Happy. Rested. Still unemployed. Not totally broke.
Not too shabby at all considering I'm still dealing with another one of them life changes.
The funny is still there. Especially after last weekend's little jaunt to Chicago.
Giniqua was in Chitown for a conference and I figured, "eh, what else am I doing?" Joe and the Roger were gracious as ever to host us, so I knew it was gonna be a good time for all. And Max - Joe's gay dog - was so excited to see me that he just pee-pee-ed on the floor when I walked in the apartment. After Max, it's hard to believe that anyone is really happy to see me unless they pee themselves with excitement. Then again, the sentiment would be nice but, you know, eww.
Andersonville was even gayer than I remember from the Gaymes. In July, I was kind of surprised to see a bank sign on Clark Street flash, "Welcome Gay Games." After less than a day soaking in the gayness this time around, I half expected to see a line of lesbians waiting for Mayor Daley to marry them in front of Ann Sather. Andyville would have been LESS gay if there were guys blowing each other on street corners. I knew there was a reason I was sad that N & J weren't there with us.
I had a little bit of a time finding the apartment at first. I was distracted by the realizations that cities can, in fact, have sexual orientations. I was blind. I didn't have brake pads. And, I was told the address was "5605" (changed to protect the innocent...from Joe. Ha, just kidding. Or, not). After parking my car, I walked north past 5601, then 5603, then...5609.
Mike, who could see me from the apartment, told me to open my eyes. I - apparently - yelled something like, "why don't you get to the back of the bus, bitch." Which didn't go over well with the people around me. Read the crowd, I didn't. Instead of telling me that the door to 5605 was - in fact - at 5611, Mike giggled himself into a piddle.
Fortunately, after climbing the 20 flights of stairs to the loft, I found that Joe, the Roger and Giniqua had cleaned out some outlet liquor store.
The rest is pretty much a blur. Not because I was drunk, but because I was inexplicably exhausted the whole weekend. Okay, I was a little drunk. I can admit that much.
I remember some kind of reasoning about why Mike and I ended up at a McDonald's on Friday night instead of one of the cute little bistros in Gayville. The cashier asked what kind of sauce we wanted with the mcnuggets. "Surprise us," said Mike. Ultimately, not the best thing to say.
I remember being at Crew, Chicago's gay sports bar. Love it. Love it. Love it. Where else can a row of televisions be playing: baseball, hockey, Cher, SportsCenter, soccer and Project Runway? And, they had Blue Moon on tap. Heaven, I tell you.
I remember Giniqua and Winesha trying to talk Joe into accepting that Max is gay. And a big ole bottom. It's okay that Max ONLY sniffs guys crotches, or stretches out in front of guys by arching his back, or waits until everyone leaves the room to eat or constantly needing someone to tell him he's pretty. Come one now Joe, we're all God's little loveable snowflakes.
I remember someone - who shall remain nameless because, you know, Joe deserves a little anonymity, not being a "public figure" and all - saying to Mike's lawyer friend, "Can I just be my dog and put my head on your lap." I'm not gonna say that it was a tragic moment because everyone knows that context is important in judging tragicity. Context: Mike's lawyer friend is lying on the pullout sofa bed. A certain someone has had a few drinks, walks over to the sofa bed and says, "Can I just be my dog and put my head on your lap." There. See? Wait. Never mind. At least I told Joe that I wouldn't say it was him when I blogged about it.
I remember the Roger. And Giniqua. And stories that I probably shouldn't retell.
I remember lunch at Hamburger Mary's on Clark. There were three of us. Then four when the Roger surprisingly showed up. Giniqua piddled a little. Then our group became five after Giniqua sprinted out of the place to literally drag our friend's new "friend" in to sit with us. We met "friend" the night before at Crew, privately "impressed" at what working out 9 days a week can do. We all finished our lunches. And drinks. And drinks, round two. But, alas, the Roger's food didn't come. I surmised that it was because he was straight. "Maybe they put your food out back on the bench where the straightys are supposed to eat. I mean, it's not that being straight means you're not as good, just not as important." At the time, I thought it was the comforting and empathetic thing to say.
Good times. Ggood times.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Remembering the Gaymes...
Literally.
I don't remember a lot. For the first time since the Champaign-Urbana era, I drank for 8 days in a row. The problem was that I was broke, so it was a lot of Bud Light cans and combinations of whatever liquor was just, you know, sitting around.
I'm relying on people remembering for me. So, thanks to Giniqua, I have another list of I-swear-I-wouldn't-have-done-it-said-it-concieved-of-it-if-I-were-sober moments to retell.
1) Joliet is a lot farther from downtown Chicago than one might think. Or, Joliet needs a furniture store something bad.
On a map, Joliet doesn't look all that far from downtown Chicago. And considering more than half the team was 12 hours from panhandling, hooking and dealing for money, a free place to stay was a godsend. I need to say how thankful and grateful I am that the twinkie chickens offered their place. But, more than half an hour into the drive away from the eighteen hour long Opening Ceremonies, I almost made my own rest stop on the shoulder of I-55. 8 days of that wasn't gonna work.
And, it wasn't so much that I could count the amount of furniture in the house on one hand. Or that there wasn't really air conditioning during Chicago's major heat wave. Or that Vodkina was shadier than an Ohio/Florida election official. If memory serves, Mike slept on a towel I found in my trunk, I slept on a pile of clothes I didn't have time to wash in Michigan, Nate slept on a rug and his t-shirt. And I couldn't give two flipping fucks where Vodkina passed out. Two days later, I pulled a nail out of my foot...which may or may not have been from the house.
In the end, I really am grateful that the chickens offered. Andersonville was a little more convenient and a lot more fabulous. Plus, there was The Roger...
2) Here straighty, here boy, here straighty straighty straighty... Some gay social service agency set us up at the Andersonville palace we moved to the next day. There was air conditioning...kind of. There was room...kind of. There was a large enough window for me to throw Vodkina out of and down three stories if the motivation and opportunity presented itself...I would never, but it made me feel better to keep that one in the back of my mind.
But, the kicker for Giniqua was The Roger...the "straight" rommate. I think the Roger's funny speaks for itself:
Exhibit A - Two ho's were online setting up tricks. Brittany was blaring. Giniqua was yelling for people to wash their holes. Vodkina was organizing Whitney tickets. The door opens and in walks The Roger with...his parents....who stood in the doorway as if it was the only safe haven and we were all extras from 28 Days Later. No matter The Roger's insistence that he was almost sure that we had all been vaccinated and the gay isn't contagious, the parental units wouldn't budge. I'd kill to hear the conversation that ensued.
