I have been a bad blogger this week. I’m sorry. You guys deserve better. It’s tough to make it to the internet café when I can barely walk…no excuse…I’ll step it up next week.
EP in the House!!!
If you don’t believe me I can send you my pie charts and bar graphs for proof.
Next Week
As I regain mobility, I will be posting more. Next week I’ll be bringing you another Letter to God, my side of the Facebook argument, and some more fun stuff. Keep checking in.
It is rather unfortunate that I have to inform you, my readers, that the “Winter of Dan” will be on hiatus for an extended period of time. No…I didn’t find a job, get pinched, or get accused of statutory rape…again. I just hurt myself. It is quite the story…a ripping tale of trust, deceit, lust, and blood-soaked snow. Sit back, relax, pop a few pain pills – you know I will be – and learn about the people that changed an ordinary day into an extraordinary journey.
It was a typical Saturday. I awoke at 8 and stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen, grabbed a cup of coffee, and filled my bowl with Cinnamon Life cereal. As I groggily made my way to the living room I noticed that the TV was already on and Grant was watching the local morning show. Minutes later we saw the snow report…4-6” of new snow at Heavenly…we were ecstatic. Yes, I know, 4-6” isn’t much to get excited about, but it is a godsend after 21 days without any snow. Minutes later P. Tom came downstairs to share in the excitement with us. Within the hour we were off.
As we travelled the backstreets towards Stagecoach Lodge I rolled down my window just a bit to breathe in some of the fresh mountain air. There was something special in the air. There was something special about the day.
The three of us tightened our gear in the parking lot before heading to the mountain. As I grasped the car keys in the my right hand and pushed the “lock” button I couldn’t help but notice my phone was still in the car. I don’t always ski with the phone and usually don’t even think twice about leaving it behind in the car…but that day was different. It was kind of like the opening minutes of the movie Castaway when Tom Hanks’ character has the Swiss Army knife in his hand only to give it back to that bitch, Helen Hunt, before boarding his plane. I walked off towards the ski lift. I would never be the same again.
P. Tom, Grant, and I maneuvered around the mountain for an hour or two…taking as many lifts and runs as we could. It was relatively early and the snow was relatively fresh. As we headed up Olympic Express our spirits were high. We descended from the chair and headed to the right. A few seconds later we were all heading down the run. I was the first to reach the bottom of the run and I waited near the chair lift for my two accomplices in snow play. The wait turned to minutes and I soon decided to head off on my own. Back into the line for Olympic Express…one last time.
As I rode the chair up the mountain, by myself, I looked through the trees of The Pines to locate a line to ski down. I hopped off the chair at the top and headed right, like I had so many times before. As I gingerly turned left and right behind the traffic and I became frustrated at the pace and turned left towards the trees. I skied along through the trees with control and minimal speed. Moving further and further to the left I was nearly out of site of the entire world. A lone skier in blue ahead of me and one in red behind. Near solitude…tranquility.
Then all of a sudden something happened. It happened so fast I’m not sure exactly what started it. Did I hit something? Did I get crossed up? Whatever did go wrong caused me to take a spill and tumble down the mountain. I came to a stop and just sat in the snow. My left ski was long gone, laying somewhere up the mountain. Then, came the lone skier in red…carrying down my left ski.
The skier in red was named Paula…a kind woman with a British accent. She lived in Pittsburgh, PA and was on the west coast to visit her brother who lived in San Francisco. She came to my side and asked if everything was OK. I told her it was and that I was a just a little shaken up. Paula then looked at my leg and noticed the snow around me was turning red. Blood red.
An instant “oh shit” erupted from my mouth as I noticed the large cut in my pants, just above my right knee. I knew something bad had happened. I knew this was to be the start of a very long day. Paula called down to the skier in blue…he was her husband...he was off to get a medic. I sat in the snow motionless, pressing a stocking cap against the knee in an attempt to slow the bleeding.
The ski medics are an interesting sort. If you saw most of them without their red vests you would think they were homeless drunks, at best. The man who came to help me was named Marshall. He looked to be in his thirties with hair and a beard that hadn’t been cut since his mid-twenties. Marshall asked if I could move my foot and toes…I could…good news. He then grabbed his scissors and cut my pants off, just above the knee. His nametag said he was from Colorado but I would have guessed he was from somewhere in Europe as his Roman hands and Russian fingers caressed my inner thigh at a location a little too high for comfort. I told Marshall we didn’t know each other that well and he chuckled. I could tell he was happy to not be tending to someone in panic. I was collected. I was as cool as the other side of the pillow. I was the epitome of calmness. I was like the Cadillac of men…an injured Cadillac of men.
Marshall inspected the wound, wrapped up my knee, and put my leg in a brace. I hopped into the stretcher and he wrapped me in. A few minutes later and we were ready to go. I thanked Paula and she wished me luck. I was heading down the mountain.
Watching people getting placed on the stretcher and being stretchered down the mountain has always intrigued me. It looks so elaborate and complicated. It really isn’t. It was only a matter of minutes before we were down the mountain at the Boulder Lodge. I was then taken into the medic’s hut to fill out some forms. Typical stuff…name, age, date of birth, intercourse safe word, etcetera. Marshall told me I would be taking an ambulance to the clinic for stitches. I refused.
You see…I don’t have a job and when people don’t have jobs they don’t have health insurance. When people don’t have health insurance they have to get crappy temporary health insurance plans. That’s what I have. Now I’m not exactly sure what is covered under this policy that costs $84 a month…and I really didn’t feel like pushing it. So, I refused the ambulance.
