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The ramblings and observations of a kidney transplant recipient, although not necessarily for that reason.

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A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole (recommended by Killer)
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From Hell To Hell and Back to Hell and Back Home Again (Part Siete)
Thursday, September 28, 2006

Sunday morning, I awake after a night of pretending to be the best man at the reception. If you can imagine me in a tux, a bottle of champagne in one hand, spinnin' the maid of honor in circles with the other, on the dance floor shakin' my ass to Doin' The Butt as played by a Mexican cover band, then you obviously don't know me at all. This image with me in it should be a complete conundrum for you. I hate dancing (I know typical straight male thing to say) and I didn't really do much more than sit at the head table talking to people and drinking.

News on TV that morning said planes were still grounded all over the US and no one was sure when they would fly. Calling the airline only lead to a long wait on the phone to hear "Officially your flight is still scheduled, but we won't know if the FAA will lift the flight restrictions before your flight. You should come to the airport and check in as usual."

Jim (off another night of being the human ant hill) and I, completely fed up with The Oasis, ate breakfast and got ready to go. Steve was going to take all the tuxes and drive my rental car back to San Diego, then pick up my truck at San Diego Airport's long term parking and drive it home to SF. I was going to ride with Jim in his car, forego the second leg of my return flight from Cabo and drive home with Jim from San Diego, week in Cabo or not. The plan was set. Tentative, but set...if that's possible.

As Jim and I were loading the car, we realized that we weren't the only people in a big hurry to get out of Mexico. It seemed everyone we had spent the night partying with was loading their cars and peeling out of The Oasis driveway as fast as possible. The combination of wanting to get back to the safety of their homes and hating the resort was enough to make everyone leave each other with little more than a wave goodbye from a rapidly accelerating car. No time for "weren't the flowers beautiful" or "how are you getting home", just the sound of doors slamming and the smell of burned rubber in the parking lot.

We had been warned by experienced Mexico goers that crossing the border on a busy weekend can usually take a couple hours, but since so few people had come to Mexico this weekend it shouldn't be bad at all. As we were headed back to the border crossing, I had remarked to Jim that I was surprised how little traffic there was and it looked like crossing the border may not take that long. By the time we had reached Tijuana I thought, "Man! Traffic is clearer than I thought it would be. Considering how close we are to the border right now, I can't imagine this taking more than 10 or 15 minutes."

As we approached the last 1/8th of a mile, brake lights came on. No big worry though. We could see the gates from where we were and there were 25 or 30 lanes with gates (much like a toll booth). Sweet U. S. of A. was in sight. Jim and I looked at each other and conversed about how quickly this should go.

As you sit there in grid lock, the native Tijuanans walk up and down with various business opportunities for you. Such as, for no money in advance they will simply spray liquid on your windshield from a bottle with something murkier than water in it, proceed to smear said liquid all over your windshield, and then negotiate a price for the washed (washed, but not clean, in fact dirtier than before) windshield based on your satisfaction, allowing you to renegotiate while you turn on your windshield wipers and hit it with wiper fluid so you can actually see out of it. None had managed a dollar out of Jim, not even the guy with no arms who managed to flop himself up on our hood and wipe our windshield with both nubs as he sprawled himself across it. I was impressed, but not a dollar's worth.

Other solicitations involve the sale of gum (a big one for the little tykes to approach you with), blankets, sombreros, toy guitars, puppets, bobble head Jesuses, Margarita glasses, maracas, and various works of ancient Tijuanan art. With all the things there to focus on (or be afraid of), you almost forget that you haven't moved ONE foot in the last 20 minutes. Then you start to do the math and calculate, that at the rate we're going, the last 650 feet of your journey is going to take us 6 hours. And a long 6 hours it will be. Six hours of little kids trying to look as pathetic as possible to get a dollar out of you for anything they might be selling. As you nap in your seat you are constantly awakened by some 6 year old rapping on your window to offer you yet another box of Chiclets.

When we finally got to the US customs officer manning the gate he asked where we were going and where we were from and then said "OK, go ahead." That's it? Don't you want to see an ID? I almost volunteered Jim for a cavity search as a joke, but thought better of it. It was beyond me how it only took us 10 seconds to pass through customs gate, but we managed to only go the distance of a football field in the last 2 hours.

I made us a reservation at a hotel near the airport. One with clean showers and no ants in the bed. Don't doubt for one second I didn't actually ask for these room amenities specifically.

We left The Oasis at 10:30. Later that day we arrived at our hotel in San Diego, only about 25 miles away, 7.5 hours later. Jim and I checked in, went to dinner, had a couple beers in the bar, then sat out on our patio smoking cigarettes for a couple hours, mostly saying nothing to each other, both just happy to be back on home soil. It was a feeling so warm and secure that we might have just decided to skip our trip to Cabo and stay in San Diego for the week, if not for the fact that we had to meet people at our next destination, if in fact we were going to get to fly there at all.
posted by othur-me @ 4:25 PM   3 comments
From Hell To Hell and Back to Hell and Back Home Again (Part Seis)
Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Saturday morning I woke up and checked the news on TV first thing. It had been four days since 9/11 and planes still weren't flying. Everyone that attended the wedding had given up their flights and driven the long distance to Rosarito, but Jim and I still had a flight to take. Monday morning we had to fly to Cabo San Lucas. If I couldn't get there this whole trip would be a big waste of time, time that I could have spent at home with people I care about. Although, the truth was I was scared to fly. I had spent the last several days wondering it was like for the passengers on those planes. I may not be ready to get on one myself.

I met Jim and Steve for breakfast. Jim mentioned that he woke up with a trail of ants in his bed and on his face. I don't think Jim would be writing letters of recommendation on the Oasis website. He complained to the front desk and they said they would take care of it. We couldn't figure out how, though. Jim had visions of sleeping Saturday night with his head buried in a pillow-ful of Raid. Both of us were unhappy with The Oasis and were reconsidering our plans to stay until Monday.

The wedding was that night and most of the guests were driving home Sunday morning. The only reason we decided to stay until Monday is we wouldn't be flying to Cabo until Monday and we had a much different vision of how this weekend was going to end up. Going into this weekend we mistakenly assumed we would actually enjoy another day at the (un)glorious Rosarito resort. We made the decision to drive back Sunday morning and get a hotel room in San Diego somewhere. Somewhere with clean showers and ant-less beds.

