The Moonshine Stalker

The other night, I was hanging out with everyone, sans-Russler, because he's currently in the process of....well, I'll let him tell that story.

Anyway, we were drinking and having a jolly-good time at the house of the future, and Alison graced us with her presence.

As per usual, we were being our night-owl selves, and as the night came to a close we made the decision we always make, to KEEP HANGING OUT. So, we get in the cars, and head back to my place to watch some you tube and have a few more drinks without having to drive. Good times, right?

Little did I know that such a simple task could go so horribly awry.

I'm driving home, sort of texting but trying to be a responsible driver, of course. Alison left before me, so I caught up to her in traffic. I follower her almost all the way home, and then she makes a strange turn. I'm like "well, I've lived here for well over a decade, maybe she knows some route I don't know." Because that makes sense.

She turns once, turns again, and now we're in some residential area that I've never seen in my life. She parks the car, and we're obviously at a house party. My first thoughts were "uuuggghhhh I just want to go home and drink some more and go to bed, I'm not in the mood to be social. Geez." and then I just pull up my big-boy britches and get out of the car. I had brought my liquor home with me from Amandas, so I grabbed that (don't want to show up to a party empty-handed, amiright?) take a heavy sigh, and approach her car.

She hasn't gotten out yet, which is weird. I get closer, blackberry in one hand, liquor in the other, with this look of "WTF?" on my face.

That is when I see that it is not Alison. It is not Alison at all. It is two terrified young blond girls that look like they are in some sort of screwed up horror movie.

And, of course, they are entitled, because A STRANGE MAN JUST FOLLOWED THEM HOME AND APPROACHED THEIR CAR WITH A MYSTERIOUS OBJECT AND A BOTTLE.

At this point, one of two things needs to happen. A civilized apology, full of remorse and 'oh, we'll laugh about this tomorrow' and somewhere in the back of my mind, I'd really still be hoping to stand Alison up and have these two lovely ladies invite me in to their party.

I amaze myself with my own ability to be so delusional.

I chose the OTHER way to handle it. Observe.

Step 1. Stare blankly.

Step 2. Throw hands in the air.

Step 3. Roll eyes, exclaim "uuuggghhhh!"

Step 4. Immediately get back in car and drive away.

So, if I'd just looked for the Dharma Pearl on Alison's car, this could have all been avoided. I'm surprised they didn't call the cops or shoot me. That is all.

An apology, of sorts.

I'm sitting here with my first beer in three days, debating what to write you all about. Where to start? We gained your trust, your enthusiasm, your heartfelt fandom, and what did we do with it?

Well, we did with our fanbase what all the great legends do - disregarded it entirely. There were days where blog posts seemed likely - necessary, even. Stories that needed telling, rumors that needed stirring, people that needed cajoling, and we turned our backs to the one outlet that makes this possible for more time than is really excusable.

This was not all for naught, however. If you know anything about my partner in crime or myself, the last thing we would do is get all lazy on you. The stories kept piling up, the adventures grew more daring and demanding of our time, and there just wasn't time to stop and rehash it all.

I think one of my main resolutions is that you will start to hear stories that took place in the wider realm of our lives, outside the [now far quieter] walls of 2171.

But still, the last two months have been bubbling with activity. Hopefully, in time, those of you that didn't get to share in the jubilee and debauchery can be brought up to speed.

Let's drop back in to the real world for the closest thing to a rational explanation you're going to get. Neal is working all the time, and I went art-nuts. I think I can speak for us both when I say, we've been up to our eyes in it, and when we weren't we've all about good times and taking it easy the best way we know how, friends, family, libations, and of course, LOST. It's not easy being this awesome all the time, let alone articulating it for the masses that don't make their dutiful pilgrimage to this place.

As I write this very post, Crank Dat Soulja Boy just started playing on the iTunes shuffle. This can be nothing other than a sign from the universe that I'm supposed to tell you a story about a few friends, a holiday, and a randomly accepted invitation to a lake house that went horribly, beautifully right in a way none of us could imagine. No, there wasn't an orgy. I'll be challenged to even put the event into words that do it an iota of justice. However, I'll do my best. For now, let this next [and last] sentence be your teaser for now, and there is more to come.

"You should know that when Patti Irwin is going to pick you up somewhere, take you somewhere else, and she has only the vaguest idea of where you're going, you should go ahead and call your loved ones and remind them that you love them, and that you'll see them on the other side."

A plea for help

Strangers, friends, and good Samaritans:

This is Special Agent Dale Cooper. You may have seen or heard of me "living" in this place, casually referred to as a 'pet' or my current species, 'Hermit Crab'.

I'm not sure where to begin, and my time here is short. If you're reading this, I may very well already be dead. It has been days without food or water, and after Sylvia succumbed to these horrid conditions in the heat of the summer, I can only fear that the winter will be worse. Drastic situations call for drastic measures, so I am pleading for aid wherever it may be found.

The short one left this communication portal open. I've seen and heard the tall one with the immaculate phalanges communicate like this, and the language is not unfamiliar to me after my time at sea with many great scholars and explorers.

But that time has passed, and what will happen next is far too precious to tarry on about history.

While this note will more than likely take a slow moving creature like myself several hours to properly articulate, my resolve to survive, my faith, and my love for Sylvia will sustain me to the last alpha-numeric character.

In short, I need your help. My journey to this communication device was a long one, fraught with peril on all sides.

I miss the days of living in that plastic inverted dome where the woman fed us regularly. Yes, there were massive feline beasts watching our every move, but we were safe in the place the humans referred to as 'Punch Bowl'

Sylvia and I exchanged great stories, and learned a lot from each other about our adventures, our families, the wider arch of the cosmic drama, this planet, but most of all, love.

But she's gone now. All of that is gone.

For the first weeks alone, all I could do was mourn my loss. I tried on several occasions, I'm not proud to admit, to commit suicide. Unfortunately, my protective build made such attempts folly. It was only after I was taken from my prison to the wider realm of this domicile that my fervor for life and survival was rekindled.

All I have are my memories, my stories, and my desire to move on. These wretched merchants must have purchased us as slaves for their exotic collection. All around there are strange creatures, some seemingly human, some aquatic, many of a more morbid variety. Many were obviously petrified at an early age, and from the look of their weaponry would have grown to be mighty warriors, but now they are merely on display, sick playthings in a sick den of despair and depravity.

I'm not sure how I managed to escape the terrarium. Divine intervention, or outright delirium are my best guesses. I blacked out, and found myself on the ground-level.

In the long plains of the hall way, golden, aluminum structures strewn about carelessly have posed threats like I've never encountered in my centuries on this planet. The liquid inside, I found not to be life giving water, but some sort of intoxicating amber fluid that only quenched my thirst for a moment before I realized it would only make my problems worse. I would liken it to the lagers and ales of the Renaissance, only diluted in some sort of corrosive stinging water.

Everything's fading now... the walls move in patterns, shadows and ghosts of the mind are eroding my ability to stay coherent.

If you find this, avail me of my circumstances. The reward may seem to be nothing more than my companionship, but I bring good fortune to those that earn my respect or my gratitude.

I assisted Plato in the early days of his first lectures, gave Da Vinci notions of machines from other worlds that I found suitable for this environment, and went on Dolly Parton's first musical tour of the United States.

