Alright, I said yesterday I'd do another entry today on the ride back from New Orleans. In reality, I could easily do several months worth of stuff about that fateful day, simply because it was so freaking insane. Today simply won't cover it all, but let's get into the beginning.
Sunday morning, we wake up in New Orleans and prepare ourselves for the long ride home. Only two of us, my friend Nick and I, are headed back to Austin, so we take off in a car of our own. I only had to drive for a few minutes before I started to worry about my car. Any time I let go of the steering wheel, the car would veer to the right at a 40 degree angle. So, to stay on the road I had to keep the steering wheel like I was making a continuous hard left turn. In addition to that, the car began to noticeably shake at around 75 mph. Some quick thinking revealed that we had roughly an 800 mile journey in front of us, and we had to go slowly the entire way with me turning the wheel constantly. Bad, but not awful.
Eventually, we make it across the Texas border and stop in Beaumont for gas. I'm concerned about my car here, but not terrified yet. And then I look at my front left tire. A little bit of the tread has frayed and is starting to come off the tire so that the steel belted part is making contact with the road. Not being a mechanical man, I call Nick over to take a look. He gives it a peek and then confidently announces, "That's nothing. I've driven with my tires like that for months." The man has experience here; our steed is dinged, but she'll make it to Austin. With my confidence back up, I got into the car.
And then, maybe 10 miles past the gas station, things got bad. The car began shaking at lower and lower speeds. I remember at 60 mph, it was shimmying so badly, I couldn't see out the rear view mirror. If we'd had some rice in there, the entire vehicle would've sounded like a giant maraca. Right as I'm about to start freaking out, we hear a boom from the front of the car and begin to veer.
I had run over a drifter. Not really. In actuality, the tire that was good for months just a few miles back had unceremoniously exploded on us. We had to get under the vehicle to take a peek.
Site of blow-out? Middle of nowhere. Date of blow-out? Sunday of Memorial Day weekend. Money on passengers? That all depended on how much I could get for my dirty undies. Assuming little, we were out of luck.
The only thing we had going for us was my Triple A card. At the very least, we could get some poor chump out there to do the dirty work of changing the tire, and then maybe we could coast a few miles into the nearest Pep Boys, where surely they'd take credit cards. The plan was so simple that it almost had to fail. More tomorrow.
Sweet Jesus, I made it back. Well, I'm assuming I made it back, although the horrors of the trip back might actually have been me dying. In any case, I claim victory. This weekend tried its best to take me down. It paid off the weather, the police, and the roads to stub me out like a used-up Pall Mall, but they were only 98% successful.
I've got to say that I really fell down on the job here as photographer. I got a grand total of two pictures from Friday, when we went down the river and then drove to Houston. Considering the events of that evening, it may be for the best. But man oh man, I documented the hell out of the drive to New Orleans, and then got some quality stuff of the city itself.
Ladies and gentlemen, Operation Golden Earring is now completed. Read on for the pics.
Friday, noonish, Austin. Look how crisp and upstanding we look here, preparing to hit the river. A short twelve hours later, we were arm-wrestling homeless kids for thrown-away hot dogs, and then kicking over their trash fires when they beat us.
This is to blame. Eight people + a three hour river trip = nine twelve packs of beer. If you were to ask the good folks at the FDA, they'd tell you that's pretty much the exact Recommended Servings equation.
And here, I am done with pictures for Friday. I wish I could've done more, but some of us had some pool wrasslin' to do. At the very least, I'll give you a mental image of the Tomball experience. I woke up Saturday morning at about eight, and I was pretty sure I had contracted leprosy; I was not feeling so fresh. I check my surroundings and see I'm in Mike and Julie's living room upstairs. I'm on a fold-out bed, surrounded by blankets, but I slept the whole night with nothing but a damp towel around my waist. I had no idea where my pants, keys, or wallet were. And in spite of all of that, I realized that was pretty much the best case scenario.
In case you think I'm exaggerating, here's me that morning. Women were just walking up to me and tasering me as a preemptive measure.
Let's go to New Orleans! I handed over the reins to Goodman Danza to captain our stagecoach east. After all, those rest stop toilets weren't just going to photograph ourselves.
Do you know how long the trip from Houston to New Orleans is? Long. It leads to lots of pictures like this one.
The only thing that can make a 400 mile trip even more enjoyable is to do it through a flood of Biblical proportions.
