August 29th 4:10pm - Motorbike Misfortune

A few months ago found me traipsing through Southeast Asia with two of my friends. We commenced our expedition with Bangkok , journeyed north into Laos , worked our way south to Bangkok again, and flew to the Thai islands. During this rather lengthy excursion, we utilized all modes of transportation. We traveled by plane, train, van, boat, bus, raft, and elephant. Upon reaching the island of Koh Tao ( Turtle Island ), we came to the now-knowledgeable decision to do as the locals do: ride motorbikes. In Thailand , it is customary to cram a small motorized bike with mom, dad, baby, and three children heaped on top of one another. We, being three (rather larger) American girls, elected to rent three bikes. The three of us approached various island natives, haggling (as is routine) for the best rate. A rather squat woman with long black, graying hair tied up rose ahead of the others as the frontrunner, offering us three bikes for 100baht less than her numerous competitors (the amount works out to be slightly over three and a half dollars saved). I surrendered my passport as collateral for the three bikes, and we bounded onto our newly acquired toys. One of my friends had ridden a motorbike before. Thus, she became our motorbike educator. It took us little over ten seconds to realize they were manual motorbikes. Translation: we couldn’t just turn the key, press a button, and vroom-vroom our way down the street. Instead, we had to turn the key, put in the clutch (located on our right handlebar), and then slowly release the clutch as we applied more weight on the gas (situated at our feet). Quite complicated. I find it impossible to drive a stick shift car, much less endure so much effort to initiate the thrumming and jumping metal that is a motorbike. However, I reminded myself that I am an athlete, and assured myself this simply cannot be that hard. Within a minute the other two had their bikes growling and one of my friends rapidly rocketed away. My saintly instructor stayed by my side as I struggled to get the bike’s motor humming. I could not for the life of me coordinate the release of the clutch with the correct force on the gas. I tried, and the bike jolted forward before dying. Again: the engine thrived, bounding ahead, before failing. Hearing the other motorbike’s purr bearing towards me motivated my extreme concentration on starting the engine. And then: success. The bike vibrated beneath me, roaring with life, and hurdled forward directly into the street. “Whoa,” I yelled, doing my best to maintain my grip on the bike. “Whooa,” I yelled as I advanced to the opposite side of the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car. “Whooooa,” I yelled as an enormous truck (very unusual for Thailand ) loomed in front of me. “Aggghhh!” I screamed as I swerved the bike in an attempt to avoid colliding with the parked truck. I almost accomplished my challenge. The bike hit the edge of the truck, and gravity propelled me to the ground, the bane of my existence landing directly on top of me. I lay, stunned, for half a second before chuckling my immense relief at the fact I was still breathing. My friends couldn’t breathe, as they were overcome with hysterics, one of whom peed her shorts from laughing. Outcome: one cracked motorbike mirror, one bruised body (I told people I got trampled by an elephant… much better story), one passport held hostage by small, thickset woman, the loss of the equivalent of $100U.S. to repair motorbike “damages,” and one marginally bruised pride : )

August 28th 7:05pm - My Car is Cursed

I swear my car is cursed. It is a blight upon my otherwise semi-conventional existence. My parents purchased a Jetta for me in the summer of 2005 after they gave the love of my life, a 1992 Mercedes, away. Within the first month my car was parked in front of a party I was at. Some guys got in a fight (I do not usually attend hoodlum parties... promise) and decided they would take their unwarranted wrath out on the little white Jetta in front of the house. The Jetta's back windshield was smashed in with a fire poker. Of all objects to steal out of a house... a fire poker. The Jetta's misfortune has continued to escalate. Since then, a side window has been shattered. I knew something was wrong when I noticed my business cards in the crosswalk. The inside of my car was ransacked. The only thing missing: my oh-so-priceless gas card. My front windshield has been cracked. How that transpired is beyond me. While departing a hockey game I ran over a concrete slab in the middle of the exit. I was on a slight slope and my dashboard and the front of my car were blocking my view of the street. The floor in the back-seat elevated five inches. My cousin later took a sledge hammer to it and bashed the bump out. I blame the dashboard. A drunken friend of mine stole a hubcap (he didn't remember the next day... but there were witnesses). Another friend borrowed my car only to return it sans side mirror. His reply: it wasn't his fault, he didn't do it. An ace bandage acted as an adhesive and bonded the mirror to the car for a year and a half. My car got towed and the tow truck managed to tear off the entire front bumper. The good news: I told them the windshield hadn't previously been flawed, and they were responsible. They replaced the front windshield. My car was parked and a UHaul drove by, denting the side of my car and dislodging the bumper yet again. The UHaul had been rented by two men solely to deposit a couch to Goodwill. Goodwill rejected the couch (they don't accept furniture, apparently) and it was thus that my car was wounded. Good news: they reattached the bumper, replaced the hubcap, and repaired the side mirror. Two days after my car was returned, I parked at my parent's house and went to Thailand for a month. The first night I was back in San Francisco I parked on the street. The next morning, lo and behold, the entire casing of my other side mirror had vanished entirely. No plastic was on the street, and the mirror was not even scratched.
Now: the mirror is, again, fastened by an Ace bandage. I got pulled over by a cop car a couple of days ago and (so generous of them) received a fix-it ticket for the mirror. I have thirty days. My car clicks sporadically while driving and emits odd human-sounding noises. My brother broke the button that releases the gas tank cover. Every time I need gas I have to pry the cover open with a key or a screwdriver. My right front tire is flat. My power steering is no longer in existence. I have to manually open every door individually because for some unknown reason the unlock button is irritable and only works a fifth of the time. And even though I obviously have to unlock the car to get into it, half the time I turn my key in the lock, the car alarm detonates and loud, distressed beeping resounds in my ears and into my once-peaceful brain.

August 27th 11:10pm - Bum Signs

My favorite two signs I have seen street-corner bums don (I subsequently laughed and distributed money all around):

1. Family kidnapped by ninjas. Need money for karate lessons.

2. Need fuel for my jet

August 26th 11:55pm - Vagrant on Market

Last year I came to the sporadic, intelligent decision to cease taking Spanish classes at USF and instead sign up for bar-tending class downtown. I have an extreme lack of aptitude in foreign languages, aka I-would-rather-stick-a-pencil-in-my-eye than attempt to learn the art of the exotic languages of the world. Despite the fact I live in California, where Caucasians are, in fact, a minority, I had absolutely no yearning to pursue the mysterious languages of the unknown. Thus, I claimed foreign language disability (that's right, a hindrance solely of foreign languages), dropped the class, and enrolled in the clearly-far-more-useful-let's-make-alcoholic-drinks class. The class times persisted from 6pm-9:30pm at night, Monday-Friday for two weeks. And the class was on Market Street. Downtown. One of the incalculable venues for the destitute and crazy to congregate. Walking to my bus-stop a woman approached me. Good lord did she have a vagabond existence. She donned male clothes, all numerous sizes too large for her petite frame. Her brown hair disheveled, her eyes slits, she marched towards me, determined. I eyed her warily, entirely uncertain as to what was to come. She stopped in front of me and subsequently asked me, voice strong and expression unabashed, if I had a tampon. She did a distressed dance with her legs crossed and hands clasped in front of her that undeniably resembled the traumatic dance of a four-year-old needing to desperately use the restroom. "I don't got nothing and It's running down my leg..." she declared, bobbing up and down. "Oh dear god," I replied, "let me see if I have one." After an intense rummage through my endless Mary Poppins purse, my search unearthed a spoon, deodorant, an assortment of pens and bobby pins... and three tampons. She jerked around wildly. I thrust the tampons at her and told her to take them. She thanked me profusely, told me I was amazing, and walked a total of four steps away from me. From there she proceeded to whip the wrapper off one of the tampons, pull open her pants, part her legs, and shove it into her. My mouth dropped open. The masses of people passing seemed not to notice. I'm really not sure why I didn't look away. But here I was, 9:40 at night, on arguably the busiest street in San Francisco, watching a homeless woman thrust a tampon into her. Definitely a new experience for me!

