There's No Crying in Paintball...Okay, a Little Bit of Crying

But first, NINJAS!

No, not this type of ninja:

THIS type of ninja:

I have a friend here who owns a red ninja motorcycle named Delilah, and after much pleading, finally took me on a ride last last weekend.  I grew up with a best friend whose dad had two Honda Goldwings, and I remember fondly the few couple times he took me on rides.  There were just a couple differences that didn't make themselves apparent until my ninja-ride began:

1) Goldwings have a nice back and armrests for the passenger, making it nearly impossible to fall out and, on long stretches of highway, almost easy to fall asleep.

2) The Goldwing had been driven by a middle-aged man, not a 23 year-old boy.

Having only the foot pegs and my friend to hold onto, I quickly learned the safest option you have is to go with the flow - lean into turns, bend down when speeds get high, and do not let go.  On the highway my thoughts were focused on the rush of the wind and the new visual perspective the view provided, and decidedly less on the fact that any car ignoring their blind spot on the LA highway could plow into us at any moment.

Thankfully it wasn't until we were back on 45mph roads that my friend informed me we had been going 100mph!  As scary at times as it was, I would gladly go again...this time figuring out how to fasten my helmet for myself.
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Last Thursday, one of my friends had a birthday and in honor, his girlfriend planned a paintball trip. As a pretty fair-skinned individual with bruising tendencies I was a little hesitant to go, but my inner spunky short person said "Hell yeah, I can do this!"  Both sides were right.

I geared up with two layers of pants and long sleeve shirts, the outside layer being loose-fitted as suggested by the internet, some sunblock on my face, and shoes I didn't care how dirty they got.  However the layers made me sweat like no other once we got going, with the addition of the mask not being the easiest thing to breath through and the gun weighing more than I had anticipated.  I was thankful that we were largely a group of beginners (although almost all the others there were bigger gamers than I), and even the couple of people who had the most experience were on my team.

My beginning strategy was simple: do not get shot.  And so I succeeded, at least for the first 3 games and the first round of the 4th.  I largely hung in the back or up in bunkers, covering the back of my teammates.  It took a while for me to get aiming down, but by the second round of the 3rd game I got two people out! I was 2 kills for 0 being killed and feeling pretty proud of myself.

In the 4th game I got my third kill and my first time being knocked out.  The shot must have come from far away, because I barely felt a pinch on the back of my right calf, but the paint was there so I raised my hands in the universal terms for "out" and left the field.  The pain wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, so I decided to be a little more charge-and-go-for-it.  Oh foolish, foolish, Past Me.

The 5th game I was coming up a hill in the center of the playing field, creeping up slowly, expecting at any moment for someone to appear just feet from me.  All of a sudden there was one of my friends about 10 feet away.  I fired a couple shots and he jumped back down, I though out of being hit.  Turns out it was just surprise from me being there and after a chuckle, he jumped back up and head-shot me.  Head shots, at least on the front or the side weren't painful at all thanks to the helmet, so I walked back off the field with dignity, even a little bit of pride in having gotten so close to another player.

At this point, I was still in a winning ratio (3kills for 2K.O.s) so my bravery increased a bit more.  The next game I got K.O.'d about a minute in on the butt, but again from far enough away that the sting was minimal.  The second to last game which featured three rounds instead of two would make the breaking of my paintball spirit. The first round went great - I managed to stay in the entire time and get a far distance kill. I was back to  positive ratio (4kills:3K.Os)!  But then the second round I didn't get to enter the playing field as far as I liked, and halfway through there was an on and off shoot-out between me and another player.  Apparently the referee called one minute left (according to the player on the opposite team whom which I was having the shoot-out), and all of a sudden this other player rushed into the container in which I was hiding. I panicked and retreated to a spot where I would have the advantage if he came around, which he did about three seconds later.  I can't be sure who fired first or how much, all I know was five seconds later I was grabbing my leg, and for good reason:

New Rule: Do not get shot from less than 5 yards away

Turns out the paintball didn't even break, just ricocheted off my leg, so I technically could've stayed in (no splatter, don't matter), but my leg was stinging so bad from a 3-foot away shot. I surrendered immediately and bowed out (I did successfully K.O him though, so still positive).  I thought that was the worst it could get, but there was one thing I hadn't remembered: my shoulder sunburn from my hike the previous day.

