Parks and Wreck

About a week ago, I decided I should go for a walk in a park I had never been to before. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I had "yelped" this park prior to visiting it. The HORRIFIC reviews it received only enticed me. I became curious as to whether a place as terrible as the one described by the Yelpers could actually exist.

It does.

Immediately upon arriving at this "park," I noted that the "grass" was brown and the "water" was the color grass should be. The severely destroyed and uneven walking path would have mangled the wheels on my rollerblades (a very important detail I always scope out when exploring a new park.)  Yelp had also mentioned that there would be homeless people a plenty but I would hardly call them homeless considering the nice set ups they had going on what with tents and furniture and what not. More like permanent park residents.


***Side note: there was this adorable, shy little turtle. So the place has that going for it. ------->

After snapping up a photo of that preciousness, I continued hesitantly around the lake. By the way, there is only ONE lake despite being named "TWIN Lakes Freedom Park." Talk about a let down. That's only 50% of what I was promised!

I was wallowing in my disappointment when all of a sudden, a man began to approach me at a much quicker pace than is socially acceptable for a strange man to approach a female alone in a park.

"Can I ask you a question?" he said, trying to catch up to me.

I wondered to myself, ever so briefly, whether there was a question in the world I would want to be asked by him.

There's not.

"No," I replied, still briskly walking in the opposite direction.

"Just one question!" he was not dissuaded.

"I don't have any money!" I exclaimed, my walk turning into a jog.

He sped up his pace to match mine. "That's not what I was gonna ask. I was gonna ask if you'd let me buy you a drink."

"No, thanks." Running now. (It should be noted that it is not often that I turn down free alcohol.)

"Aw, c'mon! I don't see no ring on your finger!" he said.

"Good point. Pick me up at 7," I didn't say.

Looking back on it, this poor guy was probably just a parolee who wanted to see what a foot pursuit was like from this new perspective. Perhaps it is the fact that this place is where they turn felons loose that puts the "Freedom" in "Twin Lakes Freedom Park".... But that's neither here nor there.

What WAS there was "Park Patrol"! The cute little wanna-be cop car zoomed up right in front of us, as if out of some terribly boring film where this constituted an action scene.

"Is this guy bothering you?" Mr. Park Patrol asked me.

I thought the answer was pretty obvious based on the fact that I was being CHASED. So as not to offend my suitor/murderer who was still several paces behind me, I responded non-verbally. My facial expression said to Mr. Park Patrol, "YES I AM BEING BOTHERED" and then my mouth said to him, "This isn't a very nice park...." and then my feet walked the hell out of there.

When I had gotten at least half a mile away, I was still looking over my shoulder and keeping up a quick pace. I was suddenly startled when the driver of a passing vehicle yelled out to me because I was 97% certain that I was about to become the victim of a drive by. Let me tell you, it is in that brief moment just after thinking you are going to be shot dead that having drinks with a creepy man seems preeeeeetty tolerable. But I didn't die! It was just Mr. Park Patrol yelling out his window like a fool, assuring me that he "took care of everything" back at the park. Whatever that means, I care less than I know. But good job, Mr. Park Patrol. Saving the world one dateless, ringless woman at a time.

You can rest assured that when I write up my Yelp review, I'll merely be posting a link to this very blog post.

Twin Lakes Freedom Park is NOT Leslie Knope approved. 

Sometimes life sucks. But SOMETIMES you see Full House stars at hick bars.

You know how on Full House, Uncle Jesse is in that band "Jesse and the Rippers"? Of course you do. Well, a few months back, I went with some people to this old fogey bar called Cowboy Country over in Long Beach. We're standing in line outside and hear a bunch of the people walking out talking about John Stamos. "Odd topic of conversation for so many people to coincidentally have chosen at this random location," I mull silently to myself. And then we walk inside where, low and behold, John Stamos is playing the drums. Ahh... so that's why...

 

John Stamos

                                  The Neil Morrow Band









Since I was practically raised in that health-and-fire-code-breaking full house alongside those Tanners, this definitely goes down as one of the top 8 greatest moments of my life.

<-----Thanks to that night, Jesse Katsopolis and I are like this.


Highlights of the evening include:

-The lead vocalist/keyboardist breaking out into the Full House theme song as well as "Jesse's Girl" (much to Stamos' chagrin).

-The fact that the rest of my group had to point out to one of our friends which one John Stamos was. (WHAT?!)

-The fact that one of us had the knowledge and insight to realize that it would be a grave mistake to exit the bar without having gotten a photograph with Mr. Stamos. Though this did require a bold and daring dash onstage during the set, it did result in the photograph that he himself POSED for whilst drumming along. It also resulted in security escorting us out of the building... but that was to be expected.

Elise (the brilliant stage-bombing mastermind), Stamos, and myself. We're the three best friends that anybody could have. Obvi. (Do you love how I had to blow the picture up to EXTRA large size for you to even remotely identify him? Haters gonna hate.)

So the next day, I told one of my roommates about this little escapade. She laughed... and then went on to tell me that, several weeks earlier, she had been sitting in an airport in Europe next to Mr. T, kindly offering him her Tide-To-Go pen when he spilled his beverage all over himself.

She wins...

...for now.

Late night. Come home. Work sucks. I know.

"Sometimes you just have to suck it up."

