Item #31 - (Attempt to) Ride a Unicycle

"Lisa, why did you start to unicycle?"
"Because my brother could and I wanted to be like him"
"Why did HE want to learn?"
"Because he thought he would be cool"
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About 10 years ago when I first moved out to Boston, I went with 2 of my co-workers up to Killington Vermont for the weekend. One of the guys had an old cabin that we crashed in for free. Yup, just 3 hetero guys staying warm together in a little cabin in the woods.

Before that, the only time I had done any winter sports was skiing a few times back in Detroit at Mt Holly, which was supposedly built on a landfill. It has a vertical of 350 feet. Killington has a vertical of 3000 feet. Mt Holly is basically a zit on the ass of Killington. Thus, learning to snowboard at Killington was a bit of an undertaking.

If you've never tried to snowboard, you're missing out on a ton of fun. However, you're also missing out on a ton of bruises on your ass (my buddy Samesh actually offered to lend me his ass pad. No really, for a mere $24.95, you can get a Butt Shield for yourself! Sadly, he did not offer any butt massages. Wait, I didn't mean to type that out loud).

 

If you want to learn to snowboard, and learn to snowboard quickly, you need to have good balance, some balls, and an ass of steel. You will fall. You will fall a lot. You will then fall some more. And the worse the you are, the harder you'll fall.

When you're good, and you can actually board with some speed, when you fall, you'll tumble, and you'll probably roll, and you'll probably come to a stop, look up, and laugh. "Hey, I bit it. That sucked. Let's go." Well, unless you fall into a tree. That probably hurts. (insert Sonny Bono joke)

But when you're learning and going slow, you typically fall by catching your front or back edge. Catch either at a slow speed though, and you don't tumble. You whiplash into the ground. It is . . . not enjoyable.

But when I was learning, I was 22 years old. I was young. I was spry. I was slightly stupid. And I operated my body with reckless abandon.Try to board. Go 10 feet. Fall. Get up. Go 11 feet. Fall. Get back up. Et cetera. And thus, despite numerous, numerous falls, and numerous bruises, and no man-on-man massages to make them feel better (dammit, why do I keep typing that), I was a competent boarder after just a 2 day weekend on the mountain.

Last week, I faced a similar challenge. Lisa (a former college gymnast, and thus, someone who has legit balancing skills) invited me over in an attempt to teach me to unicycle.  Another skill with a high learning curve and lots of potential for bruising.

 That's her unicycle, and when it's used properly, it should look something like this:

Obviously, Lisa knows what the hell she's doing. Rumor has it that's how she won over her husband Charlie.

And yes, that's her unicycling down her hallway. The hallway was probably the safest place to actually learn, mainly because my best attempt of the day looked like this:

That right there is a man who balls have shrunk approximately 73.8% since he was 22 years old. And I mean that metaphorically. However, physically shrinking by that much may have also been a possibility, as my worst fall of the day consisted of the unicycle kind of jamming itself in between the 2 walls of the hallway . . . and Alan Jr.

Artist's rendering, due to lack of a photo

9 years ago, I would have said "fuck the hallway" and immediately gone outside to take my lumps. Face plant. Get back up. Go again. Get bruised. Repeat. Be a decent unicyclist in 2 hours. Go home. Drink. Feel almost nothing the next day. Nowadays? I'm 48 hours out from my last soccer game, in which I played 90% of the game but only took one good lump/fall, and I still bypassed a run tonight, hoping to get back to 100% before running tomorrow. So there was no fucking way I was unicycling in the driveway. It's concrete. It's hard. And there are cars going by in the street I could end up hitting. And maybe a stray weed catches a spoke in the wheel.  And there might be a puddle, which along with being slippery, could soil my slacks and leave a permanent stain because I forgot to bring my stick of stain-be-gone. And the children, my god, won't someone think of the children. No. Fuck that. I'll just be rolling in the hallway dawg (that's what the kids say these days right? "dawg"?).

