Falling Forward

Sometimes pushing through boredom means performing your “funny cowboy dance” for your friends while wearing men’s size 14 wooden clogs and a borrowed sweatshirt with an embroidered graphic of a crab and the slogan “Don’t Be Crabby”. Other times it means unexpectedly running into a drunken Santa Clause and his equally drunk chicken sidekick on a random street corner in a city far from home. In any case, pure unbridled silliness beats the heck out of boredom 100% of the time.

Laughter, good friends, live music, and random absurdity have been the staples of this summer. From Iron Maiden to Brothers of the Sonic Cloth, to Harvey Milk to the Melvins to Red Red Meat to the Fluid to Flight of the Conchords to Radiohead, I’ve rocked and rolled and sweated and sang along with the ‘kids these days’ until the summer began to take her leave and the rain has slowly and incrementally started to return to Seattle.

From Washington to Hawaii to Texas to Oregon, I've surfed and skated and partied and, um, danced (if you can call it that) until the sun came up. I've met new friends and tried new things and stuffed myself with the ice cream of the Gods. Now, even as I hold tight to the last tiny bits of warm weather and golden sunshine before the gray skies begin to rain down on us again, I secretly find myself excitedly looking forward to the fall when the smell of wood stoves will permeate the neighborhood as I walk with my best friend through the crisp evening air.

Time Flies When You’re Being Choked

The last time you tuned in, I had just pulled my tongue from the mustached mouth of the Iron Sheik. But that was nearly three months ago. Don’t worry, my I’ll never wash my mouth again promise only lasted for a couple of hours. So what, pray tell, has been warding away fits of boredom since then? Why, violence, of course.

If idle hands are the Devil’s playthings, then beware the unholy devastation created when mine are kept busy with a sledgehammer. On the domestic front, I’ve spent the last few weeks ripping apart my bathroom.

But even girl a like me needs a break from her trusty tool belt now and again. And there is no better way to get away from the dust and debris of a bathroom remodel than a good ‘ol horror movie convention!

Last weekend, I doubt my feet ever even touched the ground as I floated on a cloud of joy, geeking out among the horror movies stars of my dreams nightmares: Kane Hodder, Sid Haig, Bill Moseley, Tony Todd, Tony Moran, Ari Lehman and, the pièce de résistance, horror movie star and wrestler Rowdy Roddy Piper!

One truly has not experienced life until one has escaped a good strong choking by the one and only Kane Hodder...I'm never washing my neck again, I swear!

Camel Clutch of the Lips

When I was a kid, I freaking loved wrestling. Every Saturday morning I would plant myself in front of our veneer and hardwood encased 1970’s style television set and wait with baited breath as Mean Gean introduced the first match ups of the day. I would giggle and squeal with delight as the wrestlers shouted insults at each other, often pushing poor Gean to the side in an effort to get at one another. For the record, I was never a Hulkamaniac, but I did love many of those early eighties icons: Sgt. Slaughter, The Junkyard Dog, Jake the Snake, The Road Warriors, Andre the Giant, Captain Lou Albano, Hacksaw Jim Duggan, Nikolai Volkoff, Rowdy Roddy Piper, oh, how the list goes on and on.

Twenty or so years after the bruises and Indian burns that I inflicted on my younger brother (while reenacting my favorite wrestling moves on him) had healed, I came face to face (quite literally) with one of my favorite wrestlers of the past: The Iron Sheik. He stood on stage at the El Corazon with his World Wrestling Federation Heavyweight Championship Belt glittering under the spotlights. My smile started to spread wider than ever before as I zeroed in on his T-Shirt, which depicted none other than himself in his younger days. My hands started to sweat and my heart began to race.

"Do you want your picture with The Sheik?" the bouncer asked me. I was already showing him how to use my camera before he even finished asking the question. I practically ran to be the first to stand next to the wrestling icon. He looked at me and in a thick Iranian accent told me, "You are very beautiful." I blushed and said "Thank you, Mr. Sheik" in a nervous fan girl voice that was a noticable three pitches higher than my normal speaking tone.

I then proceeded to tell him that Hulk Hogan was nothing and that he, The Iron Sheik, was Number One. We made number one signs with our hands and the bouncer snapped our photo.



What happened next was both a blur and an embarrassing eternity. The Sheik hugged me and kissed me on my cheek. I think he was going in for a kiss on the opposite cheek, but I had already turned my head toward him and started to say something else when our mouths collided. All of a sudden, there was a moustache in my mouth. It was prickly and tasted of aftershave. I can’t be sure but for a millisecond, there could have been a hint of tongue. We both pulled away quickly, surprised. He played it off and I thanked him for the picture and embarrassingly scurried away all the while thinking to myself "Oh my God, did I just make out with The Iron Sheik?"

The Journey is the Destination

There is no better way to christen the New Year than by taking a road trip with your good friend. So my best buddy Celine and I took off work early on Friday, jumped into my car, cranked up the stereo and started out for our favorite bacon maple bar donut making city in the Pacific Northwest: Portland, Oregon. Heading south on Highway 99, we had been on the road for less than twenty minutes when we came upon the First Ave. South drawbridge just south of downtown Seattle.

If the First Ave. bridge is going up, one can anticipate waiting at least ten and perhaps up to fifteen or more minutes before traffic will start moving again. Every once in a while I manage to be on the bridge approach during such an occurrence. I've found there's no better way to pass the time of the opening and closing of the bridge than by shutting off my engine, getting out of the car and doing at least one cartwheel between the lanes of restless commuters parked in their cars in front of the raised deck.

This afternoon, as Celine and I were eager to begin out adventures, we ended up stopped at the bridge in the perfect cartwheel spot. Usually it's dark out when I hit the bridge, but on this magical day, the sun was shining bright and we had all the time in the world, so I, of course, could not help myself. I killed the engine and jumped out of the car. If you could have seen the perfect gymnastic wonder I demonstrated on the bridge approach, you would have thought I was Mary Lou Retton herself. I was showered by an array of car horns honking their approval. The old lady in the car next to us flashed me a big denture filled smile and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up. I returned her smile and quickly got back into the car to listen to Celine's hysterical giggling. Glancing in my side view mirror, I saw a trucker from the 18-wheeler parked several vehicles back climbing down out of his rig and heading my way. He approached my window and I promptly rolled it down.

"Lady" he said with a slight drawl, "you just made my day. I'm a long haul truck driver and I tell you what, you do two more cartwheels for me and I'll blow the longest, most appreciative trucker horn you've ever heard in your life!"

"DEAL!" I exclaimed.

I got back out, pulled my pants up by my belt loops, wriggled my behind a little, posed for a second with my hands in the air, and busted out with two more near perfect cartwheels. The trucker kept his end of the bargain too. He blasted his fucking horn for a full fifteen seconds and my heart exploded with joy.