. The caps came off the jugs, and the clock started counting down.
For many there, this was the first Milk Day. They didn't know what to expect. They knew that it was physically challenging. They knew it was perhaps an exercise in futility. But for one of us, it was something else. As the rest of us stood about, chattering away our time, one of us sat quietly off to one side, a look on his placid face which we would only later come to understand. That man was Ryan Thomas. All who seek the title of Milky-Sama would do well to heed his wisdom.
As time passed, friendships were formed, as Owen James made the decision to join our merry band of miscreants, and flirted outrageously with his soon-to-be girlfriend, Karin. But while there was much joy for them, for many of us there was only an acceptance of what was to come, an acceptance which came with an odd combination of grimness and glee; we knew that most likely, only failure awaited us. We knew also that even success would come at a terrible price. Thus it was that this was not what we were focused upon; The target our minds' eyes were set upon was the Spectacular Failure.
How does one describe the allure of something like a Spectacular Failure at a Milk Day celebration to someone who's never experienced it? A wise man once observed that the best part of hitting your head against a wall repeatedly is how much better it feels when you stop. This is part of it, certainly; the sudden release of a colossal pressure which you've been carrying within you for all too long. And make no mistake; that pressure starts building early on in the milk-drinking process. Within half an hour, you'll be moving around very carefully, and within forty-five minutes, hardly at all. Thus, after expelling your stomach contents, you're re-acquainted with a pair of old friends named mobility and comfort. Yes, that's fantastic, and I'll never say otherwise. But there's more to it than that, as evidenced by the praise lauded upon one for a particularly magnificent lactic ejaculation will attest. There's pride. Pride in showing that you gave it your all and never flinched in the face of discomfort or incapacity. Pride in knowing you saw the journey through to its pukey end. Pride in knowing that, regardless of any title or goal you may have just failed to attain, you've just proven your mettle in one of the most grueling physical contests ever devised by man. Yes, there's pride.
But any pride at any Spectacular Failure this year would pale before the pride of another accomplishment this year.
As the hour ticked inexorably by, distractions were inevitable. The obligatory annual attempt to capture a goose was made. All but one of us peed in amongst the branches of a nearby pine tree, who's shelter has protected the dignity of many of us over the years, and that last one, Moriya, poor fool that she was, spent half an hour - fully half of the celebration - seeking out the comfort of an enclosed washroom. Let her folly and the price she paid for it be a lesson to all. Chocolate sauce was licked from and by many of us. And finally, through all the distractions, the difficult truth emerged that time was running out, and that one way or the other, the painful home stretch was in view. Some shrank from the path; the challenge to great for them. Some knew defeat was theirs, but strove on regardless. Only two had victory in their sights, and those two were myself, and the newcomer, Ryan Thomas.While years of experience and two bitter (albeit Spectacular) failures had taught me hard lessons about pacing myself properly, Ryan was possessed of a keen mathematical mind which has been compared to a fine Swiss watch; mechanical, keen, and largely unerring. What it had taken me years to learn, it seemed to have taken Ryan only calculation to master. As the final two minutes hove into view, we both strove to down the last half litre of milk, knowing that our bodies could contain even an unhealthy amount for at least a short while.
Perhaps my calculations were off. Perhaps I had failed to digest the last night's meal entirely. Perhaps I was just weak. In the end, I came within a minute of victory before my body betrayed me. But the eruption was cataclysmic. And in both my proximity to success and in the magnitude of my failure, I take comfort.
But the hour was not yet at an end.
The final minute was upon us, and Ryan drank, and he drank, and he drank. The last ten seconds ticked on, and there was doubt, and there was fear. All eyes upon him, we all counted down those last crucial moments, and as the last second ticked past, so too did the last of the milk trickle past his lips.
Ryan Thomas had done it. He was the Milky-Sama.
A wild cheer went up. A hero was born. Ryan, then and there, knew he would always hold an honored place in the annals of the Church of Stuff, and joined us then and there.
Then came the aftermath. Ryan fell to his knees. BJ doubled over. Simultaneously, they violently ejected the contents of their stomachs. A few short moments later, in a scene which has since been immortalized in the oft spoken-of photo, Owen James vomited up a pale white stream while leaning heavily upon a tree for support. It was then that we were joined by Colin MacDonald, conspicuous by his absence this year up to this point, who nevertheless was welcomed warmly by those who had just experienced that which he had helped to pioneer lo those two years earlier.
After it was agreed that we would all make a point of meeting en masse once a month from that point forwards and keep the bonds forged this day alive, we all said our goodbyes, and went our separate ways, carrying the smell of vomit in our noses, and the memory of this glorious occasion in our hearts.
