The Legend of One Night Stand

Why, why, why do I put myself out there like this?

I don’t know but this sordid tale needs to be told, not because it’s anything extraordinary, but quite the opposite actually. This one night stand was so stereotypical that it warrants an entire blog post. I would even go as far as saying that the event was something beyond the control of the two of us, it was entirely in the hands of the one night stand Gods who happened to bless us (or me at least) last Saturday night.

The tale begins like so many one night stand stories go: I was out of town and so was the individual in question. Her name was Kristen and she recently graduated from a prominent law school, which I think makes this story more interesting since I was clearly dealing with a woman of superior intellect. How she ended up with me is still a mystery but maybe rehashing this out will help jog the ol’ memory brain here.

I wish I had some awesome reason how we initially hooked up with each other, like I pulled off some incredibly poignant pick up line or I accidentally knocked over some textbooks out of her hands and our heads serendipitously bumped into each other as we bent down to pick them up, but it was simply a case of me ponying up to the bar and striking a conversation with the cute blonde and her friend next to me while the bartender poured me a round of double 7&7’s.

Note: My original attempts at spelling the word serendipity went so poorly, that my spell checker wouldn’t recognize what I was trying to do, so I was forced to search imdb.com for John Cusack because I knew he starred in that crappy rom-com with the same title. Sad, I know.

Normally, I start off conversations with chicks in bars with banter such as, “are you excited about the new Harry Potter?”, but like I said earlier, I had a muse with me that evening that allowed me to become uncharacteristically charming with just a hint of asshole in there for good measure. I had some really good wing-manning going on that night too.

For one, it sort of helped that my buddies and I were buying rounds for each other all night, which conveys a real positive image if you’re meeting someone new. If I was a chick talking to a dude who was just generously handed a drink by his friend mid-conversation without making a big production out of it, I would probably think to myself, “wow, this dude seems really non-threatening; I should give him my phone number later.” It’s the little things, as they say.

Secondly, a good wingman will set you up without even knowing it. In my case, my buddy jokingly commented to me that I should take it easy so we would be ready for a volleyball rematch we planned the next day, at which point, I nonchalantly told these girls that we were organizing a match tomorrow at the park and that they should come. BAM! – phone number. Who’s going to say no to that?
Okay, so now the drinks have been flowing, shots have been poured, laughs were had, and we were all getting to know each other fairly well. The meet and greet was over and now it was time for somebody to make a move. I inadvertently made the first move due to circumstances beyond my control.

You see I had been awake for the previous 22 hours or so and had a pretty grueling day up until that point. Everybody gets a little one-eyed as it gets closer to bar time but I was way past that point of exhaustion. I started getting a little two-eyed, which I think she interpreted as an eye gaze. Body language is funny. From one perspective, you have someone desperately squinting to keep their eyes open and from another perspective, you have someone longingly searching for someone’s soul.

Either way, I knew she was down after the eye gazing incident because about five minutes later she started leaning into me while talking and she casually touched my arm. Being conservative in nature, I gave her the benefit of the doubt that she was just being friendly, but again later, she casually touched by arm, as if to say, hey dummy, are you not getting this body language?

So I shot her this glace, a glace that summed it all up: yeah I get it and I too am down. Let’s plan on tastefully making out here in about a half hour.

“Bartender, another round of tequila over here!”

To be continued…

6/1/07

I know the difference between tasteful and non-tasteful bar make out jams because, admittedly, I’ve been on both sides of that equation at one time or another. You know it when you see it. That’s all I’d like to say on that subject, but for the record, last Friday was in the tasteful category.

So things were going really good between Kristen and I, but bar time was fast approaching and that whole “should I stay or should I go debate” started going back and forth in my head. Well I looked around and my friends were gone so that pretty much settled that question.

I knew how things were going to end up that evening, but I still had to go through that song and dance of feigning an interest in finding my friends and getting a ride a home with them. I know, I’m a total gentleman. I think the phone call was something close to this:

(ring ring ring)

Me: Dude, it’s me, I need a ride.
Buddy: Where are you?
Me: I’m walking towards the bar we were at earlier.
Buddy: Okay, I’ll be there in five minutes.
Me: Hey, dude.
Buddy: Yeah.
Me: Nevermind about the ride. I’m still with those chicks. See ya tomorrow.
Buddy: Oh man, you dog!...

