"Sychronized WHAT?? That's too many divers. Bah-- ping-pong. Fencing, that could be cool. Nope. The trampoline is an entire sport now? Michael Phelps is supposed to be good. MICHAEL PHELPS IS OLYMPIC GOD. Michael Phelps can't talk so good. Chad Johnson on Michael Phelps (paraphrased): "I know five dudes in the ghetto that could beat Michael Phelps right now, but they ain't in the Olympics..."Male gymnasts are ripped, but make high-fiving look gayer than Lance Bass doing a Richard Simmons impression. Female gymnasts look eight. Chinese female gymnasts ARE eight.Is this the paralympic marathon? No-- it's what? Speedwalking?? You gotta be shitting me. Really-- two chicks who grew up playing beach volleyball in California turned out to be really good at beach volleyball? They must have had a really tough life. Chad Johnson on Misty May Treanor and Kerri Walsh (totally made up): I know four ho's in the ghetto who could beat Misty and Kerri's 108 beach volleyball win streak-- but they're not in Beijing..." Lolo Jones is kinda cute and inspirational, I hope she (starting gun BAM!)-- SADDEST MOMENT EVER. Horrible runner knew she could do it even though in reality, she still couldn't, it was just that other people couldn't more. MORE DIVING!? Pole vaulting was cool when I was little and didn't question it's validity. Thanks ESPN Bottomline for ruining every basketball/baseball/softball game that I wanted to watch. I wonder when the Olympics end. The Bank Job. Tuna and chips.
And now they're over. I guess the real problem was having time to watch and buying into the "Olympic Spirit" which, as I mentioned, still kinda freaks me out. It seems like if the "Olympic Spirit" is rooting for your "people" unconditionally, then WWII had a whole lot of Olympic Spirit. Regardless, I suppose I will miss them, and wish I at least knew they were ending.
Not entirely unlike my birthday.
You see, my birthday was on Thursday, and while I originally intended on writing a post that day, full of half-amusing, half-depressing witicisms, I ran out of time to do so and therefore get to deliver this baffling birthday fiasco tale instead.
The night started out like any other only more so. Dinner with friends, drinks. We went to a mexican restaurant and I realized early on that strange and confusing things were afoot. While some pitchers of margaritas were making their rounds, a double of tequila showed up out of nowhere (read: I didn't hear anyone order it for me) and I took the obligatory birthday shot (to my credit/detriment without gagging). This made me think about bday parties at other places. I mean, tequila seems to be the go to birthday shot, right? If you're at a dive bar, maybe Jager. But what about at a Sushi place? I suppose sake bombs. Thai? Indian? I have a tough time imagining a group cheering mightily for someone to drink their pint of Birthday Kingfisher Beer.
The next oddity was a few drinks later and came at the tail end of the dinner portion of the evening. Fireworks arrived. Well-- one firework-- a sparkler really. If my memory serves, it arrived with thirty-five mexicans and one very white waiter who's name I don't know, but believe I referred to as Brad. They were all clapping, seemingly for the sparkler that was making its way down to the ice cream it was sticking out of. I had to assume that's why they were clapping, because it would be ridiculous for them to be clapping for me to blow out the sparkler, since it was A FUCKING SPARKLER and the sparks were burning bright and mighty, keeping me well outside the candle blowing radius. We all maintained our positions, therefore, well after it was socially comfortable to do so (kind of like a slow clap at a baseball game that builds up to a frenzy and then the pitcher steps off the mound and you don't know whether to keep clapping insanely fast or just give up). So the thirty-five mexicans, Brad, and my friends all stood around clapping while I watched the sparkler with a half-smile on my face, content to see what would happen next, and entirely confused as to what was happening currently. Eventually, I decided that it was time somebody showed the (dwindling) sparkler who was boss, and leaned my face into the flame, giving it one swift shot of air. It went out immediately, and there was silence (possibly because I wasn't supposed to blow it out, but probably because it's pretty awkward to clap in celebration after JUST having clapped for over a minute).
Seeing that I was clearly primed, we all went into the bar section where some karaoke came on and apparently some more drinks were had. This is where the third baffling occurrence took place. It was baffling in two parts: the first part was when my friend and band-mate Ensomniac told me that he put in a special birthday karaoke request that I would know all the words to. When I pressed him, he informed me that it was a song by My Chemical Romance. It's important that you realize here that there is no reason for Ensomniac to believe that I know any words to any My Chemical Romance songs.* I have never listened to My Chemical Romance around him. I have not quoted My Chemical Romance, nor suggested we go to their concert. I do not have a "Black Parade" tattoo; temporary, henna, or otherwise, and I don't wear eye shadow. So it was particularly confusing when I heard that I was going to have to karaoke to it. Then the music started playing and here was the second baffling aspect. It was a My Chemical Romance song that I had never heard before-- AND what's more, my band had clearly ripped off a number of the riffs from it, because it sounded exactly the same as one of our songs. My Friend Formerly With A Pool Now With A Patio clapped me on the back and informed me that it was, in fact, our song. Technology Wow.
We then karaoke'd to our own song, which means yelled into a microphone basically, while everyone else in the bar stood by, not knowing what the song was. It was a very surreal experience, and if we'd intended it to be performance art, I'm sure some critic would hail it as some really deep, avant garde shit. On the plus side, it was our largest audience ever, and the waitress seemed to genuinely think it was cool. On the down side, it was one of the most self-indulgent, potentially lame, super embarrassing things we have ever done in public. Also, it was AWESOME.
