To Live And Die In LA

The rugby team went to LA this past weekend to play UCLA's MBA team.  Rugby teams are a special bunch of guys, and you have to leave your pearls at home, lest you wear them out from constant clutching.  Drunken, stupid behavior is the norm, and is only exacerbated by road trips.  We rented two 12-person vans to make the 6-hour drive.

Six hours is what it takes a normal group.  But a group that starts drinking in the parking lot before you leave Phoenix takes significantly longer.  The first half of the drive was a lot of fun.  Drunkasaurus Rex regaled us with non-stop stories of his travels with the Navy, and we had some good fun reminiscing on how Bilbo T. Baggins came by his nickname.  But fellas that ben drinkin' need frequent bathroom stops.  The first stop, I thought "Really?  Already?"  The second stop brought some humor as The Ambassador occupied a urinal, only to be shouldered aside mid-stream by a Drunkasaurus itching for a sword fight (I've withheld the picture to protect the guilty, but Drunkasaurus won).  By the third, fourth, and fifth bathroom stops, the level of inebriation rose in inverse proportion to my drop in humor.  The last hour was filled with The Ambassador, Mayhem and His Supreme Uteness arguing about the pureness of Greek and Georgian bloodlines and anything having to do with WWII.  Mayhem spent a good half hour trying to convince me of the imperative nature of a strip club visit once we got to town.  I politely informed him that paying one tuition bill is enough for me.  We made it to LA in eight hours.

UCLA sent two of their fattest, dumbest, drunkest players to greet us at the hotel and take us out to a bar.  When we arrived at the bar, there were only two other UCLA players waiting.  I figured they had sent a token delegation of guys to make sure we were in the worst possible playing shape for the game the next day.  Our guys admirably recognized the strategy and decided to turn in early rather than accompany Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum to the strip club.  Except for Mayhem's jihad on trash cans on the walk home, I was so proud of our lushes that night. 

The game on Saturday was rough.  We barely had enough players to field a full team, and none of our guys had size.  Our biggest player probably weighed 215-220, and many of our players had never played the position we were asking them to play that day.  Because of this, we decided to play two games with 20-minute halves rather than the usual one game of 40-minute halves.  We basically played the first game to a draw.  The actual score was Thunderbird 5, UCLA 7.  We missed the after kick, but they didn't have real goal posts, so I don't count that.

The second game, their size wore us down.  We just couldn't keep putting the punishing hits on them that we were in the first game, and they had plenty of players to keep fresh legs in the game.  We lost the second game 14-7.  But they didn't score their two tries until the last 20 minutes when we were exhausted.

I spent much more time tackling big bruisers than I should have, and am feeling the effects of it still.  My shoulders are creaky, I've got abrasions all over, my back/neck are stiff.  It really is interesting to walk behind a rugby team after a game.  Gonzo calls it the Robocop walk.  You pivot stiffly on your feet, taking care to avoid any rotation of the trunk.  You don't just turn your head when someone calls you; you turn your whole frame to look at them.  This game brought an extra special treat for me:  a knee to the head, with an accompanying knot.  Oddly, the bump has mostly dissipated, but I still can't feel my scalp on the left side when I scratch my head.  I may have damaged a cutaneous nerve.  Hopefully the feeling will return over the next month or so.

Rugby is very social.  After every game (at least at the level we play at), there is a social where both teams get together to share meat and mead, and to sing filthy songs together.  The UCLA boys put on a good show at a decent bar in Santa Monica, and we all had a good time mingling and watching the UFC fight on Saturday night.  Mercifully, we were spared the filthy songs.

The ride home on Sunday was decidedly more subdued.  It is always so nice to be home.  To sleep in your own bed.  To take a cap full of Nyquil and drift off into the abyss and not think about how much it hurts to roll over.  It's not Thanksgiving yet, but I'd still like to express how thankful I am for Nyquil and ibuprofen.  It has gotten me through the last couple nights.

It's Cheaper Than Adoption

I've been in a Marketing Communications-induced funk this semester.  B-school requires a lot of group projects, ostensibly to build your skills in working in teams. But I'm convinced it's also because most professors are kinda lazy about grading and would rather read 10 papers instead of 70.  For my MarComm class, we have four team papers/presentations to prepare over a six week period (and for the record, the professor in this class is one of the most engaged, un-lazy professors I've ever had at any school). 

For this class, the six-person team had to include at least three different nationalities.  Once the course page opens up online and the class list is available, there is usually a mad flurry of emails with people trying to lock down team members that they want to work with.  I was late putting a team together, so I wound up in a team with one other American, one Taiwanese girl, and three Indian guys.  I knew them all.  Had never worked with them, but I knew they're all good folks.  I figured I had lucked out to get good teammates, having waited so long to get my team set.

The class went well until we got around to actually writing the papers. Then life devolved into a Bollywood B-school horror film.  Repeating (multiple times) paper outlines and directions for conducting research, all-night re-writes, completely re-doing teammates' power point slides a half hour before deadline, the villainous American (me) cracking the whip,  and 20-minute dance sequences in which my brain gets eaten at the end (hallucinated).

Somehow, miraculously, I managed to pull out a decent grade.  But I was sick in the head.  I was grinding my teeth more than usual, and even now I can't seem to get my energy levels back up.  I'm training for a half marathon in December, and any distance over four miles is absolutely exhausting.  What's the prescription?  More cowbell? 

Eh.  Even that's not helping at this point.  Yet there's a bit of truth in there somewhere.  They say that laughter is the best medicine.  So I've been on the hunt for things to make me laugh lately.  I laughed to tears on this video.  A fact that makes one thing clear:  my sense of humor is on drugs.  But I don't care, 'cause I'm a guy on a buffalo.

The Hispanic Pirhana Prom Had One. Jew. Person.

Maybe B-school has just totally destroyed my sense of humor, but I found these videos way too funny not to share it with my Dogs of War.

I'm bored by famine.  I cannot wait for a medieval cookie, a cinnabon, hot yellow kool-aid, and save a pretzel for the gas jets.  Thank you.  I wrote that. 



How about Bachman?

That hobo kept screaming, "Save a boar.  I wanna see it.  Do your raps.  C'mon.  Do it silly lady.  Do that whole fiesta food dance."

Yup.  I'd say I have some rehab to do with my humorz.  At least I got to laugh again.