Rollin on a single 22" dub

So it was the hallway for me, with . . . modest results. BUT, with a body with limited bruising (the inner thighs were quite displeased the next day). And reminder that, sigh . . . I'm old.

31 . . . so old.

Item #30 - Go to a Cock Fight

Disclaimer #1 - I went for the cultural experience, not the animal violence. Thus, the animal lovers can feel free to read on, because I assure you that while this post is very picture-laden, you won't see any pictures of battered and beaten cocks.

Disclaimer #2 - I plan to use the word "cock" a lot. Partly because I'm immature and it's funny. Partly because 3rd grade sexual jokes help to lighten the mood of a grim subject. Either way, by the end, you may no longer even enjoy the potential sexual double entendres. You've been warned. . . . . cock . . . . cock cock.
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JERRY: Kramer, cockfighting is illegal.
KRAMER: Only in The United States.
JERRY: It's inhumane!
KRAMER: No, Jerry, it's not what you think it is.
JERRY: It's two roosters peckin' at each other!
KRAMER: What?
JERRY: Yeah!
KRAMER: Well, I thought they wore gloves and helmets, you know, like "American Gladiators."
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This is a picture of me and my best buddy Tyler.

However, I should say that's a picture of me and my old best buddy Tyler. After 14 years of being the family dog, he passed on about a year and a half ago. He had cancer. He had numerous tumors. He had been deaf for about several years. Sadly, it was his time, and I had been preparing for it anytime I got to see him for the 2 years leading up to it, always thinking that as I left my parents house, it may be the last time I got to see him. But despite the prepping, I was utterly devastated, and broke down way more so than I probably should have. I cried the night my mom called to tell me. I cried the next day. I cried the day after that. I cried most nights that week. I cried a week later. I cried once a week for a few months after that. Like I said, I broke down a lot (and even just writing about it all 20 months later is kind of fucking with my emotions. I'm an engineer dammit! I'm supposed live in a glass cage devoid of emotions!).

But like I said, he was my best buddy. I love going home and seeing the family, but he was always the best part of the visits. I mean, I can talk to my mom on the phone. My dad, brother and sister. But Tyler was only available in person (except for one of the few times I used a web cam while talking my mom on the phone. She put the laptop on the ground, and when he saw me, he licked the screen. And yes, it was cute as shit).

And while he was the family dog, when I came home, he was MY dog. When I went to bed, there was no question that he was staying in my room. When I watched TV, he was right there. When I showered, he was right there . . . . outside waiting for me to open the door, you sick bastard. And to explain our connection like only dog people would understand - I would occasionally randomly drive home from grad school, without even telling my parents I was coming home. And as I pulled onto our street, and could see our front door from 150 yards away . . . Tyler was staring out the door waiting. Yeah, he knew, and he already had his toy in hand, ready to play.. We were boys (written while banging my fist twice against my chest).

So needless to say, I'm a HUGE dog person. I love them all, and I swear, they all love me. Cesar Milan? Learned everything from me. And based on my pick-up skills, I'm probably more likely to connect with the true definition of a "bitch" than the slang version.

Cats on the other hand? They can all kiss my ass. My ability to be a dog whisperer is inversely proportional to my ability to be a pussy whisperer (if Jennifer Love Hewitt ever turns to beastiality porn to make a quick buck, I think that's the requisite name of the movie). One time I stayed at my friend Hillary's place in Chicago. When I woke up, her satanic cat was one foot away from my face, ready to scratch a new orifice into it. Cleo, if you're reading this . . . I don't like your attitude. 

So when Michael Vick got busted for dog fighting, naturally I had to take a stance on it. I'm a dog person, and having them fight to the death for sport is fucked up beyond belief. And with Michael Vick running the show, my opinion on him was . . .well, it was what he grew up with.

I believe in fighting animal cruelty, but I believe just as much in the theory that everyone is a product of their environment. Say there's a couple of 21 year old racists. They're both probably assholes. But say one of them grew up in Greenwich CT and attended a private boarding school before heading off to Yale to do blow with Skull and Bones. The other grew up in the South in Inbred-a-bama and had a couple of parents whose idea of a comfortable hat was one with 2 eye-holes and a pointy white top. Again, both assholes, but the redneck is going to get a MUCH bigger pass in my book. Frankly, he never stood a chance.

