The Crash

A couple weeks ago I was working on a Saturday evening. I was scheduled to get off at 6, and did not have any real concrete plans on what to do that night. My friend Beth said she might go out downtown with some of her Creighton friends who I have a good time hanging out with, and that she would let me know if she ended up doing anything. Shortly after I got home from work, I received a text message from someone I know who works at the Embassy Suites. It said something to the effect of "There's an Indian wedding at work tonight, made me think of you." Now for those of you who don't know or just don't remember, I was known at one point in my life for having a habit of doing a few outrageous things on a fairly regular basis. For some reason, I haven't really done anything crazy in quite a while. Well at this particular point two weeks ago, it felt kind of like a "screw it, what do I have to lose?" type moment in my life. So feeling like having doing something a little crazy, and having a little fun, but not wanting to do something that would land me in prison, I put on my 3 piece suit, and went off to crash a wedding.

I arrived at the Embassy around 9 pm, about the time they were finishing dinner and getting ready to serve dessert. I snuck into the back of the ballroom as the bride and groom finished up some remarks thanking the most important people in their life. (Side note, they thanked Lou Ferrigno personally at one point, so while I didn't see him, I'm pretty sure the Incredible Hulk was there). Of course I took the opportunity to snag some dessert, you can't crash a wedding on an empty stomach. I had decided to keep a low profile until the dancing began, at which point I was going to plan my actions according to the only reference I had for being an uninvited guest to a wedding . . . The moving Wedding Crashers. Basically I focused on a few main points. Don't be the creepy guy in the back. Act like you belong there. And draw only positive attention to yourself. More or less I felt like these things were pointing me to be the life of the party. As the speeches and desserts were being finished and the DJ transitioned us into the dancing, it was go time.

To get everyone into the mood for dancing there is an Indian kid, probably just a little younger than myself who has the Evolution of Dance routine memorized (if you don't know what that is youtube it). It's really quite a spectacle to see someone do it live. Naturally, this young man and I became fast friends and posed together for several pictures for the wedding photographer doing the Usain Bolt style point. That was later in the night though. After he wrapped up his dance, the DJ encouraged everyone to come to the dance floor, and I'm never one to be left out so I went on out there. For much of the night the guests were forming a circle around a few people who were doing the most dancing. After spending a couple songs in the front row of the circle I made my way to the middle. I wasn't exactly sure how to dance to American hip hop songs that had been mashed up with Indian rap choruses, but I did my best, and judging by everyone's reactions, I am apparently a natural.

Soon the dance floor shifted into a more normal situation with people pairing up and covering the hardwood, and this is when things got really interesting. The person I paired up with for most of the night turned out to be the bride's sister. This was not intentional of course, it just kind of worked out that way. Furthermore, the bride's sister and I ended up dancing directly next to the groom for extended periods of time. So to sum it up, I was dancing in close proximity to two people from each side of the wedding, neither of which had any idea who I was. The best part of the whole situation? No one even asked what I was doing there. The bride's sister loved me. The Evolution of Dance guy thought I was the man. The drummer walking around (its an Indian thing, don't ask) wanted to be my best friend. And the groom thought I was great fun to have around. Not once, did anyone ask me how I knew the couple or why I was there.

Now you would think that to successfully finish of a wedding crash, I would have to sneak out as discreetly as possible. False. I was literally the last person there. I actually helped the Embassy banquet crew clean up the room. People just smiled at me and said goodbye, without so much as an inquisitive look which would indicate they were thinking, "Who is that guy?" I didn't know a soul there, and it was one of the most fun times in my entire life. The only thing I regret is that I won't be able to see the faces of the bride and groom as they go through the pictures and realize that they had their wedding crashed. There was a problem though . . . it was such a good time, that I really want to do it again. Maybe that movie is more realistic than I thought.