Exhibit B - From what I remember, The Roger may or may not have learned...how to use manhunt...how fabulous Project Runway is...that he could get laid any time, any place, any how...pink Abercrombies, opposable thumbs and an affinity for Perrier are the only differences between Giniqua and velociraptors...and...
Exhibit C - The Roger is crazysexycool when he's drunk...and "straight" in a room full of gays...and naked. Mental note: the Roger likes to watch lightning in the living room -- drunk and naked -- at 4 am, regardless of who else is there. Pinky swear, I thought I was dreaming the opening scene of a porn.
3) Vodkina's tragicity. John had a story about how he -- I mean Vodkina - had a tragic night. I was probably hung over (safe assumption) and confused from running into too many of Navy Pier's oddly-placed pillars (even safer assumption).
I remember something about shots, more shots, more shots, shots within shots...wait, that was me. Okay, I remember something about a couple of shots, John throwing up on Christian -- his twinkie-hunting friend from Vegas, then John making out with Christian's friend. And then John ended up at a hotel, locked out of Christian and his easy ho friend's room. And then somehow a big burly guy taking a chainsaw to the locked door and then some sort of trickery ensued. There may have been a dwarf, a hooker and a clown too.
Eh, John bought me a burrito and -- I'll be honest -- I was just being polite and pretending to listen.
4) Attachment Theory. If I remember correctly from all the psych classes, psychologists and biologists have proven that little chicklings will latch onto the first thing they regularly see after birth. Dogs. Cats. Humans. Dolls. Shoes. They latch on and don't let go...
Apparently the same is true of little gay twinkie chicklings.
Now, to be fair, all gay men can remember a time when they first started coming out that involved hooking up with a guy who did something that seemed no one else could ever do again...hold their hand, not call them a fag, stick their dick in a hole -- you know, revolutionary. Intense attachment, infatuation and dreams of his and his flaming pink cell phones ensues. Most won't admit that's true. Trust, it is.
But, it's still fun to watch it happen all over again. Kind of. Well, only for a little while.
I knew that our dear old friend Olive -- who I'm almost certain cruises malls and lemonade stands for twinkie chickens - would fight his way through a crowd to sink his claws into the two chicklings on our team. Of course, it happened. In fairness, I did forget the fire hose I was planning on bringing to the Gaymes to fight him off. My bad. But, it started a chain reaction for Chickling #2...
Day 1: Opening Ceremonies -- Chickling #2 (from here on, C2) starts asking questions about Olive that I mostly answer with a "You Don't Need To Know...Do Not...Please Don't..." I snap a picture of Olive and the two chicklings in the event that authorities want to place a "Have you seen...?" on the side of a milk carton after the Amber Alert is sounded, the hounds are released and the Chicago River is dredged.
Day 2: Olive gives C2 "a ride" back to the house in Joliet. C2's Love Affair #1 (C2's LA1) has commenced.
Day 3: C2 LA1 ends. Olive gives C1 "a ride" back to the house in Joliet without anyone noticing. C2 is left at North Avenue Beach with the rest of us. A few concealed tears, a 12 oz liquor-with-diet-coke-for-color and a hunger strike follow.
Day 3/Part 2: C2 LA2 begins. C2 meets RyRy. RyRy, being the great guy that he is, feels bad for C2 and comforts him.
Day 4: C2 LA2 has bloomed. RyRy, on the other hand, already has a cell phone and isn't a big fan of flaming pink, or chicklings.
Day 5: C2 LA2 ends. A few concealed tears, a 12 oz liquor-with-diet-coke-for-color and a hunger strike follow.
Day 6: C2 LA3 begins. C2 meets Derek, a AA/Open volleyballer from California. C2 follows Derek around (see above psychology experiments), enamored of his volleyball skills and imaginative x-ray vision.
Day 7: C2 LA3 ends. Derek already has a cell phone and isn't a big fan of flaming pink, or chicklings. A few concealed tears, a 12 oz liquor-with-diet-coke-for-color and a hunger strike follow.
Day 8: Gays Of Our Lives is cancelled. Forever.
More later...
I don't remember a lot. For the first time since the Champaign-Urbana era, I drank for 8 days in a row. The problem was that I was broke, so it was a lot of Bud Light cans and combinations of whatever liquor was just, you know, sitting around.
I'm relying on people remembering for me. So, thanks to Giniqua, I have another list of I-swear-I-wouldn't-have-done-it-said-it-concieved-of-it-if-I-were-sober moments to retell.
1) Joliet is a lot farther from downtown Chicago than one might think. Or, Joliet needs a furniture store something bad.
On a map, Joliet doesn't look all that far from downtown Chicago. And considering more than half the team was 12 hours from panhandling, hooking and dealing for money, a free place to stay was a godsend. I need to say how thankful and grateful I am that the twinkie chickens offered their place. But, more than half an hour into the drive away from the eighteen hour long Opening Ceremonies, I almost made my own rest stop on the shoulder of I-55. 8 days of that wasn't gonna work.
And, it wasn't so much that I could count the amount of furniture in the house on one hand. Or that there wasn't really air conditioning during Chicago's major heat wave. Or that Vodkina was shadier than an Ohio/Florida election official. If memory serves, Mike slept on a towel I found in my trunk, I slept on a pile of clothes I didn't have time to wash in Michigan, Nate slept on a rug and his t-shirt. And I couldn't give two flipping fucks where Vodkina passed out. Two days later, I pulled a nail out of my foot...which may or may not have been from the house.
In the end, I really am grateful that the chickens offered. Andersonville was a little more convenient and a lot more fabulous. Plus, there was The Roger...
2) Here straighty, here boy, here straighty straighty straighty... Some gay social service agency set us up at the Andersonville palace we moved to the next day. There was air conditioning...kind of. There was room...kind of. There was a large enough window for me to throw Vodkina out of and down three stories if the motivation and opportunity presented itself...I would never, but it made me feel better to keep that one in the back of my mind.
But, the kicker for Giniqua was The Roger...the "straight" rommate. I think the Roger's funny speaks for itself:
Exhibit A - Two ho's were online setting up tricks. Brittany was blaring. Giniqua was yelling for people to wash their holes. Vodkina was organizing Whitney tickets. The door opens and in walks The Roger with...his parents....who stood in the doorway as if it was the only safe haven and we were all extras from 28 Days Later. No matter The Roger's insistence that he was almost sure that we had all been vaccinated and the gay isn't contagious, the parental units wouldn't budge. I'd kill to hear the conversation that ensued.