August 25th 10:57pm - Vas Legas Quotebook- Conclusion

S: “I’m so useless right now I couldn’t give a speech to anyone about anything. I couldn’t even tell little kids about blocks.”

J: “The house always wins!”

S: “Why don’t they have casinos everywhere?”
J: “Because you can’t tempt people to ruin their lives every day.”

K: “The greatest trick the devil ever played was convincing the world he didn’t exist.”

M: “I’ve discovered hats are like bras. You can stick shit in them. Lke keys and money and shit.”

S: “We discovered if Joel was a drag queen his name would be Princess Abigail.”

August 23rd 8:45am - Vas Legas Quotebook Part I

Not only did we keep a You Know You're Drunk When section, we also kept a Quotebook on this fabulous extravaganza that comprised our New Years trip to Vegas...

J: "You cannot manipulate the ocean Steve"

S: "If I bring home a midget, I automatically win."
K: "I haven't seen a midget yet in Vegas."
H: "You think they'd be everywhere here."
S: "They're all at midget conventions."
KY: "They're like collectibles. You have to collect them all."
KY (five minutes later): "Midgets are like Pokemon. You've gotta catch them all."

S: "I call drunk people Diggy."

KY: "People need phone numbers more than Jesus."

S: "I got in the back of the neighbor's car, ate their food, smoked their weed, and used one of their sweatshirts as a blanket."

J: "I lost $25 on the penny slots. How is that possible?"

J: "I walked in on N and E humping. He was giving it to her N style" (in reality they were asleep when he walked in).

J: "I didn't like kissing her because her stubbly mustache got in the way."

B: "The dealer told me I look like Macy Gray."
E: "Isn't she really ugly?"

KT: "Marisa won a triathalon."
H: "In the Congo?"
(what???)

KY: "They went to town on my crotch."

August 23rd 8:31am - Vas Legas Part III

You Know You're Drunk When... Continued (Last Installment):

* You puke on your knee, then you puke on your sweatshirt, and you never make it out of your hotel room on New Year's Eve in Las Vegas

* You walk into a hotel room and think your friends are having sex when in fact they're just sleeping

* You try to hook up with a pear-shaped girl with a stubbly mustache who is leaving for the army he following morning (try being the imperative word)

* While asking a cop for directions, you tell him he should let the person he's arresting go. Immediately afterwards you know, and say, you crossed the line

* You make out with two of your friends in exchange for chicken nuggets when they've already told you you could have them for free

* You're somewhere on the strip. You talk to your friend on the phone and all you can tell him is that you're in the Grand Canyon.

August 21st 6:40pm - Drunk & Sober

My 8 favorite text messages currently in my phone:

1. A homeless man just kicked me!
2. Ooooh Kara I tried to kiss this extremely hot guy last night but I missed and only got his cheek! And I woke up this morning to a midget in my bed!
3. From this day forward, January 11th, 2008 will be a national holiday. Because today is the day X lost his virginity!
4. i just wanted to say hi im in rosa and i just wanted to say hi. and can i have your address when i'm in costa rica i want to be able to say hi.
5. Someone got Hep C. In a press release, she stated she would fight it with faith and optimism.
6. You gotta do what you gotta do sometimes. The older the berry the sweeter the juice! (My friend's response to me making fun of him due to the fact that he made out with a fifty-year old woman. He's twenty-two).
7. Damnit. My brain is out.
8. A kid peed on me today

August 20th 6:10pm - Wake Up!!!

Earlier this summer my friends and I went out on a Saturday night. The next morning a friend of ours was running in a half marathon and I resolved to go… moral support, you know. Well, and the race was in wine country coupled with the promise of free wine tasting... not exactly a tough decision. The viscous catch was that another friend was picking me up at 4:45am to drive to the wine chase. It is beyond my comprehension why people can’t run in the afternoon. Slumber for the night beginning at 3am became a siesta when I was rudely awakened at 4:40am. Another of my friends had to get home to Marin and deemed it an easy ride if we dropped her off on our way to Napa . My job: waking her up. The cell phone call roused me, and I rolled over and gently touched her arm. No response. I said her name and rubbed her arm. I did it again. Nothing. I patted her arm. I picked up her arm and let it drop. I yelled her name. I shook her arm. I placed my hands on either side of her head and shook it. The phone rang, the ride was outside. I screamed her name. I straddled her, wrapped each of my hands around her corresponding shoulders and violently crashed her body back and forth from the bed into the air into the bed again. Nothing. I jumped up and down on the bed, situated my face inches from hers and screeched her name. Dead to the world. I left. And answered a call from her at 9:30am. Famous first words: "Why didn't you wake me up?"

August 19th 5:05pm - Gallon Challenge

The purpose of this glorious event is to drink a gallon of milk in an hour… without throwing up. Earlier this summer six of my friends partook in the contest. Six males, I might add. No female felt the least inclined to participate. That said, we did form a spectator section. The audience comprised of four girls (myself included) and two guys, neither of whom felt any inane pull to join in the theatrics. Each contestant prepared individually, and the techniques ran the gamut. One of the guys ate twelve Lactaid pills, one smoked pot. One restricted his caloric intake to lettuce (and gallons of water) for the four days prior to the contest, one baked brownies, and one prepared a cooler with… (drumroll)…Oreos, Pepto Bismol, and Tums. One did nothing to prepare, but he told me he had a strong, determined mind, and that’s all that mattered. I’m incredibly skeptical as to the thought process behind the lettuce and water, but…whatever works? These methods became pre-competition (and, for us, pre-entertainment) procedures. Ganja Man decorated his gallon with the nick-name “The Red Baron.” Lettuce Man inscribed his gallon with the oh-so-motivating “This is not hard for me,” “I will win,” and “The Champ.” Brownie Man composed the always-inspiring phrase, “The whole fight” on his. As the men lined up their white plastic chairs on the sidewalk in front of the house, Lactaid Man inserted a hunk of chewing tobacco under his lip and walked to his truck to watch Shawshank Redemption, gallon in hand. Cooler Man settled himself and rifled through the articles inside his treasure chest. Cannabis Man relaxed, arranging a glass and containers of chocolate and strawberry Hershey’s syrup beside him. His reasoning: “Nobody dislikes chocolate milk. And when I get sick of chocolate milk, I’ll switch to strawberry milk.” response: “Ummmm….” Brownie Man positioned the brownies within easy reach, while the others talked. To themselves. Muttering encouraging words as they were about to embark on this epic trial that (clearly) tested their manhood. One of the guys punched his invisible milk demons, bouncing on his toes, boxer-status, saying, “You can do this. You will do this. You will win.” The announcer/video taper counted down, the milk hovering above everyone’s mouths. Ready. They all launched the competition with colossal gulps, throwing their heads back and guzzling, gulping. Sixteen minutes in found Ganja Man on his back on the sidewalk, quite unable to move. He lay, comatose, until someone suggested he beer bong the rest of the milk. Sidenote: chugging milk out of a beer bong is not advisable. He was the first to discharge his stomach’s contents. What emerged was a thick, gelatinous pink and brown substance. From the Hershey’s syrup. The others eventually spewed. Lactaid Man quit and soon thereafter spent a half an hour on the toilet. By the last five minutes of the gallon challenge, two remained. No Preparation and Lettuce Man. With three minutes on the clock, No Preparation ceremoniously raised what was left of his gallon and began to swallow. Lettuce Man glanced over and nobly, hurriedly, elevated his gallon and chugged. He regurgitated with less than a minute remaining, with less than two mouthfuls of milk left in his gallon. No Preparation shortly followed. End result: no win, but a vow that it will happen next year. A vow that there will be a victor next year. There will be a champion. And I’ll still be there to watch: oh how lucky I am!