You've got to believe me about this rain. If I had just opted for the fan boat extension when I got my car, we would've got there millions of hours sooner.
Booyuckis! Welcome to New Orleans, home of excellent alleys! Actually, I'm just taking the guys' word that this was actually New Orleans. I was so blinded with hatred for Louisiana and its road systems that we could've stopped at the Atchafalaya County VFW and I would've insisted on staying for the night.
Once there, we dined like kings. Kings who actually had to pay for their food. King livin' ain't cheap.
Bam! If my French stands up, I think New Orleans actually means Neon and Rummies.
This guy did back flips on the street for a dollar. I don't any commentary is necessary here.
And this next picture takes a little explanation. After a few hours of pub crawl, we split up, with my group heading to the Harrah's casino. As one might expect, our crowd of drunk guys in a foreign city got lost in roughly 18 seconds. We soon found ourselves at some playground by the water. It was around midnight at this point, and the only person to ask for directions was this 6 year old girl. Let me tell you, it's not a proud moment when you're asking the 6 year old how to get to the casino. But really, if any 6 year old can tell you where the casino is, it's the one hanging out at the playground at midnight.
I think she realized the direness of the situation too, because her directions were a blatant attempt to wipe us from the earth. She told us, verbatim, to just follow the railroad tracks.
She's a native; who are we to argue?
Hey, let's pose for a picture! It's not like we're drunk and on the railroad tracks or anything!
When that girl said to follow the tracks, we stuck to her word. We stayed right on the tracks. In fact, we stayed so close, one member of the group had to speak up and say we may want to move off a little bit, since the street cars came through so quietly. We step off, and as if on cue, a street car whooshes up behind it. It was maybe 30 seconds from the comment to the street car appearance.
Somehow, we made it to the casino. I don't want to embarrass Harrah's too much, but THANKS FOR THE EASY TEN BUCKS, CHUMPS.
We came back from the casino a while later, and wondered around the French Quarter. Then I saw this sign, and something in my mind clicked. Through the Hand Grenade-induced haze, I remembered my uncle saying something about this enormous blues singer who performs every night at the Funky Pirate.
Bam bam! Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce you to Big Al. Goodness gracious, that guy could wail. I should tell you that the same uncle told me about Fat Elvis. That man is 2 for 2 when it comes to obese entertainer recommendations.
The longer we stayed, the more we loved him. Once 3 AM rolled around, it had gone from "Man, this guy is great" to "We must carve his face into our chest." We were a few muskets away from starting up a Big Al Army.
We screwed around for a couple more hours, then went to the hotel. What's a night at the Best Western without a little Fight Club action taking place in the room?
When we go somewhere, it's first class all the way. They told us the Prime Minister of Japan had stayed in our room teh weekend before.
See that big pile of crap in the middle there? That was my pillow. I'm thinking about looking into a similar set-up for my bedroom here.
The next morning, and a pretty accurate summary of the entire trip.
That's it! Except for the entire trip back, which was so awful that it gets its own entry tomorrow. Prepare yourself.
Okay, I am absolutely unable to post here today. I have my big trip coming up this weekend, so most of my attention is there. Need I mention that I'll be documenting it all for a megapost here? A post so mega, when I unveil it, I'll smash a bottle of champagne against my monitor as if it were a boat's maiden voyage. A post so mega, some will mistake it for Sasquatch and make thousands when they sell their home videos of it to A Current Affair. A post so mega, I will undoubtedly let everyone down when I attempt to write it. But then again, if you wanted quality work, you wouldn't be here. Okay, have a good Memorial Day! And if you're a foreigner, have a good weekend defending your straw hut from hangs of murderous baboons!
I feel the need to put something profound here, as I'll probably be dying over the weekend during Operation Golden Earring. It'd be weird if I actually did die this weekend, and then the local news would run a bunch of idiot stories saying LOCAL MAN PREDICTS OWN DEMISE ON WEB SITE!!! Except they'd call it a blog, probably, and my hatred for that term is probably enough to reanimate me. I'd be bound by the zombie code to haunt the reporter then, and I'd need all kinds of haunting equipment, like heavy chains and severed goat heads. So, all in all, it's for the best if I don't die this weekend. Or if I do, I need to leave instructions beforehand on how to wipe this post out. I hope everyone is clear on the chain of events here.
