Explosive Animals and Bottle Rockets

Halloween in New York is a subversive mix of colorful, buoyant, and suggestive culture. Especially in the annual parade, you'll see outlandish creations such as "Mother Africa" - where a politically suggestive (yet mentally deranged) white man paints himself black, and extravagantly becomes a Xhosa African circumcision ritual, complete with a thatched-hut-inspired dress, with young African boys prancing around him painted in white clay, dancing to tribal techno music composed by a Japanese DJ, and all choreographed by a casino-owning Native American tribe. How's that for mixed identities?

Then, there's the creative costumes of BP. Last year, I was going to be my own religious onion, in the form of St. Basil's Cathedral. However, getting an architectural behemoth like that through airport security would have taken god's good graces, and multiple circumcised Xhosa boys to assist. Needless to say, I abandoned the idea all together.

This year, GoAskAlice wanted me to be her police escort. As fate would have it, I arrive in New York not as an officer, but costumed as an aggravated tourist with too many large dufflebags weaving into yellow taxicabs due to broken wheels. Yes, dear readers, it has finally happened - I moved to New York City. Instead of being baked daily by the sun, I will now be salted and freeze-dried by the ocean.

It's a grey afternoon in the apartment, two days after Halloween. It's messy. Satchels lie mangled, scattered across the floor. Articles of clothing sinfully intermingle with wads of paper. In the corners, strands of black hair are deliciously enjoying afternoon tea with dust bunnies... Not an attractive site to wake up to.

After spending $90 on a multitude of cleaning products and latex gloves, I tackle the 9x15 Room of Doom I now call home. Moving the armless couch to the middle of the room, i notice small black jelly beans, about the size of pants-pocket lint, forming a trail along the wall edge. I follow the tell-tale trail, and low and behold, JUMP BACK! There's a mouse... that isn't moving...

I grab a chopstick and poke at the mouse. As the bamboo shaft touches its head, it crumbles to dust. Miffed, I look around it, and notice a deeply shaded circle of maroon haloing the mouse. I poke at the maroon; it's stiff and flaky. I then realize that the mouse had been happily running around shitting everywhere, then decided to stop under GoAskAlice's couch for a breather, where it exploded due to internal hemorrhaging. I remark to myself, "Wow, that sure was one out of shape mouse: it just stopped there and POPPED!"

Throwing bleach onto the mini police scene, I allow it's disinfecting properties go to work and finish the rest of the apartment. I turn the oven on (NOT TO COOK THE MOUSE!) so I can make dinner after I'm done cleaning. As I'm scraping the final remains into a bio-hazard bag, I hear a gunshot, and stand up. The oven starts to volcanically rumble and fizz like a rabid squirrel. It starts vibrating toward me across the floor, pouring alcoholic smelling liquid onto the freshly mopped floor. I move to make an escape, but the small iron oven psychically anticipates my every step and adjusts it's vector.

Then, as quickly as it started, the oven sputters to a halt, and I hear another loud gunshot. The oven door flies open, vomiting bottles of fizzing wine onto the floor. Apparently, while pre-heating the oven, I'd forgotten that GoAskAlice put wine in there for storage since she doesn't cook. Being under high pressure, the bottles started to boil and only had one way out - through the neck of the bottle and cork. Gurgling to the floor are various international wines that I will never taste... but the smell is terrific!

I clean the war-torn apartment again, and GoAskAlice arrives at home commenting on how she lived in such squalor. Upon offering to show her the spot where the mouse exploded, she shrieks like a banschee and runs out the door. Good thing I didn't tell her about the war-oven attack... she'd have nightmares.

Cyranose d'BigO

"Hey, BP, can you come pick me up," says a tired and strained voice on the other line as the sun rises. Getting a mental grip on the nauseatingly early hour on the clock face, I grumble out, "Ugh... OK, sure, BigO, where are you at?"

"I'm at 19th Ave and Grant." Doing my best to bolt up, I quickly roll over and say, "What are you doing over there?! That's the ghetto warehouse district! I didn't leave you out that way last night, did I?"

"Um... yeah... you kind of did... but that's ok, I have a really funny story to tell you when you get here. How long do you think it'll take?" I focus on the clock again and stifle out, "Um... give me 3 minutes to throw on my clothes and then 18 to drive there." The brightening voice responds, "Ok, cool. I'm at the Circle K on the north-west corner."

Arriving at a rusty, dusty gas station, I pick up BigO from the curb. "Ok, so start telli- OH MY GOD! What happened to your face?!" Sparks of laughter erupt from my morning-breath mouth.

Big-O laughs as he pulls a dried tissue from his nostril. His spiky head and Ambercrombie clad torso turn toward me, "haha, I know, right? I'm so hungry, let's go get something to eat, and I'll tell you on the way, but it was a crazy night, BP." We head off toward Palatte, and he continues, "Ok, so last night, after you dropped me off at Flex, I wandered around inside for a little bit and then found this totally hot guy, and we go back to my room."

Flex is one of two resident "alternative gyms" here in Phoenix, the other being Chute. I don't think either would be described as athletic Olympic arenas, but rather... entertainingly lubed-up adult male jungle gyms. As they say, 'different folks, different strokes', right?

Big-O continues, "Yea, so we're there in my room, and the guy's on top of me, right? He leans back to take off his shirt and his head bumps a black fan, which starts a tragic series of events." Looking at his nose, I laugh and tell him I'm all ears. "So his head hits the fan, and this nut falls off, the screw pops out, the fan gets unhooked, and swings toward my alcohol-dazed face. All I could do was think to myself, 'oh, this is going to hurt.'"

In a scene somewhat reminiscent of the movie, Titanic, where the ice burg hits the nose of the ship, the black fan deftly approaches at BigO's nose and lands dead on. *POP* Blood starts gushing everywhere, and the mysterious hot man loses interest in the now circumvented sexual tryst. BigO's face lights up as he explains, "'Ummmm... I think I should go now', the hot guy said, and he struggled with his shirt and stumbled out the door. So I'm left there with blood gushing everywhere, still trying to dodge the Rocky Balboa fan, while looking for some Kleenex, and then my left eye contact pops out and races to the dirty floor."

"HAHAHA, oh my god! That's funny! The funniest stuff happens to your nose. Wasn't it broken before or something?"

"Yes, yes it was, when I was thrown out of a car by my sister when I was little. But anyway, I drop to my hands and knees and start looking for my lens..."

"Are you sure you wanted to find it?"

"You know, BP, that's EXACTLY what I thought, and figured it wouldn't be good to put it back in my eye... especially in a place like that. So I decided to use my shirt to stop the bleeding, and then I passed out and here I am now." Big-O starts laughing and his nose starts bleeding again. Laughing, I hand him a handkerchief and say, "Ok, Cyrano, calm down and get your appendages under control."

Big Brother's Freezer

I love food with holes. I love bagels... and cherish Lifesavers, Cheerios, and pitted olives. I relish peach rings, onion rings, and angel food cakes. But most of all, I'm enchanted by glazed yeast doughnuts. Those light and airy golden rings of heaven are a delicious symphony of candied, feather-pillowed bliss in my mouth. If I could control my oral urges better, I'd propose by slipping one of these sugary bands on the proposed's finger. Alas, that can't happen because the engagement would be off in the morning when my new fiance finds a lightly crumbed plate and dear john note on the night stand. It would read something like, "I just couldn't help it..." This is where we introduce MsBlonde.

MsBlonde is my daily companion in the remote and glacial northern reaches of the New Hampshire woods. With a firecracker personality exploding from an array of various caffeinated white pills, weekend parties of tight, brightly colored disco clothes, and impassioned soirees in the library book stacks, MsBlonde was my colorful, unscrupulous scamp. She too, loved eating round, syrup rimmed foods. We often made multiple late night dashes across the back wood tundra to the local upper valley Dunkin' Doughnuts.

It's 4:20am, April 20th, and I need a sugar fix to sustain the all-night cramming necessary for the upcoming two weeks of college exams. In a short e-mail exchange with MsBlonde, we decide to make a mad dash for a little obese and diabetic goodness.

Entering the bright and cozy bakery from the damp and crisp darkness, we place our order for gallons of high octane coffee, a few scalloped muffins, and an army of fresh doughnuts. We notice that the DoughnutBoy is more than convivial, so we ask if we can see how the doughnuts are made if we give him some of our "jungle mix". He agrees with a broad smile and tells us to enter through the side.

