Trip down memory lane
So, this weekend I went up to Yakima for the 30th birhtday of my college buddy, BLT. Although that was really what I was focussing on, I got more than I bargained for on my trip to the "Palm Springs of Washington".
By the way, I drove around looking for the sign that so-announces Yakima, but the only one I passed announced Yakima as "The All-American City." But, I swear, Yakima is Washington's Palm Springs. And it even felt like it.
Anyone ever use Mapquest for your travel directions? I've learned not to trust it at all. BLT and his wife, TJ, live in a beautiful, palatious, not-so-finished house overlooking Yakima on a private drive. On my way out of town, I made sure to run directions to their home on Mapquest so that I wouldn't get lost on the way there.
Mind you, last time I had to run directions through Mapquest for a Washington address, I ended up having more success finding where I was headed with a divining rod and the moss on the north side of the trees. It's just that bad.
So, directions in hand, I set out on my quest to go to the birthday party. By the time we hit the Yak, I was pooped from the drive from Portland, and despite having the air conditioner on full blast in my car, The Missus and I were sweltering. All I could think of was the lovely serenity of the BLT estate and a cold soda in my hand. So, I followed the directions to a T. I knew something was up when Mapquest described how East Yakima Drive becomes Terrace Hills Drive become Terrace Hills Road. All within a one mile stretch, and all in a straight line. What road truly does that? And what did it mean when (in real life) I came to where Terrace Hills Drive made a right turn into oblivion and the road that I was on (nice and wide) kept going straight? Oh, this wasn't going to bode well for me. I kept on, knowing that I was lost and wishing I'd grabbed the divining rod on my way out of P-town.
Finally, I blundered my way across one of the streets listed in Mapquest (not at all where it was supposed to appear) and followed it, hoping I wasn't really being sucked into an ambush by some internet investors trying to finally make a profit off of their site. Just as I was about to turn around, I found The Promised Land, (a.k.a."Terracotta Place"), which was listed as the last street to turn onto in order to get to Chez BLT. I turned onto what looked like a dead-end gravel road, and shortly thereafter confirmed that I was, in fact, on a dead-end gravel road.
Having to deny all that defines my manliness, I grabbed my cell and called TJ for directions. After first incredulously asking me if I was pulling her leg when I said I was on Terracotta Place, which (rightfully) didn't register with her as a local street (it's more like a big, long bumpy driveway), she looked down from the BLT mansion and was able to visually direct me to the drawbridge across the moat. And there I was. Free at last.
At BLT's I saw someone I thought I'd never, ever, ever see again. Since there are so many in the world, I'll actually use this guy's real name. It was my old roommate, Jack.
Jack's an interesting guy. He's a half-Chinese/half-German guy who has essentially disavowed Catholicism in favor of worshipping zombie comics and Buddha. On his leg he has a tattoo depicting his pug (what's with all my friends having these little rats?), except it's all Chinesed up so it actually looks like a frustrated mini-dragon with a broken nose. Interesting statement to the world.
Anyway, Jack holds several distinguished records. He is the loudest snorer known to man. He is more belligerent than anyone has a right to be. And he is the world's worst person at actually making it to a surprise birthday party. So, despite his RSVP to this event, I didn't really expect to see him.
But there he was. I noticed a couple things about him. First, he's exactly the same shape that he's always been, which is ample about the mid-section but sturdy-looking. That's not meant to be insulting. You can tell that he's not a good runner, but (unless you know him) you wouldn't probably decide to mess with him if you saw him in an alley.
Second, he was happier than he'd been in years. Now, Jack and I have a sordid history. In our first year of college, we became fast friends through mutual dislike of our roommates and our mutual interest in wishing we were funny as we talked to eachother on end, trying to get a reaction. You'll notice, even now, I'm (not-so-)subtly pulling your strings, looking to get a grin out of you. I don't suppose it's working, but I've got lots of time, folks. Anyway, we both joined the fraternity and, our sophomore year we became roommates.
This is where I learned just how devastating Jack's snore could be. This guy snores prolifically. He snores when he's awake. No, really. And whenever he snores, it's god-awfully lound. My worst grades in college occurred when Jack and I were roommates, and although I won't make any claims as to my skills as a student, I won't pull any punches when I say I was chronically sleep-deprived for at least 10 months.
Yet, Jack and I forged on and formed an unholy alliance that stood for a long, long time. We regarded eachother as brothers. We did most things together, and took turns being referred to as each-other's shadow.
However, as is always the case, the fairer sex slaughtered our friendship, as must always happen when you have hormonally-driven young men looking to meet the few liberal arts college students available who believe in make-up and leg-shaving. So it was that Jack found a girl of interest and, inexcusably, I attempted to take her to a dance. At our fraternity house. Where Jack would be. Stoopid.