That’s when I met Stephen. Stephen was the dildo assigned to drive me to the clinic in a minivan. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of Steve’s and Stevie’s and Steven’s…but not the “ph”. I have never met a Stephen I liked…and this guy wasn’t going to change my mind at all. As I hobbled into the back of the minivan, the red biohazard bag that was affixed to my leg snagged on the door. Well…I guess that’s the risk you take when refusing the ambulance. On the way to the clinic I asked Stephen if we could stop at my car to pick up my phone and drop off my stuff…he said no. Fuck this guy. Fuck Stephen.
Stephen pulled up the clinic and went in to get me a wheelchair. He pushed me into the clinic, carried my shit in for me, and then headed off. Fuck you Stephen…I hope I never see you again.
The clinic was a proverbial shit-show. No one seemed to know what the fuck was going on. I was one of their three patients and they couldn’t even remember my name. Whatever…I just wanted to get this over with. I was wheeled into an examining room in the back and greeted by a nurse, Krystie, and a doctor…can’t remember his name…well, lets just call him Dr. Dildo.
Here was the conversation I had with Dr. Dildo:
DD: Looks like you cut yourself there…how did that happen?
DR: (pointing to my ski boots…still on) Skiing…I think.
DD: Pretty deep cut.
DR: OK.
DD: Going to need some stitches.
DR: OK.
I think we all know why he will forever be known to me as Dr. Dildo. This dude had the personality of a Stephen-AIDS hybrid…no idea what that means, but we all get that it sucks. So Dr. Dildo gives me a little local anesthesia and the pain goes away for a bit. Krystie starts to clean the wound make small talk with me. I give Krystie a once-over with the eyes to see what we’re working with. Krystie is a sweet gal but had the physical proportions that can only make you think what a cruel sense of humor God must have. Krystie had the upper body of 95-pound girl with the lower body of, well, me. Shit just didn’t look right.
So Krystie is cleaning out the wound and is ready for Dr. Dildo (Double-D) to come stitch me up. The knee still hurts like a motherfucker so I ask Double-D for a little more juice. He says something like, “that should have been enough,” and I respond, for the first of many times on the day, “I can handle my sedatives”. More juice into the knee and Double-D starts to stitch. After about three stitches he stops, looks at me, and says, “you need surgery.” Fuck.
Krystie then wraps up the knee and wheels me up to the front desk. They are about to call for an ambulance to take me to the hospital, but once again, I refuse. They then arrange for the next-best transportation…a taxi. To ensure I don’t go home or stop anywhere along the way they pay the cabbie in advance and give him strict directions. Before being sent off the woman at the front desk asks if I need to call anyone. Who could I call?
It is 2009 and I’ve done my fair share of drinking/brain damage over the last ten years. I’ll admit, the memory isn’t all it used to be or could be. As I sat there in that chair I realized something…I only have two phone numbers memorized. One number is my parents. They’re about 2,000 miles away and panic very easily. The other number is The Choz. Why do I know his number? Well…because he’s the only asshole who hasn’t changed his number since college…still rocking the 319…still embedded in my brain cells. So I call The Choz and tell him to call Chad and try to get a hold of P. Tom somehow. I give some crude information on what has happened and where I’m going. Like that Eminem song…one shot, one opportunity…some shit like that.
Raise your hand if you’ve ever taken a cab to the emergency room. Yup…I don’t see too many hands raised.
My second regret of the day – leaving my phone in the car was the first – was not catching my cabbie’s name. At the time I wasn’t really thinking about how many people would part of my day…sorry cabbie…you were a cool dude…and now no one will ever know your name. Cabbie, it seemed to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind, always talking about the weather, to every fair who sat in…and you carried all my ski gear like it was included in the tab, I’m sorry I never got your name and that I got blood on your cab.
The final stop of the day…Barton Memorial Hospital.
As I exited the cab I was greeted by a male nurse, Christian. Christian (Chris) was a swell chap…a straight-shooter and a stand-up guy. He checked me in and took me to emergency room 4A…my new home. I stripped down, put on my gown, and laid on the bed. The gown was a light blue and gray plaid. It didn’t fit well and did nothing flattering for my figure or my eyes. It was horrid. I was embarrassed.
The emergency room is a real downer…filled with nothing but the near-dead and the elderly. Emergency room 4A was different…a pretty good time. I kept things light with jokes to Chris, Kelly (the other nurse), and the girl who couldn’t talk…larringitis…lets just call her “Mutey”.
The surgeon, Dr. Swanson, soon came in to discuss what was going to happen. I needed x-rays and then surgery to go in, look around, and make sure nothing is really fucked up. He told me that if the cut was over to the side by an inch that my knee cap would probably be sitting in the snow with me. Woah. I asked if I was going under…he said yes...I got excited.
The x-ray technician, Ray – seriously, can’t make that shit up – came in and took me to get x-rays. I don’t know if any of you have had x-rays taken on your knee before, but that one last shot, where the machine is just above your shoulder looking down from the top of the knee…well…I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure the 40 square-inches of lead didn’t cover enough of me. Fuck it. It didn’t hurt Lance Armstrong…it won’t hurt me.
Back to room 4A and the final steps before surgery. Tetanus shot. IV in the arm. Electronic nodes all over me. Tests for infections and diseases. Paperwork.
