Day 17: Woody's Wharf Blog - Part 2

So again, sorry for the cliffhanger...

Turns out something fairly major happened over the weekend, but more on that later.

So again, let's get back to Woody's Wharf. There we were, myself and a bunch of my friends sitting at a table having just finished our dinner/cocktails. It was still fairly early in the evening, probably six or seven by this time.

We had just seen a random dude on his boat getting a blow horn installed in his crow's nest, when suddenly he had walked into the bar and sat adjacent to us. One of us said to him, "So you've got a boat, huh? That's pretty sweet."

"Yeah it is actually," he says while he orders his beer from the waitress.

"We saw you up in the crow's nest with that sloot," my buddy says cockily.

The guy laughs for a second, "Oh yeah? You could see us?"

"Yeah definitely, so could that little kid over there and his dad," as he motions to the table near the wall-sized window across the room.

The guy from the boat starts laughing, as do we all--now fairly buzzed from the numerous cocktails. We sit there and bullshit with him for a while, and gather that his name is Chris.

"Well listen, you guys wanna come out on our boat?"

We hesitate, and then a couple of us chime in, "Hell yeah we do!"

A couple of us, two of the girls and my buddy from Phoenix, decide to take his offer to heart and once he gets his drink they head out the side door of the restaurant, out onto the dock, and then onto the boat. Those of us remaining in the restaurant have another cocktail and sort of anxiously talk amongst ourselves wondering what they're doing out there in that boat. Then suddenly one of them comes running back down the dock and into the restaurant.

"You guys come out here its awesome!" He says and then runs back to the boat.

We finish totalling out our bill and then say, "What the hell," and head out to the boat. As we walk out onto the boat we could hear loud hip hop music coming from the speakers up in the crow's nest...the scene of the "incident" earlier. There's a small step stool leading up to the main deck of the boat, and I board the boat I can see now that there's a cabin below. In the cabin beneath is another guy and one of the "classy" girls we saw earlier. The only way I could actually tell she was down there was that is I could see her high heeled legs moving...Turns out that there were actually two completely different slu...women on the boat the whole time. Who knows what was going down...sorry...happening in the cabin below while Chris was up top with the other female.

After a moment the girl below the deck realizes that there are other people on the boat and then suddenly tries to play it off as if nothing was happening. She sloppily stands up, pulls her tight jeans back up (apparently they were slightly down...), buttons and zips, and then slurs, "Heeey you all, how are you!?"

By this time we're all fairly drunk so we just blow it off...ignore her. Chris runs down below the deck, and then comes back up with a cooler. "Hey guys, help yourselves." He opens the cooler to reveal a treasure trove of booze and ice cold beers. Not wanting to seem rude I grab a beer for myself and then one for my pocket--just in case.

A short while later the girl from down stairs and the second in command of the "Ocean Pair-a-Dice" (name of the boat) comes stumbling up the stairs.

"Hey dudes, where are you from?" We shoot the shit with him for a little while. He's pretty faded by this point, the bags beneath his bloodshot eyes seem to say he either hasn't slept in a long time or he's been hitting the boozes fairly hard. I gathered that his name was Kevin, and yes in fact he was sloppy-ass drunk.

So a few hours pass and we sat there drinking with Chris and Kevin on Ocean Pair-a-Dice, when suddenly Kevin and one of those classy gals from before decide that maybe they should go have a private chat session below the deck. No one thinks much of it, we just assume that he's going to go lay some pipe...so we just ignore it for a bit. We're all up in the top level of the boat at this point, near the giant cliched boat steering wheel. The cooler is now getting fairly low, Chris had a few bottles of booze and mixers that he gladly gave us, and again it would be rude to say no, so we happily obliged.

As we're sitting up there recanting drunken stories with Chris and his merwhore we suddenly hear some laughing and slight moaning coming from below deck. Its one of those sounds where you're fairly certain you know what's going on buuuuut a few of us decide to go below deck and investigate, just to be sure that everyone is safe...yeah...

So myself and a few others go below deck to see Kevin and his Ocean Pair-a-Boobs getting frisky below...well sort of. She's laying on her back on the floor and he's sucking her toes. They're both completely oblivious to the fact that we're there watching this craziness, completely laughing our asses off, while Kevin is mowing down the metatarsals. Rather than sticking around for what might happen later we decide to head back up top. Although this picture looks slightly more incriminating than it is, I can assure you (at least while we were down there) there was only some toe sucking and apparently wrestling going down....

So now we're finally out of beer and booze, but Chris decides he's going to keep the party going. He runs inside grabs more beer and the booze from the bar, and restocks the cooler. So by this time its dark, probably 9 pm, and a few friends of ours decide to come and join us out on the boat. We continue partying on this boat with our new seadogs Chris and Kevin, and by this time they had abandoned their somewhat feeble/successful (depending on how you look at it...sucking toes? Really Kevin...really? Sucking the dirty nasty toes of a seawhore you met that day? Really? Jeez) attempts at getting laid and have focused solely on getting drunk...yeah okay, getting MORE drunk. Kevin hadn't totally given up, or maybe this was his curtain call because he took his puta del mar down below again to commence in a little dancing, he always was such a romantic...

Our friends had come and met us at this time, and we were all partying aboard a couple of perfect strangers' (no not Balki) boat. Of course by this time we had already started scheming that we were going to take the boat to Catalina Island in the morning, naturally that had about a zero percent chance of EVER happening, but at the time WE WERE TOTALLY GOING! Anyway, so there we are partying when suddenly another boat pulls up next to us. Turns out this boat was full of University of Minnesota students. Well, that's usually a lot of trouble since when I get drunk, as well as another of our friends, we tend to sing the Golden Gophers fight song (yes, as intimidating as that sounds there IS a fight song). Basically it concludes by chanting:

M-I-N-N-E-S-O-T-A MINNESOTA MINNESOTA GOOOOO GOPHERS!

Well typically by the time that starts, we're three sheets (or sails in this case) to the wind and trouble tends to ensue--this time was no different (also stay tuned one of these days for the You're goin' in the Bush story...it involves this cursed chant...). So there we were and we can see that they've got Golden Gophers decals on their boat, so naturally we start chanting. Then their only natural course of action is to join in on the chant...well this continues for a while and then they dock and people begin jumping from the boat we were on to the Golden Gophers boat. I remind my LONGTIME girlfriend that she should be careful since she's fairly intoxicated at this point, and even suggest that MAYBE she shouldn't pursue a course of action that could potentially lead to her falling into the harbor.

Sooooooo...fast forwarding to a few hours later, we continue partying, at this point its about 11 pm and Harbor Patrol has decided that we are either too drunk or too loud to continue our hijinx on their docks so they say that we all have to go inside the bar. Yes...you read correctly, we were kicked INTO the bar, first time for everything.

Anyway as they were trying to corral us and get us all to go into the bar the Golden Gophers boat decided that they were going to leave, and they sort of made that decision without much regard to who was on their boat. So my LONGTIME girlfriend was still on the boat and had to quickly vacate the departing Gopher boat, and she jumped from one deck to the other....as she did so she missed Chris and Kevin's boat and fell into the water. People quickly scrambled to rescue her from the water (which was about 55-60 degrees), everyone was laughing, LUCKILY she was okay. However her purse and everything in it (including her THIRD cell phone that YEAR) was shot.

