Adventures of The Yellow Peril

ROAD WARRIORS

In just two short days, my youngest sister and I will be heading to Atlanta to ring in the new year.  We're stocking up on supplies today, which I anticipate will include the following:

- 1 bottle of Jagermeister (this, apparently, is very important for the young'uns who will be in attendance at Meg's party);

- 1 bottle of Disaronno, because I like my drinks like I like my guy friends: girly and a little sour;

- 1 half-handle of vodka, found in my parents' pantry.  What happened to the other half?  I think it's because Chuck Norris roundhouse-kicked my dad in the face.  That's why he drinks.

- 1 large salmon filet, to be prepared upon arrival at Meg's;

- 1 prepared package of spices, to be determined today (either ranch sauce with dried blueberries or Italian seasoning with lime and cilantro);

- Cheese, for eating.  (Sidenote: Bobby Flay is my new crush.  I had this dream about him rescuing me in a helicopter and flying me to his Mesa Grill for this uber-meal. I haven't stopped thinking about him since.  Anyway, his show this morning featured many uses for cheese, including carmelized onion and Camembert quesadillas, blue cheese on grilled filet mignon dressed with an ancho chile sauce, and fresh ricotta with orange marmalade.  Dios mio.  He might as well have laid down naked on a table decorated in a slab of goat cheese.  The things I'd do to him are criminal.)

- 1 bottle of Toasted Head Chardonnay.  GHB introduced me to it, and I love it.  Well, I love him, and the wine, well, it's a close second.

- 1 Really Awesome New Year's Outfit.  There are several requirements to being Really Awesome: 1) the outfit must not be complicated with what I call "too much"; 2) the outfit must absorb spills without showing (for when drunky Peril comes out to play); 3) the outfit must enhance, not compete with, my mischievous yet vulnerable good looks.  The search will commence this afternoon.

- Snacks.  As everyone in my family well knows, there's no way I could make a 5-hour trip from Chas to Atlanta and not get a little food in my belly.  Okay, a lot of food in my belly.  Whatev.  Quit judging.

- Some other side dish, to be prepared at Meg's.

- My skinny self.  Because I have to try on a bridesmaids' dress on Saturday, and I can't be looking soft around the edges. 

I'll probably be blogging light until after the New Year, when I'll post my famous "attainable" New Year's resolutions.  Of course, my 2004 resolution to "vacuum" was resolved when I simply moved.  Hey, no one said I couldn't bend the rules.

THE CLARK KENT THEORY

I'm getting complaints that I'm pandering to my old college buddies, but you know what?  They're the ones that are leaving comments and making me laugh.  Take that, law school friends.  You'll all come crawling back to me this summer when you're sitting at your fancy desk at your fancy law clerkship, trying to feign interest in a research memo about the law of strawberry farming. 

On a related note, I was procrastinating last night by checking up on who's been linking to my blog (a lovely feature brought to you by the blog people).  Usually the people who read my blog are interested in some of this, this, or this, but I'm most flattered that this visitor has commented on something I've written.  Click on the word "said," and then scroll down to the comments and read Prof. Knippenberg's response to the Superman/Karl Rove reference.

Prof. Knippenberg, you are present even when you are absent, so...does that mean that Karl is also present when he is absent?  Or that he is absent, and therefore present?

I think my head is about to explode.  And so is the universe.

THE CADILLAC MENACE

Now that people from college are finding my blog, comments on Cleve are at an all-time high.  Apparently he's also heard about my lasting trauma from losing an election to him, and thinks it's hilarious that I mention him so much on my site. 

One of my college professors, probably one of the people who has influenced me the most as a mentor, also found my site.  Apparently he indignantly told one of my friends, "I do not look like Karl Rove."  Apparently I made some crack about him on my site.  I'll send a bag of peanut butter to the person who can find this reference, because I can't. 

I'll send you TWO bags of peanut butter if you can name the professor who looks like this:

BEAN!

Figure this one out:

Yesterday, after our softball playoff game (we won, 10-3), the girls on the team decided to stay and have a batting practice. 

Everyone took turns batting, and even though my role on the team lately has been to 1) yell out the batting order, 2) stay off the field, and 3) not bat -- ever, I took my turn anyway.  As I positioned myself at home plate, I made some loud remark about how much I suck as a batter. 

The captain of our team pitched a nice, easy pitch towards me, I swung, and...I actually made contact.  But it wasn't a good, happy contact, the kind that makes the ball arc perfectly into the air and land solidly in the outfield.  No, the contact I made was fast, ugly, and awkward. 

What transpired was that the ball actually richoted off my bat.  For most people, this means they've fouled, and the ball will continue on some haphazard path towards the catcher, who, in this case, was the Seaman (named so because he dressed up like a sailor last year as part of an ongoing bid to get people to donate to the Texas Law Fellowships, the same reason why I stuffed like 4 lukewarm chicken patties into my mouth and spit them out at my entire section). 

