It all started with a little fracas at a bar. I have no idea why anyone would mess with this dude. He's fucking tough. Check out how cops say it went down...

The cops showed up and saw some pushing and shoving. Jenkins says one of the dudes tried to grab his chain - maybe trying to steal it or even just trying to choke him with it. So he was pissed. He started swinging. Seriously, Jenkins was willing to take on five dudes at a bar. He knew he could take them.

The cops flipped out, yelling for him to stop. He didn't listen. Jenkins threw one more punch, so the cops tased him. Let me repeat that. The cops saw six guys in a fight and they decided to tase the one guy they thought could do some real damage. The fight was five against one and they knew the five dudes didn't stand a chance. So Jenkins got tased. (Insert your own "don't tase me bro" joke here.)

Game over, right? Nope.

Jenkins got up after being tased and fucking took off running. The cops had to chase him for a block and a half before they finally caught up with him and arrested him.

How would you like to go up against that guy on a football field? Willing to take on five dudes in a brawl, withstands being tased, and still manages to sprint a couple blocks to escape the cops. Yep. Genuine badass.

(Hat tip Joe The - http://thefinestkindofpork.blogspot.com/)

During the semester in which this story takes place, I was edging toward a blue collar, faux-rockabilly sort of look. I wore jeans, a long-sleeve plaid flannel over a white t-shirt, with oxblood red low-top Doc Martens. My hair was getting long, and I had gotten into the habit of slicking it back behind my ears with a generous slathering of Vitalis.

I headed to the Hardback Cafe in Gainesville to see an old friend play in his band Hot Water Music. It was a little weird for me - going to see a hardcore show. I was heavily into that scene in high school, but during college I had mellowed out a lot. I spent far more time listening to the likes of Sebadoh, Pavement, and The Mountain Goats than I did listening to hardcore bands. And it had been years since I last spent any time in a mosh pit. But this was a special occasion. Old friends, awesome music, and a gullet full of alcohol - I was ready to throw down.

The band started up and I made my way toward the front of the crowd. I knew the music, and I had memorized the lyrics. I was fucking psyched. I consciously decided to forget all inhibitions so I could rock the fuck out. I longed for the early 90's when I spent every weekend checking out hardcore shows and Saturday nights ended with me dripping in sweat (and sometimes blood).

Lost in the moment, I jumped and threw fists into the air, banging around with a couple of other die hards. It was so nostalgic for me - feeling like I was to be back in the scene.

Three or four songs into the set, they played one of my favorites. I started screaming along with the chorus and I jumped back with passion. I felt bodies hit against mine and I turned around to brace myself for the physical reaction from the other guys in the pit. But no one was pushing back. Instead, there was a girl laying on the floor. I immediately bent down to help her up. Her friend grabbed one hand and I took the other as we guided her out of the crowd toward a nearby barstool.

She sat down on the stool and gathered herself. She was bawling. Completely sobbing. And her lip was bleeding. It didn't look like the kind of bleeding that would lead to stitches - more like she got punched in the face. And it was all my fault. I was embarrassed and apologetic. I offered to do anything I could to help or. Water? Damp towel? Anything? Just thinking about it now, a dozen years later, still gives me douche chills.

She seemed to accept my apology - but I was certain she and everyone else who witnessed the event thought I was a fucking jackass. Paranoia set in immediately (is it paranoia if it's true?). I stuck around for another song or two, standing way behind the crowd in the back of the room. Then I just couldn't take it anymore. I was red-faced and sweating from embarrassment. I had to get the fuck out of there.

After that, I couldn't bear to hear that song anymore. Every time I tried to listen to it, I pictured that horrible moment when I smashed a girl's face. I never saw that girl again. And I stayed far away from the hardcore/punk scene. I felt like I clearly didn't belong. I stuck strictly to indie rock and lo-fi.

I still have that 7" single in my basement. Maybe one of these days I'll give it a listen. I'm a glutton for punishment.

Elvis and I had just moved into a new apartment. This was the mid 1990's and we were broke college students. The rent at our last place was too high. It was a small two bedroom apartment a block away from campus (location, location, location). We were working minimum wage jobs while going to school full time, so we were able to cover rent and groceries but not much more than that.