I headed in for the last round of that game, and proceeded to get a nice hit on someone who hadn't even seen me.  But my shot apparently blew my cover, because as I tried to leave my hide out I got hit in the shoulder, right on my sunburn.  I cried out and grabbed my left shoulder with my left hand (since my right hand was now holding all of the weight of the gun) and thought my shooter would both see and hear that I was done.  But instead he proceeded to fire at least four more times at me, one of which hit me on the left forearm I had exposed in reacting to my first shot. I cried out again (either surrender or a stream of profanity, hard to be sure), and bent over while simultaneously trying to raise my gun as high as I could in surrender.  This must have worked because the onslaught stopped and I could walk off the field, choking up tears.

As much as it all hurt and as much as I probably had a right to cry, I HATED that I was crying.  I tried to stop as fast as I could, but my sunburnt\ continued to sting for a solid 5-10 minutes after the initial impact.  Plus I'm one of those people that if I can have a few minutes to myself, I can suck it up and get back in the game - but the second someone shows sympathy, the tears overflow.  After the initial "are you okays?" and tearful nods, I was fine as we walked back to the car (where we would meet in between games while our ref booked us another field).  But when my attacker came over to express how sorry he was for hitting me, the tears overflowed all over again.  Part of me was starting to feel so bad that he felt so bad, and the "Hell Yeah" part of me was saying "Get your shit together!"  I really want to know how to control this sympathy trigger, because I hate crying in front of others and yet others' sympathy seems to restart it in injury situations instantaneoulsy.

But I gave myself a break and accepted a distant shot the next round and surrendered the very last round.  To be fair, I hadn't gotten the best sleep and hadn't had time for breakfast, which probably didn't help my fragile nature, but I still wanted to come off as tough as everyone else and was disappointed in my battle tears.  Thankfully, no one else made a big deal of it and more importantly the birthday boy had a fantastic time.

However I will not be returning to the field until the memory of my recent excursion passes, if it ever in fact does.

Audience Once, Couch Forever

It would be a waste, at least in my opinion, to live on the southern part of the west coast, be a tv fan, and not at least attempt to go to a show (provided that show has live audiences).  While I'm not her biggest fan, I've enjoyed the episodes I got to watch of Ellen, so my friend, her friend, and I set out to claim our standby spot in the audience on the last day of February.

Aw, yeah!

Having gotten up very early and traveled a little over an hour, we were the first in our line at the stand-by check-in at 8:20 am.  A woman came out about every hour to check in people, so while we were confident to be in front of anyone showing up between 8:20 and 9:10, we had no idea how many people had gotten there before us.

We didn't need to be back for the taping until 1pm, so we killed time by running errands and working at a coffee shop.  We got lunch at Poquito Mas in Burbank before returning to the parking garage to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And fill out a form asking us about how Ellen's impacted our lives, what our favorite part of the show was, and if we were competitive about anything with anyone (look for that in a future show, I guess that's a bit they'll do).

And wait.

Then they started calling numbers!

My Number

...at number 1.

The first 180 people were those with guaranteed spots, meaning they either A) had showed up for a standby, but didn't get to be in the audience, and were instead allowed to watch from a sideroom and then given a guaranteed spot for a future taping or B) knew someone who worked for the show.

Just when I thought we had 90 more people to line up, they skipped to 250! Very soon we were lined up, walked across the street like geeselings to the studio, and waited in a line to be security searched.  Then we got to wait on a bench, than walk through some more lines, and then FINALLY got to go into the set, where we happened to grab 3 of the last 15 seats.

The view from the nose-bleed section.