(click)

There was a fair share of heavy petting going on during the taxi ride home. When we got back to Kristen’s friend’s apartment, we all had one more drink together before the friend left us alone. It was getting really late but that’s when the night first got interesting. We walked into the guest bedroom where things started to get

and I was like, "Stop biting me!" but she wouldn't

brings out a yo-yo, a nine iron, and a turkey sub so I

and THAT was the wildest night I ever had.

Obviously I’m taking a cue from Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriquez and having a little fun with you guys here. You didn’t actually think I’d delve into those kind of details, did you?

When I woke up the next morning, I systematically went through what could be easily described as the five stages of one night stand morning afterness: shock, the giggles, panic, acceptance, and finally, remorse.

The shock first comes when you first wake up and you feel that first pang of awkwardness:

“This isn’t my bed! Where the hell am I?”

This stage is immediately succeeded with a quick glance to the right or left of you followed by a small fit of the giggles:

“oh, yeah, that’s right.”

More often than not, this stage is also accompanied with a quick peak underneath the covers:

“hmmm, alright, nothin’ wrong with that.”

Once I had time to assess the situation, panic started to kick in:

“Dammit, how am going to get out of this? And where the hell are my boxers!?”

At this point I actually fell asleep again. When I woke up again, she was gone. Rather than wait around and force a painfully awkward conversation, I decided to grab my things and head on out. I don’t think there was anything wrong with this course of action, I’m sure she wanted to avoid that dialogue just as badly as I did. I call this acceptance. I guess shame would also be applicable here, but let’s not go there.

On the way out, I saw she was sitting on the couch, checking her e-mail on a laptop. I knew she was concerned about her law finals the night before and I know she mentioned the previous night that her grades were supposed to be posted at any moment.

“Are your grades posted yet?”

“Nope.”

“I’m sure they’ll turn out fine. Well, see ya later.”

Thank God I had sandals. I don’t know if I could have handled any more small talk than that while furiously trying to tie a shoe.

Anyways, it was such a relief to hear that door click shut behind me. It was now time to figure out a means of transportation back to where I was supposed to be staying at. I had money for a taxi but that would ruin all the fun of taking the walk of fame. Yeah, I’m sorry, when I said remorse as the fifth stage before, I actually meant pride.

I think I actually messed up my hair more than the bed head that I was sporting at the time when I walked out of the apartment. Then I took a few laps around the block, waving at the neighbors, sheepishly grinning like I just got caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

Okay, I’m kidding about that last part, too. I admit that there is a double standard though for you ladies when taking that walk home, which is unfortunate. If I were you, I’d hold my head high as I strolled back home in my high heels, short skirt, and messed up make-up, as the neighbors are mowing their lawns or getting their families ready for church on a beautiful sunny Sunday morning. That’s tough, I’m sorry about that.

To sum up, I don’t think there was anything morally decaying from which transpired last Saturday night. I had a really great time with Kristen and I think she did too. I didn’t tell any lies, I didn’t make any false promises, we weren’t so drunk that we didn’t know what was going on, and we were both smart about the whole thing. No harm, no foul. I’d even go as far as to say that if I knew there was some chance I’d ever see her again, I would have slowed things down a little and got to know her proper.

Well…that’s probably not true either. It is very ill advised to dishonor the whims of the One Night Stand Gods. If they grant you a muse to pull one off, you just gotta run with it.

What I think I really need is a sign from the Gods of steady girlfriend. Where the hell have they been lately?

The REAL Brett Favre Mini-Camp Controversy

It’s weird that you mention Brett Favre, stranger, because I was just hanging out with him and there is a perfectly good explanation for his erratic behavior.

Our story takes place last Tuesday, once again in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Brett Favre was indeed celebrating the high school graduation of his eldest daughter Brittany. If you could call it a graduation party; it was really just a bunch of folding chairs set up in his garage and Brett Favre’s hunting buddies passing around a bottle of Kessler while Brett Favre spun tales of Packer yore.

He called it a “pre” graduation party but I knew he was just looking for an another excuse to tell us the time he crushed the defending AFC championship Raiders with 399 passing yards and four touchdowns on Monday Night Football in December of 2003. Christmas really did come early that year.

As I sat there entranced with Brett Favre’s epic battle, I glanced over my right shoulder, to see Brittany yawning and tapping her fingernails impatiently on a card table by herself. I decided I would go over and cheer her up.

“Hey, you look visibly bored,” I said to her.