Exhibit B - From what I remember, The Roger may or may not have learned...how to use manhunt...how fabulous Project Runway is...that he could get laid any time, any place, any how...pink Abercrombies, opposable thumbs and an affinity for Perrier are the only differences between Giniqua and velociraptors...and...
Exhibit C - The Roger is crazysexycool when he's drunk...and "straight" in a room full of gays...and naked. Mental note: the Roger likes to watch lightning in the living room -- drunk and naked -- at 4 am, regardless of who else is there. Pinky swear, I thought I was dreaming the opening scene of a porn.
3) Vodkina's tragicity. John had a story about how he -- I mean Vodkina - had a tragic night. I was probably hung over (safe assumption) and confused from running into too many of Navy Pier's oddly-placed pillars (even safer assumption).
I remember something about shots, more shots, more shots, shots within shots...wait, that was me. Okay, I remember something about a couple of shots, John throwing up on Christian -- his twinkie-hunting friend from Vegas, then John making out with Christian's friend. And then John ended up at a hotel, locked out of Christian and his easy ho friend's room. And then somehow a big burly guy taking a chainsaw to the locked door and then some sort of trickery ensued. There may have been a dwarf, a hooker and a clown too.
Eh, John bought me a burrito and -- I'll be honest -- I was just being polite and pretending to listen.
4) Attachment Theory. If I remember correctly from all the psych classes, psychologists and biologists have proven that little chicklings will latch onto the first thing they regularly see after birth. Dogs. Cats. Humans. Dolls. Shoes. They latch on and don't let go...
Apparently the same is true of little gay twinkie chicklings.
Now, to be fair, all gay men can remember a time when they first started coming out that involved hooking up with a guy who did something that seemed no one else could ever do again...hold their hand, not call them a fag, stick their dick in a hole -- you know, revolutionary. Intense attachment, infatuation and dreams of his and his flaming pink cell phones ensues. Most won't admit that's true. Trust, it is.
But, it's still fun to watch it happen all over again. Kind of. Well, only for a little while.
I knew that our dear old friend Olive -- who I'm almost certain cruises malls and lemonade stands for twinkie chickens - would fight his way through a crowd to sink his claws into the two chicklings on our team. Of course, it happened. In fairness, I did forget the fire hose I was planning on bringing to the Gaymes to fight him off. My bad. But, it started a chain reaction for Chickling #2...
Day 1: Opening Ceremonies -- Chickling #2 (from here on, C2) starts asking questions about Olive that I mostly answer with a "You Don't Need To Know...Do Not...Please Don't..." I snap a picture of Olive and the two chicklings in the event that authorities want to place a "Have you seen...?" on the side of a milk carton after the Amber Alert is sounded, the hounds are released and the Chicago River is dredged.
Day 2: Olive gives C2 "a ride" back to the house in Joliet. C2's Love Affair #1 (C2's LA1) has commenced.
Day 3: C2 LA1 ends. Olive gives C1 "a ride" back to the house in Joliet without anyone noticing. C2 is left at North Avenue Beach with the rest of us. A few concealed tears, a 12 oz liquor-with-diet-coke-for-color and a hunger strike follow.
Day 3/Part 2: C2 LA2 begins. C2 meets RyRy. RyRy, being the great guy that he is, feels bad for C2 and comforts him.
Day 4: C2 LA2 has bloomed. RyRy, on the other hand, already has a cell phone and isn't a big fan of flaming pink, or chicklings.
Day 5: C2 LA2 ends. A few concealed tears, a 12 oz liquor-with-diet-coke-for-color and a hunger strike follow.
Day 6: C2 LA3 begins. C2 meets Derek, a AA/Open volleyballer from California. C2 follows Derek around (see above psychology experiments), enamored of his volleyball skills and imaginative x-ray vision.
Day 7: C2 LA3 ends. Derek already has a cell phone and isn't a big fan of flaming pink, or chicklings. A few concealed tears, a 12 oz liquor-with-diet-coke-for-color and a hunger strike follow.
Day 8: Gays Of Our Lives is cancelled. Forever.
More later...
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Oh my God...Karen's a bottom...
So, the unemployed thing is going...well, it's going.
I went grocery shopping for the first time as an unemployed individual. Now, I'm not exactly shopping at Aldi. Yet. And, I'm not exactly broke. Yet.
But, I'll admit to being a little embarassed that other shoppers were judging me by what was in my cart. Like the way I usually judge other people by what's in their cart. I had a little unemployed self-pity moment when I reached for the generic canned corn and bought oranges by the prepackaged bag because they were both on sale. I went for the Bisquick and the sale-item cereals because, hello, breakfast foods aren't just for breakfast anymore.
I swear to you, this was my thought bubble...
"Okay, when all the food and money is gone, you can get by on cereal. And the generic-not-even-bisquick can make pancakes and biscuits and...hell, I'll snort it and see what happens. Might as well go down with the ship."
I ended up with exactly $49.00 of food, saving $12.38 by buying with self-pity. Then I went home and had some Intelligentsia Organic Strawberry Green Tea brewed in my French Press tea pot, sifted through my Pier One cloth-drawer shelves, watched a rerun of Real Time with Bill Maher on HBO2 on my 35 or so inch tv in my Shorewood 3-bedroom apartment. Shortly after thinking that the cashier had double-scanned a 79 cent Roundy's can of kidney beans and wondering whether I could get by on cereal, generic cigarettes and water for the rest of my life, I realized the absurdity.
Yeah, it took that long.
Yeah, being unemployed sucks. But, there are those unemployment checks coming and my mental health is very very much improved. Ironically, I feel like less of a failure now that I don't work there any more. And, I'm not eating really fatty Italian food 5 days a week.
I may or many not be finding God in the next few weeks. I started watching the 700 Club cuz, you know, what else is there to do?
I went grocery shopping for the first time as an unemployed individual. Now, I'm not exactly shopping at Aldi. Yet. And, I'm not exactly broke. Yet.
But, I'll admit to being a little embarassed that other shoppers were judging me by what was in my cart. Like the way I usually judge other people by what's in their cart. I had a little unemployed self-pity moment when I reached for the generic canned corn and bought oranges by the prepackaged bag because they were both on sale. I went for the Bisquick and the sale-item cereals because, hello, breakfast foods aren't just for breakfast anymore.
I swear to you, this was my thought bubble...
"Okay, when all the food and money is gone, you can get by on cereal. And the generic-not-even-bisquick can make pancakes and biscuits and...hell, I'll snort it and see what happens. Might as well go down with the ship."