August 18th 7:15pm - Wind = Mischievous Devil

I recently obtained a new apartment. Last Saturday my dad and brother packed a UHaul with all of my desired furniture from my parent’s house and drove to San Francisco . When they arrived at 4:30pm my brother called me to tell me they were outside. My roommate and I left the front door wide open with music blasting and ran downstairs. I hugged my family, and as I was introducing them to my new roommate, we heard a slam. The wind had blown the gate shut. My roommate and I quickly came to the devastating realization that both of our sets of keys were upstairs in the apartment with the door gaping. As misfortune would have it, the girls that live in the apartment above us (the only other ones with keys/gate access) were not home. We frantically called our third roommate and the landlord as my dad and brother unburdened the UHaul of its cargo. They unloaded the furniture on the sidewalk and in the garage. The landlord never answered, and the other roommate was an hour away. She was heading to SF, and would get there in two hours or so, but, of course, the UHaul facility closed at 7pm and the males in my family had to return the truck by then. We came to the momentous decision to drive the UHaul thirty blocks to stop by the landlord’s house on the off-chance they were home but not answering the phones. Dad drove me in the enormous, rumbling vehicle through the quiet neighborhood streets of San Francisco to the landlord’s residence. After much knocking, beating, and hammering the door as well as molesting the doorbell, I ascertained that they were, in fact, not home. Rumble rumble back to the apartment, and my dad and brother had to depart to drive the hour home to restore the UHaul to its rightful quarters. They then had to return to SF to move the ridiculously-heavy-that-I-could-never-lift furniture upstairs and into the apartment. By the time of their joyous (re)arrival, our third roommate had delivered the keys as a means to get in. My heroes lugged the furniture to its final resting place, had a beer, and then left to make the drive, once again, home. My roommates and I concluded we were going to make a copy of the keys immediately and give them to someone.
IF I had kept my keys in my pocket, we wouldn’t have been locked out.
IF my roommate had kept her keys in her pocket, we wouldn’t have been locked out.
IF we had a hide-a-key somewhere, we wouldn't have been locked out.
IF my third roommate had been closer, or there, we wouldn't have been locked out.
IF the wind hadn’t thumped the gate shut, we wouldn’t have been locked out.
Conclusion: I blame the wind!

August 17th 11:52pm - Vas Legas, Part II

You Know You're Drunk When... Continued

*You worship the Del Taco cashier in his 40's at six o'clock in the morning.

*You're still awake while workers hose down the sidewalks of the Las Vegas strip.

* You're asked the time, and you say two or three in the morning. It's 7am.

*You drop $25 on the penny slots in five minutes.

* You tackle one of your friends in a casino in front of security and have a mark the next day to prove it.

* You're playing penny slots and you don't realize the numbers represent pennies and not dollars. You celebrate, thinking you're winning $600 and it ends up being $6. You're happy anyway.

* You think that betting on black every single time is a good idea.

* You walk outside a casino, see it's light outside and are amazed. You return to the inside of the casino only to walk outside of it 15 minutes later, and are equally amazed it's light outside.

* You walk out of your way to try to catch a train at 5 o'clock in the morning. The train isn't running anymore.

*You then walk two miles down the strip only to find out the buses are still running.

* You stand in the middle of the sidewalk on the strip with your pants around your ankles and your hands in the air.

August 15th 11:54pm - Vas Legas???

My friends and I challenged Las Vegas this past New Years. We think we won. We came to the brilliant, always-good-because-you-remember decision to write a "You Know You're Drunk When" page (and if you don't remember, your friends will inform you of the previous night(s) occurrences). The following consists of excerpts from that epic adventure.

*Disclaimer: yes, these are all actual events that did occur in Vegas, in the years of our lord 2007 and 2008. They are anonymous for a reason. I believe there were eleven of us??

You Know You're Drunk When...

* It takes you 5 minutes to realize your friends have spilled alcohol on your crotch and they've been making fun of you for it.

* You wake up the next morning, your phone is in two pieces, and you have no idea how it happened.

* You try to make out with your best friend's girlfriend. Multiple times. While he's watching.

* You smoke weed in the back of your "neighbor's" van thinking it's your own hotel room. The next day you realize you don't know who they were or where they were staying. They might have been staying in the van.

* You chug half a bottle of champagne on the Las Vegas strip because a Las Vegas cop threatened to call you a pussy if you didn't.

* You can't for the life of you understand why a Las Vegas bicycle cop is mad at you for having your pants down and peeing on the sidewalk of the strip.

*You break an iPod and iPod speakers with one drink.

* You make out with two of your friends who are sitting next to each other on the same bed, one after the other.

* You black out before you ever leave the hotel room.

You go to bed at 9:30am the next morning.

* You find it perfectly acceptable to spit on the hotel room floor.

* The only proof you have of making it onto the strip is through pictures. You have no memories.

* The dealer says your male friend looks like Macy Gray and you and your other friends start singing the one song of hers you know. You sing loudly.

August 14th 7:36pm - Mardi Gras

One of my best friends is currently a teacher for Teach For America in New Orleans... and this is the gracious invite I (along with - literally - 353 other people) received recently :

Ummm shitshow...We want to see how many people we can cram into our house, and you are one of the select few we are inviting...out of a small pool of 1,000... If you aren't here you are dead to us. We have experienced the chaos that is New Orleans for about 2 weeks now and have drank enough to get us drunk for at least 4 separate months...and we think u should too!

We wanted to give a heads up now so you can book your tickets, but reminders/threats will occur periodically. Fat Tuesday is Feb. 24..this is the main day of Mardi Gras madness, and the weekend before is prime time as well. We suggest coming anytime starting Thursday Feb. 19...stay as long as you want, but you def. wanna be here for Fat Tuesday, and since most of you are losers that don't have jobs, that shouldn't be an issue. We will be busy teaching illiterate children in the ghetto and making a difference in the world (no big deal), but you can watch TV and sit on your ass while we are at work. Or, since there will be a lot of people here visiting that have never met, some ice breakers followed by an orgy is another option.

To give you an idea of how amazing this will be, our house is about a block from the parade route and the street car that takes us into the French Quarter for $1.25. Also, we have a lot of friends that are single and like to show their tits (male and female), so there's something for everyone.

Contact us at teachersturningtricks.com if you have any questions, and more info will follow. If you don't come you are a fucking idiot.

