Picture your most humiliating nightmare. Perhaps you are naked in front of a crowd. Mine might involve looking like I was 13 again. You’re thinking about it now. Mortifying, is it not? Well some poor dude in Vail lived a very imaginative nightmare. Like the only funny scene from an unbearably unfunny Jim Carrey movie, he found himself dangling upside down from a ski lift san pants with his dangly parts totally exposed in the frigid cold. Errr… here are the pictures. You can’t make this shit up.
And finally, he is showed some mercy.
Stifle your laughter, fools! The man suffered from exposure! Okay, you can giggle, because it is comedy of the absurd.
According to the press release, he was suspended for about seven minutes. NOT seven minutes in heaven, I’m sure. Pantsless man, I know nothing we, your fellow Americans, can ever do will erase the pain of this ordeal, but I propose that any time you go to a bar, your drinks are free. But you know who I feel worst for? His kid. Sitting right next to him. Hahaha. oh dear. Therapy much?
Mallory and I are usually on the same side with everything, but alas, I have found a difference between us: she supports the New York Yankees. Being that this blog is 50% mine, I will keep things balanced (but not “fair and balanced” because Fox News and their deceptive slogan makes me sick to my journalistic integrity-loving stomach) and talk about the Boston Red Sox. (Haha I love you, Mal!)
Those who know me know that I’m far more likely to know political scores than baseball scores, but come on, I do live in New England. And my journey to being a Red Sox fan is not a long one, but before you judge me and call me a fair-weather fan, hear me out. I grew up with Cal Ripken, the Orioles and Camden Yards. But upon moving to New Hampshire from Maryland my sophomore year of high school (I had one girl say to me, “New Hampshire? Isn’t that, like, up north somewhere?” Yes hun, it is.), I quickly realized that loving the Red Sox was not just a passion some people have; it is a way of life.
It didn’t come easily, but after awhile, I began to slowly develop affection for the Sox much like Belle for Beast in the Disney classic, “Beauty and the Beast”. Sorry, I had to throw that in. I spent hours watching the games with friends, a pastime I would never have done as an O’s fan. So I started off slow, just watching the games and learning the personalities of the players. Now, I have lived in NH for six years-and because of this I consider myself to be on the same level as a six-year-old child when it comes to my love for the Red Sox. My dad bought me my first Red Sox hat last year! Hooray!
But Mal and I have one thing in common despite our different sides in one of the deepest and longest of rivalries: I have never been to a game at Fenway Park, just as she’s never been to a game at Yankee Stadium. It’s humiliating, but true. I yearn for the day when I can join pretty much every other New Englander and say that I went to Fenway and saw the World Series champions.
So, if anyone wants to help me on my journey, give me a call. Take me out to the ball game. I love hot dogs. And beers.
Looks like it’s consumer reports day here at Six Words To Change the World. Wonkette reported today that a chef in Alexandria invented a beer popsicle, or “brew pop.” Intriguing, no? Of course, there are all sorts of questions about how on earth these suckers could actually taste good, along with the whole alcohol-doesn’t-freeze thing (although, if you are studying abroad in Italy and buy some sort of cheap peach vodka because your roommates are pussies who can’t drink beer, then that will freeze. Just saying…). But apparently Jeff Morales, the executive chef at Rustico in Alexandria, found a way to make it work, and then Senator Patsy Ticer of Virginia worked very hard to pass a bill making sure these things are legal. I have to hope that if I was a chef, or a senator, I would spend my days toiling away to bring beer popsicles to the masses.
So last night I went out with two of my friends from elementary school (look at the longevity there). We went to a Rockies game, which is always a good time, and then stopped by a bar to see another friend’s band play. Various events in the night got me slightly freaked out about this whole being-an-adult thing (that is, if you consider living at home, temping as a receptionist, and still making bad decisions with alarming frequency being an adult). For starters, at the baseball game we sat in front of these obnoxious kids (including boys who were wearing strangely short shorts) who felt the need to comment on every aspect of the game, and loudly say things like “Should we take the shooters now?” I was blissfully happy eating my burrito, drinking my Coors Light, and staring at the mountains, so I was more entertained than annoyed by these strangers, but from an objective perspective, I could see that they were irritating as hell. My friends and I joked about this and laughed at the antics of these young hooligans, and then I realized…that was me. And I’m not talking that was me like waaay back in college a month ago, but that was me approximately a week ago, at a different Rockies game. People like that aren’t exactly loved by the rest of the population. How long can I get away with shit like this?
After it was clear that the Rockies were going to win (take THAT, Cleveland), we went to the bar to watch my friend’s band play. The band turned out to be awesome, and it was generally a great time. One of the highlights of this little concert was watching the hammered parents of the band members acting like college students, which means they were dancing on tables and making out in corners. This seems to answer the earlier question with a resounding “You can get away with shit like this for a long time! You can get blacked out on a Tuesday and grind up on strangers even when you have children of your own!” And even though I assume, if I’m being honest with myself, that I probably will be one of those parents one day, it still doesn’t seem quite right.
So after watching these drunk adults for a few hours, my elementary school friends left and I decided against my better judgement to stay for a while. After dancing like a hippie to the next band, whose lead singer had one of the greatest Jewfros I’ve ever seen, I started thinking I should go home, and I called a cab. Because my other friends didn’t have important things like filing invoices and answering phones to do the next day, they decided to stay. Which means I had to take a cab home alone. Now, I’m not the type of person who necessarily hates being alone, but I felt self-conscious and pathetic hopping into that yellow sedan all by my lonesome. I knowww that adults do that sometimes — I’ve seen it in the movies — but I didn’t like it.
As much I want to end this bit of rambling with a Carrie Bradshaw-esque conclusion that ties this all together with a neat analogy and an “I couldn’t help but wonder,” (i.e., “And I couldn’t help but wonder…was my fear of being alone in the cab indicative of a larger fear of being alone…forever?), I really don’t know where I’m going with this. I think part of me is still devastated that a night out is no longer a trip to a campus bar where everybody knows your name, you can pay for beer on your meal plan, and you can walk home in five minutes. I’m also not entirely sure what I can do with this borderline-alcoholism that we all pick up in college now that I’m (GASP) not in college. On the weekends, when my drink of choice is still a whiskey coke in shady water bottle form, it’s easier to pretend that nothing’s changed. But this whole “work” thing, this whole “growing up” thing, is really cramping my style. Thank god for grad school.
Well, looks like the Fist Pumper got the best of my beloved Rocco. Did I cry? Yes. But did I shake off my sadness by watching YouTube clips of people falling? Yes. I think Rocco would have wanted it that way. Mr. Mediate, for making me like golf for two full days, you deserve the highest honors, and your name is carved on the winner’s trophy in my heart. (Too much?)
And for the record, PGA Tour website? When you include a “personal” section about your players, we lady fans might like to see something a little more personal than just where they went to college. Marital status? Callaway-sponsored boxers or briefs? Alcoholic beverage of choice? That sort of thing.