However, know this. If I am rescued, after I regain my health, I will use the gifts I have brought to your race to rain hell and vengeance down upon these ogres, these beasts of booze and late night escapades, loud noises and their juvenile artistic endeavors.

For my Sylvia, and before her, the lovely couple that took such good care of us in our time of need (for they were obviously slain or poisoned by that clear liquid, they haven't been seen since we were captured).

The skies will rain with their blood, and all that this place represents will burn to the ground with the structure itself.

Save me. Save us all. May God Bless you for any charity toward me that you find in your heart.

- Special Agent Dale Cooper, Hermit Crab

PS: If anyone knows the outcome of the last season of America's Next Top Model, I'd be most appreciative of a recap. These oafs aren't much for quality television.

SCREAMS! MOANS! BATS! BONES!

Today, my sanguinary friends, is the much-anticipated "Best Day of the Fucking Year", and Satan has blessed us by positioning it on an ostentatious Friday.
Now, with precisely 23 hours and 45 minutes to go on my favorite holiday, I am going to get (dare I say it) "bat-cunt crazy" drunk.
Cheers to all, and have a blatantly morbid, unscrupulously sordid Halloween.

Jack-Off 2008

Yes, its that time of year again, and we all came together sunday for a day of celebrating one of our favorite October pass-times: Jacking Off. That is, making Jack-O-Lanterns and talking shit about whose is the best, of course!

Congratulations to Tony Veronese for coming out the victor with his rendition of Slimer. I had too many photos to post so I decided to make a quick slideshow (and I mean QUICK, I didn't adjust these really or do more than put one song on a loop for the soundtrack, but its still pretty rad). 

Enjoy, be jealous, and know that the food was delicious. Never miss an Off, they're open invitation and might as well be national holidays as far as anyone at 2171 regularly is concerned. 

Total Running Time is about 6mins, so get comfortable. 

Crazy Mary Update: 10/23

For months, speculation about Mary’s income source has run rampant. Mary is constantly seen leaving and returning to her home, but with a frequency and such short “away-times” that these trips wouldn’t be conducive to the idea of her going to a job everyday. After this was observed, the idea of her collecting disability and/or unemployment payments was brought up. Drug-funds were also discussed, as was the idea of Mary quartering her poor, crippled goon friends for some sort of non-profit charity foundation. Many beliefs about Crazy Mary’s money have surfaced (my favorite being that she kills and skins stray dogs, trading the hides to back-alley Rx dealers for insulin), but now, due to my diligent detective work and my steadfast resolve, I’m honored and a little frightened to report that she is, in fact, steadily employed.
Yesterday Mary approached me while I was doing repairs on my car. She inquired “You make it ta work thismawnin’?”. I replied that, yes, despite my car’s exponentially declining health, I did make it to work this morning. That’s when I realized that I had a prime opportunity to do some detecting here, and that I had to take advantage of the brief weakening of her defenses, so I giddily asked her, How ‘bout you, Mary? “Oh yeah, I made it ta work on time. I did clock-out early and come home, dough.” Oh, I asked, you not feeling well today? “Naw, I feel fine, I just had ta leave early ‘fo I busted a kid’s lip open.” What? “Yeah, I work ova at da Boy’s N’ Girl’s club, and this bitchy little 9 yea old told me ta ‘Shut the Hell up’, so I left be’fo I strangled his lil’ ass.”
There you have it. Case closed. Mary works at The Boy’s and Girl’s Club.
Understandably, Mary was upset due to the lack of respect this child had shown her. She told me that when she was that age, she never talked back to any adult, no matter their gender or skin-color, and that when she sees how some of these kids “nowadays” are turning out, she gets “pissed the fuck off”.
I am comforted, however, to know that these children will no doubt turn out to be fine, upstanding citizens one day, as long as they have Crazy Fucking Mary mentoring them.

Oblong Faces & Abstract Jowls

Please, feel free to click on these photos at you leisure, and experience them at their true, 1200 resolution beauty. Cheers.     -N.

I'm a Rebel, Dottie. A loner.

Click to Enlarge any of these.

My favorite people, etc. taken with 2171's new Canon Rebel XSI D-SLR. 

(a) 2171's visuals just got a massive upgrade. 

(b) Now I own a toy Neal is afraid to touch, that I used to take pictures of his toys I'm afraid to touch.

(c) Photographer for hire and prints available. Lemme know whatchoo need. 

(d) Please note Amanda sporting Neal's SH&T shirt, I think he wanted that photo for a reason, I hope I didn't steal any thunder by posting it here. 

Us, The Un-Caring Caregivers

Assuredly, the bulk of you 2171 readers have yet to be informed that Matt and I own pets. But in the dank catacombs of our apartment I assure that life, however meger, does exist here other than our own.
We've adopted two hermit crabs from out ever-gracious friends, the Glarrows, and have been adamantly hospitable to them for three months. However, tragedy has befallen us, as it typically does, and I must admit, at our own hands.
Our two crabs, a once happy couple, were named Sylvia Path (in the pink shell) and Special Agent Dale Cooper (in the leopard-print shell). These new names were applied after we'd decided that the earlier names, given by the Glarrows themselves (Pinky & Stinky), were not suitable for our largely retarded abode. They did sustain many happy months of shrimp food, moist-sponges and encyclopedia-formed mazes, and they were well happy.
But now, due to my negligence, Mrs. Plath is now dead. I threw her corpse in the wastebasket. I don't feel good about this, or even much remorseful, but I have to clarify that she spent a large amount of her time in the half-coconut shell in her cage, and I had no idea she was suffering. Now though, I'm happy to hear that she's in a better place: the dump.
Dale, however, is as happy as a fairy, and he now sits on the desk as I type this, nestled next to my High Life can. Ultimately, I think she was bad for him, as they incessantly argued, and she never left him a moment of free "crab-time".
I feel awful about her untimely death, as I'm sure the Glarrows do, but, really, what were you thinking giving Matt and I a responsibility? The dishes just got washed, and that was a chore.

One More Thing....

This is what Neal will be like as a father....and I beg anyone to disagree. Only, it will probably be about LOST instead of Star Wars.

Penny Arcade - The Breaking Point

When Neal's wife is expecting, they'll go as Pregnant Claire, and Charlie. Maybe Locke, depending on how quickly he can fashion a wooden crib.

Year 1 of the child's life: Neal's first Trick or Treat experience with child in tow will be him and his wife as Ben Linus' parents. That way the mom can be all dead looking and he can be drunk on Dharma beer.

Year 2: Jack, Kate, Aaron.

I wonder if we could find LOST characters through every age WITHOUT NEAL'S HELP. I bet he could name them age 0 - 25 before I could finish typing this blog post.

Playlist Sabotage

Now, I will never insult the musical tastes of anyone. I'm the most musically inept individual you'll ever meet. Until Neal and Robin started subjecting me to monthly musical inoculations in the form of new iTunes playlists, I was like "The Strokes"? Aren't they that....band...with that.....song?

And a million other embarrassing gaping holes in my musical knowledge. Tom Waits? For who? WHO IS TOM WAITING FOR!?

So, that being said, and due credit being given to the two of them for excellent music tastes, you have to know about what I will now refer to as 'Playlist Sabotage'

Playlist Sabotage is what happens when Neal decides, against all taste, prior feedback, or general human decency, that I should be subjected to certain songs, songs that are, for lack of a better word, CRAP.