The Job Hunt

For the last two and a half years I have been a manny. You read that correctly, a manny. That is a male nanny. I watched five children for a family in the afternoons, three to four days a week. It was easy, the kids were cool and the parents paid me well. Basically all I did was make sure the kids didn't kill each other or run away and I was successful. It was the best job in the world for a guy like me. Unfortunately, this semester I ended up having to schedule classes in the afternoons for the first time in a few years, thus creating an unresolvable conflict which led to me having to give up my job until the summer.

So with no source of income, and a great need to gain some income, I began looking for a job pretty seriously. Now it would be easy to blame my inability to find a job on the bad economy and all of the mumbo jumbo. Of course I am just guessing that the economy is bad because that is what people tell me and I don't care too much about that kind of thing in general. No one I know has lost their job or anything so to me the economy seems just fine. Also I'm in college so in general things that happen in the real world don't tend to affect me all that much. So don't worry economy, I won't be taking a cheap shot at you today. The reason that I haven't been able to find a job, I believe is a direct result of something I discovered while sifting my way through available jobs. The problem seems to be that I have no marketable skills.

This isn't some sympathy party because I don't think I'm good at anything. Quite the contrary, I probably think I'm better at a lot of things than I really am. In fact, I will list those things for you right now and hopefully you will see my problem. I'm good at, Rockband/Guitar Hero (expert guitarist on both). I'm good at identifying where I know random celebrities from (such as a previous role they have played). I'm good at beating youth group kids at various sporting events such as football, basketball, and dodgeball. I'm good at singing like a girl. I'm good at catching the ice cubs that fall out of my freezer in my cup before they hit the ground. I'm good at writing or telling stories in a way that they sound usually three to four times more interesting than they actually were without ever fudging the details. I'm good at texting very quickly. I'm good at looking good in a dress suit . . . Let's be honest, I'm just good at looking good in general (just kidding, settle down . . . kind of). Anyway, those are just some of the things I'm good at and if you will notice they all have one thing in common: No one in the history of the world will ever pay me for doing any of those things.

I am not easily discouraged though and my job hunt continues. In the meantime, if you know anyone who is searching for a professional Rockband guitarist, go ahead and give them my number.

One Night in Tokyo

I apologize for my long absence from blogging, and this isn't going to be your typical post. This is something I wrote for a website that I had to create for class, I hope you enjoy it.

Twenty years ago there was the biggest upset in the history of sports. Twenty years ago was the event that marked the beginning of the end. Twenty years ago there was the perfect storm. Twenty years ago, there was one night in Tokyo. That night was February 11, 1990.

Mike Tyson was a wrecking ball. A bulldozer. A hurricane of haymakers. Mike Tyson was an unstoppable force, the likes of which boxing had never seen, not even in the glory days of Liston and Ali and Frazier. Mike Tyson was the power of George Foreman and the speed of Sugar Ray Leonard, all rolled into one terrifying package. Buster Douglas wasn't.

Buster Douglas wasn't a bad fighter, but he wasn't what most people would call a champion either. Buster Douglas wasn't a boxer who would ever reach his potential. Buster Douglas wasn't mentally tough enough to be great. Buster Douglas wasn't supposed to last an entire round with Iron Mike. There was something else that Buster Douglas wasn't; Buster Douglas wasn't who people thought he was.

Mike Tyson and Buster Douglas were only brought together as a way for Tyson to tune up for a tentatively scheduled super fight with Evander Holyfield. Douglas appeared to be the perfect opponent. He was a talented fighter who had an impressive enough record to seem at least like somewhat of a legitimate match for the fight. However, Douglas was such an infamous underachiever that the bout generated little interested in America, which is why it took place in Tokyo, Japan. Tyson's handlers understood that Americans were just about sick of seeing Iron Mike score knockouts versus overwhelmed opponents before they even had a chance to get drunk. The rest of the world though, was still craving to see this legendary warrior in person. Still, stateside the fight was thought so little of that only one betting parlor in Las Vegas had even set odds for the fight so that gamblers could wager on it. Those odds were set at 42:1.