So by this time, with the girlfriend completely soaked, it pretty much signaled the end of the night (or at least the end of this story since its fairly ramblatious in nature). Maybe the morale of the story is to take chances with people you've never met and let go of your inhibitions, maybe the morale is drink a bunch at a place with docks and chances are you'll see a guy getting a beej and hang out on his boat, or maybe, just maybe, the morale of the story is listen to your boyfriend when he says don't jump from boat to boat while drunk because you'll fall into the water...into these jellyfish (no shit picture taken exactly where she went in the water).

Ramblatious: adj. Of, by, or pertaining to, rambling or ramble mongering.

Day 16: Woody's Wharf Blog - Part 1

So here we are over halfway through the 30 day goal, I'm still about a million people short of my 100 follower goal though, but I've got time.

So after having friends in town for the past weekend, I feel like I'm finally starting to get back on track sleep and not-feeling hungover-wise, so that's good. Living in a warm state and growing up in a fairly un-warm state, we tend to have a lot of visitors out here. Usually with people arriving, it typically signals the start of either starting our tour guide services for the weekend or some severe liver damage and fattening food indulgence. Fortunately this time, it was a hybrid of the two--and it actually felt like we were on vacation too, hard to complain about that.

Given that I've now experienced what can only be described as a very chill, relaxing weekend with some great friends who I don't get to see very often, I figure I should recant the epic tale of the weekend that was Woody's Wharf Fiasco (or WWF).

Two of my good girl friends from college/high school and another of my high school buddies flew out to Orange County (the girls coming from MN), the guy coming on over from the AZ. Being that it was summer, Friday, and there were people in town we decided that that was as good of a reason as any to go grab some food and get some libations, so we headed down to a local seafood place in the harbor known only as Woody's Wharf. This was doubly pertinent since another of our good friends from back in MN's name is Woody, so we figured, "Hey what the hell, might as well eat at his wharf." That doesn't sound good...

So there we are in the restaurant, its late afternoon (I'd say fourish) and we're hungry for some fish and a few cocktails. As we walk into the restaurant there is a small waiting area where the restrooms and the hostess station are located. Sitting directly adjacent to the hostess station is a Breathalyzer machine, this beacon of sobriety should have been a sign of the things that were to come.

After waiting for a moment, the hostess seats us and hands us our menus and waters--the usual restaurant shtick ensues. The dining area is arranged in such a way that basically wherever you're sitting, unless your back is to it, you're able to see the harbor through the plate glass wall. So after we order our food, eat it, and order a few more drinks each, someone notices a guy up in the crow's nest of a boat that was docked at outside the restaurant. Now the restaurants that are in the harbor tend to have docks that people can just pull their boats up to and come in for a drink, or have a waitress bring food and/or (or only) drinks onto the boat, which is pretty sweet. So one of the boats must have pulled up and decided, "Hey let's get some food and have a beer before heading out to our original destination." Or at least that's what they should have said.

So there we are eating our food, having our cocktails and now we notice that it's not just a guy up in the crow's nest, its also a woman. She is strategically positioned in a fashion that could only suggest the guy was getting his O's fellated.

So she's basically on her knees, in the crow's nest, the guy is standing up there with his hands on the roof of the crow's nest bracing himself...aaaaand there's a kid in the restaurant watching the whole thing "go down".

This seven year old kid, in all likelihood, has absolutely no idea what's going on. In fact, he probably thinks this nice lady is fixing a zipper or perhaps sewing a new button on this poor man's khaki shorts...poor poor man. And had the "nice lady" continued with her job at hand...the kid would have been none the wiser. It was only when she decided to stand up, assuming her "work" was done, turn around, and pull out a boob when the kid's dad decided to tell him to, "Quit staring and get eating."


At this point we're all cracking up, not just because this dude is getting a beej on the boat in plain sight of the restaurant, but also because the dad had to pretend it wasn't funny and scold his innocent (though now slightly less) son for looking. A few moments later, the two lovebirds come down from their nest (possibly realizing that the glass wall in front of their boat had people behind it?) and go to "freshen up" below deck...wow so many double entendres here I don't even know where to start.

Anyway, so we talk about how funny what we just saw was for a while as we finish our dinner and have a few more drinks. At this point, had we used it, the Breathalyzer in the entryway would have told us that cabbing is a good idea and that driving post-multi-cocktails is a bad idea. So the bill comes and the conversations and drinks are all winding down, the imminent feeling of our departure is weighing down upon us. But before it can fully set in, the "poor man" from the crow's nest comes stumbling up the dock from his boat and comes...enters...walks into the bar, right into the dining area. He walks up to the bar, orders a drink, and then sits down at the table near us.

At this point we're all thinking..."Why don't we ask him what was going down...happening over there on his boat?" Everyone is apprehensive to break the ice with the public beej taker, and then suddenly someone shoots out...says, "So, I see you've got a boat? That's pretty sweet."

That single statement changed what could have been a fairly standard evening into a drunken debacle of epic proportions. However, I will leave the remainder of this story for tomorrow--I hate cliffhangers as much as the next person (trust me) but this time its necessary or I'll have written nearly the full content of my life's memoirs by the time this blog is finished...maybe not such a bad thing though??? Anyway like I said, I will try to wrap up this epic tale tomorrow...Stay tuned.

Day 15 - Blogging About Nothing

Yes I realized I missed a blog post yesterday, and yes I said I'd only be skipping blogs on Fridays-Sundays, well yesterday was my birthday so guess what, I'm letting myself off the hook...deal with it.

Sometimes blogging can be very strenuous, other times it comes fairly easily that day (see previous entries for overly long blog posts), today seems to be one of the former. Based on the fact that I got approximately 3 hours of sleep last night and pretty much drank profusely since Thursday of last week I'm going to copout today and call this my blog posting...

Weak? Yes, very. So I'll just close today by posting a few links to things I've recently become obsessed/interested with.

• Pitchfork (a music site for people who hate music) has recently completed their list of the Top 500 Songs of the 2000's. Given that I'm usually a staunch critic of that website, I'm entirely suprised by how damn awesome the list is. Even if you don't go through all of the list, check out the top 20, fairly awesome. The plan is to listen to all 500 songs, in order, and then probably blog a little about it. So buckle up folks that one is gonna be a barnburner!

• Being a long time fan of Richard Dawkins, it was pretty awesome to read this article from the other day.

• This was interesting.

• Don't look now, but the Twins have won 5 in a row.

• I'm not sure exactly what this is, but I know I need to see it ASAP.

Okay I'm done for tonight, au revoir.

Day 14 - The STFU Blog

At some point in the 2000s (maybe even the late 90s) a set of acronyms were established as normal dialogue for use in texting, chatting, and now most recently dialogue. Who said this was okay? Where the fuck was I when we were having this meeting, and who called it and invited seemingly everyone else to it? I'll be the first to admit that lol or LOL or LoL or whatever the hell has crept into my online chatting vocabulary. I'm not sure exactly how it permeated my internet lexicon but it has and for some reason its here to stay.

WTF is another one of those creeping death to your English teacher's best efforts type of acronyms that has now fully substantiated itself in my IM and text message thesaurus. I use WTF and LOL probably far too often, and I realize it. But as far as I'm concerned with texting and im'ing (is that right? Goddamn computers ruining the English language) once the words are typed there are only a few instances that should legitimately for editing. One of them being obvious typos; for instance, if you mean to type "Regards" but your finger slips off the G key and instead types the nearby T key, a typo edit is justified there.

