Nnekay.com

Once again, I find myself sitting at the reference desk, staring at my computer screen waiting for an e-mail to pop up and offer me some sort of diversion from the monotony of a Saturday at the Public Library. In walks a giant of man, standing quite near 6′7” or above. He’s in normal bum attire: blue parka stuffed in random sections, a bag popping out here, some paper falling out there, jeans clearly worn and dirty from a life under highways. His salt and pepper beard full and pronounced culminating in a tiny dreadlock holding on for dear life. A top his clearly balding head, a jaunty blue beanie pulled tightly around a massive tumor of dreadlocks protruding from the nape of his neck. With him a large duffel bag stuffed with more bags and papers.

His gait was long and smooth as he glided up to the reference desk. He eyed me with one of his beady blood shot eyes, then quickly diverted his attention to the tiny box filled with our classic golf pencils. I was surprised by his delicate fingers, but was confused by why he was shuffling around in the box for so long. Finally, he grunted, “DO YOU HAVE A PEN?” at me. His booming voice shook me, so much so, that I relinquished the pen I had been gripping immediately to him. He muttered a mild “thanks” and glided away to a back corner of the room.

About an hour later, I was deep in the middle of some dribble of a conversation with my co-worker… about the fine art of mosaics… go figure- when he appeared again. Like a ninja, he had managed  to pop into view of the reference desk without either of us noticing. There he loomed, no longer hampered by his bag, a towering pillar of man. “DO YOU HAVE A HOLE PUNCH” he bellowed.

“What the hell…” I thought to myself, but then my eyes swiftly drifted to one of his delicate hands which was gently pinching a self made paper fan. The image alone was so bizarre that I couldn’t help but stop dead in my fluster to stare at this giant bum and his remedial origami.

“WELL” he huffed, this snapped me out of my confusion, and I told him that we did not have a hole punch. He looked off to his side with a wistful gaze and proclaimed that he would go downstairs to fine one. As he melted from view, I exchanged a wide eyed look from my co worker.

“I wonder what he’s going to do with that fan?” I proclaimed.

About 20 minutes later, while I was completing an e-mail, I noticed a shadow encompassing my screen. Facing me was the man, with a huge grin plastered across his face, “I found one,” he whispered, the tiny beard dreadlock bouncing from his giddy excitement, “I found a hole punch.” He proudly pointed to his chest, and there hung his paper fan, now a necklace adoring his parka.

UC Santa Cruz is a Hippie Mill.

You may have thought little Johnny was a clean cut over achiever when you dropped him off on the first day of school, but by time winter break rolls around, he’ll show up with patchwork pants, matted hair, and smelling like stank ass. Since everyone at some point becomes semi- quasi hippified while attending UCSC, little hippie off shoots begin to form.

Bro- Hippie = I’m gonna wear my hat backwards and shotgun beers, yet I’ll be sporting a little hemp beaded necklace while doing it.

Slut-Hippie = I don’t wear make up or shave, yet my earthy smells and noodle dance get me laid at every party.

Hippie-Douche = I’m the one who does the weird shaky leg dance in the middle of the drum circle. I’m gonna touch you a lot, and when ever I can take my shirt off, I will.

Rasta- Hippie = I only have the Bob Marley Legends CD, yet I feel it’s necessary to attach beads and garbage to my dreads, say “irie” in an phony accent, smoke spliffs, and walk around with a giant stick I found outside of the dinning hall. Oh yeah, did I mention, I’m a red-headed Irish kid from Michigan?

Peruvian-Hippie = I love pronouncing all Spanish words such as, “horchata” with their true accents. I wear multicolored wool pull overs with matching hats that usually come to a point or have ear flaps. I’m currently studying how to play the wooden box in my Latin American singing group, Voces.

Slam-Hippie = All hippies create, but my poetry is deep, and vaguely ethnic. I like to carry a note pad, so I can jot down all the daily injustices I witness around me. Secretly I’m doing this to win my ex back.

Militant-Hippie = Meat is murder! Free Mumia! Save the Cave Frogs! You got a cause? I’m there! I’m gonna give you a speech while wearing my Fidel Castro hat. Almost cry to give effect, then sleep with the leader of which ever cause I’m fighting for today.

Druggie-hippie = I’m the one in the back of the room that always goes too far. If there is silence, I’m gonna breaks it with my slow giggle, and when you try to talk to me, I promise I will not make any sense.

Dealer-Hippie = You need some weed? I got you. I should have been a chemistry major, because I actually find measuring, calculating, and the whole process of drug paraphernalia extremely interesting, and I’m gonna bore you with all that talk while I get you high.

 Spoiled-Hippie = I’m secretly loaded… who am I kidding? This applied to all Hippies.

I wasn’t always a grumpy 20 something, griping about the woes of the world.