So while what Vick did was disgusting, and heinous, and wrong, and of course I disapprove of it . . . I get it. He grew up with it. No one taught him any better. All his friends did it. He went with it. And while yes, maybe he should have known better because it was illegal, so is drinking under the age of 21, and I figure at least 80% of you reading this got vomit-wasted by the time you could vote, so the "illegal" reasoning isn't going to scare off anyone who's been watching dog fighting since they had an allowance to gamble away.

As for whether or not the guy's legitimately repented since he got caught and went to jail? Totally different discussion. And really, how the fuck should I know? I don't have ESP . . . yet.

So while we were down in Puerto Rico, we needed a rainy day activity to pass the time. And apparently, Puerto Rico is kind of like the US' wacky fun uncle (not in the immediate family's household, but if you head over to his place, he'll let you do stuff your parent won't), because cock fighting is100% legal down there. So while I don't approve of 2 animals kicking each others ass for the sake of gambling, I do like the idea of taking in something that could be considered an exclusive local culture.

So on a rainy Saturday afternoon, we headed down to experience the product-of-your-environment belief in action. It may be illegal here, but it's part of their culture there. And what better way to show that than by opening with a picture of family fun night at your local cockfight!

 

Yes, this is a family of 5 enjoy an afternoon watching cocks beat the shit out of each other. They are eating fries and what we believed to be, ironically, chicken fingers. 

But for the entire cock experience, let's start on the outside. This wasn't what the ring Little Jerry fought in looked like - a gravel covered barn yard back room. This was legit. 

I assume this picture is as original as lying down on the Nation Mall with the Washington Monument placed in just the right spot in the background

Our tickets cost $10, but the high rollers paid upwards of $45 to get front row seats in the arena. Yes, the "arena." Behold, the Thunderdome for cocks, complete with mini-Jumbotron.

To get to the start of the fight, you actually have to start at the wall of cocks. All of the future combatants hang out in clear plexiglass boxes for the potential gamblers to size 'em up.

And when each cock's time has come, their cock box gets sent down to the ring via a cable-car like system. The cock in the hanging box below has decided to get amped for his fight by checking out the local tail. Yup - the 2 ring girls would take beer and food orders from the good seats in between fights.

Also done in between fights? Dust-busting the previous fight. Usually feathers, sometimes blood.

 

Once the cocks arrived in the ring below, the handlers got the cocks even more excited, as they gave them a bunch of little jabs with a stuffed cock. God forbid the match start and the cocks just want to hang out with each other and talk about their family life. The excited cocks were then placed into a pair of boxes, facing each other. 

This let the cocks build up some final moments of aggression, as patrons started the gambling process, which looked something like this

Can you understand what bets and what kind of money is being exchanged in this picture? No? Well, with the fast-talking Spanish going on, I couldn't figure it out either. This wasn't like horse racing, where all the horses get odds and you bet against the house/track. There was no "house" here. In the last minute before the fight started (and I'm pretty sure even during the fight), everyone started shouting out what cock they wanted, and how much they wanted to bet. Someone would eventually accept it from across the ring, and the bet was on. No ticket. No enforcement. Who knew a cock fight would have an honor system? At that point, it was time to remove each cock from their box, and let 'em go at it.

So the grim details on the fights. There was pecking. There was clawing. Sometimes there was blood. Often times there were some really messed up cocks by the end. And in about 15% of the fights, we saw what amounted to limp cocks. The fights had 15 minute time limits, but there was a definite winner after typically 3-7 minutes. And while I can't define what a losing cock looked like, like the Supreme Court and porn, you knew it when you saw it. The winners were then taken over to judge, while the losers, who ranged from beaten-pretty-well to barely-lifeless, were escorted out of the ring for what I assumed to be the only bit of "mercy" they would receive - a quick execution.

