Outside Lands, Goodies but Crazies, and Wine in Mouthwash Cups. Or a Freakin’ Awesome Weekend.
20 Aug 2010 1 Comment
in Crossing It Off, New Adventures, San Francisco Tags: beer, concert, festival, food, golden gate park, Kings of Leon, music, Outside Lands, park, Pheonix, San Fran, san francisco, Wikipedia, wine
I’m sure that all of you San Franciscans know that this past weekend was Oustide Lands. And for those of you who don’t know, I’m getting really tired of directing you to Wikipedia … so here’s an excerpt for you … wouldn’t want you to hyper-extend your hyper-linking abilities (what? I don’t know … just go with it):
Outside Lands Main Stage
The Outside Lands Music and Arts Festival is a music festival held annually in San Francisco, California at Golden Gate Park. The first edition occurred August 22–24 in 2008, and included over 60 musical acts from around the world, as well as several art installations. The festival grounds included the Polo Field which was home to the Lands End Stage, the Speedway Meadow with Twin Peaks Stage and the Panhandle Stage, and finally the Lindley Meadow and the Sutro and Presido stages.
Kathryn and I
There aren’t a ton of huge music festivals in Oklahoma, which is why this was my first one ever, and. it. was. awesome. I didn’t know a ton of the bands that were there, but I have been listening to Bassnectar and Chromeo ever since I left.
I didn’t know exactly what to expect going into the weekend, but I did know that since it is San Francisco that I should count on some crazies. And I was not disappointed. And I might have even fallen into that category one or two times …
… Like on Saturday when Kathryn and I tried to sneak a camelbak full of vodka and Redbull into the gates by putting it in my pants, wait, that didn’t work, my side, nope, my back? Yeah. Strapped up under my bra, hunchback of fucking Notre Dame style. Then we realized that they were patting people down … and that they were watching us the whole time we were trying to shove something the size of an infant down my pants. Sooo we just had to chug as much as we could then pour our potion onto the ground.
… Then whilst watching Gogol Bordello, we almost got trampled to death by the one person stampede that was some bat-shit crazy girl dancing in front of us whose appearance oddly resembled that of a lion.
… And the guy who was blasted out of his mind, aggressively fisting the air during Bassnectar … I caught an elbow to the throat, it was pretty neat.
… Then when this exchange took place: Kathryn says to some dude, “Hey, good job!” He looks at her, perplexed. Pause. Awkwardness. A look of comprehension crosses Kathryn’s face and she says with a very apologetic look on her face, “Oh … sorrryyyyy, I thought you were in the band …” and then walks off.
… Or when Kathryn was like, “What is in my pockets?” And she pulled out her pockets and they were completely full of grass.
… Or when we ordered our 5th round of $7 wine (the glasses were literally the size of mouthwash cups you get from the god damn dentist) and I handed the guy a dollar and said, “Is this enough?” He, apparently, did not think it was funny, but we thought it was pretty hysterical. So hysterical in fact, that 2 minutes later when we were ready for another glass of wine (hey … they were really fucking tiny glasses), Kathryn said the exact same thing to a lady at a different booth. Her response was a little more lighthearted than the previous gentleman’s, but she was still not totally amused. We were.
… Oh and then there was the guy who thought it was a good idea to bring his 4-year-old kid to a god damn concert. Great parenting skills right there. I can only imagine what that little girl’s future holds.
Actually, I think it looks something like this:
Two words: Role model.
… And then it was only fitting to experience the most intense encounter with crazy at the very end of the festival. This is when we met crazy violent body odor girl with wax balls in her mouth … oh and she wasn’t wearing pants. She elbowed me out of the way so she could unfold her chair, proceed to stand in it, and flip everyone off for five minutes. I could continue to describe this scene … but I hear that a picture is worth a thousand words.
There are no words.
Balls in mouth? Check. Goggles? Check. Thong? Check.
Oh … and p.s., I was severely inebriated the entire weekend in which these stories took place … so might I suggest that if you didn’t think that these stories were at all funny to go get shit faced, and then come read my blog. I bet it would help.
Check out more pics on my Flickr page or my Facebook page!
Ode to Tarahumara’s: My Favorite Mexican Food in the WWW
13 Aug 2010 7 Comments
in Food! Yum, Oklahoma Memories, Random Tags: best Mexican food in the world, food, margarita, mexican food, Norman, Oklahoma, sooner, Tarahumara's
Whole. Wide. World. In case you were wondering.
I was just talking with my friend Taylor about how much I miss and adore Oklahoma Mexican food, and Tarahumara’s Mexican Café in particular. Adore is probably the understatement of the century.
Any time I left Norman for a long period of time, Tarahumara’s was my first stop when I got back. Case in point: Went to China, went straight from the airport to Tarahumara’s; Went to Italy, Taylor picked me up from the airport and we met everyone at Tarahumara’s; Was gone for the summer, Tarahumara’s; Haven’t been there in three days, Tarahumara’s.
