Some Shit Brent Wrote

Wow, remember when I used to update regularly and on time?

I'm participating in the Adrenaline Film Festival, wherein I have 72 hours to write, shoot, and edit a five minute short film with my group. That's what we've been doing today, and that's what we'll be doing until Saturday, instead of sleeping or writing this blog.

Fortunately, Brent Jones, who neglected to do his part and update while I was in DC, was kind enough to send in his update a day or so late, which I held onto out of spite up until I needed it. So now, for your reading pleasure, some shit Brent wrote:

What does it mean to be an American?

While I'm not completely sure, I can tell you what I did last night as an anecdotal example.

Author's Note, #0: I consider being late part of being American.

Like most of us who got out of high school, in the literal sense of leaving and not returning to the building, AND in the figurative sense of seeing past weed as a cool social taboo, the desire to program one's personality for the sole purpose of getting BJ's, and not letting 'school spirit' dictate the color water you drink (Yes, at the remarkable institution yours truly and his truly [Truman] the school color of orange made it's way into the pipes, into the water, and into our dying livers), the wanderlust of travel dictates where we will go to expand our minds, our hearts, and our knowledge of foreign and exotic reefers and blowjobs. This led to the tale of my spring break in San Francisco, a girl named Betty, almost dying, and a hangover that won't go away.

*Author's Note, #1: I attend a University in Salem, Oregon, the location of my alma mater (latin for "nourishing mother, and now you can't say you didn't learn something, ya nappy ho) and my hometown, meaning I didn't move for shit, and as such the rest of this tale will make increasingly more sense, corruption of innocence to come!

*Author's Note, #2: In keeping with the times, recognizing that there are those among us who cannot receive blowjobs, either due to not being lucky enough to have their baby-maker on the outside or having had an even more unlucky accident involving meat grinders/dogs, feel free to substitute "fellatio" or "a gentle massage to make you forget your worldly woes" in exchange for nob-nibbles.

All of this started at a rogue-ish diner chain that sticks its signs up and down the I-5 advertising STEAK DINNERS (FOR MEN), reinforcing the notion by slapping a burly black bear upon the establishment, making it The Black Bear Diner. For those who don't know the visage, think of Denny's, but with more steak, less class (if possible), and a sign reverent to those grandfathers blasting down I-5 to the fishing hole with a wad of chew slouched in each cheek who don't yet need viagra. Always looking for a new way to prove ourselves, my cohorts and I figure stomaching The Black Bear Diner will be a feat of manliness unrivaled, or slightly better than a third gas station Hostess™ run.

*Author's Note, #3: As was kindly mentioned by his royal-ness T. Capps esq., I'm an English major (who doesn't read or know grammar) and I would like to take a moment to talk about the film plot-arcs of Q. Tarantino mofo., who utilizes a technique of tension building by having two people with swords or three super models with a fast car do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING for 2-30 minutes at a time. This builds a subconscious tension in the mind of the viewer as the "something has to give" vibe makes you cringe despite the smooth dialog and obvious foot fetish shots. This means, dear reader, that you should be at the height of tension at the moment, felt between the The BBD and my Nissan full of bros. Even this interlude is a mere ploy to drag out and milk that tension-tit.

We sidle on in and there is honest-to-the-G'man-himself hatrack in the foyer. No? Not impressed? Well at that moment I was getting pretty damn tired of wearing this hat that I willingly put on that I could have left in the car, so I was so stoked there was a location to put it so that I could A. have it stolen by gun-toting granpas, or B. forget it. When I threw my bonny cap up there with the rest of the fools, I couldn't help but notice a bonnet upon the pole that was some bizarre mix of cowboy and punk rock, with a miniature bucking bull pin and at least 4 bands called "The *insertobscuredomesticappliancehere*s" that I h'ain't never heard of. Thinking no more of it, I was seated, though quickly moved to the bar as it was bro #2's turn to drive, meaning it was gin & tonic time fore this weary traveler.

And that's when I saw her.

*Author's Note, #4: Cheesy, I know. But seriously, you know there are times when the truth is stranger than fiction? While being aware of that worn sentiment's cheesiness as well, the author would like to remind the fair reader of it's belligerent truth, as well as begin the reason why Sunday's update was ill-timed, to those who actually care [Truman].

*Author's Note, #5: Did you know Truman "The Man Himself" Capps used to go by Scott? Ya, I know right bro! Exactly.