There are really very few other times when an edit is justifiable. As far as I'm concerned chatting and texting should be stream of consciousness (similar to some blogs out there...), meaning whatever comes to mind should be put to paper...or keyboard/screen, whatever. I mean in face-to-face interactions you don't get to go back and redo what's already been said, so why should online interactions be any different.

Some of the acronyms that people use are just stupid, ROFL or the apparently more evolved ROFLcopter...I mean does that even make sense? At any point in your life have you or has anyone around you said something so UNBELIEVABLY hysterical that you actually FALL TO THE GROUND and commence ROLLING and laughing? Not only that, has anyone ever been rolling on the ground and then started doing the Homer Simpson Helicopter Walk on the ground? Doubtful, I'm not completely ruling it out, but I'll just leave it at doubtful.

I can envision a future where we no longer speak in sentences or even broken phrases. There we'll spouting OMG's, TMI's, STFU's to each other performing ROFLcopters, meanwhile aliens will touchdown, acknowledge that we're a bunch of fucking idiots and then leave. There goes our only chance at First Contact, we'll blow it with our fragmented jibberish and reGarded behavior, they'll turn our planet into a slave colony and we'll be there arguing with our overlords, "WTF GTFOOH, TIMH. (Translation: WTF Get the Fuck out of Here, This is My House).

Well in honor of our future enslavement, I'm branding a few new internet acroynms, feel free to use these at your own whim, just remember where you got them and use them wisely.

TIMH: This is My House (Used above I know, but its solid)
NFC: No Fuckin' Clue
YSDBAG: You Stupid Douchebag

Those are my three, I'll periodically add to these as I think of them. Its obviously FAR more fun to use acronyms if you are the only one who knows what they mean...that's like 90% of what being an Engineer entails. YSDBG.

Day 13 - The List Blog

Everyone loves lists. FACT.

So in order to offer some supporting evidence to this fact today's blog is going to be a list. Now I realize this isn't a long (overly long) story about drunken ramblings or baseball dreams, but if I blew my load of stories like that everyday I'd have nothing left to talk about...

So here we go:

Top 5 Best Movies of All Time List:

1. O Brother Where Art Thou?

2. Children of Men

3. Empire Strikes Back

4. High Fidelity

5. Pulp Fiction

Top 5 Best Albums I Can't Stop Listening To:

1. Phoenix - Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

2. Radiohead - In Rainbows

3. The Flaming Lips - Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots

4. Wilco - Sky Blue Sky

5. Animal Collective - Merriweather Post Pavillion

Top 5 Active Baseball Players:

1. Joe Mauer

2. Albert Pujols

3. Tim Lincecum

4. Hanley Ramirez

5. Matt Kemp

Top 5 Foods to Eat While Drunk:

1. Ham and Cheese from Ham and Cheeseland

2. Del Taco Chicken Soft Tacos

3. Reheated Pizza

4. Jack in The Box Jalapeno Poppers

5. Dome Dog

Top 5 Drinks to Drink and Reduce Likelihood of Hangover:

1. Gin and Tonic

2. Water

Top 5 Things to Cure a Hangover

1. Orange Gatorade

2. Cold Shower

3. Cold Ocean Swimming

4. Sweat it Out (Basketball)

5. Beer

Top 5 Differences Between California and Minnesota

1. Traffic...everywhere all the time

2. No sports loyalty here, besides USC and the Lakeshow

3. Weather

4. Hot scantily clad women

5. Ocean

Top 3 Holidays of the Year:

1. Fourth of July

2. Labor Day

3. New Years Eve

Top 5 Movies of the Year (so far):

1. District 9

2. The Brothers Bloom

3. 500 Days of Summer

4. Star Trek

5. The Hangover

Top 4 Most Overrated Movies of the Year (so far):

1. Transformers 2

2. GI Joe

3. The Hangover

4. 2012

Top 5 Beers:

1. Stella Artois

2. Boddington's Pub Ale

3. Green Flash Hop Head Red

4. Stone Ruination

5. Leffe

Top 5 Lists in Today's Post:

1. Beers

2. Music

3. Movies

4. Drunk Foods

5. Albums

Okay that should set a fairly good base. Feel free to post some other Top 5 lists in the comments section, always love a good list. Rest assured, tomorrow's post will most assuredly be far too long with some semblance of a point that will get drowned in one of the many tangents or overly descriptive segues into said tangents...We'll see

Day 12 - Blog Me Where the Pampers Is

Today's blog is not going to be much of an entry, especially compared to yesterday, but I gotta keep the streak alive.

So I'm trying to accomplish my goal of 100 followers and a top 250 overall blog on blogspot before I reach my 30 day blog goal. However, this goal is a bit more complicated and a bit more difficult than I first surmised. I have recently registered this on Technorati in an attempt to increase blog traffic. If any one actually does read this and they have yet to "follow" this blog I would appreciate it if you could do so, as well as possibly passing this along to other people who have either no lives or an excess of time to kill on the internet. Also if anyone has any other ideas as to how to increase blog traffic that would be awesome...just post suggestions in the comments please!

Okay well like I said today is short, I'll make up for it tomorrow--no diggity...no doubt (Blackstreet reference no big deal). Peace!

Day 11 - Forgive Me Blogger, for I Have Absinthed

I've talked before about how upon occasion I enjoyed imbibing adult beverages on the weekends. Sometimes in this blog I'm going to talk about some of the adventures that have sprung up as a result of these adult beverage filled weekends:

• "You're going in the BUSH!"
  
• Knife fighting with the Emos
• Open Bar Party at the Farmhouse
  
• EPIC LANDMARK night
• Trout Fry - Abridged and Full Version(s)
• Naked Soccer
  

Among many others, this happens to be one of those.

So recently (I believe nearly a year ago now) the state of California decided to make it legal to imbibe one of the more notorious alcohols in history: Absinthe. This spirit goes by many monikers including: The Green Fairy, The Green Muse and The Green Goddess. Fairly unoriginal nicknames to be sure. This particular alcohol isn't just the type that will get you drunk, this alcohol also possesses hallucinogenic properties--hence the reason why it is prohibited in nearly every state in the union.

The hallucinogenic properties of this alcohol are well known and documented since its discovery. The absinthe inspired painting on the left is titled "The Green Muse" by Albert Maignan in 1895. From the looks of the guy in the painting he's either schizophrenic, suffering from a scratchy face and some type of head lice, or this green ethereal harpy is controlling him. Personally I'm going to assume the artist meant this to depict The Great Head Lice Epidemic of the late 1800's. If you want to know more about this alcohol there is plenty of the literature online regarding its fairly infamous history.

Anyway so the state of California recently re-legalized absinthe; however, this absinthe isn't the old timey make you go bat-shit crazy absinthe, no this is just regular old 85% esophageal burning liquid with a speck of the crazy stuff. Apparently the market for black licorice tasting alcohols wasn't quite satiated by Jager and Sambuca, no we needed another. And this time we needed it to be A LOT stronger than any others on the market, and NOT just that we need it to be hallucinogenic as well. Great, superb.

So now you can go to most any upstanding watering hole in California, and order some of the Green Fairy--though I suggest avoiding calling it that because it may be misconstrued as something completely different. Not that there's anything wrong with that. You can get this alcohol in a shot, in a variety of cocktails, or the old fashioned way in in the dripper thing with the slotted spoons and sugar cubes (aka the awesome way).

