Mrs. Robinson

After last week's family drama I decided I needed to drink away my sorrows this weekend so Saturday I headed up to Gaviota for the San Luis Obispo Hash House Harriers' run and mini-campout.

R and C decided to make a day of it too after I told them there would be beer and topless women so we all piled into R's truck and headed north. What amazed me was the fact that I, the only woman in our trio, merely brought along a sleeping bag, a 12-pack of Bass, and a bag with some warm clothes. The two men, on the other hand, brought along two tents, air mattresses, three sets of clothes, six pair of shoes, and enough hair product to put the local Paul Mitchell distributor out of business. It was to be only a 20 hour trip...

We arrived in time for a quick beer or two, or three, before the run started. The run ended up being about six miles over the mountains and through the woods with great views of the Pacific, four beer checks, and a stream crossing. It's always nice to get your feet wet midway through a trail run. After the run we all headed back to the campground to set up for the night. Turns out R was so drunk by the time we got to the campsite that when he went to set up his tent he realized he had forgotten his tent poles. Same thing with B, another hasher. Yes, we are known for our intelligence. C was the only one with a tent with poles, but it was a small tent. The majority of folks decided to just sleep under the stars so our campsite ended up looking like a homeless zone, with bodies strewn on tarps on the ground and one dingy grey tent off to the side.

Lucky for us there was a concert and BBQ taking place at a park about 1/2 mile from the campground so some of us showered, changed and headed over. The band was good and B had brought a big bottle of Jack Daniels so folks were well-lubed. I'm a puker so I stay away from the hard stuff. This also leads to more clarity than the masses at these events, which is usually a good thing. The music ended and we stumbled back to camp.

At some point during the evening a herd of teenaged boys converged on our camp. I think they were helping retrieve firewood or something. They told me they were all at least 18, in fact, on boy told me he had lost his virginity three months ago so he was experienced. Tempting as it was, I passed. Anyhow, they wanted a picture of them with our group so, kindly old lady that I am, I flashed a boob when the guy to the picture. This was like opening Pandora's Box and set the boys into a tizzy. They were so excited that I decided to flee with C and R. Of course, while I was away my goods friends back at camp told the boys, especially the runt, that I liked teenagers and was really serious about one of them. This led to three of them storming the beach in search of the "hot older lady" that I apparantly am. Thank god R, a tall former Australian rules football player, was there. I told the boys he was my husband and got very jealous. They immediately apologized to him, called him sir, and scampered back to camp.

The next morning when I emerged from the tent my fellow campers seemed to be snoring to the tune of Simon & Garfunkel...

Happy Anniversary

To the blog. I forgot, it's been a year as of April 15. Should have known I would have started while procrastinating on taxes last year.

And yes, it has been downhill ever since...

Payback

I learned another perk of being a lawyer this weekend. My brother got arrested so I had the distinct pleasure of showing my bar card at the jail and getting a private visit with good ole bro during non-visiting hours. The visit itself was uneventful, other than him being upset I wouldn't post bail until after the arraignment. What was kind of funny was that he called me later that night and asked that I not visit again because they strip-searched him after I left and he didn't like being strip-searched.

I'm seriously considering visiting him as his lawyer a few times a day just to make him suffer a bit more...

The Great Olive Incident of 1976

Todd inquired about my putting olives next to repression and unaccountability on the list of things I don't like. Seeing as how I am known to eat anything (take that as you will), it is odd that I don't appreciate a nice olive every now and then so here's the tale of how I came to have a gag reflex when it comes to olives:

