An “artist’s” representation of what happened when Steve tried to backwash the pool today. Left out of the representation:

-muddy pants
-projected insect carcasses and desiccated leaves
-the broken spirit of an inept man

-Make a Public Spectacle of Yourself
-Ruin Your Future
-Ruin Your Furniture
-Wake Up in the Wrong House, Again

On my birthday, I shared a great evening with quite a few people. Nothing like sitting back, enjoying a good brew around the campfire, chatting about anything from girls to God, and watching Nick have more fun than the rest of us. I didn’t think it was possible, but Nick redefined the acronym “BYOB.”

-Drink lots of Mountain Dew then throw up and feel sick for a while. And not be able to sleep from caffeine overdose.

The challenge is to finish the most soda without throwing up in the shortest amount of time. I like the concept, but I don’t know what motivates people to do this. I also don’t want to seem like a party pooper, because I certainly enjoyed witnessing (or rather, hearing) a projectile vomit that lasted about six seconds and took out an entire flight of stairs.

Something inside me forced me to look on with mixed emotions as this poor girl vomited all over the place – I couldn’t turn away. However, I have a weak stomach, and while I didn’t throw up, I began to feel queasy. Seeing someone throwing up = my turn to throw up. I had to leave early because I didn’t want to break the record for throwing up without drinking any soda at all.

Enough about vomiting. On a lighter note, I saw a guy celebrating his last day of class today, chuckling and laughing and patting himself on the back. Then he tripped, fell backwards, and slid down the stairs. Luckily, he wasn’t injured as his buttocks turned into a makeshift toboggan, and he had some pre-winter sledding action. I had to quickly leave the scene of the incident so I could laugh without damaging his pride.* Just another incident of the system paying off.

*I’m sorry that I might sound insensitive, but people falling down is really funny.

Take, for example, my bike riding incident from my freshman year at Arizona State University (ASU). I used to park in Lot 59 at ASU which is hella long from my first class, so I would either ride the FLASH bus, a horrible but free ride to class, or walk fifteen minutes to class. Of course I would often ride the bus, but it would take a long time for the bus to show up, and by the time it did, I would have to stand cramped next to people with hangovers and yesterday’s pants.

Based on the logistics of riding the bus, I pulled my dad’s bike out of the side yard, brushed off the spider webs, WD40′d the chain, and pumped up the tires. The next day I hauled the bike down to ASU in my truck (I used to commute 45 miles to school) and planned to ride it to my first class. I pulled it out of the back of my truck, rode past all the sorry saps waiting for the bus, and I swear I rode it 50 yards before the tire fell off. I flew over the front handlebars in the middle of an intersection and right in front of the bus stop full of people. This is what I would define as getting “Screwed by the System.” Mind you, the system doesn’t only specialize in catastrophic bike failure, but this is one of the many ways.

By definition, the ASU bike incident was a large deposit into my system bank account, so I was bound to make a withdrawal within the next few days (or perhaps even over my lifetime). Wouldn’t you know it that three days later I see a girl ride her bike into a muddy flower garden and fall over much to my delight? A couple weeks later I saw a skateboarder cruisin’ at full speed and hit a rock. He quickly turned into a human sled. I chuckled because I knew that I deserved to see that. I paid the system, this was my payoff.

So, regardless of the past, if you know me, you know I daily get screwed by the FLASH bus system. I don’t know how many times I’ve ran beside the bus waving my arms yelling, “Hey pick me up, bus driver.” Or how the buses are supposed to run every 10 minutes, but more often than not, when I need the bus to show up on time, it’s running every 20 minutes because they don’t time the buses properly. Or how they now run a “FLASH express” that doesn’t pick up, it only drops off. I need to get picked up. Well, today I got my payoff on the FLASH bus screw me bank account. I saw someone who reminded me of myself. This guy spotted the FLASH at a bus stop and was bookin’ it trying to catch it. The bus was stopped, and he was running full speed at the doors. He made ‘the jump’ into the bus, but as he jumped the doors closed and he slammed into them. The emergency open door function was activated so he slumped into the bus while rubbing his head. I laughed and I thanked the system for paying me off for all those days I was screwed.

