Wildwood. Or, An Adventure in Deep Frying

This past weekend I returned to the East Coast to partake in my favorite summer activity:

Wildwood.

What is Wildwood, you may ask? Besides being the trashiest place on the Boardwalk, and the easiest place to spot teenagers of the jail-bait variety, it's also the world's biggest beach ultimate tournament. Roughly 3,000 ultimate players descend upon this hepatitis-drenched enclave with the purpose of playing ultimate and spending 48 hours intoxicated.

This weekend was no different. I played on Bayonet Tailgate Party in the 3-1 Beer league. The team consisted of only the best and brightest. Errr...drunkest and drunkest. It was basically all my favorite people assembled into a cyber pink ball of awesomeness (minus Jenee and Dan, whom I missed terribly), with the badass-est logo on the beach.

Evidence:

I know, we're terribly good looking and stylish. It's a blessing and a curse.

To get the boring part over with, we went 3-3, losing 2 games on double game point and 1 by three points. BTP was robbed of its championship dreams, but everyone had moments of glory and moments of hungover-ness on the field, some more than others (I was of the latter persuasion).

Friday started off early. Got off the plane at 7am after being con men and convincing our gate agent that I was suffering a terrible case of food poisoning and that we'd be missing our connecting flight to BWI. We were then picked up by my mother in Philly for a delicious breakfast and then dropped off at the Greyhound station, where I thought I lost my wallet (it was in Adam's pocket).

3 hours later we arrive in Wildwood after taking NJ transit down the shore. Approximately .2 seconds after the bus driving away do I realize I've left my purse (complete with wallet, passport, and birth control) in my seat. Commence sprinting after said bus. The operation was a success as the bus luckily hit a red light 1.5 blocks down.

After that we joined Adam's family on the beach, where 2pm beer drinking and cheesesteak eating commenced. After checking into the efficiency suite (best idea ever), we departed for dinner, once again with the Croce clan.

Sidebar: the efficiency suite is the height of Wildwood ghetto chic. Imagine 2 dark, musty-ish rooms. The first has a creaky pullout couch and a mattress on the floor...with a headboard nailed to the wall 2ft above. A "kitchenette" with full sized fridge (it held beer and only beer this weekend), mini stove, and unplugged microwave. A bathroom with a window that didn't open (leading to steam room-esque conditions) and broken toilet seat. Lastly, the "bedroom", with 2 full size beds maybe, MAYBE one foot apart from each other, with windows looking out onto the hotel's dumpster backyard. All class.

Back to dinner. I decide now's a good time to start drinking, so I start off with a Long Island. You can imagine where the night went from here. After hitting the nearest liquor store Adam and I do a "Tooter" (pre-mixed shot of death) and head to Old Man Steve's condo, where joyous/snarky reunions commence. LFaust proceeds to make me some kind of rum drink, and I think this is where the night went downhill. Or uphill, depending on how you look at it. We head to the Bolero, where I accost the likes of Danny and the Biggest Tim. I think shots were taken. Fast forward to about 1:45am--I'm being obscene towards Lauren due to a conversation she was having and next thing I know she throws her drink at me. I, logically, throw mine back.

Cue both of us being thrown out of the Bolero. Yes, it's the first time I've ever been thrown out of a bar, and of course it's due to Ms. Lauren Faust. Thanks, douchebag. Also, no matter what she tells you, she threw her drink first. Fact.

Passing out happened around 3am. Waking up was at 9am. Nausea was 9am-7pm.

Saturday night was equally amazing, but in different ways. After hitting the beer garden we return to Steve's condo for more Can Jam (laundry hamper + discs + holes), drinking, and hanging out. We set off for the Bolero once again, with Lauren and I timing our entrance so as not to incite the suspicion/wrath of the bouncers. Once inside it's the same usual shitshow. Packed dancefloor, terrible cover band, bar crowd 4 people deep. While there I was enlightened about websites like DateACougar.com, but after the day's hangover wasn't really feeling more drinking. Neither were a few others.

