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."
Showing posts with label What I Learned in College. Show all posts
Showing posts with label What I Learned in College. Show all posts
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Friday, August 31, 2007
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.
"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.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Lift Off
"Bbbbbbbrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmm" Ethel Mertz hums down the black asphalt, steady as a sun chariot. Outside my car window, there are untold legions of freshly laid crop circles, cow tippings, and opal tornadoes. Since it was darkest night, I could not have made out the Woodsian landscape, even if I had infrared military spy ware - I was driving too fast after being warned a few hours earlier in Oklahoma. I really should have paid more attention to the police officer, I suppose.
Let me welcome you to the Kansas Turnpike, 230 miles of Midwest buffalo range pavement. Against my will, I am drawn in, whirled round, blinded, suffocated, and at the same time filled with giddy rapture about the music pumping through the sound system. The whirr of the tires, and rush of broken air add to my cocoon as I drive. There's no one else on the road and as I settle into an enigmatic trance, I set the cruise control at 118 mph.
Time passes, and then down the road something quickly approaches my vehicle. I have enough time to respond, but I don't. Instead, I grab some cheese-its from the plastic bag in the empty passenger seat and think to myself, "Oh, I'm going to hit that large lump of metal in the middle of the road."
Remaining calm, I then ask myself what would someone on a plane do? They would check their seat belt buckle, then put their heads between their legs and kiss their ass goodbye. Unfortunately, the car was too small, and my mouth was too full of cheese crackers, to risk getting close to my neither regions that had been in the same position for the last six hours.
bbbbbbuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzz. KA-BOOM!!!! Ethel Mertz hits the large silver object in the middle of the four lane expressway. Mysteriously... almost magically, we both reenact a scene from ET. The only difference between Hollywood and my trip were: my moon was wrapped in plastic, covered in chocolate, and filled with marshmallow; my extra terrestrial was the flapping of a towel hanging out my window to dry off as I feistily prodded down the freeway. Everything else was the same.
I look out my window. I didn't see the ground anymore. I lay my ear against the clear glass, and I no longer hear the sounds of my tires interacting with the pavement. The rush of wind and the hum of the engine, however did seem more pronounced. I look out the windshield, and notice I can't see the road lines anymore either, it's pitch black ahead of me. Moon pie, please deliver me from being launched into the stratosphere.
Several seconds pass, and just as I get used to the flying sensation and my intestinal butterflies, the captain indicates our return to earth, and to prepare for landing. CRACK!!!! Ethel Mertz hits the pavement and bounces violently up and down like I just had new hydraulics installed. Sparks come flying out from behind me and on the sides, lighting up the expressway in brilliant flashes of yellows and reds. I hold onto the steering wheel for dear life... Talk about white knuckle driving, right? Eventually, the bouncing stops, and a shaky scraping ensues, but I drive onward to Kansas City.
In the morning, I check the alignment, and nothing is wrong, but I do find the arm of a gremlin, and detach it from the bumper, and set off toward Iowa. Next time, I'm going to ride my broom through Kansas.
Let me welcome you to the Kansas Turnpike, 230 miles of Midwest buffalo range pavement. Against my will, I am drawn in, whirled round, blinded, suffocated, and at the same time filled with giddy rapture about the music pumping through the sound system. The whirr of the tires, and rush of broken air add to my cocoon as I drive. There's no one else on the road and as I settle into an enigmatic trance, I set the cruise control at 118 mph.
Time passes, and then down the road something quickly approaches my vehicle. I have enough time to respond, but I don't. Instead, I grab some cheese-its from the plastic bag in the empty passenger seat and think to myself, "Oh, I'm going to hit that large lump of metal in the middle of the road."
Remaining calm, I then ask myself what would someone on a plane do? They would check their seat belt buckle, then put their heads between their legs and kiss their ass goodbye. Unfortunately, the car was too small, and my mouth was too full of cheese crackers, to risk getting close to my neither regions that had been in the same position for the last six hours.
bbbbbbuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzz. KA-BOOM!!!! Ethel Mertz hits the large silver object in the middle of the four lane expressway. Mysteriously... almost magically, we both reenact a scene from ET. The only difference between Hollywood and my trip were: my moon was wrapped in plastic, covered in chocolate, and filled with marshmallow; my extra terrestrial was the flapping of a towel hanging out my window to dry off as I feistily prodded down the freeway. Everything else was the same.
I look out my window. I didn't see the ground anymore. I lay my ear against the clear glass, and I no longer hear the sounds of my tires interacting with the pavement. The rush of wind and the hum of the engine, however did seem more pronounced. I look out the windshield, and notice I can't see the road lines anymore either, it's pitch black ahead of me. Moon pie, please deliver me from being launched into the stratosphere.