We were allowed to take picture for about five minutes, then had to put belongings under the seat.  Then cue hypeman, who rallied us all to dance contests, sing-a-longs, and neighbor bonding before the show started.  I'm not sure how typical this is, but I thought hypeguy would work us for about ten minutes and then we'd start the show; instead what happened was we danced for half an hour before Ellen even came out!  Then we danced when she went throught the audience (to the song Thrift Shop*, a new favorite of mine and my friends'), we danced on every commercial break, and when Bonnie Raitt performed.

My favorite guest stars were Mark Wahlberg and Sean Combs, the former seeming a bit grumpy but the latter being hilarious.  I highly recommend watching it, but the best parts are around 10:20 until the end : Mark and Sean on Ellen.

I came out of the experience with an increased appreciation for the behind and between the scenes people, a greater like of P. Diddy, and a good cardio work out.  But I think I'll just opt for the couch in the future.

Except for The Price is Right...but that's an adventure for another day.

Insert Witty and Cummulative Title Here, or, Some Thoughts on Queso and Snails

There are a great many pluses living on West Coast, and SoCal in particular.  It barely rains (to be continued later), you're close to both tourist attractions and places only "locals" know (some really cool ones my friends have found), and you've got mountains and beaches.

But the one thing the West Coast ain't got is queso.

Now of course I was expecting the Mexican food to be different here, hopefully in a more authentic and better way, and it has.  But to open a menu and see salsas, quacamole, and a variety of other appetizer options but no queso is just disheartening. I found queso listed on a menu once, ordered it, and was saddened to see it was just melted cheddar (not the white cheese I had been searching this coast for).

I know I could go to a store, pick out the right white cheeses and just make my own queso.  But it's just not the same as sitting in a restaurant and quietly gorging yourself on chips and lactose before your full meal arrives, challenging you to make room for it too.

Guess that doesn't sound very west coast, though, does it?
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Back home, when it rains for hours and hours, you can find worms all over sidewalks that are next to decently large grassy areas (on a rural college campus, that's every sidewalk).  I was told or possibly assumed that all the rain made the soil too moist and the worms had to come up to the surface for some air, as if they were drowning.

Apparently, the composition of the soil here is drier and worms don't even bother living in it. So what comes out when it rains?

Snails.  Snails (and slugs, the temporarily homeless snail) are on the sidewalks, the parking lot, sometimes the walls of the outside of my apartment complex.  They aren't particularly more attractive or less attractive than worms, but they are definitely more guilt inducing.

While I try to be considerate of other living things, you can't watch out for them all.  Especially when they are all over your sidewalks.  At least with worms, if you stepped on one you would never know it and you could maintain a blissful ignorance and continue with your day.

But snails have that hard shell that you only hear crunching under your shoe when it's too late, when you've already destroyed their home and probably pushing tiny, jagged pieces of it into their squishy little bodies.  You look down after and you feel even worse.

It's just one snail though, right? Sure, on a normal sunny day when a random snail decided it needed a little adventure, sure, maybe.  But not the 20 snail carcasses lining your path to the front door or to the P.O. Box or to the garage that label you and your fellow apartment dwellers as weapons of mass destruction and insecticide*.

I try my best to look out for them, but even someone else's abandoned carnage still pinches my conscience.

The Wine, The Whiskey, and The Ten

Moving to California, I knew there was going to be a lot of wine. A lot of grapes, a lot of vineyards, and a lot of long lists at restaurants.  My first alcoholic drink was wine in Italy, served with multi-coursed meals, so I had a soft spot on my tongue for wine.  I hadn't had much of a variety in my undergrad experience, and most of those decisions were determined by price.  So I was looking forward to the plethora of wines available in my new home.

What I wasn't expecting was the whiskey list on the drink menu to be just as long.

Before my enlightenment, I was under the impression that there were three types of whiskey: bourbon, malt, and mixed. Oh foolish, foolish child. Suddenly there was not only a list of whiskeys at the bar, but they were separated by more types than I could imagine - wheat, corn, rye, malt, rye malt, bourbon, blended, light, and spirited. And that was the breakdown of the American whiskies.*

Why are there so many types of whiskey? Because it's made up of essentially three things: barley, hot water, and yeast.  Sound familiar? It's because they're the same ingredients in beer, simply distilled for higher alcohol content and stored for years in oak to balance flavor and give coloring.** We owe so much more to the Scots***, but whiskey still may be the greatest.