This led to the only time I've been outright physically assaulted. I asked this girl out on a dry-erase board outside her room, while I was walking the dormitory buildings during a campus security shift. Later that night, Jack and a person I'll only refer to as El Diablo went walking past the same door and saw the note. Overwraught with displeasure, Jack and El Diablo came back to the fraternity house. Jack sought the comfort of seclusion. El Diablo saw an excuse to mug someone and engage in the old Ultra-Violence. Thus, he came to the room where I was hanging out. "Hey," El Diablo said, "can you come out into the hall? I have to ask you something." Being sleep-deprived from months of snoring, I walked out into the hall, forgetting about the horns and tail and stuff, and that bastard sucker-punched me right in the face.
I've always been proud of the fact that I didn't swing back (and, yes, I was still conscious). El Diablo has always accused me of being lucky, because he had the next four punches scripted. Kinda like a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book. El Diablo had a series of punches planned for any swing I took. Either way, I stood there bleeding all over myself, cussing, and knowing I had screwed my friend over.
Jack never fully forgave me for all of that, but we did manage to re-kindle most of our friendship. I always regretted how things worked out, though.
Since I last saw Jack, he got married. And, now, for the first time in a long time, I felt like all was truly forgiven and that Jack and I were back where we had once been. Sorry, BLT, but the best part of my trip to Yakima was getting to hang with Jack again.
What wasn't the best part of my trip was seeing an old video-taped interview of me from my senior year of college. All I noticed was that I've lost alot of hair, put on alot of weight, and still feel the same insecurities that showed through back then.
And I was reminded of the girlfriend that broke up with me in a type-written note with her name typed at the end. The ultimate Dear Pieman letter.
But that's another story for another day.
On the way back, today, Sunday, one of my mistaken beliefs was disposed of. Believe it or not, there are still Sunday Drivers. Now, I thought in these days of inflated gas prices that people had finally stopped with the whole "Sunday Drive" thing. I mean, really, what's so great about hopping in a car on Sunday and driving, for no other reason than because someone once thought it was the thing to do?
This is the alpha male's bane. I'm generally a goal-oriented person, so I drive if (and only if) I'm going somewhere. For the Sunday Driver, it's all about process. It's a soft-minded retreat into tedium as you while away the miles, watching highway markers pass you and denying the instinctive need to be where you want to be (as opposed to enduring the process of getting there). Sure, there's something in enjoying the process, to a degree, but in the end the process is the means to the goal. Living in the process, and therefore Sunday Drives, are for simps and dummies.
So, anyway, on my way into town on I-84, I found the Sunday Drivers at last. Folks, please, 55 is a limit, not an insurmountable challenge...
Well, enough for today. Tomorrow I'll be funny (uh, right...) and give you a couple good links. For now, I've got other things to do before the week begins (again).
Catch ya later.
By the way, I drove around looking for the sign that so-announces Yakima, but the only one I passed announced Yakima as "The All-American City." But, I swear, Yakima is Washington's Palm Springs. And it even felt like it.
Anyone ever use Mapquest for your travel directions? I've learned not to trust it at all. BLT and his wife, TJ, live in a beautiful, palatious, not-so-finished house overlooking Yakima on a private drive. On my way out of town, I made sure to run directions to their home on Mapquest so that I wouldn't get lost on the way there.
Mind you, last time I had to run directions through Mapquest for a Washington address, I ended up having more success finding where I was headed with a divining rod and the moss on the north side of the trees. It's just that bad.
So, directions in hand, I set out on my quest to go to the birthday party. By the time we hit the Yak, I was pooped from the drive from Portland, and despite having the air conditioner on full blast in my car, The Missus and I were sweltering. All I could think of was the lovely serenity of the BLT estate and a cold soda in my hand. So, I followed the directions to a T. I knew something was up when Mapquest described how East Yakima Drive becomes Terrace Hills Drive become Terrace Hills Road. All within a one mile stretch, and all in a straight line. What road truly does that? And what did it mean when (in real life) I came to where Terrace Hills Drive made a right turn into oblivion and the road that I was on (nice and wide) kept going straight? Oh, this wasn't going to bode well for me. I kept on, knowing that I was lost and wishing I'd grabbed the divining rod on my way out of P-town.
Finally, I blundered my way across one of the streets listed in Mapquest (not at all where it was supposed to appear) and followed it, hoping I wasn't really being sucked into an ambush by some internet investors trying to finally make a profit off of their site. Just as I was about to turn around, I found The Promised Land, (a.k.a."Terracotta Place"), which was listed as the last street to turn onto in order to get to Chez BLT. I turned onto what looked like a dead-end gravel road, and shortly thereafter confirmed that I was, in fact, on a dead-end gravel road.
Having to deny all that defines my manliness, I grabbed my cell and called TJ for directions. After first incredulously asking me if I was pulling her leg when I said I was on Terracotta Place, which (rightfully) didn't register with her as a local street (it's more like a big, long bumpy driveway), she looked down from the BLT mansion and was able to visually direct me to the drawbridge across the moat. And there I was. Free at last.
At BLT's I saw someone I thought I'd never, ever, ever see again. Since there are so many in the world, I'll actually use this guy's real name. It was my old roommate, Jack.