It is important, crucial even, to realize that at this time, Mike Tyson was literally seen as unbeatable. People were actually starting to believe that it was literally impossible for Tyson to lose . . . not just this fight against Buster Douglas, but any fight against anyone. Leading up to the fight, there were scientists and medical experts who analyzed why Mike Tyson could very well be physically incapable of being so much as knocked down by another fighter. This wasn't the guy we know today, who is most memorable for biting off someone's ear and getting a tattoo on his face. This was a guy who was well on his way to becoming one of the greatest fighters of all time. At least that is what people thought.

Behind the scenes, the foundation on which Tyson's great career was built had been slowly eroding out from under him. A few years before the fight with Douglas, Tyson's trainer and father figure, Cus D'Amato died. D'Amato had taught Tyson the bob'n'weave method that made him so successful. After D'Amato's death, Tyson's discipline in keeping with this style deteriorated and he became almost exclusively a head-hunter. Fortunately for Tyson, he was physically gifted enough that he was able to continue dominating his opponents. Eventually though, the erosion of his style and of his team which surrounded him would catch up to Tyson in a big way.

In Douglas's corner, Buster was dealing with some serious issues as well. About a month before the fight with Tyson, Buster Douglas lost his mother, whom he was extremely close with. For the first time in his life, Douglas focused his considerable ability and talents with a singular purpose; to honor his late mother in the upcoming fight. Douglas proceeded to train with the dedication and commitment that makes great fighters. Motivated by the memory of his mother, Buster Douglas became the boxer that those close to him always wished he would be.

With Tyson's personal issues secretly setting him up to unravel and Douglas's personal issues providing him with that champion's drive for the first time, the perfect storm was brewing for a remarkable upset that no one saw coming. Still, there was a battle that had to be waged. Douglas had a decided size and reach advantage on the smaller yet quicker Tyson and Buster used this to his advantage perfectly. The boxing display put on that night by Buster Douglas more closely resembled a piece of art than it did an athletic exhibition. Never has pugilism looked so much like poetry. The way Douglas boxed that night was so beautiful that it is almost moving. Buster Douglas gave Mike Tyson everything he could handle for the better part of eight rounds and then it happened. The head hunter found his mark, and with the power of Tyson it usually only took one. Douglas crumpled to the canvas, the victim of a vicious Tyson uppercut.

Everyone assumed, with Douglas's history of lacking anything that resembled heart, that even if Douglas got up the fight was going to be over anyway, it was just a matter of time. The idea that Douglas would even get up seemed highly unlikely, but as the referee's count got closer to ten, Buster climbed to his feet. After willing himself to remain upright for a few seconds, he was saved by the bell marking the end of the round. This allowed him the time he needed to recover, but still Tyson was expected to finish him easily in the next round. Buster Douglas had other plans. Having regained his legs, Douglas went right back to his game plan which had led him to dominate Tyson for all but one punch of the night. The ninth round was a back and forth affair, with each fighter looking as though they could collapse from the punishment at any time. Douglas and Tyson both survived that round, but the same could not be said for the tenth. Buster came out with a fury, executing his punches perfectly before finally administering a deadly accurate combination which sent Iron Mike incoherently sprawling to the canvas.

Tyson, so unaware of what had just happened to him, appeared to be looking for his mouthpiece as he crawled on hands on knees in the corner of the ring as the ten count ticked off the precious few seconds which remained in Mike Tyson's reign of terror over the heavyweight division. Considering the circumstances and all that was at stake, the undisputed heavyweight title, the Douglas upset goes down as one of the all time great fights in boxing history.

The shear physical force that was Mike Tyson, being toppled by the mastery with which Buster Douglas fought was simply breathtaking. It also marked the beginning of the end, not just for Mike Tyson, but for the heavyweight division as well. Tyson went on to have legal troubles, both inside and outside of the ring before finally floundering out in multiple ill-advised comeback attempts. Buster Douglas lost the title in his next fight, getting knocked out by Evander Holyfield. He retired after the fight before coming back in the late 90's for nine fights, eight of which he won. As for heavyweight boxing, it has seen two decades of mediocrity with plodding and frankly just boring fighters. Boxing's highest weight class may never see a fight the likes of Douglas vs Tyson ever again, but it will always have that one night in Tokyo.