Once the lease was up, we had only two real requirements in our apartment hunt. Rent had to be cheap and the place had to be within a short bike ride to classes. After walking through a few potential apartments, we finally found the perfect spot. The landlord didn't give a shit who we were or what we did, as long as we could cover the $360 per month rent. Yeah, that's right. We each paid $180 a month for a decent sized two-bedroom duplex with parking and a yard.

Elvis and I had one request for the landlord before we signed the lease. The place was a real dump. It was filthy and falling apart. So the agreement was this: We'd fix the place up ourselves, and any money we spent on materials would be deducted from the rent. Each month we ended up mailing in a very small check along with a pile of Home Depot receipts. The work week was full of classes and clocking hours at our jobs, while weekends were spent getting shitfaced and painting or hanging ceiling fans or putting down a new floor in the kitchen.

This is the point where we were able to make a few design decisions. Some made sense, others were the result of a case of beer, a couple of joints, and a severe lack of sleep. Here's an example: One late night around two or three in the morning, we had just finished laying new linoleum down in the kitchen. We thought it would be a great idea to hide a little message for future tenants. Sort of a home improvement practical joke.

It started when we moved the oven to scrape up the old linoleum. We realized the oven hadn't left that spot for decades. The floor under that appliance had a thick layer of dust, and the floor under the dust was its original color, untouched by years and years of sunlight. As we scraped away that old flooring, I thought of the Beck song I Get Lonesome from the album One Foot in the Grave. "Well there ain't nobody left to impress - And everyone's kissing their own hands - There's 666 on the kitchen floor - Ain't no fire in the pan - I get lonesome..."

"666 on the kitchen floor?" How very Helter Skelter. Drunk and high, it seemed like the funniest idea ever. After finishing the job in the kitchen, we took some red paint from another project and painted "666" and a pentagram on the floor where the oven belonged. We slid the appliance back into place and never mentioned it again. For all I know, our secret artwork remains undiscovered to this day.

But that was just the beginning. We had repaired all the little scuffs and dings around the apartment and put up a fresh coat of paint. That left us with a boring white apartment. Elvis decided it was time for something truly unique. He started with his bedroom.

Before I get into the details here, I want to clarify something. Elvis wasn't one of those weird artsy neo-hippie college kids. He wore a white t-shirt and jeans nearly every day, and had a normal looking haircut. So when you read the next part, picture a regular college guy. One who perhaps dabbled in hashish and opium, but a regular guy nonetheless.

Our apartment had two stories. Walking through the front door, you'd be in the living room. The kitchen was at the back of the unit, also on the first floor. Just off of the living room was a long straight set of stairs leading to the second floor where the two bedrooms were located. If you were to head straight at the top of the stairs, you'd be in Elvis' room. That's where he decided to create his very own harem.

Elvis tacked plain white bedsheets to all 4 walls and the entire ceiling in his room. The sheets were attached in such a way that they draped down, billowing into the open room.The furniture in there was sparse, just a bed in the center of the room with nearly everything else hidden away. I think he imagined that women who visited would feel comfortable and undistracted in his love nest, able to focus entirely on sex and sleep.

Then like kudzu, the white sheets began to spread. Elvis hung them in the hallway outside his room and along the wall and ceiling down the stairs. And at the bottom of the stairs on a large blank wall, He hung a huge 6' X 9' pink and red tapestry. The fabric had a sort of Asian design with a large oval shape in the middle.

He said it was supposed to emulate the birth canal. On the way down the stairs, which were draped from ceiling to floor in white sheets, you'd reach the vaginal-looking tapestry leading to the living room. I guess that made his bedroom the uterus. Somehow, girls were impressed. I really can't explain it.

Elvis invited a couple of friends to visit for the weekend. That alone is a recipe for disaster. Gainesville is home to more than 50,000 college students and dozens (maybe hundreds) of bars. Every weekend is a party, and every decent bar is swarming with scantily-clad hotties and guys guzzling uber cheap beer. When people visited from out of town, the night often ended in a fog. Saturday and Sunday mornings inevitably led to a mumbled, "What happened last night?"

