8 Things

I was going to blog about my family reunion this weekend but after two unsuccessful (read: boring) attempts, I will instead take Eric's challenge.

* We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
* Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
* People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules. At the end of your blog post, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
* Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.


1. I was in boy scouts from age 7 until 10. Each year, we would hold the annual Soap Box Derby, where we received little kits from which we made our racing cars. Included was a hunk of wood cut to resemble the body of a derby car, four nails, and plastic wheels that would be attached by putting the nails through the center and tapping them into cut grooves on the bottom of the car. The decoration of your derby car was up to you (and your parent), as was the weighing of the body and lubrication of the wheels (also with your parent). The cars weren't allowed to go above a certain weight, as the "track" was simply a long board with ruts in it, curving up to come almost perpendicular with the ceiling. The cars were set at the top, two at a time, and one bar released their unbridled fury.

Dad and I painted the car black and decorated it with red and blue lettering. He drilled holes in the back end into which we placed little weights and sealed them with glue. We carefully used sandpaper to hone any imperfections out of the wheels and lubricated the nail "axles" with graphite. This was a city-wide event, so it took a long time and each grade (1-5) raced its peers. I entered the race with the same ennui I entered the past years' races. Knowing I wouldn't win, I just sat by and accepted the inevitable. Using a bracket winning system, all 32 of us started on the left and would either progress towards glory or be thrown to the vultures. I could see them forming a lazy circle of death right above my head. The first round went off without a hitch. The second round came and I did it again. By the third round I was in total disbelief, so I just assumed my defeat would come at any moment. Somehow, I was in the fourth round and it was down to four of us, one being the reigning division champion, Jimmy St. Clair. My car was doing really well. I was smoking the other cars. I wanted to win really bad; some might call my lust for the trophy "feral". I knew I would win. I knew it would come down to me and Jimmy. The final round. A hush grew over the audience. A new challenger was going to take on Jimmy! In what was truly a Hollywood version of the final race, our two cars would exchange first position, his then mine, his then mine, his then... MINE!! I WON!! I got a trophy on which to mount my winning car. It had a marble base, a brass plaque with my name and "4th Grade Soap Box Derby Champion" engraved upon it.

2. I was 6 when my family went on a Sunday hike. We weren't too far from civilization but far enough that the nature was spectacular. Not long into our hike, I spotted orange berries and decided it would be awesome to find out what they tasted like. Mom heard me saying, "Try them, Chris! They're really good!" and ran over, asking what exactly was so good. I opened my little hand and showed her the brightly colored berries. Time froze and I still remember the look on her face. I could tell that I had done something wrong, and something that needed to be taken care of NOW. Calmly explaining to me that bright berries are poisonous, mom and dad rushed us into the car and sped to the nearest Safeway. Screeching into the parking lot, mom ran inside and bought ipecack (sp?). It was intended to make me throw up, but for whatever reason, it didn't work. I stood outside the car, waiting to vomit, with precious time slipping by. Realizing that I probably wouldn't puke from the ipecack, dad shoved his finger down my throat and pulled it out, followed immediately by a load of bile-covered berries.

3. Even though I wasn't attending church, I still thought I would go to hell for being gay around the age of 15. I put myself in therapy, thinking that with a little emotional beat-down, I could be cured of my "gayness". Instead, I found out through my Christian therapist how backwards and evil the intentions of the Christian mind is towards gay people. It probably didn't help that I kept gay friends, but I somehow knew that the whole "cure your gayness through therapy" thing was a farce. The emotional turmoil I put myself through led to a lot of disconnection from reality through drugs. The pain continued for years until I somehow found the courage within myself to tell my parents I was fine and they were the ones with the problem. Today, I have a great relationship with the 'rents, they love Robin and we go over every week for dinner. Good things come from being true to yourself.

4. I used to chew my big toenails for years until they became ingrown. On the same day I got corrective surgery for them, I got a booster MMR shot and Tetanus shot. So, I went home with two busted toes, a really sore arm from the Tetanus shot, and I was violently ill because of the MMR shot. Good times.