Bent over the bar and trying to take a $5 hanging out the bartender's left butt-pocket, something I'm guessing she had already tried, was a girl/woman of probably 23 or 24 who's hair beckoned to the sun, who's bosom boasted the fullest of fruit, and who's legs were kinda too short for her torso, but hey 2/3 ain't bad (right Meatloaf? Gosh, I wish we were too old for the reference…). When the bartender not-so-playfully slapped her hand away, assumably again, she turned back around and I had--in that window of time--teleported four seats down, set my water I brought over from the table (for no reason, other than DESTINY) right next to a predicted landing spot for her elbow, and I threw on a quick makeshift-cool look to my face, like I had been there 20 minutes already. For those faster than Cali's highway traffic, you now know who the punk cowboy hat belongs to. Almost as planned, she succeeded not in grazing the glass with her elbow, as to get a turn of her attention in my direction, she managed to slam that thing and burst it on the railing of the bar, dousing to retirement home escapees in what they thought was alcohol, though was actually iced water.
Skipping the ensuing scene, the result was minor chaos, the annoyed-turned-furious barman throwing punk cowboy out on her tush, and her apologizing only the way a drunk person can, and insisting she'd make it up to me.
Now, my bros, they're the bro-iest. They knew what was going on and for all intents and purposes, I was a stranger to them until having said otherwise. Chortling over their overcooked boot leather, one gave a playful wave as a slight grin snuck out across my otherwise 'alarmed' face as I watched the Texas misprint make for the doors.
After the moment, not letting too much time lapse, I headed over to the hatrack and took the punk cowboy hat.
Once in the parking lot, my gameplan had mostly stopped, as even Bobby Fischer couldn't have planned this many moves ahead (he's the chess player that, if living,who could beat Wilson the cocky robot that took down our other favorite nerd, Ken Jennings). Drawing from the impromptu barrel of 'oh no bro, it's fine's and 'ah naw bra it's cool's we stammered about out there for around 5 minutes, and I forgot what was being said back and forth in the moment, but it ended in a drunk hug (boobs!) and an unexpected invitation. I asked "Where are you going?" and she said the name of a place that at the time I only hoped was in California when responded with "Me too!" and after exclaiming how close it was, she apologized again for the gin & tonic (still actually water).

"Yeah, that's just so mean a' me, sorry so much."
"Oh, you know, these things happen, but I wish I had had a camera, that old lady's getting a faceful of gin probably sent her hear beating faster than since… a long time ago!"
"Haha stupid bitch what was she doing, sitting where I wanted to throw your glass!"
". . ."
". . ."
"I'm Betty!"
"Ah… I'm… Brent!" (<--chance to use the fakename Sebastian Winters blown)
"Yeah, you know, I just really wish I could make it up to you."
"Nah, no worries, there will always be another gin and tonic. I mean, stuff's not exactly a rarity and you know how it is."
"And I was only halfway through my long island, what a dick that guy is! DICK!" The finger displayed can be easily assumed by this blog's savvy readership, as well as the none-too-pleasedness of The BBD's patrons who were thanking their cross'd stars their daughter was nothing like this.
"Yep, what a dick alright. …Anyways, glad I could bring you back your hat and all, I should probably get back and--"
"--wait what? Going? Now? Where?"
"Well, uh, into the place I'm not kicked out of I guess… though it's not like I was doing much there myself I guess (HINTHINTHINT)."
"Oh come on! I ain't done drinking yet (around 4:30pm), and I bet neither are you, now like I said, the place we're going (<--notice that) isn't that far and I bet there's a buncha gin there."

Blessed be heaven's stars which shine their might from the sky
Blessed be all below under the watchful shepherd's eye
In glory reign let your heart be akin to those, kind and good
In glory reign fill your life with goodwill and brotherhood

*Author's Note, #6: I understand getting in the motor vehicle of someone intending to take to the highway who just forgot their hat in a bar and got kicked-thefuck-out isn't the smartest move a man (or woman, or gender-ruined-by-dog person) can make. In retrospect, it was funny she didn't mention anything about my car, which I was about 50/50 on taking and leaving d'em bros to fend for themselves at The BBD. However, this was a time for emotion and becoming swept up in the moment--which I might not have been saying were I dead, but hey--free gin.