All of this brings up the subject of last words. It seems to me that everyone wishes to utter something profound just before passing onto the great marshmallow factory in the sky. Not me. I could try to come up with something amazing, but I know if I did, I would never be able to think of it when the time came. I would be there on my death bed with my family near, and with my last breath, I'd start, "Always tr... wait wait. Never tr... No, hang on. Sometimes? Is the first word 'sometimes'? I should've written it down in my wallet." And that'll be it. On my tombstone will be the immortal words, "I should've written it down in my wallet."
I most likely will not take that route. But the other option could be even worse. Let's say I don't come up with anything at all, and then one day while sitting in the hospital, it hits me. Then whatever I said last would be the last words. I'd put money that it'd be either "Go get the nurse, I just messed myself," or "Who's in charge of the jello rations at this dump?" In either case, the obituary writer could write that I died doing what I loved.
* I don't actually love to mess myself. I don't want anyone using that quote against me when I run for state railroad commissioner.
** I also don't think I'll die this weekend. I'll probably lose an eye and all of the hair on my body, but death isn't the frontrunner.
Sixty six hours until Golden Earring Weekend begins! I'm so excited, I went out this afternoon and preemptively bought a $50,000 bail bond for myself. While I was there, I asked about group discounts and if they had a buffet-style, all-you-can-bail-out plan. Also, I inquired as to whether or not I could get my police sketch done in advance. I don't want to be wearing some dumb shirt in a picture if it's going out to the entire Southern USA; no sir, let me get styled up for it. Preparation, friends, is half the victory.
I've really got nothing to talk about here because any spare mental cycles have long since been devoted to the upcoming trip/bender/deathwish. Instead, how about a little bit of local stuff? Last weekend, the ladyfriend and I went to a performance by the Violet Crown Radio Players. It's kind of hard to explain, but watching the group perform is sort of like sneaking into a radio studio in the 40s and watching a group put on a radio drama. You see the actors acting their parts out, the orchestra playing the background music, and the folks making the sound effects. It's a cool idea, and one well worth seeing.
However, I couldn't help but think that it'd be cooler if they really embraced that 1940s mindset. For example, I personally would've found it very amusing if every time someone pulled a cell phone out, the troupe would call the person a witch, jump off the stage, and proceed to beat that person to death. It'd just be an extra element of authenticity. In fact, it could become a beloved running gag, done for everything from plastic to antibiotics. You come up with a set of liability waivers, and not only is everyone having fun, but most importantly, your heiny is covered. If these ideas are implemented, I would like to be informed in advance, to prevent any bodily harm to my person. Everyone else, however, is fair game.
Sometimes, I just need to bring Goulash into it. Whenever anyone does me wrong, I don't write a letter to the editor or phone the police; I take it to the web. I don't do it because it makes me feel better, I do it because it gets results. You see, through this site, I command an army of like 5 confused old ladies from the Phillipines. Nothing gets them riled like an justice against me; when I call them to action, they DELIVER. That's what I did yesterday, when I called my immune system out to account for what it's been doing to me lately. Now I won't comment on whether a few death threats from Manilla had anything to do with it, but I do feel roughly 12% better today.
I am a lazy man. Anyone who's tried to eat the tortilla chips from 2002 in my pantry can attest to that. As a lazy man, it thrilled me this weekend when I discovered just how close my new place is to a hub of activity. In roughly three weeks, I'll be living directly across the street from both my bank AND one of my favorite bars. After all, few things go together as well as alcohol and banking. No matter how you put them together, good things seem to happen.
Here a couple scenarios that are bound to occur. After an overly-aggressive tug of war with a chew mouse, Octopussy claws me, leaving me despondent. I go to the bank, empty my account, and then walk next door and chain myself to a tap until the money runs out (15 minutes, which says a lot about both my rate of consumption and my financial situation). ORRR, I drink first, then go over to the bank and get shot by the security guards for stuffing my pants with deposit slips. It's a win-win.
The only thing that makes this whole situation better is that it's a busy street I must cross in order to get to the bank/bar combo. For the love of God, someone contact City Hall and tell them to install a crossing guard there. He'd only have to get up twice a week, but good lord, would he earn his paycheck then. I may just need to look into installing a zipline from one place to the other.