Not even crap/funny. Just crap/crap. Okay, Raspberry Beret was ironically enjoyable, but the additional 10 songs by Prince on my October list!?

Or, "Candy Licker" and "Put Yo Condom on my Tongue" by Marvin Sease? Do you have any idea how much it sucks to walk around in public, catching oneself singing internally "Gonna lick you up....gonna lick you down....come on baby, gonna lick you all around"

It's like blacking out and waking up pantsless in the middle of a McDonald's Playground ball-pit. Full of old men.

The entire purpose of the list is to avoid all the catchy crappy music that I myself downloaded over the years. And every month, someone makes an effort to thwart those dreams of mine.

Or, Human by the Killers. That song should be shot and hung, and then burned, and then eaten by the demon that will one day claim my soul. Because the next time I want to hear that catchy-ass, brain-glued, totally Club 322 song is in hell. But no, I get to hear it between many of the great songs these lovely friends put on this list for me.

(swear to god, this just started playing. [Ignore the video part] At least Neal's not singing it for money.)

Jam packed....

There are two distinct waves of social activity at 2171. Wednesday nights and the weekend. The larger wave of the two is most definitely the weekend. Sometime around 5 o'clock you'll find us with a beer or scotch or russlerita (hell, the list goes on for days) and by 8 or 9 the sun has set, the white christmas lights are creating a beautiful ambiance, and many of our friends have made their way over and we have a jolly good time.

This weekend was no exception, but I would be morally remiss if I didn't bring up several high points that made this weekend different from most. There were great accomplishments and celebrations, of course. But there were a few....oh, how do you say it...."moments of greatness" unparalleled in all our days at 2171.

They are too numerous to put down in detail, so let me just give you a run down in a simple unordered, anonymous list of the events that transpired. Names are excluded (yes, including my own) to protect the innocent, but we all know who you are.

• Two guys all but finished a 750ml bottle of Johnny Walker before 10pm.
• One girl bought a literal FEAST from KFC (or in her words, K-fuck)
• One woman got a full day at the spa for her birthday from her boyfriend.
• One guy got a dart stuck in his arm - because the arm was in front of the dart board.
• One girl kicked her boyfriend in the face at Sous La Terre.
• One guy ricocheted a dart off a wall into someone's arm, and, as it were, would have had a bulls eye or close to it had their not been human flesh in the way.
• One girl fell onto the stage and almost knocked over the elderly musicians at Sous La Terre.
• One girl called a guy the wrong name 5 times while they were making out.
  
• One girl went crazy on Tequila. Literally will not ever touch the stuff again.
  
• A few people sipped tequila (Patron) as an on-the-rocks beverage for the first time.
• One guy woke up Sunday with an awful hangover because he had, over the course of 8 hours, Wine, Beer, Scotch, Tequila, Whiskey, Sparks, and Jager. Just can't settle into a beverage for the night...tisk, tisk.
• One guy said "my hair follicles will be stimulated, it'll be a party on my face" and his girlfriend said "yes, and everyone will come" and then people erupted in laughter.
• One guy broke his glasses and missed about half of this due to blindness.
• One girl walked down college street crying.
• One guy visited from Boston and subsequently watched hours of The Office Season 4
• One guy cleaned the whole damn house leaving the other no choice but to finally do dishes.
  
• At least 4 people were ant-bitten on the way to Bud's.
• Someone wouldn't stop impersonating Adam Sandberg impersonating Mark Wahlberg saying "Say hi to your motha' for me, ok?"
  

If anyone has any additions to this list, feel more than welcome to leave them in the comments. All anonymous, of course. :)

Happy Birthday, Robin

Because, let's face it: she has an enormous amount of clout and influence here at 2171, practically being a resident herself and all, and I'm absolutely crazy about her.
Saturday, we're all converging on Sous La Terre at midnight in celebration of this wonderful gal, and I'd like to take this opportunity to formally invite any and all readers of the blog to join us there.
Cheers.

Cock-Off 2008

For those of you that haven't heard of, attended, or inspired one of the many "offs" that have taken place at the House of the Future, this is a tradition that dates back ages....months, even.

There were others before this, such as the Type-Off, the Puzzle-Off, and even a Grilled-Cheese-Off. All of which have had either disastrous, heavily debated, or joyous results.

The Cock-Off - quite simply, who can concoct the best Cocktail/mixed-drink.

The categories for judging were: Presentation, Potency, Sustainability, Taste.

The contestants were both Raneys and Neal. The competition was fierce, and the judges ability to discern things quickly diminished after...I don't know...drink two.

Amanda's Entry: Strawberries, Basil, Vodka, Cranberry Soda, Pink Pepper Corns, and Ginger



This drink tasted wonderful, like all of them. I'm no food critic, but it had this V8 Splash (the fruit stuff) kind of a taste with a little spice [oddly enough it worked]. After number one of this, I was already very happy to be a judge.

If we all didn't know that Mr. Russler has a professional-level passion for all things booze, this moved him to the upper echelon. Neal rose from a lowly bartender and good beer-grabbing friend to the oracle at the top of the mountain, the man that can only grant you advice as you shield your eyes from his glory, lest ye perish where you stand.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the Cock-Off victor, the Raspberry Russlerita:



This is a mixture of fresh lime juice, sour mix, fresh limes and apple-mint leaves, Jose Cuervo white tequila, fresh raspberries blended into a frozen mixture, resting on a shot of Chambord, resting on yet another shot of tequila. That's right, its not a tinted glass, that's the actual fade of the beverage.

Words cannot describe any of these three, not with my limited culinary vernacular, but by the time I had round 2 of these (so, my fifth or sixth drink?) I couldn't do more than roam around the party yelling "have you TRIED this!? No, no no no no....have you TRIED THIS???"


Jonathan's Entry: Raney Special - Fresh Squeezed Orange Juice, Vanilla simple syrup, gratuitous and delicious Bacardi Rum, some apple-mint leaves and orange zest just to seal the deal. Let it be known that he let vanilla beans soak all day to create the syrup. This drink made me want to make many bad decisions. It was everything you can imagine it would be. Unfortunately, this is the only picture nabbed of the wonderful beverage, as we were too busy consuming the hell out of them.



These drinks were all fantastic, all had their strengths, and trust me, if you ever get a chance to get shnockered with us drinking any one of the three, you'll never forget it.

Next "Off" ? Did we decide already? Was I drunk?

Recycling!

Waking up is all a blur on Saturdays. Sometime that morning, I stumbled groggily toward the scent of coffee, and the first thing that caught my eye was this lovely addition to our [Neal's] ever-growing plant collection. This was all his and Robin's doing, but I just had to show it off. Being green on Saturdays is a nice way to combat whatever bad karma one has collected the night prior.