I have tried a couple at a few bars, but most of my enlightenment has come from Crown Royal.  I'll work on expanding my network on both wine and whiskey fronts in the coming year. (In other words, to be continued...)

P.S. - THERE'S LIQUOR IN THE GROCERIES STORES...just had to get that one out of the way too.
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Almost immediately after moving to California, I noticed something strange: people were quite formal with their highways.

Back home, people would say Interstate 95, or 95 North/ 95 South.  Suddenly, it didn't matter as much which way you were going on the highway, as long as you referred to it as "The 10".  And it just sounds silly.  I'm sure it's not the only "10", although yes the only one in California and most likely the only interstate one.  But even the within-state highways get a nice formal "the" in front.

It's made me wonder what other things can be made formal...The Chick-fil-a. The Mount Baldy. The California.  Pretty much anything...still sounds silly.

On the other hand, the metered highways does in fact improve traffic - sure, it gets slow sometimes, but until L.A.ians sit in D.C. traffic, they got nothing to complain about.

Plus there's no annual inspections - which I thought I would never appreciate, but the idea that you simply drive your car until something goes wrong without a maintanence test is all of a sudden quite terrifying.

And although my motorcycle license is still on my bucket list, I will not be getting it in California.  The thing I'm most scared of (and really only scared of) driving here is seeing a motorcyclist, speeding down the line separating the HOV and fast lane, get sideswiped by a car chaning lanes - my heart leaps every time they pass.

In Russia, Can Opens You!, Or, How I Became More Ambidextrous For a Fortnight

I'm going to be playing catch-up here, but I WILL be back on track soon.  For now, the story of my recent injury, an aspect of my past month:

Once upon a time, there was a very crappy manual can-opener.  It lived in an apartment with three young, intelligent, beautiful women, all of whom were quite capable of preparing meals, even those with ingredients from cans.  One night, the conniving can-opener went merrily around the edge of a tuna can, seemingly separating the lid from the rest of the can.  But upon further inspection, the can-opener had left the lid and the can connected at three points, almost perfectly spread out around the can edge.

That's when the brave narrator stepped in. She tried to retrace the connected spots, to no avail.  She tried to leverage the can open with a knife, but that only resulted in nervous looks from her roommate.  Finally, she used the strongest tool she had in the situation: her right hand.

And as the can ripped open, a bit of tuna flying out in victory, so did her hand and a bit of blood (respectively). They say in the crucial moments of one's life, time slows, nearly stopping.  That's not how this was.

After applying pressure to the major wound and tending to a minor one, I, sacrificing third person for less confusion and annoyance's sake, quickly found myself in the local Urgent Care with my roommate.  Since I have yet to visit any medical centers in California, I knew I would have to fill out a lot of forms but hadn't really put that together with my injury.  Thankfully, my roommate did the information, but I still had to give my signature six times.  With my left hand, I took about 30 seconds on each signature, which for most things is not a significant amount of time; but for signing my name, it was forever.

Why didn't you just do a scribble, like most people do their normal signature?  I'm not 100% sure, but I can come up with about 3 reasons: 1) My mom's signature was always legible, so I assumed that was the norm, 2) scribbles seem much easier to get away with as far as forging goes (light paranoia from my father) and 3) I just hate how ugly scribbles look.  When you're trying to get ink to come out of a pen, sure; when you're trying to give permission for someone to take your money/not let you sue them/allow them to sue you, you might want to look like you passed first grade.

The wait was short and I was invited back by a younger nurse-version of George Lopez.  While I wasn't externally worried or upset, his sarcastic banter kept me distracted from the new view into the my hand's skin and tissue organization, which I greatly appreciated.  As I got my four stitches (first in my life), the doctor talked about how she had seen grown men cry (from the shots of local anesthesia) while children don't even flinch.  I was in the no flinching camp, thank you very much...although there may have been some light left hand clenching.