The decision to have the ceremony and reception all the place we were staying was convenient, but as the wedding was to take place at sunset, it made for an awkward day of just drinking beers by the pool and waiting anxiously for the sun to go down, so we could get this over. I hate weddings as it is and to wait around all day for it to happen was annoying. At least my ushering duties will be over after the ceremony. No one would miss me if I disappeared early from the reception. I could eat dinner and then slip out to my room to get out of the tux as fast as possible and enjoy a quiet night of American TV with Spanish subtitles.

I sat by the pool most of the afternoon, mostly by myself, while others were getting ready. I waited until the last minute to go to my room and dress then made my way back to the pool area where guests had begun to congregate for the wedding to be held in a gazebo along the beach next to the pool. I sat escorted women to their seats as instructed and let the men find their own way. I had done a perfect job. No one was without a seat thanks to me.

The ceremony went off as planned as the sun set over the seven up cans and dirty diapers that made the Rosarito beach so beautiful. When it was over, I walked off to the reception to find my seat and wait for dinner. As I was walking along the path to the reception hall, I was stopped by Steve who told me I had to come back for pictures. What? They want me in their pictures? I went back and suffered the hour of "OK, you in a little. You tilt your head that way. You stand in the front row. OK....BEAUTIFUL! SMILE!"

After the pictures Elena told me there was a seating change. I would no longer be sitting with my friends at a table far off in the corner our of the spotlight. Grant, co-best man, wouldn't be sitting at the head table, and I would take his place next to the maid of honor instead. The subtext being that Grand had to sit with is wife (who was not in the wedding party) and sitting next to the maid of honor would make Grant's wife jealous. She was super hot after all, which made this conversation a good-news/bad-news sort of thing.

Good news - I would be sitting next to a super hot female while eating my dinner. One who I actually liked and had pretty good conversations with over the past couple days.
Bad news - she doesn't drink.
Bad news - I don't have any ruffies nor the time for a trip to downtown Rosarito, so getting in her pants would be unlikely.
Bad news - leaving early and unnoticed would be much harder.
Bad news - Everyone at the wedding thought I was the best man and someone unsuccessfully suggested that I make a speech.

Did I mention how much I hate weddings? Hell has many levels. Several levels of my hell include weddings.
posted by othur-me @ 9:47 PM   6 comments
From Hell To Hell and Back to Hell and Back Home Again (Part Cinco)
Monday, September 25, 2006

On Friday, I got up as early as possible to eat breakfast. I was already kind of annoyed with the many of the people that were there and I figured the way they had been drinking my best shot at avoiding them in the morning was to make sure I ate before their urges for bloody maries kicked in. Breakfast was decent. I had egg covered in some tomatillo based sauce. When I finished I headed to the pool and read my book until I saw signs of Randy's friends wandering around looking for some hair of the dog. That's when I, in true introverted form, headed for my room to take a nap.

When I got up later that morning, I had messages from my friend Jim letting me know he was on his way down. He was someone that I would not need to avoid and whose company I would prefer. The night before, Jim volunteered to pick up the maid of honor and bring her down with him. It wasn't exactly a straight line for him. He had to go a couple hours out of his way, but he was a hero for it. Jim arrived at The Oasis about 7pm and we went downtown to get some food on our own after the rehearsal. We would catch up with the weddingmen later in the evening as they were having a party in the Presidential Suite. The weddingwomen were not allowed and before I left for dinner, Elena pulled me aside and said "I have something important I need you to do. I need you to make sure Randy and the other guys don't get too drunk. I trust you the most out of those guys and it's important that you make that happen. "

I hoping this point has been made clear in the story, but I'm a total outsider in this wedding. The fact that I was wearing a tux and showing people wear to sit was more shocking to me that anyone. Really, anyone at that wedding would think "Oh, you must be one of Randy's good friends." Had anyone actually asked that I would have been tempted to answer, "No, you probably know him better than me."

Another interesting fact about this situation is that Randy and every guy in the wedding party except for Steve and me went to California State University Chico. I haven't seen any recent polls lately, but when I was in high school and college. Chico was the #1 party school in the country and anyone who went to Chico was more proud of their best beer bonging time then their degree (if they graduated without having their parents force them to transfer because 5 trips to the hospital for alcohol poisoning is just too much in one year). Now, I know everyone that goes to college has been to some wild parties, but Chico is just one big wild party. Not too much schooling actually goes on there. In fact the school has no real specialty. Usually you can name any school and someone will say "Oh they have a great broadcasting department," or something like that. Not broadcasting, not sports, not biology, not anything. Tell someone you went to Chico and what you hear is "Wow, you must be able to PARTY!" (and you wouldn't be wrong for thinking that either, because most of the girls I know that went to Chico can drink most of the guys I know that didn't under the table).

Now skip back a couple paragraphs. Remember when Elena said "Don't let them get too drunk?" I think maybe Elena overestimated some things about me. Maybe my strength. Maybe my intelligence. Maybe my willingness. She asked me, an outsider, to keep Randy and 7 Chico buddies from getting too drunk. I could not contain my laughter. Had I been drinking anything myself, Elena would have surely been covered in my beverage having only taken the short trip from my glass to her face via my nose. "I'm serious, Jerry. YOU HAVE TO! I can't ask anyone else." Truth was she couldn't ask anyone and I explained that to her and went to dinner.

I came back to the hotel after dinner, checked in on the Presidential Suite, was surprised not to see any hookers (although that doesn't mean they weren't there), drank a couple beers and went to bed. From my understanding, later that night, Elena and the girls violated the "No Women Allowed" policy set by the men and managed to get themselves a little too squiffy in the Presidential Suite. The next morning Randy looked energetic and ready to go. Elena, well let's just say she did not attemd CSU Chico, and probably should not have attempted to party with a bunch of people who did the night before her wedding.
posted by othur-me @ 5:04 PM   3 comments
From Hell To Hell and Back to Hell and Back Home Again (Part Quatro)
Friday, September 22, 2006

A bucket of beers at the pool later, I finally got my room. It was nicer than I thought based on everything I had seen so far. Everything looked clean, it was larger than I imagined, there was bar in it, a view of the beach, the TV worked and had American programming.....BUT....the bathroom, not as'll just wear flip flops when I shower.