Regarding Moonshine

In my most recent post, dear reader, you may have noticed my juvenile fumblings around different nicknames for moonshine. "Quicksilver" was used, as was the shameful "Wake-Up Juice" (which, was stoled from Back To The Future III). My apologies. I'm not the word-smith I thought I was.
However, as is frequently the case, which is to say, "after the fact", I've stumbled upon several monikers for "the sauce" coined by Mr. John Hodgman, whose vocabulary and expertise in this field greatly overshadow my own.
Here, for a more worthwhile reading experience, I present to you his list of slang-terms for moonshine. Feel free to insert them into my previous, obsolete text as you see fit, for your enjoyment.
*Devil's Tears
*Sleepy Syrup
*Zip Sauce
*Hop Tallow
*Trance Juice
*Grain Guzzle
*Mystery Nip
*Irish Vinegar
*Brain Shellac
*Distillate of Dreamtime
*Jazz Chowder
*Fairy Pee
*Corn Cologne
*Washcloth Wringings
*Genuine Gin-Flavored Beverage
*The Sweet Tonic of Olde
*That Slippery Serum
*Near Beer
*Stutter Milk
*Juniper Jizz
*Antimatter
*Stun Gravy

I truly apologize for being....us.

Talking online with Drew and Jon Friday, we decided that Jon should start his own school of badassery. This comes one day after I tell Drew about Jon's rather incredible life, from one end of the spectrum of 'wild' to the other where he's an IT specialist for the Air Force. Incredible.

So, really, this is just a post to show you the many courses you'll be able to take while in attendance. I'm not telling you who said what, to protect ourselves from incrimination. I take no responsibility for our actions here. We really are this screwed up when the three of us are left to our own devices. God help the world when Neal's present, too.

How to literally Fuck a Mother 300a
Stealing Christmas trees and Kicking orphans 301
Punching Titties Lab
Espionage/Stalking Internships
Halloween: Treats AND Tricks that are dangerous, fun, and not illegal [yet]
Frat Guys: How to use them as pawns. 400
Finger painting 100
Finger Banging 201
ID's: When you need them, and when you don't. How to evade age ever being an issue.
Bar Bathroom Etiquette
Roofies: When and When not to use them
Movies with Boobies and other rhyming cool shit
B.E.A.C.H. - Being Entertaining And Charming Hammered
Chemical Makeup of Assholes
Better uses for Books: How to use them to get laid 200
Better uses for Books: Rolling Joints 300
Drug Deals: 305
Creating language 402
Interesting Fringe Science and what it means for your Future
How to expose the douchebag 400
How to suggest douching 401b
how to fight a friend 300
How to take a punch to the face 201
assasinations 200
The Art of Nut Kicking: Lab
Battlestar Gallactica 300
Coke: Soda and Snorting 300
How to pretend like you're working 500
LOST 101, 201, 301, 401, 501, 601 - each class is a season, and all you have to do is fucking love it
Friendly backstabbing 300
How to tune out old people talking about vaginas 201A
Cutting the Cord: The philosophies and dynamics of the One Night Stand
How to be critical of your sexual partner 400b
How to steal from a prostitute 400c
How to be a prostitute 400d
How to slap a prostitute 400e
Unconventional Torture 101
Running From the COPS independent study 300
How to Have Sex in a Theater 203
Keeping it Real 101 - The basics of having your own opinion
Keeping it Real 201 - Walking, talking, and acting like you don't give a shit
Keeping it Real 301 - How to keep it real in a cultural context in the modern world
Contributing to the Delinquency of Minors
Punching Babies 101A
Screwing your friends Girlfriend without getting caught 302
Affairs: When its ok to sleep with cougars and when its not.
How to create Panty Dropper cocktail in under 15 seconds 201B with lab
Stealing Wallets from Elderly People 291
Pornography: Good, Bad, and Mature (Ugly)
Punching People in the Face 101
Sticking it to the Man 101
How to hide a body 101

Also, I don't know what happened last night, but Sarah Vaughn, if you're reading this, I left myself a text message last night that said "Sarah Vaughn Toes" and I have no idea why. All I remember is promising to mention you or something in the blog. Ha.

Rule # 161

Rule 161. The keys to throwing a good party are a working stereo, christmas lights, and plenty of ice.

found at http://rulesformyunbornson.tumblr.com, which is pretty rad.

"161 is always 2171" - Jon Raney

Inventions by Matt

Over the course of life, somewhere along this crazy journey, people find society and innovators across the expanse of time before us that have made provisions for an easier life.

Roads, laws, grocery stores, etc.

I don't know if its the booze, the drinking, the whiskey, or general stupidity on my part, but several things pop up in my life as completely obvious needs in society and, as it were, no one has invented them yet.

Take for instance the other day, I was leaving for Wednesday night drink and draw (at a time when it wasn't regularly hosted at 2171) and I had sketchbooks, pencils, pens, drinks, etc. Now, the not that the ten feet of walking required to get to my car was really excruciating, but I was like "JESUS CHRIST why can't I just make one trip!? There should be some device that makes it possible for me to carry many things of varying shapes at once, some sort of bundle of cloth or -- oh....."

Yes, that day, I invented "the bag"

What about my next brilliant idea, you ask? Ok. Here it goes.

I was SICK. I was MISERABLE. I had tons of work to do the next day, and I had this icky grossness about me but no real motivation to go to Pri-Med. I think to myself, "you know, it would be great if there was some middle ground here. Why do I have to sit around and feel shit-tastic OR go to Pri-Med?? Why, society, have you let me down?? Why can't I just go to the store, by some sort of "mid-range mild version of what they give me at Pri-Med" and be done with this vile feeling that is not really sickness?"

World, meet invention #2: NYQUIL. (or, in general, over the counter medication.)

I'm an idiot, I've drown myself into an alien existence, I see this world as though I were a creature from another place, like a goddam martian.

Third and final invention for this post, just this week. For ages, I've been plagued with awful sleep. I've had trouble getting to work on time, total fatigue all the time. I've had sirens and blasts of sound and light from hell to shock me out of bed, many times to little or no avail. I'm almost certain there will be a blogpost from Neal concerning that very thing shortly. It's a very 'chilling' tale (for those of you that know the story, that's the corniest shit I could have said, right?).

ANYWAY, I shouted to the heavens, the fates, society and government at large - yet again - for not TAKING CARE OF ME! "Why, WHY, can I not have just TWO more hours of sleep a night?? I could wake up, go to get some food, enjoy the day a bit before work! I'm a morning person, world!! Wh-whhwhyhwyhwhyyyyyyyyyy *vomit* " (This rant happens while I'm crying and intoxicated, I guess.)

So.....yeah. My crowning achievement: BEDTIMES. I've gone to sleep somewhere before 11 everynight this week, sometimes drunk, even....and I've woken up before my alarm every day. I have actual seratonin pumping through my brain, I feel like laughing for no reason, I'm so deprived of this precious commodity you "sleeping people" have. I went to BREAKFAST this morning, drank coffee, listened to Rant by Chuck Palahniuk (thanks Neal). I even just sat still and had idle thoughts. Before noon.

No discredit to my wonderful mother, but you'd swear I grew up feral, or raised by wolves and set upon this earth with a raw piece of meat hanging from my jowls and a loin cloth made from the scalps of my prey, only to learn that there is a such thing as 'civilization' waiting for me over the horizon of some vast desert in which I've been scraping around for decades.

In closing, this quote Jonathan shared with me earlier, while enigmatic and stupid, is also quite poignant.

"... as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns - the ones we don't know we don't know."

