Today is the anniversary of the Virginia Tech shootings. It's strange to think that the little cow town college I went to in 1988 will now be known as the location of one of the worst school shootings in US history. It's also strange to think that my friend and instructor Joe lost his father in this senseless act of violence. I also have a sibling who works at Tech who was affected by the shooting.
My friend Trina forwarded an email to me, which said in part:
At the dedication of our permanent April 16th Memorial last August, SGA President Adeel Khan summed it up exceptionally well…
Take time to remember the legacies, remember the dreams and remember the talent that our community has lost. I hope you are inspired to work harder to honor the 32. Share you talents with the world for the 32. Achieve your dreams for the 32. Be more compassionate, friendly and thoughtful for the 32. Be better, for the 32.
In 2008, we remember the 32; we are thankful for the survivors; and we are proud we share together that incredible Hokie spirit.
It's a little cheesy but at the same time maybe someone will read it and be inspired to make a change in their life or someone else's.
Also, I recently received an email from an old high school friend named Con Way. The last time I saw him we were laying on a bed in I think it was the Sheraton hotel at our 10 year reunion laughing about torturing freshmen at running camp. He said in one email to me:
I read this quote or story once about waking up every morning and looking in the mirror and thinking every morning if you saw yourself on the street about to get hit by a bus would give up your life for the person by pushing them out of the way of the bus? In other words would you give up your life for the person you are today? The answer should be yes b/c that's what you've done. Every time I say this story it sounds so circular but it makes sense to me. I mean I've sacrificed everything in my life to have my current life. It better be what I want to do and if not then I should change it.
Anyway, just throwing some random thoughts out there for contemplation today...
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
kidnapped by pirates
When my brother Bob graduated from college back in 1995 my mom decided to send him to the tropics as a reward. My brother invited me to go with him. We went to the Cayman Islands, where my sister had honeymooned.
Unbeknownst to us, we were arriving at the start of pirate week. It took a day of seeing adult men and women in full costume to figure out what was going on. Pirate week is a big deal (http://www.piratesweekfestival.com/).
I spent the week getting my advanced open water certification with a guy named Len who never wore any more clothes than this one eensy weensy red man thongish bathing suit. Even when we were sitting around the dive shop he didn't put as much as a shirt on. I had Len one on one as an instructor and we had a great time. We did three night dives, culminating in a lobster bake on shore (which I skipped, as I'm allergic, though I had the knack for catching the biggest lobster and then enjoying the boat ride home where the other divers would try to get my lobster by complimenting me). I also met this comedian who, it turns out, was terrified of the water. We did one dive together and he held my hand the whole time. It might have been romantic if he wasn't dragging behind me like an anchor.
So, since I was diving, and getting my certification, I spent my evenings studying and going to bed early so I could get up at 6 am for my dives. My brother was loitering around the beach, in not such a bad position, as the beach outside our hotel was one of the few not destroyed in the hurricane that year and Victoria's Secret was shooting a catalog there. My brother found himself on the beach every day surrounded by scantily clad women. Oddly enough, Fabio was there too.
All this contributed to the events that followed.
The last two days of the trip were planned for us to hang out together. So, on the second to last day, we rolled out of bed at 10ish and headed straight for the bars. We had to walk 3 miles because taxis were ridiculously expensive and my brother was over the closer watering holes.
The bar we went to was open air and on the beach. It consisted of a round, covered bar in the center of a wooden deck. We hopped on two stools and commenced drinking.
Two girls that could not have been more than 16 or 17, and who were obviously models, walked in soon after and sat across from us. I should mention, at that time, my brother had a strong resemblance to River Phoenix. He had good luck with the ladies. In short order the models were sipping their pina coladas and taking pictures of my brother with their disposable camera. It was OBVIOUS they wanted to talk to him.
But my brother, being an engineer, is a bit socially retarded. I prodded him to go talk to the girls. He said he couldn't because he didn't have a good pick up line. At this point I was on, oh, maybe my 3rd or 4th drink, on an empty stomach, and I mentioned that if he had a cool hat he wouldn't need a pick up line because girls like to talk to guys with cool hats.
After I said that my brother slid off his bar stool. I was so intent on watching the smoke come out of my cigarette that I didn't notice he had been gone a while until I was unceremoniously picked up off my stool by a large pirate.
What the fuck is going on? I asked myself, trying to clear my alcohol hazed brain cells. The pirate was carrying me out of the bar. I saw my brother talking to yet another pirate who had on a kind of captain hat with a lot of plumage on it.