At 12:45am-ish eight or so of us head back to the hotel room for some hanging out. None of us were prepared to walk in to see MS scamper out of the bedroom with the most devilish look on his face EVER. For privacy's sake I'm going to forgo the rest of the juicy details, but the end of the night ended in creating a delightful sleeping nest out of sleeping bags and wet towels for a special someone (or so I was told...all the hanging out led to passing out around 3 again).

In between the devil smile and nest-creation much hanging out commenced, leading to a major 2am hunger session. Being 2 blocks from the boardwalk we figured everything would be open, and we'd have our choice of pizza, fries, and other gluttonously delicious treats. We arrive at the boardwalk...and it's empty. Yeah, you've got you random 15 year olds being daring and staying out late, but no neon signs welcoming us. Except....30 yards down we spot a yellow sign (I believe Lindsay called it "A yellow beacon of hope"). We walk up and enter a little slice of heaven. Corn dogs, funnel cakes, frozen bananas, deep fried Oreos/Twinkies beckon to us. A feeding frenzy ensued, and about $50 later we walked away overloaded with fried deliciousness. I had a corn dog and funnel cake, but that was nothing compared to a few others. Notably: Will got a funny cake covered in caramel, strawberries, and mint chocolate chip ice cream. Matt Shiel actually managed to get them to make a funnel cake with deep fried Oreos IN IT.

We returned to the hotel happy and stuffed. I passed out, but the aforementioned nest building ensued. Josh or Adam can give you the detailed run down.

Sunday was relatively low-key. We lost our second game, and were done for the day at around 1pm. Then, the heavens opened up and it started POURING. Games were delayed, then teams eventually started bailing. Julie was kind enough to offer us a ride back to BWI; we got in the car at 2:30 and arrived at the airport at 7:15pm. I was seriously worried that our airline wouldn't let us get back on our flight due to getting off in Philly on Friday--the customer service rep on the phone sounded pretty foreboding. However we get the BWI and the line is long and there's only one rep working. We get bumped to the front of the line because our plane was leaving relatively soon. The e-ticket kiosk gives us some trouble, so the one rep comes over, gets our passports, and hands us our tickets, just like that. We think she saw that there was an error with our reservation and didn't want to deal with it, and hit that big red override button. God bless that angry woman. The flights were happily uneventful, and 16 hours after leaving the shores of Wildwood we arrived at my house and promptly passed out.

Already looking forward to next year....

Happy Birthday to My Big Brother

My brother Roland turns 24 today -- GOLDEN BIRTHDAY ALERT.

I'm not telling you what I got him because he might be reading this (I'm not sure though).

Anyways, Roland, happy birthday! I'm glad that we've made it through 22 years without ever making good on those threats of kicking each other asses when we were 8/11/14/17/etc, because if we had then you'd be missing out (because let's face it, he would win in a fight).

Seriously though, thanks for being there through the good and bad, and for letting me bear witness to your various hair phases, highlights including the mullet, dreads, and the Justin Timberlake fro. Also, thanks for scaring off all the people who wanted to ask me to Homecoming in Nashville - Caitlin was the best date I could have asked for.

I hope that this next year sees you going to med school in Germany and having all your hard work rewarded, and that the following years bring you happiness, love, and the peace of mind that you've got a little sister looking out for you. And great hair.

Love,

Julia

Desperate Measures

Posted on the sidewalk (literally--I almost stepped on it) 1 block from my house.

In Keeping With My Last Post...

A conversation overheard while walking out of my BART stop.

"....So he gets caught doing a hand-to-hand with a motha-fuckin' undercover and gets no time! And me?! I get caught doing a hand-to-hand and I get fuckin' MONTHS and MONTHS in prison...you feel me?"

Oh, I feel you.

My 'Hood

Last night two women were arrested outside my door for either a DUI or something drug-related. Their black Escalade was also towed.

A little under 2 weeks ago a young man was shot at killed 2 blocks from me in a seemingly random act of violence, and the police hung up posters asking for help in their investigation.

Then, this popped up on SFist today (happened last Wed):

SFist Blotter: Valencia Street Stabbing Edition

A female was attacked on Valencia Street last Wednesday. It happened to the friend of an SFist contributor, both of whom would prefer to remain anonymous. Here's what went down:

Last Wednesday night, after a wonderful evening with friends I was walking home around 12:30 am. I was just a few blocks from my home and I was assaulted [between 15th and 16th on Valencia Street]. Two men in a large light colored van pulled up, the passenger got out and took my bag and stabbed me in the neck, then took off. From what I can remember I dropped immediately to my knees then began crawling up Valencia St.