Nope. I was once a fresh faced young adult venturing into the training wheels of the “real world” or better known as college. Was I an activist on campus protesting about all the inequalities that minorities face on a daily basis… not really… Did I spend all nighters discussing the wise words of modern theorist… not intentionally. Did I wear all black, recite poetry, and consume copious amounts of coffee while strategizing about government take overs? No. I went to UC Santa Cruz and I pretty much drank and smoked pot the whole time. Yeah, probably when I was high, I would go on tirades concerning the plight of the modern black woman. I’m sure when I was drunk, I managed to recite something that could have passed as feminist poetry- but honestly, I was a nerd, and will always be a nerd meaning a normal routine would involve: do my homework, smoke some pot, watch Saved By the Bell reruns, eat a whole box of cookies, then happily go to sleep.

Wow, Nnekay… really saving the world. 

Do I regret not being more active during my college years? Yes and no… now, if I felt that I could truly make some smidge of a difference, spread some awareness- I probably would have at least attempted to create a poster or something. Yet, I attended UC Santa Cruz- bleeding heart capital of the United States… those of you whole still believe UC Berkeley is the hippie central of the world, well, you haven’t visited Berkeley aka Douchebag Commons recently, have you?

UCSC was developed during the 1960s, when Cal had raised it’s unashamed freak flag in protest to all the serious concerns at the time. As a response to all the student uproars occurring on the Berkeley campus, UCSC was deliberately decentralized… no plazas, no halls, no places to gather and create a ruckus. Also the initial contract stated that builders could not build above the beautiful redwoods. This combination created a weird mystical woody setting. You know, when you read some dweebus fantasy novel (say Lord of the Rings) and before you even start there is this wack-a-doo map plotting all the fanciful lands you’ll visit during your quest through your nerdy imagination? Yea… UCSC is sorta like that.

Turn left at the moss covered brook and you will find the Theater Department. Ohhhhh, climb over a fallen oak, cross the wooded path, and behind the thick shrubs a Bookstore will be before you!!

Since the campus was smack in the middle of a full functioning forest, I would see deer, raccoons, quails, and yes, banana slugs on a daily basis. The deer were fun at first, but after a year of them wandering around, you being to notice how mangy and boring they actually were.

The animals, the forest, and the lack of centrality is a dangerous combination for the 18-24 sect. As soon as you attempt to go to class, you ‘ll quickly learn that high heels or any type of fancy shoe will never make an appearance on your feet again. Being surrounded by nature always infuses a little granola crunch into everyone, even the most cynical urbanite. Since there is no main gathering spot on campus, you find your little niche group… but because your a curious horny co-ed each new encounter (for instance by a rotted tree stump on your way to BioChem) is a wonderful experience. Live like this for a month, and while you’re enjoying a harmless drum circle on the coast, it will dawn on you… HOLY FUCK, I’M A HIPPIE.

But not just any type of hippie. A “do nothing” hippie. Not that I’m going to blame the design of UCSC on my non activist ways… but honestly I think the decentralization of the campus kind of worked. There is no spot on campus everyone must pass through, meaning 14 different protest could be occurring at the same time on campus, and you could possible avoid every one… which actually seemed to be the case most the time. If you wanted to protest, you almost had to advertise for it, “hey animal rights protest at the quarry at 11 am.” Yet, since everyone was high it usually ended up like this,

“Did you go to the animal rights protest?”

“Nah, I got blazed on Tree 9, then saw Carly who had some brownies, then we went to the beach and fell asleep.”

Now, if they had passed by the Rally on the way to Tree 9 to get high… maybe they would have stopped for a bit to check it out. Who knows…

 Honestly, I have no real ending to this tale of UCSC, I suppose it’s just a little introduction to the many stories I wish to share about my fabulous and weird time I spent in Santa Cruz. They’ll come sporadically, but I’m sure they’ll be at least a little more cohesive and a lot more entertaining.

I’m currently involved in a tangled web of deceit.

See, I’ve been sneaking around at night with a lover that I’ve only let a few close friends know about. I feel low, greasy, and dirty after my late evening romps. It must end, and to admit my fault is the first step.

Fast Food… you filthy whore, you. How you lure me with your shiny outward appearances…tempting me from the side of the road, advertising your ease. Our rendezvous are always quick moments of passion, and when done… all I have left is a deep pit in my stomach and your nasty wrappers tossed around my car.

I try to maintain a quality relationship with Health Food, but I believe Tomato suspects, alone and neglected at the back of my fridge. I wake up with Tea, pretending things are great, gloating to my peers about the antioxidants we share, when actually all I desire is a rich seedy chug of Coffee swirling with creamer, sugar, and other naughty bits of smut. I share pleasant afternoons of reading and crocheting with a sharply dressed Sandwich, but after work I’m back in the sultry arms of my Fried Chicken Biscuit listening to wild music and spilling seasoned fries down my throat with abandon. By the time I get home, I can’t even look Water in the face.

I played with the idea of giving it all up for Fast Food, running away to fully enjoy the ‘junk lifestyle’. Yet, right when I pack my bag, Fast Food decides to weigh me down with useless glut, causing my heart to burn, my stomach to ache, and endless humiliating nights crying on the toilet.