A six pack of beer would usually be enough to give me a good buzz, but not in Mexico. It seems that they don't really understand what the % symbol means in that country, because while it shows a typical number of alcohol % by volume on each Corona bottles there, you can typically drink about 1000 more than in the USA without puking. With almost no sign of a good buzz, I laid down on the bed to watch the latest episode of "Amigos!". The one where Rachel monkey-sits Marcel and loses him and Ross can only respond with "Aye Carumba! No puedo creer que usted perdió a mi mono!" It all ALMOST works out when they find Marcel in Mr. Heckles apartment, convince animal control not to take him away, and Rachel and Ross happily continue back on their path towards love until Barry bursts into the apartment and announces "Rachel, todavía le amo!" spoiling their hopes of being together, for now. I drift off.

Randy calls me to let me know that cabs are picking us up for dinner in town and after we would walk over to Papas and Beer which should be "off the hook". I shower (careful not to touch the tile walls), get dressed and head downstairs. By now, members of the families were arriving. I was introduced to, and then immediately forgot the names of, several of Elena's and Randy's relatives. Steve and I split another bucket of beer at the pool until it was time leave for downtown Rosarito. Introvert that I am, I managed to keep the handshakes to a minimum. I was really looking forward to getting this part of my trip over with. I wanted to get on to the next leg of my vacation where I would be hanging out with friends I really care about in a part of Mexico I would rather be in, fishing and drinking and eating cheap lobster. But for now, its off to downtown Rosarito.

Dinner was unexciting. Surprisingly enough we ate Mexican food and believe me you can get Mexican food just as authentic all over California, so it wasn't any new experience for anyone at the table. It was a co-ed celebration with both sides of the bridal party in attendance, at least the ones that had made it to Mexico so far. Randy and Elena were on and off their cell phones the entire time helping to resolve transportation issues for people who were trying to get to the wedding. The biggest issue so far was that the maid of honor had no way to get there. Apparently the day before she and her boyfriend were supposed to drive down, he broke up with her, leaving her with no ride to Mexico. Nice timing, dude.

After dinner we walked over to Papas and Beer. I was actually excited to see it. It was the first thing I was excited about since 9/11. I had been to Papas and Beer in Ensenada, but its nothing like the one in Rosarito, the original. Ensenada's is not built on the beach and is much smaller, but is a fun place for people to hang out for 4 hours while in port off their Princess Cruise Line 4-day boat trip from LA. While having a blast in Ensenada it was not uncommon to hear from other partiers, "You think this place is fun? You should go to the one in Rosarito! WOOO!" So, this was the part of Rosarito I was most looking forward to.

I had no idea how big this place really was. You walk through the doors and there is bar to your left, a bar to your right, a bunch of tables, stools, fire pits, and then about football field's worth of beach dance floor. It is completely walled in, its not really open beach to the water, but there is no roof over most of it, so it has a very open, outdoorsy feel to it. Along each wall are multi-level stages to dance on and overhead there are multiple catwalks going in different directions to dance on and observe from. Just when you think "OH MY GOD THIS PLACE IS FUCKING HUGE", you realize you've only seen the front half of it. On the back side of the South bar, there is another whole football field's worth of beach, stages, fire pits. Papas and Beer in Rosarito, on a regular weekend, has about 5000 screaming college kids from San Diego partying their asses off. Its the spring break location for kids in San Diego that couldn't afford to travel to Ft. Lauderdale. However, this was not a regular weekend. This was a weekend in which people were afraid to leave the US. A simple drive across the border was both terrifying and inappropriate the weekend after the tragedy.

There were about 10 of us in our party. Including us there were about 30 people in Papas and Beer. Being thirty people in a 50,000 square foot dance club feels like being 30 ants in a gymnasium. A gymnasium with really loud music. I found, you can really only be entertained by your friends (loose term still) and a couple buckets of beer for a short mount of time, when you're hoping that at any moment the Girls Gone Wild bus will show up followed by 400 girls in bikinis. You're thinking, "Man if that would just happen, the guy to girl ration would be INSANE!" Sadly, that didn't happen. All we could really do is walk around and be impressed by the size of this place, look at the empty stages and catwalks, and dream of what it must be like when this place is full. Then hope that the four female Physical Ed majors (cheerleaders), that made the mistake of thinking they wouldn't be the only ones at their schools driving down for a long weekend of sin, will get back up on the bar and dance like strippers, just like they did when Girls by Beastie Boys was playing. Sadly, they never did and we left.

The men and the women in our party decided to split ways. After the women got in cabs, the men came to quick consensus to head across the street to the strip club. I don't know if you've ever been in an customer-poor strip club, but you can lose a lot of money when 25 strippers are trying to empty the wallets of only 7 lonely men. I had previously experienced this phenomenon in Vegas once, and decided to skip the strip club and head back to the hotel, dejected about my Papas and Beer experience and the night in general. Hopefully there would be an episode of Amigos on where I got to hear Ross exclaim "Estábamos en un resto!"
posted by othur-me @ 1:01 PM   1 comments
Abraham Christopher, I Pray For You (And I'm Not Even Religious)
Wednesday, September 20, 2006

I will finish the Mexico story soon, but the subject of today's post has weighed so heavy on my brain that sleeping was not possible last night. Also, since this seems to be National Every-Other-Person-That-Jerry-Knows-Is-Crazy Week, I feel I should do my duty to post a story of yet another highly abnormal person I'm connected to. My lack of understanding and patience for this person along with his ability to suck every amount of energy out of me (presumably with his lensless pair of glasses that he sucks peoples' souls with) will prove that I was not cut out to be a psychiatrist (so I may have saved myself a bunch of unnecessary schooling).

While I'm sure this makes for a boring read, who cares this blog thing is more for me than you and I need a place to vent, but I will try to make the long story as short as possible. Yesterday, my band's drummer, Don finally decided it was too tough for him to commute 3.5 hours for band practice each week. By "finally", I mean that he's only been with us for a couple months, but he should have decided this long ago, like before he joined our band. At the time he auditioned, he was supposed to be "in the process of" moving to the Bay Area from Mount Shasta. Literally, all of his shit was in his car when he tried out for our band. We would not have hired him if we thought he would be driving that long each time he came to practice. Though he's not really the topic of this post, I could probably give a couple thousand words on him, too.

Don's timing is not very good though. The band has scheduled two rehearsals this week (Tues & Fri) because two of our singers have been on vacation the past two weeks and we have an important gig on Saturday. Don, only telling us on Tuesday morning that he won't make Tuesday night rehearsal, was the one who most needed the rehearsals and left us in a tough position. He did agree to rehearse on Friday and play the gig on Saturday, but could we trust him to make it work? Will he be ready? Or do we try to find someone better that can step in and play the gig with two rehearsals? Who could we find on such short notice anyway? Eric, maybe?