Within moments I was found by a woman who screamed for help and stayed with me, wrapping my neck in her scarf. From there, it was a whirlwind of sirens, gurneys, and lights in my face. I arrived at SF General where they determined with a cat scan that the cut was about 1 1/2 inches deep and had cut into one of my main arteries. They needed to operate. The operation took about 3 hours and they were able to stitch together the artery and assessed that no damage had been done to my esophagus or my tracheal... good news.

This attack failed to make any crime blotters as far as we can tell. Also, no arrests have been made.

I feel safe in most parts of my neighborhood. My BART stop is prone to crackheads (I actually saw some smoking crack the other day, out in the open), and there are certain blocks I tend to avoid, like dark side streets. I don't walk around alone, or I bike most places. It just seems that there has been a sudden wave of violence in the city, and my neighborhood is affected somewhat (less than others, though). It speaks to the lackadaisical nature of the SF police force that they can successfully tow big SUVs but can't seem to make arrests stemming from violence. I dunno, this isn't meant to be a rant on the nature or causes of violence. I just find it interesting that I feel completely comfortable in my neighborhood, and yet these kinds of things are happening in such close proximity.

In other news, my 27 year old roommate Greg managed to walk in on me in just a bra and underwear while blow drying my hair. Hilarity/blushing ensued.

This City Doesn't Mix Well With My Bike

It's true. First, we had the methhead water throwing incident. If you need a refresher please look here.

Then, rage-inducing incident #2 happened yesterday.

It's Sunday morning, and I'm looking forward to a delicious brunch at St. Francis, a fat kid heaven soda shop/diner. I really was ready for a chocolate malt as a Sunday morning headache remedy.

I hop happily downstairs and get ready to get on my bike and get going. But something seems off as I'm unlocking it. Hmmm, the front tire looks a little flat. Fuck, it's completely flat. Wait a minute...is the back tire flat too?

(5 second mental pause)

ARE MY MOTHERFUCKING BIKE TIRES SLASHED?!

Answer: yes.

I was fucking pissed. I still am fucking pissed. Not only did I miss out on a brunch I was really looking forward to, but I also had to drag my ass to the bike shop and pay $82 to get new tires and tubes.

Here's the thing...the methhead thing was funny, after the fact. This isn't funny. This is some fucking crack addicts in my neighborhood who fuck around with other people's shit for kicks. The kid who fixed my bike probably said it was a bum who was hoping I'd leave my bike there for a while (so he could steal it, I'm guessing).

Hopefully the bike has now seen the worst this city has to offer and the streak of bad luck is over. But I'd like to send a big fuck you to the douchebags who fucked with my tires. Go smoke some crack, assholes.

Patriotism

I've been thinking a lot about the election lately and the current state of our country. This November many people will be voting for a D or an R, not necessarily for the man behind (or in front of, depending on how you look at it) the party. In fact, this happened in 2004, and 2000, and essentially most elections in the history of our country. That's not what I'm here to discuss though. My problem is this: when, in other elections, has such a fuss been made about the patriotism of a particular candidate?

The Republican party is hell-bent on painting Obama as unpatriotic and therefore unfit to serve as president. I'm not going to get into the flag pin wearing particulars of this debate, as my issue lies with the greater argument itself. No man (or woman) runs for the position of president when they do not truly love their country and want to make it a better place for its people. Obama was a community builder in Chicago's South Side -- does trying to help a poverty-stricken and notoriously violent neighborhood make you unpatriotic? Yes, Reverend Wright said some inflammatory things, but when have you held someone responsible for something someone else said? Before you call me naive, I understand that this is the presidential election, and that politics are dirty. But to go so far as to say that the person millions of people chose to represent their political party and hopefully lead the US and the free world is unpatriotic is unabashed mud-slinging.