Anyway, I was on candle-duty, trying to pick out a sweet-smelling yet manly candle from the Safeway stock. This is quite difficult to do as is, but then about 90% of the candles are named “Sensual Fruit Lavender Bouquet,” and I know I can’t walk up to the cashier and pay for them without looking over my shoulder. I could buy that latest flavor of “Mystical Tingleberry”, but how could I do it and respect myself as a male? I guess I could take the candle and slap it between a large steak and an issue of Car and Driver, but that would end up being a $25 candle. Where are the scents “Lumberjack Pine” or “Benchin’ 250 at Gold’s”. I want something to make me feel like a man. Don’t guys care about how their apartment smell?

Well, I stood in front of this large assortment of candles just staring, because it’s overwhelming. I look over my shoulder, pick up a candle, and give it a whiff. “Mmm. Fruity, yet I don’t want our apartment to smell like 600 girls.” I kept sniffing, sorting, and before I knew it, I was standing really close to a guy I didn’t know. Both with candles in hand, smelling the scents, and then I thought, “Is that Celine Dion playing on the Safeway speakers?” It was. The guy next to me mumbled something so I slapped that candle back on the shelf and fast walked it over to the meat section. I grabbed a large pack of hot dogs to make me feel like a man again. I talked to TJ and Steve for consoling. Then, I waited for that guy to leave and ended up buying “Vanilla.”

I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that I knew Celine Dion was singing or that I find hot dogs reassuring.

Now that I’ve compared my blog to the gospels, lets continue. We were kickin’ back at the apartment with Steve and Tony, and we were trying to figure out where to get our eat on. I was fine with Chili’s or even Fatburger. Steve wanted Rusty Pelican, which I had no problems with, so we went there.

At Rusty Pelican, I figured it was going to be the seafood version of Bobby McGee’s, and in that case, I was already trying to decide between the Ariel or King Triton Section. However, we figured out quite quickly that when they actually have place settings set out, the meals are already 20% higher and that this isn’t Bobby McGee’s. Bobby McGee’s, by the way, I will never eat at again: the founder’s name is actually Bob Sikora.

Back to RP: I figured we could be cool about the whole event, look at the prices, and then say, “Oh, I forgot I’m allergic to seafood” and then coolly walk out the door. No harm done. Well, Steve destroyed any chances of a smooth exit when he said, “Holy crap they have place settings!” to which the keen ear of the host picked up on. I think he scoped three college kids with about as much class as money. Anyway, I walked up to see the menu, figuring we were outclassed, then he pulled up a discount menu to further grind in the shame: “If you’re not going to eat here, let me make you look like ace clowns.” We had an impromptu meeting in front of the host station and adjourned hastily with the decision: yes, we will dine at your fine food establishment. Though, it was really against good logic.

Anyway, as we walked to the booth, I turned around and laughed at Steve, “You are wearing shorts.” I turned to Tony and laughed even harder. “You don’t have sleeves!” Good times. Then, our waitress put our napkins on our laps for us. Going over the evening special, she made sure to apologize, in a tone as if she’d just backed over my dog, “I’m so sorry, but tonight, we are all out of shark.” Man, I about got up and left then. Luckily, they had swordfish with cucumber dill salsa dressing or something on it. Apparently, swordfish is like shark only firmer, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I was frantically scanning the menu for “Cheeseburger? No. Hotdogs? No. Meals under $10? Possible.”

I went for the prime rib, which by the way, was the best prime rib I have ever eaten in my life. All the while, the free bread flowed like milk and honey, and I’m sure with every loaf, she estimated her tip to be 1% less. “Cheapskate college kids, why didn’t the bouncer screen them.” Actually, we tipped the expected. In fact, we went above and beyond: 16%. I’m sure she’s counting the extra change tonight.