I ended up with exactly $49.00 of food, saving $12.38 by buying with self-pity. Then I went home and had some Intelligentsia Organic Strawberry Green Tea brewed in my French Press tea pot, sifted through my Pier One cloth-drawer shelves, watched a rerun of Real Time with Bill Maher on HBO2 on my 35 or so inch tv in my Shorewood 3-bedroom apartment. Shortly after thinking that the cashier had double-scanned a 79 cent Roundy's can of kidney beans and wondering whether I could get by on cereal, generic cigarettes and water for the rest of my life, I realized the absurdity.
Yeah, it took that long.
Yeah, being unemployed sucks. But, there are those unemployment checks coming and my mental health is very very much improved. Ironically, I feel like less of a failure now that I don't work there any more. And, I'm not eating really fatty Italian food 5 days a week.
I may or many not be finding God in the next few weeks. I started watching the 700 Club cuz, you know, what else is there to do?
Friday, September 15, 2006
I almost forgot...
So yeah.
At 10:48 on Sunday night, I got fired.
I'm a little bummed.
That's about it.
At 10:48 on Sunday night, I got fired.
I'm a little bummed.
That's about it.
I guess I have time to do some cleaning now...
I'm a horrible, horrible blogger. Seasonal affect disorder SUCKS!!!
Around April and May, it finally hit me that the Gay Games were around the corner and I was a wee bit shorter on cash than I thought I'd be. I stopped going to the bars. I stopped going to Potowatomi. I picked up shifts at work and tried doing some creative calucluating with the bank account. Which helped by.... Ok, it didn't help much.
So, the schedule went a little like this:
July 5-15th: Volleyball Camps
July 15th-22: Gay Games
July 23rd: Beg for job. Panhandle....
I left for MSU's summer volleyball camps at 3:13 a.m. on July 5th with $50, a check card and a dream. Dramatic-like, almost Thelma & Louise if you will. Well, without a Louise. Or a convertible. Or a vagina. Or guns. Or the need to cause havoc and destruction. Or considering the possibility of driving my non-Louise-convertible-vagina-with guns-causing havoc and destruction Toyota Corolla over a cliff. So, I guess it's not too much like Thelma & Louise.
Somewhere around Gary, Indiana, the Corolla's ole check engine light went on.
Somewhere around Kalamazoo, Michigan, I found out my check card wasn't working right.
I say, "somewhere," because I don't actually know where these things happened. See, I've been kind of blind for some time now. And I don't mean the "I forgot my reading glasses" kind of blind. I mean the "my face is 3-1/2 inches away from the computer screen and the 25 pt type is still a bit fuzzy" kind of blind. Let's just say that the big "E" at the top of the eye chart was pushing it the last time I went to the eye doctor.
So, back to driving 375 miles blindly across four states in the dark of night following a 7 hour work shift with no sleep.
Six hours after I left good ole Milwaukee, I arrived at Butterfield Hall on MSU's campus, ready to check in and get them camps started. Lots of impressionable young, budding, excited girls wanting to learn from my vast knowledge of the sport.
(When I went to summer volleyball camps at the University of Hawaii, I thought my player-coaches were the best thing since sticky rice. Every time I did anything, their advice seemed god-like. After 8 summers of being that coach, I can safely say the #1, or so, thing going through most coaches' minds when doing drills with players that aren't their own is...: "Don't hit her in the face. Don't hit her in the face. Don't hit her....damn it. Don't hit her in the face again. Don't hit her in the face again...Is she crying? Whew. Okay now, don't hit THIS ONE in the face.... Fuck, I need a beer.)
I checked in at the front desk and asked who else had checked in. No one. Okay, so, it's 10:15 am with a staff meeting at 11 am and no one has checked in except me. Something wasn't quite right. Whatever, I thought, I smelled pretty bad. I needed a shower like K-Fed needs a vasectomy. Federal mandate or not.
I grabbed two of my bags out of the car, the keys to the dorm room out of my pocket, the cell phone out of the other pocket and walked it all up two flights of stairs. Note: still blind as a headless bat.
I'm standing outside what I think is probably my room, working the key into the keyhole when...I dropped my cell phone. Which has happened a lot in the past. Those people that know me aren't surprised if I walk into a wall, or an oddly-placed six foot diameter pillar, or fall up a flight a stairs (I'm coming to that one...) or drop something that's practically glued to my hands. Opposable thumbs and panoramic vision, I sometimes don't have.
This time, the cell phone breaks in half.
So, I'm holding the two halves of my cell phone, trying to reconnect the connecting ribbon that I assume is probably important to some aspect of the phone fuctioning properly by banging the two halves together like a homo erectus trying to discover fire for the second or third time.
At that point, the keypad half starts lighting up. Flash flash flash....flash flash flash...
I'm not gonna lie, I started crying right there and then.
Camps weren't too bad at all. Not what I expected, but not bad for my last go around there. One of the highlights was the Project Runway 3 Premier Party at Tracy's place. I'd like to think Tracy and I should patent the phrase, "I just want to punch him in the windpipe." It was fun trying to explain to the uber-straight 6'9 volleyball guy about the whole concept of Project Runway and its fabulousness without using any gay buzzwords.
Try it. It's not easy, but kind of fun. It's like ex-gay Password, except ______.
See. I told you.
The ENTIRE time I was in Michigan, Mike's words haunted my every move.
"Girrrrrl, you BETTER just be eatin that salad. I'm not taking one in the face because of you..." ....which doesn't sound quite right now that I actually type it out. I guess it's a volleyball thing.
I'm not gonna lie, I lost at least 15 pounds in a week and a half. Nobody on my team in Chicago would believe it, so I didn't say anything.
I guess the next post will be about all the debauchery and ridiculousness and crazysexycool that was the Gay Games in Chicago. Oh, and I think some volleyball was played, but I still can't say for sure. Since I like lists, I'll leave a little note for me to remember for next time...
1) On my new cell phone heading to Chicago from Michigan -- "Girrrrrrl. John done lost her wallet somewhere in the Burger King at the Vegas airport.... It had your cash, her credit cards, all her shit... What the fuck she doing at Burger King??????"
2) It IS possible to fall UP a flight of stairs. And then Giniqua rolls her suitcase over you to get in the apartment.
3) In the gym at 1 pm: "Hey, I was watching you guys playing. You're really good." "Uh, thanks, but no, we're not. (Do we know you?)" "So yeah, I heard you were the guys with beer." "What? We would neve...yeah, it's in the suitcase over there."