Not a good weekend, chums. My throat started hurting Thursday night, when I was seeing Episode III. I secretly think the pain was from Darth Vader doing his dark side choke-hold on me for laughing at some of the dialogue in the movie. (I'm no storm trooper, Darth; if people are going to passionately declare, "Hold me like you did by the lake on Naboo," then I am going to laugh. If you have a beef with that, we'll settle it like men with a light saber duel on top of a river of lava.) Now it's Sunday, and even though I enjoyed the movie for the most part and admitted so in public, Darth Vader continues his dark side choke-hold on me. There is no honor among the sith lords.
Aside from the pain, the throat is causing me a lot of stress. I have a big weekend coming up (Operation Golden Earring). No, not a big weekend, a huge one. What do you think my fellow yahoos will say when I request hourly stoppages in the shenanigans so I can gargle some warm salt water? I'll tell you what they'll say: "Fie on you, Cody Powell. If I wanted to take a trip with a sick, miserable bastard, I'd go down to the 60 Minutes studio and kidnap Andy Rooney."
Also, I need to show New Orleans a thing or two. The last time I was there, I was only 3 years old. I can't imagine I acquitted myself well then, what with the crying and the lack of bladder control. I've got to show them that in 21 years, I've handled one, if not both of those issues. My regional reputation is at stake here, and so I must heal. For the next few days, I will be communicating solely through hand gestures and hip swivels. After a few days fo rest, I will then speak, loudly with great authority. There will be no doubt who the sheriff in this town is. If you think I'm taking this situation a little too seriously, then clearly you've never been involved with a weekend that has a code name.
Dear Internet Buddies,
No time to update tonight, I've got to get in line to tickle George Lucas's wookie. Perhaps I'll post a review later. Dooku or bust!
PIVOTAL game 5 tonight for the Dallas Mavericks in their series against the Phoenix Suns. If I were the coach, here's what I'd be worried about:
Let me share an impressive number wiht you: 1622. What does it represent? Is it the duration in minutes of the panic attack I had when I learned Tony Danza was back on TV? Or the number of thrift stores I had to frequent before I could find a kimono worth giving to Tony Danza in honor of his big comeback? Or Tony Danza's daily expenditure on security since I chained myself to his mailbox with a old timey Civil War musket? You're right, it's all 3.
Actually, it's my approximation of the distance in miles I'll be travelling over Memorial Day. Sometimes you just look at your calendar and say, "I have a few days off coming up. I really need to make a trip to the Nebraska state line and back." Okay, that's not really what I said at all. In reality, I said, "I have a few days off coming up. I really need to go to New Orleans. And then stop off in the suburbs of Houston along the way. And before that, I need to hit the river for a day." It sounds like an unorthodox trip, but in a few years, everyone will be doing it. A few of us just happened to figure it out before the crowd, and we've dubbed it Operation Golden Earring.
If we're hitting on all cylinders, I see the following happening. On the river, someone gets bitten by a water moccasin and then imprisoned by a band of unruly mermaids. Once we're through there, we'll drive to Houston where we'll immediately crash into Yao Ming's car. He'll be so upset, he'll pick up the car and throw it into the Gulf of Mexico. We then walk to New Orleans, where a friendly argument with a waitress about a bowl of gumbo leads to us being cursed by a voodoo priestess, turning us into a zombie army who will dispatch the voodoo lady's enemies and dance for red beans and rice at her command. I'm looking forward to it.
Okay, I'm way too tired to post anything today. I'd explain it all, but it'd be even more tiring. So, in lieu of a post, I'll post a short list and then turn this one over to the comments.
Attackers I'd Least Like to Face
A 50 foot tall version of my mom, who wants to lick a gigantic napkin and wipe my face with it
A crazed gorilla who bursts into my apartment and starts throwing tuna helper all over the place
A demented rastafarian who insists I wear one of those yarn hats, no matter how hot it gets
A lifeguard who throws sand on me and then makes me rub sunscreen over it
A drunk and belligerent Billy Joel, who loudly insists I'm Christie Brinkley and that we should reconcile right this minute
A superior marksman with a cannon that alternates shots of coleslaw and potato salad
Look at this 11 month old baby!
Good gravy, if I had a baby that big, I know exactly what I'd do with him. I'd move to the top of a mountain and refuse to pay any taxes or my mortgage. Then, when the authorities got involved and decided to storm the mountain to get me down, I'd roll that big baby down the mountain like a bowling ball. You think anyone will continue charging up a mountain with a humongous, balled-up baby hurtling towards you? Forget it. The only bad part of this whole scenario is having to retrieve the poor guy after he'd been rolled down the mountain; perhaps some sort of winch system would come in handy there.