Stumbling in, he instructs us to sit on a Volkswagen sized sack of flour. While imbibing himself in our offering, someone comes up to the drive through. He listens to their muffled order over his headset, "I want three sugar free doughnuts, one latte grandé with half and half, two shots hazelnut and caramel. I also want one breakfast sandwich, no cheese with bacon and double eggs, two small coffees, one blueberry bagel with cream cheese, and napkins." Starting our journey into the heart of darkness, the Jungle begins affecting our senses. MsBlonde and I watch in awe as DoughnutBoy ingests more, stops, repeats the order back verbatim, and then exhales with a large smile. We break out into silly, boisterous laughter at his performance.

DoughnutBoy tells us to quiet down as he goes up front to fulfill the order. MsBlonde, the mischievous munchkin, stands up and starts sniffing around the back, with me in tow. We come across a large metal door labeled "Freezer".

Slipping inside, we explore the cavernous confines of the refrigerated dough mausoleum. Everywhere around us are various floured, buttered, and sugared pastry carcases ready for the doughnut baking crematorium. I encounter a second door inside and enter a dark room known as "Super Freezer". MsBlonde looses me among the catalogued articles of fossilized glazes and icings.

Leaving Super Freezer, I encounter an ancient button which I push and hear a small click and rumble. I become locked inside the Arctic icebox and start banging ferociously on the door for what seemed like hours. Fortunately for my cyanizing hands, MsBlonde opens the door, then falls to the floor in fits of laughter. "HAHAHA, BP! The door was never locked! I was holding it shut and made it sound like something locked on you." I start to fume, but MsBlonde abruptly stops laughing. She points to the wall and petrifies, hinting me to look at the government camera installed on the wall.

My eyes go big as my nostrils flare outward. My ears pull back like a scared puppy, and my mouth forms a gaping cave on my lackluster face. Going white as a sheet, my arms slump to my sides, and my neck becomes a wet noodle as I collapse to the floor atop MsBlonde (reinactment here). Conspiringly, I tell MsBlonde on the ground, "Do you think they're watching us? I think if we stay here on the ground, they won't find us." We remain frozen and motionless door stops.

DoughnutBoy comes around the corner, gives us a quizzical look and asks what we're doing. All we can do is widely eye the wall mounted video camera. Lieing belly down on the floor, and crawling to us in military fashion, he whispers, "Psst! You know what? Those cameras in here don't work."

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

I shuffle past the Arizona Center and encounter a black, salt and pepper bearded man, dressed in a torn t-shirt and rumpled, dirt clogged blue-jeans. My cel phone is in my mouth, a Styrofoam food container in my left hand, my wallet and $20 showing in my right. Looking at my sordid state of affairs, the lonely beggar asks, "Do you have a dollar or some change so I can get something to eat?" Not quite hearing him, I do my best to muffle through my overpriced plastic transceiver, "What did you say?" He asks again if I have spare pocket change.

Realizing that I had cash boldly displayed in my disarrayed hands, I couldn't lie and say, "Oh, no, I have NO MONEY." He would have looked down and seen it, and how would I respond? Would I say, "Are you going to believe me, or your slowly cataracting eyes, old man?" Honestly, that's just plain mean.

Instead, I remove the small monolith from my teeth and say, "You want food?" He stands there, trying to decipher my question, and looks a little lost. What he heard linguistically: instructions on how to construct a Rube Goldberg Machine with mini-chopstick shaped tweezers in the vacuum of space while contained inside an artificial womb made out of grape jello. Responding to his embarrassingly long silence, and to make my question less convoluted, I shove the container of food into his hands and say, "Here's some food."

Scrunching his nose at my abundant offering, he says, "Oh, I can't eat shrimp. Do you have money?" Impulsively tilting my head toward my shoulder and jutting out my jaw in slight confusion to his response, I respond, "There's no shrimp in there. It's pizza. Look at it." He peeks inside and registers that its ok to eat. Disregarding this new information he asks, "Oh, well can I still have a dollar for something to drink?"

Pointing at the Big Gulp in his hand, I raise an eyebrow and unbelievably say, "Um... You already have something to drink right there." The beggar shakes his cup and says, "Well it's almost empty." I shoot right back, "Ok. Well, take it inside and ask them to fill it up with water for you. If they won't, there's a fountain around the corner." Rebuffed, he says, "I can't just have water. I NEED something FIZZY AND SWEET."

Standing there, my jaw hits the pavement at a ridiculous speed. Becoming instantaneously annoyed with his refusal of life-giving water (which I drink like it's going out of style), my face turns a brilliant shade of tomato, "Look, you asked me for food, you have food. You have a cup for water, and it's available around the corner. You have what you need, now GOOD NIGHT!"

Stomping away, I hear him huff about how audacious my mannerisms were with my apparent refusal to lay myself at his feet. I can understand tastes and preferences, but honestly, as far as I'm concerned: beggars can't be choosers. Maybe next time I'll instruct him to practice the art of gracious living by ruminating around the park and discovering rubberized curiosities he can thoroughly enjoy without any lubricating assistance. In other words: "Piss off if you're not going to be thankful for gifts of food and water."

On a lighter note, I don't have to worry about a high calorie lunch today, since I no longer have any leftovers. Thank god for choosy beggars... those bastards.

Our Next Game Is Called 'Feel Up'...

"Ok, now for our next game, you have to be very, very, VERY comfortable with your partner. We need three couples, or pairs of people, ok?" Mumsy Hyphenatie sweetly curves her cherubic lips, displaying her lustrous pearly whites. "We need to move the chairs out of the way and create a little bit of space to play. Let's move them to the edges of the room." She starts moving chairs and the party guests follow suit, moving their chairs toward the peppermint striped cream and rouge walls.

As the rules are explained, I reach for and open the gallon-sized Ziploc bag marked "FEEL UP: 6 PEOPLE". If that isn't an open invitation, I don't know what is.

I walk around and start blind-folding the baby shower participants, and Mumsy continues, "Ok you are now being blindfolded. We are going to attach five clothes pins to each person's clothing. The object of the game is for each person to find the clothes pins on their partner and collect them in their hands. The first team to do this wins."

Tieing the last stretch of blue/black fabric with gold sparkles, I look over at Mumsy and say, "Ok, they're done. Should we spin them around, beat them with bats, or just let them go at it?"

"Let's spin them around a few times THEN let them go at it, ha ha ha," Mumsy guffaws loudly and continues to naughtily chortle as she starts turning one of the couples in circles. In the playing field, we have six dizzy people: a married couple, a pair of twenty-something women, and an elderly man and woman who had just met an hour prior.

Like a sassy, breast feeding Julius Caesar dressed in black, my sister sticks out her thumb and says, "Let the clothes-pinning begin!" As "I'm A Little Teapot" starts playing, we attach wooden clamps to the participants' neck collars, underarm area, backside, behind the knee, and at shoe level. The music stops, we say, "Get ready, Get set, Go!" Immediately, "The Simple Bear Necessities" starts playing and the couples lunge at each other like large football players.... ROAR!!!!! the crowd rumbles and bellow in support of the now blind participants.

The two girls bonk heads and the married man accidentally gropes his wife in an uncomfortable spot. The senior woman stands there, frigid, as the old man leaps toward her shoulders in search of his woody prey. The perplexed husband stops his wife's giddy fondling and says, "What are you doing?! Here, turn around!" At which point, the wife smiles broadly, shoots her arms straight up, starts turning around and around screaming, "aaaaaaahhhh!"

He stops her by grabbing her waist, they bump each other's torsos and fall to the ground in comical snorts. Meanwhile, the two girls discover that they have ticklish spots they never knew existed. The crowd thunders louder with laughter. I turn my attention back to the newly familiarized older couple.

In a semi-dignified manner, the older man bashfully frisks his new acquaintance with two open palmed hands. She's still motionless, and we're not sure if she's suffered a heart attack. Out of the blue, she grabs his head and pushes it downward toward the floor. He pats down her leg, causing her to yelp in a Pollyanna-ish manner. Jumping, she kicks up her heals, and becomes a youthful school girl. "OH! No one has touched my leg like that in eleven years," she laughs out loud. Meanwhile, the two girls have worked out a scheme: one kneels and searches the lower levels of the other, while the woman standing searches around the kneeling one's head. They end up winning, but not without a few camera flashes displaying blindfolded blushed faces in vicarious positions.

