“But if you had regular hands, you’d be like everyone else.”
Over the weekend, I admit with a gleeful mixture of shame and pride that I played Edward Fortyhands. Edward Fortyhands consists of taping (yes, taping) 40s of beer to each hand and making a fool of yourself while you proceed to get trashed. I thought it was a joke until my friends showed up with several 40s and a gigantic role of duct tape. Hmm. Well…our penchant for enterprise won out, and we submitted to having freezing cold, heavy 40s taped to each of our hands.
I’ve rarely had that much fun drinking. It was hysterical!! To add to the adventure and confusion, we dubbed each other with nicknames (most too vulgar to list here) and banned the use of our real names for the evening. The use of real names was punished by everyone having to drink, and at the beginning of the night when real names flew from mouths liberally, it was not much fun. It did, however, demonstrate the potential for quick and efficient classical conditioning through negative reinforcement. One among us remained sober, and was accordingly not affixed to any 40s. Lucky for us, he did not exploit his distinguishing guardianship by doing anything like abandoning us while still taped to our 40s. Ha! That would have been funny though.
I highly recommend this pastime to all swashbucklers. A few tips…tape wrists as well as hands for extra support. If you are hairy (e.g. if you sport XY chromosomes), try taping yourself with medical tape first, then duct tape, as this is less likely to lead to plucked hairs. (We had no problems, but perhaps because only XX individuals were taped.) Make sure you are amongst friends, as going to the bathroom requires profound trust. Deciding to don pajama bottoms before drinking was one of the few intelligent thoughts of the night. If you don’t drink fast enough and your second beer is warm by the time you quaff the first one, live with it and drink faster next time.
It’s autumn in Colorado, so I got to thinking of all the places I’ve traveled during the season. It’s practically heaven here. We have seventy-five degree weather, a cloudless sky, the aspens are turning to brilliant gold, and the nights are pleasantly cold. Nothing tops a Colorado fall. That being said…I’ve seen gorgeous autumns in Atlanta, Seattle, NYC, Cali, New England, and Chesapeake bay. Truly stunning. Such a stunning season.
Today marks the one-year anniversary of the Platte Canyon high school shooting where a man who had taken female students hostage in a classroom shot and killed Emily Keyes before killing himself. It’s important to remember this day, and especially to keep Emily and her family in our prayers.
Just wondering which way people lean, for those who have read both The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns. I loved them both.
I started this blog on an inadveretent impulse. I dove into the project with starry-eyed gusto.
The brick wall came when I tried to come up with a creative user name. Every single one I typed in was taken. I even tossed harebrained ideas into the mix. Bummer, since I had some names I really wanted too, like Doppelganger. Without really thinking, I started throwing in completely unoriginal ideas like my own name, and before I knew it, I threw in something lackluster that was accepted. Dammit!
Sometimes the world feels so small. Sometimes it feels so big that I can’t come up with an original idea to save my life.
Warren Jeffs’ conviction today evoked the memory of an experience I had several years ago. When I was 17, I drove to Moab with five male friends. Somewhere around the southeastern corner of Utah, we stopped for dinner in an ambiguous pit-stop highway town. You know the type: gas station, restaurant, smashed up phone booth, and surrounding landscape dotted with trailers and tumbleweed.
There we were, standing in a restaurant with over a dozen empty tables, a few idle employees, and no one to greet us. We stood around patiently at first, but quickly grew uncomfortable as we noticed all eyes on us from the few occupied tables crowded with men and boys. My boyfriend stepped forward and asked if we should seat ourselves. The teenage employee shrugged and led us to a table. After a protracted delay, we were finally tossed food-encrusted menus that offered standard southwestern fare. On the cover, rather than the usual illustration or a written blurb the restaurant, was written an unabashedly slanted history of Joseph Smith and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Hmm. Given the fact that our breathing was the loudest sound in the establishment, we merely exchanged quizzical half-smiles and kept mum. Several times, I caught severe looks from the male patrons. I was the only female in the joint.
After a protracted wait, our orders were taken. We sipped water and tested the sound of our muted voices for the time that it took our food to arrive. Before the food was served, the waiter dropped the bill on the table. Point taken. We gulped down a few bites, threw a surplus of cash on the table, and bolted.
Back in the van, we exploded with tense laughter and questions. What the fuck was that!? We burned rubber out of the parking lot and promptly rounded out our meal with food from our camping stores for the week.
It wasn’t until a few years later that I read Jon Krakauer’s Under the Banner of Heaven, which specifically describes such towns run by Fundamentalist LDS. Outsiders are opposed, but their money is not. I would wager our dinner tab that we stumbled upon such a town. So sad.