This particular evening, we gathered the troops and headed to our favorite bar - a place just outside of town called JD Penguins. The place was a real dive. For years, the bar's regulars were the kind of guys who bellied up to the bar at noon and stayed there till midnight. Real full-time drunks. But somehow in the early 90's hipsters stumbled upon the place and before long it was a true hipster hangout. They even hired a DJ who played things like Morrissey, the Flaming Lips, and Pavement.

This place had one major draw. It's probably the thing that drew the attention of the first college aged trendsetters who made the place popular. It had a giant rotating bar. The bar slowly spun - maybe one revolution every 15 minutes or so. The bartenders worked in the middle of the big circular bar, while the patrons sat around the circumference. Of course we never referred to the place as JD Penguins. It was always called "the Rotator."

So me and Elvis and the guys showed up at the Rotator ready to get shitfaced. The beer was cheap - I think it was $1.50 for a Sam Adams draft. It was affordable enough to down a couple 12 ounce beers for every rotation of the bar. That way, by the time you were done with one beer, you'd be near another Sam Adams tap just in time for a refill. After a few hours you were bombed.

It was right about this time that Elvis started feeling woozy. The 12+ beers and the rotation of the bar had gotten to him. He was wavering, almost like he was going to fall off his barstool. He put his head down on the bar and a minute later he suddenly sat up. He had that look on his face. You know the one. That look - like "I'm going to fucking puke all over this bar." But he didn't puke. Instead he wobbled toward the bathroom with that expression of shock and fear. He made it to the bathroom door and disappeared into a stall. No puke.

After a few minutes, Elvis stumbled back to the bar looking slightly refreshed with a goofy grin on his face. We assumed he had been in there tossing his cookies. He sat back down at the bar and ordered another beer. He assured us he was feeling much better. The night raged on and we made it home safely.

The next morning, everyone woke up feeling like balls. A couple of us exchanged the whole "man, what happened last night" thing. And then I remembered that Elvis hurled in the Rotator bathroom.

Me: "Dude, how are you feeling today? I can't believe you puked last night."
Elvis: "What? I didn't puke."
Me: "You totally did. You were in the bathroom for like five minutes last night."
Elvis: "Oh... at the Rotator?... I didn't vomit, man."
Me: "Dude we saw you get up looking all freaked out like you were about to puke - and you ran into the bathroom."
Elvis: "Alright. Here's the deal. I think I passed out at the bar for a minute. I must have lost control. Because I suddenly woke up sitting at the bar and I realized I had shit my pants. I ran to the bathroom to clean up."
All of us: "What the fuck are you talking about?!?"
Elvis: "Seriously. I shit my pants at the bar. I went into the bathroom and threw my underwear into the trashcan. I washed up and started drinking again."

How's that for dedication? Disgusting perhaps, but it shows dedication nonetheless.

I didn't really hang with that kind of crowd when I went to UF. I wasn't in a frat and I kicked ass in class (graduated in 3 and a half years with Honors). But I did drink nearly every day - still do for that matter. I was one of the lucky ones who was able to separate work and pleasure. I managed to get shitfaced regularly without skipping class. Sure it was a headache (literally), but I made it happen.

A few random facts from my fuzzy memory:

• My favorite bar was nicknamed "The Rotator".
• My co-worker got fired for smoking weed and starting a fire in the Law School lounge.
• My next door neighbor had an apartment full of hydroponics.
• I worked for the police department.
• My former roommate placed an above ground pool on his apartment's front lawn.
• I once broke out in hives, either due to an overdose of amaretto, a random bug bite, or an awkward conversation with an ex girlfriend.
• I was nearly convinced that my true calling in life was with the Hare Krishnas.
• The fire department came out to my apartment at least three times due to drunken bonfires.

Go Gators!

So, some Korean kid went nutso and shot up a bunch of people at his college.  And awile ago, the same thing happened in Canada.  The media jumps on it, looking for a reason or a motive, and most normal folk are concerned about it for about 5 minutes then on to the next grocery list of growing problems we have facing our culture and country.

Here's a perfect example of how crazy I feel when this kind of stuff happens and people try to talk about it with me:

Mom: Did you hear about this shooting thing in at Tech?

Me: Yeah.

Mom: It's terrible.  What kind of sicko kills innocent people?

Me: Well, do you want a real answer or an answer that will make you feel better?

Mom: A real answer (Aren't I the "child" in this situation?WTF?!?!!?)