I would never actually roll a baby down a mountain, no matter how fat he was. For proof, just look at my cat. Octopussy weighs roughly the same amount as a Tugboat, and we've yet to have a mountain-rolling incident. A lot of that is because I'm ethical, and the rest is because she'd claw my eyes out if I tried. That's why if you're ever reincarnated as a really heavy baby, your first priority should be to grow your nails out. As an infant, your self defense skills will be weak. At least with long nails, you look vaguely menacing. Failing that, go for a little mohawk or a leather jacket.
I made two great purchases last night: a Sherlock Holmes board game and a mini accordion. I don't want to share too much about the accordion just yet. I feel like any commentary there should be saved for the funeral that'll be held shortly after my neighbors suffer through the 800th rendition of "On Top of Old Smokey" at 2 AM. Some days, you just look yourself in the mirror and say, "How can I make myself cooler?" And without even having to think, you just know that the answer is an accordion that can fit inside a lunch box.
I can, however, discuss the Sherlock Holmes board game. It's great. I love Sherlock Holmes, having devoted every night for a month in college to reading all of the Doyle's stories and books. (Now that I have the mini accordion, I can let slightly lame admissions like that out into the open.) The board game in itself is fun in that you have to solve these complicated, little mysteries, but the real reason I like it is because I have another place to apply my board game dominance.
In most arenas of life, I am not at all competitive. I certainly wasn't with grades and athletics when I was growing up, mostly because I was never good at either. Board games are another story, though. That's perhaps the only venue in life where it pays to be a complete goober, and dang it, I'm going to exercise my rights. So of course, last night got ugly, especially when I began to win. This is just another example why I am not fit to interact with anyone ever. You couldn't even take me to jail. I'd find the Chinese checkers board and start talking smack until I got stabbed by an embezzler.
How's this for a nerd filter? At work today, I was in someone's office,
talking about work stuff. When I turned to walk out, I said as a
conversation closer, "Well, keep on rockin'." She retorted, "Yeah, I'm
rocksteady." And before I even knew what was happening, I said, "Call me
Bebop." As someone who spent a large part of his youth manning the Ninja
Turtle blimp, sometimes my instincts just take over.
I actually did have the TMNT blimp; it was majestic. I got it for Christmas
one year, and right after I laid eyes on it, the purpose of my life became
to ferry around action figures from one end of our house to the other. I
only used it for transport, though, I never staged any battles with it.
There's a good reason for that. If you were to float that thing into
battle, it doesn't seem like it'd take too long before someone on the other
side said, "Hey guys, why don't we try shooting at the blimp?" Even at the
age of 8, I knew that slow, highly flammable vehicles were better suited for
luxurious pizza parites than for for destroying Shredder.
I think the Ninja Turtle blimp was actually the coolest toy I ever had.
That's not to say it was the coolest toy around. For me, that was the GI
Joe Space Shuttle. Man oh man, I lusted for that like Gollum, but I never
got it. In retrospect, that's a good thing; why on earth did the GI Joe
guys need a space shuttle? Were the forces of Cobra storming the Van Allen
radiation belts? Perhaps Destro took over Telemundo's satellites.
Pragmatic or not, I wanted that thing badly. Imagine the sort of flight
service I could've arranged across the living room with a space shuttle plus
a blimp. You can either go very slowly and burst into flames over the
couch, or you can go at warp speed to the garage, where you'll die in the
freezer. Clearly Air Powell wouldn't have made its money on repeat
As I've said many times here, I'm moving soon and I'm starting to get jazzed about it. I don't really know what all is involved with me moving, though. For instance, I'm probably supposed to notify my current apartment complex that I'm leaving; I've done this, with a fancy envelope and a letter and everything. The part I don't get is when the complex takes a look at my apartment and tells me that I owe them thousands of dollars in damages. They will corner me in my living room and scream, "What was this room used for, yak breeding? You never paid a yak deposit!" And I'll feebly protest, "No no, I'm just a spiller." "Yeah," they will snort, "a spiller of yak feces." I really don't see that conversation going well.