Well, it was a big fish-out-of-water experience (no, that isn’t a pun) for us, but we managed to walk out with some dignity. I ate my rainbow sherbet with the proper spoons, said ‘thank you’ with every fruit tea refill, and asked for more free bread by saying ‘please.’ Quite dignified, but there really is nothin’ prouder than walkin’ out with a napkin still on your pants, eh Steve?

Last night a good friend I haven’t hung out with in a while came over to have dinner with Greg and I (Tony, for those of you who know him). At my suggestion, we went to a restaurant whose name always intrigued me…The Rusty Pelican. Before we got there, I basically thought it would be a restaurant on par with places like Claim Jumper, Red Lobster, etc…slightly above average in quality and price. As we walked up to the door, I saw tablecloths, far too much silverware, decoratively arranged napkins, and a host in a dress shirt and tie. First thought: “Oh crap, they’re going to give us jackets…that’s embarrassing.” Second thought: “Oh crap, we’re going to spend the evening washing dishes in the back because we’re not going to be able to pay for this.” Of course, by the time I realized all this, we had stepped through the door and the host saw us. I also think he heard me say, “Crap, they have table cloths.” Consequently, he offered us the discount dinner menus. I wondered why he didn’t have us change into overalls and sit in the “slack-jawed yokel” section. “You boys make it into the big city much?”

The situation didn’t get much better as the dinner went on. Fortunately, the prices were pretty reasonable for such a snazzy lookin’ joint. The parade of embarrassment began when the waitress came over and took the liberty of placing the cloth napkins on our laps…it’s not like we didn’t know what to do, but we just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. This threw a pall over the whole meal and permanently damaged waitress/diner relations. Awkwardness set in again when the waitress began to describe the evening’s specials…it sounded like Greek and all I could think of was how out of place I felt. This feeling of inadequacy of course further tainted waitress/diner relations. None of us really knew what to say after her little spiel, so we just stared at each other, probably looking like big idiots. Some more highlights from the evening: I spilled iced tea (I hate iced tea…why did I order it?) on myself, ate rainbow sherbet while seated with only Greg on the same side of the table, and I forgot to take the napkin off my lap so it feel on the floor as I walked out of the restaurant. I felt like I was a wee country lad who had no idea what was going on; the running joke was that at any time now the waitress was going to come over and cut our meal into small bites for us and guide it into our mouths saying, “Here comes the airplane!” She did point out on my plate that I missed a bit of tasty shellfish and she made sure that I ate it…THANKS MOM!

The other thing that made me feel like a kid again, but in a good way, was reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I just finished it minutes ago. Now that’s one fine book. I never really understood what the appeal of the book or movie was…why did so many kids want to line up at midnight to read? Well, I gotta say, I was really surprised. Everyone I talk to who hasn’t read it or seen the movie thinks I’m crazy. I felt like a moron sitting in the ASU library compulsively turning the pages of a children’s book. There’s actually a lot of enjoyable stuff in there for an older audience and, speaking as someone who reads a lot of literature, it’s refreshing every now and then to read something that isn’t a stinging indictment of Victorian era literary aesthetics, a masterful Petrarchan sonnet in iambic pentameter, or THE MOST IMPORTANT PROSE WORK OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY!!! I say there’s no more shame in reading Harry P than reading Stephen King or someone similar. Thanks for loaning the book to me, Michelle…I wouldn’t have read it otherwise. Now I need to borrow the other ones…I’m hooked. I think I’ll rent up the movie tomorrow and watch it.

Well, enough of revealing my inner child. Yeah, and you thought I didn’t act my age before…

Today I finish my last class, meet up with Teej, head over to the bloodmobile. Now that the event us upon me, the reality starts to set in. “I hate hospitals and I hate needles,” I tell Teej as we read our pamphlets and wait to be interviewed. “No backing out for you now, Steve.” I told him I didn’t want to back out, but that I was just pointing out how much I dislike those things. The girl calls me in to interview me. “Have you been in prison in the last 72 hours? Have you had sex with a person of the same gender? Have you traded sex for money or drugs? Have you been tested positive for HIV?” I know these are innocent questions meant to initially screen potential donors, but all I can think about is how freaky it all is. By now I’m feeling really uncomfortable in the bloodmobile because it’s really cold in there and I had just been out in the heat, I’m really scared, and all these questions are freaking me out more. I can’t explain it; it all seems a little silly now, but a strange feeling started creeping up in my stomach and I felt ever so slightly dizzy. All I could think about was how much I wanted to run out of the bloodmobile…a terrible place with its needles, uniformed workers, and hospital smell.