I proclaim that I cannot keep living this way, and run (heaving greatly) to my dutiful Heath Food; always waiting, always there. Once reunited, we stroll through the grocery store happy to be back in each others arms, but my wandering eye always lingers a little to long on the scantily clad hot dogs, tempting me to the troubles of my past.

It’s an uphill battle, but I must go at it alone, because I know in my darkest hour, most inebriated moments, Fast Food will sneak back into my life.  I just hope that someday, I will develop enough willpower to end this torrid affair once and for all.

I recently attached about a foot of extra hair to my head.

I’m not ashamed, it’s obvious… one minute I had shoulder-length crazy hair, then the next, I’m sporting braids down my back. To pretend that this is my actual hair is insanity, not to mention, it looks and feels like Barbie hair. Which isn’t bad, just not real.

When I was in high school and a little bit in college, I sported the braided look. Whenever I decided to take out the braids, I was met with two equally ridiculous exclamations: “Oh my god. You cut your hair!” from those who didn’t realize the raggedy barbie braids were not my own, and ” wow, I didn’t know your hair was so long” from those who knew I was sporting some fake follicles.

Both were annoying.

Yet, the most insane were the comments on how gross fake hair supposedly was. The hushed, “is that fake?” or the “why would you do that? You have hair,” and lastly the rare but definitely present, “oh… ewww… that’s not reeaaal?!” Thankfully, fake hair has become more acceptable outside of the black lady community, having Tyra Banks to thank for. She’s pretty much slapped a weave on anyone and everyone involved in Top Model. Alas, the stigma is still here.

Because of my latest change of ‘do, I’ve become hyper aware of the fake/not fake dichotomy of our society. To promote ones appearance by “tweaking” it, has become the norm. Nobody flinches when someone mentions they’ve received a tan, teeth whitening, braces, contacts, or hair coloring. No longer is there an out cry when someone gets a weave, nose job, boob job, Botox,  or liposuction. Just hushed mur-muring over the sticker price one pays for these pricey investments. Unfortunately, the backlash of the acceptance of cosmetic alteration, is the placement of natural beauty on an even higher pedestal than before.

Previous to hair extensions, I wore my hair natural in a large mess of structured craziness. I would spend hours twisting, molding, and pinning it, to get the desired, “I don’t really give a fuck” look. Now if I left my hair unattended directly out of the shower, it would slowly shrink into a tightly wound knot clinging for dear life on my noggin. So to say that my hair was “natural” was stretching the truth, but since I didn’t have any chemical treatment, I got away with the term. While I wore this hair style, I received a multitude of compliments. The ones that always disturbed me, would come from men exclaiming how wonderful it was that I didn’t attach all that “fake crap” to my head. This would bug me, because I knew for most men the desired look would be long luxurious hair on women. Which for the majority of black women, including myself, is an unattainable goal. Weave-wearing ladies are just trying to adhere to this ridiculous standard of beauty, and for this, they receive punishment? It seemed like an oxymoron to receive compliments on my “natural” hair when the appearance was just as false as it would be if I were wearing a giant beehive wig. Granted I wasn’t sporting chestnut waves cascading down my back, but I highly doubt any of them would be paying me the time of day if my hair were in it’s sad matted state.

The hard fact of the matter is, no one is naturally beautiful. Well, I’ll back track… there is the slight possibility that someone out there has a ray of sunshine gleaming from their ass, but for the rest of us… we need some help. We shave unwanted hair, we shape our eyebrows, we apply make up, we use lotions, we wear cologne, we clip and paint our nails, we pop pimples, we use hair gel… the list can go on and on. If at one point in your life you thought you were semi-quasi-teenie-tiny little bit attractive… you did something to alter your appearance. If we didn’t, we’d all be a bunch of stinky, hairy, snaggle tooth wildebeest running wild through the streets.

So where is the line drawn? Perhaps when too much is done? Or as long as it looks good it’s acceptable?

Who knows… most thoughts on outward appearances end all warm and snugly, rejoicing in the beauty of the inside. As wonderful as this thought is, it’s ridiculous. Humans are physical by nature, even Ray Charles, blind as a bat, liked his women to have “thin wrist”. I believe the only way for our obsession with cosmetic tweaking to wane, is to broaden the scope of what is considered attractive. That way we’ll give people a chance to actually see, believe, and think of themselves as naturally beautiful.

Since I work at a college library, I enjoy a spring break. As with most jobs, the day back after a vacation is tough titties, but to work at a library there is a certain mental space one must enter enorder to maintain some form of sanity.

It’s a wonder how anything in human society ever gets done, because honestly, I have lost a lot (A LOT) of faith in humanity. So to elaborate on a little of what I’m currently enduring here at the reference desk, I will describe in highlighted vignettes what is presently occurring in my community college library.

Tool and Tool Jr.