Eric was the drummer (and once a fantastic one) that actually put the initial members of the band together. Right around our 7th or 8th rehearsal, on the day of practice Eric, while on a short trip to LA, decided he wanted to stay in LA permanently and that he couldn't make rehearsal, and he was quitting the band (anyone yet realizing that drummers are the worst kind of flakes?). He did this on the same day that Lisa (singer extraordinaire) tried out for our band. She showed up at her audition and got to hear how our drummer just called from LA and said he's never coming back. Only she could tell you why she doesn't think we were all a big bunch of flakes and why she joined our band regardless of the drummer situation (this is her first band, so I think we've got her fooled).

Eric was 5 years sober at the time after a tough battle with drugs as a teen and young adult. A battle that I had witnessed most of first hand as Eric and I had been friends since age 4. Somewhere in our early 20's, after witnessing the after effects of an LSD experience gone horribly wrong(of which Eric had either had too much, or bad stuff) and the schizophrenic episodes it had induced*, I had to distance myself from him**. After that episode, Eric began to ramble on about anything, was not able to maintain one conversation, throwing out random topics from one sentence to the next, and he was convinced that he had married Stevie Nicks. He had gone some place far inside his brain. His parents sent him away to his grandparents for some space and help. He turned to NA.

I reunited with Eric at age 33, right before the band was formed and Eric had been sober for a long time but was fighting with his sobriety, convincing himself he could have a beer here and there, be a normal person, and not be the addict that (x)A (12-step program x inserted here) tries to convince that you are***. Eric, at that time had managed to get rid of (or seemingly suppress from my current view) most of the psychotic ramblings from his past. He was still a little off (not the Eric before the drugs, but not psychotic either), someone who just met him would simply think him an mildly (maybe a little more than mildly) odd bird. He could hold conversations and keep his mind in the now. Sobriety had helped him greatly. On the trip to LA he would throw it all away. Eric gave up on the idea of the "occasional beer" and went back to his comfort zone. Pot, acid, shrooms, I can only guess what else. He may also have been doing coke, speed and the like, but where Eric is concerned I feel the hallucinogens have done him the most damage. Any mental illness that Eric may have had inside of him, was surely released by these drugs and I imagine they help to enhance and sustain whatever illness he has.

Our knowledge of Eric as of yesterday, when we were in bad need of a good drummer, was that he came back from LA, met a girl, and possibly got married. Those of us who knew Eric in the band had been tentative about calling him, unsure of his current mental stability and not really wanting to deal with it. Eric had managed to remain a great drummer throughout his worst of times and it seems that he always made sure it was the one thing he could do right, be professional about, maintain focus for hours at a time (even at his craziest), and be proud he owned that talent. Our thought yesterday was that if Eric had maintained that professionalism about drumming and was, at most, only mildly unstable, it may work out that he could be our drummer again. After all, he had been home for awhile now, near his family, the support that got him sober in the first place. Maybe they had done it again. Also, how unstable could he be if someone would actually marry him?

The answer is completely bonkers. Crazy to the gazillionth power. Eric is worse than ever, although he managed to hide it pretty well in the initial phone calls from both Paul and me yesterday. During these calls Eric explained that he was excited to hear from us and looking forward to playing with us again. He even convinced me to carpool with him to practice. When he picked me up, I knew almost instantly we had made a grand mistake. A mistake to the gazillionth power, if you will. The hour long car ride was interesting and painful at the same time. Eric was everything he was at his worst and more. Constant chatter, lots of talk about killing things/people, his love of Foghat, his hatred of dogs, his newborn son Abraham Christopher's massive cock****, 80's music, his brother, purple goldfish, his supermodel-esque wife, bongo drums, insects, coca cola, and his previous marriage to Stevie Nicks. All mixed up, like a big Conversation Gumbo. He stopped a few times to roll down his window and begin similar rants with people stuck in traffic next to us.

Though he is not exactly how I imagine schizophrenics. He's not disconnected or distant, rambling in his own little world, the way they are portrayed in movies and on TV. Eric is right there in the world with you and demanding you pay attention to him. Waiting for responses to ridiculous comments and if you ask him a normal question he will usually give a real answer to it. At times you feel like its an act and that he's doing it for attention. That's really how it feels, but when the act lasts forever, you soon realize there is no act. It doesn't stop and its unbearable after about 30 seconds or after the first comment about raping a pit bull, whichever comes first (and its usually a close race). The fact that he demands your attention is draining. I sat quietly most of the way to practice, just listening. I had actually not moved a muscle and I was physically exhausted by the time we got there. My blood pressure was about 235/150 and my brain was on fire.

I got out of the car and got as far away from Eric as possible. We proceeded to have practice and everyone determined within minutes of playing (probably beforehand even) that Eric was not going to work out as our drummer. His "Hello, nice to meet you, I hate peanuts, are you a slave to your TV?" introductions (or something similar, if not verbatim) probably lost him the job before he even hit a drum. Eric had flashes of brilliance last night, but the focus he once had to play drums which he held onto so tightly over the years was gone. Several times Eric got up in the middle of a song to walk around aimlessly, get coffee, or tell the dogs how much he hates their tails. After a near physical confrontation with James (the bass player) over the tempo of the song Tempted by Squeeze, Paul decided to call a break to let everyone cool off and get some fresh air. Poor Lisa was so scared of Eric, that when she stepped outside for break she brought all of her belongings with her. I'm guessing she was afraid that Eric, still inside, would either steal them or sniff them (the latter more likely).

Exhausted as I was before practice, the guilt of exposing my friends to Eric coupled with just dealing with him myself drained me of all I had by the time rehearsal was over. I had reached new levels of frustration and exhaustion. I wouldn't be surprised if my new kidney was actually damaged somehow from the experience. I hurt less after my transplant than I did last night after rehearsal. Paul, who lives an hour in the opposite direction from me, offered to drive me home to save me from another car ride with Eric and I somehow managed to fool Eric into thinking I didn't need the 35 minute ride home because I would be hanging out with Paul, Michael, and their (non-existent) friends "who live in Berkeley." We needed some excuse because Eric wanted to hang out with us after practice and he wanted to know if we "wanted to go to Denny's or something." We did indeed want to go get something to eat, but the time it took to cook and eat a meal was more than we could continue put up with him. He had worn out everyone. When I got home at 2 am I plopped myself in bed, hit the pillow hard, and then stayed awake all night thinking about it.