4) "Hey, it's Brent. I just wanted to apologize for anything the manager in Chicago claims my friends did when he calls you about the homos he kicked out of the restaurant..."
5) Watching Project Runway: "Is that Vera Wang?" Nine homos turn in unison to look at the ONE straight, I mean "straight," guy in the room. And, he's wearing a pink polo.
6) Someone: "Okay, someone has to find a trick and sleep somewhere else every night so there's enough room." Nate: "Done."
7) Wherever the "I'm Not Your Bitch, Bitch" team goes, there's always the possibility of an orgy just breakin on out all over the place. I'm not saying it happened, I'm just saying it's a possibility. On the balcony. In the middle of a bar. At the IHOP. On the train. In the gym. On any and all couches. Just sayin, there's potential.
8) SEVEN TIMES. SEVEN. Seriously now, SEVEN TIMES. And, it's huuuuuuuge. I'm innocent and virginal, so I don't know. I'm just sayin...SEVEN TIMES.
9) Me: "So yeah, Mike and Nick, just a little request. While I'm driving down Michigan Avenue in rush hour traffic, do you mind NOT waving the Smirnoff Ice bottles out the window...you know, just when we pass the traffic cops."
10) There's NO WAY your boyfriend can think he's straight. He's like Jessica Simpson, but not as butch.
11) "Hey there young men, do you mind talking to us for a minute. So, how do you feel about God?" which wasn't all that funny until 20 minutes later when Mike the lawyer talked her out of believing in heaven and the afterlife.
12) "....and I don't think I can make it... (inhaaaaaaaale) again..."
13) When operating a washing machine: (1) Load laundry into machine. (2) Pour detergent into THE SAME machine. (3) Insert quarters into THE SAME machine as was used in steps 1 and 2.
Nate: "Hey Brent, let's unload John's laundry so we can get out of here."
Brent (standing next to Nate): "Hey Nate, look, this machine is washing air."
Nate: "Hey Brent, why is John's laundry dry already? And it still smells."
John: "Okay, I dropped this bag full of bottles of liquor, but everything fell into the bag. Here, I scooped the smirnoff out of the bag...drink this. I know, I know, I'm bleeding. I cut it on the broken bottle."
N & B: "Uhh, no, I think we're gonna pass. But thanks anyway. So, how did you get the all of the broken glass out of the liquor before you scooped it into the cup? And, are you sure you're actually washing your laundry?"
14) "....so, we're going to a Black....gay...dance....club....where exactly? So, left on...was that Fucking Beatdown Street...oh, ok, right on No Prayer In Hell Blvd...got it. Toodles."
Around April and May, it finally hit me that the Gay Games were around the corner and I was a wee bit shorter on cash than I thought I'd be. I stopped going to the bars. I stopped going to Potowatomi. I picked up shifts at work and tried doing some creative calucluating with the bank account. Which helped by.... Ok, it didn't help much.
So, the schedule went a little like this:
July 5-15th: Volleyball Camps
July 15th-22: Gay Games
July 23rd: Beg for job. Panhandle....
I left for MSU's summer volleyball camps at 3:13 a.m. on July 5th with $50, a check card and a dream. Dramatic-like, almost Thelma & Louise if you will. Well, without a Louise. Or a convertible. Or a vagina. Or guns. Or the need to cause havoc and destruction. Or considering the possibility of driving my non-Louise-convertible-vagina-with guns-causing havoc and destruction Toyota Corolla over a cliff. So, I guess it's not too much like Thelma & Louise.
Somewhere around Gary, Indiana, the Corolla's ole check engine light went on.
Somewhere around Kalamazoo, Michigan, I found out my check card wasn't working right.
I say, "somewhere," because I don't actually know where these things happened. See, I've been kind of blind for some time now. And I don't mean the "I forgot my reading glasses" kind of blind. I mean the "my face is 3-1/2 inches away from the computer screen and the 25 pt type is still a bit fuzzy" kind of blind. Let's just say that the big "E" at the top of the eye chart was pushing it the last time I went to the eye doctor.
So, back to driving 375 miles blindly across four states in the dark of night following a 7 hour work shift with no sleep.
Six hours after I left good ole Milwaukee, I arrived at Butterfield Hall on MSU's campus, ready to check in and get them camps started. Lots of impressionable young, budding, excited girls wanting to learn from my vast knowledge of the sport.
(When I went to summer volleyball camps at the University of Hawaii, I thought my player-coaches were the best thing since sticky rice. Every time I did anything, their advice seemed god-like. After 8 summers of being that coach, I can safely say the #1, or so, thing going through most coaches' minds when doing drills with players that aren't their own is...: "Don't hit her in the face. Don't hit her in the face. Don't hit her....damn it. Don't hit her in the face again. Don't hit her in the face again...Is she crying? Whew. Okay now, don't hit THIS ONE in the face.... Fuck, I need a beer.)
I checked in at the front desk and asked who else had checked in. No one. Okay, so, it's 10:15 am with a staff meeting at 11 am and no one has checked in except me. Something wasn't quite right. Whatever, I thought, I smelled pretty bad. I needed a shower like K-Fed needs a vasectomy. Federal mandate or not.
I grabbed two of my bags out of the car, the keys to the dorm room out of my pocket, the cell phone out of the other pocket and walked it all up two flights of stairs. Note: still blind as a headless bat.
I'm standing outside what I think is probably my room, working the key into the keyhole when...I dropped my cell phone. Which has happened a lot in the past. Those people that know me aren't surprised if I walk into a wall, or an oddly-placed six foot diameter pillar, or fall up a flight a stairs (I'm coming to that one...) or drop something that's practically glued to my hands. Opposable thumbs and panoramic vision, I sometimes don't have.
This time, the cell phone breaks in half.
So, I'm holding the two halves of my cell phone, trying to reconnect the connecting ribbon that I assume is probably important to some aspect of the phone fuctioning properly by banging the two halves together like a homo erectus trying to discover fire for the second or third time.
At that point, the keypad half starts lighting up. Flash flash flash....flash flash flash...
I'm not gonna lie, I started crying right there and then.
Camps weren't too bad at all. Not what I expected, but not bad for my last go around there. One of the highlights was the Project Runway 3 Premier Party at Tracy's place. I'd like to think Tracy and I should patent the phrase, "I just want to punch him in the windpipe." It was fun trying to explain to the uber-straight 6'9 volleyball guy about the whole concept of Project Runway and its fabulousness without using any gay buzzwords.