- Colin Powell, before the Iraq War
(unfortunately, true)

That Good Ole Mountain Dew

For the past month, our good friends over at the Glarrow Porch have helped perpetuate our permadrunk with a steady incoming stream of glistening ‘Bama moonshine. And this stuff is amazing. Top-Shelf Moonshine, if such a thing is fathomable. It’s sweet and smooth, not nearly as biting as some of the lesser “lightnings” I’ve had, such as some of the cheaper, pestilent mashes of Tennessee and the abominable “Deep-Dish” style moonshine of the greater Chicago area. This stuff has an airy corn-blend with subtle and delightful after tastes, and it packs a wallop of an alcohol content. It’ll set your drunk-game back about 4 beer points if you’re not careful.

Amazingly, my girlfriend Robin, a mild-drinker at best, loves the shit. She’s a borderline “fiend for the fire-water” or “Hooch-Honey”, if I may be so bold. Robin lives in Auburn, however, and is typically only around 2171 on the weekends, so she rarely gets to indulge in that lovely, backwoods potable.

Matt won’t touch it. He tells me that drinking the moonshine makes him feel like he has “fire-ants running down my esophagus”. Let it be known that I’ve previously commented on the nature of my roommate’s alcohol tolerance, stating that it was akin to “a young Japanese girl’s”. But he’s getting much more adventurous and successful with the sauce, I’m happy to report.

The reason for today’s post is to point out how easy it is for me, at any time, to walk into the kitchen and get completely fucking bombed on ice-cold Quicksilver. It’s a great situation for me. But jars of moonshine, like the love of a puppy or the years left on Earth for Sen. John McCain, are fleeting and ephemeral. My well runeth dry. So, Mr. Glarrow, if you’re reading this, I want you to know how much I appreciate your contribution to my debauched lifestyle, and if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like it if you continued to do so. Let me know how much money, mason jars, wide-legged trousers, anything I can give back to this endeavor to ensure an ample supply of this God-given “wake-up juice”. And if you go to jail for this blog post, I’m quite sorry, but I’m hard-up, and Robin’s birthday is right around the corner.

Postscripts: The wall separating 2171 and 2173 (Luke’s) was nearly set ablaze today. For the photo above, I had attempted to set the jar of moonshine on fire. I narrowly escaped arson-questioning from the cops. Also, a warm-hearted “Happy Birthday” goes out to Mr. Christopher Saba.

Side note:

Today marks the second time I've used the phrase 'death incarnate' to refer to an apartment since the start of this blog. I need a Thesaurus, or just only write posts when Neal's in the room.

The Dry Week

So, its been a week since anyone has posted anything here. This is not without justification, and not without regrets and condolences for all the loyal friends and lovely subscribers.

This week I got a lot of "No, Matt, its NOT ok that nothing happened to you this week. Go pull some of Neal's bones out. Destroy your house. Go fight crime, or just socialize with a psychopath next door. Start a fire, a riot, or just try to kill yourself with booze on a 'weekday' already. YOU TWO QUIT BEING NORMAL AND POST IN THE BLOG FOR CHRIST'S SAKE."

Well, it was just one of those weeks. Neal was comatose for most of it, and I allowed my body to feebly do its job sober for a change, waking it from a restful slumber with herbal teas and actual real meals. With vegetables.

We still have a black hole. The hot water in the kitchen stopped working, actually, wouldn't STOP working and had to be turned off. The cover over the oven light fell and appears to be disintegrating. It is as though the world has moved on and the fabric of time that holds together all things is slowly unraveling, beginning in our kitchen.

Soon, people will go in there and emerge moments later, but as withered, ancient shadows of their former selves. Plants will die, and the light will scatter in a dreary way that can only be death incarnate.

And you wonder why there's never food in there.

So aside from the gradual deterioration of the building itself, life is fairly normal. For me, anyway, I won't speak for Russler.

I do have a feeling though, that since the first text message I got this morning was at 7:34am, from one of my most successful friends, and it said only "Shoot me in the face." and something about bootleg whiskey that I didn't understand AT ALL (wink, wink), tells me that this week could be a lot different.

I had drinking plans for tonight before 8am. Beat that, bitches.

The Long Overdue Extraction of Mr. Russler's Third Molars

More to come later, folks, but in the meantime, please send all dishes requiring moderate chewing, gift baskets, "Get Well Soon" balloons, and parade routes to:
Neal Russler
2171 College Street
Montgomery, AL 36106

Thunder-thief

I'm sorry to steal Mr. Russler's thunder, I know he has a fantastic post in line for this. Just remember to be nice to that jack ass for the next couple of days, because he's going to be in severe surgical/oral pain. Wisdom teeth removal is no picnic.

I asked him to keep a 15min incremental log of his experiences for the blog, I don't think he's gonna do anything but moan and sleep, so no one hold your breath.

Bohemia

In my random searches from blog to blog to blog to blog I end up finding the most random things. I found this little excerpt today, reminds me of this neighborhood. Original article here.

"It isn't possible to quantify the extent to which society and culture are indebted to Bohemia. In every age in every successful country, it has been important that at least a small part of the cityscape is not dominated by bankers, developers, chain stores, generic restaurants, and railway terminals. This little quarter should instead be the preserve of—in no special order—insomniacs and restaurants and bars that never close; bibliophiles and the little stores and stalls that cater to them; alcoholics and addicts and deviants and the proprietors who understand them; aspirant painters and musicians and the modest studios that can accommodate them; ladies of easy virtue and the men who require them; misfits and poets from foreign shores and exiles from remote and cruel dictatorships.

Those who don't live in such threatened districts nonetheless have a stake in this quarrel and some skin in this game, because on the day when everywhere looks like everywhere else we shall all be very much impoverished, and not only that but—more impoverishingly still—we will be unable to express or even understand or depict what we have lost."

- Christopher Hitchens, Vanity Fair

Mouthwash

When you're on your way to bed, and you have to decide which of those would be more beneficial to do first, you know you have a problem.

So Happy Together

The two of us, complete with a Montgomery Biscuits cup filled with Maker's Mark.

Bloodsucking Hippies

The mosquitoes in Alabama are world-famous for their tenacity and even more so for their sheer numbers. Considering that we basically live in the Amazon of the Northern hemisphere, it is not uncommon to have to fight one the size of a cat, or for them to stick you up and steal your money in dark alleys.

2171 is no exception. Quite the opposite, in fact. I believe our place is an actual Nexus for the damn things. There's a queen mosquito lurking somewhere in the attic or something.

Citronella candles? HA! We got one of those. Regardless, when we sit outside, conversations tend to go like this:

Neal: So I was at work today, and this guy comes in --
Matt: Onyourface!othersideotherside!
Neal: So he comes in and is all, do you guys sell waff-- one on your elbow dude. So he comes in and is all do you--
Matt: Another one on your face jesus christ lets just go back in.

We regularly have to admit defeat to these guys, no matter how much Citronella whatever we bring around. My theory is that they are some new strand of mosquito genes out there that is resilient to basically everything except liquid hot magma and space.

These guys probably looked at our Citronella candles, took a hit, and said "duuuude....go get Merl and the fellas. We're setting up camp." So now there's this little fucking hippy convention in the back yard, a bunch of bugs just sitting around getting stoned and - you guessed it - getting the munchies.

Seriously, you can go out there, and if you listen closely Bob Marley is playing, there's a group of them actually mudsliding in the Citronella, at least half of them have some sort of beaded head dress, and there's a micro-machine Volkswagen Van circle around the candle.

Maybe I'll just start offering them showers and jobs. That oughta do the trick.