Several seconds pass, and just as I get used to the flying sensation and my intestinal butterflies, the captain indicates our return to earth, and to prepare for landing. CRACK!!!! Ethel Mertz hits the pavement and bounces violently up and down like I just had new hydraulics installed. Sparks come flying out from behind me and on the sides, lighting up the expressway in brilliant flashes of yellows and reds. I hold onto the steering wheel for dear life... Talk about white knuckle driving, right? Eventually, the bouncing stops, and a shaky scraping ensues, but I drive onward to Kansas City.
In the morning, I check the alignment, and nothing is wrong, but I do find the arm of a gremlin, and detach it from the bumper, and set off toward Iowa. Next time, I'm going to ride my broom through Kansas.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Yes, Officer. No, Officer.
Day two, 2,661 more miles to go to reach my hallowed halls of higher education. It's just me, and my trusty red sports car, Ethel Mertz. Three more days before class starts, and I've got to pick O up in Sioux City, Iowa. I'm cruising along on a 158 mile 2-lane stretch of Highway 54. The windows rolled up, air conditioner and techno music blasting, I'm making rock star time going through the panhandles of Texas and Oklahoma.
Signs ahead
Seeing a construction zone, I slow down to what I subconsciously believe is a reasonable speed. More braking pressure, and the red bullet becomes a buggy, as I approach a school zone inside the construction zone. Cars pass on my left; the radar detector goes off as a police vehicle passes by. A few more yards, and I'm home free. I speed up again...
An hour and a half later...
Getting caught up in the 900 mile day-trip, I fly over a hill bopping my head to the beat, when the radar detector goes off. *Beep* Reflexively, I tap on the brakes. *Beep* *Beep* The sounds get faster. I see nothing. *BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP* The black box has a cataclysmic fit, and over the hill in the rear view mirror, I see the familiar red and blue of the movies. "Oh, they must be pulling someone else over, I should slow down," I think. 85, 75, 70, 66, 63, 60, 55, there I maintain speed. Red and blue approach.
Trouble from the back
The white police car rapidly approaches my rear bumper and holds steady. "Oh my god! He's pulling ME over! What do I do? What do I do? Ok... remain calm." Disturbing the roadside gravel, my hot tires give off a little steam. I kill the ignition, and start hyperventilating... the officer condescendingly saunters up to my car, hand on his gun. *tap tap tap* I roll down the window. Sternly, the aviator style glasses request, "Drivers license and registration. Now." I obediently produce them. Looking at the papers, he gruffly spouts, "Do you know why I pulled you over?" Hands becoming clammy, and the fleshy vibrance disappearing from my face, I respond, "Because I was going too fast?"
"Yes. Do you know how fast?"
Tears welling up in my eyes, my voice crackles, "I don't know! Maybe like 90? All I remember is there was a 0 at the end of the number! I'm so sorry, officer!"
"Ok. That's not why I'm pulling you over. An hour and a half back, I caught you speeding through a school and construction zone. It's 15 mph there, and I caught you going 35. I've been chasing you since then. I was about to call in a roadblock before you crossed the state line. Step out of the car, and put your hands on the top of your car. Don't move from that position."
My head racing, arms shaking, I miraculously find the strength to open the door. Eyes electrified, and legs of spaghetti, I do as I am instructed while the officer goes back to his car, presumably to get a baton to beat me with. Mentally screaming bloody murder, I think, "Oh no, I'm so screwed! I'm out in the middle of nowhere, no one to help me, I have to get to school, and pick up my friend, and now I'm going to jail. Help!" To make matters worse, I couldn't pull out my hair. A minute passes.
The officer approaches again and tells me to follow him to his car. I get in, and he calls the dispatcher, "I have a 19 year old BOY here," and transitions into unintelligible codes, with the dispatcher responding in a smokey array of static. He begins writing, as my peaked body anticipates the cold slap of hand cuffs, and becoming a hardened chain gang member.
His head turns toward me, glasses dark as night, "So what's your hurry?" Bursting into tears from fear and a surge of adrenaline, I bawl out, "I have to get to school!" He asks where. Head bent low, sniffling and white as snow, I point toward the east, and say, "Dartmouth. It's in New Hampshire! I'm so sorry!" His head jolts back, and asks, "When do you have to be there?" Rubbing mucous from my runny nose, "I have to be there Tuesday, and I have to pick up my friend in Iowa, and it's already Sunday! And now, I'm never going to graduate, because I'm going to be in jail, and I'll have to get a certificate through a mail-correspondence school!"
He jots down a few more things, contacts the dispatcher of the CIA, jots down a few notes, and looks forward. "You know, I could throw you in jail and get you in a lot of trouble. First, speeding in both school and construction zones, breaking the speed limit by 40 mph on a 2-lane highway, passing cars without signaling, and then not stopping for a member of the law." Then he turns to me and authoritatively says, "But, I'm going to cut you one hell of a deal. I'm going to give you a warning for the construction zone, and I'm not even going to mention everything else." Handing me the piece of paper, he continues, "Here you go. Now you slow down, and drive there safely. Do well in your studies," looking forward, "Now get out of my car. I have work to do."