The older woman, taking off her blindfold and gesturing to her partner, says to the group, "I knew where that last one was on him, but I didn't want to touch him there!" The clothes pin she was just referring to? It was behind his knee. Distribute the presents for winning, and give the older woman a thong for modesty - that's what baby showers are all about.

Mr Toad's Wild Ride

"New Girl? Can you come outside and give me a jump?" I wistfully say into my phone.
"Oh no, what's going on? Is it Tasty Cakes? I'll be right out." She hangs up the phone and I wait in the 100 degree parking lot sunshine near the hospital.

Walking by, New Girl laughs at me and pulls up her maroon chariot and continues laughing. I attach the jumper cables and tell her to rev her engine. Bbbbbrrrroooom brrooom! Tasty Cakes starts up. "Hey! Stop draining my engine! My car is going to die," New girl smartly cracks a stab at my predicament. "Ok, ok, geez. I'll be back in a lil' bit." I go to a lunch where my friend Ms. V has already eaten her meal, having waited a whole extra four minutes for me.

"MY GOD, BP, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN MY WHOLE LIFE?!"
"Um, I was just jumping my car before I got here. I'll need a jump from you before we're done tho." She watches me finish my small dog sized burrito, and I get jumped for the second time that day and head home to obtain THE BOX for my return trip after work.

I jump my car in the parking lot after work and get on the road. Buzzing along, I turn out of the parking lot onto the street. put-put-put-putter out, and the car dies. AAAAAGGGHHHH!!!! I motion people to go around me as I connect THE BOX to my battery terminals... fifteen times over the next 30 minutes in the middle of traffic. Word on the street is that every time I'd sit down to turn the key, the clamps would fall off and I'd methodically jump out of the car to re-attach them in the same place and start over... again... and again... and again. We all remember that the definition of insanity is repeating the same actions over and over despite consistent failure, right? Enter BP.

I head home, and inform Muscle Calves and CW I'm going to get a new battery 20 miles away since it's still under warranty. I head out of downtown with THE BOX, past the ghetto, past the warehouse district, across the dry river, pass the cows and cornfields, past the landfill being covered over for new housing developments, and arrive. After exchanging my ill-fated battery and connecting the brand new one, I smile snugly and attempt to start the car. Nothing. Scheista! I break out THE BOX again and jump my car three more times. Each time THE BOX becomes disconnected, the car dies. Great!

I walk back inside and hastily start berating the quality of goods at Walmart to one of the managers. The white chonga girl brushes back her excessively gelled hair with her three inch Lee nails press on. While raising her eyebrows in surprise and pushing out her lips like they'd been stung by a bee, she attempts to remove the elephantine bracelets dangling from her ears in preparation to brawl with me. As she's about to remove the bedazzled chonkla from her feet, the other manager jumps in and explains to us it's probably a dead alternator. Damn

Beating a retreat back to my car, I have a clever idea and cackle to myself. I secure THE BOX inside my engine and connect it to the battery. Using three zip ties to keep my hood down while I drive, I hop into the driver's seat, start the car, and throw the shifter into drive. Tasty Cakes lurches forward and starts heading out the parking lot.

Traveling down the road at a reasonable pace, I get stuck behind a van going 10mph, so I attempt to pass it. Gaining speed, and laughing loudly as I pass the van, the hood opens up in front of me, obscuring everything in sight. I slam on the breaks, THE BOX flies out of the engine, the car dies, and I come to a rolling stop in a corn field on the side of the road. The van passes by with whoops of laughter. This time I get out, find the lightly road-scathed BOX, re-attach it, pull a shoelace off my sneaker and secure the hood down again. I just want to get home.

I gain speed, confident that the shoelace will not melt like the zip ties. However, I noticed earlier that when I press on the brakes, the engine starts to putter out, so I stop using the breaks. I come screeching around the corner at lightning speed and am on the final homestretch. Just then, a truck going in the opposite direction turns in front of me and partly stalls. I honk, not wanting to have my engine die for the umpteenth time, and they don't move. I swerve and look over at the crazy people. Just then, I notice that they were turning into an Auto Zone, where I needed to get my alternator checked. I hang a hard right into the parking lot, and come to a screechy puttery halt. One of the managers looks at me with wide, stony eyes and isn't sure what to say as I step from the black bat.

The manager checks my alternator as I regale him with the details of my journey, and a homeless man approaches. The manager goes back inside, and I grab a crowbar from the backseat of my car to serve the dual purpose of fixing the new dents in my freshly aired hood and to scare him away. I get a new alternator, secure THE BOX to the engine and head home at a brisk pace.

Two miles from my destination, I notice I just passed four police cars, I'm going 20 miles over the speed limit, and it's quota time in Phoenix. Wonderful. Using some rather racy moves, I outrun their detection and arrive at home... only to have the car stall when I get in the parking lot. Such love.

Canadian Abduction

"Hey, don't we know that girl?"

"Um, what girl?"

"That girl right there, BP, that Native Girl taking a stroll down the road!"

"Oh yeah... she does look vaguely familiar. Shall we stop the car and throw her in the trunk?"

"I think we should!"

I slow Ethel Mertz down to a crawl and pull along side the mottled black haired girl. She is looking up in confused disgust at the buildings around her as she walks with a school-issued map in her hands. Ms Iowa rolls down her passenger window, and I jokingly yell out, "How much?!" The girl whips around to witness our shaded faces. Lowering my eyes over the reflective midnight sunglasses perched on my nose, I gauge her expressively fearful face and say, "I asked how much?"

Stepping back a pace, then two, the Native Girl is speechless under the yellow, green, and red fall colored trees on the side of the library. Ms Iowa opens the blood red car door. Stepping onto the side walk, and slipping off her wool scarf followed by lifting her sunglasses, she states states, "Didn't you hear what I said, Native Girl? Get in the car NOW. We're taking you to Canada before classes start on Monday. Consider this the beginning of the end."

Native Girl, realizing we're from the same school releases a pent up sigh of relief, then climbs into the back seat. I ask her, "Where is your dorm? We're leaving now; you need three sets of clothes, a credit card and ID, plus a little naughty streak." I wink at Native Girl in the backseat.

Cheering up and relaxing, Native girl gleefully asks, "Oh, can I bring a friend along? He's so much fun." We agree, and we pick up pleasantly plump Montana Boy, then head north toward the canuk boarder. Once we're past the inspection station, I tell Ms Iowa to dig in my bag and find a red wig I had used for Halloween once. Immediately Montana Boy grabs it, securing it messily on his head. Passing a trucker, he proceeds to blow the corn fed delivery man juicy kisses through the window. It's going to be a wild night.

Arriving in Montreal, we promptly find an overpriced hotel room with 1/2 walls. Apparently, the French Canadians are more into the communal theory of sleep enhancement. Frolicking among the denizens on Rue Ste Catherine, we approach a drag queen dressed as Celine Dion (whom just happens to be the savior of Canada).

Looking at her dress shaped like the titanic, we greet the misshapen pop star, "Bonsoir," and hand her a flier to an underground party. In garbled french, she starts pointing with her lipstick down the street, esophagealy hacking out directions for us like she'd smoked for the last 80 years. Just then, in a drive-by icing, a midget in drag puts a large blue cardboard item shaped like a heart covered in rhinestones into the drag queen's hands. Someone throws more ice onto the Celine Dion look alike and starts chasing her with a shark. The drag queen puts a whistle between her lips and starts blowing, holding the blue heart above her head. Someone flips on a copy of "My Heart Will Go On", and the drag queen skips down the street lip-syncing.

Apparently, we had just been the victims of a random and brutal street performance. Looking at each other with curious faces, our mouths ajar, we all start laughing, and start looking for the underground party again.

There Are Indians... And Then There Are "Indians"...

Infamous words to be wary of: "I made a new friend today." Now, depending on the situation, those can be the most horrifying blend of words a parent can hear dribble out of a child's smiling mouth. Or, the parent can smile and ask, "Oh really? Tell me more." Thankfully, I'm not a parent. But... I did make a new friend the other day, so consider me a kid.