So now that its legal here its just not as cool anymore, its seemed to have lost its allure. Either that or maybe it was eliminating the only reason why people drank that damn shit in the first place. As I learned during my Sophomore year of college at Luther the effects of REAL absinthe are both interesting and swirly.

A floor mate and fellow physics nerd friend of mine, we'll call him Doc, had a roommate who had recently returned from either studying abroad or gallivanting (synonyms) around Europe and had smuggled back a bottle of this mysterious green liquid. Well being that we tended to drink fairly heavily on weekend nights (especially), we decided to sit around and play a drinking game fondly known as Circle of Death or King's Cup.

The rules of the game were simple:

Step 1: Find a large mug, a lot of beer and a deck of cards.

Step 2: Surround the large mug with the cards face down.

Step 3: Take turns drawing a card from the circle of cards. If the card pulled is red you may give out that many drinks (divided as you see fit), if the card is black then you drink that many. The values of the cards are face values with A=1, J=11, Q=12. If a King is drawn then the person who drew that card pours however much beer into the large much that he/she wishes.

Step 4: Repeat steps 1-3 until the final King is drawn. Whoever draws the last king must slam the large mug of beer.

So obviously this game was about one thing and one thing only...getting dru-...I mean studying applications of John Nash's Game Theory....yeah that's it.

So in addition to the baseline rules I laid out above there are all sorts of different "house rules" such as Thumbmaster, Mushroom, Waterfall, etc. Basically all these things are different ways of saying you drink a lot of beer or shots. So after playing three or four rousing games of this and somehow I found myself still not drunk, Doc suggested we take some shots. Well being the courteous guest that I was (and am, really I am if you want to give me shots chances are I'll take 'em) I took him up on this offer and began to rifle through his "liquor drawer." If you lived in Miller Hall you know what I'm talking about, but if not, then I'll elaborate. The beds in the upper class dorms at Luther College were built into the wall. So rearranging your room was basically impossible. Where you would normally have space to put things UNDERNEATH your bed, there was only a drawer. What were you supposed to put in this drawer? Who knows, it was almost always designated as a booze drawer. Why would you have your booze directly below where you sleep? Obviously so you can sit on it like a mother goose tends to her eggs and nurse it to full health before drinking it...idiot.

So as I was saying, there we were, two of our Circle of Death-mates already succumbed to returning the beer to whence it came (the toilet, especially given that we would usually tend to drink the CHEAPEST possible beer available aka Milwaukee's Best Special Reserve BLACK), and we were shuffling through the half empty bottles of random alcohols that he had accumulated throughout the school year. We mixed ourselves a strange concoction of root beer Schnapp's, Seagram's 7, and Diet Coke and "enjoyed" that for a bit before his roommate Peter returned from the beer depository.

"Peter!" he yelled, clearly inebriated, "Start drinking you fucking pansy!"

Peter, looking white as a ghost, reached to the fridge and pulled out a pre-mixed cocktail--apparently he stashed it in the fridge before going to to call out some dinosaurs.

We sat and bullshitted for a little bit more and finished our concoctions as Peter finished what looked to be a rum and Coke. Once he finished that he asked us THE question, "Do you guys want to try some absinthe?"

Naturally being a naive college student I had no idea what this was at the time. "Of course I do," I replied thinking I hope I didn't just get myself in over my head. Peter recanted the story of his travels through Europe as he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk to take out the velvet bag that contained the Green Goddess--not the salad dressing. He unsheathed the stout bottle and held it proudly, looking at it for a moment before showing off his trophy. He recalled a few stories of hash houses in Amsterdam where they served this like it was anything else, and how while in Prague he would drink the stuff and always have the greatest time when he did.

I must have been fairly wide-eyed and impressed by the stories he was telling, possibly due to some inner regret about not seizing my own opportunity to partake in a similar adventure, but he then told me to find a chaser because I was taking the first shot. That right there, that single solitary clue should have tipped me off that maybe, JUST maybe, this wasn't going to be good. If someone told me now to get a chaser before drinking absinthe, I'd in all likelihood pass. The reason he told me to get the chaser was because this wasn't just any old absinthe, this was legit shit. This was 99% alcohol absinthe with thujone (the wormwood extract rumored to possess the hallucinogenic properties), and I was about to drink it.

Had I known beforehand what I was getting into I probably wouldn't have continued this process, but that's why its memorable. Say, for instance, I hadn't partaken in this beverage this night, I certainly wouldn't be boring you to death with this incredibly overly long blog entry. So here I am with a shot of absinthe in one hand and a beer in the other, and both Doc and Peter are staring at me waiting for me to down it. I raise my shot glass slightly to cheers them and their imaginary drinks, and down the hatch it goes.

The burn of the incredibly strong alcohol is felt as it goes down my throat. I quickly "chase" the burn with a pisswarm sip of shitty beer. I wait a few minutes for the other two to do the same and we do another round. We do one more shot before deciding that maybe we shouldn't drink all of his "precious", and he puts it back in the velvet bag and back into the drawer where it lived. We sat around and talked for a few minutes before there was a knock on the door. Everyone was ready to head to the bar. We grabbed our coats and hats and trudged out into the snowy night.

I think the drink started having its first effects on me as we walked down a hill besides a pool. I remember seeing the snowflakes falling in front of the sodium yellow street light and was incredibly entranced by it. One of the fellow bar travelers we were with needed to stop to light a cigarette so I stopped with him, not so much out of courtesy, but rather to get more time staring at the snowflakes passing in front of the glowing yellow orb. I remember thinking I could see every snowflake between me and that streetlight, all individual flakes were perfectly independent. I felt like I could make out specific details on these flakes, naturally I was experiencing the first batshit crazy effects of the absinthe.

The cigarette now lit, I was tapped on the shoulder and my hypnotized state was interrupted. Peter was standing there with me, apparently, and was urging me to get going.

"The bar is going to close soon dude let's go!" he yelled to me as he sort of ran, sort of slid down the snow covered city poolside road towards the bar.

The rest of the walk to the bar was fairly uneventful. I remember smoking one or maybe two cigarettes on the twenty minute walk, impressive considering I'm not a smoker. For some reason that night cigarettes were some sort of necessary panacea for me, not entirely sure why.

Anyways, we finally reached Scoes' after waiting in what surely seemed like a long line (four five people tops) and paid the dollar entry fee. Yes, the bars in rural Iowa have a one dollar cover, why you ask? No idea, just because they know they CAN charge it and make some extra coin essentially. As I pass by Pumpkin, the well-known bouncer of Scoes' and frat brother of mine, I stop and shoot him a look. He just gives me the typical, "Move it douchebag look,"(brotherly love) and I hit the restroom.

Standing at the trough, there were no urinals, and relieving myself I began to notice just HOW fucking dirty this bathroom was. At eye level on the wall in front of the trough were a few comic strips, I can remember a Pearls Before Swine comic, though I can't recall the contents or the punchline, but for some reason I was dying laughing after reading it. I zipped up, nearly in tears after reading this 3-lined urine scented masterpiece, and turned to wash my hands. I took off my gloves, turned on the water and let my hands run under it for nearly a minute, now becoming entranced with the water. Before I could get too enslaved I caught myself. "Get your shit together," I whispered under my breath.