Not one bad word was said about Don (the usual focus of the band's bad energy) all night.

*I fully believe that mental illness may exist in someone but be triggered by drugs and that they are not completely independent of each other, as many other people do. I've personally seen it happen with two of my friends (Eric being one). My childhood friend Aaron Hull is another and his newsworthy story may be a topic for another post later. You can probably find stories of his arrest online.

**This would be the second time I chose to distance myself, guiltlessly, from someone in my life battling mental illness (drug related), Aaron being the first. For them, they already had better support group than I could offer, and it would have been inappropriate for me to be a part of it. I was not their family. For myself, I could not witness what they were going through, it was too hard. Also, I had my life, full of problems of its own, to deal with. If they had been family or friends with nowhere else to turn, my involvement may have been different.

***I'm not a big fan of AA, NA, OA and the like. I believe there are lots of people who need them and are saved by them. I also believe they are willing to tell anyone willing to walk through their doors he's an addict without responsibly assessing whether or not that is the case. Some people are not sure if they're addicts. AA makes efforts to convince those people they "definitely" are. I just don't think that's always the case. Although with Eric it was the case.

****that was for you Paul.
posted by othur-me @ 11:52 AM   8 comments
Security (Guarded) Blankets
Monday, September 18, 2006

My friend April regards herself as something of a quilter. Whenever I'm at her house, she asks me to poke through Big Coffee Table Book Of Quilting (or something like that) and tell me what patterns I like. She usually thinks she is being subtle enough to make me believe that she's asking me for no specific reason. All the while I realize that she is asking because in case she wanted to make me a quilt for a present, I might possibly give her some indication of what kind I like. To foul up her plan, I always tell her I like the most complicated and labor intensive looking pattern possible. I try to pick the ones that look well beyond her skill or patience level. I figure, I'm either saving her the trouble of making me a quilt or giving myself the opportunity to get a totally awsome one.

She, however, got the last laugh. She gave me a quilt for my birthday, that on one side was a piece of fabric that had cards and dice on it (people always think I'm a gambler for some reason). For the other side she took one of the quilts in the book that I liked which had like 50 small squares of a complicated pattern. She made one square of that pattern and then made the rest of that side some very basic patten, saving herself much time (maybe years) trying to emulate the entire pattern from the book. This way she was able to say she gave me a quilt like the one in the book (but not really).

April called early last week wanting to know if I was free on Sunday to hang out. I was, so she said she would pick me up at 10:30 am. She wasn't too specific about her plans, but they usually involve some type of antique shopping (I call it buying other people's crap at the Salvation Army Store), a movie, and a meal of some sort (I supposed lunch for this day, based on the time that was chosen). Because April is from Monterey, about an hour and a half from me, we usually meet in San Jose (approx. the middle), but for some reason she wanted to come all the way here this time.

Yesterday when she got to my house she asked if I knew how to get to the De Young Museum and if we could go there. "Why do you want to go there?", I asked.

"It just sounds like a fun place to go," she replied.


Knowing she couldn't play dumb for too long, she confessed "There is a quilt exhibit there I want to see. It's a bunch of old black ladies from Alabama that make these awesome quilts. They're really old, like from Civil War times and they still get together all the time and make quilts. Isn't that cool?"

"Wow! They are old!" I said, knowing I was the only one in this conversation that realized it was not possible for anyone from the Civil War times to still be making quilts, giving her a look that made her aware something about what she just said was ridiculous.

She giggled..."Shut up! Do you know how to get there or not? How far is it? Let's go."

I did know where it was. I explained to her it's right in Golden Gate Park and it's about 15 minutes away. I agreed to take her there and made her go with me to get my car washed and have breakfast as punishment. When we finished, I headed for San Francisco, but before we even reached the freeway, April asked "Hey! Is that Golden Gate Park?"

"No. That's a playground," I said pointing at the swing set and slide we were passing. "Do you know how big Golden Gate Park is?" She didn't answer.

We reached the De Young, went inside and bought audio tours. It really was a neat story. Over the last century or so, the women of Gee's Bend, Alabama have become famous for quilt making. Gee's Bend is a very poor community, separated geographically from neighboring communities, it's always been the kind of place where people make due for themselves any way they can. The women would not let old clothing go to waist. They would take any scraps of old fabric they had and make beautiful quilts for warmth in the winter. The tradition has been handed down from generation to generation and is still going strong today.

One might argue, that their low education levels prevented them from following traditional patterns, which led them to the distinctive style they are famous for. Then again you can say that anyone with any artistic sense finds a way to reinterpret and reinvent estabished forms and makes original work in spite of tradionals styles, and that's all these women were doing. Either way their style is fantastic. See here.

While the exhibit was pretty neat, I couldn't help thinking the entire time that I really like sleeping. And I was woken up very early this morning (10am is early for Sunday morning). And the quilt that April gave me is my most comfortable blanket. So....while April is walking around checking out all these quilts, I should just rip one of these very comfy looking blankets off the wall and go curl up in the corner with it and catch up on some much needed Z's. However, every time I got close enough to touch one, the Museum Nazi's would lurk over me and make sure I didn't fuck with the precious blankets. Its almost like they knew I'm not the type to show up at a quilt exhibition.

posted by othur-me @ 4:35 PM   6 comments
Wierd Story
Friday, September 15, 2006
This is a break in the Mexico story just to say that my mother's cousin, Mary Jo, died yesterday. I don't know what relation that makes me....2nd cousin or something? Our families were not that close. I had never even met the woman, but my mother did know her and in the past couple years had to deal with her quite a bit because when Mary Jo's mother (my great Aunt?) died, she had left some money to my mother, aunt, and uncle. Mary Jo was the executor of the estate so there were many dealings with her during that settlement of inheritance. My parents had visited her home in the past year or so and really enjoyed Mary Jo's company. She seemed like a very nice, normal lady.

It turns out that Mary Jo, age 60, was taking medicine for depression. I'm not sure which one, but apparently one of the side effects of this med was that you can become paranoid/delusional. Wenesday night, while she and her husband were sleeping, she sat up straight in bed and said, "Ted, I will not allow you to put me in an institution." Ted was confused. There had never been any talk of institution. Ted never regarded her has either crazy or unable to take care of herself, and had not ever even thought of the idea. Mary had never shown signs of the above mentioned side effect before. This was the first time it ever came up, and Ted was surprised, but it was the middle of the night. Tired, confused, and not sure how to react, he calmed his wife, laid her back down, and went back to sleep himself.