Meet Curly, a slender, 6'1", happy-go-lucky immigrant from India. Having moved to the Phoenix area from Kansas, he focuses his skill in the IT field. Because he's from so far away and lives on the skirts of civilization (instead of downtown), he has not made many friends in the past two years. He likens the reasons for not meeting other Phoenicians to the insurmountable wall of desert heat that suffocates his voice anywhere but outside the air conditioned confines of his house. As we all know... "If you don't go out, you can't have them come in!"

Besides his fingers and hands, Curly doesn't get much cardio. Being the self-proclaimed athlete I am, I invite him on a short walk. The leisurely stroll gives him a side cramp, seemingly from uncontrollable heavy breathing due to excessive overexertion. Who knew? He's a good soldier though, and sucks it up. Becoming hungry, I suggest we go to the grocery store.

After leaving the grocer, we're at a stop light waiting to turn. Curly tells me about his colorful culture, from Bollywood films, to the interesting 3-somes he becomes involved in, to the 28 languages of his homeland, to the intricacies of the IT department. He asks me what my heritage is. I respond, "I'm Native American and European." Driving forward, he responds without a second thought, "Oh. Well, I'm Indian." Not missing a beat, I glance over, "Oh, really?! That's wonderful. I always wondered what you call people from India!" I raise my index finger and shake it, continuing, "I'll have to remember that one." We both laugh at the absurdity of the moment and arrive at our destination.

At the dinner table, Muscle Calves and CW join us. CW works in IT as well. "So, you're from India, huh? Didn't you kind of do it backward?" The table looks in puzzlement at CW. He continues, "Well, I mean, you know, all of our jobs are going over there, and you came over here." Muscle Calves blinks, then squints in disapproval at CW. CW goes on, "So, do you ever have to call Tech Support?" I laugh loudly and cut in, "No. What happens is he calls, they hear his accent and say, 'Holy sh*t, we have a live one on the line! Hurry, route him to an American!'" The table bursts into laughter.

CW picks up a cup full of Juniper berries and asks Muscle Calves what they're used for. Muscle Calves exasperatingly explains to him what it's for. "Well, how do you know this," CW rebuttals. "Because I've read about it and researched it. Duh." Raising my right arm in the kitchen, I add, "And because I'm Native American. I know all about nuts and berries. Curly wouldn't tho; he's not the right kind of Indian." Like a lightning bolt, it occurs to me: India Indians own 7-11's and hotels. American Indians own casino's.

The Fallout

Ever have those days where you wake up in the wrong bed? You know, the kind where after a long weekend of friendly mishaps, it's Monday and a cascade of miniature melodramas just keep streaming your way? That was the life of BP yesterday and this past weekend. What?! You mean the cliche is "waking up on the wrong side of the bed"? Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle...

Since my gym membership expired on Sunday, I had to find another way to burn off all the calories I consume in a normal day, so I decided on using a free public place. While listening to GoAskAlice's problems in New York and San Francisco, I meandered about Margaret T. Hance Park (built over I-10) near downtown Phoenix. In between her story about the underage pharmaceutical rep and the evil doctor, I happen across a small traffic violation in the middle of the sidewalk.

I closely study the curiosity. Lying on the ground was a small, arrow head shaped yellow nub. I cautiously step on it, it's partly squishy from the atomic heat radiating skyward from the sidewalk, and kick it down the way. It bounces. Realizing what it is, I immediately unleash a howel of laughter into the evening air.

"Oh, my god, GoAskAlice, you would not believe what I just stepped on!"

"Huh? Are you listening to me, BP?"

"Of course I am, but my foot isn't. It's recoiling in fear, honey child. I just stepped on a butt plug here in the middle of the park, in open air on the sidewalk. I mean, I thought I was having a bad day, but obviously not as bad as this poor person who apparantly lost their constrictive powers while they were walking home or whatever. haha"

"Oh, my god! That's so gross! Wait... how do you know it's a butt plug?"

"Oh, I just do. I've seen them when I was in Montreal."

"Mmmmm-hmmmm. Riiiiiiiiight."

"For real, puddin' cup. That is pretty gross. Maybe I should take it back to the hospital and wash it for 15 seconds, following OSHA guidelines, put some alcohol rub on it, then put it up for bidding on e-bay in one of those 'mystery bags'."

As I continue to chuckle over the small, puckered-orifice sized road cone, I remember how ridiculous bad days are. Thinking about all the arguments with my friends over the weekend, being asked to move out by my roommates, not having my medical education speech ready, getting rejected for a new position, and being temporarily broke - none of those could have been worse than having such a wonderful conversation piece slip out of my rosey cheeks in public. Compared to that, my struggles are rather modest. Using this little bit of chocolate humor to put me in a good mood, I move on and develop new plans with GoAskAlice for New York.

Sensory Overload

I'm in the driver's seat of Mumsy Hyphenatie's stealthy, yet understated white passenger car. Brother is in the front seat, Mumsy is behind me, and Step Dad is next to her, gently caressing her hand.

"Blah, we just checked three places, and none of them are open. Are you going to eat with us," I ask S over the phone as our gas conscious 4-cylinder auto weaves in and out of traffic. My spicy frustration thickly glazes the air - we can't find a reputable Mexican restaurant to enjoy this late at night.

"Oh, well I don't care where we eat. Mumsy says that she wants pizza now," Brother tries to allay my seething emotions. I shoot him a searing look of acid - I simmer a little when people change their minds in the middle of a spectacle.

As I listen to S ask his co-workers where tasty places are, Mumsy H bubbles up from the back seat, "Oh, let's just go eat at the casino. They're always open 24 hours, and you can have all you can eat, and we can play and everything!" The whites of my eyes tidal from left to right through my sockets, as I roll my head toward my right shoulder and matter-of-factly say, "We're not going to eat at a casino, mom. I'll find a place, just hold your horses, ok?"

4-1-1 becomes a knight in shimmering silver, and I start aggressively driving through construction zones and freeway traffic to a restaurant open for 30 more minutes. For some reason that I haven't determined yet, my mom was yelping about my skill of deftly dodging the barricades and cars around us. Must be a parental quality that I will never know.

We meet S, and place our order. Mumsy Hyphenatie leans in toward us, her eyes ablaze in excitement. "So, I was at Cliff Castle the other day a few weeks ago, and I was playing my favorite game, Top Gun! And this native lady sits down at the penny slot next to me to get into her fighter jet." Mumsy lifts up her hand to salute to no one in particular, and takes a sip of her unsweetened iced tea, then continues, "Anyway, this lady put in $5 and spins a few times, then gets the bonus!" Mumsy jumps up slightly, reveling in the firecracker passion of her story retelling. We all look at her and smile.

"Yes," she continues, "and the old grandma didn't know what was going on! So, I lean over and tell her to push the buttons, 'Fly left! Fly left! Fly left!' I screamed, and the woman got a bonus, then I told her, 'Go up, Go up, go up!', and she hits the up button." Another sip of iced tea. "And this grandma starts breathing really fast and then she has to shoot down the other fighter planes on the screen, so I tell her to 'hit it, hit it, hit it!' and she does, but she misses the second one, and then her tun is over."

"Oh really? What happened next," I ask, noting that Brother throws a small tantrum by leaning back dismissively in his chair.

"Well, the lady made about $80 off of her $5, on a penny machine."

"Wow, that's really good, especially on a penny machine."

"Yeah, it is. But anyway, the old grandma cashes out, and says to me, 'oh, I can't play this anymore. I'm afraid of heights, I better go.'"

The table laughs, and I say, "Um... she didn't leave anywhere, besides her winning machine."

Mumsy impishly looks at me, "I know. Her whole trip on the computer screen was all on the ground in the seat next to me. Crazy lady."

Thank You, Come Again

Mr Glove is a tall, ambrosial, blond real estate agent. Mr Glove is called Mr Glove because he moved here from the mitten state, where whitetail deer roam free.

Although I haven't asked Mr Glove to indicate where his hometown is on the palm of his right hand, or if his snow blower had more miles on it than his car, I did ask if he's ever experienced the phenomena of deja vu. I experience deja vu on a random yet predictable basis. My experiences are usually due to the temporary symptoms of death I spurt out while popping a squat over the lou after having eaten something just a touch too spicy the night before. I won't bore you with recurrent detailed events, however.

