Saturday, August 16, 2003

Make Yourself A Perfect Slave

Lollapalooza was pretty good times. I was only going to see A Perfect Circle, but I was pleasantly surprised to see that Incubus and Audioslave were also scheduled to play. I even ran into Courtney and Molly, although it took me at least ten minutes to realize that it was them. (I have been a bit out of it lately.)

Donaldo, Boston, my sister Barbara, Ingrid, and I didn't stay to hear Jane's Addiction. How ironic.

They all jumped the fence separating the lawn seats from the more expensive seats, but I didn't. How lame.

Now With Even More Trunk Space

Seven months ago, I went Christmas shopping for Morgan, a girl I was dating. I bought two things: The Bone Collector, because she really likes, nay, loves Angelina Jolie and I was pretty sure she didn't have that DVD yet, and a little shiny ceramic turtle thing, because one of the first things we ever did together (outside of Biology class) was go to The Phoenix Zoo. It was great because even though I had been to zoo before I saw three things that I had never seen before. It was the first time I had actually heard the lion roar. The tawny bastard was really going off. If you haven't heard a lion roar, you're screwed because their is nothing else like it.

The second incident was at the Galapagos Tortoise Exhibit. Morgan and I were observing their cow-like antics when this big tortoise comes out from around the corner and starts tearing off towards the other end of the habitat. It was the fastest I'd ever seen one of those things move. I remember thinking, "What's over at the other end that has him so motivated?" I should have already known. The big tortoise hopped up (scrambled, rather) onto a considerably smaller female. I don't think the female tortoise was really in the mood, but it is difficult to argue with an amorous 500-pound armored reptile when it is already on your back. (Don't believe me? Try it!)

They proceeded to mate, or as those of us with zoological veterinary backgrounds refer to it, "knockin' shells." I amused myself by watching the reactions of the crowd. There was more than a fair share of disgusted fascination, a heap of embarrasment, and a whole mess o' gigglin'. I remember saying to Morgan, "They think this is funny, they should see humans having sex. Now that's comedy."

Wow, anyway, that was why I got her the shiny,colorful, turtle as a present.

And I don't remember what the third thing was that we saw, but it must have been cool because I still remember forgetting it.

So that almost bring us up to last night.

I hadn't given Morgan her presents. I hadn't given them to her because she had died. No! She didn't die. But this is still pretty bad.

During the month of December, I was working like mad at the group home because we were incredibly short-staffed. I worked on Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day, and one of those overnights as well. So I was working a lot and doing little else. I grew bitter at the world in general and managed to work myself into a pretty foul mood over the course of Winter Break. Ah, enough excuses. I stopped calling Morgan.

Yes, I fell victim to the weakest way to end a relationship possible: The Invisible Prison. The-I-haven't-gone anywhere-but-I-can't-call-write-or-come-over-anymore-Why?-Because-I-don't-know. The only other relationship I had been in before Morgan but since Kate (that's right, just one since...'01) also ended that way, with me slinking off into the sunset. Which is odd, since with Kate I was "engaged" and I essentially told her, look, I don't want to marry you, I don't even want to date you anymore, not only because I don't really like you but also because I hate myself when I'm with you. So I can do it, I can end a relationship and be brutally honest about it. But I haven't since.

*Sidenote: Is it just me or do I still mention Kate a lot? (That's a joke, relax. Ha ha.)

Yes, well, so I didn't call. And there were no presents from Guillermo (actually she knew me as William, as do most people who meet me for the first time at school or work) under her tree.

Argh, I hate admitting fault. It's almost as bad as being at fault in the first place.

The End?

"Nothing ever ends." -Dr. Manhattan

Which brings us all the rest of the way up to last night.

I saw her at a party Donaldo's friend threw back in our beloved ghetto, a place I wouldn't have expected to see her. We were all in the backyard under very poor lighting and she appeared out of the darkness all dramatically. I went over and said hello, we talked for a bit, and then I confessed to her that I still had her Christmas presents in the trunk of my car.

Well, what was I supposed to have done with them? I had already wrapped them, and it seemed wrong to unwrap somebody else's presents and keep them for myself. I could have given them to other people, but if it truly is the thought that counts, the thought would not have been a good one; "I'm an ass, so here's a present that I never intended for you to have." The logical thing to do at the time seemed to be put the presents somewhere very accessible so in the event that I ever see Morgan again I will have them to give to her. It makes perfect sense, really. And if you think it doesn't, forget you, sucka, because that is...exactly...what...I...did!

She seemed to like her gifts. Surprisingly, she still didn't have The Bone Collector. Less surprisingly, she didn't have an amazing technicolor turtle, either.

Final Post Ever?