"Bob, help me, I'm being kidnapped by a pirate!" I yelled. My brother looked at me, then back to the other pirate, and said "Okay, give me the hat." The pirate refused. So my brother grabbed the sword, which, by the by, was a real metal sword, out of the belt of the pirate who was holding me and said "I challenge you to a duel!" to the plume hatted pirate.
The pirate holding me dropped me rather abruptly on the wooden deck. The other pirate pulled out his sword and began fighting with my brother. I should mention that Bob was very skilled in weapons from many years doing martial arts. And he was drunk. And the models were watching. Someone, I thought to myself, is going to get hurt. Badly hurt.
The bartender was on top of the situation. Moments after the duel started a constable showed up. Unfortunately he arrived right as I had jumped on my brother's back, grabbed the sword from him, and started punching him in the head for trading me to pirates for a fucking hat. The constable grabbed me, and the dueling pirate, and handcuffed us together. It suddenly occurred to me that I might be going to jail. And worse, that I was going to lose my security clearance when news of my vacation got back to my office.
In my best older sister voice, I tried to explain to the constable how my brother had
traded me to the pirates for a hat, that I was almost kidnapped, that I was a law abiding citizen and not prone to drunken bar fights, and that my intoxicated state was caused by the sun, and that really it was all my brother's fault. The constable squinted at me and said "So where is this brother of yours?" I glanced around, noticing for the first time that he had vacated the scene of the crime. I finally got a visual on him, sitting at the bar between the two models, taking pictures of me getting arrested.
Right when it seems the story can't get any more preposterous, it does. As the constable started explaining to me the laws in the Caymans that cover drunken and disorderly conduct a tiny man walked in with an entourage of about 40 pirates. He looked at me and asked the constable what was going on. Then he explained to the constable that I was with him, and could they go to the bar for a drink, and perhaps this whole matter could be dismissed. I was uncuffed and three candy necklaces were draped over my head. Someone handed me a shot.
It turns out the little man was the spokes model for Captain Morgan's rum. He was in the Caymans shooting a commercial. He said he intervened because I was obviously a damsel in distress. I thanked him profusely and offered to buy him a drink which made him laugh.
The rest of the day, and night, ended up going downhill, fast. Besides Captain Morgan's pirates, other pirates started showing up as time progressed to a more reasonable drinking hour than pre-noon. People I didn't know were eating my candy necklaces. Every time I lit a cigarette it seemed someone wanted me to accompany it with a shot. Captain Morgan pulled my brother and I aside and gave us t-shirts, hats, key chains, and sundry other schwag. He said we were good kids and that it had been a while since someone offered to buy him a drink and that most people demanded stuff of him. I remember blabbering on about drinking Captains and Cokes in college.
Around 10 PM I started to realize that if my brother and I didn't leave the bar soon we were probably both going to end up passed out around a bunch of people that could have scared the Hell's Angels. So I started to drag him towards the entrance of the bar. A few women that he had been entertaining (don't ask) tried to stop me. We got to the edge of the wooden patio and I yelled at Bob "Run for your life!"
We started to sprint down the beach with about 20 pirates pursuing behind. Looking back, I think the only reason they gave chase is because we were running. Luckily most of them were middle aged and gave up after a few minutes.
We continued running until I accidentally ran into some fishing poles that someone had set up on the beach. I became hopelessly tangled in the lines and was laughing with my brother until the red necks who owned the lines, and who were smoking a lot of pot, came out and tried to beat us up. A little further down the beach Bob found some huge sand castles which he started jumping on. I too tried to stomp a sand castle but it turns out what I jumped on was a rock. It hurt the next morning. A lot.
Eventually we made it the 3 miles down the beach to our hotel, walking past it three t
imes before correctly identifying it. Bob passed out face down on the beach, cigarette still in hand. Rather than helping him immediately I went to the room and got a camera that still had film in it to take a picture.
After some food we both rallied again and I made a long distance phone call to my then-boyfriend and left an unintelligible message on his answering machine at 3 in the morning. The only thing that he could make out was my brother, in the back ground, bouncing on the bed and yelling "Caaaaaptain Mooooorgan! Caaaaaaaaptain Mooooooorgan!"
We have never been on vacation together since.
Unbeknownst to us, we were arriving at the start of pirate week. It took a day of seeing adult men and women in full costume to figure out what was going on. Pirate week is a big deal (http://www.piratesweekfestival.com/).