Episode 1: Deja Visite: He picks me up at my condo, and as I get into the car, remarks, "Oh, I used to know someone that lived here in this exact same complex." "Oh, really? That's interesting. I noticed you were parked right outside my window. You're the first person to have ever done that. Are you ready to go rock climbing?" And we head for the freeway.

Episode 2: Sixth Sense: Mr Glove and I arrive at the rock climbing gym. At that precise moment a colleague of his arrives in a sporty 3-series with a blue-eyed muscle boy I vaguely recognize from the gym in a different city. To the best of my knowledge, it was through a random act of mechanical combustion and impeccable timing that they came to the same place without knowledge of our arrival. Introductions pass around the circle like a hot potato, and I pencil the names of two new people into my mental Rolodex, only to misplace it later.

Episode 3: Deja Vecu: After rock climbing, we head back to my condo, and I usher Mr Glove in. He wanders around as I burrow around for sustenance. Looking at me, he asks, "How long have you lived here," his arms crossing his chest. "Oh, since April. My roommates have been here longer, but I don't know how long," I smile toward him over the steel fridge door. His face clouding over, he responds, "You remember how I said I knew someone who lived in this complex? This is the exact same condo they lived in. I remember putting in that lamp, and hanging that ceiling fan, even this flooring- I installed it." I laugh, thinking he's joking, but notice the grim expression afflicting his brow line. "Oh, do you want to go somewhere else? You don't look like you feel good." "Yes, I think that would be best."

Episode 4: Deja visite: We head down the way to an eatery disguised as a flower shop. Inside, we seat ourselves, and our waiter is Mr Flake, someone I had met two years before. He recognises me but doesn't say anything, although he is extra attentive. Mr Glove asks if I know Mr Flake, at which I shrug my shoulders - all I need to know is he's serving us at the moment. Then Glovy says, "I know him from somewhere. I'm going to ask." Mr Flake returns briskly to our table with water. Mr Glove asks him,"Hey, have we met before?" Flaky blinks, leans in, and doesn't recognize Mr Glove, "Um, not that I know of. When was the last time you were here?" "About 3 years ago." "Oh, I've only been here for about 4 months. Maybe you saw me at a party. Do you know so and so?" "No, no I don't. I bet you're just the pretty face in the corner." "Yeah, the pretty face passed out in the corner because I've had too much to drink." At that moment, I learn that Mr Flake isn't only a flake, but also an alcoholic.

Episode 5: Deja Vu: The next day, I drive northward, onward, and upward toward Flagstaff. On the road is a procession of hippies in vans. I pass one pink cream one, and nothing of note, just smoke billowing out the windows. The next van is painted on the back, a picture of the San Francisco Peaks with two UFOs and the words, "Deja Vu" painted above it. I think to myself, "Haven't I had enough already?!" As I pass the van, a man that looks like Jesus with sun glasses looks at me through the window. It's time for a weekend.

Caution: Hot

Ever experience those beastly people in restaurants who are obnoxiously loud? You know, the hyena pack that cackles around a fresh dinner meal. You peer at the troop from behind plated garnish leaves, across taupe savanna carpeting, and your own neatly camouflaged white table cloth just to examine what's going on. "Within ear shot," for the loud group means being able to communicate across any expanse of $200 bottles of wine, of which there are many. Then, did it finally occur to you that this same legion of raucous supper personalities, with their hungry outbursts of laughter, and colorful displays of celebratory bags and boxes is a birthday dinner party?

Here we are at Elements, in Sanctuary, Paradise Valley. Guess who's birthday it is?! Yes, it's mine. Woo-hoo! Like the cattle we're assumed to be, we're herded to our seats and given some grass and fresh water. Oh, the grass is to refresh your breath, you say? That's interesting. And we're paying how much for it? Fantastic, I love when money grows on trees!

Our chic group settles in, and I reach for the card labeled: "Caution: Hotness Inside!"

...I really should have paid more attention to the warning...

Asking the table for a non-existent letter opener, and not thinking to manhandle my butter knife through the envelope, I seductively slide my keys between the sheets of paper, and work open the seam, exposing the card with my fingers.

At that precise moment, the manager of the restaurant comes to our table with a waiter in tow to greet us before our meal, all the while I slide the card out of it's crisp sleeve. "OH!" I exclaim, to which everyone anticipatingly look toward me. Peering down at my hands, the waiter chokes on a gulp of rapidly entering air, and the manager grabs her stomach like she'd just been punched.

On the front of the card was an attractive, yet marginally... no, that's the wrong word... extremely excited model with a ginormous pink member poking toward his chin gingerly smiling back at me.

Caution: Hotness exposed.

I don't think that's something they see every day in a restaurant on top of the hill. "Could I have some more water, please," I ask the disturbed waiter, who had spilled his pitcher on the table from focusing on my paper friend. Looking around, and noticing the manager had disappeared, I say, "And, looking at the menu, I'm glad you don't have sausage on there for appetisers. I do see that you have fish tho. How wonderful."

Duck and cover, pass the card to your left, have some water after viewing, and then remember to thank your friends for their sense of humor.

Houston, We have a Problem

I always thought that your gag reflex is less reactive in the morning. Ok, maybe I didn't always think that, but at least for the last few years.

Perhaps I just haven't had enough practice swallowing chokeable size objects... Maybe I just haven't really had the desire to teach my body to dull the explosive lunges when something too large and foreign gets mixed in the milieu of what enters my pie hole. I mean... c'mon, there's a reason why we have such a reflex - it's to save our life in times of crises and such. Besides, it's not like I'm some kind of daily carnival sword swallower or fire eater - although some of my friends may disagree from time to time - just in very different circumstances. (Watch your dirty little minds there! That's not what I meant!) I've also determined that I don't have GERD, anorexia nervosa, or anxiety issues.

So, on the same note, I also love brushing my teeth. Don't mix up the previous paragraph with this one - I don't enjoy swallowing vibrating power toothbrushes either.

Now this morning, while cleaning my pearly whites a second time, I learned something new. Apparently, heavy caffeine ingestion decreases gag reactionary time, while increasing the intensity of your forward lurch. These are two things you should never mix, especially when you're in a small doorway, going down stairs, in front of a wall, or a mix of all three.

I had gotten a little carried away 1/2 an hour earlier while stirring my cup of artificially sweetened motor oil, and accidentally splashed some coffee onto my shirt. I go home to change, and brush my teeth the second time this morning. *bbbbbuuuuuuuzzzzzzzz* the electric toothbrush sings as I walk around the house looking for a new shirt. The vibrating head touches the side of my tongue, and BAM! Gag reflex!

Silly me, I forgot there were things like walls at home.

I careen forward and smack my forehead on the painted surface, then, ambulance lights quickly flashing in front of me, I stumble backward from the 3rd Newtonian Prophecy out the doorway. Right next to the doorway and bruised wall, there's a staircase. Losing balance, I practically tumble down the staircase, but grab the hand rail in the nick-of-time to prevent a brutal six o'clock news story.

Learning from a previous experience, I quickly apply toothpaste to my forehead to prevent any bruising. Time to head back to work... just remember to wipe the toothpaste off before going through the front door, and preferably before I step out of my car. Although... I might be able to pull the look off if I had cinnamon toothpaste.

Hot Cross Buns

"Did you know the other day I got spanked?" HB says to me while picking up an ornamental trinket off the department store display table.

"Um... what?" I reply, my head crooning around at breakneck speed.

Putting the knickknack aside and promenading along the aisle, HB continues, "Yes. It was rather interesting. I've never tried it before, and I figured, 'why not'?" She flashes me a dazzling bleached smile.

HB is a fascinatingly beautiful and brilliantly educated woman. Surrounded with a cool air of accomplishment, she has a world class demeanor and oceans deep enjoyment of new indulgences (read: she's humorously kinky at times). Much like Samantha on Sex and the City, HB has the kind of self-confidence to schmooze and canoodle with anyone, and also possesses the farcical self-delusion to actually attempt it. Yes, HB's all that, and can even eat a bag of chips... usually because she'll run a few miles afterward.

"Oh realllllyyyy? Do go on, my dear HB. Do go on," I prod, knowing it's going to be a doozy of a story.