I'm not sure what it must have looked like I did, but the ball richoted off my bat and hit me.

In the forehead. 

Hard.

I dropped the bat and took off running, my hands covering my forehead and laughing hysterically.  My eyes were smarting, but I couldn't tell if it was from laughing so hard or from actual pain. 

I think the thing that hurt the most was my wounded pride, which left a softball-shaped raspberry.

BODY MOVIN'

Okay, so it's Thursday at 8:00 AM, and in 38 hours, Paz and Megs arrive for what may possibly be my last weekend on Earth.

See, Megs is one of my best friends, and whenever she and I get together, one of two situations usually happens: 1) we entertain ourselves riotously with something completely mundane and ridiculous, like a shiny object; or 2) we get rip-roarin' drunk. Many of my memories with Megs have been spotty at best and completely non-existent at worst. One of my favorite times with Megs is when we were in Florence, Italy, two years ago. Our other friend, Michelle, managed to convince a waiter to give us a drink special (when there was none and he spoke no English), and Megs proceeded to thank him by giving him a hearty whack on his delicious booty.

Incredibly, Megs is now a high school teacher (not that I question her intelligence; I just question that any of my friends in the Drunk Posse actually have definable occupations), and I haven't been able to catch her on the phone past 9 PM, because suddenly when you enter the Adult World and have to have a Real Job, sometimes your Real Job might require you to wake up earlier than 10 AM.

It shocks me that most people in the world live like this.

As if Megs coming into town were monumental enough, to add to the excitement, I get to confront my Nemesis, Paz, whom I haven't laid eyes on in 4 years. You would think that 4 years would be ample time to make me stop vomiting in my mouth a little every time I think about that kid, but you know, it's a funny thing about time and hatred. Nah, I'm really excited, if for nothing else because I can take him around this city and brag about how I live in a cooler city than he does. Because that's just about the only thing I've got on him.

The end of all of this is that, due to the combination of Megs and Paz, the coming of Ex Parte, our law school Halloween party (which I have been in charge of since April), and my inherent love of sweet, sweet alcohol, I may not live to see November 1.

It's been nice knowing y'all.

Oh yeah, I'm really happy for New England this morning. I think my friend Jeff was about to cry last night when were watching the Red Sox game. I can't really relate to 86 years of waiting, but I'd imagine it's kind of like when I was 10 and my parents took me to Atlanta to get dim sum, and I spent what seemed like an eternity waiting for steamed shrimp dumplings. Seriously, I wouldn't let us leave until I got those dumplings, and I cried when I heard they were out. That's how much I love my food -- I've been known to drop tears of disappointment in times of scarcity.

WORLDS COLLIDING, PART 2

College people: I'm calling P. Floyd today in hopes that I'll be able to meet up with him and catch up. Full report by Monday, I promise.

Also, what's up with not selling skim milk in the really small bottles at the grocery store? I mean, as if lactose intolerance isn't enough, now I have to contend with becoming a fat ass via my milk choices?

Sometimes I just want to shake an angry fist at the world.

PS -- Did you know that we have a Waffle House in Austin? Well, we do, I ate there, and It Was Awesome.

WORLDS COLLIDING

In what may be the greatest coup d'etat in student government, I have managed to convince the Student Bar Association to hire my nemesis Paz to DJ our Halloween party.

I don't know what came over me this morning. As a 2nd-year law student, I feel like I spend more time running errands than studying. I'm sending stuff out. I'm printing stuff up. I'm turning in forms, copying flyers, rubbing backs, and massaging egos. The bureaucracy of being a semi-involved 2nd year means that when my days end, I can't pinpoint a single noteworthy thing that I've really done. Hence the relative infrequency of blogging.

I suppose the bureaucracy finally got to me this morning, because all I wanted as of 11 AM this morning was a goddamned DJ who wouldn't play cheesy ass music. And I didn't want to do the research, I didn't want to hear demo tapes, and I certainly didn't want to have a conversation with a man named "The Party Don." I just wanted to know that the situation would be taken care of, and that meant that there was only one person to call: Paz.

I haven't seen Paz in, oh, 4 years, and I wasn't even sure if he'd be willing to do it, much less whether or not the SBA would be willing to entertain the idea that flying in a DJ friend of mine would be much, much cheaper than hiring some outfit called Soundfreeks. Not to mention higher quality, and I'd get the intangible kickback of hanging out with my nemesis on what might possibly be the last hurrah before my injuring him negatively affects someone else (namely, his fiancee).

Well, not only did I manage to convince the SBA, but Paz is all for it, too, which means that except for the minor detail of sound equipment, it's all systems go. So I'm pretty proud of myself -- not only do we have a DJ with a solid reputation in NYC, but I took care of one more errand without too much fuss.

