The Sporting Life

Just like recreational drugs, I'm not so much against playing sports as I've never found one that really agreed with me. After all, I despise running, and team sports snap me back to the Apocalypse Now style horror of grade school dodgeball. So who could have guessed that at this late age I'd finally find a sport that truly suited my athletic ability and temperament? Well, friends, I did. Cardboard tube fighting is the kind of thing I can really get behind. I was lucky enough to score a totally free space on the practically empty grass field at Gasworks park for the Cardboard Tube Fighting Tournament.

I'm not making this up. Have a look:




In the interest of veracity, I have yet to pick up a tube and whack at someone. I arrived too late to compete. However, my friend M - who possesses not only the sexiest mouth ever placed in a woman's face but also the moxie that only a 5' 10" native Ohioan can muster in the face of all the smack talked about Ohio - challenged her friend to a duel that ended in his, uh, limp tubing.

It's the kind of sport that can only end with beers and tequila shots purchased for the intrepid M. by a band of jovial lesbian rugby players (one of whom informed us that she was a DJ for Bar Mitzvahs on the weekends). Mind you, despite my having not yet picked up the sport or puzzled out the particulars (such as, where do you actually get the cardboard tubes to work out with on the daily basis that mastery would require?), I feel sure that my future as a champion is ensured. Because not only did I practice quite a bit as a child, but I've also fantasized for years about whacking jerks who drive straight through crosswalks with a cardboard tube. Going pro is just not that much of a leap.

Here's M's Flickr reel, complete with a picture of me with MKH (a lovely man who graciously accepted defeated by the hands of M, and no, we're not together or dating despite the faux snuggling born of my appreciation for allowing me to steal his chips) as well as with the beautiful A, my roommate, (my meals in Seattle have contained Fried as one of the major food groups) , and watching M's victory (she's in red) wearing my new favorite t-shirt "Brunettes Have More Fun:"

http://www.flickr.com/photos/halfmad/sets/72157604901981154/

Now here's another sporting event I attended last weekend, and let me add that I'm considerably less willing to participate in this one:



Although it wasn't quite as salacious as the above video, I did manage to attend a female rugby players Lube Wrestling Night at the Kangaroo-Kiwi Pub last Saturday. I know you'll agree that just like climbing Everest, going to see lube wrestling is the kind of a thing you should do once and then decide it isn't comfortable enough to repeat. I'll just say this about the event:

• It was a fundraiser for the Mudhens. Their motto on the back of their t-shirts: Pound Me.
• Lube is probably not designed to be used by the gallon, even if it is water-soluble.
• Just like at a cut-rate Mardi Gras, the one woman destined to flash is probably the one woman you sort of hoped would leave her top on.

In the interest of not resembling a female rugby player (not that there's anything wrong with it) I decided to spring for a haircut. Ten Pachi Modern Salon on the Ave gave me the finest haircut I've ever had for all of $20 and a tip. You can see below through the magic of iPhoto (and at some point I'll borrow A's good camera for a photo tour of the neighborhood, I promise) not only the cheap goodness of Seattle but also the way I always look slightly deranged in photos:



After a week of gloomy gray and 50 degree shivers, we finally had a day of sunshine. It's amazing how the moods pick up around here - it's practically a Disney set, pretty soon you can imagine the squirrels will start humming and bursting into song. It definitely called for a glass of wine at the Greenlake Bar & Grill, where A. and I sat in perfect contentment watching the puggles and boston terriers and golden retriever puppies walk by with their well-heeled owners.

I can't think of any downside to Seattle, except that the neighborhood might be a bit upscale for Brutto.

Proud to Be From...Uh, You Know Where

The other day someone forwarded me a t-shirt collection so that I could, if so inspired, purchase the shirt that proclaimed, "Proud To Be From Long Island."

Proud to be from...Long Island? Was this post modern irony? But no, the model in the ad stood there in the classic t-shirt model pose (boobs thrust out, delighted smile on her face - the "it's such fun to wear t-shirts!" expression), and I could find no speck of irony anywhere on the site. Apparently there really are people who are proud to be from My Own Private Suburban Hell. Startling.

Now I might wear a t-shirt that says: Reluctantly Admits to Being From Long Island. Although I probably wouldn't, since it actually took me 20 years to say the words "Long Island" without swallowing them and wincing at the inevitable You mean Longuuuuuyland that would come in return. Most people from Youknowwhere seem to feel the same way I do, at least in my experience. In fact - and this is a true story - when I met my long term boyfriend P. in San Francisco and we talked about where we were from we both said that we grew up "outside the city." When pressed, I admitted to Bellmore, Long Island (home of Amy Fisher, Long Island Lolita, who actually attended my high school). P. claimed to have been "born and raised in the Bronx." Infinite cool points over LI, you see. It was not until we had been living together for six months and I went home with him for Christmas that I discovered that he had been taken from the hospital in Long Island directly to his parent's house in Levittown. About all P. had ever seen of the Bronx, according to his parents, was the zoo on a field trip. Are you getting this, dear readers? P. was so ashamed to be from LI, he lied about it to someone who was also from LI. That's about how embarrassing it is for us natives.

Even when I was young, LI was crowded and characterless and stuffed with pissy attitudes and shopping malls. It wasn't a place to settle in, it was a place raise the children to give them that all important grass so essential to a happy childhood. What's up with that grass? I don't know anyone raised in a suburb who didn't secretly yearn to have learned the mysteries of the subway system at 11. On Long Island, you have to be ferried from one place to the next by your mother. And this was before kids enjoyed a schedule of activities so intensive it makes Paris Hilton look like she doesn't get out much, you understand. My sister and I were yanked from the car to dance classes and sleepovers and piano lessons. What fun for everyone! (Inexplicably, my parents would take us on vacation to numerous educational places - forcing us to spend countless more hours in the car. I didn't know people went on vacation to have fun until I left home.)

I envy people who got to grow up in Seattle. You can tell how nice a place is by the number of people who stay there after they're raised without being forced to because of family obligations. What's not to like about a city with the greenest grass, great dive bars, and amazing fries anywhere you go. And by the way, the sun hasn't been out in two days.  So there's that.

The one plus to LI - it's a grid. I'm so directionally challenged, that if I was in school now, they'd slap me with a learning disability and put me in special classes for it. I actually have fantasies about dropping breadcrumbs in my path.

Of course, Seattle has a lot of birds too.