"Yes, so there I am, in a little role play. Apparently I was a school girl being punished for something, or maybe I was being initiated into a college meat mixer, or risque sorority. I really can't remember." We stroll along, and I notice other shoppers are giving us sideways glances, since HB doesn't whisper. "So, I'm being spanked with Mr. S's hand and he stops and gets what I figure is a frat-boy paddle. Anyway, he starts using his 'paddle'," she holds up her fingers to mimic a quotation by twitching them up and down,"and I'm playing along, making sure it's not too rough, because as we all know, if any one's going to be brusque, it's going to be me." She twinkles her eyes at a family passing by.

I pinch my lower lip between my fingers and look away, but tell her to go on. "And I'm calling out my hail Marys and such, then I look back and notice something is amiss. I had one of those 'what's going on back there?' moments."

"Oh, what happened?"

"I say, 'Wait, wait wait, stop!' and ask Mr. S, 'Is that a bread board you're spanking me with?'" HB smiles broadly, "He looses a little bit of color and gives me an affirmative answer. I give him this incredulous look. Then I smile and tell him I'll be right back."

I chuckle a little, knowing that HB was about to do something clever, and imagining HB tapping Mr. S's nose then walking out the bedroom door. I ask, "What did you do next? And how did you know it was a bread board?"

"Oh, BP, you know me and cookware;" nodding toward me with raised eyebrows, "Who else would know a breadboard when they see one - even if it's in the bread, I mean bedroom? So, I went straight to Mr. S's kitchen and grabbed a wooden spoon and a stick of butter from the counter and walked back. I look him straight in the eye and boldly say, 'Here, why don't you just butter up my buns next? But, my dear, that bread board in your hand isn't cutting it.'" HB tilts back in laughter and places a delicate hand over her chest, "He stopped immediately because I could not stop laughing at how ridiculous it was. Honestly, a bread board? Come on! If you're going to do kinky things, at least get the right equipment, or someone is going to call you on it."

"Hahahahah! I can't believe it! What happened next," I expectantly inquire.

"Well, since I couldn't stop laughing, I had to leave. After all, you know what they say," HB holds up the sleeve of a man's suit, "clothes make the man, leather makes the daddy; novelty breadboards just make you hungry."

Chip Bag

I love boardgames. Honestly, I do. My affinity for these childhood relics can even eclipse my profound love of tasty food. This simple quote from M explains exactly how much I cherish gastronomic experiences: "I am so depressed now. You know how I am. When I have bad food, it's like someone just broke up with me." That should give you a picture of the enormity in which I relish the delicacies placed before my quivering lips and ravenous eyes.

However, this post isn't about food. It's about Scrabble. I fancy Scrabble mostly because of my provocative and unusual opponents.

Now, for me, I have an extensive vocabulary - that's good. But, I've always had trouble spelling - that's bad. I'm getting better at spelling every day - that's good. My games of Scrabble resemble a fuzzy mix of a C.M. Coolidge painting, an episode of Seinfield, a tense courtroom trial, and New Year's Eve in Times Square - typically in that order. THIS is a VERY good thing.

So here we are, on an intensely hot night, surrounding the colorful cardboard playing field. It's half way through the game. Tensions run high, and intelligences are brought to the breaking point. Words range from 'the' and 'gap' to 'spelt' and 'sweet' to 'chiropractor' and 'osteopath'. Slyly surveying the other players, R picks up his wood tiles and places them confidently on their spaces. Gasping at his placement and snorting, I demand, "Chipbag?! What the hell is that?!?"

With watery puppy dog eyes, R fawningly defends himself, "You know, a chipbag! Like when you want some Doritos, you reach for a chipbag and satisfy your craving." He lovingly shoots the group a disarming smile.

Not buying it, E rebuffs R's coy gestures from across the table, "Well, I don't know about your smelly kingdom there on the porcelain throne R, but I either grab my Doritos from a bag of chips, or a bowl of chips. I've never been sold, offered, or seen anything referred to... as a 'chipbag'. In other words, you're full of it, R!" The rest of us lightheartedly giggle in agreement. Taking E's stance, I challenge the spelling, haul out the collegiate dictionary, and don't find an entry for the mythic 'chipbag'. "Fancy that, R. Pick up your tiles and lose your next turn," E smirks.

I'm next. "There, three words, two of them double word, and one double letter on the 3rd. 36 points!" V blasts me with a venomous scowl. His head to the side, eyebrows rising, V pipes up, "I don't think that 'eh' is a word, BP."

"'Eh' is too a word," I bravely say, pointing at the dictionary to make my point, "If you don't believe me, then check it!" Haughtily finishing, I challenge, "I dare you! Go ahead and lose your next turn, because I'm right, and you know it!" The table is silent as each player weighs his cards. Slowly, V reaches for the hardback, and opens to eh. There it is in black and white - a common term from Canada. "Viva La Canada!" I chirp up and smugly smile at V.

Sorely admitting defeat, V spouts out, "Damn you, BP! I hate how you cheat!" Looking at the others, he concludes, "You never know when to challenge BP because he went to a good college, and you don't know when BP's making up words or not." To which I respond, "Well, now V, no need to be angry. That wasn't cheating. That was a good play. I never cheat; I just don't know how to spell half the time - you just have to figure out when that is. Now, it's S's turn; you lose yours for calling it wrong," tossing him the rule book, "It's in the rules, feel free to look those up too." S, who's spouse is a Canadian citizen, chuckles toward his chest as he places his tiles and whispers, "I knew that 'eh' was a word."

Lubrication

So here I am, at 1:30 in the morning locked outside of Tasty Cakes, my car that reminds many of the 80's pop icon, Night Rider. I had just visited my friend J from out of town and he'd gone to sleep inside his cozy resort casita. It's 76 degrees in Paradise Valley, and the central Phoenix mountains visibly surround me as the glow of the city back lights their monumental silhouettes.

I tug forcibly on the handle, and the door doesn't budge. This time, the door isn't just stuck, it's actually locked, and the keys are chilling on the floor mat. Like a chimpanzee, I search around for a poking tool to use so I can press the button to release the latch. "Hmm... I need a fork, or a knife, or a branch, wire hanger... something!" After mulling around in the desert landscaping, I remember that resorts don't have things like that lying around. "Hmmm... ok, think BP, think... what else could I do?" Looking over, I notice my window is cracked open.

Stretching and straining my hand past the slit, my forearm gets caught, and I pull it back out with a loud *pop*. "Ok, that didn't work... well, maybe if I can find a stick, or a spoon, some chopsticks, or a light saber, I can push that button to unlatch the lock," at which point, I look around in the same vicinity again, and come to the previous realization that there still isn't anything around. "D'oh!"

"Ok, think, BP, think. Be creative here. I need to open this door, there are no poking tools around, and the window is partly cracked, but my arm won't fit through the crack." A light goes on over my head. "Oh yeah, I know what will work! I'm so smart!" I reach into my blue backpack, searching for the holy grail of the medical field... KY Jelly...

... ... ... Guess what happened?... ... ...

In my altered attempt at tackling the beastly car, I slather on enough lubrication to cover my right arm that I could've assisted in a horse birth. "Ok, on the count of three," I tell myself, "One! Two! Three!" My arm slides through the crevice up to the elbow *thunk*, my elbow goes past, and into the car. I rejoice, "Woo-hoo!!!!"

Promptly finding and pressing the lock button, the doors magically unlock, and I open the outside handle with my left hand. Triumphantly nodding to myself, I remark, "Score one for BP." The door opens, and I move with it... at which point I notice that my arm is still stuck between the door frame and the electric window. I smack my forehead with my free hand, letting out another, "D'oh!"

"Ok, think, BP, be creative..." Another light bulb goes on. Reaching over the door with my left arm, I go for the keys... my arm's not long enough. Under the door with my feet, my leg's not flexible enough. Around the door with my arms and feet - my body's not made out of enough rubber bands. Hmmm...

After standing there with the door open, keys on the car floor, and my arm turning blue from the scissored pressure, I remember that I have my cel phone with me, and fish it from my pocket. Hands still slick from the tube of lube, I get a grip on my phone by squeezing it. Inadvertently, my greasy hands press 'last call return', which starts ringing a mortal enemy of mine. I realize whats happening and squeeze to hang up. For some vague reason, the phone flies out of my waxy grip and onto the pavement a few feet away. Among other obscenities, I shout "MOTHER LOVER!!!!" as my enemy picks up the phone, and quickly hangs up, not knowing why, at such a late hour, someone would call simply to curse at them. It beats me.