It was Thanksgiving, 1976, or was it '77? It really doesn't matter anymore. I was a young and rambunctious girl, sporting pigtails, my sister's hand-me down Dittos, and my favorite Sean Cassidy shirt, running amuck at my grandparents' house with my other 28 cousins. We trailer types are, after all, breeders by nature. Grandpa had put out some olives in a bowl for a snack. Naturally, all of us with little fingers began sticking the olives on our fingertips. I had somehow managed to adorn every digit on both hands with black olives. Then my evil cousin Jacob started chasing me. I took off screaming and headed for the screened-in porch, olive-clad hands flailing. For some reason I thought I might get an energy burst if I ate an olive or two en route. I had just stuck my right hand, and all five olives, in my mouth when I ran smack dab into the sliding glass door at warp speed. Good old grandma had Windexed it just that morning. My right elbow hit the glass first, shoving the olives and my hand down my own throat. A few olives got caught, my fingernails dug into the roof of my mouth, and I began to choke. Someone heimliched me, or beat me, or something, and the olives were cleared but my mouth was bleeding profusely. I ended up having three stitches in the roof of my mouth and a dislocated shoulder from the impact. I haven't eaten an olive since.

Oh, and you should check out Todd's dissertation on Black People Love Us at his own site No Ordinary Place for info on the olive branch that white folks ought to be extending from birth.

So that's what's on TV at 2 am

One being a lawyer that comes from good trailer stock is that every now and then you'll get one of those great 1:23 a.m. phone calls from a relative whose house is mysteriously surrounded by police with floodlights. Here is a transcript from the one I received early Wednesday morning:

X: "K! Dude! Are you awake?"
K: "No."
X: "The police are after me. They are outside my house with lights and guns. They are violating my rights! I need a lawyer. What should I do?"
K: "What happened? Why are they there?"
X: "I don't know."
K: "I need you to tell me what happened."
X: "I don't know, I'm telling you the truth. I didn't do anything."

Uh huh, three police cars show up at your house at 1:20 a.m., direct flood lights and point weapons at you because they are bored?

I called the watch commander at the local PD and got his version of what was going on. The usual, sex, drugs, rock & roll, oh, and guns. What no probable cause? No warrant? You send three police cars, with officers brandishing weapons at 1:00 in the morning to a quiet residence when you just want to talk to someone? Where is Fox News when you need them?

And so the wee hours of Wednesday morning progressed. X denying things, police threatening things and information slowly trickling in about allegations of domestic violence, illegal weapons and drug dealing. I tell X to go to the back bedroom, close the shades and get to sleep, and, of course, not say anything to police should they arrest him. Cops leave at about 3 am. Perhaps someone was actually violating a law at that time. They should at least wait until after taxes are due to pull this stuff.

All the hubbub and mental jarring of criminal law and procedure from my brain left me wide awake. Fortunately, by some stroke of luck, I had recently gotten cable installed for a project I'm doing (strictly work-related, honestly). And so, for the first time in my life I sat on my sofa at 2 am channel surfing. Let me just say I now realize I have not missed anything by not being awake in front of a television at 2 am.

On my first run through the channels, I found Howard Stern on E! What a lame tv show - it's just someone filming a radio show, in a radio station room. And all the people on the show, as is true in radio, are not visually appealling. Even the porn stars that were guests were ugly. I don't know what I expected but I love the radio show and now it's ruined by seeing it. It made me think how sad life must be for people who are awake at 2 am if they thought this was comedy.

The real comedy was actually found on Fox Sports Network. They were showing a dart tournament. News flash: dart throwing is not a spectator sport. The camera would zoom in on the face of the guy throwing, then zoom out, show him throw, then zoom to the board, then back to his face. As if that weren't riveting enough, there was a commentator! How do you comment someone standing 15 feet from a bullseye, daintly lobbing miniature projectiles at it? The commentator was pretty enthusiastic and got the crowd going. That's right, there was a crowd in attendance. And who should be in the crowd but Shania Twain!!! She's a zillionaire - doesn't she have something better to do than attend a dart tournament? If I can't watch my friends play darts in a bar when I'm at that easily amused state of intoxication, I sure as heck don't want to watch it in my living room.

The good thing about the darts was that between watching it and drinking some Sleepy Time tea I was able to stop my mind from racing with criminal nuance and get back to sleep. The lesson here: if you have relatives involved in felonious activity, cable tv helps. Maybe I can get an endorsement deal for Adelphia, or, better yet, the professional miniature projectile association, or whatever they are called.