^ The sentiment I often have to remind myself of, though I'm growing exceedingly bad at disguising my disdain for my current job.

"JUST THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS."

^ The idea I usually end up meditating on. I'd love to say I don't need to do this until a few hours in, or even near the end of my shift. But, unfortunately, this struggle begins almost immediately upon walking through the door.

All that aside, I recently had a fond memory of someone who inspired me to make the best of things at a job you don't enjoy.

SURFER'S PARADISE, QUEENSLAND

INT. HOTEL ELEVATOR- DAY

CARSTY enters the ELEVATOR to find MAINTENANCE MAN with a large cart filled with tools and supplies. At the next floor, a group consisting of several quite intoxicated couples joins them. They ride down in silence for a few floors. Upon noticing a tennis ball included on MAINTENANCE MAN'S cart of tools, CARSTY decides to break the awkward barrier and try to get a laugh out of the DRUNKIES.

CARSTY

(with extreme enthusiasm, animatedly gesturing towards cart)

One of these things doesn't belong!

Drunkies stare blankly. Crickets can be heard from off screen.

MAINTENANCE MAN

(melancholy)

Yeah, sometimes this job can get really boring...

(beat)

And I also have these!

He pulls several bouncy balls out of his pocket.

CARSTY and DRUNKIES laugh.

  

And that's how the game is played, my friends. Even middle aged hotel maintenance men don't take life too seriously. Blogging at work has become my bouncy ball. And you may have noticed that I've been bouncing that ball a lot lately...


Six. More. Weeks.

Would YOU have a drink with you?

Julia Styles shares a drink with Julia Styles.

  


This commercial provokes my thoughts.

"Would you have a drink with you?"

Weh-heh-ell! That's something to think about. But I cannot answer the question without first asking a series of seemingly related yet equally unnecessary ones. As a student in the fine field of journalism, I must whip out the WHO, WHAT, WHERE, WHEN, WHY, and HOWs:






Who is going to pay the tab-- me or me?
Who is going to believe me when I tell them about this later?
What am I going to talk about with myself?
What should I both wear?
Where am I going to go?
When is this little date going to go down?
When should we conclude this creepy rendezvous?
Why should I attempt such an unusual out of body experience?
How will I get back into one body afterwards?
 
Nevermind. This question is obviously way too involved for any one person to figure out by themselves. It's actually almost outrageous enough to be something that I could only discuss with another me... over drinks.
 
I'll give you a good question. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck would chuck wood? Riddle me that, Stoli Vodka.
 
I win. You can put it on the booooard...YES!
 
Despite this victory, in the grand scheme of things, the score is still something like
 
Carsten- 1
Vodka- 1,485
 
 
 
But that's neither here nor th-- Oh, forget it. I need a drink.*




*Please resist the urge to conclude that this post was written after or during the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol. Everything written here was done so under wholly sober conditions. Believe it. Don't believe it. It's your life.

The List

I want to talk about picking up chicks. I want to talk about this because so many guys seem to need help.

I shall now impart an inspiring anecdote.

One evening this summer, a girlfriend and I were sitting at Plymouth, a rooftop bar in Chicago. There happened to be a Cubs/Phillies game on TV which was both convenient and coincidental, me being from Chicago and Sarah, from Philly.

It was also quite convenient that our bartender was absolutely gorgeous. All I remember about him was that he was 28, born and raised in the city, and his name started with "J." But none of that is important. What is important is that he was stunning (even before I ingested several Long Islands), and more importantly, clever.

"Are you a Cubs fan?" he flirted, handing me the first drink.

"Yeah."

"Are you single?"

He did not miss a beat. Two thumbs up. This comedic timing was wonderful.

I laughed. "Yeah."

He produced a long piece of paper from his wallet that unfolded several times.

"How many of these other things are you?"

He handed me the rather involved handwritten list of qualities:

Attractive
Cubs fan
Priorities straight
Wants kids
Healthy
Fit
Nonsmoker
Doesn't do drugs
Good in bed*** (This one was starred, circled, bolded, and underlined.)
Positive attitude
Funny
Intelligent
Likes to go out
Confident
Athletic
Goal-oriented
Spiritual
Kind
Comfortable with herself
Honest
Trusting
Clean
Conscientious

As Sarah and I were cracking up at the ingenuity displayed before us, the female bartender came over to see what all the fuss was about. Naturally, she thought it was adorable too.

“You ACTUALLY have a LIST? A PHYSICAL list? And you CARRY it on you?”

“J” explained that this was absolutely necessary because he needed to start cutting to the chase and stop wading through the bullshit of dating relationships. If I remember correctly, I believe he had recently gotten his heart pwned by a woman. But that’s neither here nor there. This “list” was too hilarious. Every female that now surrounded “J” at the bar was highly impressed and intrigued.

I handed him back the paper.

“Well, so how many?” he joked.

I laughed again and reminded him that I was just visiting from California, but that I knew this tactic would yield desirable results for him eventually.

"Oh, I see,” he said. “So the real reason is that you don't date black guys."

"No, no, no,” I assured him. “The real reason is I don't date 28 year olds."

But the point is, if I did, I would.

Sarah and I abandoned the baseball game and "J" to meet up with another friend, but his forthrightness and wit did leave an impression. I mean, here I am, months later, still telling this story...

Hint: Try this, guys. You'd be surprised.