Me: Well, the fact is mom, everyone is dangerous.  Every person you pass on the street is about 1 step away from losing it.  Why?  Because our world is full of terrible and horrible things.  And some people aren't strong enough to face down the world and come out sane.

Mom: Why doesn't it stop?

Me: Because the media pundits and "experts" tell us to blame it on T.V, Movies, Rap Music and Video games.  Because bullying is accepted and rewarded in our culture.  Because might makes right and eventually the little guy gets tired of taking shit and he decides that instead of living a life full of shit, he's going to excute himself.  But since he's probably a coward (most people are) he needs a reason to off himself.  So he starts killing the people he thinks either did him wrong or are getting a better deal than him.  It's rather mundane and normal when you think about it.

Mom: Well, someone like that should just hurt themselves and not others.  God wouldn't want that.

Me: Well, I guess it's too bad that what we want things to be like and what they are; are two different things.

Mom: How can someone do that?

Me: I could have done it.  I mean, jesus remember when I tried to run those two assholes over in high school?  I just wasn't weak.  And while I hate my fellow man, I hate him for reasons that are beyond the petty "you made me feel bad" type of feelings. 

Mom: Oh.

And the thing about this, is that this guy who killed people was probably a decent guy who broke.  We wonder why this happens like we don't think about strangling someone daily.  Violence is a part of our DNA.  That doesn't stop me from thinking he was a selfish, and weak prick.  It's easy to sink to the level of those who have hurt you.  True strength comes from seeing their bullshit for what it is and deciding it's just not for you. 

Or maybe it's just proof we're all fucked and the end is near.

I always worry about what people think of me. Always. I am completely incapable of being an unapologetic asshole. Herein lies the problem...

I am an asshole. I just can't be honest about it. If people only knew what I really thought of them. Sure, I have a lot of true friends whom I think very highly of. But then there are the rest of you fuckers. The people who could die and I would smile quietly. There are people in my life who I acknowledge - maybe I smile and wave - but inside I'm silently judging them.

If you're reading this and you're wondering where you fit in my silly little brain, here's an easy way to figure it out: If I hang out with you on a regular basis, I respect you and count you as a friend. If I ignore your emails and only see you when we happen to bump into each other, I probably hate you.

Sorry I can't just be open and honest about it. You'll have to figure it out for yourself.

_____________________________

Let's get this started.

Here's the thing....Often, I think about a significant return to blogging.  I think of creating a new site, pimping it out, gaining a small readership and showing them cartoons and hi-fucking-larious posts(No shame.).  Often, I think of inviting some of the quality funny guys I know to blog with me.  I think of the good times we had and wish I could have them again.

Then, I slap myself for being a woman, and then roughly feel myself up. This makes me, myself, feel degraded and violated.  But don't get all "Call a rape center!" on me.  Because I was asking for it, in fact, I deserved it. 

Why?  Because Characters from TV shows have blogs.  Retail Corporations have "news blogs".  For Fuck's Sake, JJ's goddamned DOG had a blog.  Sure, it's cute and novel for a few days, but then when you look at it...it's like they've taken away something that was a tool for people to maybe express themselves in a way that was previously non-existant. 

Now, sure.  There are definitely people that should not have access to any kind of audience, lest they shatter that precarious self-image they have deluded into seeing.  But thanks to Reality TV, lots and lots (and I mean LOTS) of those people are being smashed into tiny pieces on camera and then slow-churned into nice little bits of voyeurism for all of use to gorge ourselves on.  We can taste their failure, self-hate, misery, and complete breakdown of mind. 

But it wasn't all "The misunderstood ramblings of a girl on the world" or "Edges of Darkness layered in Dark Corners of Dark Crybaby emotions and endless hours of The Cure.", was it?

There were some badass bloggers back in the day.  Like this chick Goldie from Austrailia? And This crazy kid, G-fry who went off to college.  or Tubbs from Lousianna.  Or Maine, from you know, well Ladytown, VA.  Shit, what about Mikey? And the entirety of QW's and The Churning link lists?

And while I was thinking about how great these blogs were, I realized in that moment, that we, ourselves, killed blogging.  Not corporations, not television show producers.  We did it.