He pulls away to fight the good cause. I wearily get back into Ethel, sit there for a few minutes, and then thank my lucky stars as I blaze off toward the Kansas Turnpike. The moral of the story? Stay in school, kids, even if it's 2500 miles away, oh, and don't speed.
Signs ahead
Seeing a construction zone, I slow down to what I subconsciously believe is a reasonable speed. More braking pressure, and the red bullet becomes a buggy, as I approach a school zone inside the construction zone. Cars pass on my left; the radar detector goes off as a police vehicle passes by. A few more yards, and I'm home free. I speed up again...
An hour and a half later...
Getting caught up in the 900 mile day-trip, I fly over a hill bopping my head to the beat, when the radar detector goes off. *Beep* Reflexively, I tap on the brakes. *Beep* *Beep* The sounds get faster. I see nothing. *BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP* The black box has a cataclysmic fit, and over the hill in the rear view mirror, I see the familiar red and blue of the movies. "Oh, they must be pulling someone else over, I should slow down," I think. 85, 75, 70, 66, 63, 60, 55, there I maintain speed. Red and blue approach.
Trouble from the back
The white police car rapidly approaches my rear bumper and holds steady. "Oh my god! He's pulling ME over! What do I do? What do I do? Ok... remain calm." Disturbing the roadside gravel, my hot tires give off a little steam. I kill the ignition, and start hyperventilating... the officer condescendingly saunters up to my car, hand on his gun. *tap tap tap* I roll down the window. Sternly, the aviator style glasses request, "Drivers license and registration. Now." I obediently produce them. Looking at the papers, he gruffly spouts, "Do you know why I pulled you over?" Hands becoming clammy, and the fleshy vibrance disappearing from my face, I respond, "Because I was going too fast?"
"Yes. Do you know how fast?"
Tears welling up in my eyes, my voice crackles, "I don't know! Maybe like 90? All I remember is there was a 0 at the end of the number! I'm so sorry, officer!"
"Ok. That's not why I'm pulling you over. An hour and a half back, I caught you speeding through a school and construction zone. It's 15 mph there, and I caught you going 35. I've been chasing you since then. I was about to call in a roadblock before you crossed the state line. Step out of the car, and put your hands on the top of your car. Don't move from that position."
My head racing, arms shaking, I miraculously find the strength to open the door. Eyes electrified, and legs of spaghetti, I do as I am instructed while the officer goes back to his car, presumably to get a baton to beat me with. Mentally screaming bloody murder, I think, "Oh no, I'm so screwed! I'm out in the middle of nowhere, no one to help me, I have to get to school, and pick up my friend, and now I'm going to jail. Help!" To make matters worse, I couldn't pull out my hair. A minute passes.
The officer approaches again and tells me to follow him to his car. I get in, and he calls the dispatcher, "I have a 19 year old BOY here," and transitions into unintelligible codes, with the dispatcher responding in a smokey array of static. He begins writing, as my peaked body anticipates the cold slap of hand cuffs, and becoming a hardened chain gang member.
His head turns toward me, glasses dark as night, "So what's your hurry?" Bursting into tears from fear and a surge of adrenaline, I bawl out, "I have to get to school!" He asks where. Head bent low, sniffling and white as snow, I point toward the east, and say, "Dartmouth. It's in New Hampshire! I'm so sorry!" His head jolts back, and asks, "When do you have to be there?" Rubbing mucous from my runny nose, "I have to be there Tuesday, and I have to pick up my friend in Iowa, and it's already Sunday! And now, I'm never going to graduate, because I'm going to be in jail, and I'll have to get a certificate through a mail-correspondence school!"
He jots down a few more things, contacts the dispatcher of the CIA, jots down a few notes, and looks forward. "You know, I could throw you in jail and get you in a lot of trouble. First, speeding in both school and construction zones, breaking the speed limit by 40 mph on a 2-lane highway, passing cars without signaling, and then not stopping for a member of the law." Then he turns to me and authoritatively says, "But, I'm going to cut you one hell of a deal. I'm going to give you a warning for the construction zone, and I'm not even going to mention everything else." Handing me the piece of paper, he continues, "Here you go. Now you slow down, and drive there safely. Do well in your studies," looking forward, "Now get out of my car. I have work to do."
He pulls away to fight the good cause. I wearily get back into Ethel, sit there for a few minutes, and then thank my lucky stars as I blaze off toward the Kansas Turnpike. The moral of the story? Stay in school, kids, even if it's 2500 miles away, oh, and don't speed.
Friday, June 22, 2007
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.
"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.
Monday, June 18, 2007
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.
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.
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