Leaving with some lightly-padded, but still badass-looking bandage I went in search of prescription drugs.  Oddly enough the trip to Walgreen's took longer than the UC trip, which was almost an issue as the anesthesia started to wear off towards the end of the wait.

In the following weeks I experienced some fun stitches adventures, such as writing, showering, and generally wanting to use my hand as a normal hand (who knew!).

The shower was the first obstacle.  The next morning, after successfully wrapping my hand it plastic bag to keep it dry and hopping in the shower, I realized how un-one-hand-friendly soap/shampoo containers are.  After a few slippery drops, I managed to open the lid by holding the bottle between my legs. Then I thought: "How the hell am I gonna measure this?"  Without another option I flipped the shampoo bottle up over my head.  Since my hair was already soaked, it was hard to tell how much was pouring: the bottle didn't feel lighter, and it was already halfway empty when I opened it, so maybe it's still traveling down the bottle?

After rinsing ten ounces of shampoo out of my hair, the shower got significantly easier.  Drying my left arm was a bit of a challenge, but I was foolishly confident that the most difficult task was over.

In class, I quickly found taking notes left-handed was not a viable option.  The cut was across my pinky's knuckle (palm side),  so the bandage reached from the center of my palm around the back of my hand.  Holding my pen like a chopstick, I could slowly take notes; but the bandage was like a small blanket on my hand, and my palm began to sweat, which undid the tape part of the bandage.  Over the next few days there was a war between that bandage and I involving most tapes except duct.  I surrendered in letting it flap open as I wrote or typed, but insisted on its placement otherwise.

In the first week, I couldn't open my hand completely, and  then when I could, I couldn't place pressure on it (all the push-ups I might've maybe gotten around to...).  It also very easily bummed into things and there was a slight pus incident - but I tried my best to focus on the re-full-use of my hand again, and the badass scar for which I would make up a better story.

When I went back into the UC after the appropriate number of days to have the stitches removed, I was told that I would have to wait four-five more days due to the sensitive nature of the area (this was after I waited two hours and paid a $40 co-pay).  

Those number of days later I got my nail clippers, lighter, and tweezers and took them out myself.  The end of the cut had come back together, but deepest part was still open, as the cut entered at an angle.  Today there's a small scab in the center of pink new layers of skin.  Still hurts if I smack something though.

And that, kids, is the time I caught a ninja star thrown at me by Chuck Norris.

No Good Deed Bends that Way, Or, How I Learned to Not Mail Overnight or Practice Bikram Yoga

Last week I decided to send a friend something for his birthday, and surprisingly I planned ahead. Not only that, but I followed through with those plans, and 40 minutes before my 9 AM class I set out to FedEx with a fresh cake, book, and card, ready to take on the day.

Now, I consider myself a fairly lucky person.  The only thing about it is my luck seems to operate under Murphy's Law*, which on one hand means when I'm unintentionally unprepared, things tend to turn out okay or better.  However this also means that when I'm prepared or overprepared, life gets interesting.

First off, and most time-killing, I was sent to the wrong address.  The street number and name were all correct, only the town wasn't.  I live on this northern sliver of a section of one town, that is  about .5 miles east of the next town and .1 miles west of another.  And apparently the different organizers of these tightly packed communities decided they like each other so much they would use some of the same street names**.  And so, I drove in the completely wrong direction, into a neighborhood that has yet to establish a FedEx.

Upon figuring out the correct address and cursing the Maps App or address from the website (wasn't really sure where the mistranslation occurred), I quickly drove to FedEx, sacrificing a bit of my car's underbumper*** on a too-lately-spotted dip in the road.  By now the morning drizzle had augmented to a dull downpour, but I managed to swiftly and gracefully make it into FedEx.

At the counter I was told that legally they are not allowed to package food and I would have to do it myself at a separate counter (challenge accepted).  First, I had to be given the correct size box.  Interestingly, my pan dimensions must have increased by half an inch in the course of baking, and I was told that it was just slightly (I cannot express how slightly) too big for their small box sizes.  So the 13x9" pan would have to go in a 17x17x7" box.