It is amazing how many things you need to sign before going under general anesthesia…if you’re alone. One form to give the hospital jurisdiction over decisions on my life, one form to say who to call if I die, one form to ensure my eyes go to Stevie Wonder if anything goes wrong…lengthy process. Ok, ok…that last form doesn’t exist, but I did make sure every nurse was aware of my ocular wishes. Yes…I stole that from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Yes…I don’t care, it’s still funny.
Oh yeah…all those forms were administered to me by Mutey. It’s always enjoyable to have to read instructions the nurse is writing on the dry erase board because she can’t talk. Can’t make that up either.
Just before getting sent off to surgery, P. Tom and Grant arrive. Apparently the string of phone calls got to them in time and they were able to make it. They hung out for a while, taking pictures of my knee, gathering my belongings, and meeting the crew. Just as they were there, the anesthesiologist arrived and I was soon on my way to the pre-op room. It was a Saturday afternoon and the place was empty. We were soon joined by Mary, my surgery nurse, and the good Doctor Swanson. Mary is going to be in Chicago for a week in March…if anyone runs into her, be sure to thank her for me. Grant and P. Tom soon left and the anesthesiologist juiced me up. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thou…out.
The next thing I know I’m lying in another room…the recovery room…and I feel amazing! If you’ve never been under general anesthesia…I HIGHLY recommend it. It is like waking up drunk…but a peaceful drunk that slowly wears off. Keep in mind not everyone reacts the same way…what can I say…I can handle my sedatives.
I come to and look around the room. I don’t have my contact lenses in and I’m basically blind without them. I see two figures across the room that look like women. One approaches and says hello. Her name is Nancy. Then the other approaches. Her name is Shannon.
Nancy and Shannon are, far and away, my two favorite people of the day. Nancy, a woman in her mid-fifties, has been married for a number of years. Her, her husband, and their children used to live in Frankfort, Illinois and have many friends and family in the Chicago area that they visit regularly. If I had a time machine, and 1984 Heather Locklear was busy, I’d marry Nancy. I mean, come on, a woman in her mid-fifties that watches Flight of the Conchords and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia…wow.
Shannon was a bit of a plain-Jane. A sweet gal in her mid-thirties, on her second husband, who had never had a sip of alcohol in her entire life…oh yeah, she was from Utah…Mormon Alert, Mormon Alert! Now there are two kinds of people who are Mormon…those who judge everyone else as blasphemers and those who accept the ways of life of other people. Shannon was the latter…and that’s fine by me. Shannon was a victim of the Angora Fire from nearly two years ago, having lost her home in the ordeal. A real tear-jerker…hearing her story was like watching The Land Before Time all over again…sad stuff.
After getting to know my two, new, leading ladies the doc walks in. He explains to me that all ligaments are intact – YES! – some tendons were damaged and removed – Eh – and I should be able to walk on the leg while it heals – YES!
Before you know it, a few hours go by and I’m ready to be released. Grant and P. Tom arrive with some clothes for me, my contacts, and my pain killers. One last ride in a wheelchair – Shannon let me wheel myself – and I was off.
So there you have it. One knee. One cut. One stretcher. One minivan. One clinic. One taxi. One hostpital. Six x-rays. One surgery. A shit-ton of stitches and staples. Another DR story.
I’m going to the see the doctor tomorrow for more information on getting the staples out and recovery.
Thanks again to P. Tom, Grant, Paula, and everyone else.
M.A.S.K.
I was going to write about my favorite cartoon/toy from the 1980s…Mobile Armed Strike Kommand (M.A.S.K.). I read up on it on Wikipedia, found some YouTube links, and saved a few pics…but I just wasn’t feeling it. Something in the night’s air distracted me. I stood in the driveway for a few minutes, just listening to the wind…and then, I heard it. A voice. A voice in through the breeze. A whisper followed by an immediate chill running up spine. An epiphany.
The voice told me what to write. Letters. Letters to God. And so we have a new segment on Living at 6250 Feet…Letters to God. Letters to God will be a segment in which I will write one letter per week to God. In addition to just writing the letters, I will mail them to him. Yup…got his address today…wind told me that too.
But wait…there’s more…reader participation!!! After my post each week, you, the reader, will have a chance to write your own letters to God. I’ll read them all and might, just might, send one of those directly to the big man.
Seriously…I’m mailing these. I already sent this one.
Letters to God
The Big Dogs
“I Don’t Want to Lose Your Love” by Outfield
“Power of Love” by Huey Lewis & The News
“You Can Call Me Al” by Paul Simon
“St. Elmos Fire (Man in Motion)” by John Parr
“Walk of Life” by Dire Straits
Animatronixxx
Chevy Traverse
So there is a new Chevy commercial. The car is the Traverse. Its some sort of mini SUV and they're comparing it to the Toyota Highlander. There are two actors on the commercial. The first is Howie Long (Fox football guy, former DT) and the other is a little red haired girl...awww, so cute (extreme sarcasm). Well, the two imbeciles are discussing what a "big girl" car is and isn't...you know, senseless banter with children...awful. So right about the time I want to paper cut my own eyes, the little girl points to Howie's crotch and says "that looks like a big girl's seat" (about 90% sure on that quote)...wow...I almost pissed myself.
This was brought to my attention by a girl who carries a bottle of Jameson in her purse.
Who’s gonna drive you home tonight?