Jack's an interesting guy. He's a half-Chinese/half-German guy who has essentially disavowed Catholicism in favor of worshipping zombie comics and Buddha. On his leg he has a tattoo depicting his pug (what's with all my friends having these little rats?), except it's all Chinesed up so it actually looks like a frustrated mini-dragon with a broken nose. Interesting statement to the world.
Anyway, Jack holds several distinguished records. He is the loudest snorer known to man. He is more belligerent than anyone has a right to be. And he is the world's worst person at actually making it to a surprise birthday party. So, despite his RSVP to this event, I didn't really expect to see him.
But there he was. I noticed a couple things about him. First, he's exactly the same shape that he's always been, which is ample about the mid-section but sturdy-looking. That's not meant to be insulting. You can tell that he's not a good runner, but (unless you know him) you wouldn't probably decide to mess with him if you saw him in an alley.
Second, he was happier than he'd been in years. Now, Jack and I have a sordid history. In our first year of college, we became fast friends through mutual dislike of our roommates and our mutual interest in wishing we were funny as we talked to eachother on end, trying to get a reaction. You'll notice, even now, I'm (not-so-)subtly pulling your strings, looking to get a grin out of you. I don't suppose it's working, but I've got lots of time, folks. Anyway, we both joined the fraternity and, our sophomore year we became roommates.
This is where I learned just how devastating Jack's snore could be. This guy snores prolifically. He snores when he's awake. No, really. And whenever he snores, it's god-awfully lound. My worst grades in college occurred when Jack and I were roommates, and although I won't make any claims as to my skills as a student, I won't pull any punches when I say I was chronically sleep-deprived for at least 10 months.
Yet, Jack and I forged on and formed an unholy alliance that stood for a long, long time. We regarded eachother as brothers. We did most things together, and took turns being referred to as each-other's shadow.
However, as is always the case, the fairer sex slaughtered our friendship, as must always happen when you have hormonally-driven young men looking to meet the few liberal arts college students available who believe in make-up and leg-shaving. So it was that Jack found a girl of interest and, inexcusably, I attempted to take her to a dance. At our fraternity house. Where Jack would be. Stoopid.
This led to the only time I've been outright physically assaulted. I asked this girl out on a dry-erase board outside her room, while I was walking the dormitory buildings during a campus security shift. Later that night, Jack and a person I'll only refer to as El Diablo went walking past the same door and saw the note. Overwraught with displeasure, Jack and El Diablo came back to the fraternity house. Jack sought the comfort of seclusion. El Diablo saw an excuse to mug someone and engage in the old Ultra-Violence. Thus, he came to the room where I was hanging out. "Hey," El Diablo said, "can you come out into the hall? I have to ask you something." Being sleep-deprived from months of snoring, I walked out into the hall, forgetting about the horns and tail and stuff, and that bastard sucker-punched me right in the face.
I've always been proud of the fact that I didn't swing back (and, yes, I was still conscious). El Diablo has always accused me of being lucky, because he had the next four punches scripted. Kinda like a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book. El Diablo had a series of punches planned for any swing I took. Either way, I stood there bleeding all over myself, cussing, and knowing I had screwed my friend over.
Jack never fully forgave me for all of that, but we did manage to re-kindle most of our friendship. I always regretted how things worked out, though.
Since I last saw Jack, he got married. And, now, for the first time in a long time, I felt like all was truly forgiven and that Jack and I were back where we had once been. Sorry, BLT, but the best part of my trip to Yakima was getting to hang with Jack again.
What wasn't the best part of my trip was seeing an old video-taped interview of me from my senior year of college. All I noticed was that I've lost alot of hair, put on alot of weight, and still feel the same insecurities that showed through back then.
And I was reminded of the girlfriend that broke up with me in a type-written note with her name typed at the end. The ultimate Dear Pieman letter.
But that's another story for another day.
On the way back, today, Sunday, one of my mistaken beliefs was disposed of. Believe it or not, there are still Sunday Drivers. Now, I thought in these days of inflated gas prices that people had finally stopped with the whole "Sunday Drive" thing. I mean, really, what's so great about hopping in a car on Sunday and driving, for no other reason than because someone once thought it was the thing to do?
This is the alpha male's bane. I'm generally a goal-oriented person, so I drive if (and only if) I'm going somewhere. For the Sunday Driver, it's all about process. It's a soft-minded retreat into tedium as you while away the miles, watching highway markers pass you and denying the instinctive need to be where you want to be (as opposed to enduring the process of getting there). Sure, there's something in enjoying the process, to a degree, but in the end the process is the means to the goal. Living in the process, and therefore Sunday Drives, are for simps and dummies.
So, anyway, on my way into town on I-84, I found the Sunday Drivers at last. Folks, please, 55 is a limit, not an insurmountable challenge...
Well, enough for today. Tomorrow I'll be funny (uh, right...) and give you a couple good links. For now, I've got other things to do before the week begins (again).
Catch ya later.
posted by Rusty at 10:06 PM
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