At most places where people come to either buy things or hang out, a group of regulars develop. There are plenty of nice, pleasant patrons, but for the most part the annoying jerk regulars are the ones that leave the lasting impression (unfortunately). At my library there is a man, who comes to use the computer during the evening hours. He’ll be on the computer for hours upon hours, giggling to himself, talking on his cell phone, listening to loud music which pours from his headphones, and sloppily chew on some sort of food. I’m sure there are a bunch of people who commit these minor library crimes, yet this tool decides to do all of this at the computer directly next to my desk. Which is odd, because if you wanted to get away with doing things that are generally not allowed in the library, wouldn’t you think to find a computer which is tucked away in a corner and out of the librarian’s eye sight? Today Sir Trashy has brought a younger version of himself, now I’m not sure if Asshole Junior is his son, but he’s certainly following in the foot steps to becoming a wart on societies side. Both clad in loose stained T-shirts, they stand staring into the same computer screen, talking and giggling loudly. Now, I became a librarian to NOT shush people. I hate doing that, I’m not a police officer, and I like to give people the benefit of the doubt that they can behave themselves in a library. Which, I find is constantly proven wrong. During these awful circumstances, I wait until another student complains to me about the noise-  currently I haven’t had any complaints, and my pot is starting to boil. Now if they were loudly studying or working on some sort of project, I would be less infuriated, but no- they are looking at something inappropriate for a man in his 40s to be looking at for a kid in his ‘tweens. How do I know this? Let me give you a selection of phrases I have heard from the mouth of the child:

“Fuck! You tapped that?!”

“Awww hell no, she’s ugly…”

“Shiiiit….”

Now, it’s a little unnerving to hear a 12-13 years exclaim these things to someone who may very well be his father. Yet, these folks sorta give me the willies, in a I’m gonna get you in a deep south swamp, kind of way. Like I stated previously, I do like to give people the benefit of the doubt, but the respect that I’ve received from this particular man, has allowed me to come to the conclusion that, I’m probably referred to an n-word, when I’m out of earshot. Now, I reeeaaaaaally don’t want to get beat up by hill billies when I leave work, so I try to keep it civil. Every evening when they scuttle out the entrance, I breath a sigh of relief… till the next evening.

Jam Sess

Pop Quiz: When is it appropriate to play ones guitar in the lobby of a library?

A) In the afternoon, when all the hot chicks can come and see me.

B) In the Morning, it’s when I can wake people up with my gentle strums

C) Whenever the fuck I want, because I’m PUNKRAWK

D) Never, you showoff asshole.

Let me give you a second to contemplate. DING! I know, C looks rather appealing, but I’m gonna give you a clue, it’s the letter the word DOUCHE start with. Which you are, if you play your guitar in the library. Harsh, I know, but really should I tip toe around this issue? Currently, there is a guy strumming away at his electric guitar. Now, it isn’t plugged in, but it’s not like it isn’t making noise. Since this just happens to be a LIBRARY, it just so happens that this particular building is QUIET. Due to these facts, the clicks, and the thumps, and the small dingy chords come across clearly through out the building. Creating the feel that there is a tiny rodent house band jamming away in the middle of the library. Thanks guitar guy! Now, Mr. Guitar I know your game… you plopped yourself down in the middle of the library wearing that cool old man golf cap, so you can look bad ass and attract some ladies. Am I right? No? You’re a liar then. Okay, so you’re a musician and you want to practice your craft a little bit, well guess what? This is a college, and we have a music program, with rooms you can noodle and doodle on your damn guitar till your fingers are broken nubs. You can also go out into the middle of the quad and attract all the hot community college womenz till your heart desires, but instead you must seek out the most centralized spot in the quietest building on campus.

For this you get the D-Bag award of the day.

Now at least have you attracted any hot co-ed campus rock chicks? Nope, you got yourself dudes, who, like yourself, enjoy rocking out, equipped with varying degrees of accessories (dyed goatees, silver ball necklaces, fingerless gloves) ya’ll looked as if you dived head first into a pond of Hot Topic. Just a hint, 1996 was over 10 years ago.

With each tiny riff, an uproar of the pleased dude grumble erupts. I got another hint: girls aren’t really into the “pleased dude grumble”.  So after I kindly tell you to quiet down, and you give me the “angry dude grumble” I highly suggest washing, throwing away your jean shorts, and getting a practice room… trust me, this advice is golden.

Porn Guy

I hate you.

Really I do. There is absolutely no reason for you to be looking at porn in public. It makes you look like a skeez, and it makes the rest of us feel gross and weird. People look at porn, that’s fine. People also have sex, take poops, and sing really badly to Donna Summers, does mean that they do it in the middle of the library? No. The library should be a place to study- and yes, I know that the guy to your right is looking at a dance crew on YouTube, and and the girl to your left is making her MySpace profile even more sparkly, but really… porn mixed with daylight, and a good dose of public, equals a rancid combination. If you must look at porn in public… go nasty out in your local public library, because they can’t stop you.  Yet, here’s what always mystifies me,  whenever I go to kick one of you out, without missing a beat, I am thanked.