August 13th 7:35pm - Gym

Today a woman wearing work-out clothes walked past me. She was admittedly a very plump, rotund woman, but presumably adorned in work-out apparel: Adidas spandex pants, tennis shoes, and an athletic-looking shirt with... you guessed it, her hair pulled back. I've been intending to join a gym so decided it was prudent to inquire as to the whereabouts of said (assumed) gym. I asked her politely and she stared at me, her face registering unreserved shock. And then she started to yell. I was initially confused and looked behind me, but no, her wrath was directed at me. She screamed, red mouth wide and eyes bulging. She inquired whether I asked all overweight people that question, asked me if I had no commonsense or morals, and told me one day when I am fat I will think before opening my mouth. Yes, I will probably be fat one day, but, truly, I just wanted to know if there was a gym nearby!

August 12th 11:52pm - Dirty Biker Bar

You know you need to re-evaluate your life when...
You know you are a foul human being when...
You know you are a disgrace to the human race when...
You know you should never be allowed to drink in public again when...
You know you should never be allowed in any public settings... ever... when...
You know you probably have gonorrhea and/or climidea and/or syphillis of the mouth/entire body when...
You know you will never be allowed in my shower... or near any walls I've been close to... when...

You have sex with an unknown girl (by unknown I mean unknown before colossal amounts of alcohol) against the wall of a grimy biker bar... and (rightfully so) get arrested for it...

* *For the record, this (clearly) remarkable young man is the (unknown to me) cousin of one of my friends**

It's the first time I've ever heard of anyone having sex in a biker bar, the first time I've ever heard of anyone having sex against the wall of a biker bar, and the first time I've ever heard of anyone getting arrested for it

August 11th 6:25pm - Stove

I am a procrastinator. I am a severe procrastinator. In high school I wouldn't begin my homework until eleven at night. One time I had an essay due the following morning at nine. I began at eleven-thirty that night. Three-thirty in the morning found me sitting at the computer with a nodding head and incessantly closing eyes. It was the exhausted-head-nod-jerk-yourself-awake kind. In over an hour I wrote one sentence. That's when I resolved something needed to be done. My eyes puffy, my head swimming, I came to the always-brilliant decision to turn on the stove and put my head over the flame in an effort to wake myself up. For some (still) imperceptible reason, I did exactly that: I turned on the stove and placed my head over the flames. I stood, stationary, for ten seconds or so before leaping back, fully alert. I shrieked and sprinted the three steps to the sink. I wrenched the faucet on and threw my hair underneath the water. In my semi-conscious state, pulling my hair back before situating my head above a fire simply didn't occur to me. In my semi-conscious state, not putting my head over flames never occurred to me. I had effectively managed to light my hair on fire in an effort to wake up.

In retrospect: when trying to stay awake, putting your head in the freezer would have an equivalent effect as over a stove/flame. Possibly not the same extreme state of alertness that I was thrust into, but it would have presumably woken me up enough!

August 10th 1:14pm - Too Sexy

We have partaken in some thievery over the years in the form of wireless internet that we've never paid for. It is completely irrational that myself and my current roommates became aggravated and annoyed when the continually free internet access perished. Consequently, today I marched the couple of blocks to my former university campus to situate myself in a lounge with wireless. Approaching the desired room, I was bombarded with exquisite piano notes that delighted my ears. I happily proceeded inside. Having an extreme deficiency in the musical arena, I have no idea what score was being played. I can tell you with my extensive expertise it might have resembled Bach. Listening to the notes had a blissful effect on my mood. It wasn't until I had draped myself over the couches and leaned back with my laptop nestled on my lap that I looked at the pianist. He appeared to be approximately fifty years old... and homeless. His graying hair was disheveled and protruded in all directions. His lined, gaunt face plastered with dirt, he wore an oversized torn black shirt seemingly made for a three-hundred pound man. His skeletal frame attested to the fact that his appearance wasn't exactly maintained. The pianist wore black pants that hugged his legs (appearing to be female jeans) and were wildly too short for his lanky body. He wore two different socks. He wore one black scuffed shoe. And he was outrageously talented on the piano. A pink bike leaned against the wall next to him. The bicycle boasted a blanket-wrapped bundle secured onto the handlebars with string. He played for five minutes, paused to sip out of a plastic bottle, played, sipped, played... I was showered with the striking gift of song for close to twenty minutes before the music ceased. And then his scratchy, abrasive voice radiated into the room. "I'm too sexy for this piano, too sexy for this piano, too sexy for this piano." Afraid to glance up, I kept my eyes down. He paused, and then repeated his serenade three times. Head down, eyes peeking, I saw the pianist/apparent singer elevate himself ceremoniously and walk to his bike. Grasping the handlebars, he sang/spoke, "I'm too sexy for this bike, too sexy for this bike, sooo sexy," and then progressed, bike in tow, to the door. He walked across the room, past me, and around the corner before I heard, "I'm too sexy for this door, too sexy for this door, too sexy..."

August 8th 7:24pm - Da Home of Da Bwave

I played four years of Division-1 soccer. That means I had four years to become a weathered expert listener of the national anthem of the United States of America. That means I had four years as an on-field spectator to observe this fine art of the Star Spangled Banner vocalist. That means I had heard such a hodgepodge assortment of vocals that I thought I had heard it all. I had heard recordings the likes of Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, and Faith Hill. I had heard little children as tall as my waist. I had heard choir college students. I had heard adults. Oftentimes I sang along, the speakers drowning out my repulsive, atrocious voice. Oftentimes we held hands on-field and bowed our heads. Oftentimes I was moved, the ringing out of our national anthem motivating and preparing me for the ninety grueling, demanding minutes looming ahead of me.
After four years, after over one hundred games in scorching heat, stinging rain, and glacial cold, I was ready. After ecstatic wins, demoralizing losses, and so many remarkable memories, I was ready. I stood on the field, my teammates' hands clasping my own, one of eleven girls in a streak of green across our home field. Across my home field. I was ready.
And then the singer began:

Oh, say can you seeeeee by da dawn's ear-wy wight,
What so proud-wy we hai-wed at da twi-wight's wast gweam-ing?
Whose bwoad stwipes and bwight staws thu da pew-i-wous fight,
O'er da wam-pawts we watched were so gaw-want-wy stweam-ing?
And da wocket's wed gware, da bombs buwst-ing in aiw,
Gave pwoof thwough da night that our fwag was still there.
Oh, say does dat staw-spang-wed bannerrr yet wave
O'er da wand of da fwee and da home of the bwaaaaaave...

Talk about motivation. We failed miserably in attempts to repress our laughter and our quivering shoulders.

August 7th 5:20pm - Mischievousness

One of the most impressive, hilarious, inspiring things I've ever heard regarding a friend's deception of a parent:

My friend owed her mom $100. Her mom continually harassed her daughter concerning the debt. The daughter finally consented, and went to her room to write her mom the check. That's when her brilliance and roguish abilities prevailed. She wrote the check to her mom for 1 cent instead of 100 dollars. Her mom didn't scrutinize the check and simply cashed it at the bank. It wasn't until much later when her checkbook didn't balance that she contacted the bank. She couldn't understand what the issue was and assumed the bank was at fault. It ultimately surfaced that the reason her bank account didn't have the accurate amount was because of her daughter. The mom was not pleased.

August 6th 2:04pm - Female Child Models = Whores (Allegedly)

I was enlightening a male friend recently as to my future plan. I want four children. Girls simply require too much work and money. Additionally, masses of them are so emotional, which is never fun to manage. Thus, I want three boys and one girl. Preferably the (please God) sole daughter will be the youngest. Anyway, children are fantastically expensive. Children= money-drains. I would know, seeing as my parents are still financially supporting me.