Think back to the last time you had 4 cups of coffee w/ sugar in a row, downing one after another (or three sips of four loko). Now try to remember, if you can, what it does to your brain. The closest thing to a feeling that I can pair to the effect is like being able to feel individual brain cells popping, like snapping bubble wrap. Keep in mind, dear reader, I had only 1/3 a glass of water to drink. About now this cell-popping was all of what my brain was doing, barely thinking of conversations as we blabbed on, me giving the appropriate response to her on-beat questions, as the bigger concerns such as staying in one lane and trying to decide the best method of bailing out (curl into a ball, or the superman?) preoccupied the majority of my mind's RAM. Not once, but twice and emergency jerk of the wheel kept us from giving a graze to a semi, and encouragement for brake usage kept us from kissing a few bumpers. I blathered at length about the masculine-est things I think about from my time spent in Japan, acting like I wasn't slightly terrified, inbetween her regaling me with details of her 3 weeks horseriding/backpack trip (, as she told me, with an emphasis on "viticulture" meaning you ride on horses to wineries and avoid the DUIs by being on HORSES which is BADASS). I couldn't resist the thoughts that I was caught up in some kind of government plot, that I was going to wake up in the matrix or be dead within the hour. This is not the sort of thing that happens to your average bro. But what do I know, while I may be a know-nothing college kid not yet versed in how the older half lives--she was obviously a little older, and maybe this is what older people just did. I wouldn't have believed half the shit I did in college if you told me in my orange, lead-water-filled Salem high school, so this could be growing up, this could be a symbolic move from young adulthood to adulthood-adulthood. Of course, this was all absolute bullshit to convince myself this wasn't going to end in my death.
When we turned off the 505 and on towards Madison, apparently a place that matters, I had resigned myself to death and resolved that as long as it was her cute face and big boobs that would take me there, s'all good bro.
Now, a true gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, but when we rolled into Rose's Island western(ish) bar, we totally made out across the console.
I was furiously texting my bros who requested updates like giddy little girls awaiting the newest Avril Lavigne single, giving them the scoop and making sure back up was a possibility in the worst/best case scenario of the matrix subplot coming true. But hey man, go with it, roll with it, and slam that gin & tonic she stuck under your nose faster than she can toss back vodka crans. Something about drinking almost seemed to sober her up and we talked like people instead of co-sonspirators in something. I guess after having made out (like a lot, despite the gear shift sticking too close for comfort in my thigh) it cemented that we didn't need to impress each other. We could be reasonable, so long as I could throw my arm over her shoulder more than what was necessary and she could keep her hand on my thigh.
Turns out she was a dealer at a casino not faraway, which adds to her badassed-ness of the previously mentioned classy drunken horseback riding she had finished, but she was going to work tomorrow to steal money from bored suckers she wouldn't see a penny of, outside of meager wages (apparently not enough for her own horse, having not gotten over the I-wanna-pony phase of growing up) and I told her of my life intentions of going to Japan, waiting to hear back from JET. I was just as impressed by her having made living in the foothills of North California sound not terrible at all as she was with my international eye towards heading overseas. She had her fun gallivanting through nature and heading down to San Fran to throw her pretty self into sweaty moshpits, and I was doing this which was fun enough. As the conversation extended we drank slower, and unsurprisingly, I think we found out that we both just thought the other was crazy and went with it, and now we were coming to the realization we were both like way normal. But, you know, it was okay, and I was fine with it, though conspiracy theory would have been cooler, this was kind of the thing that should happen at least once.
A surefire let down, for you and me both dear reader, her having to work tomorrow meant no sleepovers, though she did pay for my bar tab and we did make out again in the parking lot. She also still lived with her parents. In keeping with the independent streak of a strong wanderer, when she offered me a ride somewhere, I said I was close to San Fran and a friend could give me a ride, and I was just thankful to have met her, which was most likely the truest thing I had said since actually meeting her. She really was quite nice, and there's an open invitation for another gin & tonic on my way back.
Watching the red lights on the back of her Jeep-y 4x4 thing take off left me with a sense of some kind of accomplishment and the immediate realization I was nowhere and my bros would most certainly be playing League of Legends in Richmond by now. Walking around made me realize just how much drunk was left in me, so resisting the casino's temptation, I bought a romance novel from a K-mart to see an example of the night I wouldn't have, though didn't mind, and the bro-squad took their dear-sweet-goddamned-fucking-time in getting to the junction despite functional directions, and I didn't end up getting in until after 11pm, meaning I didn't have the night I expected of last minute blog writing about some rock concert in Japan and making un-funny inside jokes for Truman's blog,

but hey. Free gin.

Brent Jones attends Willamette University and went to a Jewish temple for the first time the next day. Although a poet by profession, such jaunts into prose so long as wanna-be Cowboys like Betty make writing (and being late) worth doing. Getting in trouble is a fake idea, and as long as you're happy you're doing something right. Sorry Tru-Tru, I blog late for you, but in the reverse situation I'd hope you'd choose jugs & gin too, bro. Also, I didn't get *my* hat back from The BBD.