It was a cold Sunday afternoon in Coralville, Iowa in the late fall of 1997. I was with my parents, visiting my sister at the University of Iowa. We made the trip over to the Coral Ridge Mall and to the Best Buy store where I would make a purchase that would change my life forever…the album, The Cars Greatest Hits.
From the moment I popped that silver donut into my Discman I knew I would never be the same again. As the family van (full-size, conversion…some of you may remember it) rolled across the hills and plains of Interstates 80 and 88, I stared out the window while listening to a band I barely knew…The Cars.
I had purchased the CD, mainly, for the songs “Just What I Needed” and “My Best Friend’s Girl”…two monster rock hits from the band’s 1978 album, The Cars. As I stared out the window, headphones on, I couldn’t help but think to myself, “Holy shit…I know almost all these songs.” I was emphatic. Inspired.
Without further ado, I bring you the 1980s hits from Ric Ocasek and the rest of the boys from Boston, MA…The Cars.
Some AMAZING videos...
“Shake It Up”, 1981, Shake It Up, US Pop #4, US Rock #2
“Since You’re Gone”, 1982, Shake It Up, US Pop #41, US Rock #24…currently #10 on DR’s Top 20 (all-time)
“You Might Think”, 1984, Heartbeat City, US Pop #7, US Rock #1
“Magic”, 1984, Heartbeat City, US Pop #12, US Rock #1
“Drive”, 1984, Heartbeat City, US Pop #3, US Rock #3
“Tonight She Comes”, 1985, Greatest Hits, US Pop #7, US Rock #1
“I’m Not the One”, 1986, Greatest Hits, US Pop #32, US Rock #29…Valentine’s Day scene from Billy Madison
Party, Karamu, Fiesta, Forever
”Hazy Shade of Winter” by The Bangles
“All Night Long” by Lionel Richie
“Into the Groove” by Madonna
“This Must Be the Place” by Talking Heads
“De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da” by The Police
Commercial Success
TV Sidekicks
The 1980s sitcom is an interesting beast. Usually family-based...usually with children...usually with their friends. From Different Strokes' "Dudley" to Three's Company's "Larry" to Small Wonder's "Hariett"...these characters jump in and out of the storylines and offer a refreshing, comical relief.
Of all the friends of all the 1980s sitcoms...three stand out. These three were unique in character and, more importantly, in name...Boner, Skippy, and Cockroach.
Richard Milhous "Boner" Stabone
Boner was genious...his name that is. Boner. Seriously. Boner. He's a goddam erect penis...did anyone catch that? Boner played the part of Mike Seaver's dim-witted partner-in-crime on Growing Pains.
Skippy was a loser. His parents were losers. His kids will probably be losers. Skippy was the bumbling next-door neighbor on the hit show Family Ties (Bart...how many episodes do you think you and I watched together in college?). Skippy was in lover with Mallory - no clue why...she was a moronic tramp. Mallory never gave in to Skippy's advances...always choosing the dim-witted Nick over him.
My favorite and yours...Cockroach. Cockroach was Theo Huxtable's best friend on The Cosby Show. Cockroach was probably the most memorable of all three sidekicks due to his character's adaptability and the longevity of the show. Cockroach got into a pluthera of trouble together...whether cramming for the Macbeth test by listening to the record the night before, shaving his head, piercing his ear, or signing up for hellicopter lessons for prom...Cockroach was walking, talking, pure comedy bliss.
Close My Eyes...I Am Rhythm
“In a Big Country” by Big Country
“High on You” by Survivor
“Tougher than Leather” by RUN DMC
“Goodbye to You” by Scandal
“Flashdance – What a Feeling” by Irene Cara
Longer and Faster
Short post today...I had a few too many cocktails this morning (yes...morning) and didn't make it to the internet cafe until now. Actually, I'm just sitting in my car outside the joint right now.
Educational Television
The 1980s brought us a slew of television programming. Sparked by the progression of satellite and cable television…it seemed like the airwaves were jammed with junk to watch. Among all this crap was a show…an amazing show…an educational show…yes, I’m referring to 3-2-1 Contact. 3-2-1 Contact brought fun and science together in a way unheard of at the time. That, plus a catchy opening theme song, made it the premier educational TV show of the 1980s.
Math and science reigned supreme on 3-2-1 Contact. They didn’t care if kids could read…they cared for the philistines like myself.
Bodies Working Overtime…the Money Don’t Matter
“Heat of the Moment” by Asia
“Queen of Hearts” by Juice Newton
“Playing with the Boys” by Kenny Loggins
“Some Guys Have All the Luck” by Rod Stewart
“We Are the World” by USA for Africa
Now I’m Driving for Real
If you like the 1980s, movies, side-boob, wet t-shirt contests, musical montages, and you've never seen Hot Dog...the Movie, slap yourself in the face and hop on Amazon.com...well worth the $6.99. Kendo's stereotypical 80's Asian dance moves are worth it, alone.
“Self Control” by Laura Branigan
“Throwing it All Away” by Genesis
“Sowing the Seeds of Love" by Tears for Fears
“I’m on Fire” by Bruce Springsteen
Commercial of the Day
Dear avid readers,
Welcome to 80’s Flashback Week. 80’s Flashback Week is a magical time. Inspired by Discovery Channel’s Shark Week and Heavenly’s Safety Week, 80’s Flashback Week is a way to travel back in time to one of the greatest decades ever…the 1980s. Get ready for five days of posts inspired by the 1980s. From TV to music to film, I will be bringing you my favorites from the amazing decade. In addition to a new topic each day, I’ll be posting links to some of the best songs from the 1980s. No, we’re not going to listen to “Whip It” or “Tainted Love”…we’re going to explore the music of the era DR-style. Also, thanks to America’s 7th favorite Jew, David, we’ll also enjoy some classic commercials from the days when Ronnie was in the White House and Eddie Murphy was funny. So let’s travel back in time and relive the 1980s.