The Plan: put the kids in child modeling while they're still undeveloped and too young to remember. I'm talking infantile, baby-status. Put them in child modeling (aka being dressed and situated on a swathe of carpet while photos are being taken). Then, hoard the money in a bank account or fund for them until they're of college age and I need $40,000 a year merely for tuition. Give them any excess money when they graduate. Fool-proof plan, as far as I'm concerned.

My friend's response: "Our daughters are going to be whores."

August 5th 3:18pm - Furniture High-Rise

In 6th grade my parents told me I could design my room in the house they were building. My vision: blue paint, dark blue carpet, a wall of bookcases with a ladder sliding across (like Beauty & the Beast, of course), a secret door within the bookcase leading to a secret room, a walk-in closet, and an attached bath. Oh, not to mention a step up and an arch for a separate sleeping region. My room ultimately had all of these ingredients... barring the sliding ladder and covert door and room.
By 7th grade my room had the luxury of walls and ceilings. I came to the logical conclusion to paint the ceilings as a day sky with clouds and butterflies, with the added magnificence of a night sky with stars. Make no mistake, the stars included glitter.

When my parents told me two Decembers ago they were going to replace the blue carpet with the sumptuous multihued carpet of the rest of the house, I decided it was time to repaint. I went to the store and isolated a warm beige color for my future walls. I called some friends to help me. One friend brought over an unenthusiastic attitude, but also a 12-pack of bottled beer. We spent a couple of hours dancing around and painting as much of each other as the walls. When the ceiling and one of the walls had been completed, I looked around and became depressed by the drab monotony the color provided. I returned to the store and bought red paint. I alloted one wall as the lucky color victor, and we painted.

Difficulty: the walls were textured. The ceiling was beige and the wall red. I couldn't for the life of me accomplish a straight line. And I needed a straight line. That night, after my friends left, I revisited the line. Following some internal debate, I determined the best course of action would be to locate a smaller brush and paint along the wall with the added benefit of a ruler. With the recognition that the ladder was downstairs in the garage came the realization that I was not going to retrieve that ladder. Instead, an ingenious plan: drag my 18th birthday wooden chest to the wall. Cover it with a towel so as to protect it from any excess paint descending from the brush. On the towel place a plastic folding chair (the chair scarcely fit the chest, but it did fit). Stand on chair to paint line. Perfect height.
This plan succeeded. I would paint as far as I could reach, climb down, move chest with chair intact a foot or two, and repeat. I was nearing the completion of the line. I stepped up onto the towel and then to the seat of the chair. I extended my arms towards the line. One hand was occupied with the paintbrush and the other with the ruler. My weight wasn't perfectly balanced. And then the chair collapsed. I plummeted to the floor. Instead of striking the floor, however, my lower back struck the edge of the solid wooden chest with the full force of a 153 pound woman plunging from several feet in the air. My right foot went crashing into the box of glass beer bottles kindly brought over earlier.
End result: I sat on the carpet with my back to the hope chest. My right foot was cut by the bottles. One of the bottles had still been full. When my foot connected with it, the glass shattered and the liquid surged onto the floor. The entire box lay on its side. I couldn't breathe because my air had been pounded right out of me.

My brother was the only one home. Later he said he heard a smacking sound, glass breaking, a huge thump, and an odd groan. He came bounding up the stairs and sprinted into my room to behold me crumpled on the floor on my side struggling to breathe with my right foot in a box of beer and one of the beers soaking into the carpet. When I regained my breath I began to laugh.

Advice: If you are going to insist upon painting a straight line on a textured wall, pay someone. Or just use a ladder for height. Odd assemblies of furniture in tower form are not suggested.

August 3rd 1:03am - Inappropriate Jokes

Jokes compliments of my friend Flash (inappropriate, derogatory woman jokes, by the way):

* Why'd the woman cross the road?
- That's not the point. Why was the bitch out of the kitchen anyway?
*Why couldn't Helen Keller drive?
- Because she's a woman
* Why do women have small feet?
- So they can stand closer to the sink
* Why do women always know what time it is?
- There's a clock on the oven
* How do you blind a woman?
- Put a windshield in front of her
* What do you tell a woman with two black eyes?
- Nothing. She's already been told twice
* How do you know when a woman's about to say something intelligent?
- She starts her story with, "A man once said."
*Why do women always wear white?
- So they blend in with the other appliances
* What do you call a blank piece of paper?
- A woman's Bill of Rights

And ONE man joke:
* What do you do when you see your husband stumbling in the backyard?
- Reload

August 1st 2:20pm - Bird Poop

You know those people who by some cosmic force in the universe, things always seem to happen to them? One of my friends is one of those people. No matter what order and stability the world around her appears to have, something will most likely go awry. Bizarre, inexplicable, unforeseeable circumstances occur.

A couple of weeks ago it was a gorgeous, sunny day. She was driving and had the sunroof open. She pulled into a gas station. As she was driving out, bird poop came through the sunroof and onto her head. I repeat: as she was driving. I didn't know such things were possible. I almost give the bird props for managing to hit a moving target. I feel like that requires skill!

July 31st 10:36am - Traditional Thai Massage

I was in Thailand and Laos for a month this summer.


Traditional Thai Massage - head, back, and shoulder - in Thailand.

• Feet poked and prodded with a stick
• Head and upper back punched
• Masseuse's feet used as a leverage against my back to pull my arms as far behind me as possible
• Arms twisted behind my back
• Me: sat cross-legged. Masseuse: laid on my back with her full weight and I stretched forward until I couldn't lean forward anymore. And until I couldn't breathe anymore.
• Forehead, temples, and collarbone jabbed. Hard.
• Head slapped
• Masseuse crawled all over me
• Ears pulled
• My legs and arms in air at same time sticking out in various directions
• Toes yanked on
• My body was stood on, walked on, and sat on
• The masseuse's feet were used to massage my thighs, while her elbows dug into my shoulders, and her knees dug into my sides

End result: soreness, pain, and, the next day, bruises

Somehow it still felt good...

July 30th 5:20pm - French-Fries and Lemonade

My brother and I were in Spain for two weeks roughly seven years ago. My fifteen-year-old stomach had been incessantly craving french-fries and lemonade. The entire two weeks. We were generally in Granada, a moderately small city, that didn’t have a McDonalds. The fact that it didn’t have a McDonalds devastated me. Our meals were odd things like cold tomato soup, which is never good, and fish. With eyes and scales and bones. I inevitably ate the microscopic bones. They would get lodged in my throat, consequently forcing me to choke. Additionally, the food we were fed was in miniscule, diminutive proportions considering the colossal quantities we were raised on. We supplemented our “meals” with bread and chocolate and the occasional nibble of cheese. Aka we lived on bread.

So, when we arrived at the airport with a very modest amount of money left, we came to the desperate decision to use it on food, seeing as we had essentially starved for the previous two weeks. I was delighted to see that there were french-fries and lemonade. Real lemonade. From lemons. Every time I had ordered lemonade in Spain they took it to mean limonada. The servers had given me Sprite every time. Uni-lingual idiots. Not understanding the nuances of the English language in their native Spain! Anyway, I happily placed my order and started salivating like a rabid dog at the sight of the largest lemonade and french-fries offered. They placed it on a tray, I surrendered the very last of my money, and ran away with my treasure.

Every table and chair in the dining area was occupied. The smell of the fries tantalized me. Tortured me. I felt like I was being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. My brother walked ahead of me, weaving his way through the countless chairs and tables positioned almost on top of each other. He squeezed through one particularly small area and I followed. As I turned sideways to wedge myself through the two chair backs my backpack hit something (it turned out to be somebody’s head) and I lost my balance. My hand, off-kilter, tilted the tray. My perfectly-balanced french-fries and lemonade toppled. I reached out with one of my hands to try and salvage some part of my heaven-sent meal. My outstretched fingers connected with an older woman’s breast and my greasy fries and extra-large drink plummeted onto her lap and chest.