The only other time I moved out of an apartment, I let Will and Paddy do all of the talking. They massaged the apartment complex and made sure I didn't have to sign over any kidneys for damages. I didn't have to do anything, except for return the room to its original condition. That meant I had to reactive the fire alarm. I disabled it originally because it started to go off in the middle of the night and terrify me, my roommates, and my yaks. Thinking quickly, I just took it down from the ceiling and stuck it in the underwear drawer.
That worked well for like 6 months. Not only were we not incinerated to a crisp, but the only screeching noises in the middle of the night were Paddy's night terrors. The day I was moving out, which happened to be after everyone else, I remembered the fire alarm. I climbed up on the last piece of furniture in my room and connected it with its battery on the ceiling. Immediately, it started wailing again. I took it down and began to experiment. I tried new batteries, new seating positions, everything I could think of, and the damn thing just wouldn't be quiet.
Finally, I just gave up. I loaded the rest of my stuff in my car, and then, as quickly as possible, I reconnected the fire alarm. It started going crazy and I hightailed it for my car. From the parking lot, I could still hear it going off. I got in my car and zoomed north, waiting for the call on my cell phone. The maintenance guys were supposed to come by later that day to check the place out, and I knew exactly what they'd find. They'd find a spotless apartment, completely immaculate, except for the berzerk fire alarm in my room, which had shattered all of the windows in the joint and attracted an apartment full of wailing stray dogs.
It's been a few years since then, and I never did hear anything. I don't know if that's because Will and Paddy took the fall for me, or if the complex just didn't care. It has given me an idea, though. The next time I move, I'm setting off the fire alarm before I go. It seems to me that'd be the perfect diversion while I get the yaks out of the parking lot.
I got nothing today, except to say that the people in Honduras and Belize better be on their tippy toes in June. I've heard the things some of you said about me, defaming my character and making fun of my Dolly Parton impersonation (which is supposed to be funny to begin with, so your mockery doesn't phase me). In June, the score is settled. In June, I run screaming from the boat dock to your house, assuming the rebels don't leap out of the jungle and enslave me along the way.
Yeah, on Saturday night, I got a case of the crazies and booked a random, extravagant trip to Central America for the summer. If any of you happen to be from Central America, please let me know so that we can begin to talk about becoming enemies. That way, this trip doesn't fall under the category of "I have no impulse control", but instead the "I have a score to settle and I'll spare no expense in settling it" category. Not only do I feel a little better about myself that way, but it may be tax deductible.
I'm moving a few miles down the road soon, as I detailed earlier. Today, I decided to do a little bit of work on finding a new Powell Manor. The first step was calling an apartment locator. I'm not exactly sure how it works, but apartment locators will find you an apartment for free. Instead of getting paid, I think you just owe them a favor. A few months after you settle in and have all of your utilities turned on, you get a mysterious phone call in the middle of the night saying, "How's your apartment working out for you? Good to hear, good to hear. Now listen, I need a leasing manager killed. Don't leave any prints and we're even." And you just have to do it, because those are the unwritten rules of using an apartment locator.
Anyway, after I talked with the locator, he sent me a introductory email, saying who he was and what he'd look for. And then, at the end of the email, it said, "Thanks again and I look forward to assisting you and your husband." The rest of the email was tailored to me, so I am wondering how that last line snuck in there. Can't I just look for an apartment one time without getting hassled about my husband? Leave him out of it!
I just hope the apartment locator isn't so powerful that he can will all of that into existence. I'd be pretty busy then. Not only would I have to find some dude and fall in love with him, but I'd have to get gay marriage legalized. I'm sure there'd be all kinds of wedding and honeymoon crap to add on top of that. I'm thinking I should probably just call in sick for the next couple of weeks. And I'm definitely going to need some leather pants for this.
Also, I found my iPod. It was on my dresser. The sad part is that I use some of my furniture so infrequently, it was a lot more likely that it'd be stolen than on my dresser.
Unga bunga, it's Wednesday. Did you know that when I first moved out on my own, Wednesdays were always soft taco nights? Every Wednesday, I'd make myself a vaguely poisonous platter of tacos and just go to town. After a few months of that, I got tired of all of the work that went into tacos, what with the meat and the lettuce and all. From then on, Wednesdays were hot-dogs-wrapped-in tortillas night. That worked out pretty well, but it also got to be a lot of work, what with the heating up of the hot dogs. So now, Wednesdays are just handful-of-leaves-with-ketchup-smeared-on-them nights. I don't know what I'll do when I get tired of opening the ketchup.