“Yeah, sometimes I get a little annoyed with my Dad, he never pays attention to me,” she pouted.

“Sure Brett Favre does,” I said, but as I was trying to console her I could see Brett Favre was in his own world, still entertaining his friends. I could tell the story was getting good. Even though I couldn’t hear what Brett Favre was saying, I saw him dropping back to pass, then making a throwing motion, followed by wild cheers and everyone giving each other high-fives. It looked like a lot of fun.

“Look, if you ever need anyone to talk to, you can always facebook me or something, I’ll probably get back to you within a few days,” I said in my most compassionate tone of voice, even though I was longingly reaching out to be part of the party again.

Then things got strange. Brittany gave me this huge hug. I hugged her back but she wouldn’t let go. I looked around for help but then something even stranger happened. Instead of seeing Brett Favre go through the motions of another immaculate touchdown, all his buddies disappeared and he was just standing there side-by-side with Deanna Favre. They both smiled at us, then they gave each other this look that said, yep, our work here is done, then Brett Favre put his arm around Deanna and they sauntered off into the house together.

Apparently the “pre” graduation party had just been an elaborate ruse to set me up with his daughter. Brett Favre was then planning us a possum hunting trip for Friday and Saturday, kind of a father/future son-in-law bonding adventure, which was the real reason he wanted to skip mini-camp last weekend.

I told Brett Favre that I was very flattered but I think missing mini camp would send a bad first impression to the new rookies on the team. I also told him we should get Brittany though college first before we made any major commitments towards creating an heir to the Wollin/Favre NFL dynasty.

Brett Favre was disappointed, but ultimately knew in his heart that I was right and there would always be possum to hunt with me in his vast acreage of land but the time for him winning another Super Bowl in Green Bay was limited to the next four or five years.

You know the rest of the story. Brett Favre eventually made it to the first mini-camp and everything went swimmingly. So that is what all this controversy has really been about.

That, AND because Brett Favre really wanted the Packers to sign Randy Moss so he would have some decent receivers to work with this season but Management really screwed him over even though he was willing to give up part of his salary to do so. His frustration and disillusionment with the Packers organization had a MINOR role in the controversy, but I like said, it’s mostly all the stuff I said earlier.



A picture of Peyton Manning, upon receiving word that I would NOT be attending his annual barbeque before the Colts mini-camp last weekend.

Aaron Vanlieshout is POOR.

Many of you may remember that I kept a journal throughout my nightmarish middle school experience, which is now one of my most prized possessions. Lesser known of my chronicles, but not to be discarded lightly, is my old chemistry notebook from my sophomore year of high school.

This chemistry notebook contains an assortment of useful equations for constructing molecular compounds from the periodic table, exhaustive definitions between covalent and ionic bonds, and a series of crude sketches featuring my future college roommate whom I apparently thought was very poor in high school and lived in a cardboard box.

Here is one such rendition:



The above is the one that really started it all. I think it all started because Aaron used to wear this really dirty and tattered White Sox t-shirt and Zubaz sweatpants in gym class and then it just snowballed from there.

I kind of feel bad about in retrospect since I got to know Aaron’s parents fairly well while we shared a dorm room freshmen year. Had I known they were such nice people, I probably wouldn’t have drawn this:



I guess that one isn’t so bad either. After all, that house is kind of huge in comparison to the people and the sweet ride in the foreground. But then I got grandma involved:



In case you can’t interpret my ultra masculine handwriting in that last box, one of Aaron’s relative’s exclaims, “Oh no, all of the houses are on fire!” but then the other relative casually remarks in a deadpan delivery, “well, it was better than last year.”

Inappropriate. Inappropriate is the word you are looking for. Especially since Grandma looks more like Ms. Pacman than a human being.


But what can you do? Chemistry was boring as hell and I have a short attention span. Things must have REALLY gotten boring for me after my first midterm because the Aaron character in my notebook started getting involved in more elaborate plots such as him becoming imbred and him having an affair with someone named Old Man Brinclhof, which I must have found hysterical back then but has little meaning for me to this day.

Aaron, if you’re reading this, I apologize. I hope I did not make Chemistry 101 with Mr. Kropp a terrible experience for you. To make it up to you, I want to post a more recent picture of you to let the world know what a fine man you have become.



My God, it is just too easy!

Chicks and Kickball

It’s been awhile since Brain Litter has said anything controversial, and I know many of you are sick and tired of my fast food tomes, so here’s one for you:

Chicks just-don’t-get the concept of tagging up.