Try it. It's not easy, but kind of fun. It's like ex-gay Password, except ______.
See. I told you.
The ENTIRE time I was in Michigan, Mike's words haunted my every move.
"Girrrrrl, you BETTER just be eatin that salad. I'm not taking one in the face because of you..." ....which doesn't sound quite right now that I actually type it out. I guess it's a volleyball thing.
I'm not gonna lie, I lost at least 15 pounds in a week and a half. Nobody on my team in Chicago would believe it, so I didn't say anything.
I guess the next post will be about all the debauchery and ridiculousness and crazysexycool that was the Gay Games in Chicago. Oh, and I think some volleyball was played, but I still can't say for sure. Since I like lists, I'll leave a little note for me to remember for next time...
1) On my new cell phone heading to Chicago from Michigan -- "Girrrrrrl. John done lost her wallet somewhere in the Burger King at the Vegas airport.... It had your cash, her credit cards, all her shit... What the fuck she doing at Burger King??????"
2) It IS possible to fall UP a flight of stairs. And then Giniqua rolls her suitcase over you to get in the apartment.
3) In the gym at 1 pm: "Hey, I was watching you guys playing. You're really good." "Uh, thanks, but no, we're not. (Do we know you?)" "So yeah, I heard you were the guys with beer." "What? We would neve...yeah, it's in the suitcase over there."
4) "Hey, it's Brent. I just wanted to apologize for anything the manager in Chicago claims my friends did when he calls you about the homos he kicked out of the restaurant..."
5) Watching Project Runway: "Is that Vera Wang?" Nine homos turn in unison to look at the ONE straight, I mean "straight," guy in the room. And, he's wearing a pink polo.
6) Someone: "Okay, someone has to find a trick and sleep somewhere else every night so there's enough room." Nate: "Done."
7) Wherever the "I'm Not Your Bitch, Bitch" team goes, there's always the possibility of an orgy just breakin on out all over the place. I'm not saying it happened, I'm just saying it's a possibility. On the balcony. In the middle of a bar. At the IHOP. On the train. In the gym. On any and all couches. Just sayin, there's potential.
8) SEVEN TIMES. SEVEN. Seriously now, SEVEN TIMES. And, it's huuuuuuuge. I'm innocent and virginal, so I don't know. I'm just sayin...SEVEN TIMES.
9) Me: "So yeah, Mike and Nick, just a little request. While I'm driving down Michigan Avenue in rush hour traffic, do you mind NOT waving the Smirnoff Ice bottles out the window...you know, just when we pass the traffic cops."
10) There's NO WAY your boyfriend can think he's straight. He's like Jessica Simpson, but not as butch.
11) "Hey there young men, do you mind talking to us for a minute. So, how do you feel about God?" which wasn't all that funny until 20 minutes later when Mike the lawyer talked her out of believing in heaven and the afterlife.
12) "....and I don't think I can make it... (inhaaaaaaaale) again..."
13) When operating a washing machine: (1) Load laundry into machine. (2) Pour detergent into THE SAME machine. (3) Insert quarters into THE SAME machine as was used in steps 1 and 2.
Nate: "Hey Brent, let's unload John's laundry so we can get out of here."
Brent (standing next to Nate): "Hey Nate, look, this machine is washing air."
Nate: "Hey Brent, why is John's laundry dry already? And it still smells."
John: "Okay, I dropped this bag full of bottles of liquor, but everything fell into the bag. Here, I scooped the smirnoff out of the bag...drink this. I know, I know, I'm bleeding. I cut it on the broken bottle."
N & B: "Uhh, no, I think we're gonna pass. But thanks anyway. So, how did you get the all of the broken glass out of the liquor before you scooped it into the cup? And, are you sure you're actually washing your laundry?"
14) "....so, we're going to a Black....gay...dance....club....where exactly? So, left on...was that Fucking Beatdown Street...oh, ok, right on No Prayer In Hell Blvd...got it. Toodles."
Monday, May 29, 2006
We're on our way. We're there. Where are you?
I lost my cell phone.
Two weeks ago.
Maybe more.
I'm pretty sure that Skittles swiped my cell phone and ran off. There're some odd charges from a few one-nine hundred kitty singles "services."
I'd do something about it, but I'm not exactly sure what that conversation would sound like.
Two weeks ago.
Maybe more.
I'm pretty sure that Skittles swiped my cell phone and ran off. There're some odd charges from a few one-nine hundred kitty singles "services."
I'd do something about it, but I'm not exactly sure what that conversation would sound like.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Operation Rescue
Skittles has been sighted.
I first sighted the tragic furball in Vegas. Well, not so much sighted as heard somewhere in or around John's apartment in Henderson.
I remember waking up sometime on Sunday morning on the living room floor next to the empty futon bed. Apparently, Winesha had drunkenly stumbled off somewhere early in the morning. I, however, found myself completely wrapped in some kind of evil blanket device that had been bewitched to evade all attempts at removal. After much concentrated and taxing effort, I got the damn thing off and stood up.
That's when I heard her.
Skittles.
It wasn't quite a meow. Not really a yelp. A distant relative of a high-pitched cry.
Possibly a me-yelp-ry
At any rate, I was told that Winesha had adopted the damn hairball and I, by default, was responsible for her well-being. As time has passed, I've come to miss her.
So, if anyone has seen Skittles, PLEASE contact me ASAP.
Skittles, where are you?
Cook? Well that doesn't make any sense
I won a nice chunk of change at the casino again, so I decided to buy a couple of new and fun shirts.
I think they're funny as all hell, but I'm sure the joke's on me somehow. So, in the next couple of days, I need someone to play devil's advocate. Otherwise, in a month, I don't wanna hear it.
Love,
Brent
I think they're funny as all hell, but I'm sure the joke's on me somehow. So, in the next couple of days, I need someone to play devil's advocate. Otherwise, in a month, I don't wanna hear it.
Love,
Brent
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Uh oh
Pickle.
Last week I turned in my 4th request for time off from work.
-- April 22-23: Women's spring tournament @ Great Lakes Center, Chicago
-- May 23 - 28: North American Gay Volleyball Association Championships @ Atlanta
-- July 4 - 15: Volleyball Camps @ MI St
-- July 15-23: Gay Games @ Chicago
The big boss is on vacation in Florida right now, so I won't get the worst dirty look ever given for a few more days. He's already approved my time off for this weekend's women's tournament and the Gay Games. With the volleyball camps, I'd be taking the entire month of July off, so it's not looking good for the NAGVA championships.