Now I'm headed for a bath, and then bed. It's been a long week already, and I think that I'm supposed to copy my ass in the morning to send somewhere. I can't remember where, but supposedly it's important to the law firm that's interviewing me tomorrow.

I DIDN'T RECOGNIZE HIM WITHOUT THE 'FRO

Saturday was the first home football game, so naturally YellowPeril was out in full drinking force. At halftime, we were leading 44-0, so we left the game early and ended up eventually at Maggie Mae's, where my friend David's band was performing.

I'd forgotten/not taken seriously the fact that I had invited the 27 first-year students I'm mentoring to join me, and was both pleased and surprised that they actually took me up on it. I was even more pleased that they bought me shots and lit the path to my drunkenness.

So there I was, drinking and dancing with my friends, both old and new, when I heard someone yelling my name. I turned around, and it wasn't one of my drunk law school friends. In fact, I had no idea who it was, and why he knew my name.

The guy came running up to me. "I knew it was you!" he said. "Don't you remember me? I'm Patrick. Patrick Floyd."

Yes, friends, Patrick Floyd, my former college mentor and redhead extraordinaire, lives in Dallas now. He moved from New York not long ago, and I assume he left his 'fro back there, too. It turns out his friend was also in David's band, and he'd made the drive to see them perform. Because I was intoxicated and my friends were rowdy, I took his phone number and promised to call him when he comes back in town in a few weeks for the Austin City Limits Music Festival.

I spent the rest of the evening being an active and willing participant in the drunken brawl that ensued, and by the end of the evening, I was passed out in the back of Mason's car while he kindly drove Alison and me back to our house.

Of course, no evening would have been complete without me doing something completely reckless: I drunk-dialed a boy. And I have no idea what I said to him. All I know is, I was loving the world at about 3 AM that night, and it's quite possible I transferred some of that love onto him. I've probably freaked him out to no end, in addition to embarrassing myself. Oops. Hm.

Well, I guess if he scares easily by my drunken antics, that's not the type of person I should be talking to anyway, right? Right? (PS -- that's rhetorical.)

Plus, there's always Patrick Floyd. I mean, what the? Who runs into that kid? And in a bar in Austin of all places?

WALKING

On October 30, 1997, my friend Greg Mason was hit by a drunk driver while traveling in a car with four other Furman University students. Greg suffered multiple facial and skull injuries, in addition to third-degree burns. Doctors told his parents, Tim and Pam, that Greg would not last through the night. Greg was in a coma for 30 days, and when he defied odds by emerging from that coma, doctors said that he would never walk, talk, or even think for himself -- and his parents were told to put him in a nursing home because his medical needs were so great.

For the past 7 years, I have been fortunate to be an observer to Greg and his family's persistent determination and strength, defying the predictions of those doctors every step of the way. Greg returned from the hospital determined to graduate from Furman, and he did. In a wheelchair with his mother assisting him, Greg returned to classes just over a year after his accident. Being legally blind, deaf in his right ear, and unable to write, Greg learned by listening to his lectures and having his mother take notes for him. Through it all, Greg continued therapy and underwent over 20 surgeries.

Last year, I returned home to take a break from being my overachieving self. I hadn't seen Greg on a regular basis since we all left for college, and he allowed me to sit in on some of his therapy sessions. Greg's goal was to be able to walk across the stage at graduation the following year, and I watched him when he started walking, something he had been unable to do up until that point. I also saw him regain movement in his left arm, which had up until then been paralyzed.

When he wasn't working incredibly hard at that goal, we had a pretty run-of-the-mill friendship. We drank beer, went out to dinner, watched movies, and generally gave each other a hard time. In high school, Greg was a quiet, unassuming person, while I was pretty much the same as I am now, so you can imagine that our friendship consisted mainly of me harassing him. The accident has also given Greg clarity of a different sort, and he harasses me back now, twofold.

Before I left Greenville to move to Austin, I promised Greg that I would be at his graduation. Yesterday, I upheld that promise, and Greg accomplished a goal over 6 1/2 years in the making. When his name was called, Greg, assisted by his mom and therapist (as back-up more than anything else), rose from his wheelchair, walked across the stage, and accepted his diploma. In the stands of the stadium, two rows of friends and family stood and cheered. Within a few seconds, the entire Furman faculty followed suit, and shortly thereafter the 5,000 or so people in the stands stood as well.

At 25, I know that I still have a lot to learn about life. I've been lucky that I've had great people around me to help me figure it out. Last night, as I stood, bursting with pride and joy and love, I learned that in taking a chance on a seemingly impossible goal, you can affect so many more people other than yourself.

Congratulations, Greg. I couldn't be more proud.

OVER THE HILL

Seriously, does this guy look 40 to you? No, I'm not talking about the guy on the left. That's E-Chia's husband. He's 27.