Maneuvering my body, and stretching with the aid of Saint Gumby, I get the mini-phone on my shoe toe. With the care of a tight-rope walker, I get it back in my hand, and dial J, whom I'd just seen 45 minutes ago. "Hey J, can you come out here and help me?" "Yeah, what's up BP?" "Um... can you just come outside and help me real fast?" "Ok, let me get dressed."

J enters the scene. Looking at my car, then at me, J's eyebrows lift, and he says smugly, "So, what seems to be the problem?" "Oh, Tasty Cakes just decided to become a carnivorous automobile. Jeezy creezy, J, my arm's stuck! Come over here and help me out. Get in my car and get my keys, please!" J gets in the drivers seat, and after looking around, starts laughing, "Oh, I can't find your keys, BP. I think they must be outside somewhere." "They're right there on the floor! Get them!" J finds the keys, "Hey, BP, I can't figure out how to turn on your car." "It's right there on the steering column, J! Here, let me do it!" I shut the door, and follow suit, grabbing the keys, turn on the car and push the button for the window. My arm becomes unleashed. "Thanks, J, you've been a real pal, now I need to go home."

After a slippery jelly enhanced steering wheel drive home, my arm hurt, and I knew I was going to get a mammoth bruise. I had learned a few weeks earlier that if you put toothpaste where a bruise should develop, it won't develop. Don't ask. So, I cover my arm for the second time that night in a foreign goo. Sleep comes quickly.

Heading to the bathroom in the morning to brush my teeth, I look in the mirror and there's no bruise on my arm... however... there's tons of toothpaste on my face. Brushing was a little easier than normal tho.

For the record... I now have an extra set of car keys... everywhere...

Making an Enterance

An early grey Sunday morning, four Ivy League students: MD, H, M97, and myself stumble out of the Limelight's Church of Disco. H, smiling broadly and deaf from 9 hours of booty-quakeing screams, "Hallelujah that was a WILD night!" Dehydrated, low on blood sugar, sore, slightly buzzed, and mildly hallucinating, we make our way toward the green Subaru.

"We have to find the Queensboro Bridge to make it to my friend K's apartment so we can get some sleep!" MD exhaustedly says. As we start driving the salt covered vehicle, I hand out various chilled fruits, bottles of water, and road maps from the front seat.

Left turn, right turn, green light, red light, right turn, yellow light, u-turn, stop, scratch heads. Looking at the map, M97 says, "Um... so where is the Queensboro Bridge anyway?" I turn it around in his hands saying, "I think the map goes this way." Four right turns later, we end up in the same spot.

"Either I'm having a deja vu, or we're lost, because I think I've seen that pile of trash before..." H says from the back seat.

MD smartly suggests, "Drive east toward the sun until you hit the water... just don't go in." We head east and stop on a pier. "Oh, look," I exclaim, "There's a police car! Let's ask them for directions. Not it!" "Not it, either," both M97 and H yell out. Muffled, MD says, "Awww s**t. Ok, I'll go ask."

MD saunters up to the police car, banana in hand, and taps their window with the end of it. Asking for directions, she tears open the yellow handle and unwittingly gestures down the road with the half-empty rind, mimicking the officer's directions. They stare at her in puzzlement. Chiquita meat sticking on her lips, MD thanks the officers, and stumbles back into the car. Pointing with her empty peel, she decisively barks directions, and we cross the massive landmark. After getting lost on Queens Blvd, we arrive and stand at the apartment entrance.

One at a time, we each attempt to pull the doors open, but to no avail. We try again - they don't budge. ...Four minutes pass...

"I know! K lives on the 1st floor," MD says, walking around the corner, "I'll go yell at her window to wake her up." M97 and H opt for a cigarette break and sit down. Meanwhile, I stand at the glass doors, scratching my head. This calls for some industrial strength detective work.

BP's mental notes: 1) Saying "Open Sesame" doesn't work. 2) The call buttons are on the other side of this glass door. 3) Pulling harder on the handle doesn't work. ...Five minutes pass...

I closely examine the door frame. No clues appear. I continue on to where the double doors meet and should lock. I make a shocking discovery: the key hole is melted shut.

BP's Mental reasoning: A) "If the key hole is soddered, then no one can use it. If that's the case, and the door is locked, then no one lives in this building... that obviously has people living in it..." I ponder this thought for a bit... looking closer, I notice that there's no lock on the door. BP's Realization: 1) The keyhole has no real application! ... Six minutes pass...

I ask myself, "Why would you have a non-existent lock that doesn't work, yet still keeps people locked out? There HAS to be a way for people to get past this door to those push buttons. Hmm... maybe the door doesn't open at all. Therefore, no one lives in this building! Wait... I already thought of that." I consider the invisible lock five more minutes. "Ok, there's a lock that doesn't exist on a door that I can't open." I examine the door frame again, and for some reason, nothing changed.

Mental reasoning B) "If there's no lock, and pulling harder doesn't work, maybe it's a combination of pulling AND THEN pushing!" At which point, I gently push, and the gates of heaven fling wide open!

"OH MY GOD!!!! I FIGURED IT OUT," I scream, "LOOK LOOK LOOK!!! THE DOOR IS OPEN! I DEFEATED THE DOOR!!!" M97 and H Jump up and run over, excitedly asking how I discovered the secret, to which I recounted my in depth detective work. The three of us enter the small corridor, at which point we realize we don't know which button to choose. "Fiddlesticks! We need MD, but we'll get locked out if we leave," H ruefully states.

"Let's just wait until she comes back," I say, a smile growing on my face, "When she does, let's act like we're trapped inside since she doesn't know how to open the doors!" MD comes around the corner to see the three of us banging on the glass from inside, screaming to get out.

MD runs toward us. Quickly grabbing the handle, she pulls forcibly and blurts out, "OH MY GOD! How did the three of you get trapped in there?! I don't know how to get you guys out! Oh Jesus this is awful!" We raise more ruckus, then burst into laughter, rolling on the tiled floor. We show MD how to open the door, and she promptly calls her friend with the button. MD's blond friend, K, shows up and lets us in the second set of doors.

Walking inside, I notice an older Asian woman had been witnessing our door dilemma for the last 20 minutes. Cautiously approaching, her eyes clearly frightened, she defensively puts her back against the wall and swiftly escapes her building. Watching her scamper off, I ponder how long it took her to open the doors the first time she pulled on them.

The Red Party

J's silver Ford Taurus expertly slices down slush filled streets lined with soggy trees. The ground is dewy, the air crisp, and the sky is a bowl of broken rain clouds. The car is filled with wild chatter as a Jew, an African American, a Korean, a Native American, and me wittily banter with each other.

Doesn't this sounds like the starting of one of those politically incorrect, yet pointedly humorous jokes people tell in hushed corners? Funny how life imitates humor sometimes.

We were going out after a long week of mentally debilitating college finals. We went out to be young and have fun - to paint the town red... Little did we know our youthful shenanigans would involve the Red Hat Society.

We arrive at the restaurant, wet brakes squeaking. Snatching the uber-umbrella from the rear seat, we walk toward the warmly illuminated door. Inside, we're escorted downstairs and sat near the closed off private party room.

The diet water, bread, and menus arrive. We playfully converse with one another; for the price of a two-for-one cocktail, we kept topping how terrible our tests were with more and more fantastic stories.

"Well, for my psych final, I had to bludgeon my lab partner with a DSM-IV manual so I could study how a catatonic state affects college students during an f-MRI scan."

"Oh yeah? Well, for my final, I had to learn how to speak Mohawk with Professor X, and then bootleg meds across the US/Canadian border using the 1952 Immigration and Naturalization Act."

"You two think those are bad? My physics professor had us develop a new mobile chair for Stephen Hawking that could travel through time without using a worm hole."

Dinner comes and goes. We are packing up the food, when suddenly, Native girl sees an elderly woman dressed in plum and cherry rush by into the party room. "Wow, how funky for an old upper valley lady," she thinks to herself. Then another woman pops out of the woodwork, this time with a red hat made of flowers. Then another, and another, and another, all dressed to the nines in violet suits, sashes, boas, dresses, shoes, purses, sunglasses, makeup, and topped off with rosy hats made of red feathers, apples, ostrich eggs, netting, and so on. It turns out there's a liberation army of funky red-hat wearing women, somewhat reminiscent of Carmen Miranda.