When Ted woke up in the morning, Mary Jo was no longer in bed. It was not really that uncommon as she usually woke before him. He did his morning rituals, bathroom, kitchen, coffee. Ted couldn't find his wife anywhere. He looked around, front yard, car still there, back yard. Back yard. I have no way to describe what Ted saw in the back yard, I doubt very many people on earth have seen what Ted saw. All I can say is that what Ted saw was a result of Mary Jo waking up in the middle of the night, pouring kerosene all over herself, and lighting herself on fire.


I can't fathom a scenario led by depression or delusion that could lead someone to commit suicide by SETTING THEMSELVES ON FIRE. I completely understand there was motivation for suicide. I've been there.....but slit your throat, shoot yourself, jump of a bridge, pour a bottle of anti-depressants down your the fuck can you decide to set yourself on fire? I don't get it. I can't even imagine what DELUSION you could have that could lead you into that. Maybe you think your body is covered in bugs and you're trying to burn them off? MAYBE???

"Mother fucker" is all I can say and I almost never say that unless I'm driving.

Ted, I never want to see what you saw.
posted by othur-me @ 5:02 PM   10 comments
From Hell To Hell and Back to Hell and Back Home Again (Part Tres)
Thursday, September 14, 2006

That's right, baby! Part Tres, cause we're in Mexico now!

All I can think is....let's get to the resort, try to put aside what the rest of the world is handling for us right now, enjoy ourselves, and celebrate the coming together of our friends (and I use this term loosely). We'll check in and the get some beers at the swim-up bar. There should be plenty of babes in bikinis to check out and maybe we can catch a baseball game on the poolside TV. Easy livin'!

We pull into the driveway of The Oasis at around 5 pm, get out of the car to stretch our legs, and take a quick look around the immediate area to see if anyone we know is in the vicinity. I light up a smoke while Steve goes into the office to see about checking himself in. As I'm puffing away, John (the best man) walks by carrying two buckets of beer, 1 of Coronas and 1 of Pacificos. Already half a heat on, John lets me know, " We (4 or 5 of the groomsmen and the groom) are staying in the Presidential Suite and it's awesome dude, with a hot tub in it, and its room 410, but don't go there, because we're all out at the beach playing volleyball. Dude get some shorts on and meet us out there. It's awesome! Oh....and bring some more beer!"

I stomp out my smoke and make my way into the office to get my key. I decided to get my own room as I'm not a big fan of sharing (at least hotel rooms). As I'm making my way to the desk I already hear the clerk explaing to Steve in broken English that his room is not clean yet. What? It's 5 pm and check-in was at like 2pm. The clerk says, "Gib me one mas hora".

Wow! This place must be packed if the maids are 4 hours behind schedule cleaning the rooms. "We'll come back in an hour."

At the Oasis, the 4 stories of hotel rooms are separated from the beach by the pool area. The restaurant, offices, and convention areas are set off to the side of the pool area, also along the beach. To get from the office to the beach we had to walk by the pool. We thought we would stop at the bar and get some beers but when we got there, it was closed. The pool was desolate? Where is everybody? This place should be jumpin'? Maybe everyone (I mean in addition to our friends, and I use this term loosely) is at the beach? Steve and I walk back over to the restaurant (also desolate), grab a bucket of beers at that bar, and head back out through the pool to the beach where our friends (and I use this term loosely) were.

As we approached the opening in the windbreak wall separating the pool from the beach, we were able to get our first view of the beautiful sandy shores of Rosarito. We were able to find our friends (did I mention how loosely I'm using this term?) pretty easily as they were the only seven people on the beach. Steve shouts, "Hey guys! Where are all the people at?"

Randy answers back, "You're looking at 'em! Isn't this great? We've got the whole place to ourselves!"

Um...yeah Randy. Great. Considering you're the only one here with female companionship.

Not having the ability to change clothes, volleyball didn't sound like much fun. I could just sit on the sand and drink beer. I'm never opposed to that! OK....where to sit. Well, if I push that old bike tire and a couple of those old beer cans aside.....that area might be clean enough. "Hey are you guys really playing in your bare feet?," I ask. "Have you seen some of the things that are on this beach? You might want to put some shoes on. I think I see a disposable razor in the middle of your court!" Apparently the streets were not the only thing that didn't get cleaned in Mexico. The sand was littered with bottle caps, coffee filters, milk cartons...."Um...I'm gonna go hang out by the pool."

Randy replies, "But we're all HERE!"

I grab a beer and say, "I'll see you guys later. I don't think too many people actually do beachy type things on this beach."

There was absolutely NO ONE in sight. No one swimming in the water, no surfers, no fishermen, no people walking their dogs, no lifeguard towers. I've lived within a 2 miles of a beach my entire life. I've been up and down the California coast. I've been to beaches on the East Coast. I've been to beaches in Hawaii, Canada, France, Spain. I've even been to beaches in MEXICO. I've experienced them at all times of day from early in the morning to late at night. As many beaches as I've been to, I've NEVER been to one where I couldn't see another person in any direction. From my experience, people flock to beaches at all hours, either for fun or solitude depending on what time it is, but not Rosarito. There was no one in sight except my stupid friends (and this term gets looser and looser as this story goes on) playing barefoot sandsports on a beach full of hypodermic needles.

At least I'll get to see what downtown Rosarito looks like tonight. Papas and Beer, here we come!
posted by othur-me @ 4:42 PM   4 comments
From Hell To Hell and Back to Hell and Back Home Again (Part 2)
If I was going to take time off work to be in a wedding in Mexico that I didn't really care that much about, I was going to make sure I got a real vacation out of it. A couple months before the wedding, I decided to turn that weekend into a couple weeks off, dedicate one of those weeks to the wedding, and then do some traveling for myself the second week. I invited Jim and Mike (lifelong friends) to join me that second week in Cabo San Lucas. Both agreed and Jim also invited John, another mutual friend. Jim would also be attending the wedding, so the only thing we had to worry about was connecting with the other two after in Cabo.

My plan of attack was to fly to San Diego on Thursday, rent a car, drive across the border to the resort, and Jim would do the same on Friday. We would attend the wedding on Saturday, stay in Rosarito until Monday, drive back to San Diego and catch a flight Monday morning from SD to Cabo. Mike and John would separately catch flights on Monday to Cabo and we would meet at the hotel, spend the week partying and fishing and all fly home together the following Saturday. That plan all fell apart on Tuesday with news of air travel suspension.