I broke out of the trance and headed out from the poorly lit pisser and back out into the ambient dim light of the bar. The bar was to my right coming out of the restroom I looked to Marlene, ordered a Gin and Tonic, slipped her the three dollars (with tip) and continued back towards Pumpkin at the door. The crowd had jammed a few steps later and I looked to my right to see if anyone was on the dance floor. As I did I began to see streaking lights whenever I moved my eyes too quickly. The neon of the Michelob Genuine Draft bar sign streaked through my vision as I passed my eyes from the left and to the right. The dance floor lights were blinking joining the neon from the MGD sign in a visual cacophony. I quickly closed my eyes and braced myself against the slot machine at my back. I can remember taking a sip of the extremely cold gin and tonic and tasting how the lime perfectly contrasted the bitter quinine in the tonic.

The lights still streaking through my vision, only my eyes closed now, I decided I needed to grab a seat and felt my way to the nearby bar stool. The crowd by the door began to wane slightly and Pumpkin looked around the corner from where the bouncers sat. "Dude what the fuck is wrong with you?"

I took another chug from my Gin and Tonic, and started rubbing my eyes hoping to quell the streaking lights. "Pumpkin, I've gotta get away from the lights."

"What the fuck? Dude what's wrong with you?"

I opened my eyes, handed my G&T to him and repeated, "I've gotta get outta here, gotta get away from the lights."

He started laughing and I pushed my way passed him back out into the frigid snowy night. I didn't know where I was going to go to get away from the lights, or really where this sudden aversion to lights came from, but I knew I had to get out of that bar or something bad would have happened. What could have possibly happened? I'm not sure, knowing how I felt that night I very well could have sprouted fucking bat wings and flown into the kitchen, it was getting that bad.

I walked down a quiet, dark, not yet plowed road directly away from the bar. I had no particular destination in mind, I just knew I was on a mission to get away from that place. I walked for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes and found myself in front of the river, melting snow filled my shoes and I was sick of walking. Now normally when someone has been drinking heavily and partaking in hallucinogenic alcohols they should, at all costs, steer clear of a body of rushing water; however, this particular situation obeyed no known rules. I stood there watching the light reflect off the surface of the river for a few minutes before I decided sitting would probably be the best course of action at this point.

I sat and watched the river for what felt like hours while I waited for the effects of the absinthe to pass. When I would get thirsty I would eat a handful of, probably terribly dirty, snow. When I had to go to the bathroom, I would stand up and go...though not too close to my eating snow. Once I finally was starting to feel normal again I stood up and began the walk back to my dorm.

I nearly made it back to my dorm without seeing anyone, and then as I passed by Ylvisaker Hall (its a Norwegian Lutheran school layoff) I saw my friend Rachel. She yelled out my name and I pretended to ignore it, but then she yelled again and clearly knew it was me. Ignoring her was not an option.

"Oh hi Rachel!" I yelled back, hoping she would just continue walking. Of course she came over to see me. Not that I wouldn't normally like to see her, it was just on this particular evening I felt like I shouldn't be anywhere near people, especially people I knew.

"What are you up to tonight?" she asked as she approached. "E and I were thinking of going...," she stopped mid-sentence. "You have blood on your face." Her eyes were showing genuine concern.

Where the fuck did I get blood on my face from? I didn't get in any fights, did I? I hadn't been punched in the face since I was in third grade, did I make it this long only to waste the punch on a night where I could have easily imagined it happening? I took my gloves off and felt my face. Sure enough, frozen blood coming from my nose. I had gotten a bloody nose somehow during my exile near the river.

"Are you okay?"

"I think so, its a long story, I'll have to tell you it tomorrow. I'm done for the night, thanks for the concern though," I said as I started walking passed her to my dorm.

She started laughing, "Wow Scott, wow. There'd better be a good story to this one."

Well I don't know if its a GOOD story, but its definitely A story.


-------


Anyway, that's really the end of this tale. But that night I did get to add two gems to my lifetime knowledge base:

*DO NOT under ANY circumstances go to Roscoe's after drinking or partaking in hallucinogenic products.

*Never drink something from someone who says they smuggled it back from Prague. Especially if you decide to play three games of Circle of Death beforehand.

Day 10 - Please Contact Your Doctor if You Experience a Blog Lasting More than Four Hours

Interestingly enough I've started reading other people's blogs as a result of undertaking this project. Research, mockery and even enjoyment are a few of the reasons for my dabbling into these other blogs. I did a little research before starting this blog on the overall formatting, what to expect, what website to have it hosted on, mostly the logistical stuff. Well now I'm realizing that most peoples blogs aren't actual blogs (at least in the sense of the "style" I've been keeping with on this website), they're photo-journals, cool website posting grounds or pictures of cats with funny captions.

I'm fine with all that I mean its clear that blogging everyday is a bit of work and it can get hectic trying to scrounge around and think of something new to blog about, hence the reason I'm blogging about blogging. But I would think that these sites would want to include some sort of personal touch to it or journal-esque flair, I mean isn't that the point of the blog to begin with?

Yesterday I touched on the fact that I'm apparently either no longer the target audience for SNL and Rolling Stone Magazine or they've decided to whore themselves out to the lowest bidder, personally I'm hoping for the latter. But I've been beginning to notice that this is not an isolated incident. It's also not a simple fact of I'm getting older (or at least I hope its not--no actually I know its not, please read on). I've been noticing that ad agencies are also suddenly either out of the loop or perhaps they're trying to get me to buy something I would otherwise have no interest in. I'm speaking specifically of the Enzytes, Cialis and Chop-Slaps of the world.

I've noticed it the most when I'm watching things on Comedy Central. One moment you're sitting there watching South Park or The Daily Show and the next moment I'm being told "To be ready in case the moment strikes". Yeah, because nothing says let's bang like watching animated teenage boys. I mean I know if I'm trying to market something for erectile dysfunction I'd definitely want to do it during a show where the average watching age is probably 14. I mean maybe I was the odd one out, but I'm not sure 14 year old boys are really having any problems going from 6 to Midnight at the drop of a dime.

The other thing about this is why the hell are they in two separate outdoor tubs? I mean first of all where do they get these tubs? Isn't incredibly inconvenient to fill these tubs? What are they doing it one bucket at a time? Also it looks like they're basically on someone's unfinished patio in the middle of nowhere, meaning they're not exactly going to have running water or a hose, so what do they have an old school bucket brigade filling up these tubs for them? And by the time they do get these tubs filled aren't they going to be cold, or at the very least lukewarm? That right there is probably the reason the dude is having a hard time getting it up, he's sitting in ice cold bath water! The least they could do is somehow cram into the same damn tub out in their alfalfa field, I mean maybe the body heat would keep the water a bit warmer and then he might not need to use so much Enzyte anymore...Come on people its simple physics.

Another contradiction in this flaccid ad campaign is the fact that they follow the Enzyte commercials up with an endless barrage of Girls Gone Wild commercials. I mean if I'm Peter Enzyte I'm pissed about this, I'm selling something that will get guys to stand attention but a second later their giving the shit away for free? I don't think anyone will ever accuse Joe Francis of being a stupid guy, sure he's a prick and he "takes advantage of young women" but you only say that because either your jealous of him or jealous of the girls, deal with it you're not going to get your GGW beads for showing your tats at Spring Break anymore, that window is now officially closed. Maybe Enzyte should rethink their marketing campaign forget South Park as a potentially untapped audience, because the only time anyone stops fast forwarding their TiVo during commercials is when they see "HOT COLLEGE COEDS!" making out.