“You can’t look at that”

“Thank You”

Mr. Porn Guy… you’re welcome, just not in my library.

Below is a letter I received, I have changed nothing, except for the name, to respect this guy’s privacy. Enjoy.

FAB-U-LUS SMILE :-)

Hiiii Miss Awesome :-)

You know when you smile your whole face lights up. So that means you should smile all the time! :D

You seem like a cooool woman, thought I’d stop by and say Hiiii.

You should write meeee, because I am one of the coooolest guys you’ll ever meet! OK I’m tooting my own horn here, Ha Ha! If you want to write me back then that’s cooool, otherwise the world will not end tomorrow if you’re not interested.

Soooo… Never stop smiling, laughing, and having FUN in life! That’s what I do!! Life isn’t worth living with out going on an adventure or two!

Take care, Hugs. Sweeeeeeet Dreams!

PS: Sounds like you would love to laugh, I mean who doesn’t. I have a definite sense of humor! So here’s a couple of funny jokes for you! ENJOY!!

Highway Patrolman

A highway patrolman pulled alongside a speeding car on the freeway. Glancing at the driver, he was astounded to see a blonde behind the wheel knitting!

Realizing that she was oblivious to his flashing lights and siren, the trooper cranked down his window, turned on his bullhorn, and yelled, PULLOVER!”

“NO,” the blonde yelled back, “IT’S A SCARF!”

The Bear and the Rabbit

One day in the great forest a magical frog was walking down to a water hole. This forest was so big that the frog had never seen another animal in all his life. By chance today a bear was chasing after a rabbit to have for dinner.

The frog called for the two to stop. The frog said, “Because you are the only two animals I have seen, I will grant you both three wishes…Bear, you go first.” The bear thought for a minute, and being the male he was said, “I wish for all the bears in this forest, besides me, to be female.”

For his wish, the rabbit asked for a crash helmet, and immediately put it on. The bear was amazed at the stupidity of the rabbit wasting his wish like that.

It was the bear’s second turn for a wish. “Well, I wish that all the bears in the next forest were female as well.”

Rabbit asked for a motorcycle and immediately hopped on it and gunned the engine. The bear was shocked that the rabbit was asking for these stupid things, after all, he could have asked for money and bought the motorcycle.

For the last wish the bear thought for a while and then said, “I wish that all the bears in the world, besides me, were female.”

The rabbit grinned, gunned the engine, and said, “I wish that the bear was gay…”

So I’m inside, trying my hardest my to get my buzz on.

Since the club only has a smattering of homely people cuddled together in their respective corners of the club, I have full access to the bar. This is the best time to pounce, because trying to get a drink after 11:30, requires elbows, tittie flashing, and some sort of magic to catch the bartender’s attention through the throngs of assholes posturing at the counter. So I double up.

At normal bars, the bartender is a jolly happy lady/man who will falsely smile in your face in order to get the best tips available for their beer pouring skills. Not at Club-Clubs: they are the jerkiest of jerk-jerks this side of the Mississippi. There must be some sort of contract they sign upon hiring,

“I _______, at all times must act like a douche-y douche, or my tips for the night will be withheld.”

It’s a wonder that these jackasses get tipped at all, with all the smirking and sneering, and general sense of being holier than thou. Yet, for some reason after I attained my obligatory rum and coke, I tipped, though I could have sworn the bartender called me an idiot under his breath.

After downing my drink, I glanced around the slowly filling club. The ‘raver’ dorks, had found a corner, which was pulsing with various strings of glow sticks that kept appearing. They had them around their necks, dangling from their heads, in their hands, and around their waists; it looked like the set of Tron barfed on the mathletes team from your high school.

Needless to say, it was not a pretty site. Especially when the hot people started to show up.

Ahh the hot people, so coked out and precious.

This particular night there was a theme, shirt dresses. I shouldn’t even call them ‘dresses’, because it basically appeared as if these ladies, globed on their make- up, poofed up their hair, delicately strapped on their nose bleed inducing pumps, and left the house forgetting to put on their pants. Giant, baggy, off the shoulder shirts; I’ll call them mini-skirt muu-muus. Only someone who thought that they were “sooo fuckn’ cool” would wear it, yea it was that ridiculous, and there were a ton of these bitches running around.

After, finally catching a ride on the buzz-express, I decided it was time to dance. People dance at Club-Clubs, and this is one of the best parts- granted there is the viewing circle of old dudes on the side (doing a slight two step), but for the most part, a giant mass of sweat, hair products, and Axe body spray form in the center of the dance floor. I danced, and I danced a LOT, thankfully no one tried to sneak attack my booty. Luckily the douches at Club-Clubs have a higher notion of personal space, which is not the case at Top 40 dance clubs, where everybody’s booty is free for the taking.