And to the gambling victors go the spoils. And for the hombres in the front rows, the spoils were grande.

And from 2-10pm, they repeated this process over and over again. We stayed for about an hour and a half and saw around 15 fights. So in an 8 hour day? That's a lot of cock.

But over those 90 minutes, my acceptance of the rampant animal cruelty jumped all over the place. Parking and walking in? Actually pretty excited for something so different. Seeing the first cock go down? Ummm, pretty twisted and fucked up. Seeing 14 more cocks go down? Eh, it happens. When in Rome.

But as we walked out and drove home, and the entire afternoon set in, complete with a mental photo album of 15 animals bloodied and beaten in the name of sport and gambling, the animal lover in me came back. That . . . was indeed fucked, and I don't ever need to do it again. I'm glad I went for the once in lifetime experience, but if I end up back in San Juan again, it will remain a once in a lifetime experience.

Tyler would insist so.
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My favorite part of the afternoon was actually the the people watching. So in no connection to the rest of the story, let's take a look at our fellow cock fighting patrons and make up stories about them

This refined University of San Juan professor takes out a lovely lady for a first date. 

Mafia? Yeah, definitely mafia.

I believe this man's nickname is El Guapo

No Dos Equis, THIS is the most interesting man in the world

Item #29 - Go Spelunking

"I told you, we need to fill the cave with hot, molten lead, 'cause it's the only way to make sure Manbearpig never comes out. And I'm saying it and I'm totally cereal but everyone just keeps digging!"

"Well, see, the problem is, if we fill the cave with hot, molten lead, it will kill those boys too."

"They're already dead, didn't you listen to me"
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Spelunking (n): the hobby or practice of exploring caves
-Webster's dictionary

Spelunking (v): the act of exploring for the missing condom after deep penetration
-urbandictionary.com

When I was in Puerto Rico a week ago, my friends Bryan, Micah, Sarah and I went on a delightful little spelunking adventure. Since Sarah wasn't into the whole 4-way-with-3-guys thing, our "spelunking" adventure consisted of the first definition above, and I imagine it was the more enjoyable of the 2 options (I think.  Though attempting the other definition would certainly be a first for the list). It was an exhausting 10-hour day, so let's get to it.

The day would involve a whole lot of rocks, mud, water and heights. Thus, I wasn't bringing my camera. So while they do actually relay a good sense of the atmosphere and environment, you're stuck with the pics from the adventure tour's website,
 

The morning started out at 5:00am, as we had to get our asses to the bus stop for the van to pick us, and the other 12 spelunkers, up. And at 5:45, when it did pick us up, we realized that the tour guides would at least have a good sense of humor for the next 10 hours, as they opened to door and had the theme to Indiana Jones blasting (again, at 5:45am in the middle of a major city).

Then a 1 hour ride to the cave, in which the driver and main tour guide riffed the whole time. In Engligh or Espanol, it was damn funny.  Really, I can't recommend this tour enough if you just so happen to be in the Puerto Rico area. What? You don't have a friend living down there in a swanky paid-for-by-his-company apartment 50 yards from the ocean where you can crash for free? Pity.

We got to the site, geared up, and then basically stared down a 500 foot drop into a gorge/canyon-like area in the middle of the rainforest. If you were scared of heights or the native headhunters, now was the time to ditch.

The way down was a combo of zip lines . . . .

. . . and rappelling.  This really was how it looked going down. Rappel down 50 feet of rock, and then just kind of float the next 150 feet down.

And as you land at the mouth of the cave, it's really quite awe-inspiring.
 

 

One of the few times where you have to take a step back and say "is this legit? Am I in a movie? Am I on location?"