So after assembling the box with help from a wily tape dispenser and a counter not kind to the vertically challenged, I was faced with the decades-old problem of "How much bubble wrap is too much?" The answer is no such thing, but I used all of a 30 or 50 foot roll next to the counter, sealed up the overcompensating package, and returned to the first counter to wait for the associate who had been amusingly watching me struggle the past ten minutes.

Now, I knew the bubble wrap was about $12, the box around $3, there would be tax, and of course some hefty fee for priority overnight ninja mail to make sure the cake didn't spoil.  The associate rang it up and mumbled my total as she reached for something under the counter.
"I'm sorry - what was that again?" I thought I had heard 73-something, which was okay, up there but not insane.
The associate stood back up. "$173.17"
I'm hoping I wasn't frozen in shock too long, before looking at the clock, seeing I had 8 minutes to get to class across town, and making the conclusion it was not worth figuring out what the ultimate mailing-priority-cost efficiency was.

I passed my credit card over, rushed out the door and made it only 10 minutes late to class. I then proceeded to stalk-track my package the next 24 hours, partly to make sure I got my money's worth, but also secretly hoping that they were delayed and I could score even a partial refund.

And that is how I learned to never ship 4 lbs across country overnight.
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I have a few friends from home that have accused me of getting "west coast" on them - you know, eating farmer's market over fried chicken****, trying alternative forms of exercise (such as hiking regularly), and generally being more active and healthy. And while yes, there have been a few healthy lifestyle changes I've picked up, I may have overdone it with bikram yoga.

Bikram yoga (which I have accidentally called Brickman, Birkham, among other pianist-sounding names) is a certain series of fairly static yoga poses performed while in a very hot room.  The particular studio my roommates, roommate's friend, and I tried had 90 minutes sessions at about 100 degrees. I had planned to work out Friday anyway, and I thought changing up my routine would be a good thing. Foolish mortal.

Imagine a brightly-lit, carpeted sauna, packed with people of a variety of age in a variety of clothes-coverage; an annoyingly-serene auctioneer in only a short towel raffles off stretch instructions while sitting cross-legged on a baby lifeguard stand.  Two adjacent full-wall mirrors allow one to see just how red and sweaty you are in comparison to your fellow hellmates, at least the ones that are still standing.  Your thoughts proceed down a path that you feel many have paved before you...'this isn't so bad'...'a bit difficult, but I'm not that flexible'...'it's not so much the poses as the heat'...'this is almost like meditating, only very uncomfortable'...'"breathe threw your nose" sure easy for you to say, mouth-breather'...'do my eyelids have sweat glands? I feel like I'm visually drowning'...'don't look at the clock, don't look at the clock'...'what is time, anyway? or pain? or heat?'...'nope this is what hell is like, has to be'...'okay one look at the clock - 80 minutes left?!'...

To add to this unique experience, I forgot to bring water, but was rescued halfway through by my nearby gracious roommate.  I also laid my yoga mat and towel down right in front of the heater, a fact I failed to note until about 5 minutes into the some of the 90 longest minutes of my young life.

Dehydrated, gross, and body on fire, we emerged from the depths of bikram to a sweet cool drizzle.  To be fair, I didn't completely hate it - in fact I had wanted to go back on Monday, but a joyous trip to urgent care nipped that in the bud.  But that's for another post.

My Fifth Class

As usual, I start writing something and never finish. However I hope to remedy that by making this blog my unofficial fifth class for the semester - every Sunday I'll have a new post up (no promises on time however, and I'm going by PST).

And I know I will eventually miss a Sunday and end up posting later in the week.  But that's the benefits of being your own professor!

On another note, for future reference I asterisk things I want to tangent about on the second page of my posts, so if you're curious as to what I'm curious about be sure to click "Read more" at the bottom of each post.*

I'll have a new post up by Sunday about my most recent adventures at FedEx and Bikram Yoga!