Ahh, but that reminds me of something. In college, when Will, Paddy, and I got our first apartment, I had this great idea that if I bought tortillas, I wouldn't need bread. I was really poor, so the $4 a month in bread savings represented a major triumph. In this amazing conclusion, I neglected two factors. First, tortillas just don't blend well with some things. I actually tried wrapping a hot dog in a tortilla several times, and it was vile. I couldn't just stop though because I'd spent my bread budget on tortillas. I had all these tortillas, and the only way I could eat was to combine them with lunch meat and baked beans.
The second blunder in my tortilla plan was that tortillas go bad very quickly. Do you know how many tortillas you can buy for $4? An assload. I bought that assload and realized how horrible everything tasted, only to have the entire batch go bad within a week. Since I only had around $20 a week to spend on food, I couldn't just buy some bread. I didn't have the money, and I'd already made a huge deal out of the tortilla thing. The only way out was through the stale tortillas. I can't even describe to you what that week was like. I don't need to go to Sudan or Iraq to experience hell; I spent a week's worth of hard time in Moldy Tortillaville. If, in 50 years time, I wake up in the middle of the night, having wet my bed, screaming about hot dogs wrapped in tortillas, I can't say I'd be surprised.
Did anyone happen to accidentally scoop up my iPod over the weekend? It's much more likely I accidentally flushed it down the toilet or I buried it in the woods in a less lucid moment, but I thought I'd give it a shot here. Or perhaps I just happened to receive an iPod with a four month disappearance clause; enjoy it all you want for 16 weeks, and then at the end, it vaporizes itself. Clearly the staff warlocks at Apple are not folks to trifle with. Anyway, if anyone can help me out, please do so.
Last day of class today... YEEESSSSSSSS. I don't even know where to begin with this one. Since when do semesters last 100 years? I started this semester so long ago, William Howard Taft ate my first homework assignment. I started this semester so long ago, Earth hadn't even been invaded by the space beetles yet at mid-terms. You see where I'm going with this, right? I started this semester so long ago, I've been able to harvest diamonds from my textbooks. Do you have any idea how long it takes for paper to turn into diamonds? Me neither, but roughly the amount of time from mid January to now.
So now that's through, I can devote this summer to things I most care about: nachos, Colt 45, and a letter writing campaign to get Herman's Head back on TV. Combine all three and you'll get a big, greasy box of evidence for the attorneys at the Fox network. And let me tell you, that's going to be one enormous box. After all, I have all summer to work on it.
Every minute that I've been in my apartment over the last couple of days, both locks on the front door have been locked. Last night at 3 AM, I had a pretty heated argument with myself on whether or not I could legally get bear traps and set them up near my windows. My unhealthy need for safety has nothing to do with a fear of burglars or roving psychopaths, but because at any moment, I expect my neighbors to burst into my apartment and beat the crap out of me. And let me tell you, that concern is totally legitimate after Saturday night.
I didn't end up getting any pictures of the various hootenanny-related activities, so let me just relate a brief, illustrative story. On Sunday morning, a few of us miraculously wake up. Since all the food in my house had been lit on fire or fed to rabid dogs the night before, we have to go out for breakfast. When we entered the restaurant, I could see all of the patrons frown and wonder, "Jesus, did they just escape from a POW camp?" It wasn't pretty. Not only did we smell like some sort of personification of the Austin sewer system, but the only conversation possible after the night before was a string of profanity and then a sigh. We were walking hate crimes against decency.
Breakfast itself was not easy, but we manage to pull through with nary an incident. I paid my bill first and stood around in the parking lot, waiting for the others to come out. A few seconds later, Frito bursts through the door and spits a mouthful of eggs out into the parking lot. My thought then wasn't "Boy, that was gross," or "Gee, I hope he's okay," but "Man, he's really holding it together pretty well." Compared to the rest of us, he definitely was. Thank God I only have two more months in which to avoid all of my neighbors, all of the time.
Okay, about last night. I'd love to spin a witty and delightful tale of what happened, but I really have no idea. All I know is that I feel dirty. When I woke up this morning, my garage was filled with chimichangas, there was a sack of garbage on the roof of the carport, and the bathtub was covered in bright pink vomit. And you know what, it was a complete success. If anyone has any pictures, send them to me so I can do a proper write-up tomorrow.