And what the hell is with this Slap-Chop guy? I mean I remember infomercials being on at odd hours of the day, but Billy Mays and this Slap-Chopper have blown this thing out of proportions and are taking it PRIME-TIME baby! Since when did a guy selling shitty trinkets made in China become a commercial that should be airing during LOST or MadMen? I mean those aren't cheap timeslots, the guy making commercials with the grainy handheld camera can afford that? The funny thing about this is that faux-hawk, Jager-bomb pounding douche actually says, "You're gonna love my nuts" in his commercial and for some reason no one bats an eye. Maybe its context, but I have a feeling if Bob the guy from the Enzyte commercials says "You're gonna love my nuts" the FCC would have choppers touching down in that alfalfa field in less time than it takes to fill those damn tubs.

I sort of wonder if anyone actually buys any of this shit off of TV, if so please let me know because I'm dying to find out if you actually get an autographed Graty just for ordering in the next five minutes--because you know we can't do this all day folks.

Day 9 - Blogga Please

Just under 1/3 of the way finished with this project and I'm finding this a little easier to do every day. For whatever reason I've been a bit nostalgic in the past few posts so I'm going to steer clear of that completely today and focus on something that's affecting the country as a whole. This epidemic (possibly soon to be pandemic) is sweeping across the country with such a great ferocity its a little troublesome that it has been left unchecked for this long. What I am referring to is, of course, the Jonas Brothers.

Now I understand little kids want to listen to other little kids singing. At least I hope that's the reason I saw a Nickelodeon kids Sing-Along CD of kids singing to Weezer's "Island in the Sun", talk about never wanting to hear that song again. I mean it was during the height of that song's popularity, maybe four or five years ago, and it was a catchy pop rock song and all, but once you've heard a group of pre-pubescent boys and girls singing along in the same high pitched monotone voice you forever need to edit that song out of your memory, your iPod, and your life. Fucking sellouts.

Anyway so like I was saying, yeah little kids like to hear other little kids singing songs, I guess I understand that...sort of. Although I'm not even sure little kids would put up with the shit that they were singing on that Sing-Along CD. But where the hell do the Jonas Brothers get off going onto Saturday Night Live and Conan O' Brien in the past few months? I mean do they legitimately think that they're this far-reaching super-pop-rock band that people of all ages just loves to hear? And where exactly do those sons' a bitches at SNL get off thinking that I would be interested in hearing those douchey Hanson wannabes jumping around and "singing". I only ask why they would be interested in ME seeing/hearing/begrudgingly living through them because last I checked I'm approximately the target audience for Saturday Night Live. I mean what parents let their 9 year old daughters (the approximate audience for the Jonas Brothers) sit up until midnight to watch Andy Samberg sing with T-Pain about railing a mermaid, before seeing their make-up wearing "Rock Gods" perform.

I mean nothing against 9 year olds, but for fuck's sake there's a reason that I don't watch Nickelodeon or whatever it is 9 year olds watch. Because its terrible and 9 year olds suck. Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers need to disappear, and fast. Taylor Swift, she's hot, let's leave her out of this. If this is the next wave of "talented" "musicians" then count me out. I mean I'm basically a complete audiophile, but if this is the next wave, I'm done, no more fucking music for me. And fuck off Rolling Stone magazine. You put these douchenozzles on your cover? Since when did you go from a Rock N' Roll mag to Teen People. I couldn't be happier that I canceled my subscription.

Now I'm not necessarily blaming Conan or SNL for having these shiteaters on their shows as I realize that they need ratings, but come on guys. I remember when Conan had the White Stripes on for a week straight or when Arcade Fire's Win Butler (only last year!) smashed his guitar on stage in the middle of their performance. There are so many better bands out there that your typical viewers ACTUALLY listen to and would enjoy seeing during what is essentially the intermission of your show. So next time you need to book a musical guest and you're stuck deciding between the "JoBros", "Miley" or ANYONE else, for the love of Christ choose the ANYONE ELSE.

Day 8 - Blog's Away

This past weekend I finished watching the 18 episode series Freaks and Geeks, meaning I might officially be the last person on the planet to have watched it. Given that this was a Judd Apatow project I'm not sure what took me so long to finally get around to seeing it, but nonetheless it did and now I've watched it. I will have to say that I loved it, and I'm disappointed that there's only 18 episodes. The characters are very well developed, especially given the fact that only one season's worth of development was allowed to take place, and the story is told in the same stylings Apatow has been known for over the past few years.

As I watched it I couldn't help but feel that of all the shows I've seen that depict life in high school, this may be the most accurate portrayal. It is a story about the kids who AREN'T the jocks, in the same vein as The Wonder Years, this story follows a group of in-betweens who don't entirely fit into any particular clique. This isn't too unlike my high school experience, and I would guess that to be the same of many of the people reading this blog (assuming there are in fact people who read it).

I usually try not to talk about movies or music or anything of the things I actually like in this blog as to avoid developing a "theme" to this, but I thought it was worthwhile to bring up it time. The reason being is that I can completely relate to a lot of the characters in this storyline. The main character, Lindsay, is sort of between groups. She leaves her preppy Mathlete friends to broaden her horizons and hang out with the "freaks". I can remember going through a similar process in my high school, I went from hanging out with my preppy friends to hanging out with friends that drank. I remember the tensions between myself and my original group of friends who frowned upon drinking and partying for whatever reason.

In the show Lindsay is castigated by the school and her family for choosing to hang out with the "Freaks" rather than the Mathletes, but she does it anyway. Interestingly by doing so she reveals that although the Freaks in the school aren't in the cool "clique" they are their own clique and have all the drama and bullshit that comes along with it. Again, very realistic, thinking back to 9th and 10th grade I played baseball on our B-squad team and by default hung out with the baseball players and hoped to get invited to the baseball parties the juniors and seniors threw. By about mid-way through my sophomore year of high school though I began to realize that I didn't care what these jock/prep baseball players thought or did, and I no longer cared if I was invited to one of these oh-so "exclusive" parties.

I elected to go and hang out with my school's own hybrid version of the Freaks/Geeks, the Magic the Gathering/MathDork/Art Students. We would hang out before and after school every day in the cafeteria and shoot the shit about whatever. There was none of the pretentious bullshit that I would deal with on a daily basis when hanging out with the baseball crowd. I didn't have to pretend I liked the shitty music they liked, or watched the shitty shows, or talk about what went down in this week's church service, or talk about which is the best flavor of Skittles to put into my Zima.

What turned out to be more fun than any of that bullshit was being able to hang out with people who didn't give a shit one way or another what the other person liked or disliked. I was big into techno/industrial music back then so KMFDM, Skinny Puppy, Ministry, Daft Punk and Death in Vegas were mainstays in my Walkman. Of course this was pre-iPod so CD players and CD books were a must.

One of the most consistent points they try to convey in Freaks and Geeks is that you are not defined by what you are in high school. Meaning, if you leave and go to college the Freak/Geek/Jock/Prep label only follows you there if you choose to let it. Furthermore to that point, they stress another thing that isn't talked about in reality as much as it should. Just because you suck in high school, doesn't mean you'll suck in life afterwards. The chart below illustrates the point they're trying to make.