In a few hours I will drive to the middle of nowhere to give someone money to throw me out of their plane. This is what separates us from the animals, folks. Humans pay to jump out of planes, and animals don't. End of argument.

Something else that separates us from the animals: No animal I know of has ever had one of their roommates move out and take with them a piece of equipment I know only as "The Magic Blinky-Light Box" that is rumored to be integral to my gaining access to the internet.

So if it's been a while since I've updated, the salesmen at the Electronics 'R' Us still hasn't figured out what a "Magic Blinky-Light Box" is yet from my vague description and inconsistent hand gestures.

Or maybe my parachute didn't open and I'm dead. If so, I want to be cremated. I don't want to risk coming back as a zombie. And everyone better get completely trashed at my funeral, wake, or both and tell stories about me that are completely false, like my days spent hitch-hiking across the United States in search of the American Dream.

I love you, Mom. The rest of you are pretty cool, too.

And don't worry, I'll give you guys a call if, after I die, anything is going on.

And in the trunk of my car, there are presents for all of you.

Friday, August 15, 2003

My old friend/ partner-in-crime Jarod Sibbitt recently returned home from Alaska where he was fighting fires/hiding out from Johnny Law. We all went out to Rock Bottom for "Pint Night" where he regaled us with his wild tales of defying Mother Nature in a frozen wasteland. (Who has been going around saying you shouldn't get between a mother black bear and her cubs? Get that guy on the phone!)

This guy though, Sibbitt, is one of the old-school bad-asses. You want misadventures, Trevor? I spent over two weeks with this guy (back when I was "running" from the Army) climbing mountains in the Sierra Nevada.

I should have just hid in the attic, Anne Frank-stye.

During our relatively brief excursion, I personally nearly died 4 times. Jarod had one close encounter, I think. Maybe he just never told me about any more. But I'm not yet counting the times we nearly died together. We crossed this field of solid ice on the side of a mountain by hacking footholds into it. We didn't secure any ropes to catch ourselves, which meant that in the case of the tiniest slip, we would have slid right down and right off the side of a cliff, landing in a frozen lake hundreds of feet below. We later learned that that very thing had happened to another mountaineer a couple weeks before we climbed it.

Also on Mount Whitney, I developed a very high fever. I had just thought I was really tired. Sibbitt had gone off to climb another nearby mountain (see, he does stuff like that all the time) and I took a nap in the tent. When he returned, he found that I had thrown out everything, food, gear, backpacks, his sleeping bag, and it was all strewn around the opening to the tent. In my fevered state, I had decided that everything in the tent "offended me" and therefore had to go. But I got better.

We were climbing this incredibly easy mountain (only a half-day hike to the top) in Nevada when a little cloud rolled overhead. We thought nothing of it. A few bigger, darker clouds rolled overhead. We thought nothing of it. A light snow began to dust the landscape. We scoffed and went on.

Five hours later, we were still desperately searching for the car while under the onslaught of an all-out blizzard. In the white-out that had struck us as we were near the peak, we had somehow gotten completely lost. No problem, we'll just check the compass. Do you have the compass? I don't have the compass, I thought you had the compass.

We tried to swear then, but our words were torn from our lips and flung gleefully about by the wind.

Sibbitt found a compass in a first-aid kit he had brought along. All I had was a canteen and some graham crackers. I ate them while Sibbitt figured out the way back to the car.

We lived that time.

The moral of the story is: Running won't solve your problems. Well, it worked pretty damn well for me, but I still don't think it will work for you.

Now, I'm going to haul ass to Lollapalooza!
(I'm going pretty much for A Perfect Circle)

Thursday, August 14, 2003

What I mean by "almost without incident."

a humble monki: left out the car accident, the over-flowing toilet at pizza hut, the mechanical bull riding injury, my cracker dance, Boston getting jungle fever, and you and i getting montezuma's revenge. what a weekend.

AlwaysEphemeral: It's in there now!
AlwaysEphemeral: I never try to tell the whole story. That would take all night. I just follow the story and see where it goes. Besides, that's what you remember about the trip. And what a Jake remembers is not always what a Gurg remembers.
AlwaysEphemeral: And I usually try not to mention when my bodily functions go renegade.

a humble monki: to each his own

Wednesday, August 13, 2003

Out On The Beach Sand

I sat at one of the white plastic tables at Manny's Beach Club waiting for my spirit animal to arrive. I wasn't waiting alone. My friend Jake, my younger brother Donaldo, and his friend Boston were also sitting with me.

He didn't show up.

It might have been the chain-link fences that had been added sometime after my last visit, obscuring my view of the sand and the waves and the moon. Maybe that was why. He doesn't like chain-link fences.