As the night was revving up, I found myself winding down, flopping on any available couch a messy clump of deflated hair and melty make up. I looked over to my right to check on the raver dorks who had been going strong the whole night. I found myself slightly amazed by their shear inhibition, in a club full of copy cat fashions, and extreme desires to be trendy they simply just wanted to dance (with glow sticks). At first, people would walk by giggling at the insanity of their dated dancing desires, but as I gathered my coat getting ready to leave into the cold and wonderful night air, I noticed they had accumulated a crowd of mini muu-muus, not to mock them, but to join in on all the glow stick fun. Even though I had found myself deeply annoyed with both set of groups- there was something rather pleasant about watching two separate types of people, I would have never pegged to mesh, dance together as if they had been friends all along.

So I tend to go out a lot.

Lately, it seems as though I’ve been trying to squeeze every last breath of fun out my remaining youth. So much so, that sometimes I worry that I’ll wake up a dried 40 year old, with only the re-admittance stamp from the previous night at the club to show for myself.

Then I realize that I’m not that much of a Club Hag.

Notice how I wrote, “not that much” probably the only things that separates me from the Club Hags are: a ton of hair spray, cocaine, and fake boobs. I would say bad fashion, but after inspecting a variety of past clothing choices, I’m going to remain slient on that one. Because of my partying ways, I’ve been deep in the trenches of a variety of clubs, and they’re all basically the same- a place to look cool and get laid. It’s the reason some clubs have photographers, everybody wants to be one of the hot people featured in their fancy smantzy dance shots- unfortunately I tend to look like I’ve either had a seisure or peed my pants when someone takes a candid of me dancing.

In the realm of nightlife there are a variety of clubs:

Top 40: For those of you who want to get humped by thugs in white t-shirts, or fondled by foreginers.

Reggae: If you want a guy with dreadlocks to sneak attack your booty with some grinding action.

80s: If watching circles of fat girls sing to their favorite hits is your thing.

Punk: Let’s beat each other up while running in a circle!!

Indie/rock/alterntive: I can’t see, because my hair is in my face, this place is really dark, people are smoking (isn’t this california?), and my ironic fake glasses keep fogging.

Last night, I ventured to a type of club I hardly ever go to; A Club-Club. Oh, you’ve seen the glossy flyers of half naked ladies positioned every so slutty, with glittery writing behind them, “CLUB SAXXX presents Gemini DanceScapes…” They always feature some world renound DJ you’ve never heard of, and promise something free-ish if you’re a lady before 10pm.

Yea… I went to that type of club. Below is an account of my experience.

I showed up at Club Slide around 9:30. Like most of these venues, if you show up early enough they make you wait in line. Honestly, there’s no reason for this, except to fabricate the popularity the club. Once inside, it’s a bunch of awkward skinny guys and homely ladies sitting on opposite sides of the vaccant club waiting for some action to get started. Hot people show up around 11… because hot people don’t have their act together in real life. I was alone, and a touch annoyed that I had to wait in line by myself since my friends had yet to arrive. I was already done with texting everyone that I could, and couldn’t think of any more tactics to look busy/disinterested as many find they must do when they are standing alone in a social situation. I shoved my hands in my pockets and decided to take a look around me. Directly ahead was a teenie tiny girl hoisting herself in a red corset. Two of her guy friends promptly started to help with the tugging, as she giggled in the spectacle of male delight. Mind you, I was here early… meaning I was dealing with the B-Team in attractiveness. So she was basically coasting on the fact that she: 1. had long hair (albeit stringy) 2. wore a ton ‘o make up & 3. the aforementioned corset.

As the bell of the ball contiued to revel in her self made showcase, I heard a very dejected voice say, “wow looks like people are really dressing up for this rave.” I casually glanced behind me to find a multi gendered- multi raced contingent of dorks. I have much love and appreciation for dorks… being one myself, but my respect goes out the window, when dorks not only proclaim their dorkiness, they thrust it in people’s faces. Example? That guy with a ponytail who helped you with your computer virus, but sneered at your inablility to understand HTML code, while wearing a Nintendo shirt that barely covered his belly. Just because I know all the lyrics to “Dance Magic Dance” from the Laybrinth doesn’t mean that I’m going to quote it… that will just make me look like an ass, and you uncomfortable.

Obviously, feeling slightly out of place, the three guy-two girl group looked at the corset fiasco ahead of me. As a response to the statement previously uttered by one of the ladydorks, ladydork number 2 (who was wearing a school girl outfit, complete with plaid skirt, white shirt, and tie) said, “Who cares! We look good anyway!” To which even the dudedorks laughed at.

Finally my friends showed up, we entered the club, got drinks and stood in our respective circles, and waited for the crowd to arrive and our buzz to kick in.

The majority of my family lives on the east coast, which gave me cool points as a little kid, because I, unlike many of my Bay Area bound friends, had seen snow. Meaning, I had looked at it from the inside of a house, and possibly stepped on it while running from the door to the car.  I do recall touching it a few times and realizing that snow was cold and wet, therefore not as amazing as I thought it to be.