Last week I turned in my 4th request for time off from work.
-- April 22-23: Women's spring tournament @ Great Lakes Center, Chicago
-- May 23 - 28: North American Gay Volleyball Association Championships @ Atlanta
-- July 4 - 15: Volleyball Camps @ MI St
-- July 15-23: Gay Games @ Chicago
The big boss is on vacation in Florida right now, so I won't get the worst dirty look ever given for a few more days. He's already approved my time off for this weekend's women's tournament and the Gay Games. With the volleyball camps, I'd be taking the entire month of July off, so it's not looking good for the NAGVA championships.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
..yeah honey, I'm the designated driver...
I haven't stepped foot in a bar, tavern, pub or club since January 10th.
When I mention this fact to people, they start to laugh...and calculate the statistical improbability of my declaration.
In fact, it's the same reaction I get when I profess that I'm innocent and virginal.
All three are true: bar estrangement, innocence and virginality...kind of.
Technically, I guess, I walk into a bar 4 times a week. But, the bar in my restaurant shouldn't count. I'm not allowed to drink before, during or after my shift. And, I'm not a big fan of well whisky old fashioned sweets or generic gin martinis on the rocks, which seem to be the only drinks my tables seem to be ordering lately.
On a sidenote: To the diners who seem to think that I, the lowly waiter, am personally and single-handedly responsible for the following things, kiss my fucking ass:
-- Pepsi products instead of Coke.
-- Sierra Mist is WAAAAAAAAAY to sweet
-- Your favorite microbrew isn't one of the 11 beers we have on tap.
-- MGD doesn't come in a bottle.
-- Only 2 options for double-malt whisky
-- Your drink arrives more than 3.4 seconds after you order at 7:30 pm on Saturday night.
-- Our water is too cold. Our ice is too big.
-- The bottle of wine you ordered is more expensive than at the Discount Liquor across the street from your trailer.
Okay, I feel better.
Wait, one more thing...
WHEN YOU SHOW UP AT A RESTAURANT ON A SATURDAY NIGHT WITHOUT A RESERVATION AND ARE TOLD THE WAIT WILL BE AN HOUR AND A HALF TO TWO HOURS....AND ARE SAT AN HOUR AND FORTY FIVE MINUTES AFTER YOU ARRIVE...YOU ARE ONE LUCKY MOFO. YOUR WAITER HAS DONE ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY NOTHING WRONG...BY GETTING ANGRY, YOU'RE THE FUCKING MORON.
There, all better.
I can't say that I haven't had a drink. I had a few glasses of wine during a dinner date in February. On two of my off days, I had a total of three drinks while waiting for my roommate to get off work so I could drive her home. Last time, I had a chocolate martini and a grasshopper and got a little buzz going. That's just sad.
Winesha's been banging at the closet walls for awhile. Apparently, someone peeled her off some Vegas sidestreet and air mailed her back to Milwaukee via some kind of poultry and livestock transport. From time to time, I'll wake up in the middle of the night and hear her calling out "Skittles" and ransacking my closet. Girl is a mess.
When I mention this fact to people, they start to laugh...and calculate the statistical improbability of my declaration.
In fact, it's the same reaction I get when I profess that I'm innocent and virginal.
All three are true: bar estrangement, innocence and virginality...kind of.
Technically, I guess, I walk into a bar 4 times a week. But, the bar in my restaurant shouldn't count. I'm not allowed to drink before, during or after my shift. And, I'm not a big fan of well whisky old fashioned sweets or generic gin martinis on the rocks, which seem to be the only drinks my tables seem to be ordering lately.
On a sidenote: To the diners who seem to think that I, the lowly waiter, am personally and single-handedly responsible for the following things, kiss my fucking ass:
-- Pepsi products instead of Coke.
-- Sierra Mist is WAAAAAAAAAY to sweet
-- Your favorite microbrew isn't one of the 11 beers we have on tap.
-- MGD doesn't come in a bottle.
-- Only 2 options for double-malt whisky
-- Your drink arrives more than 3.4 seconds after you order at 7:30 pm on Saturday night.
-- Our water is too cold. Our ice is too big.
-- The bottle of wine you ordered is more expensive than at the Discount Liquor across the street from your trailer.
Okay, I feel better.
Wait, one more thing...
WHEN YOU SHOW UP AT A RESTAURANT ON A SATURDAY NIGHT WITHOUT A RESERVATION AND ARE TOLD THE WAIT WILL BE AN HOUR AND A HALF TO TWO HOURS....AND ARE SAT AN HOUR AND FORTY FIVE MINUTES AFTER YOU ARRIVE...YOU ARE ONE LUCKY MOFO. YOUR WAITER HAS DONE ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY NOTHING WRONG...BY GETTING ANGRY, YOU'RE THE FUCKING MORON.
There, all better.
I can't say that I haven't had a drink. I had a few glasses of wine during a dinner date in February. On two of my off days, I had a total of three drinks while waiting for my roommate to get off work so I could drive her home. Last time, I had a chocolate martini and a grasshopper and got a little buzz going. That's just sad.
Winesha's been banging at the closet walls for awhile. Apparently, someone peeled her off some Vegas sidestreet and air mailed her back to Milwaukee via some kind of poultry and livestock transport. From time to time, I'll wake up in the middle of the night and hear her calling out "Skittles" and ransacking my closet. Girl is a mess.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Bitch, get out of here. You spilled my skittles!!!
I don't know what skunked or poodle-balled means.
And I'm using every ounce of energy trying NOT to use my imagination.
And I'm using every ounce of energy trying NOT to use my imagination.
...and making me spoon you until you fall asleep...
Do you remember a time when it was surprising and, daresay, shocking to hear Brittany Spears say...
"Whatever you got, I'll ride it, eat it or snort it."
Ahh...the days of yore, when Christina was heaven's only missing hooker. And Justin Timberlake was still white.
"Whatever you got, I'll ride it, eat it or snort it."
Ahh...the days of yore, when Christina was heaven's only missing hooker. And Justin Timberlake was still white.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
And Shazam. free coffee every hour on the hour and sometimes...
Apparently a quad of barristas in Vancouver finally snapped.
World, be warned.
World, be warned.
Friday, March 17, 2006
It went around the world...
I'm confused. Really really confused.
Wisconsin-Madison steamrolled by Zona.
Wisconsin OUT in Round 1.
Marquette knocked out by Bama.
Marquette OUT in Round 1.
Wisconsin-Milwaukee upsets Oklahoma.
Picked to pull another Cindarella on Florida.