I spent the week getting my advanced open water certification with a guy named Len who never wore any more clothes than this one eensy weensy red man thongish bathing suit. Even when we were sitting around the dive shop he didn't put as much as a shirt on. I had Len one on one as an instructor and we had a great time. We did three night dives, culminating in a lobster bake on shore (which I skipped, as I'm allergic, though I had the knack for catching the biggest lobster and then enjoying the boat ride home where the other divers would try to get my lobster by complimenting me). I also met this comedian who, it turns out, was terrified of the water. We did one dive together and he held my hand the whole time. It might have been romantic if he wasn't dragging behind me like an anchor.So, since I was diving, and getting my certification, I spent my evenings studying and going to bed early so I could get up at 6 am for my dives. My brother was loitering around the beach, in not such a bad position, as the beach outside our hotel was one of the few not destroyed in the hurricane that year and Victoria's Secret was shooting a catalog there. My brother found himself on the beach every day surrounded by scantily clad women. Oddly enough, Fabio was there too.
All this contributed to the events that followed.
The last two days of the trip were planned for us to hang out together. So, on the second to last day, we rolled out of bed at 10ish and headed straight for the bars. We had to walk 3 miles because taxis were ridiculously expensive and my brother was over the closer watering holes.
The bar we went to was open air and on the beach. It consisted of a round, covered bar in the center of a wooden deck. We hopped on two stools and commenced drinking.
Two girls that could not have been more than 16 or 17, and who were obviously models, walked in soon after and sat across from us. I should mention, at that time, my brother had a strong resemblance to River Phoenix. He had good luck with the ladies. In short order the models were sipping their pina coladas and taking pictures of my brother with their disposable camera. It was OBVIOUS they wanted to talk to him.
But my brother, being an engineer, is a bit socially retarded. I prodded him to go talk to the girls. He said he couldn't because he didn't have a good pick up line. At this point I was on, oh, maybe my 3rd or 4th drink, on an empty stomach, and I mentioned that if he had a cool hat he wouldn't need a pick up line because girls like to talk to guys with cool hats.
After I said that my brother slid off his bar stool. I was so intent on watching the smoke come out of my cigarette that I didn't notice he had been gone a while until I was unceremoniously picked up off my stool by a large pirate.
What the fuck is going on? I asked myself, trying to clear my alcohol hazed brain cells. The pirate was carrying me out of the bar. I saw my brother talking to yet another pirate who had on a kind of captain hat with a lot of plumage on it.
"Bob, help me, I'm being kidnapped by a pirate!" I yelled. My brother looked at me, then back to the other pirate, and said "Okay, give me the hat." The pirate refused. So my brother grabbed the sword, which, by the by, was a real metal sword, out of the belt of the pirate who was holding me and said "I challenge you to a duel!" to the plume hatted pirate.
The pirate holding me dropped me rather abruptly on the wooden deck. The other pirate pulled out his sword and began fighting with my brother. I should mention that Bob was very skilled in weapons from many years doing martial arts. And he was drunk. And the models were watching. Someone, I thought to myself, is going to get hurt. Badly hurt.
The bartender was on top of the situation. Moments after the duel started a constable showed up. Unfortunately he arrived right as I had jumped on my brother's back, grabbed the sword from him, and started punching him in the head for trading me to pirates for a fucking hat. The constable grabbed me, and the dueling pirate, and handcuffed us together. It suddenly occurred to me that I might be going to jail. And worse, that I was going to lose my security clearance when news of my vacation got back to my office.
In my best older sister voice, I tried to explain to the constable how my brother had
traded me to the pirates for a hat, that I was almost kidnapped, that I was a law abiding citizen and not prone to drunken bar fights, and that my intoxicated state was caused by the sun, and that really it was all my brother's fault. The constable squinted at me and said "So where is this brother of yours?" I glanced around, noticing for the first time that he had vacated the scene of the crime. I finally got a visual on him, sitting at the bar between the two models, taking pictures of me getting arrested.Right when it seems the story can't get any more preposterous, it does. As the constable started explaining to me the laws in the Caymans that cover drunken and disorderly conduct a tiny man walked in with an entourage of about 40 pirates. He looked at me and asked the constable what was going on. Then he explained to the constable that I was with him, and could they go to the bar for a drink, and perhaps this whole matter could be dismissed. I was uncuffed and three candy necklaces were draped over my head. Someone handed me a shot.
It turns out the little man was the spokes model for Captain Morgan's rum. He was in the Caymans shooting a commercial. He said he intervened because I was obviously a damsel in distress. I thanked him profusely and offered to buy him a drink which made him laugh.