The Muffin Man

Here is another story from the archives. As always, everything in this story is true although I do attempt to tell it in the most interesting way possible. By the way this blog is dedicated to a couple of my most loyal readers, both hailing from the great state of Wisconsin. Teri and Cari, this ones for you.

Let's turn the clock back to 2001. I was a freshmen in high school and was really finding a sense of comfort and belonging in high school after the initial anxieties associated with starting at a new school. Before my second hour American History class I often stopped by the vending machines to pick up a snack to hold me over until lunch. Unfortunately, a lot of other students also decided to use this time to get snacks as well, causing a bit of a vending machine traffic jam, leading me to be late to class from time to time. I was never more than about thirty seconds late, but my teacher soon grew tired of this behavior. She was a couple months pregnant at the time and her resulting moodiness was apparent on most days. Threatening me with a detention, she made it clear that I was not to be late to class again. Not thrilled with the idea of staying after school, I decided to comply with my teachers demands and get to class on time.

After a couple weeks of being a model student, I was a little bit antsy to get into some mischief. I just don't think I'm wired to behave in school for extended periods of time. Its not in my DNA. On a day that seemed just like any other, I happened to notice a muffin sitting on my teachers desk. What most people saw as a snack for my teacher, I saw as an opportunity. I quickly raised my hand and my teacher called on me. Our exchange went something like this:

Me (raising hand): Can I have that muffin?

Teacher: Excuse me?

Me: May I please have that muffin on your desk.

Teacher: No, Ravi. You can't have my muffin.

Me: Please? How about just a bite? I'm hungry

Teacher: Well you should have brought your own snack.

Me: I can't, you banned me from the vending machines remember?

Teacher: I'm pregnant, you can't have my muffin.

Me: I'm diabetic, I need it more.

Teacher: Leave me and my muffin alone, do your work.

Now you would think that that would be the end of the story, but I was never one to give up quickly on the opportunity for free food. So as I shifted my focus mostly back to my worksheet, I could not shake the image of that muffin which was so close, yet still out of my reach. Furthermore, I felt as though my American History teacher needed a lesson on sharing, especially considering that she was bringing a new life into this world and would have to teach that child such lessons by example. Really, what I was about to do was for the well being of our future generations.

Clearly, unlike me, my teacher had forgotten largely about the muffin incident because several minutes later she left the room to pick up some more copies of a worksheet from the office across the hall. I saw my opening and I pounced on it. Quickly I walked toward her desk, grabbed the muffin and left a rather conspicuous trail of crumbs back to my desk. I then smudged a few strategically placed crumbs in the stubble on my face (yes I had beard stubble when I was 14) and hid the muffin in the compartment under my desk. Moments later my teacher returned to the room. As she placed the worksheets she had retrieved on her desk, she looked shocked and horrified to notice her muffin was missing. She slowly followed the crumb trail back to me as she shouted out my name. Our next exchange went like this:

Teacher: RAAAVI!!!!

Me: Yes ma'am?

Teacher: Ravi! Where's my muffin?!?!

Me: I'm sorry? What muffin?

Teacher: Did you seriously steal a muffin from a pregnant women?!?!?!

Me: I have no idea what you're talking about. Why do you assume I took it? Is this a race thing?

Teacher: Don't pull that crap with me! You have crumbs on your face!

Me: I had a low blood sugar I'm sorry.

Teacher: You are such a liar, go the the principal's office!

Me: I really don't think that's going to be necessary.

Teacher: Why not?

Me: Because I have something for you.

Teacher (looking at me confused) . . .

At this point the entire class was falling out of their chairs laughing (some literally). My teacher had not noticed this while yelling at me but became quite confused once she realized it. I slowly removed her muffin from its hiding place and put it exactly where it had sat before, unharmed on her desk, missing only a few crumbs. My teacher stood there, in total shock, completely dumbfounded as to what just occurred. I quickly mentioned to her that I thought she needed a lesson in sharing as I made my way back to my desk.