Due to these fleeting experiences, I thought I was hot shit and figured, when I was 12, that winter sports were probably up my alley. I decided to take an extracurricular class trip to the snow, because, “seriously, how hard could skiing and making new friends be?”

Really hard.

No one would talk to me on the bus, and I spent the majority of the day with my feet tangled and in the air. This was the day I realized that puberty had set in- and yes, I was now official awkward, both in body and personality. Needless to say, I’ve block a good portion of this day out of my memory. All that exist now are vignettes of horror.

Flash forward fourteen years…I’m still awkward, but not ‘tween awkward, and I have friends who will talk to me (thank the lord). A few of these friends invite me up for a week-end in the snow, and I figure- I got two of the major problems solved from that freak show of a snow trip 14 years ago… so why the hell not, let’s do it.

As we pulled up to the slopes, I couldn’t help but feel like I stepped right into Whoville. The snow peaked mountains, the tiny ski lifts floating through “happy little trees” as my favorite TV artist, Bob Ross would say, and the Dr. Seuss like ridiculousness of snow sport clothing. I wore a plaid hot pink hat, thinking I would be funny, and also to help locate my broken icicle body if I happened to biff into the great beyond. Turns out, I fit right in… if it was fuzzy- people were wearing it. If it was plaid and neon- people were wearing it. If it was a dumb looking jester hat with bells- people were wearing it. I even saw some guy wearing a garbage bag- which made the same amount of sense the jester hat did… none.

After I got my gear, I stood out by the snow waiting for my friends to arrive. Standing with my snowboard and RayBan sunglasses, I felt cool, especially since my snowboarding boots allowed me to walk semi-normally compared to the robot shuffle the skiers where maneuvering with theirs. “I could so do this.” I thought while looking at all the people of various age groups easily slip into their skis or snowboards and take off towards the line of a near by ski lift. When my friends finally came out with their gear in hand, we headed to a patch of empty snow, and proceeded to put on our snowboards. I flopped my board on the ground and finally got a look at the giant weird contraption- then it sunk in: I had to attach my feet to this. How the hell would I get around when both feet were buckled into this flat giant skateboard with no wheels? I quickly learned you strap one foot in and sorta shuffled yourself in a Rainman type of walk to the line of the ski lift. I was reminded of a classmate of mine, who’s feet would turn pigeoned toed while he sucked on his sleeve… I had to square dance with him and his sloppy sleeve in the second grade.

Before actually getting on the slope, I decided that it would be a good idea just to see what it would feel like to attach both feet to the board and slide down a hill, which was acually more like a mound. While my friends waited at the “bottom” I stood, feeling very precarious… “Just GO!” they said. My foot shook, but because it was strapped into a boot which was strapped onto a board which was in turn strapped to my other foot, my knee began to spasm. “GO… you’re gonna fall, so just get it out of the WAY!” Knowing that you are going to fall is a weird feeling… it’s almost like paying for someone to punch you, there is a light thrill, but in the end it’s a loose-loose situation. So I finally got over myself, managed to slowly shuffle my giant snowfoot off the ledge of the mound and abruptly fell flat on my ass. Strangely my friends applauded me- conensidely I felt mildly retarded and totally accomplished. I released one foot and step dragged my snowboard- Igor style- to the ski lift.

The ski lift is a flimsy ridiculous contraption. First you have to hustle to get to a red line where the lift essentially scoops you up. Hustling with a 5 foot board connected to your left foot sucks. At this particular place, the ski lifts consisted of a bench attached to a pole attached to a wire which brings you to the top of whatever hill you want to fling yourself down. No buckles… no belts… NO HANDLE BARS…. just you, your freak ass clothing, and a giant flat board glued to your left foot, weighing you down awkwardly as you float miles above the ground. It would be beautiful, it would be relaxing, it could be a wonderful little Whoville ride, if it weren’t for that tiny little voice calmly saying, “hey, if you shift a little to the right… you could die a horrible winter wonderland death!”

As I reached the end of my joy ride, I realized I had to get off this thing, and I wasn’t quite sure how. My friends had instructed me that this would possibly be the hardest part of my snowboarding experience- so to be prepared to fall. I had already fallen on the mound… so I thought, “This can’t be that bad,” as I reached the platform. Thinking the bench would slow or stop allowing me to hobble off and casually reattach my snowfoot, I was in complete shock when I came to the realization that the ski lift waits for no one. The platform was under the bench, I put my loose foot on the board, I prepared myself to glide effortlessly down the mild slope off the platform to the embankment. I stood up on the board, felt it move, I wobbled like some jelly rag doll, my arms in the air, my mouth a gape, and I fell. I fell flat on my face. Realizing I was in the direct way of other ski lift bunnies, I freaked, where am I going to go! Gathering myself to my hands and knees, I scooted/crawled my way to where my other friends where waiting. In my head all I could hear was “AHHHHHHHH!” As I struggled to get out of dangers way. I think I played it cool.