You don't choose to put yourself into the public eye and constant scrutiny of your citizens and the world if you don't wholeheartedly love your country and are ready to sacrifice your life (quite literally) to protect, advance, and help it. This isn't about Obama v McCain. This is about common sense. Both men love their country, and both have ideas, while vastly different, about what will make it better. Why not focus on the issues at hand instead of engaging in smear tactics to distract from the numerous problems facing us today? Let's spend some time talking about dependency on oil, the climate crisis, the situation in Iraq, abortion, gay marriage/adoption, and countless other issues instead of harping on fist bumps, flag pins, and baby mommas. That way when November rolls around we'll have people at the polls who look beyond the Ds and Rs and who vote with the certainty that their values and ideals are being upheld. I don't care who you vote for, as long as you've taken the time to educate yourself on the candidates so that you may exercise your responsibility to vote in an informed, thoughtful manner.

He's Just Not That Into You

I'm in a book club. I found it on Craigslist (surprise! I like using Craigslist/CL for things. Like my job, bike, apartment, furniture....).

Anyways, the book club is comprised of about 8 women ages 25-29. Yes, I'm the baby of the group. It's a good crowd--intelligent, witty, and super friendly. I met them for the first time about 3 weeks ago at a wine bar in Hayes Valley, where introductions were made and the next book discussed. The choice was....He's Just Not That Into You.

If you know me, you can imagine my initial thought of HELL NO. As someone who considers themselves moderately well-adjusted and not into reading Bridget Jones-esque self-help books, I recoiled at the idea. Frankly, so did a few of the other girls, but somehow we still settled on this particular book.

Naturally, I put off buying it until Monday, book club being Wednesday (yesterday). I was honestly kind of embarrassed to be buying a pink and green book that screams I AM SAD AND ALONE. I seriously contemplated buying the 1,000 page "How Your Government Failed You" book set up by the check out. I thought it might restore my dignity and legitimacy as a functional human being. Anyways, I read the book in an hour at work on Tuesday because it's in toddler-size font. I hated it.

Seriously, don't read it people. Well, don't read it girls. It's a completely twisted modern-day take on The Rules, written by a cocky jackass with bad frosted tips and a single 41 year old woman. He's married and dating you? He's not that into you. He never called? He's not that into you. He doesn't wanna have sexy times? He's not that into you.

Really? Did a book actually need to be written on this subject? Or was there a special "I lost my common sense" convention where people decided a book like this should be written? Beyond that, the book basically says that no guy is ever going to be good enough, and that mistakes (you know, the kinds humans have the tendency to make) are inexcusable. Nothing less than perfection can be accepted, and it's completely the guy's fault if things don't work out. Um, what about all the crazy bitches of the world? Lorenna Bobbit, I'm sorry, but he's just not that into you. What if the GIRL cheats? Still dumps you? Sorry, he's not that into you. Um, of course he's not.

Fine, I can understand that some women may lack the basic common sense to figure these things out, and this book may help with that. But really, you don't need to be showered in rose petals on a daily basis in order to determine the level of "into you-ness". The way I see it, if whoever you're with is making you happy and trying not to fuck up, you're pretty lucky.

Now I'm gonna go return this book.

I Fucking Love LOL Cats

Seriously.


more cat pictures


more cat pictures


more cat pictures

Was this pointless? Maybe. Did it make Blaire laugh? Definitely.

In Pictures: 4th of July

I present to you a pictorial of my Independence Day 2008. After all, pictures say what words (and my scale, because I broke it due to the following photo evidence) cannot.

Delicious and patriotic (but mainly delicious) strawberry shortcake. It doubled as breakfast Saturday morning.


Let me give you a break down of what's happening here. Bottom left = coffee marinated flat iron steak. Middle right = plain top sirloin. That longish piece in the middle wasn't ours, and probably not as delicious, either. We've also got some grilled asparagus with some olive oil, salt, & pepper. Lastly, we have....grilled peaches. Grilled for about 6 minutes facedown, then for the last minute flipped. Put some butter and brown sugar in the hole where the pit was, and enjoy. Best meal I've had in a while.

Dance, grill-boy, dance!

Grilled Twinkies. It's not America's birthday without putting nuclear war resistant Hostess cakes on the grill. In case you were wondering, they were kind of amazing.