“Oh my god!” she screamed in a thick English accent, her white hair bobbing as she jumped up.

“Oh my god!” I screamed as tears welled in my eyes for my lost little bit of bliss.

July 29th 3:28pm - If I Were Britney Spears

Britney Spears is constantly stalked and harassed by the paparazzi. They pursue her, they hassle her, they hound her. In response she runs over their feet with her car, she attacks them with umbrellas... essentially she doesn't counter their actions with the most prudent tactics.

If I were Britney Spears, I would mess with them. I'd mess with everyone.

I’d go buy one of those pregnant bellies and wear it sporadically. I’d just wear it out for a stroll in the park or to the grocery store. I’d wear it for three weeks or so and then ditch it only to don it again five months later. Just to mind-fuck people.

P.S. Britney, if you’re curious, I believe the official title is “empathy belly.”

July 28th 12:48pm - Rock & Roll Party

Every summer my parents have a lip-sync rock-n-roll party. Well, almost every summer. They've been hosting since the year 1986 and have only cancelled twice. Last summer my mom shelved the operation because she broke her arm, and when I was in 8th grade the party was abandoned because Mom gave one of her kidneys to her sister. Those two rare occurrences aside, my parents have been holding it for over twenty years. My brother, sister, and myself weren't allowed to go until we were "of age."  

The house transforms into a hippie stronghold. Posters of Jim Morrison, The Beatles, Bob Marley, The Who, Led Zeppelin, Woodstock, etc. adorn the walls. Large tie-dyed tapestries swathe the ceilings. Incense burns. A bar with bartender intact is a necessity. Everyone arrives bedecked in 60's or 70's clothing, or as a musical artist. Someone might bring whacko-tobacco brownies. There are roughly twenty performances each year. It's quite the procedure.

Two summers ago I went for the first time. This fabulous year was... eventful, to say the least. After the lip syncs were over my sober father decided to play catch-up. He achieved this by inhaling innumerable shots in rapid succession. This, as it turns out, is not an advisable method of inebriation. Within an hour and a half he was lying on the floor of the upstairs hallway. His tie-dyed pants in a twist, his long wavy blonde wig on his head sideways, and his patched vest barely covering his back completed the ensemble. Five o'clock in the morning found him in the hot tub with my cousin, sister, and the son of one of his softball teammates who is my age. My dad resolved he was, in fact, hot, and sat up on the edge of the hot tub. Then he spoke.

     "You're my niece," he said to my cousin and pointed at her.

     "You're my daughter," he said as he pointed at my sister.

     "You're J-Man," he said as he pointed at the friend's son.

     "You're you," he said and pointed up to the sky.

And then he fell. My dad fell backwards out of the hot tub. They watched as his feet flew up in the air and as he fell to the ground and rolled, wet, down the bark-covered hill to come to a stop a little ways down. Those remaining in the hot tub erupted in hilarity. J-Man ran down the hill to retrieve the party's host. My dad eventually made it to his room to find three people in his bed. When my mom had gone to bed earlier she had discovered the party's emcee and his girlfriend asleep. Instead of expending effort in moving them she came to the conclusion that it was a big bed and it could fit three people. She got in. While it is a big bed it can't fit four people. Dad fell asleep on the floor next to the bed. He awoke the next morning to find bark from the yard enveloping the floors of his room, bathroom, and closet. 

     "Who the hell got bark all over my room?" he asked. 

His face reflected puzzlement when we informed him that he was the cause of the bark-plagued room. 

That morning we rehashed the affairs of the night before. My mom told us she found one of my dad's softball teammates peeing in the wine closet thinking he was in a bathroom. We came to find out that he had spent the night but had left the next morning to go to work. While driving he got pulled over by a cop. The cop gave him a breathalyzer, and he failed, thus procuring a DUI. The morning after!

July 26th 7:31pm - Funnyman

One of my friends has an uproarious endlessly amusing man for a father.

While driving to San Francisco a couple of years ago he told me a story.
When his children were young and trusted him without question, he would mess with them. He accomplished this in everyday life by telling them lies, but achieved this fine goal by other means as well. Driving south to San Francisco, there is a tunnel. He would tell his children to hold their breaths while going through the tunnel. They would close their mouths and their cheeks would puff out. He would slow down to 5mph and watch them in the mirror. Cars would honk and swerve around his car. Other drivers would swear at him. He found it incessantly amusing to watch as his children's faces turned blue.

I am from wine country and when driving anywhere, we generally pass by vineyards. One time I was in the car as he was driving. He turned around and smiled at us.
     "Watch this!" he beamed, his face lighting up.
He rolled down the window and yelled as loud as he could into the vineyard.
     "Jose!!" he screamed.
We watched as twenty heads popped up. They were the heads of the grape pickers.

Hilarious.

July 25th 9:15am - Diseased Toenails

You know you should get another pedicure when... your male friend looks at your toenails and asks you if they are rotting.

This happened to me on the 4th of July. What was left of my toenail polish from two months before had warped and he thought my nails were literally decaying!

July 24th 6:10pm - Mouth or Foot

During spring break of my freshman year in college my best friend and I decided to fly to London. One of our friends was living there for a semester and we thought nothing could be better. Free housing, fine company, and a ten-day-long excursion were ours to be had. My friend had never been to London before, but I had gone a couple of summers before with my family. At the ripe old age of nineteen, I knew everything there was to know about London. Clearly.

We decided to replace any kind of doubt or anxiety with excitement and anticipation for our first adventure without adults. We had a contact number for our friend, and that's all we needed. We thought. We landed in Heathrow two giggly girls flush with the thrill of riding on a plane for countless hours and then getting off to a new world. We went to the phones and called the guy we were staying with. He informed us he was actually in Ireland for St. Patty's Day and wouldn't be back in London for another three days. Ok, we thought, well, we'll figure it out.

An hour and a half later we were still stuck in Heathrow Airport. We lugged around our bags, assailing anyone who looked like they knew anything about the monstrosity of an airport. We were so tired. Two hours later we had finally located and boarded a public transit that took us to the Tube (aka London's Underground Railway). Two and a half hours after disembarking from the plane we were finally on our way to London.

After a little while we decided it was as good a time as any to descend. We got off the Tube, walked up the stairs and out of the station, and there it was: London. Except that this part of London was nothing like the section of London I had seen on my last trip. Oh well, we concluded, we'll just find a hotel.

After an inordinate amount of money spent on the hotel, a wonderfully hot shower, and a three hour nap, we were ready to explore. By this time it was close to eight o'clock at night. We took to the streets. There was nobody walking the streets. We started looking in restaurants. There were few eating, and all were in suits and very professionally dressed. We walked into a bar/restaurant. We both had the deer-in-headlights-what-the-hell-are-we-doing-where-the-hell-are-we look. Aka the foreigner look. Two nineteen-year-old blonde girls (if you can call my hair blonde) crisp with our first six months of college completed. We looked around. To our left a small round table of what appeared to be five thirty-year-old men began shouting and motioned us to come over. We went over. "Australia or Canada?" was the first question. "America!" was our joyful answer.

Over the next few hours we learned a couple of things. 1: We were in the financial district of London. Very few bars in the financial district. 2: Very few Americans travel. And 3: Nobody in London would deem flip-flops worthy of covering their feet. Londoners wear real shoes.

