Everyone has a good hot tub story.
Here are two. Once, while in Colorado on a high school marching band trip (we were the cool kids), my friend and I put liquid hand dispenser soap in the hotel hot tub. Bad idea dudes! The soap bubbled and frothed quickly instantly, and didn’t stop. It straight-up metastisized. Within seconds, you couldn’t see your hand in front of you - it was just a gigantic, ever-growing wall of white bubbles. We ran away.
Another time we were in the hottub and some cops walked through the back, opened the backyard gate, walked up to the tub, and told us to get out because he had a neighbor complain. He watched us, un-clothed, get out of the tub like some sick freak. And he didn’t even have a warrant. Only in Jersey.
But they were, and the mystique and awesomeness surrounding them can no doubt be attributed to the wild and saucy folks from Santa Barbara in the 1970s.
Such is the gist of Hot Tubs, the film we’re showing on Saturday, May 14th. The film is a testament to the founding fathers and mothers of hot tubs, namely, the bohemian free-spirits of south-central Coastal California who shunned convention, bras, briefs, boxers, boxer-briefs, and mundane and lame bourgeois claptrap to make it possible for future 15 year olds to get stoned, get wet, crank ”Led Zeppelin IV,” and make it to second base. Truly trailblazing stuff.
Get your tickets in advance here.
Oh! Oh! What’s your favorite hot tub story?
Please try to keep it PG.