The instigation

So, Native girl picks up her red cloth napkin and decides to make a pirate hat. A few quick folds, and it's perched there, pointed to high heaven, on Native girl's head. Across the way is a ten year-old boy that looks at Native girl, then at the menopausal women, back at native girl, back at the women, and makes the connection. Immediately bursting into uncontrollable laughter, his fiery fore-head starts bouncing up and down, as he bangs it on the dinner table, attempting to squelch his laughter.

Noting the flush of blush through the young boy, I exclaim, "Oh, look at that kid! Maybe one of us could put him on our heads - his face is red enough from embarrassment." Meanwhile, his parents systematically look at him, wondering what he's cracked up on. The rest of us promptly grab our napkins and make red pirate hats as well, checking over our shoulders for hot and flashy danger.

A bony hand arrives unexpectedly on my shoulder. "Uh-oh, busted!" we all say in unison. The lady mutters something incoherent with a smile. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't hear what you said," I say, pulling off my half-folded red pirate hat.

"Anyone want to take pictures of us," she asks again with a smile. She glances at Native girl and screams, "Hey girlfriend! Come take some pictures WITH us!"

"I would love to take a picture with you and your phat red hat," Native girl responds, and follows the woman into the private party room. We enter. It's full of loud, laughing, vibrant energy, and a large violet cake. We weren't sure what to think, or what kind of group it was.

"WOO-WOO-ld you like some cake," one of the matriarchs says to our suited Jewish friend. He obliges. Charging the air with their unified voices, the women rejoice, whooping their battle cry, "WOO-WOO!!!!"

After a million and three paparazzi camera flashes, we ask them what exactly the red hat society is. "Don't worry, when you're older than 50, you'll understand, girlfriend," is all they can reply. So, we thank them, and make way toward the door, grabbing our black jackets along the way, smiling that we have now become our own club - the black jacket and napkin club, where we're all over 20. And, don't worry girlfriend, when you're over 20, you'll understand.

Awww, nuts!

Ah, the Phoenix Biltmore - a diverse, yet culturally relative area of the city. It's an area composed of high-end shopping, upscale attitudes, and mind-numbing construction. To some, it's a veritable kaleidoscope of celebrity sightings, gilded Versace walkways, Cartier nose studs, and gourmet dishes en flambe. To others, it represents a dirge of up-turned noses, full price sale racks, material hegemony, and platters of food you can't buy with WIC.

To me, it represents a coffee shop.

After parking M's black 4-runner, M, V, and I wearily step off the fresh pavement into the coffee shop. "Oh my god! I can't wait... I'm going to see if they have an Iced Spanish Latte with soy," M's eyes flash as she envisions her milky drink.

It's a little gloomy inside - they're getting ready to close in a few hours. V orders a hot cocoa and waits on the side. The 17 year old boy cashier asks, "So, what would you like," as I approach the counter, M by my side.

"I would like a double shot Americano with heavy whipping cream. Do you also have Spanish Lattes," I ask. He nods. "Ok, one of those too, please- medium, iced, with soy." M taps my shoulder, and motions to the bakery case.

"Hey, let's get a brownie. I know they're your faaaaaaaavorite," she says as her eyes grow to the size of hen's eggs.

"I know! I looooove corner brownies with walnuts and cranberries. But, I don't like just plain brownies." We look the bakery case over again, and there's brownies galore, which I give the once over. "Hmm... it doesn't look like they have any that aren't plain."

"Well, ask him if they have any other ones," M prods.

I slide down the counter to address the young cashier, "Do you have any nuts?" The boy's baseball-capped head pulls back, as an astonished and unsure look overcomes his face. I figure he didn't hear; so leaning in and putting my hands on the counter, I look him straight in the eye, and ask again, "Do you have any nuts?"

"Um... Excuse me?" He says, stepping back a little, glancing left and right.

"You know, nuts! Nuts! I need some nuts! It doesn't look like you have any nuts. Do you have any berries?" My hands turn skyward, rising toward my shoulders, fingers outspread, gesturing a shrug. He looks flabbergasted and can't respond. I glance over; M's mouth has hit the floor. "What? I just want to know if he has any nuts and berries. Geez. I need some nut lovin' if I'm going to enjoy it." Turning back, I ask him, "So, since you don't have any nuts or berries showing out front, can you turn around and search your back for some that might be hiding?"

"Um... what?" Sidestepping toward the bakery case, he defensively puts a larger barrier between the two of us.

"For the brownies. You know, the brownies in your case right here," as I point toward the brownie basket, "They're all plain. I want to know if you have any gussied up with nuts or berries or something. Are there any in the back?"

The barrista down the line spills soy milk from a shaking arm, his face locked in unbelieving laughter. My cashier looks over... then around the store, seeing other customers going nuts giggling. It finally hits him like a brick - that I'm asking for baked goodies - and he cracks a smile.

He quickly and energetically says, "Aw, nuts," snapping his fingers, "No, we don't have any nutted or berried brownies in the back, or in the front." Glancing toward my outstretched hands he continues, "And mine aren't up for grabs."

"Ok. That's all I needed to know. How much is the coffee then," I ask, as cashier boy starts laughing. Then it finally hits ME- what I was saying, and my face goes cherry red. "Oh... um... thank you... job well done." I pay and move down the line, M in tow, chuckling.

Satisfaction

"You know that D and I used to date, right?" C emphatically says, as his head jerks forward from the back seat.

"No, really? Well, that's awesome. Fantastic, really," I reply as I drive C's car, Big Bird, down the road toward C's house.

"Yeah, we dated forever!"

"Really? How long was that?"

C's face jerks to the side, flipping his black hair away from his face, "Oh, about two years and a day. I mean, don't get me wrong, D is really sweet - fun to hang out with, and we were kind of like the best of friends. But you know... sometimes it's just... Coyote Ugly."

"Coyote Ugly? What do you mean?" I ask, head tilted to the side.

"You know, 'coyote ugly'. Don't you know what 'coyote ugly' is?"

"Yeah, it's a bar in Las Vegas, isn't it?"

"Yes. But, the original is in Austin, Texas. I've been to it. It's at the corner of WalMart and McDonald's. Haha, I'm just kidding. But really, the original is on 5th street in Austin." C's head bobs to each side as he talks and glances out the side window.

"Ok, but what does that have to do with D? Did you two first meet there?"

"No, no, no," C responds with a flourish, "You know, COYOTE UGLY - when it's about someone."

"Oh, so you two liked to dance ON the bar, like in the movie," I say as I speed up to make a yellow light.

"UGH! Geez, BP, COYOTE UGLY! Like when you're with someone and it's just not at all pretty." In the rear view mirror, C's eyes bulge just a little, from lack of hydration and insistent exertion, "Like, I adored D and all, but D just left me... you know... unsatisfied..."

I laugh, as C continues, "Yeah. I mean, I'm a Scorpio and all, and I know what I want. NOW, imagine putting together your grocery list while you're in bed with someone, just so you don't have to look at them or concentrate on what's going on. It was THAT BAD. And then, you wake up in horror, wondering... no... Hopeing the other person doesn't want more. Coyote Ugly - where the other person is just so unattractive and unsatisfying that, in the morning, you're like a coyote with it's leg caught in a trap!"

My eyes squint with laughter and I swerve a tad, understandably nodding. "Ok, I've never been in that sort of situation, but I can imagine it. Go on."

"Yeah! Your arm is trapped under their head and you have to chew off your arm to get away from danger - just like the coyote. You don't want to disturb the other person, so they don't wake up and ask for MORE." C's animated gestures become hysterical as he mimics gnawing off his arm on a pillow without moving it. "You're laying there chomping on your arm so you can get the hell out. You're the coyote, the other person's the ugly. Coyote Ugly!"

"Wow," I exclaim, "was it really that bad?!"

C shrugs and looks out the window, "Not really. I just decided it was better being friends."

"After two years? That's a long time."

Quickly forgetting his train of thought, C asks for something to eat, and chirps up, "Yay! Let's go swimming!"