I was in flip-flops. During the shoe conversation I looked down at my feet. A fine layer of dust manipulated my feet, making them appear far darker than the rest of my body and legs. My toenails were gnarled and mangled from my current soccer season. I had three blisters visible to my glance. One was a blood blister. My feet looked repulsive. I kind of understood the whole no-sandals-in-London thing.

After a lot of beer and fielding inappropriate questions from the drunken men, the one Irishman at the table stood up. He looked down at me.

"Give me your mouth or give me your foot," he announced with a flourish.

I didn't know what to say to this. I looked around at the eager faces of his drunken companions. I looked at my friend. She smiled and shrugged. I leaned back, wrapped my hands around my hamstring, and pulled up to raise my foot in the air. Irishman seized my foot in both his hands and lowered his mouth down to suck on my dust-covered-travel-weary toes. He then exited the bar with (surprisingly) a smile contorting his face.

July 23rd 10:42am - Face-paint

The day after the demolished-laptop-screen occurrence was the friend's dad's birthday party. It was on a boat. Due to unforeseeable circumstances, the boat never left the dock. The water crashed against the boat, rocking it from side to side. It proved a complication to the drunken swaying the open bar provoked. My hair whipped around by the windchill factor, I still had a fabulous time. 

On the return drive to our battlefield soaked in laptop tragedy (Circus Circus), we saw a miniature golf course. With everyone in immediate accord, we decided to stop and play a round. Necessity: playing for stakes. After some debate, it was determined. There was a face painting artist in Circus Circus. Those players who finished in the first three got to pick how the loser's face was to be decorated. The loser had to maintain the face paint for either the whole night, or the whole day, depending on when it was initially decorated. 

I had an amazing game of put-put. Until the last couple of holes. My stroke of luck instantly ceased to exist and suddenly what had appeared to be my strong 2nd place finish became disputable. Then it became doubtful. My heart pounding, I stood up, proud, at the last hole. And failed miserably. I lost the game by two strokes. I was at the mercy of the decision-making skills of three boys. 

I just assumed they would do the stereotypical penis-on-the-face. At worst with hair on the balls or something. However, they came to a unanimous, creative decision to have me painted as a battered wife. The next day we walked to the face painting stand and got in line behind a slew of small children, all heights ranging below my waist. When it came to be my turn, the boys described what they wanted. I emerged with a split lip, a bruised eye, a cut eyebrow (with stitches), and a bruise in the form of a hand-print wrapped around my upper arm. When I turned around the little girl next in line burst into tears and refused to get her face painted. I walked into the brunch my friend's family was at to an onslaught of questions. Walking through the casino I kept attempting to hold one of my friend's hands. He would push me away because he didn't want to be seen with me. People would stare. And point. The looks of disgust they awarded him amused me to no end. When I walked into my apartment that night my roommate's face fell. I had to rub off some of the paint before I could convince her that it wasn't real!

July 22nd 11:49am - Circus Circus

Over a year ago one of my friends convinced me that it was a great idea to go to Reno for the weekend for his dad's birthday party. We would stay in Circus Circus and have an amazing time. This was right before finals. I thought it was a brilliant plan. I would simply write my final eighteen-page paper at the hotel and/or in the car during the drive. The final count of people on this excursion: four: three boys and myself.

The first night we arrived relatively late and decided as we had to get up early the next morning we would stay in. The adventure began when we checked in. We got the key, found the appropriate room, and opened it. We entered to a hawaiian shirt hanging in our direct vision. Confused, we entered further. The lights were off, the television was on, and there was an overweight man lying in bed. The dim reflections of the television played across his face and bare chest. "Is something wrong?" he asked, voice quivering. One of the guys replied, "Ummm, nope, just checking... ummm, wrong room. Sorry," and we walked out, chuckling and perplexed. Apparently the man shared my friend's semi-common name and the hotel's reception desk workers hadn't understood that we were checking in for the first time.

When we finally got our own room we immediately opened a bottle of Jager and some beer. After some drinking it was geniusly decided that we would play Roxanne. For those of you who don't know the song Roxanne (by The Police - released in 1978), you must have lived under a rock. The drinking game that correlates with the song requires massive amounts of drinking, the possibility of regurgitation, and the definite loss of brain cells. The words "Roxanne" and "red light" prompt drinking. "Roxanne" = a sip of beer, "red light" = a sip of a mixed drink/sip of straight hard alcohol. Needless to say, after the song it was no longer necessary to drink, but drink we did.

I got pushed and fell on the bathroom floor, one of the guys stripped to his boxers and jumped around the room in red knit hat, white shirt, and boxers, and another decided it would be fun to have a pillow fight. My laptop had made its first appearance with Roxanne and had been kept out to continue playing music. After the pillow fight had made it's debut fifteen minutes in existence, Boxer Man determined that picking up the laptop to dissuade anyone else from hitting him was, in fact, a good idea. He picked it up, held it out in front of him, and said, "You can't hit me, I have the laptop." To which the pillow fight initiator swung at Boxer Man. Boxer Man altered the position of the laptop. It is in contention to this day whether the laptop was being used as a shield or whether it was an attempt at moving it out of harm's way. Regardless, the laptop was dislodged out of Boxer Man's hands and crashed to the floor. The broken screen making it impossible to see anything on the computer caused an abrupt halt to the drunken debauchery. Everyone went to sleep. It is still under debate whether it's 50/50 Boxer Man and Pillow Fighter's faults, or whether the blame lies more heavily on one over the other.

July 21st 3:58pm - Propositioned in the Financial District

My brother Trent moved to San Francisco for an internship for the summer. He's living with me, but for the first three weeks he was here I was in Thailand. He had to adjust to life in SF without the assistance of a seasoned veteran such as myself.

Weeks ago Trent was in the financial district and apparently the walk from his work to the bus stop provides many obstacles in the forms of bums, beggars, and hobos. As he pushed his way through the people barriers he found himself mechanically responding, "No thanks man," pause, "No thanks," pause, etc. etc. as he was approached and asked for money for varying causes. These causes fluctuated from: "Please help," and "I need booze," to "Ninjas kidnapped my family. I need money for karate lessons."

A well-dressed man in a suit approached him and asked, "Do you want to slave?" Trent replied, "No thanks man," robot-style. The man's response: "I'll pay you." Trent: "No thanks." Immediately afterward he caught a bus home. It wasn't until he got on the bus that he asked himself, what just happened??

July 20th 4:25pm - Payback

Just as my wonderful, adoring father had had an ingeniously devilish idea, I too came to a conclusion as concerns the whole car revenge thing. Granted, it was years later, but to be fair I had never really given the inevitable retribution much thought. Until one night.

God graced me with a brilliant stroke of intelligence and I had an idea. My dad's own car was (still is) a 740iL BMW, silver and black. It's a large, beautiful car with A LOT of power. I'd like to think we, his children, are his pride and joy, but the Beamer ranks up there. So, I searched under an online picture database for his car. I pasted the pictures into a Craigslist ad and wrote the following:

Posting Title: 740iL silver BMW-great condition-basically stealing

Posting Description: I have to move to Europe in two days and can't take my baby, my car. It's in perfect condition, and to ensure that it sells in such a short amount of time I'm asking $10,000 OBO. I would never normally sell, but it doesn't make sense to ship it over. It's an automatic, has a sunroof, CD player, heated seats, automatic rotating side mirrors when you reverse... basically anything you could ever want. Please contact me as soon as possible. 