Legend

Jocks (in blue):

• A: Ages 0-10. Everyone gets along great, jocks/nerd/geeks/boys/girls everyone gets along with everyone else (in general)
• B: Ages 11-18. During these ages the jock begins to separate himself from the geeks. Jocks usually hit puberty just a bit earlier than the geeks and tend to be a bit taller or more muscular than the geeks. Its during this particular time that the jocks conduct the majority of their tormenting of the geeks. Wedgies, swirlies, fighting, teasing are all fairly common at this stage in their development. At this stage in his life the jock is considered to be the "King". He runs the school and dates the prom queen, unfortunately for him though, this will be the peak of his life; it doesn't get any better than this for him.
  
• C: Ages 18-21. During these years the college experience begins. Well, at least it would have if he would have studied and had a high enough GPA to get into any of the colleges he applied to. He realizes at this point that though he was great at football in his rural high school town, he basically sucks when compared to players who are ACTUALLY good. He applies to the nearby state college and gets accepted, though not on a sports scholarship. He goes out for football, and by the fall semester of his sophomore year he is forced to quit due to academic probation. Given the fact that he really has no skills to begin with he quits school altogether and goes back home to live with the parents and drink at the local townie bar in his small home town.
  
• D: Ages 21-50. The jock has succumbed to the fact that he will never amount to much of anything and he decides to take up employment at the local Boston Market or 99 Cents Only store. He maintains this job for the majority of his life. He stops off at the same local watering hole he's been frequenting since he were old enough to do so legally. He still attends the high school football games on Friday nights, sitting next to the girl he ended up marrying. That girl wasn't his high school sweetheart, she is some girl he didn't talk to in high school nor would he have given the chance. Quite the contrary, she's just some girl he randomly hooked up with one night at the local bar, accidentally knocked up and was forced into marrying . A big event for him now is seeing a tractor pull or attending the American Legion Fish Fry.
  
• E: Ages 50+. The jock is now fully entrenched as a member of his local hometown community, he has come to terms with his failed athletic career and insists on talking to younger facsimiles of himself recanting the stories of the "good old days". Given that he has no retirement plan and jobs that provided no benefits his entire life, he's basically forced into working for the remainder of their lives. At this point he probably realizes the folly of his ways but can't do anything about it by now. He lives with his wife, who he's grown to loathe by this point, and is angered by his sons inability to run a slant or catch a wide open pass. What's more is that his sons actually prefer to study and play computer games than actually play any sports. The jocks' greatest fear is realized, his sons/daughters are geeks...and gay. That's right jocks grow up to father gay dorks, its a fact. Look it up.

Geeks (in red):

• A: Ages 0-10. Everyone gets along great, jocks/nerd/geeks/boys/girls everyone gets along with everyone else (in general).
• B: Ages 11-18. These are what are known as the worst years of the Geeks life. These are the picked on, awkward, puberty, pimple-ridden, Dungeons & Dragons playing, no females allowed, patchy facial hair, trench coat wearing days of his life. This is the time when the geek thinks his life will be terrible forever. This is the bottom of the barrel popularity-wise for the Geek.
  
• C: Ages 18-21. Just before graduating high school the geek is accepted to the Ivy league school he applied to. All the tormenting in the world by the jocks is ignored because he knows that this is the beginning of the rest of his life. In the spring of his senior year he says good riddance to his high school and the majority of the people in it and then he goes on to his dream colleges on healthy scholarships because of his sparkling high school GPA and SAT scores.
  
• D: Ages 21-50. These are the glory years for the geek. Now successfully graduated as Valedictorians of their respective colleges he goes on to start his own businesses. He sells the businesses off to venture capitalists for millions of dollars and retires by age 40. He now has his choice of women, these same women who used to ridicule the geek are now flocking to them because of his success and riches....Opportunist bitches.
  
• E: Ages 50+. The geek returns to his hometown to attend his high school reunion. On his way to the reunion he notices that the lead jock from high school who gave him so much hell those many years ago is now manning the drive-thru window at McDonalds. The geek pulls his Porsche into McDonalds drive-thru and watches the jock squirm as he asks the geek if he wants to Supersize that.

Obviously this is incredibly hyperbolic, but its meant to be. So I guess the moral of this "story" is what comes around goes around, cliche as hell, yes, but it effective here. And don't try and feel bad for the jock in this mock storyline because he banged your mom when you were in high school, so he gets whatever is coming to him.

Day 7 - In Blog We Trust

Over the years we acquire a knowledge base that we use to formulate our opinions, make daily decisions and guide us in our daily lives. Sometimes this knowledge base can lead us astray, but when it does we tend to edit it and proceed on with our lives having learned something. Well last night I had was one of those moments when my knowledge not only lead me astray, it left me out in the cold. I had one of those BAD decision moments that wasn't somehow contradicted by that inner voice saying, "You KNOW you don't want to do this, think it over you shithead!" But before I get into the gory details of updating my life accumulated knowledge base I should preface with a little bit of history.

I've now lived in southern California for just over two and a half years. The entire time we've lived out here somehow we've avoiding making it to the Orange County fair, for whatever reason. It's not like we were avoiding it on purpose, in fact I'm sort of partial to fairs and all things fair related. Whether it be butter sculptures, combine derbies, figure 8 races, all you can drink milk trucks, mosaics made entirely of dried beans and corn kernels, the smell of the barns, prize winning giant pumpkins, and of course the food, fairs are a great microcosm of an America that we may sometimes forget--whether intentional or otherwise.

SO having grown up in Minnesota I've been to the Minnesota State Fair (aka Mecca) a number of times. I've had my glory days on the midway winning many an oversized Bart Simpson plush doll. I even had what I consider to be an historic run in the clown dunking game. I was young, lets say 10 or 11 years old, and my family had taken the afternoon to enjoy the great American culture orgy that is the Minnesota State Fair. Well being 10 or 11 and having all the confidence (hubris) in the world I considered myself to be a fairly enabled baseball player, particularly with regard to pitching. On this particular sunny afternoon we had just left the ring toss onto the top of the returnable coke bottle game with a small stuffed animal--I forget exactly what it was. Anyway, it doesn't matter, so as I said we were walking down the crowded midway, the throngs of overweight, fanny pack wearing mid-westerners shoulder to shoulder all, in unison, searching for their next batch of cheese curds.

Suddenly, like Moses parting the Red Sea, there stood the most beautiful carnival game of all time: the throw the baseball at the target to dunk the clown game. I had never actually seen one of these in person at this time in my life so this was a milestone achievement for me. They actually existed, much to the misfortune of clowns across the nation I'm sure. I then told my family to wait because this, and only this, was the reason I was put on this planet. I was destined to do this, I had wandered aimlessly through my ten (or eleven) years of life and all of it had lead up to this moment. It was a confluence of destiny, salty greasy foods, and baseballs to be thrown at targets to dunk clowns.

The wait in the line took what seemed like ages, but it was worth it. A small price to pay for the glory that was sure to follow. I was convinced that by successfully dunking this clown, some Major League Baseball scout would see me and sign me up to pitch in their starting rotation (a la Henry Rowengartner). A few more moments, and a few more people in front of me had thrown, and failed to hit the target, and before I knew it a crowd was beginning to gather. The crowd didn't bother me though, I figured if I was going to pitch for the Twins I had to get used to performing in front of a crowd.

The moment I was destined for was nearly here, I was "on deck" and the kid in front of me had two of his three throws left. He was about my same age but clearly didn't have the same baseball prowess of my (or at least that's how it played in my mind). The first of his remaining throws was an absolute duck, barely reaching the tarp covered backstop on the roll. To the right of the pitching area, perched upon a cantilevered beam over a 6 foot tall tank with a see through window, sat the clown. The clown's white face paint was dried and chipping and his black eye makeup ran down his face at one point but it was now dried leaving black streaks on his face that made him look more like a comic book superhero than a carnival clown. From the degree with which the make-up had dried on his face it was clear he hadn't been dunked in a while. The clown then began to barrage the kid with a torrent of trash talk.