Cordially,
DR
This story is dedicated to the memory of The Summer of Dan.
“Dan loved his summer more than summer loved summer itself”
- Dan, 2001
Iowa City, Iowa – Saturday, September 1, 2001
The alarm clock buzzed. Dan reached blindly for the snooze button in a brute manner. The sound stopped. Dan stared at the ceiling, its white facade glimmering from the red light of the alarm clock display. It was absolutely dark outside. It was 4:45 in the morning.
Dan headed down the hallway and to the showers, whistling the tune of a madman…a madman set to drink for 24 straight hours. Minutes later he found himself back in his room, staring at his closet. He had run through this moment in his mind many times over the previous days and weeks. Dan wasn’t just getting dressed in the early hours of any Saturday, he was getting ready for the first tailgate of the year.
The tailgate is where Dan truly lived…where he breathed the sweet air of drunkenness. This wasn’t something new for him. He had made quite a name for himself at these events. Whether Dan was pumping a keg, riding a girls’ banana seat bike through a gauntlet of rolling kegs, standing with a sign that read “I NEED TICKETS” no more than four feet from a man with a sign reading “I HAVE TICKETS”, or just enjoying slamming full beers on command…being careful not to spill on his grey t-shirt with raised, felt letters saying “OFFICIAL – KITTY SWATTER”…he was on top of his game. He was the belle of the ball.
Dan soon headed down the stairs. As he descended the two flights, he passed an open window. The cool breeze shot through the button fly of his pink cotton pants and caused his grey t-shirt to rustle against the vintage button-up below it. Dan took the last step and opened a door to find a sea of sofas with random men sprawled out upon them. He looked through the crowd for his man, McG, and awoke him with the sweet sound of the beer can opening.
It was now 5 in the morning and Dan had begun drinking. Fresh off his exploits of The Summer of Dan, he was like a locomotive, fueled by his insatiable thirst for the sauce. He and McG went back to his room to drink and listen to Jay-Z’s “Izzo (H.O.V.A.)”…Unplugged album…masterful. McG didn’t take much to get going. He could usually go from zero-to-Irish in about 3 beers. Three beers were all it took and an hour later Dan and McG headed out.
The walk to The Outhouse was especially exciting that morning. The two men were giddy with emotion in anticipation of this first outdoor drinking marathon of the year. They arrived at The Outhouse to find a ready-to-rock Noodle on the front porch, beer in hand. Noodle was a pro. One of the Four Horsemen of the Tailgate Drink-Apocalypse (along with DR, Eric D, and Matt S), Noodle was always game for a good showing…whether jumping out of a Cambus window or getting pinched while urinating in the Iowa River…the man had his dials turned up to 11. Numerous beers were enjoyed on the front porch while waiting for others to awake and prepare. One by one, Hendu, Matt S, Joey Bag of Donuts, and Matt F trickled down the stairs to join the shindig. Spirits were high, as were blood alcohol levels. Wiping away the remains of any residual carryover, the men drank and listened to CCR.
Then trouble started. An old man across the street showed up, seemingly out of nowhere, at the front porch. He was an angry fella and he complained about the noise. It was only 8 in the morning but we were already in full force. Tired of this dickhead’s comments, we left the porch and headed to Melrose Court.
The walk to Melrose Court was a long one. That day’s journey was filled with irrational conversations cursing the “bright moon” (a.k.a. the sun) and stops at Handi-Mart to chat with Neil and Sarah, and to pick up the necessary smokes and microwaveable breakfast sandwiches. The men then journeyed through the streets until finding a cab that whisked them away to another place.
University Heights is an enigma. A city surrounded entirely by Iowa City. A city seemingly built for one purpose…tailgating. The crew departed their cab mid-traffic and headed out on foot. As they traveled west on Melrose they passed copious amounts of stands selling trinkets, apparel, and large pieces of meat. Learning that the Hawkeye’s opponent that day was Kent State, Dan erupted into several versus and orally-performed riffs from CSNY’s “Ohio”.
The posse continued over the railroad tracks, making a hard left onto Melrose Court. The air was filled with the sweet sounds of gangsta rap, collegiate fight songs, drunken assholes’ conversations, and the effervescent screeching of skanks’ voices. As they neared the field the group expanded, now including such favorites as The Choz, Lunchbox, Gundy, Horse, MDR, and, of course, the Big Spender.
Dan made a beeline towards a large circle of people. They were surrounding the keg like wild animals feeding. Dan finagled his way through the crowd using his cunning speed and cat-like reflexes. The man controlling the distribution of beer looked up at Dan and put the hose directly into his cup. You could hear others in the hodgepodge of a line murmur “Why does this guy get to cut in line?” and “Who does he think he is?”…they clearly had no clue of what was to happen.
Out of nowhere, Matt S shouted “Bull Moose” at Dan. Dan looked up at him with a psychopathic smile, nodded, and slammed his beer. It was a rule…he had to do it. However, he didn’t take the punishment the same way others did, he somehow enjoyed chugging beers on command. It was 10 in the morning. He was on a mission.