Contact information:

----------------------

---------------------

-----------------------

-----------------------

I posted all of his personal contact information. I wasn't so crass as to provide his name, but I did post his house telephone number, e-mail address, and work and cell phone numbers. I wasn't living at home at the time, but came to find out later that as I had posted it around 10:50pm, the house phone started ringing by 11pm. A couple calls were received that night, and a couple the next morning before my dad went to work. His work phone, cell phone, and e-mail all had been contacted. I didn't tell him until later I had done it and the reasoning behind it was a destroyed dream of a 16-year-old (completely exaggerating. As mentioned before, I found it highly amusing). 

*For the record, my parents did actually buy me a car. I was nineteen. They got me a white Jetta.

July 18th 4:22pm - Passat

When I turned sixteen my parents gave me the big white van to drive. I had been trying to get it stolen for years. I would leave the keys in the front window on the dashboard and the doors unlocked. Nobody ever took it. When we drove through Death Valley a couple years before on a road trip, the air conditioning broke. The temperature gauge in the van read one hundred and twenty-one. It remained on one hundred and twenty-one for two days. Without air conditioning. Having the front windows down (the middle and back windows weren't mobile) did not help. The sliding door broke years before that. Everyone who got in the van had to climb through the front doors. A piece of rope held the door closed for months until my dad got it fixed. The cloth seats bore remnants of the pen drawings Trent, Krista, and I illustrated on the many drives to Southern California. The ceiling had a burn mark in it from when Trent's friend Tyler lit his hair on fire while my mom drove them to the movies. Paint was missing off the front bumper from my mom pulling too far forward in the garage. My dad finally hung a tennis ball from the garage ceiling. Mom was supposed to stop when the ball rested on the windshield. She still ran into the staircase leading from the garage to the house ten times too many. To describe the van in one word, I would say rickety. And old. A big, old, rickety van we had had since I was in second grade.  

When I turned sixteen I was given the soccer-mom-mobile coupled with the promise that I would get a new car soon. I wanted a silver Jetta. While at my friend Kimmy's house one day my dad called and told me to get home immediately, he had a big surprise for me. I thought I had done enough nagging about getting a new car. I had put some good, solid effort into the get-Kara-a-new-car project. It must be a car. Only explanation. 

I pulled into the driveway a little while later to find a beautiful, sparkling clean silver Passat in the driveway. The largest red bow I had ever seen in my life sat on top of it. Dad and Krista were outside smiling. Trent videotaped. I got out of the van and started jumping up and down, shrieking my happiness in unintelligible sounds. Trent still videotaped. I eventually asked Dad for the keys. I wanted to drive. His response was, "Well... actually... you're not twenty-five." I questioned him. What does that mean? He revealed to me he had actually taken his car into the shop to get some things fixed on it and they had asked him if he had a preference for a rental car. A stroke of brilliance had illuminated upon his brain and he requested a Jetta. They had a Passat. It was decided a Passat was close enough. He had just happened to find an enormous bow in the closet at home, he remembered where the video camera was, and things had just fallen into place...

As a sixteen-year-old, one dreams about the car they want. It is imperative to one's happiness. I was absolutely depressed for about three minutes. Then I just found it highly amusing. We had a great laugh about it. And I vowed revenge!

July 17th 7:34pm - Don't Care

After the soapy episode I was in high-gear do-what-you-have-to-do-as-fast-as-humanly-possible mode. One major outcome arose: I had planned on taking the insanity infested (yet still so effective) MUNI, but was now forced to drive to the interview to ensure that I made it semi-close to on-time. I drove like a crazed madwoman, the entire drive praising the SFPD for having to worry about shootings and assaults instead of pyscho, nutty-eyed women trying to get to interviews on time. One trip around the block and even with my bad eyesight I was able to determine there were no parking structures in the immediate vicinity. So, I did what every San Franciscan does when there's only metered parking: I cursed the city and rifled through my wallet, purse, and every space in the car that might yield a nickel, dime, or quarter. Able to muster a hand-full of change, I yanked the car door open to an immediate angry outburst of a honk as a car swerved around my open door and sped off. Muttering unforgivable words under my breath, I myself got out, unsteady on the steep hill in my god-forsaken heels, hobbled to the meter, and threw my money in the slot. The meter read, "1 hour limit." "Well, that's just fabulous," I thought. Narrowly avoiding the oncoming traffic hurtling towards me, I managed to open the door again and sit in the car. I ransacked through the center consul and to my delight found a business card. On the back of it I wrote, "Mr. Meterman/Ms. Metermaid, I am terribly sorry but due to unforeseeable circumstances I am unfortunately parked here. I have put in an hour's worth of change and now have to go into an interview. I don't know how long the interview will last," and then I ran out of room. I procured another business card and continued, "but I just want you to know I tried and I am sorry. Please have some understanding in this dire situation and time of need." I put them on the dash in plain sight should a metermaid come along, grabbed my life, and managed to get to the interview without killing myself with three minutes to spare. Two and a half hours later, after a LOT of talking and interviewing with six people, I finally emerged. On my car I found a $50 parking ticket with the words, "Don't care."

July 16th 10:10pm - Dishwasher

I'm in the interview process. Apparently you don't just have one or two interviews with a company. As it turns out, it's much more complex and intense than I anticipated it to be. I've interviewed with six different people from one company, not to mention multiple round interviews with a couple of other companies.

So, I was running slightly late the other day. I had taken my time checking my e-mail, eating breakfast, sitting and staring at the wall thinking about nothing, putting my dishes away and starting the dishwasher... and then I looked at the clock. I was in my room. I jumped up from the chair I was lounging in, and I was in automatic, highly concentrated, do-everything-all-at-once mode. In a minute and a half I had dressed: black slacks (ironed down the front middle, of course), turquoise silky collared short-sleeved shirt, black suit jacket, and heels. No tights. I would never in my life normally wear heels (I have bad balance), but for first impression (or in this case, second impression) interviews I feel it is fashionably necessary. I'm not sure why. When the minute and a half had expired and I had located my purse and keys, I realized my phone was in the bathroom on the opposite side of the house. So, as I usually do when I'm in a hurry, I decided to run. I went clumsily, awkwardly, clumping, out the bedroom door, down the hallway, through the living room (avoiding tripping on the rug = great sign), and I could see the final destination in sight. The bathroom door. And that's when I fell. My feet slipped out from under me. I thought such scenes only happened in movies. First one foot, then the other. My arms went slow-motion-rotating behind my body trying to catch me. They didn't. I landed on the white tile floor and to my confusion, as I landed, small bubbles floated up around me a couple inches off the ground. I started laughing, that kind of hilarity sprung by outlandish occurrences. I sat up, slowly, my entire back soaked through, the suit jacket and shirt in a wet, soapy substance. As it turned out, I had put dishwashing liquid soap in the dishwasher, not dishwasher liquid soap.

July 15th 8:02pm - Me

Just to give you an idea of what I look like... (albeit there is admittedly a picture of me on the page):

Awhile ago one of my ex-boyfriend's older brothers told me at a bar, "You have no boobs, no butt... I think my boob muscles are bigger than your actual boobs... aside from great eyes and a great personality, you really don't have much going for you."

I laughed.

July 14th 5:37pm - Intentions

I intend to post stories, write about ridiculous excursions in America and abroad, write about things I find amusing, crazy thoughts I have, and hilarious things I hear. I plan to post a blog every day or two. This blog is meant to entertain!