After finally collecting herself and regaining control of the class, my teacher proceeded with the lesson as if nothing had happened. What else could she do? I may not live on Drury Lane, but that day in American History class, my teacher discovered that I was in fact, The Muffin Man.

No Sugar Added

For those of you who don't know, I am a type 1 diabetic. This is relevant because a couple days ago, my great friend Beth Cavender (of falling down fame) sent me a picture on my phone of a diabetic cookbook with the caption "I should have gotten you this for Christmas!" Little did she know that I have a long held hatred for diabetic food. Whether it be sugar free cookies, no sugar added ice cream or even sugarless gum, I cannot stand it. I hear they have made great strides in making these types of products actually palatable but when I was diagnosed over 15 years ago they all tasted like stale rice cakes, so I now refuse to eat anything of the sort. The only sugar free thing I can stand is diet pop, which I happen to be addicted to.

Receiving this fateful picture message reminded me of when my hatred for sugar free foods officially hit epic proportions. It was my 17th birthday and I was hanging out with a girl I liked at the time and a couple other friends. We were attending an outdoor jazz concert (I know what you are thinking, and yes I did have to like that girl a lot to end up at an outdoor jazz concert in the middle of August), and it is customary to have a little mini picnic while you are listening to the music. Well, because it was my birthday our picnic included a pan of brownies that this girl had made for me with a candle in them. Now these weren't just any brownies, they were special brownies (not the good kind). They were sugar free brownies. The fact that I liked this girl once again comes into play because had it been someone else, I would have blown out the candle, made my wish and politely declined this sugarless dessert that was sure to be a train wreck at best. However, boys who like girls often do foolish things and I was no different. I thought to myself, that it'd been so long since I'd had any sugar free food that the industry may have come along way.

The industry in fact had not come a long way. It may have actually regressed. Those sugar free monstrosities were one of the single worst things I have ever tasted, and this is coming from the guy who as an adult ate a crayon for money (it was red). To give you an idea of how these things tasted, I'd like you to imagine something with me. Imagine that one day a saltine cracker was walking along and met a slightly promiscuous sponge. The saltine immediately fell deeply in love with the slutty sponge, and they were overcome with passion and consummated their new relationship. However, being a skank the sponge moved on, only to find herself nine months later giving birth to the illegitimate son of the saltine cracker. This bastard child that was born, was the batch of sugar free brownies that I was given for my birthday.

Now I have heard many times that it is the thought that counts. Really? Is that so? Do you think the guy who came up with that saying ever received sugar free brownies for their birthday? I highly doubt it. With this being the holiday season, I want you to remember this lesson. When you are out shopping for someone, and aren't sure what to get, do not rely on the "it's the thought that counts" principle to convince yourself that anything you get them will be fine. This is a lie, it will not be fine. If you really believe its the thought that counts, then try thinking a little longer and buy a present that does not suck. Merry Christmas.

The Snow Buffet

The legend of the snow buffet began as best as I can remember about five years ago in a small town called Norfolk. Norfolk, was the home to a small private college and was notorious for it's harsh winters. It seemed as though all of the major winter storms which often steered clear of the big cities of Omaha and Lincoln (hey it's big for Nebraska), always seemed to find Norfolk. Now there wasn't a whole lot to do in Norfolk when everyone wasn't buried up to their necks in snow, so when the harsh blizzards forced everyone inside for extended periods of time, the cabin fever soon followed. People with cabin fever tend to do some things that no amount of logic or reason can explain and out of that madness, the snow buffet was born.

On one fateful winter night, late in the year 2005, I got my introduction to the snow buffet. It is unclear how exactly it began, but sometimes the girls of that small private school decide to mouth off to the guys. Their comments likely were not even remotely bad, they were in fact just jokes. However the mix of being barely disrespected and being trapped inside for days on end, sent the male population right over the proverbial edge. They picked up the mouthiest of the girls, took her outside and threw them into the snow drifts. Afterward these girls were aggressively encouraged to enjoy the taste of some of that snow while they were there. I was merely a witness at this point, but the snow buffet would change my life forever.