Some time later, I was dancing with a couple of girls. One was from Phoenix and one was from Chicago. The drunker of the two pulled me aside, put her mouth against my ear my ear and slurred, "Wanna go fuck?"

"Sure." I replied. "If you can tell me my name."
"Fuck your name!" She hissed.
"Fuck my name?" I echoed, taken aback.
"Fuck everything!" She elaborated.
"Is that your motto, fuck everything?" I asked, amused.
Instead of answering, she bit my shoulder.

That could be another reason my spirit animal didn't show up. He doesn't like girls that might bite him. Personally, I don't mind biting, but I do appreciate a little warning first.

Two Bad Things

Later still, Donaldo, Jake, Boston, and I were back at our sticky white table talking with the three girls we had met. I lit one of the clove cigarettes I had brought with me. "Don't you know those are bad for you?" One of them, (Diana) asked.
"These are clove cigarettes. They're actually worse for you than regular cigarettes." I replied, stifling a cough. I gestured towards the beer in her hand. "That's bad for you, too."

"It's not that bad!" She retorted indignantly.

I shook my head and smiled. "You have no idea."

My spirit animal doesn't like people that have no idea.

Good Clean Fun

The four of us returned to our hotel around three in the morning. The place was about 20 minutes away from Manny's and the rest of my favorite spots, but the room was beautiful and on a much nicer part of the beach.

We all changed into our swimsuits and headed for the water where we frolicked in the moonlight like children until we were almost sober. I was a bit surprised when my spirit animal didn't show up then.

The Next Night

The next night was all about The Pink Cadillac. I danced for hours. It seemed that I was burning off my drinks almost as fast as I could order them. Every one of us was thoroughly enjoying ourselves.

Three o'clock came around, someone shouted "Last call!", we frantically bellied up to the bar, danced a little more, sang along to Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" ("Don't worry about a thing, 'Cause every little thing gonna be all right". (And I really felt that it was)), then we made our way down the steps that lead to the the street that were far too narrow for a place that caters to a binge-drinking clientele.

Once outside, we did a headcount and realized that Donaldo wasn't with us. He had been last seen making out with a girl in a white bikini with red flowers on it.

Who Needs Pants?

We split up to look for him. I searched the streets and Jake and Boston headed down to check out the beach. I was sitting on the trunk of my car yelling, "Donaldo!" when Jake and Boston walked up. I looked at them expectantly. Jake then held up a shoe and asked, "Is this Donaldo's?"

I thought for a moment before I responded. "What?!" It was indeed his shoe. It had been sitting on the sand with his other shoe, his socks, and a purse. We all walked down to the beach and yelled to him, and he yelled back from somewhere among the rocks.

We waited for about twenty minutes and then I shouted into the darkness that I was leaving. So I did. Boston
stayed behind to wait for Donaldo.

We went back to our hotel and I ate some leftover beans my mom had made. Then, cursing, I got back into the car and drove back to the beach.

I was coming over a large hill, on othe last 30 seconds of the twenty-minute drive, when blue and red lights started dancing in my mirrors. I cursed some more and pulled over. I rolled down my window as one of Mexico's finest walked over. I looked up at him expectantly. "?Are you Guillermo Lopez?" He asked in Spanish.

I thought for a moment before I responded. "?Que?" I looked over, and in the thin watery light that promised sunrise I saw Donaldo and Boston sitting in the back of the policia's car. I made a mental note to do some heavy cursing when I was out of earshot. "Yes," I admitted, "I am Guillermo Lopez."

The guy explained to me that he had found them "walking suspicioulsy" and that he was going to have to take them to jail for two days and they would be fined a hundred and fifty dollars each...Unless...

I drove back to the hotel to get their $50 dollar bribe in furious silence, breaking my earlier vow of profanity.

I scrounged up $33 dollars and gave it to them outside our hotel. I told them it was all I had. They took the money, let Donaldo and Boston out, and puttered off. Then it was back to the beach to find Donaldo's clothes. Oh yeah, he lost his clothes. He hadn't been able to find his clothes after he had flung them out on the rocks and Boston had given him his pants. Donaldo had been walking in just his shoes and Boston's pants, and Boston was in a shirt, shoes, and boxer-briefs. I guess that's what "walking suspiciously" means around Rocky Point. We found the clothes and returned to the hotel. It was almost six in the morning when we opened the door to our room.

My mom greeted us as we slunk in. "Good morning!" She chirped, "Where were you boys?" I was not unprepared for this question, having already concocted an iron-proof alibi.

"We were at the beach."

"Oh, again?" My mom probed.

"Yup." I punctuated my answer by stumbling into a chair as I headed towards my room. Before I took my contact lenses out, I looked around one last time for my spirit animal. But he doesn't like half-truths either.

We left that afternoon without further incident.

Well...almost without incident.