Tuesday was, needless to say, emotional. Rushes of indecision came in waves. During that tragic time, could I really justify A) going to a wedding I don't care that much about? B) going to Cabo San Lucas and trying to have a "good" time when death and destruction was on the forefront of the collective world mind? C) crossing the border, not once but twice with rumors of more terrorism, bombing in Afghanistan, borders closing and the thought of being trapped in Mexico for an indefinite amount of time? I (and this was the actual thought and not just a sound bite I picked up on TV) not dare let the terrorists achieve their secondary (arguably their primary) goal. They had already killed thousands, but what they wanted additionally was to scare millions. Change our way of life. Destroy our comfort. I couldn't. I had to carry on, whatever it meant. Would it be an enjoyable trip on any level? Probably not, but if for nothing more than principle I couldn't let it stop me. Not that it would really make a difference to anyone but me, but I would not be lead by my fear. I was going.

So, plan changed....air travel was a HUGE question mark. No one knew when planes would fly again. Would it be hours, days, weeks? Airlines were offering speculation. "Maybe tomorrow" was heard often. "Just show up for your flight like normal (?) and we'll let you know what happens when you get here." Right, that sounds fun. Anyways, I approached it much like Randy and Elena, which with each thing as it comes up let the plan develop as you go along. First thing, get myself to San wait least to San Diego. Tackling the fear of crossing the border would half to happen when I get that far.

My friend Steve, Groomsman #6, tagged along. He was supposed to fly down Friday with his wife and new born daughter Emma, but decided to come alone with all that was happening. Wife and Emma stayed home. Steve would figure out how to get back home later. We drove the 6 or so hours to San Diego on Thursday, parked my car at SD Airport long term parking and rented a car to drive across the border. I didn't really want my car to go across the border, but additionally it was nice to have a car at the airport for either Steve or me as our travel plans would be in question and one of us may need the car there.

I had flown into Mexico before, but this was my first time driving. We didn't really think too much about it. Steve and I were like minded about our principles and how we would let terrorism influence them. There was no real conversation about it, we just crossed and knew we had to. I was surprised to find out that no one really cares if you go TO Mexico. No border stop (going that direction), just a big sign saying "MEXICO". There is no mistaking that you've crossed over, though. After your first visit to TJ, you will never again take for granted the street cleaning and litter removal your government provides.

There are lots of things to buy when you get to Mexico. Even before you reach Tijuana, you have plenty of opportunity to stop and purchase all the sombreros, pinatas, Jesus statues, and Mexican car insurance (which is what most of the cars are stopping for) you ever wanted. The drive from the border to Rosarito takes you through Tijuana, but its mostly freeway, and deprives you of the scenic downtown area. Fear not, though all the treasures of TJ (hookers, strippers, buckets of Corona, cheap leather, cheap sliver, prescription(less) drugs, tiny kids harassing you to buy Chiclets, and cheap dental work) can be had in Rosarito just as easy. I had yet to discover what a pit Rosarito was. For all I knew it was a tropical paradise. Once your through TJ, the coastal drive to Rosarito is deceivingly beautiful, so I still had hopes.

The long drive from SF was confusing. Spending that time with one of my best friends was great, but the fear of crossing the border during the shakiest political climate I had ever experienced was overwhelming. How would the US respond? How would other countries be impacted by and react to that response? Are we going to war? For Christ's sake, Steve just left his one month old baby and wife at home. What the fuck are we doing? The pressure on our minds that had been building throughout the drive was released went we crossed into Mexico, though. After we crossed the border, Steve and I looked at each other and acknowledged conversationally that we were here and there was nothing that we could do about it now. We should just make the best of it and have the best time possible. If Bush closes the borders and we get stuck here, let's hope the place we're staying is as beautiful as it sounds. Let's hope The Oasis Resort is nothing but palm trees and Mayan princesses feeding us grapes by the pool. Yes, let's hope.
posted by othur-me @ 12:47 AM   6 comments
From Hell To Hell and Back to Hell and Back Home Again (Part 1)
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
In the year or so leading up to 9/11, my friends Randy and Elena were planning their 9/15/01 wedding, to be held in the glorious town of Rosarito Beach, Mexico. For those of you that have vacationed in and are familiar with the spectacular beach resorts in Mexico, please know that Rosarito Beach is not one of them and nothing similar to your memories of Cancun. Those of you who have only experienced Mexico via border towns like Tijuana will have a firm grasp on what its like to be in Rosarito. It's a pit. Its 10 miles south of Tijuana on the Pacific coast of Baja, but not far enough from its neighbor to have developed any of the charm you find farther south in Mexico. Its famous only for Papas and Beer, a 50,000 square foot dance club built on the beach. You would commonly find waiters coming to your table and for $5 pouring a shot down your girlfriend's throat, turning her upside down, shaking her, turning her back over, unbuttoning her pants, pulling up her underwear, bending her over, and doggie dancin' her until you give him another $5 to stop, all the while blowing a referee whistle as loud as possible. Still thinking you might want your wedding there?

Now Randy is a friend, but not one I consider very close. We went to high school together, attended similar parties, generally liked each other, and had high school girlfriends that were "bestest" friends, but all my life I wouldn't have expected even to be INVITED to his wedding let alone be asked to be IN it. Though estranged through college years and early adulthood, Randy and I had re-explored our friendship a couple years leading up to his wedding because we worked in the same industry. During that time we had began a tradition of Tuesday night beers and trivia at a local pub, and on occasion Randy would have a party (typically Halloween) and I'd be invited to attend*. I met Elena during that time, Randy's long distance fiancee who he met at a party in LA and maintained a relationship with for 5 years. She had taken a liking to me and regarded me as her favorite of Randy's friends. I think this distinction earned me the following invitation from Randy over beers: "Um...Jerry, I wanted to ask you if you would be an usher at my wedding. It will mean you have to wear a tux and stuff. I know it's kind of weird for me to ask, but I don't have any other friends to ask that aren't already one of the 8 other groomsmen and Elena would really like you to be a part of it." Well, that was a warm offer. How could I say no to that. The wedding was to be held 9/15/01.