5. My family owns a boat and every year we would take two weeks during the summer to go camping/skiing. We usually went to Cottage Grove Lake, a small and warm lake south of Cottage Grove. One year when I was 13, I wanted to learn how to ski on a single ski, graduating from the double skis. One ski requires a completely different technique but most of all, it requires the boat to go much faster to pull you out of the water. My brother took to it easily, rising out of the water, setting his back foot and zipping across the wake. I thought, being that Chris is two years younger than I, that my first attempt would be successful. It wasn't. Neither was the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh. I was enraged. I began slamming the water with my hands, screaming, "WHY DOES GOD HATE ME?! WHY WON'T HE LET ME SKI?!?!?!" Dad tried his best to calm my fury, but it didn't work. I was a complete wreck. I cried, I yelled, but mostly I wouldn't give up. Exhaustion finally consumed me and I had to call it a day. The next afternoon, I wanted to try again. Remembering everything dad told me, I bobbed in the water, expecting to biff it really soon. I didn't. In fact, I got up on my first try and while my first run was short-lived, I did it! So, if at first you don't succeed, curse god and smack some water.

6. After my Senior year in high school, five of my closest friends went to the Dave Matthews Band concert in the Gorge. We reserved a campsite weeks before and because we arrived a bit late, we decided not to check into our campsite and instead go right to the concert. The concert was incredible. It was, without a doubt, the best concert I had ever been to. After the show, we piled in the Explorer and drove to the entrance of the campground. Two cops were at the entrance, turning away every car. I was driving, rolled down my window and explained that we had a reservation, paid for, and showed him our receipt. He said, "It's full. You have to move on." I argued, complaining that there was no place to go, we had a reservation, so what could were we supposed to do? He said, in the most indignant tone, "That's not my problem. Now MOVE IT." Most of my friends were drunk or getting there and I was too pissed to think straight. We headed for a gas station to use a phone book and call local hotels. Not surprisingly, everything in a 50-mile radius was booked. We had nowhere to go. We were tired (it was midnight) and just pulled over to examine our options. All I wanted was to hang out and get drunk. But no, that wasn't going to happen. During our conversation, I grew more and more upset at the situation. Finally, I said, "Just get into the car. We have to drive home." Knowing I was right, my friends complied and I drove 8 1/2 hours back to Eugene.

7. In April 2005, I attended a friend's big 35th birthday party down near Roseburg. Tons of people came and celebrated. On Saturday, we went for a long hike to the top of a butte. The area was crawling with poison oak, so I was on my guard. Even so, the weekend ended with me developing a rash on my left calf. I was doing a good job of leaving it alone, but one day I wore pants and they touched my infection quite a bit. The next two days saw the infection worsening, growing red and oozing yellow goop. The day after, the color changed from dark red to purple and my mom urged me to see a doctor right away. I went to the Student Health Center and saw Dr. McMaster, who informed me that not only was this far beyond a normal poison oak infection, it had become "compartmentalized", which is a fancy way of saying that if I had come to him 24-48 hours later, they would have had to amputate my leg. Yeah. He sent me away but not before giving me a huge 1 gram shot of antibiotics, a prescription for steroids, more antibiotics and Vicodin (for the excruciating pain). I went back the next two days and got another shot and saw him four times after that. Cost be damned, I wanted my leg!! Thinking this was going to cost and arm and a leg (HA! GET IT?! HA!), I shuddered when I opened the bill. The total, for all six visits, four prescriptions and shots, was $210. Yay for being a student!

8. I used to hate IPAs. In fact, I thought that the bitterness was just something crazy people enjoyed because their taste buds developed poorly. It was always, "Yeah, well good luck with that" when somebody was drinking one. This past spring, several friends and me attended the KLCC Brewfest. I thought I would try at least one of the IPAs. You know, for posterity or some shit. Then it hit me: bitterness is a flavor in IPAs. It's not an obstacle keeping people out, it's a delicious invitation to guzzle more and more! To drink it every day! To take baths in it! Oh my, I was hooked. I drank literally every IPA at the brewfest. Like a deranged monkey, I hobbled from one stand to another, intent on guzzling down every last IPA in sight. I succeeded. I might also add that as a Professional Drunk, I didn't have a hangover the next day. I did, however, develop a fever. The only prescription was more IPA.

So, now I'm supposed to tag people for this. Okay, fine. Some of these people have already been tagged because the group I roll with is super exclusive and shit:

Sara, Evan, Scott, Robin, Chris, Your mom, My mom, Jesus

(PLUG: be sure to click on the last three! I'm funny!)