It was a glorious thing. A god damn gift from above.
But now I live in California, and Californians think that queso is just … cheese. PA-LEASE! You gotta get yourself to Oklahoma for some OkieMex. That shit’s where it’s at, fa real, yo.
Anyway, this reminiscent conversation with Taylor evoked some strong emotions, and I couldn’t hold them in as hard as I tried.
So here it is:
Ode to Tarahumara’s
Oh Tarahumara’s Mexican Café, how I love you so.
I have been missing you so much, and I think it’s starting to show.
My pants fit a little looser now, and my fat intake is down,
All because my favorite Mexican food is in another town.
Why do you have to be so far away from me?
All I want are some of your chicken enchiladas—smothered in cream cheese.
Mexican food here in California just isn’t the same,
What’s that I hear? It’s your chips and queso calling my name.
Mexican food here is a tiny tortilla sprinkled with cilantro,
Give me my rice and beans and a side of sour cream sauce, pronto!
Don’t forget my margarita, you know how to make it just right.
Have another you ask? Why, I think I just might.
Served up in a nice big chilled glass.
Two or three of those will knock me on my ass.
We part ways with a lime-sherbert mint,
A fully belly, and a smile of fulfillment.
I know one day that we will meet again,
Maybe when I come back to town for a football game, that I’m sure the Sooners will win.
Keep your chin up Tarahumara’s, keep your chips crispy, and your sour cream sauce creamy,
For even though I have moved away, I have not moved on, and I still think you’re dreamy.
Sweating Balls, Funny Farts, and Putting Body Parts in Unnatural Positions. Or Yoga. And Derogatory Adjectives.
12 Aug 2010 5 Comments
in Athletic Triumphs, New Adventures, Things I Learn from Wikipedia Tags: Birkam yoga, karma, Lululemon, new adventures, san francisco, the mission, Vespa, yoga, zen
I have a new addiction, and that addiction is Bikram Yoga.
If you don’t know what Bikram yoga is, let me enlighten you: Bikram yoga classes are 90 minutes long, during which, you perform 26 postures in a room that is heated to 105 degrees with a humidity of 40 percent. It’s also known at hot yoga, for obvious reasons. And you sweat your balls off. Not kidding. Sweat will be pouring from your body like it’s nobody’s business. And sometimes you kind of feel like you’re going to pass the fuck out, but that’s totally normal.
I had done Bikram a couple of times before I signed up for a month of unlimited classes, and thought it was pretty awesome, but didn’t end up going consistently. But that is not the case this time. I am hooked. I find myself planning my nights out around my yoga schedule … and (GASP!) even going to the 6:15 a.m. class before work sometimes. And if you know me, you will know how big of a deal that is. I love my sleep.
But ever since I have started going I have encountered things that are hilarious, not so zen, and downright alarming in the yoga classroom. Here are a few of my favorites:
The days when I show up to yoga and I am there because of my addiction, not necessarily because I want to be all zen and relaxed and all that bullshit. The class starts and I am calling the instructor every dirty word I can think of (in my head, obviously). How dare this biotch tell me to push harder, my god damn toe is coming out of the back of my head. I’ll push you harder. Those days are always fun.
The point in the class where I can feel a long hair clinging to my body somewhere and when I finally take the time to pull it from me, it is 3 feet long and pitch black. Clearly not mine. Ew.
The point in the class where I literally think that I am going to die from all the effort … and then the dude next to me rips ass. And I fall out of my pose, and laugh, and people give me dirty looks. Sorry for thinking farts are funny.
The point in the class where I’m standing with my legs spread and my head is in between my legs and I’m staring at the floor that is about a foot away, and the instructor says: “Roll forward, feel the stretch, touch your head to the floor. Touch your forehead to the flood. Touch. Your. Forehead. To. The. Floor.” I laugh. Never gonna happen.
The point in the class when I am standing with my face pressed into my shins and I am breathing really hard in and out my nose, and then I inhale the sweat that is now running up my face, and have to swallow it. That’s always a welcome and appetizing surprise. Not.
The morning that I drive my brand new Vespa to yoga and when I come outside after class, I realize that someone has backed into it, knocked it over, broken the light, and not left a note. I know, right? The DAY after I got it.
My new Vespa!
That same morning, I go home, park my broken Vespa, and as I am fumbling with my mail key, some douche-bag-ass-hole-mother-effing-cock-sucking-cum-gargling-prick steals my YOGA MAT out of my backpack. MY YOGA MAT! Who the fuck steals a yoga mat?! That is like the worst karmatic (yeah, I made it up, so what) thing you could possibly do.
What my pretty Lululemon yoga mat looked like ...
I hope that asshole breaks something while he’s trying to put his god damn forehead on MY yoga mat.
Namaste mother fucker.
P.S. SanFranciscoSooner.com now has a Facebook page! Go check it out!