The rest of the day, and night, ended up going downhill, fast. Besides Captain Morgan's pirates, other pirates started showing up as time progressed to a more reasonable drinking hour than pre-noon. People I didn't know were eating my candy necklaces. Every time I lit a cigarette it seemed someone wanted me to accompany it with a shot. Captain Morgan pulled my brother and I aside and gave us t-shirts, hats, key chains, and sundry other schwag. He said we were good kids and that it had been a while since someone offered to buy him a drink and that most people demanded stuff of him. I remember blabbering on about drinking Captains and Cokes in college.
Around 10 PM I started to realize that if my brother and I didn't leave the bar soon we were probably both going to end up passed out around a bunch of people that could have scared the Hell's Angels. So I started to drag him towards the entrance of the bar. A few women that he had been entertaining (don't ask) tried to stop me. We got to the edge of the wooden patio and I yelled at Bob "Run for your life!"
We started to sprint down the beach with about 20 pirates pursuing behind. Looking back, I think the only reason they gave chase is because we were running. Luckily most of them were middle aged and gave up after a few minutes.
We continued running until I accidentally ran into some fishing poles that someone had set up on the beach. I became hopelessly tangled in the lines and was laughing with my brother until the red necks who owned the lines, and who were smoking a lot of pot, came out and tried to beat us up. A little further down the beach Bob found some huge sand castles which he started jumping on. I too tried to stomp a sand castle but it turns out what I jumped on was a rock. It hurt the next morning. A lot.
Eventually we made it the 3 miles down the beach to our hotel, walking past it three t
imes before correctly identifying it. Bob passed out face down on the beach, cigarette still in hand. Rather than helping him immediately I went to the room and got a camera that still had film in it to take a picture.After some food we both rallied again and I made a long distance phone call to my then-boyfriend and left an unintelligible message on his answering machine at 3 in the morning. The only thing that he could make out was my brother, in the back ground, bouncing on the bed and yelling "Caaaaaptain Mooooorgan! Caaaaaaaaptain Mooooooorgan!"
We have never been on vacation together since.
my room mate's little joke (warning: this blog contains the word butt plug)
I am always writing little notes for my new room mate on the white board in my kitchen, like "don't forget to lock the doors" or "put out the recycling" or "I'll be home by 6". He decided to leave a note for me the other day, which I failed to notice.
Also, yesterday, the guy for the maid service came to get things set up. He was a very sweet man named Bill, with the distinction of owning a Merry Maids franchise for the longest time of anyone in the US. He was the 17th investor. It turns out he was also stationed at an air force base where my dad worked and recognized my last name.
We went through the house and had a nice chat about my office (which he found cozy) and my kitchen cabinets (which are in shambles). He then stood at the kitchen counter writing up notes and the estimate. He turned his head and glanced at the white board, directly across from his line of sight, and the expression on his face froze. I looked over at the white board. There was the recycling schedule (I hope anyone reading this is recycling!), directions to a bike shop, a list of "to dos" for the house. When I went to get a pen to sign the contract I discovered what he was staring at, and wrote the following email to my room mate:
"I would like to thank you for writing "Butt Plugs" (in huge, fancy lettering I might add) on the white board. The poor sales guy, who is 68, kept staring at the board while he was writing the estimate up. I was looking at the recycling schedule thinking "what? does this guy not recycle?" Then, as I was getting a pen to sign the paperwork, I saw your little handiwork. I think we are being charged extra. And the guy made a point of saying about a million billion times "we do NOT open any cabinets or closets". "
I assume I can erase the white board and that's not going to mess up your ability to remember anything..."
Also, yesterday, the guy for the maid service came to get things set up. He was a very sweet man named Bill, with the distinction of owning a Merry Maids franchise for the longest time of anyone in the US. He was the 17th investor. It turns out he was also stationed at an air force base where my dad worked and recognized my last name.
We went through the house and had a nice chat about my office (which he found cozy) and my kitchen cabinets (which are in shambles). He then stood at the kitchen counter writing up notes and the estimate. He turned his head and glanced at the white board, directly across from his line of sight, and the expression on his face froze. I looked over at the white board. There was the recycling schedule (I hope anyone reading this is recycling!), directions to a bike shop, a list of "to dos" for the house. When I went to get a pen to sign the contract I discovered what he was staring at, and wrote the following email to my room mate:
"I would like to thank you for writing "Butt Plugs" (in huge, fancy lettering I might add) on the white board. The poor sales guy, who is 68, kept staring at the board while he was writing the estimate up. I was looking at the recycling schedule thinking "what? does this guy not recycle?" Then, as I was getting a pen to sign the paperwork, I saw your little handiwork. I think we are being charged extra. And the guy made a point of saying about a million billion times "we do NOT open any cabinets or closets". "
I assume I can erase the white board and that's not going to mess up your ability to remember anything..."
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