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Planting The Seeds Of Victory, Part I

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Ray's picture
on December 21, 2008 - 11:34am
On my return flight home with my beautiful wife sleeping next to me. American Airlines now lets you get on the internet while inflight, which is a boon for me. Gadget blogs and gaming sites can make a flight home whiz by, you know. This week and half in LA has been one of the best times in my life. As you know, me and the guys, besides my wedding, haven't seen each other in months. Its a weird thing. Some of us live close to each other, others live states away. But we all see each other just as frequently, or infrequently to be more precise. Me, Mikey, and Frank always joke about it. We always talk about getting together, but never seem to. When you're home there are three things you want to do... 1) Stay home 2) eat cereal late night while you play Street Fighter 3) Stay home I'll take "stay home" for $1000 Alex. I'm a home-body, I freely admit that. The thought of showering to go out annoys me. Shaving? A nuisance! Getting dressed!?!? Perish the thought. Me and the wife like to laze around in what we call our "bubble" at home, with our dogs, our TV, our fireplace, and our Chex mix. Where am I going with this??? Oh yeah, now I remember... My Chem hadn't seen each other in a long, long time, so it was with great anticipation, excitement, and a touch of nervousness that we all got together, hung out, played, raced go-karts, and almost missed our flights home. All in that order. See what was great was that we had about a week to hang out, and play, all of it was no stress. We didn't put time constraints on anything, there were no deadlines. Really all we wanted to do was hang and write stoney jams together, which is what we did. It was great to see Bob killing the drums again. All of us, Bob included, didn't know where he would be at after his surgery. Was it too early? Was jamming going to be too much? His surgery was actually a really big deal, basically they made a tendon for him or some crazy shit. For someone who uses their wrists like he does, it could be make or break for him. And you know what? The motherfucker hasn't missed a step. We are so lucky to have him as our drummer. We also found time to race go-karts, as you can see in the above picture. Shit was intense! The go-karts can get up to 50 mph on a straight away, so they can be a little tough to control. Fear not though! You're talking about a group of dudes well versed in the artistry of Mario Kart, so these little spitfires would be no match for us! Or so we thought... Bob of course, was shredding everybody. His skill on the track is matched only by his love of a frothy Coffee Bean Quintuple Espresso. Whenever he whizzed by me, all I could make out was a ghostly streak of black and blue checkered flannel, and the hint of a blonde beard tucked messily into a yellow-jacket helmet. He was a Norse God, sent down from the heavens to strike man asunder. This vision has not yet escaped my nightmares. With Bob in first place, the rest of us trailed far behind. The slowest of us got lapped two or three times, seeing the ball-shrinking blue and yellow flag, which basically says you are slow as shit so pull over and let the faster guy get past. One by one, we fell to Bob's deadly power-slide combo, falling 3 and then 4 laps behind. Grown men ready to denounce their manhood. Our wives at home lamenting our loss. And yet there was still hope... Our good friend Sanch was getting closer and closer to catching Bob's time. Sanch was taking turn after turn like a man possessed. Somehow becoming one with the kart, it became an extension of his will. He and the kart were now one and the same, entering an untread realm of awesomeness the likes of which us slower racers could only dream. As the race's close drew nearer, uber-Sanch (he will now be referred to as such) eased through each curve flawlessly, shaving seconds off his time and gaining more speed in the process. And then it happened... Approaching the S-curve known as "Dead Man's Gallows," uber-Sanch headed in fast, positioned perfectly to enter the next series of turns at top speed. Just as uber-Sanch was about to hit his power-slide, his back gave out, and he (and the kart) went careening into the side wall at full RPM. From a distance, all one could see was pieces of colored wall and tires flying high into the air. Closer up, I do not care to know what was witnessed that day. Stripped of his powers, Sanch sat motionless in his kart, tires and rubble upon him. The Taskmaster, perched on the crumbled side wall, towering over Sanch and his wrecked go-kart, scolded him for his apparent inability to apply the brake. A more emasculating site has never been seen. Sanch claimed innocence, saying that he was tapped from behind. Yet no one was near him... His quest for glory cut short, Sanch hung up his racing gloves and was never heard from again. What happened that day? Did he choke? Or was there something else? Ask those on the pavement, and they will reply that they saw nothing. Some in the grandstand however, will tell of a black and blue checked spectre, haunting the MB2 race course till the end of its days... Part II to come when I can!