The next hour was electric. Dan made his rounds through the crowd assembled in the field. His mirrored aviator sunglasses blocked the bit of sun that slipped through the transparent blue brim of his San Diego visor. He drank an alarming number of beers as he walked about, making witty comments nearly on command and giving Techmo Bowl-esque high-fives.
Eleven o’clock came and went and so did some of the crowd, choosing to see a foolish sporting event rather than consume liquor in a modern-day Parthenon of drunks. Completely intoxicated, Dan began to grow weary. A combination of his multi-layered “creative black tie” attire, the hot September sun, and his need for “something stronger” made him anxious to leave the field and continue drinking in a more civilized location…an Iowa City bar.
After finding no one to comply with his request, Dan went on to the next best thing…a drunken wrestling match with McG. Encouraged by Bisk and his means of persuasion, Dan struck McG across the face, sending his father’s kickass hunting-style Ray Bans off his face. The squabble was soon over and so was this tailgate for Dan and McG. They headed down the road, side-by-side, to find whatever was next.
As they stumbled down the street, they ran into a man they knew, but not too well. He was a number of years older than the two and was once a prominent bartender at Bo James (yes…I know “prominent” and “Bo James” don’t go together). He informed the two wide-eyed twenty year olds that he was heading to a downtown establishment, Martinis. The group was now at four with Dan, McG, the bartender, and some trampy friend of the bartender (seriously…she was a skank). They sat in the beer garden and drank…aggressively. Shots were followed by more shots that were followed by, yet again, more shots and chased down with cocktails of bourbon and scotch. Needless to say, things got messy.
Time was no longer decipherable. The same was to say for McG’s coherentness and Dan’s tact in conversation. The two soon left the bar and stumbled through the streets making their way north on Dubuque Street. They stopped at Handi-Mart, once again, and picked up a thirty-pack of Old Style. As they headed back to 702 North Dubuque Street they estimated, judging by the “bright moon” that it was around 3 in the afternoon.
The two delinquents headed straight for the corner room on the third floor. A glorious barrage of fake wood paneling, Dan’s shoddy drywall work, and a stereo with outdoor speakers on the castle-like turret greeted the two men. Dan and McG soon found themselves outdoors again, drinking like kings on the balcony of their castle. Beer after beer were consumed as the two listened to the sweet sounds of Dan’s illustrious mix CD “The Kirk Cameron Workshop” while sitting in folding lawn chairs. After a few hours of pointless conversations that would make sailors blush, the two realized that all the beer was gone, with Dan handling the lion’s share of it. Almost as soon as the beer was finished…so was McG. He then disappeared, only to be later found on the very sofa his day started on, a mere twelve hours earlier.
Dan could not let this departure slow him down. He had to continue. He had to persevere. As Dan sat alone on his futon, the volume of his music started to draw several newcomers to the scene. Seth, KGB, MDR, and Jeff all stopped by to take part in at least some of the debauchery. Dan was slowing down and so was the speed in which he was consuming the bottle of Dewar’s in hand. He realized he needed a change of venue…anything to keep going.
Venturing down to the next floor he stumbled into a room to find a belligerent MDR and, a new addition to the day’s calamity, MJN, fresh off his shift at whatever fucking restaurant he worked at. After several left-handed cigarettes, MDR excused himself for a drunken cruise across town to pass out. It was now about 9 at night and Dan needed to go out for fear that if he didn’t, he would soon be sleeping like the rest of the losers. Reading this look in his eyes, MJN gathered Jeff and the Big Spender to head back downtown.
The walk back down Dubuque Street was almost painful for Dan. Every step taken seemed to require all his energy and thought. Dan tried to keep his composure on the outside while repeating a mantra in his mind. “Tell your brain, to tell your leg, to tell your knee, to tell your foot, to take a step” repeated in his thoughts. The walk was daunting.
The group of four soon reached their first destination, Mickey’s. Mickey’s was a special place for Dan and MJN. Only weeks earlier, during The Summer of Dan, this location was a haven for Dan, MJN, Hendu, The Choz, and MDR, stopping there nearly every evening to enjoy a $1 pint or $2 cocktail after their shifts at the hospital, restaurant, or Sunglass Hut had ended.
The four ordered several beers and cocktails. Dan was reaching a comatose state. He could order drinks, consume the drinks, but that was about it. Mild conversation was difficult and Dan could tell the others at the table agreed. It was nearly 11 at night. Eighteen hours down, 6 to go. Unchartered waters.
Needing a change of pace to keep going, Dan suggested leaving the bar. MJN said that they should go to Martinis. Dan had already spent a fair amount of time there, but agreed as he knew how MJN kept his wallet around his neck and had connections to a Jewish cheerleader working the patio that night. Dan led the crew out of the bar and did the running man while heading through the doorway. Once again, they were on Dubuque Street.
The streets were alive…filled to the proverbial brim with underage drinkers, stumbling to and fro. As the men headed south on the sidewalk, MJN realized Jeff had disappeared. He had discretely slipped into an alley to vomit. His night was done…and then there were three.
Dan’s mind started to fade. Like an elderly man facing the effects of Alzheimer’s, he became forgetful. His conversation skills had almost completely vanished. Simple words like “yes” and “no” were soon replaced by head nods and shakes. They passed through the indoor crowd en route to the back patio. When they emerged through the door, it seemed all eyes were on the three gentlemen. Dan slipped his way into a plastic lawn chair and the others followed. The feel of the plastic, cool from the night’s air, sent a shiver up Dan’s booze-drenched spine. He was invigorated. He had three hours before the bar closed…he was ready.