Let me back up for a second. I joined a kickball league this summer and the subject is just RIPE for blogging (thanks, Monarch, you charismatic bastard). It’s a co-ed league, that’s purportedly non-competitive but that’s kind of an oxymoron since drinking is encouraged and I’ve never met anyone who gets less competitive as the beers start flowing.

My team, the Bayside Tigers, have been playing for about three weeks now and I’ve had to ref two games as part of the league rules. That being said, I bet I’ve seen at LEAST a dozen chicks or so get thrown out for not tagging up after a caught fly ball. It’s easy to point the finger at inattentive base coaches, but I think this problem is deeply rooted in our mismanaged physical education programs in our crumbling public school systems.

Don’t get me wrong, guys forget to tag up too sometimes, but in general, I think it’s safe to say that 78% of all women find the concept of tagging up completely foreign. Keep in mind, there is no scientific reasoning behind the aforementioned statistic; I just think ideas are easier to digest when anchored to hard numbers.

Even though it’s awesome to get a double play against the opposing team for lack of tagging up, I just shake my head and smile when it happens to my own team. There’s no point in getting frustrated, like the rising of the tides, this is just the way world is and there is nothing you can do about it except hope and pray it doesn’t happen to your team in a clutch inning.

Ladies, please don’t be upset about this post. Our ability to tag up is one of the last things we have as men besides opening up pickle jars, setting up stereo equipment, and math. None of us have any doubt that you will be the primary breadwinners in our families and pretty much call all the shots going forward, you just have to let us take solace that we inherently know exactly how far to lead off of first base when there’s a short pop up to the third basemen.


I googled the word "kickball" and this is the second image that came up besides an actual pic of a kickball. Funny for two reasons: 1. - well, isn't it self-evident? 2. - He kind of looks like you, Monarch.

Spiderman 3

I know I know, I'm getting lazy with my posting, I'll have more and better content soon but in the meantime, chew on this, it's a review of Spiderman 3 by Brain Litter's very own Tom Jane:

Here are my initial reactions to Spider-man:

1. Everything to do with Harry – Excellent.

2. Everything to do with Venom – Boooo.

3. Everything to do with Sandman – Huh?

4. Everything to do with Peter Parker – Excellent.

The Peter Parker-struggling-with-his-dark-side-plot was done very well. I’m glad they had a good actor for this one more than either of the other two. If these movies have done anything well (besides giving Bruce Campbell awesome cameos) it is giving Peter very gripping personal plots to drive the rest of the movie. I don’t understand, though, why he was becoming such a dick before he even got the black suit.


James Franco was very good, and the movie was better any time he was on the screen. The entire movie should have revolved more closely around Peter and Harry, with maybe a little Sandman thrown in for good measure. But, like we discussed yesterday, they didn’t need to make him look so much like a snowboarder – even his mask looked like he was out braving the fierce winds on a double black diamond at Ski Brule.

The inclusion of Gwen Stacey made no sense. She’s too big of a character to waste the way they did.

And Venom – I personally found myself not knowing why I should care about Venom. He was too small, and his face looked ridiculous. They also did not make it clear how much Venom hates Peter Parker. That is the defining characteristic of the villain – he hates Spider-man more than any of Spider-man’s other villains. He hates him as Eddie Brock for the wrongs he feels Peter Parker has caused him, and the symbiote hates him even more for his rejection. And the symbiote is a fully cognizant entity – I never got that feeling from this movie. In summary – I think Venom needed to be louder, angrier, and have access to a time machine… I mean refer to himself in the plural, or royal “we” more. However, I didn’t think that Chris Grace was terrible with what he was given. He just seemed like a sad little boy rather than an angry man.

I know we discussed this before, but I still think that Harry should have been the focus to wrap up this trilogy nicely – then the symbiote could have been the focus of the next trilogy. When will Hollywood learn to listen?

So that's his review and it's quite poignant. I called him out on the bungling of Topher Grace's name and his response was just as witty:

If I wanted to be called “Seph” because my name is Joseph and too many people are called Joe, would you oblige me? If you said yes you are a dirty liar. I don’t care if he thinks Chris is too common. His name is Christopher. Chris is short fro Christopher, not Topher. Wanting to be called Topher makes him look like a douche. As far as I’m concerned his name is Chris.

So I'm going to have a real controversial post about chicks and kickball real soon so stay tuned.