The San Francisco Marathon, Knee Pain, and the Glorious Feeling of Finishing
04 Aug 2010 7 Comments
in Athletic Triumphs, New Adventures, San Francisco Tags: 26.2 miles, dying, Golden Gate Bridge, marathon, pictures, really hard shit, running, san francisco, San Francisco Marathon, that's what she said, The Presidio
That’s what she said.
July 25th. A day that will live in infamy.
I can officially say that I am a marathoner. Which is a pretty awesome feeling if I do say so myself. I honestly didn’t think that I could/would do it … and around mile 14 when I realized that I was actually jealous of people running 13.1 miles, I knew that I would probably never do it again. But … never say never, right?
So here’s what went down:
July 24th: Laura (my friend from North Dakota who flew in to run it with me) and I go to the Runner’s Expo to pick up our bibs, shoe tags, and a bag full of goodies (of these goodies, my favorite was the razor burn cream … seems like a good thing to put in a marathoner’s goodie bag … right? no?) and of course to buy ourselves some t-shirts and shit.
And then we went to bed at 9:00 p.m.
July 25th: RACE DAY.
We get ready (I have massive nerves) and the taxi arrives to take us to our death at 4:55 a.m.
We stand in line for the Port-a-potties for about 35 minutes (yes, I went before … but we were an hour early … ) and then we hand off our bags to the bag check guy and walk toward the starting line.
(The actual race started at 5:30 a.m. but you sign up for start times based on your projected finish time, so Laura and I didn’t actually start until 6:02 a.m., in Wave 5.)
At 6:02 a.m. we cross the start line … it’s ON.
Laura and I are truckin’ along and around mile 3 we are running really well … a little under a 9 minute mile.
Mile 4: We see my parents taking pictures of us, we are all smiles and still really excited.
Mile 5: We start the ascent up to the Golden Gate Bridge, and I start thinking … holy fuck, I still have 21.2 miles to go.
Mile 7.6: Somewhere in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge. You think this would be pretty and scenic and relaxing. No such thing. It’s 7:00 a.m. in San Francisco, in the “summer”, which means that it is misting, freezing balls, and foggy as fuck. Oh! And the ENTIRE first half of the bridge is an uphill climb. So really all you can see are the people kicking your ass on the way back across the bridge. But their faces don’t instill any confidence in me. Most of them read: why THE fuck did I sign up for this shit?! And then there are the crazy bastards that are trotting along, happy as pie. Assholes. Oh, my 7.6 mile split was 1:16:08 … good, 10 minute mile.
My parents took this, we weren't actually running into oncoming traffic.
Mile 10: Coming off the Golden Gate Bridge, continuing into the glorious hills that are the Presidio. Fuck the Presidio. The uphill climbs were killer on the thighs and calves, but the down hill is what was killing my knee and shins.
Mile 11: Started getting serious pain in the left knee, but still making really good time, even though I had to stop at an aid station to have them tape my knee.
Mile 13.1: 2:22:19 Half-Marathon time. Shoulda just stopped there. Knee is getting worse.
Mile 14: My knee gives a final stab, I stumble, Laura catches me, and I know that from here on out it’s gonna be a battle: me or the marathon, which one will finish the other? Only time will tell. Cue dramatic music. I tell Laura to save herself, to go on without me.
Mile 16: At this point, I am able to run for about three quarters of a mile until my knee gives way again, I stagger, limp to the side, and get my speedwalk on. I walk for about a tenth of a mile, then start sunning again. It’s a vicious cycle.
Mile 20: I am now in constant pain, and I run until I can’t take the pain anymore, start crying a little (don’t judge me, did you run the SF Marathon? Didn’t think so.), and then walk for a few minutes. It’s a very vicious cycle. Oh, p.s. at this point, I think: wow, I’ve made it 20 miles … that is farther than I have ever ran. OH MY SWEET JESUS I STILL HAVE 6.2 TO GO. Annie Tucker Morgan (oh, you don’t know who that is? Sucks to be you.) pops in my head and this is my only thought for the next 3 miles: Fuck this noise. FTN. FT Effin’ N.
Mile 23: Literally the worst pain I have ever been in … and my right knee and hip are starting to hurt from being favored for 11 miles. No big deal.
Mile 25: My right knee gives out. Yay! It’s a party now. My left knee was a sharp stabbing pain that I suspected was from the impact of running and would only be temporary. The right knee, on the other hand, was not. This shit feels serious. I am in extreme amounts of pain, but I am also EXTREMELY frustrated because my body is not tired. If I could get a new set of knees right now I’d sprint the rest of this beast.
The last 1.2 miles were the longest 1.2 miles of my life. Fa REAL, yo. But I had to finish. This son-of-a-bitch-cock-sucking-ass-mongrel of a course was not going to beat me. I was going to beat it.
And I did.
Hey, it might have taken me 5 hours 18 minutes and 19 seconds, but I finished it. And that is ALL that matters. And that I beat 1002 people. Yeah, so what if 4997 people beat me.
Me: 1, San Francisco Marathon: 0. Eat it.
Literally, eat it.
They said whaaa?!