Redneck Disneyland

Tre, the host of the party, is standing naked on the driveway, holding a shotgun, facing a television set. A handful of people fill in behind him. Tre aims the gun at the TV and fires. Boom. He blows a hole in the set.

One of the onlookers asks, “Tell me, again, why that dude just took off his clothes and shot his television.”

Someone else replies, “exactly,” which doesn’t answer the question at all.

Welcome to the Tax Day Party, Tre and Jana’s annual punk rock white trash bash.

It’s a spectacle we never miss.

Each year, we witness odd, and sometimes terrible, sights at the Tax Day Party, like people streaking in lightning storms, like plastic chairs burning in bonfires, like one-eyed trolls, like fire-twirling circus hippies.

The party takes place over the course of a weekend just after tax day proper at Jana and Tre’s home on 10 acres overlooking the Pedernales River valley. On their 10 acres, you’ll find a disc golf course, peacocks, chickens, cats, dogs, a stone fort, a pool table, a hot tub, fire pits, a big swing, mountain biking, secluded access to the river, and a ranch-style house.

For that weekend, the property turns into a playground and a campground with tents scattered under the clumps of live oaks. It’s like Disneyland for rednecks.

The hosts—free spirits, skate punks, seasoned drinkers, friendly lunatics—set the tone for the annual throw down. The party will start sedate but then someone will say something like, “hey, let’s go skinny dipping,” and Jana and Tre will drop their drawers and jump in the water.

And then others will follow, and then otherwise responsible adults will act increasingly reckless, and before you know it, Tre will be blasting apart a TV at 4 AM, and it will seem natural and normal, like this is what you do, you skinny dip, you crash three wheelers, you climb around in forts, you murder your TV.

This year’s version of the Tax Day Party arrives this weekend, and we’ll be there as usual. For a while, anyway. We’ll show up Saturday afternoon, survey the damage from the night before, splash around in the river, drink a couple of Lone Stars—the official beer of the Tax Day Party—and be back on the road with Eli and Slade before the party churns out of control, which, of course, it will. It always does.

Somebody will get hurt.

Something will be burned to the ground.

And Tre will lose his head and start talking about the witches cackling in the hills, just beyond the pond. He’ll claim they’re casting spells and making witchy plans while they stomp around on porn grass.

And someone will ask, “Porn grass? What does that even mean?”

And if I’m there, I’ll say, “Exactly.”

Because that’s exactly the point of the Tax Day Party. To not make sense. To lose your head. To celebrate nothing in particular deep into the indifferent night.


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