The Jewish cheerleader came by for the drink order. After some nearly-witty banter from MJN, he ordered his cocktail, the Big Spender was next. Seconds seemed to turn to minutes as Dan repeated his drink order in his brain, once again, a mantra…“Goose Island – Honkers Ale, Goose Island – Honkers Ale, Goose Island – Honkers Ale”. By the time it was his turn to order, he froze. Dan tried to open his mouth, he tried to get the words out, but nothing. He looked to MJN for some sort of sympathy or help but received nothing. Just then, Dan lifted his right arm in the air. His elbow was bent at ninety degrees with his hand and fingers pointing away from his body. He then billowed out an enormous “HONK”. Somehow in his pseudo-comatose state he had mustered the energy to let out a sound so magnificent it got the attention of the entire patio. Dan had officially become mentally retarded.
The goose sound that billowed from Dan was loud enough to get the attention of another table, further back in the patio. The Lunchbox arose and walked over to Dan, MJN, and the Big Spender. The combination of knowing Dan’s plan for the day and seeing him in the current state must have both scared and entertained the Lunchbox.
The three hours that passed next seemed to go by fairly quickly for Dan. He was non-audible and, besides the occasional journey to the men’s room, was drinking steadily. At some point with professional drinkers it becomes routine. The body takes over. The mind relaxes and systematically shuts down motor skills. It can’t be proved, but there was a short time where Dan was deaf, blind, and had no central nervous system. After a few more embarrassing drink ordering fiascos, the bar closed. Lost in the shuffle was the Big Spender…no one will ever know what happened to him that night, but he made it home somehow.
The next few minutes must have been difficult for MJN. He had traverse Iowa City’s pedestrian mall and search for drunk sluts while keeping an eye on Dan. MJN was torn. He, of course, wanted to coerce some dumb, innocent tramp into going home with him but he also wanted to see Dan’s dream come to fruition. Twenty-one hours down, three to go.
The world goes dark. The next thing Dan realized is that he’s back in his room, sitting on the futon, listening to music. He has a beer in his hand and he’s not alone. He looked to his right and sees MJN on the balcony with some NeRF (non-registered floozy). Dan can barely see but can tell she looks young. He thought to himself that MJN is most definitely an NRSO (non-registered sex offender).
The world goes dark again. It feels like Dan is stuck in the midst of a giant, slow-operating strobe light. A minute of consciousness, a minute of darkness. Then, in a moment of true clarity, Dan jumped up from his seat. He grabbed the alarm clock to see the time. Dan saw the numbers 2:45…he is ecstatic. He didn’t miss anything…he could still finish this thing. Dan headed to the stereo to change the CD. Noticing the break in the music, MJN turns his attention indoors and notices that Dan is ready to rock. Their eyes meet briefly. MJN is caught in the stare of a madman.
Dan puts on U2’s cover of “Unchained Melody”. He slams his beer before taking an air guitar solo. His seamless finger work on the imaginary axe is almost dwarfed by the deafening volume of the song. Dan continues to drink for the next hour with intermittent breaks for left-handed cigarettes. He is on his way.
Darkness again. Dan came to and sees his alarm clock has finally failed him. It is 3:45 in the morning and he is surely dying. The next bout of darkness is ended with MJN slapping Dan’s face and pouring a beer in his mouth. He doesn’t resist the liquid being poured down his throat…he embraces MJN’s encouragement.
Then the world goes dark again. Sleep.
September 1, 2001 will live in infamy in Iowa City. Iowa beat Kent State 51-0 and DR failed his goal…he only drank for 23 hours.
The Monday Slowdown
It’s Monday…so I’ll try to keep this on the lighter side. The polls have closed. You have spoken, I have listened, and now I shall write. America wants to read “DR Drinks for 23 Hours”…and they shall. I’ll try to get the story posted tomorrow. In the meantime, sit back, relax, and enjoy some of the light reading and hyperlinks I’ve prepared.
80’s Flashback Week
Mark your calendars; next week is 80’s Flashback Week. Don’t forget your ALF dolls and side ponytails. I’ll be brining five days of in-depth analyses and links to your favorite 80’s shit from the past. 80’s Flashback Week starts on Monday, January 19th. I’m still looking for corporate sponsorship…so keep your eyes and ears open.
Cabin Update
The laundry never stops here. I feel like I’m a Mexican woman working the laundry room in the basement of Disney’s Caribbean Beach Resort. Towels. Sheets. More towels. More sheets. Pants. More towels again. It never stops. Four loads of laundry yesterday. One more to do today. Fuck my life.
I’ll be all by myself this week. This could go one of two ways:
Alternate A: I enjoy the peace and quiet of the frosty majesty of the winter landscape. Relax.
Alternate B: I go crazy after about 60 hours. I start talking to myself (more than usual), take all the cold medicine in the cabinet to “fix myself”, and wake up in the corner of the room, covered in stuffed animals (ala the closet scene from ET) and chanting “Satan is good; Satan is our friend”.
Hopefully I go with Alternate A.
The Jukebox Punk-Out
On Saturday evening I went to a local bar/restaurant with a bunch of people for dinner, drinks, and light social conversation. As the nine of us sat at the table we couldn’t help but notice that the music had changed to something bad. I turned to my left and saw two douchebags at the jukebox selecting their jams. The shit they were playing was awful. It sounded like a Creed-Nickelback-shit hybrid. It had to stop. But how? How could I stop the dickbags on the other side of the fish tank?