We did it by allowing ads.  We did it by subconciously (however remotely) expecting that we were all clever, intelligent and talented people who "just hadn't been discovered, yet."  We did it by allowing things like BlogExplosion to breed.  We took something that could have legimately been a resource for better understanding of our fellow humans, and tried to squeeze a few bucks out of it.

I always said, when I started the QW! with J (not JJ mind you, he was last on the cast), we would write things that make us or our friends laugh and nothing else.  We would never censor ourselves, or be fake.  And we didn't.  And while not everyone liked the QW!, we did have a pretty large readerbase.  I think in a lot of ways, we were inspirational. 

And we killed it.  Because apparently, liking guns, making dick jokes, and running a joke campaign for the presidency is considered "being a dirty terrorist".  Yes, folks.  One of our own was insulted, threatened and otherwise abused for having an internet blog and just sharing thoughts, fiction, for entertainment purposes.  And we gave up.  We all quit and headed for the hills.  Out of fear for our friend, and maybe REALLY because we were afraid for ourselves.

 I looked at blogging in that moment, and I saw a dream, a chance and a hope shredded, splayed wide open, viscera and sinew stretched.  Blogging was dead.  As it lay there, clawed at, and fed upon by carrion vultures of our society, I could have wept.  Had I any part of me that was not cynical or bitter or just malcontent, I would have wept.

Sure, maybe I was an idealist, maybe I was an idiot for buying into an idea and believe that people at their core were not just rotten and self-centered. 

Maybe next time, we'll get it right.

After our set, I was mingling with friends. My old buddy Joe (my college roomate) walked up to Momo and asked her to take a picture of him. As she framed up the shot, he started shaking his head violently. The flash went off and this was the result (the pic on the left).

Joe explained that it's a goofy trick called "jowling". There's even a website devoted to it - jowlers.com. Here's how it works: grab a camera, make sure the flash is on, aim the camera at your face, loosen up your lips and shake your head side to side, then take the pic.

Don't say I never taught you anything.

The term "yuppie" is a callback to an early 80's insult. Initially, the word brought with it connotations of polo matches, country clubs, and expensive German cars. It quickly expanded to include those within its true definition - as a nickname for Young Urban Professional. Any city dweller in his or her 20's and 30's with a little extra money to throw around ended up sliding face first into the yuppie category. I suppose that's where I am now, and because of that I don't take umbrage.

As a kid, I thought yuppies really were scum. I saw stereotypes of these former frat boys in movies like Bachelor Party (Tom Hanks' nemesis) or One Crazy Summer (John Cusack's nemesis) and bought into the hype. Those characters, of course, were complete assholes. The low-income downtrodden good guy is somehow expected to compete with a complete douchebag who was lucky enough to be born into a wealthy family. (That lucky douchbag later became a serial killer in American Psycho.)

I grew up as an outsider. I didn't have many friends, and the small group of friends I did have understood the value of a mohawk or dreadlocks. They realized the importance of a major skateboarding injury. They knew that playing punk rock in front of a crowd filled with moshing 20-somethings was a pretty big achievement for a group of 15-year-olds. So inevitably, I felt far removed from the things that defined yuppiedom.

Nowadays things are a bit different. I still hate radio pop. I still skate and fall frequently. I still play indie rock. But I was also lucky enough to survive college (I was never in a frat). I've gotten married, and bought a house in the city. And after years of struggle, I finally have a job that doesn't completely suck. And you know what? I don't feel guilty. Fuck it.

I'm not saying that I'm trying to reclaim the term yuppie. I'm not proud and I'm not looking for a label. But if you think I'm a yuppie, I'm not going to fight it. I am relatively young. I do live in the city. And I do have a job. Young Urban Professional? Perhaps.

So why the fuck am I writing this? Why do I care? Truth is - I don't really know. Maybe it's because I don't tend to hang out with yuppies. My friends are the same types of people I've always hung out with. People with interests similar to mine - like live music and dive bars. People who tend to "hate yuppies."

If my friends think I'm a yuppie, then they obviously accept it for what it is. They could find other friends if they wanted to. Seems to me I somehow escaped the label in their eyes. So I guess it bothers me when an acquaintance makes an assumption about me. Because I suspect I'm not what he thinks I am.

You can read the actual exchange here if you're interested.