The lady concludes the interview and tells me to walk midway down the bloodmobile and lay in the only open bed. I start walking down there, the dizziness starting to be magnified. I’m really freaking out now…

…and then I hear “Let me help you up…you passed out.” I was lying on the floor of the bloodmobile and everyone was looking at me. Later Teej told me he heard a large thud, looked over, and then saw me lying on the floor. I couldn’t believe I fainted…I felt so ashamed. I hopped up on the bed and started to put myself back together.

Well, they asked me if I felt up to doing it; I had to insist repeatedly that I was ok and wanted to do it. I found out later that they don’t let people who faint continue to give blood…but they were gonna let me. I cringed as they jammed the needle in my arm. As the blood began to be pumped out of me, I started to feel really lightheaded and my extremities were tingling, like the life was being sucked out of me. I told the guy who was watching me that I felt dizzy and he elevated my feet and put a cold pack under my neck.

I finished giving blood, went into the post-bloodgiving-area and had my free cookies and orange juice, grabbed my free creepy bobblehead doll (who is a blood droplet in a Phoenix Suns uniform), and proceed to wait the required 15 minutes with Teej. I was feeling pretty good at this point and when our time was up, Teej and I split ways to walk to our cars. I got about 30 yards (to the next bench) and felt like I was going to faint. I sat down and just started panicking…I tried to get back up, but I couldn’t even stand without feeling like I was going to pass out again. I called Teej to pick me up and, like the good friend that he is, he came over to get me. He couldn’t park by where I was at, and I couldn’t walk to where he parked, so he went to get an ASU golf-cart transportation person to take me. They won’t do that without a doctor’s note, so they sent over some cops instead. By the time they got there, I felt fine and I also felt like a big idiot. I walked to TJ’s car and got a ride home (my truck is still at ASU as I speak).

All in all…one of the worst experiences of my life. I’m not really sure what conclusions to draw from the whole experience, but I still feel like crap…lethargic, sleepy, and weak. I want to go hang out with people tonight, but I just don’t feel up to it. Apologies to anyone who I don’t get together with. I don’t want to type anymore…I’m done.

On the first attempt I concentrated on jumping and conveniently forgot to flip, which resulted in me landing roughly on my head and right shoulder, almost dislocating the latter. Always one for trying again, I jumped high and true, but accidentally released my slippery knees. Consequently, instead of rotating like a tight ball, which any physicist will tell you increases rotational velocity, I flopped into the water like a cow that fell out of an airplane. Here’s an artist’s representation. I tried again and again, but each time some startling embarrassment would replace the graceful maneuver I had concocted in my mind. I belly flopped, landed on my thighs, reverse belly flopped onto my back, and managed many other horrible contortions of the human form all while a crowd of onlookers gasped and secretly chuckled at the fleshy slap of Steve against, cruel, cruel water.

My pride is bruised, I have a headache, and I still can’t do any more than a basic flip. I think there’s a lesson in this. Next time I’m only going on the diving board with little kids…they can’t one-up me.

I’ll make this short: Funny story (at least I think so). Last night I went swimming at some people’s house. I didn’t have swimtrunks so I borrowed a pair from a dude who sports the same pants size as Gary Coleman. It didn’t help that the trunks were made out of some mighty clingy material, either. Every time I got out of the pool modesty forced me to wrench the front of the trunks away from my delicates because the sheer vacuum pack action of those insidious aqua-drawers left little of my frontside to the imagination. The last time I got out of the pool a couple girls were looking at me. As I lowered my head, some strange force compelled me to say,

“Whoa, it’s like a Jimmy Dean packing factory in there.”

Awkward stares ensued.