God bless the “play it next” function. Three minutes and five dollars later we were listening to “I Touch Myself”, “Lost in Emotion”, “Roll Me Away”, “Escape”, and *fuck…I can’t remember the 5th song*. Well, needless to say, I won this battle against the tools on the other side of the fish tank. As I walked by the homos on my way out, one of them approached me and said “thanks for the songs”…or something like that; I don’t speak loser…I looked at him, gave him a hetereosexual pat on the shoulder, and I was off.
For those of you keeping score at home: Dan 1, Douchebags 0.
Monday Music
Three songs everyone should listen to today…and, God-willing, every day for the rest of your lives:
“Duncan” by Paul Simon
“Forever Young” by Alphaville
“New York Groove” by KISS and Ace Frehley
Special Thanks
A very special thank you goes out to RH for introducing me to the majesty of Cinnamon Life cereal. Holy fuck, son-of-a-bitch its good.
Ski Report
Went to the terrain park for the second straight day today. Tried to ride the little box all the 14-year old snowboarder girls were going off. FELL ON MY ASS. Right ski flew off. Poles 20 feet behind me. Just a fucking mess. Exactly the same as yesterday.
I now have a helmet and medical insurance...so I’m pretty extreme.
Gigity
The eagle has landed, the fat man walks alone…the jig is up. The wireless network that I have been jumping onto, Gigity, is no longer working. I don’t know who to blame for this, but I’m angry.
Anyone know where the line “the eagle has landed, the fat man walks alone” is from? A few hints: Sony guts; You want disco?; Alex P. Keaton.
Currently at the Blue Angel cafe. There is a baby here. I think he's eyeing me. We may have to step outside.
Wrath of the Hot Tub
It gets you every time. Why is it that every time you spend too much time in the hot tub you are so tired when you get out? Now I’m not exactly sure of the science behind it, but I’m willing to give it a shot.
A long, long time ago a wise man told me of an ancient scientific proverb. Something powerful. A bit of knowledge so extraordinary that it only comes around once in a lifetime…if you’re lucky. A thought so fragile, you could only whisper it for fear it would disappear: the buddy system. And who was this wise man?...MDR. Yes, MDR. The very MDR who is currently on borrowed time. The MDR of the famous "R Tree Service" t-shirt.
The buddy system is when…wait…let me tell you a little about how this all started. It was a warm Sunday afternoon in late summer of 1999. The kids were boppin’ to the sweet sound of LFO’s “Girl on TV” and Kid Rock’s “Cowboy”. Clinton was in the White House, Shaq was with the Lakers, Google was just a big number, and I was a freshman in college. 18...impressionable.
It was the first time MDR gave me a ride anywhere and it was 4 in the afternoon. As I hopped in the passenger seat of MDR’s steed I couldn’t help but notice the 12-pack of Busch Light under the passenger seat. I was nervous, but I had to do it, so I asked, “What is with the open 12’er?”. The response was not what I was looking for. MDR reached across the center console and into the box pulled out a can. He then turned to me and said “You want one?” (I can’t actually remember if he asked “you WANT one?” or “you NEED one?”…either question fits MDR). I cordially replied “no” and we were off…until…well, until I felt the need to ask a question. A question that would change my life. I asked MDR, “Don’t they get warm?”. He looked at me and said, “No, they’re on the buddy system”. As we went back and forth with questions and answers I soon realized I was receiving a great gift.
I’ll summarize the buddy system as best I can for you. Believe me, I’d love to explain it all to you, but there aren’t enough characters in the English language. The buddy system is something that happens with beers in a case, kegs in a pile, or a shitload of Boone’s Farm in a cooler. You see, all the beers are friends. They want to help each other out. If one is cold, he’ll try to keep his friends cold. That’s why a cold case of beer will remain cold. Take out one beer and not only does the individual get warmer faster, the rest do too.
In conclusion, I think that’s what happens in the hot tub. Only with the water and your blood or something like that. Not really sure. Hey, I’m not a scientist, I just like telling that story.
24
Over the last few days, besides finishing the puzzle (OH YEAH…THE PUZZLE IS DONE!!!), I have been watching a lot of 24. Season 3. The first time I’ve seen any episode of 24. And guess what? I am NOT a fan. I’m glad I’ve never watched it before. No profanity; no thank you. Jack Bauer is a pussy and frankly, a bit of a fraud. How can he go through all this shit without swearing once? I guess I just need my action heroes with a little bit of profanity. John Matrix, John Rambo, John Entwistle…none of them were afraid of profanity. I can’t help but wonder, will the number 24 be a cursed number for me for life?
No. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let Donald Sutherland’s kid do that to a number. I need to redeem 24 somehow. But how?
Wait…what if I go to the 7-11 and try to get the most kickass combination of goods for $24…would that work?
Yes...it did.
Here is the best $24 you can spend at 7-11:
- One “thing” of Mentos…fruit flavored
- Two Bic lighters…standard size…orange, white
- 33.8 FL OZ of Diet Coke (one liter)
- Two packs of cigarettes
- One issue of Penthouse Magazine
Porno Puzzles
Do they exist? Should they exist?
Barack the Vote
Don't forget to vote for which story you want to read about. Polls end on Sunday...mother fuckers...see you chumps on top.
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