"Does your husband play baseball? Come on ya little wimp is that the best you've got!" his G-rated tirade only censored by the fact that he knew there was very little chance this kid could actually dunk him.

His next toss was a strike right down the heart of the plate and it his the target.The crowd cheered and then quickly stopped when everyone realized although he hit the target he didn't hit it with enough velocity to actually push the lever far enough to trigger the dunk. Outraged the kid skulked away while the clown continued to insult his manhood (or maybe boyhood was the better term there).

So there it was. It was now my turn. I stepped up in line and handed the carny my $4 and he handed me a milk crate with three scuffed baseballs in it. I looked back to my family and began to notice the enormity of the crowd. In reality its difficult to say how many people there really were, suffice it to say though there were at least 30 people watching the clown dunking game. I took a deep breath, shot the clown a look which I meant to imply "You're going down you sonofabitch", however I have a hard time believing that's how he perceived it, set the basket of baseball down and removed a single ball.

I remember trying to focus on the task at hand, I must hit that target. My entire future depended upon this one throw, if I missed or made a fool of myself then the Twins' scouts would surely turn their interest to more pertinent things. I stood and addressed my target in the windup position. I then went through the motions, making sure not to trigger a balk (again to appease the scouts), and delivered. The ball left my hand with what felt like 100 mph (in reality 40, tops) and went screaming down the pitching area.

Thud.

The ball was just low. It ricocheted off the backstop. The clown then began to reign his insults and mockeries down upon me. I blocked them out the best that I could and went to grab my second ball. I looked back to the clown and can only remember seeing his gaping mouth move, but I can't remember what was coming out. The steady stream of insults blocked out by the pure adrenaline coursing through my body. I returned to set and began my routine to deliver my second pitch.

I paused for just a moment to take a deep breath before starting the windup. I went through all the windup motions making sure to get a high leg kick this time. I pushed off of the pitching rubber and delivered my strike. The ball left my hand and I knew it wasn't a good one. About halfway down the pitching area it hit the ground and then rolled the rest of the way to the backstop. The crowd all made a slight giggle in unison, stopping themselves only once they remembered that a 10 year old kid delivered that hail Mary and would probably be scarred for life if the entire mob mocked him.

Again I took a deep breath, shot the clown another "You're dead" glance and strode up the pitchers mound to begin my windup. This was it, all my Major League hopes and dreams could be dashed by this singular pitch. I blocked that out and focused. This time I went through the windup with a quicker routine and then fired the ball down the pitching area.

DING!

The bell rung, the lever swung away from me, followed by a splash and the crowd erupted! I had hit the target. The shit talking clown had fallen into the lukewarm stagnant water tank, and it was by my hand. I can't imagine the size of the grin on my face at that point but I distinctly remember the crowd cheering wildly for me. It was like I had just closed out Game 7 and the Twins were once again World Champions. I found my family in the massive crowd and stood there waiting for a moment, getting pats on the back from complete strangers, and was expecting the scouts to come down and offer me my lifetime contract.

"Next!" the carny yelled as he took the $4 from the kid who was in line behind me. He shot me a glance and said dismissively, "Good job kid."

That was it, that was the end of my glory . There would be no contract, no Major Leagues for me, no post game interviews. It was one of those "glass-shattering" moments where suddenly you realize that you aren't living in The Wonder Years, you aren't the narrator or the main character of some formulaic primetime TV dramedy.

That was when I internally updated my lifetime knowledge base. Note to self: I am not Henry Rowengartner, and the Twins do not scout baseball talent down in Falcon Heights at the Clown Dunk Tank game. Oh well, I tasted greatness for a moment and then it was gone.

Flash forward to the present:

So as I was saying, before my tangent on shattered childhood dreams, up until now I have for whatever reason avoided attending the Orange County fair. Well tonight that streak would officially end.

We arrived at the fair just before dusk, after spending 45 minutes trying to park the car, and immediately headed for the food. Now when you're going to any fair it is important that you eat nothing or very little prior to entering the fairgrounds. The primary reason I bring this up is the fact that eating options at the fair aren't exactly healthy. Basically if its food they'll either deep fry it grill it or throw ice cream on top of it, charge you $7 for it, and you'll eat it--and love it (usually). After getting my obligatory yellow mustard covered corn dog out of the way we hit up the beer tent and started walking around with our $12 Stellas.

This fair was not so much different than any other I had previously been to, aside from the fact that there were live elephants at this one. We played a few games here and there, including the pitch speed game.

The pitch speed game basically consists of you paying $5 for 2 throws. Your first throw is for shits n' giggles, but your second throw you're supposed to guess the speed you're going to throw it. If you're right you win a prize, if not you lose. So naturally (due to the absence of dunk tank game) a friend and I decided to play this game. He went first, with his first pitch coming in right about 58 mph, on his next pitch he correctly guessed 57 mph and won his stuffed animal (a Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim apparel wearing bear).

Next it was my turn. My first throw topped out at 65 mph, so then I guessed 63 mph and threw, and I guessed correctly as well. So given that the prizes were fairly shitty I chose the same Angels bear and we moved on to find some more fair fare. Drunk off of our recent winnings I decided it was time to tempt fate and elected to go with one of the more "exotic" food choices on this fateful evening.

Now this was one of those moments where had I accumulated a particular piece of information into my lifetime knowledge base that little voice in my head would have said, "WTF ARE YOU THINKING STOP RIGHT NOW." However, I didn't. So after waiting a moment to think about it and starring down the sign advertising this gastronomical nightmare I decided it could wait not longer. The time had come for a Breaded Deep Fried White Castle Slider Hamburger...Yeah.

So as I was ordering this artery clogging "delicacy" the girl working the register looked at me with wide eyes that said, "You're fucking kidding me, no one orders those!" I proceeded to give her my cash and a moment later, there it was: a deep fried ball of breading the size of my fist with a greasy onion broiled mini-hamburger embedded within. Given the relative disgustingness of this feat I'm going to omit any further description of this event and allow the following picture to sum it all up.

Although it may look like this hamburger is made from raw energy, I can assure that glow isn't the burger but rather the flash of a camera reflecting off of its greasy secretions. So now that I've done this, and lived to tell about it (at least so far its been a few hours) I can add this piece of knowledge to my lifetime knowledge base:

*If it is disgusting by itself, battering it and deep frying it will not help it. Avoid at all costs.

One other side note from this OC Fair excursion. So the LONGTIME girlfriend was looking for mini-donuts to wrap up her cholesterol binge for the night. After quite a while of searching for them we were having no luck so she decided to ask someone who might know. Who might you ask would know the location of the mini-donuts? If I were to guess I'd say I donno maybe someone working the guest services desk or something along those lines. No, if you were with me on that guess then you are wrong. The person she asked was a short Orange County Deputy Officer. Yes, she asked a short COP where she could find the MINI DONUTS. Fortunately she wasn't thrown in jail for disorderly conduct and the cop actually played it off pretty well by saying, "What, just because I'm a short deputy I know where they are?" Turns out he didn't actually know where they were and he was just a mini-cop after all.

Day 6 - Blog Hopping

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