[EDIT: A reader has recommended that we just get a fan. I really wanted lava... ]

A moment of dialogue.

The following is my vague summary of the events that took place at the back closet at roughly 10pm on Tuesday.

N: Matt? [comes into studio] Dude, what are you doing in that closet? We were watching TV, you got up to go to the bathroom, and a half hour later, here you are.
M: I lost my freaking Game Cube memory card.
N: I've never seen you once play Game Cube.
M: I have, too. Not at this place though, so I'm looking through the stored boxes.
N: O...k....you want me to hold that one? [grabs box]
M: Dammit...I'm looking for this thing until I find it I don't care how long it takes.
N: No you won't.
M: The hell I won't, watch me. Wait...what do you know?
N: I know its a Tuesday at 10pm, and you just finished a bottle of wine by yourself.
M: .....So?
N: Drunk.
M: ....Ass.
N: ...Wanna beer?
M: [sigh]....yeah, help me out of the closet.
N: Awesome. Lets go make fun of the RNC some more since nothing else is on.

[EDIT: Finally found the memory card. It's whereabouts? 12" from the Nintendo.]

Our Kitchen Spatiotemporal-Fissure

Since the day we moved in here at 2171, there's been an ominous stain in the ceiling above our refrigerator. From day to day it's grown exponentially worse, developing from a piss-pouch into a nasty crack that's been known to spit Spackle into my eyeballs. Concern has continued to grow in the 4 + months of our occupancy. Repeated calls have been made to our friend and landlord, Emily, and while the culprit hole in our roof was mended some time ago, the increasingly insidious lesion in the plaster over our heads has gone unchecked. Today, however, the Universe decided that the time for the debris-downpour was at hand.



We now face dangers yet unseen by man, as a chasm in the very fabric of reality hangs over our house. Specters from beyond our dimension now have free roam over our kitchen and adjacent domiciles, keeping Matt and I on an ever-vigilant watch for the paranormal.
"Hell's Kitchen" would be an appropriate title. Devotees will remember that our most perilous adventure to date, the one with Tuco the Rat, also happened in the kitchen. This does not bode well.
Now, I'm off to clean up all this cosmic excrement, to hopefully clear-out a path to the fridge. I feel certain that we'll be in need of "cold beers" tonight.
I fucking hate Tuesdays.

You don't KNOW ME!

So I go to the Stop and Stab the other day on a beer/cigarette run for the folks hanging out. It's right by my house, so its an easy stop at like midnight. On a 'weekday'.

Anyway, the guy running the store is a modest Indian guy with a lot of class and is normally very nice. He must think I'm the biggest alcoholic and that I chain smoke two different flavors of cigarettes at once, as often as I'm there.

But the guy says, "see ya tomorrow." on my way out the door, and I was just like "pssh!! Whatever how could he possibly predict THAT!" in my head. I got all indignant, thinking, "you act like I drink everynight or something, GAH. You don't know me, fool, I might be going to yoga or pilates tomorrow, I mean, it could happen."

But, about two milliseconds later, I realized he's probably right. And he was. Such is life when you're this close to the store, and on the brink of self-destruction.

10 Ways to Skin a Cat

As you may or may not know, you can ask us to blog about anything by clicking the link in the top right. Especially if you remember a story from days gone by or just want to know...I don't know.....things. This question just came over the wire from 'Cornelius' and is getting an immediate response due to the urgent nature of the situation at hand.

"I have a question. I'm dating a smoking hot fine ass cool as shit girl. However, her demon cat gored my face earlier today. My face is bleeding, my pride is hurt and owning cats borders on pointless to me as I've been a dog owner my entire life. I would like at least 10 suggestions of things I should do. And when's the next time I can come over and drink away my sorrows?" - Cornelius


We've all been here, fellas. You meet the most amazing woman of your life at some random place, ask her out on a whim and there's nothing but fireworks the entire time.

It's all like, "You like food!? I like food!! That's so wieerrrrddd! It's like we're the same person! Wait - let me gues - did you go to high school? [shock and amazement] ME. TOO." (as you stare dreamily into her eyes)

Alas, you get back to her place, already thinking about where your harpoon will go in this new space, how awesome living together will be since she is - of course - your soulmate.

However, as you enter the dwelling, there is an immediate sense of cold. Evil. Death incarnate.

You don't want to admit to yourself that you just heard it, but you did. A piece of plastic with a bell in it is ringing somehwere. And that's when you realize, this is the place where relationships come to die.

"Say hi, Paris!! Teehee!" she says as she buries her face in its shedding, outrageously fluffy face, with its two demon emerald eyes locked on you at all times. Those eyes are saying, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. This is not your day to die. But it can be. I am the master of this domain."

The girl with the cat. An age old problem, and has been the silent battleground men fear to even talk about in front of their significant other. And we don't even talk about it with guys, for that matter, because "Psshh...it's JUST a cat, dude." but we all know it and fear it.

Cornelius, I'm sorry for your battle wounds, and I admire your courage in coming forth to this forum for guidance and support.

10 things to do about this situation:

1. My first thought was, of course: cat in bag. bag in river. This is NOT AS BAD AS IT SOUNDS. Trust me. Because then, you buy the girl a puppy since Paris 'ran away' and you are the sensitive, loving, cat-hair-free man of her dreams again.

2. Many cats are exotic, from far away lands. The Egyptians even had cats, for god's sake. Call INS, have the cat deported. Your hands are tied here, it's THE LAW. Don't let a cat stand between you and the love of your country. Or between you and that beautiful woman.

3. If the cat wants war, give it war. The best and most difficult way to diffuse this situation is to fight and win. Staring contests with the cat, throwing it, and establishing an 'alpha male' presence in the house are all effective ways to handle this.

4. Feign allergies. Since you don't want to go around fake-sneezing and rubbing your eyes raw so they'll be red, be sure that you come up with a convincing yet low-maintenence allergy. Like, I don't know, rabies.

5. IMMEDIATELY BURST INTO TEARS. Don't look at the cat, curl up into a ball and start going on and on about your high school sweetheart, relative, or close friend that passed away. Talk about how she loved cats and you just can't stand the sight of them. Everytime you see a cat, your heart breaks all over again.

6. Ask her to go on a romantic vacation. Have someone burn down her house. It's risky, and its a felony, but its also a life sans-feline.

7. Also, now that you're injured, I say milk that for all its worth. I'm saying, she should fan you with palm branches and feed you grapes.

8. If you decide that you love this woman, this is a perfect way to guilt her into staying with you for the rest of your battle-scarred life. Just tell her over and over again how lucky you are to have her because - well - "who could love this face other than you after [choke up slightly] what happened with me and Paris."

9. Also, you should definitely make up a better story for other people about what happened. Depending on the nature of the wound and the people asking about your horrible disfiguration, you could have done anything from save babes from a burning building all the way to a bar-fight. Oh! You're a crime fighter. You're like - BATMAN or some shit. Just tell everyone you don't wanna talk about it because 'people might get hurt'.

10. If all else fails, or none of these sound good, there's one final resort. Space. I'm not sure if its out there, but I highly recommend looking into those companies that will fire your ashes into space, and seeing if they'll let you put a cat in the urn. Done.

And you're welcome to drown your sorrows here anytime, but don't forget - everyone prefers a happy drunk. :)

The 2171 Porch.