Wisconsin-Milwaukee possibly in Sweet 16.
Again.
Example #3,888,297 of how messed up this state is.
Wisconsin-Madison steamrolled by Zona.
Wisconsin OUT in Round 1.
Marquette knocked out by Bama.
Marquette OUT in Round 1.
Wisconsin-Milwaukee upsets Oklahoma.
Picked to pull another Cindarella on Florida.
Wisconsin-Milwaukee possibly in Sweet 16.
Again.
Example #3,888,297 of how messed up this state is.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
My surfer friends, they get me. They say, Jack, we get you.
I just re-read my volleyball post from a week ago. And I'm.... I don't know.
I've never really thought too much about what sparked, and still sparks, my passion for the sport.
When I was a wee tyke, I played AYSO soccer like everyone else. I played "sweeper." Which I still don't believe is an actual position in soccer. I kind of remember having fun. I do remember that my teams didn't win much. Mom and dad like to remember that I was better than the kid on my team who liked to pick weeds and flowers during our games.
I tried playing baseball. Mostly because it was important to my dad. Baseball had been a way out of the old plantation towns and, eventually, scholarship offers from Northwestern, Michigan and a few California schools. From time to time, dad would tell a few baseball stories. Not very often, though. And, only in the last few years, he's started to talk about what it all meant in the context of the times. I tried to play baseball. It didn't work.
I did start to train and compete in kendo in the 3rd grade or so. I would think it's a kind of martial art, except the body armor weighs about 20 pounds. We used a bamboo "sword" to hit the other person. I enjoyed that. Each year, I got a little better at hitting the armored part of my teachers and opponents. I guess I got pretty good. I always got 1st or 2nd in my division at district and state tournaments. Eventually, I quit to focus on school and volleyball. I also finally figured out that it wasn't exactly a self-defense kind of martial art. I doubt a thief with a knife or a gay-basher with a gun would wait about 15 minutes while I suited up the ole body armor. And I wasn't planning on carrying around my bamboo stick -- which probably wouldn't do much against a knife or a gun anyway. Slow learner, me is, sometimes.
I wanted to play football. In 7th grade, I brought home the permission slips for my parents to sign so I could try out. Dad sent me to mom, which seemed odd. Mom took one look and said, "I'll make you a deal. I'll sign this form when you can carry the piano on your back in the marching band." I pondered that for a moment. "Does the electric piano count?" She shook her head and pointed to our piano and said, "Even if you do it, I still won't go and watch your games." Mom had spoken. Football was out.
Which brought me to volleyball. It's hard for people in the continental states to understand Hawaii's obsession with the sport. It's a little excessive. A lot excessive, actually. College volleyball players are almost godlike and get more attention than movie stars. Even opposing teams and players get stopped on the street or have their pictures placed on store walls next to rock stars and pro athletes.
Once, I was home for the holidays and threw on an MSU volleyball shirt to grab some lunch. After I ordered my chili rice and lilikoi drink, the cashier looked at me. "Do you go to Michigan State?" I said no. "Then, why would you wear that shirt? You trying to cause trouble?" No, not at all, just threw on a clean shirt to get lunch. She considered that for a moment and decided that I shouldn't be killed and stewed. Seven years earlier, Michigan State upset the then-undefeated and #1 ranked Hawaii women in the Honolulu NCAA regional final. Seven years earlier. Seven years. Seven.
Volleyball has been great to me for a long time and in a lot of ways. But, until recently, I haven't really taken a step back to look at the things I've learned. As unorthodox as it's been. Maybe I needed some time away from playing and coaching to really appreciate the things that've gotten me to this point.
I've never really thought too much about what sparked, and still sparks, my passion for the sport.
When I was a wee tyke, I played AYSO soccer like everyone else. I played "sweeper." Which I still don't believe is an actual position in soccer. I kind of remember having fun. I do remember that my teams didn't win much. Mom and dad like to remember that I was better than the kid on my team who liked to pick weeds and flowers during our games.
I tried playing baseball. Mostly because it was important to my dad. Baseball had been a way out of the old plantation towns and, eventually, scholarship offers from Northwestern, Michigan and a few California schools. From time to time, dad would tell a few baseball stories. Not very often, though. And, only in the last few years, he's started to talk about what it all meant in the context of the times. I tried to play baseball. It didn't work.
I did start to train and compete in kendo in the 3rd grade or so. I would think it's a kind of martial art, except the body armor weighs about 20 pounds. We used a bamboo "sword" to hit the other person. I enjoyed that. Each year, I got a little better at hitting the armored part of my teachers and opponents. I guess I got pretty good. I always got 1st or 2nd in my division at district and state tournaments. Eventually, I quit to focus on school and volleyball. I also finally figured out that it wasn't exactly a self-defense kind of martial art. I doubt a thief with a knife or a gay-basher with a gun would wait about 15 minutes while I suited up the ole body armor. And I wasn't planning on carrying around my bamboo stick -- which probably wouldn't do much against a knife or a gun anyway. Slow learner, me is, sometimes.
I wanted to play football. In 7th grade, I brought home the permission slips for my parents to sign so I could try out. Dad sent me to mom, which seemed odd. Mom took one look and said, "I'll make you a deal. I'll sign this form when you can carry the piano on your back in the marching band." I pondered that for a moment. "Does the electric piano count?" She shook her head and pointed to our piano and said, "Even if you do it, I still won't go and watch your games." Mom had spoken. Football was out.
Which brought me to volleyball. It's hard for people in the continental states to understand Hawaii's obsession with the sport. It's a little excessive. A lot excessive, actually. College volleyball players are almost godlike and get more attention than movie stars. Even opposing teams and players get stopped on the street or have their pictures placed on store walls next to rock stars and pro athletes.
Once, I was home for the holidays and threw on an MSU volleyball shirt to grab some lunch. After I ordered my chili rice and lilikoi drink, the cashier looked at me. "Do you go to Michigan State?" I said no. "Then, why would you wear that shirt? You trying to cause trouble?" No, not at all, just threw on a clean shirt to get lunch. She considered that for a moment and decided that I shouldn't be killed and stewed. Seven years earlier, Michigan State upset the then-undefeated and #1 ranked Hawaii women in the Honolulu NCAA regional final. Seven years earlier. Seven years. Seven.
Volleyball has been great to me for a long time and in a lot of ways. But, until recently, I haven't really taken a step back to look at the things I've learned. As unorthodox as it's been. Maybe I needed some time away from playing and coaching to really appreciate the things that've gotten me to this point.
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