The weekend of 9/7, Elena had been up in the Bay Area to do some pre-wedding celebrations with Randy's family and friends, so that many of them who wouldn't make the trek to Mexico could get some pre-wedding bride/groom love. Her schedule was to fly home Tuesday morning and then drive that day to The Oasis Resort, which was not only our hotel, but the also wedding location. Randy was supposed to follow on Wednesday and they would be polishing up last minute details until Saturday. Elena's flight didn't go out that morning. The news of the attacks came early on the west coast and not very many planes got out of SFO that day. Elena and Randy were panicked. First they had to worry about how to get themselves to Mexico. Secondly (and more of a concern in the days to follow), do they cancel their wedding? Will the guests arrive if they don't cancel? Can people coming from long distances get there at all? They ended up deciding not to cancel. It became a "deal with each issue as it comes up" scenario and the first thing was to get themselves there. They drove that day from SF to Rosarito (7 or 8 hours, maybe). be continued.

*a couple of my best Halloween costumes were worn for these parties, including a hiker from The Blair Witch Project with a trail map hanging out the back of my pants like stray toilet paper.
posted by othur-me @ 4:00 PM   4 comments
Today I will remember....
Monday, September 11, 2006

It is not what's on the outside, but what's on the inside that counts.
posted by othur-me @ 12:43 AM   1 comments
French Uno Anyone?
Friday, September 08, 2006

When I was young, my family would take late summer trips to Klamath, CA with a couple other families. We would stay in a lodge at Camp Marigold, play lots of cards, walk up the street to pick blackberries, and freak out every year when the bear cubs would get brave enough to fish through our garbage cans. My father and his friends would wade into the Klamth River and catch enough steelhead to stock our freezer for the year. The mothers would sit on the river bank and gossip. The kids would catch frogs and bury each other in the sand. At the end of each day we would get a fire going, listen to the dads tell fish stories, and eat a bunch of burnt hot dogs and marshmallows.

These trips were usually a week or two. This was a long time for a kid keep himself occupied with frog catching and "The Trees Of Mystery". We could only stand playing the French card game Mille Bornes so many times and entertainment options were few with only one viewable TV broadcast from a local channel in Eureka. But we could always count on the MDA Jerry Lewis Telethon to mark our vacation with one night of entertainment. Us keeping track of the dollars Jerry was racking up and hoping each time he went to the tally board it would hit whatever milestone Jerry was shooting for.

Because Klamath is SOOO far north in CA, it was always a little colder than home, where the SF Bay Area would usually be experiencing Indian Summer. Even though it was a still couple weeks away, it always felt like Fall when we were there. I always associate the MDA Telethon with the coming of that season.

With the telethon airing this past Monday, I had been feeling Autumnish all this week, but the past few days the weather in SF, while foggy in the morning, has still managed to remain Summery. The fog had been burning off by 11 am and the sun was providing enough warmth to keep it in the 70's. Today, though, was a different story. The fog was upon us as usual, but the moisture was a little heavier. There was enough mist in the air to make my back porch look like it had been rained on. Maybe it had? The fog did burn off, but only to reveal some pretty thick looking clouds above it. With a pretty decent wind blowing at noon, finally the weather had caught up to my Fall attitude.

This time of year is my favorite. Returning from these trips usually meant I had a couple days, maybe a week to enjoy the Summer schedule before getting back in to the swing of school, which I actually looked forward to by this point. I would spend the last few days with no school riding my bike to the park, rough-housing with a few other kids that were no longer on their Summer-end vacation, and shooting off the remnants of my fireworks from July. My mom was a little more lenient with curfews than other parents, so I would usually end up the last kid on the playground.

Just as it was getting dark, I would say goodbye to my friends and try to figure out what to do with the hour or so more time I had left to play. I would give the monkey bars, the slide, and the swings all another go, but would find them much less exhilarating without a partner or two to share in the playground's glory. I would realize that the wind whipping on my neck had a chill to it that had not been there before my Klamath trip.

As the park was connected to my elementary school, I would end the day walking up to the school yard as my house was in that direction. After firing off the last of my bottle rockets and jumping jacks, I would consider heading home, though I hated the thought of giving up my last 45 minutes of freedom for the day, knowing that once school starts, I wouldn't get any minutes like these again until next year. So, I would get myself a sip of water from the school's half-working 6-faucet trough and sit on a school bench (usually next to the classroom I would be attending once Summer ended) just thinking. Thinking about nothing in particular.

The wind would continue to bite at me. Stirring up goose bumps on my exposed forearms and squirming its way up my T-shirt's sleeves to remind me that I forgot my jacket. I hadn't gotten in all my "thinking" time, but I needed to find a wind break to get a little warmer. I rode my bike around the school testing the wind conditions of each corridor. Every wall. Every fence line. I just wanted to find a place to sit quietly. I wanted a place where I could make myself as small as possible. Somwhere that I could watch and listen to the schoolyard, but not really be a part of it.

I always ended up in the same place. I tucked myself into a corner where one wall of the gymnasium met at a right angle with one wall of the library, overlooking the entire schoolyard, park, and playground. Sitting Indian style on the ground, I would curl myself into a ball, shut my eyes, and listen to the wind wrestle with the playground, rattling the chains that hold up the swings, blowing sand across the metal bottom of the merry-go-round, and creaking the 10" spring as the wind pushed against some saddled metal circus animal the spring held up. I could never find the perfect position or combination of sticking my arms inside my shirt and pulling my collar up over my chin to completely stave off the chill, but I wouldn't have chosen another place to be for those 45 minutes.
posted by othur-me @ 3:17 PM   4 comments
On Oct. 1, I will be taking on another roommate to live in my currently unoccupied spare bedroom...
Friday, September 01, 2006

Interesting facts about my household upon the arrival of Scott (the new roommate):
1) My house will not be growing anytime soon.
2) I will no longer be the person in the house with the fewest amount of transplanted body parts.
3) I will no longer be the only person who doesn't crawl from room to room (probably).
4) Scott will be having hernia surgery prior to his arrival, but couldn't be moving into a place with two less likely candidates for sympathy.
5) On rainy days, you may see Paul and Scott huddled together in my back yard trying to get a pipe lit.
6) The bathroom in my house will achieve yet another level of proof that only men live in this house.

Interesting facts about my household prior to Scott's arrival:
1) My house is only 950 square feed (small for just two people. amd Scott makes three).
2) My current roommate Paul is another transplant recipient (and he got a new kidney and a new pancreas at the same time).
3) My current roommate Paul is also an amputee (Drunk Scott may also be crawling from room to room at times).
4) Paul and I have collectively racked up more hospital bills than any other two people I know.
5) Paul is not allowed to smoke pot in the house. I don't smoke it, and I don't want the smell in my house.
6) One may not believe the bathroom could further prove that only men live in this house.
posted by othur-me @ 12:38 AM   5 comments
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