Since that inaugural snow buffet, it has been a rite of passage for many of those girls who decide to associate themselves with me and my group of friends. There is absolutely no mean spirited intent in the performing of a snow buffet, rather it is just some good natured fun. That being said, the snow buffet's most epic execution to date occurred about two years ago here in Omaha at the relocated campus of that small private school. There was a group of four girls (containing our informant who was promised immunity which she did not receive) who were coming back to the school sometime around 11 pm. We found out about this some time earlier, and had decided to act. We outfitted ourselves in the proper attire and began to head outside. We built a trench behind a small hill just in front of the parking lot and laid in it so that we could see when the girls arrived, but we were not visible to anyone in the parking lot. We laid in that trench for over 20 minutes as we awaited their arrival. Finally a large red Dodge Durango pulled slowly into the parking lot. The stars must have been aligned because they chose the open parking space directly in front of us. We laid motionless in our trench, waiting for them all to get out of the car and proceed up the sidewalk. Once they arrived next to an area where all the snow from the sidewalks had been piled up, we went to work. There were probably six of us in all, and we sprung into action like lions hunting a pack of gazelles. If you have ever watched Animal Planet, you know how this ends. The four girls were thrown in the snow, tabled top in enormous drifts, tackled into snow banks, and of course aggressively encouraged to eat some delicious snow for the better part of 2o minutes. When it was all over, they were exhausted and their spirit to fight back had been broken. We all walked back into the school, our arms raised in triumph. We had just been part of snow buffet history.

This year, the snow buffet-ing is on a record pace. The weather has cooperated nicely, after getting off to a slow start, the snow has come in a plentiful manner. The tradition of the snow buffet is being passed on to the younger generations in hopes that the legacy will continue long after my friends and I have left that small private college. Perhaps one day when I am old, I will see children playing outside in the snow, and they will forsake the building of snowmen, or riding of sleds, in favor of snow buffeting each other until their little frozen noses turn red. This is my dream.

As someone who does not appreciate most things involved with winter, this can sometimes be a miserable time of year for me. A lot of people tend to get a little depressed in the winter and I was certainly one of them, not anymore though. Since the invention of the snow buffet, I have had that glorious tradition to look forward to every year. The difference between the snow buffet and say Christmas, is that Christmas is just one day of fun in the middle of a frozen desert, but the snow buffet is an oasis that can last me through until the spring time. Is it too much to say that the snow buffet alone keeps me from being depressed in the winter? I don't think it is . . . I don't think it is.

I Get Knocked Down, But I Get Up Again

After reading the title of this blog you are probably expecting some inspirational words about perseverance and not getting discouraged by your failures and setbacks. Fear not, no such cheesy encouragement will be provided here, that's not how I roll.

This post is actually about literally falling down, getting back up, and falling again. Now most people would not consider the act of falling down a talent, but those people have never met Beth Cavender. Beth is well known, some might same even famous, for her lack of grace (read: clumsiness) and just general awkward essence, however yesterday she took things to a whole knew level. It was reported that yesterday Ms. Cavender managed to fall down a staggering eight times in what is believed to be a new world record for failing to stay vertical. Just for giggles, lets do a little bit of math on this. Let's say that Beth slept for 8 hours yesterday, and was in class for about 4 hours. That leaves only 12 hours to get all of her falling down accomplished. But she likely was not spending all of her day walking around outside as it was rather cold. So let's figure she spent a maximum of an hour outside, walking from place to place. This means that Beth Cavender managed to fall down a staggering once every 7.5 minutes that she was attempting to walk upright.

Now everyone falls down from time to time. When you live in Omaha in the winter, there will be ice and when there is ice sometimes you slip, no big deal. Most people usually learn after a couple falls to tread a bit more carefully, however, as an art major, Beth has managed to make a masterpiece of falling on her gluteus maximus. This is why I believe Beth's ability to fall down with such frequency is a talent, perhaps even a gift. Beth Cavender, I hope we can all be as awkward and clumsy as you someday.