I got to the edge of the slope, and collapsed… already I was spent, and I hadn’t even started to snowboard yet. I put on my snowfoot, accomplished a wobbly stand, and looked at the first hill I had to conquer. Granted we were on the weenie puff-puff slope, that various children were sailing down practically with their eyes closed, but to me- it looked like the Thunderdome… My friends slowly took off, and shouted, “You can do it!!!!” to me as I stood in the slight breeze staring at the journey I was about to embark on.

We don’t need another heeeeeroooo…

I decided, that I fell on the mound and survived being flung from the ski lift, “what the hell…how hard could this be?” I scooted my snowfoot slightly forward and fell on my ass. “Ooookay… let’s get up and try that again.” I coaxed my snowfoot to the edge of the hill, teetered a little bit and proceeded to fall, not snowboard down the first section of the slope.

“Yay! Good job!!! You did it!!” I have to give my friends credit, they have the patience of fasting monks. This continued for a little bit… slide-fall on ass- slide-fall on face-slide-fall on ass, again. I thought that this was pretty much how my day would consist until, during one wobbly stand, I took off without completely erecting myself, and was promptly flung at the rate of a bullet train down the hill towards the right, which was a snowy embankment… something I could possibly have gotten stuck in the rest of the day. I stopped the only way I could, I leaned back and fell on my increasingly sore behind. I tried to get back up, but slid in the wrong direction. I started to crab shuffle myself towards the center of the slope- when I got to a flat enough area, I slowly stood and slid back to where I was before. “FUUCK.” I thought as I sat, not having a clue what to do with myself, giant snowfoot, and goofy pink plaid hat…

Having told my friends not to wait, because I had become a cocky bastard during my slide/fall phase… I was now left alone. A fool on a hill… surrounded by a flurry of fast moving babies… BABIES on skis. “jerkbabies” I thought to myself as I contemplated how to get out of this predicament. By some sick twist of the alignment of the stars two groups of friends managed to get on parallel ski lifts at the same time. One group on one side of the slope I was planted and the other on the opposite. Both groups spotted my pink plaid hat, and both groups simontaneously started to scream my name and wave. During most circumstances, I would feel like the most popular princess at the ball, and would have provided a pleasant little party wave- not this time. I was in full pout, threw some ice, and crossed my arms like some jack ass 9 year old in detention. My thankless friends shouted encouragements… and continued on their way. I sat, and sat, and pondered until finally one of the groups managed to find me. They guided me down, and strangely… probably because of the high altitude, I decided to have another go at the slope. You know what? It was better, yea I fell on my ass and boobies the majority of the way down- but this time it felt less like a fall and more like a weird half stepchild version of snowboarding- which prompted me to go a third time. The third time I discovered I could actually semi control the board- and when I reached the bottom, I managed to stop without falling. I pumped my arms in the air and screamed, “I DID IT!”

We don’t need another heeeeeeeerooo!

Because of the pumping I fell, but I still felt accomplished. While I was getting up, I noticed a small man wearing a Winnie the Pooh (what is a “pooh”, exactly?) beanie. He looked at me and in a very nasally voice asked, “Whhhhy would annny one want to snowboard?!” I was never a skater, I never road a surfboard, but at that very moment I felt connected to my extreme sport brethren, I turned to Mr. Pooh and said,

“I do… and I love it, ok?” I unstrapped my foot, and hobble-slid to the line of the lift for a fourth run of the slope.

When I got to the ski lift, the operator chick, looked at me and said, “you look tired… you’re going again?!” First of all, I hate it when strangers tell you that “you look tired” it’s basically saying, “hey buddy, you look like a pile of shit,” and second, I have no idea how she could tell under my pink plaid hat and giant black RayBan glasses. I casually thought, “whatever bitch…” smiled, and let the ski lift fling me to the top of the mountain. When I started my way down, I realized that I was in fact, tired. It was getting increasingly harder to get up, and my ass… my ass had seen better days. After falling twice on my face, and twisting my ankle I decided, I was reaching my limit. Then, it happened. I had hit a particularly slick patch of snow, and was flying down the hill at an incredible death defying rate. My arms started to flail and I was rapidly loosing the teeny bit of control I had managed to learn the past three runs of the slope. I did what I knew best, and forced a fall, which landed me directly on the tip of my already mistreated tailbone. Snow kicked up in the air, and a shock wave travelled from my butthole to the roof of my mouth, causing black dots to flash in my eyesight. This fall was bad… so bad I wouldn’t have been shocked it I got up and had to shake my detached anus out of the bottom of my pants leg. I sat there in shock for a minute or two… I found myself scared of falling on my broken butt again. Then I realized, nobody is making me snowboard the rest of the way down. So I figured, fuck it, detached my giant snowfoot, and proceed to walk down the rest of the mountain. I felt a little bit like a rebel in a pink hat as I marched my way to the lodge for a well deserved drink.

I woke up the next morning with my body on fire… but amid the searing pain my joints were enduring I smiled and delighted in the thought that I, for a tiny little moment in time, had managed to pull off some snowboarding swagger.