We sang another of our songs, I was fed more drinks, called my roommate a Puma, and I believe I berrated one of my friends about the importance of sober self-transportation (on a related note, I checked in with people the next day to make sure they survived, and learned the lesson that texting, "U alive?" is not a good idea when there is any chance that they might not respond. Dead people do not text back "no," but live people do fail to reply to texts. I'd be better off texting, "If ur dead im going to take ur $ and apt like we talkd about unless u text that it's no longer ok." Then we'll find out who's dead or not). After that, my memory becomes one big game of Blackout Bingo, if the rules of Blackout Bingo were that you drink until you no longer remember or care that you are playing bingo. The next bit unfolded like a scene out of the film Memento or The Bourne Identity. Somebody hugged me, I drank something and-...
COP: Sir! Sir!
ME: Huh? (I look around. Two cops are shining their lights in my eyes. I appear to be just down the street from my home, but have no idea how I got there).
COP: Sir, where do you live?
ME: Um, right up that hill.
COP: Where do you live, sir?
ME: Uhh (I can't for the life of me remember my new address, but this seems like a bad thing to tell the cops. I don't know if I'm in trouble, but it doesn't appear that I'm NOT in trouble, so I play my cards close to my chest. Saying, "I just moved here," sounds both like I'm going to rob the place, and like what a homeless person would say about wherever it is they pass out for the first time. Instead I say...) I dunno, but it's right up there (nice).
COP: Uh-huh. Do you have ID on your or anything? (this would have been the best possible time to have had a Burger King Kid's Club Card. "Why yes, I do!")
ME: Riley Road! Uhhh (my brain pulls at my eyes and my eyes make everything dance)...614 Riley Road!
COP: Sir, please get in the car.
ME: Nono, it's alright, I'll just--
COP: We're gonna take you home, sir, just get in the car. (It would have been so much easier if they had just offered me candy)
So I get in the car and enjoy the brief ride back to my apartment. The plexi-glass separates me from the driver, which is good, because if I probably would have started babbling about getting motion sickness in the backs of cars if we hadn't been separated. Instead, I hope out at my stop (which happens to be the only stop on this public transport) and am shocked to find my key in my pocket. I wonder if this is what my boss meant when she said, "Just don't drive yourself home if you're drinking." I slip the key into the door, enter the building and-- wake up in the morning-- shirt on, pants off. Nice. I find several calls from The ATX, who was also there, and while I feel like I want to throw up, I can't seem to.
See? Just like those movies. The Bourne Identity makes so much more sense when you understand that Matt Damon was just drunk off his ass the whole time. Jason Bourne was just an alcoholic who knew kung-fu. That's a character we could connect with on a global level.
JASON BOURNE: I'm drunk as hell, where's my bed?
BAD GUYS: We blew it up. And we're gonna kill you.
JASON BOURNE: Whaaaaat? Fuck that-- I know kung-fu.
BAD GUYS: Just get in the car, we're gonna take you home.
JASON BOURNE: Man, I am WASTED and belligerant.
BAD GUYS: Good. Let's keep up this dynamic for three films.
JASON BOURNE: Can that chick from the white girl dancing movie inexplicably be in it?
EXECUTIVE PRODUCER: Yes.
As I put the pieces back together, things became more confusing. We apparently went to a second bar where I was handed numerous drinks-- which had to have been the same dynamic as laughing while getting a dog to lick up some spilled beer. I then got into a taxi with My Friend Formerly With A Pool-- it was a love taxi. Christmas lights, romantic mood music, plush seats. This is where the call from The ATX happened. Apparently, despite staying with me, we left him at the bar. I was then dropped off IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE. I don't know if I went inside or not, but I apparently let gravity take it's course and wandered about a half mile away again where the cops found me. I don't know if I was babbling incoherently, walking erratically, or passed out on the ground ("awesomely" if I have to use an adjective for that too), but something attracted the cops.
(in the morning)
The ATX: How you doin?
ME: Alright.
The ATX: You threw up last night down in the bathroom.
ME: Nice! (explaining why I don't have to now-- what a champ)
The ATX: Yeah, I stepped in it when I got home and had to pee.
ME: Yikes.
The ATX got in by throwing rocks at the window of the girl who came out with us and lives with me. So while that sucked and he was locked out, as he himself said, "I've never gotten to throw rocks at a girl's window before, so that was kinda cool."
So I have to assume that I probably went searching for The ATX when I realized he wasn't home. I wasn't stumble-drunk, I was on a mission-- a quest if you will. I was Lolo Jones, in search of gold (i.e. The ATX and/or a place to throw up), and the cops were my ninth hurdle (the one she tripped on). Neither one of us might have won, but we certainly gave it our all-- and that is the true Olympic Spirit. The Olympics, my birthday-- these things come and go, fade away (or disappear entirely from memory), but in a day, a year, 18 months (until Vancouver), whenever-- the Olympic Spirit will rise again, and we can look to be champions. You can cue the National Anthems Mix CD now.
BYO-Intervention,
Witz
* Despite this photo proof
taken after my friend's wedding
when we all belted out the entirety of
"Welcome to the Black Parade"...you
know...the one where they go,
"We'll caaaarry oooon, we'll caaaarry
OOOOooooonnnnn..." a lot.
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