PBR, libation of champs.

Oh hey guys, let's see the fireworks! Wait a minute...why does this picture have what looks like snow in the way? Because San Francisco is the place where fog goes to die.
I didn't take this picture. It's the Bernal Hill slide close to the top of the stairs. I thought it'd be great to slide down. However, I got stuck (see previous pictures of food) and stopped sliding, so I got up to run down the rest of the slide. I make it off the slide, across the sand-pit, and as I'm thinking "Nice work Julia! Way to be graceful!" I BITE IT on the edge of the sandpit. Full on tripping on ankles, faceplant into the sand.

Now I can join the ranks of all the other people falling off slides.



(Reference :34 in the video for the most accurate portrayal of my disaster)

God Bless America, home of yours truly, patriotically ungraceful, as always.

A Shift in Mentality

As some of you know, I am currently not 100% satisfied with my job. Personality clashes and feeling largely underwhelmed by office procedures and responsibilities are the main causes of my dissatisfaction, weighing on my mind recently. It's an unwelcome source of stress, affecting me physically and mentally. Not so great.

It came to a head yesterday, when I worked 11 hours due to a business meeting we had at 5pm in Sunnyvale (an hour's drive). The work I did for it, under tight deadline, wasn't read by anyone from my work, much less by the other company. Frustration was running high.

However, I had a rather enlightening conversation with a one Ms. Lindsay Giesen. We talked about the importance of trying to create a mental disconnect between work and life. If work is your life, this does not apply to you. However, if you're in a situation where work is making you unhappy, it's important to install a kind of mental divide between work-self and real-life-self. When you're at work, you're just focused on doing your thing there. It may royally suck and be frustrating at times, and if you're bored out of your mind give yourself assignments (related to either your actual job or something that interests you) to pass the time and enrich yourself. Thank you Dan for this one. But, once the clock hits 5, or on gChat, or whatever, you're just yourself again. Granted, bad days happen that can carry over, but daily minor frustrations shouldn't spill over and take over your life. Your job isn't paying you overtime to think about how much it sucks when you should be out living life and having fun. Particularly since I've just moved to a new city/coast, why bother thinking about the stupidity of a job and industry I really am completely apathetic towards when I could be out having a great time. Apathy is better than anger, in this situation.

Don't get me wrong. I am not planning on turning into an Wanted-esque office drone who one day tells their boss to go fuck themselves. No no. I know there's something better out there, and I know that I am not in a permanent situation here. If anything, right now I'm grateful that I can pay my bills and am employed while the economy goes down faster than Jenna Jameson. Angry gratitude, let's call it.

So there it is. I'm feeling optimistic about the whole thing. Plus work ends at 2pm PST today, so it's a good time to start.

Weekend Update

Breaking News: I am no longer a resident of the East Coast. Wait, what?

Yes, I am now officially a California resident. I almost failed the driver's test but that's because the most incompetent DMV worker ever scored my test. He was comparing it to the wrong answer key, and I argued until he compared with the other worker there, realizing his idiotic mistake. The license picture is also atrocious; the woman said "Smile!" about .5 seconds after the flash went off, leaving me with a confused, somewhat happy face. Much like, I imagine, the first time someone discovers porn. Blaire, I'm looking at you.

So yes, California residency. This marks the most official shift yet, I guess. Now I get to pay high state taxes and vote here! Oh, and have easier acceptance to schools like Berkeley, if that's where I choose to pursue my grad school path.

The other event of the weekend was going to Biscuits and Blues Saturday night (a southern blues restaurant, in case the name wasn't glaringly obvious) and seeing this man:



2 ways to describe him:
1. If Obama was a blues singer, this would be him (oh, hi Maggie!)
2. Sex on a stick. Actual sexual orientation was a topic of debate, but general consensus is that he's living in the right state.

Note: the 2 ways aren't related. I don't see our future president (yes, that's right) as sex on a stick. It would just make me blush all the time.

General other news is that I'm officially a 9-5 slave; the highlight of my week is that the office closes at 2 on Thursday and that I can wear jeans. Yes, "casual Friday" is now everyday. Punch me in the face and get me a red stapler.