One of the last times that happened? About 5 years ago working for a certain medical device company. Being the mature adult I am, I was working in the Uro/Gyno dpeartment, and the product we were working on required a visit to the University of Michigan Hospital. The anatomy PhD working with us was in charge of the test materials, AKA, the cadaver torsos. So, when it was time to test, she picked up a torso out of the sink, with just her arms, and flopped it down on the table. And it sat there, wiggling around, with all of its saw-off bits and pieces showing. She poked it a few times, took a second to think, and then said "nope, it's not thawed yet", before picking it, flopping it back into the sink, and turning on the hot water. It was the first time I saw all the sawed-off sections of a cadaver ("hey, she had a hip implant!"), and it absolutely made my think "am I being Punk'd by Wes Craven?" The medical device industry is SLIGHTLY different than my hometown auto industry.

The cave (part of the 3rd biggest cave system in the world, according the interwebs, which like the pope, are infallible) was a grab bag of terrain. In the picture above, you can see the stream running through the cave on the bottom left. According to the guide, flash floods can cause the water to rise at a rate of 1 foot per minute. So if you're in the cave, and you hear the guide blow 1 long whistle? Like Chris Rock talking about being on MLK Boulevard . . . . RUN. Get the fuck out.

Luckily, despite the rainy weekend, we avoided any flash floods. But, the river depth was all over the place. Some parts were wade-able. In other sections, we got to jump into from rocks 15 feet up.

(if only I had that dude's mustahce. THEN the Puerto Rican chicas would have been impressed)

Of course the cave had the requisite stalactites and stalagmites, and thanks to the aforementioned shitty weather all weekend, there were constant dips throughout the journey. Only a few more thousand years and this little guy up top will get up the courage to stick it to his potential mate down below.

On a few occasions, the guides had everyone turn off their lights. This was both cool (as you couldn't see 1 inch in front of your face) and frightening, as I have yet to mention the happy little critters running around. Crabs and bats and spiders, oh my. The crabs were, well, just crabs. The bats kind of hung out on the cave ceiling, which was more than tall enough for them to not be a concern. But these "little" guys?

Yeah, they were about 10" across. When we got to lunchtime, where we hung out in a giant cave room for about 30 minutes eating our double-zip-locked food, I saw one of these guys scurry away from the spot I was about to sit down at. Needless to say, the next 30 minutes were spent like a crack addict, slapping and itching any part of my skin that felt even the mildest tickle.

I like the phenomenon of the group mentality. If I was dropped into the cave where we ate lunch (the deepest part we went to) completely by myself, with a head lamp and a map, I'm sure I would freak THE FUCK out. But, when put into the same place with 15 or so other people? Meh. Someone will lead us out, and the laws of probability say that if some spider gets the munchies, he's only about 6% likely to choose me. And the bats (which may or may not be vampires) will probably end up grabbing one of the slower links in the chain on the way out. I like my odds!

So after lunch, we headed back out (was gave us a grand total of 3-4 hours of actual "spelunking"), and prepped for the section of the tour that was supposed to be actual work - climing back up. Our guide Rosano had me lead the way up, mostly because he saw my cat-like reflexes on full display climbing rocks in the cave. Or maybe he just had a thing for me and my gringo flair. Sadly, we'll never know. But the 25 minutes or so back up was actually the part you really didn't want to fuck with.

Lots of rocks. Lot of sheer wall faces. One more zipline.  Lots of makeshift steps made of rebar. If you didn't properly clip in your carabiner and had a slight mistep? Adios muchacho. Thanks for signing the waiver beforehand. Your emergency contact will be notified. Anyway, the climb was a little arduous, but still fun as shit. At one point, 75% into the climb, I looked down into the canyon, into the rainforest, looked at the zipliners bringing up the rear 150 feet below, and was able to have one more "yeah, this is pretty fucking awesome" moment. Somehow I wasn't able to have the same moment during such list items as good ole #10. And to add the yin to the yang of the Puerto Rican adventure, Item #30 will actually encompass the exact opposite feeling.

And after a post-spelunking shower, we made the hour trek back to San Juan.

You're encouraged to have a post-spelunking shower no matter which of the 2 "spelunking" definitions you participate in.



Though the trip was 99% of everything I could have hoped for, I'm still a little disappointed we didn't catch a glimpse of Al Gore's nemesis . . . the elusive Manbearpig.

Next time Manbearpig. Next time.