Matt's a Faggot

In the mail today, we received the next two movies from Matt's Netflix queue. They are:

1. Pretty in Pink
2. Some Kind of Wonderful

Really folks, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

Everytime a car backfires a Rapper loses his Blings.

So, neighbor Luke. Remember Lawrence from Office Space? He's like that, only a lot less creepy. He comes over, tells his stories, cracks us up with his random southernness, and last night, while watching TimeCop on my couch ("oohhh, shit, bet they didn't teach that nut-shot in Karate!") informed me that 50-cent was a main investor in Vitamin Water!? Craziness.

Then we start talking about how rappers come and go, how they have to depend on a lot of marketing and freshness to stay successfu-- BAM!! a car backfires or a gunshot, can't tell.

Luke, without hesitation: Uhp...see...there goes another rapper, before he even had a chance.

It should also be known that since I didn't know this weekend is when SEC Football begins, Luke said: "I don't even know you...we're done." and then got me another beer. Good neighbor. Good, random, crazy southern neighbor.

Matt and Neal Tango with the Law - Part 1

The following is a very lengthy (and I am sorry about that! skip to Neal's funnier story below if you're in a hurry), but very true and accurate statement of the events that transpired between the times of approximately 1:00am - 4:00am on the morning of July 23, shortly after this story begins.

Date: Tuesday, July 22
Time: 11:55pm
Setting: 2171 College Street - Studio

PROLOGUE

The night began like many Tuesdays at 2171. Neal and I more or less to ourselves, drawing, watching TV, whatever. It has already been a sleep-deprived week due to the fact that we have no concept of "weekdays" as we've heard them called, and more than likely had a Margarita Monday the night prior.

So it should be said that Tuesdays are chill. We behave. Mostly.

Our dear friend Zach hosts a radio show at midnight on Tuesdays, and its an all request show. So Neal is going to stay up, and my plan had been to finish the last few brush strokes of a painting and head to bed.

However, when one of those Russleritas hits the table, there's no turning it down, even if its midnight on a 'weekday'. It's like someone just walked up and handed you a $100 bill, and says, "You can have this. Oh, I'm sorry, is this bad timing for you?" No. You take it with great pleasure and no questions as to why this is happening to you. Just accept the good graces of the fates (or Neal, as the case may be. The two are not mutually exclusive.)

So, an hour later, I decide against another batch and head to bed. Wait, I'm gonna step outside first, as my routine usually dictates.

It should be noted that every single time the radio show is on, the two of us go out back for any outdoor time. But this night, I decide to go out front. Neal comes along.

This single, arbitrary decision is the linchpin for what our lives would be like for the next month. The difference between living in irrational fear of death, or just going about our merry lives at 2171. Why oh why, didn't I pick the back......

PART 1:

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Taking a quick look around the area, almost immediately we see something we never should have seen.

There is an athletic-build African-American male looking through the trunk of a car. Innocent Enough.

UNLESS:

(a) its 1am

(b) it is our friend Stefania's car

(c) Stefania is in Hawaii

(d) All of the Above.

If you guessed D, you would be correct. Unable to believe our eyes, we watch this man take a ton of stuff from her car, and put it in his.

Me: "Do you...who is..."

Neal: "Is he breakin into her car...?"

Me: "I think...could that be a friend of hers? Surely not."

M: "yeah, that's what he's doing...."
[string of quiet astonished expletives, and 'is this happening like...for real?' in disappointed tones]

N: What do we do?

M: I don't know man Idon'tknowIdon'tknow

Guy hops in his car, and drives right in front of us.....and.....slows....down.....

As if our heart-rates weren't already about to top out, the car sputters like he's going to break down. The engine silences. Terror is too lax of a word. More like, pants-shitting-cry-for-your-mom-confess-your-sins-these-are-your-last-moments terror. Yeah. That'll do it.

A half-second passes of just sheer numbness. And he turns over the motor again and drives away. I decide to follow my gut, and we call 911, with the afterthought that we might be over-reacting racist bastards if we're mistaken.

Well, as it turns out, we were not.

Shortly after we called the cops, we notice that the window is broken, sparkling on the asphalt now amongst the CDs and the bugs and the beercaps.

Moments later, a black SUV crawls up. I'm on high-alert, so this is a big deal. However, seeing the caged windows and the bear-like german shephard crawling around in the back makes me realize this is the cop we've been waiting for. But not just a cop, one of those hardcore, camo-wearing, things strapped to everywhere G.I. Joe looking motherfuckers.

[edit: when telling this to Heather, she says, "I always want to ask them if they have any gum."]

After the usual clammer of questions and numbers barked back and forth in walk-talkies, we're asked if we could identify the man if we saw him again.

IF WE SAW HIM AGAIN. Well, we all know where this goes.

Moments later, after many cops have arrived on this life-threatening scene full of bombs, terrorists and rabid zombies (thanks, city of Montgomery, for spending my taxes wisely) one last cop drives up to the scene. With an athletic-build African-American male looking through the rear passenger window.

So, being the Citizen Heroes that we are, we immediately duck around anything we can (and keep our dignity intact) to avoid being seen by the 28 Days Later, Rage Infected looking 'suspect' in the back seat.

"Fellas.....this him?" says GI Cop.
In unison, in a grumble: "yeahyeahthat's himthat'shim..."

The only thing I even saw other than his obvious attachment to the scene of the crime was that he was dirty. He wasn't dirty when he was stealing shit out of Stefania's car....hhm...

I use neal's towering height to block my view and neal constricts himself to about 90 degrees of movement it's ok he's only going to be there for like 30 seconds......ORRRR ten minutes.

Cop, to suspect: "What!? What!? You need to shut yur fuckin mouth why didn't you stop when a police vehicle came up on you??"
Suspect: "mumblemumble lights wuttin' on mumble"
Cop: "I don't give one good god damn don't you know what a fucking cop car looks like!?? NO, of course your dumb ass doesn't know you piece of shit cause you're fucking trashed! How much you had to drink tonight? Yeah, nothing my ass."

Suspect, in reference to his arresting officers: "mumble.....mumble....they drunk."

Cop, as he slams the door with his foot: "you need to shut your fucking mouth cause you're in enough trouble as it is."

Needless to say, we're stunned and trying not to laugh or cry.

N: "You ok man?"
M: "aah....yeah, you know....just...taking it all in."
N: "....."
M: "....."

1:25AM (still standing on the street having to watch the cops do their thing)

M: "Hey neal?"
N: "Yeah buddy?"
M: "Can we get the hell out of 2171? Please?"

So they're completely baffled that Stefania is in Hawaii, so we got the same three questions over and over again:
"Do you know the victim here?"
"Where is she right now?"
[scoff] "What, she on her honeymoon or sum'n?"

Then, the 'main dude' shows up an old guy looks all kinds of old school but cool as hell....pats some guys on the shoulders...."good policework gentlemen"

Main Dude: "Are these the two that spotted that bastard?"
Us: Ah, yeah, that's us.
MD: "hhm..do you know the victim?"
Us: sigh yes
MD: "where is she right now?"
Us: She's in hawaii....
MD: "What, she on a honeymoon or somethin'? Hahaha!"
Us: No, just...on vacation.
MD [stands and chews for a moment]: "Hell. Wish I was in Hawaii. Lucky if I make it to goddam Lake Martin these days." and walks away.

The way he said it was so cliche and just....perfect. Like the newspaper editor in the Spiderman movies.

So we overhear the story from here....turns out, the man jumped from a MOVING CAR once they spotted him, CRASHED INTO A FENCE, and they had to catch him in a foot pursuit somewhere in the ghetto. Un. Effing. Believable.

But this is where the story takes a turn for the worse....I'm sorry for the length, but trust me, this is a quality tale.

Main Dude: "So gentlemen. here's the deal. Since miss....cue...cuemue... [looks at us like its our fault she has a complicated last name]"
Neal, correcting him: "Cumuze [cuhmoozee]"
MD: "Since she's not here....we're gonna need someone to file an official complaint. If someone doesn't go downtown and do that, we're forced to let him go."

....no comment...

MD: "Do you have everything you need to make the trip...or...?"
M: "oh! uh....I guess lock up and we're good to go?" I say to Neal.

Neal does so. Leaving ipod, sketchbooks, etc. We're under the impression we're getting a ride, the citizens-good-deed-ride, the tax-payers witness-taxi.

Well, that wasn't true. "Yall know how to get there?" was the first clue.

So we get in the car and freak out for a minute, and then get downtown to the station. And, there's absolutely no one there. Completely desolate. So we just knock on a random door that seems geographically linked to the meat of the building.... and then it gets fun.

After barrelling around the police station for a few minutes banging on random doors, someone finally presents themselves..... its this dumpy, short, too nicely dressed black guy who looks my age or younger, and has braces he looks like he just got woken up, just got punched in the gut, or needs to take a shit real bad. Scowl doesn't describe his mean, clean-cut pudgem face. You just wanna slap the "mama still cooks for me" right off his chubby little face, for real....

Pudgem: "whatchoo need."

M: "Ah, they told us to come here." [logic being, there are OBVIOUSLY very few crimes to deal with considering the desolate nature of this station]
P: "Who did"
M: "The officers on the scene?"
P: "Who were they. What fuh [for]."
M: "eh, we didn't get any names, see [insert story up to now, here]"
P: "gimmeyeaeyeD" [which i shrewdly deduced to mean, in english, "May I see some identification, please."]

Neal took my cue and got his out, also. (all this is through bulletproof glass, mind you) so we put the ids down and th-- "I only need ONE."

I could go on about this, but this post is long enough....

P: "Yall take a seat on the bench "

So neal slowly retracts his after we kind of body language through the whole "I'll deal with it, dude, go sit down" thing.

P:"mumblemumble"

Did he just say son of a bitch? I think he just called me a son of a bitch!

Me: "excuse me?"
P: "Yall take a SEAT on the BENCH!"

So - of course - we joke about him for a while, then he asks me to come back. We're the ONLY ones there. We get to the bench and I say, "Neal, not to complicate matters, but I swear to god I just saw a woman going through the trashcan outside."

N [astonished]: "shut up"
M: "sweartogod."

We sit for a minute. Neal goes and checks for her, and of course she's moved on to her next trash digging endeavor, we assume, because she's not there. A few minutes later we hear around the corner, the doors open, which is kind of terrifying because it could be anything at 2am Wednesday morning in the deserted police station.

In walks the green dress trash digging woman. She goes over to the doors [beep] and walks right in.

The point being, that we go from being complete non-racists - a guy was rummaging through a friend's car and we debated not even calling the cops - to complete and TOTAL racists.

Sitting, sitting, waiting...watching Neal saved a Roly-Poly's life...then I saved it...then he saved it again (the thing had a death wish.)

N: "This place sucks. The cells here really suck. You don't wanna be here roly poly."
M: "Everything you just said is funny on many levels right now."
[long pause, just sitting...]
N: "No ipod, no sketchbooks....fuck."
M: "No food. We could be here for days. I never said goodbye to my mom."
[long pause, just sitting...]
N: Hey....look at us....could we look any more different than we do right now?

I'm wearing a polo and khaki shorts, neal is in worn out jeans and a zero hoodie, his laundry day uniform.

[long pause, just sitting...]

M: "Of the countless times, how many more times am I gonna end up on a bench with you in a law enforcement situation before this friendship ends?"

FINALLY, Pudgem asks me to come back and after he literally thumbs through a law book for THIRTY MINUTES while I watch, he decides that we aren't even supposed to be here.

It's 3:00am.

I'm not even supposed to BE here!? What wait, no, there's gotta be a mistake...about this time an officer comes from upstairs, one of the guys from the scene, and he's like "hey where you guys been? that your buddy outside?" And we go upstairs to be recorded telling our story.

But first, Pudgem has been making me TRANSCRIBE THE EVENTS OF THE NIGHT. Luckily I was too tired and pissed to be a worried about dramatic effect. I summed it up with a "this is what we saw" kind of thing. He made me finish it, even after the confusion was cleared up as to why we were there, mumbling something about covering his [substantial] ass.

Upstairs, this old energetic tough but incredibly informal guy comes out. Gray/Bald, tight little detective 'stache, polo with a badge embroidered on it, the whole nine yards. He's wrestling with a fingerprint kit that looks like an ammo box from Vietnam, cussing if he pinches a finger or fails an attempt to 'pry the bastard open'. This goes on for the duration of the following monologue:

"Heeyyy there fellas. So. Here's how this is gonna - fuck - go down. [slams case latch] Cpl. Collins here is going to record your statements of the incident on tape, and separately. This here is a fingerprint kit we give the trainees. He's gonna get your statements...you're going to have to give testimony to the grand jury, as this is a felony case. [scratches his chin] the suspect will be present for those hearings. You'd think they'd make these cases easier to open, god dammit."

Now this is just great. Not only has he seen us, but he now gets to see us while he's clean and pissed. He's gonna have his friends come do things to us.

"Now. It's real simple. It's not that bigga deal. You guys go to AUM? My son goes to Huntingdon....[we talk about work and Huntingdon for a second] You boys want some coffee?" spoken like he just offered us black market cuban cigars.

"Get on over here and make yourselves at home." Spoken with the open hands and then onto the hips, like he's showing off a new car or something. He was a happy guy. I think he's quite the caffeine addict.

"Alright!" he says. "Yer up!" to me, so I go in the room and take a seat across from the detective, who is pecking one finger at a time at the keyboard. M-o-n-t-m.......backspace.....g-o-m-e-r-y

Detective: "how ya doin?"
Me: "Oh, I'm tired, but I'm here." (which is a loose translation on 'I'm pissed and I wanna go to bed' but whatever)
Detective: "Yeah, we all tired, for sure."
Me: "This is all kind of scary, being involved and all.."
Detective: "Oh is it? Why is that?" Like I'd just told him I like throwing babies. "Do you spell roommate with one M or two? It just don't look right."

I don't go for the definitive answer, I go for the "don't make him feel too stupid" answer

Me: "uummm....is it one? No, I'm almost certain its two. Yeah, its two. That looks right to me. That one always gets me, too!"

So he stumbles through asking me to repeat the story. which was rather unremarkable at this point. I'm sick of it. Ready to die. Or at least sleep.

Eventually he walks us out to the car, telling us how long the guy's rap sheet is, what a good thing we did, and how he'll see us in court. Wonderful. We'll be there this afternoon, sitting like we sat on that bench, for hours, talking about random stuff until our heads explode.

On the bright side, its like our apartment, sans alcohol.