The Legacy Maker

"I'm learning to fly, but I ain't got wings. The coming down, is the hardest thing." Tom Petty from "Learning to Fly"

The weekends at the the Asylum are about as cheery as a spastic colon. The nurse doesn't want to be here, the druggist short pours the meds, and I can't stop having hallucinations of Angela Lansbury trying to fellate me. Its not much better during the week, but there is always hope of a weekend escape tot he shore. I remember so vividly the felling of the course sand, the sound of the pounding waves, and the taste of the overly strong margaritas.

In high school we were about twenty minutes from the beach. One, if the only, positives of the City of Smog is its proximity to different climate regions. Mountains, deserts, and the beach are all just a short jaunt away. I've covered some of my mountain adventures, but the beach, at night, with a bonfire, that's true paradise. We had parties that Bacchus would have been proud of often.

One particular summer evening with the mercury failing to dip below the 80 degree mark, we escaped the stuffy city to Huntington Beach to burn some pallets and consume tequila like Montezuma. I have never been known for my ability to say "when" especially in those ever so important alcoholism training years. So when the margaritas started flowing I drank like a camel about to cross the Sahara. Didn't take long for the inhibitions to vanish like Britney's panties.

Well lubed and teenage horny, I trolled around the fire pit looking for a dame with enough booze in her to loosen the old morals but not so much that she would vomit gallons of crushed ice agave on my Chucks. On that night the pickens were slimmer than Nicole Ritchie after a colonic, so it was back to boozing.

Soon I was drunk to the point of Mel Gibson like ranting. Past the philosophical stage, long gone was the humorous portion of the evening, it was danger time. Now, passing out while running at the beach won't hurt you, the sand is soft, and I'm not much of a runner anyway, unless there is an ice cream truck at the curb then I'm damn near Jesse Owens. But if you run down the beach drunk and decide to jump over the orange glowing fire pit, now you have a stunt worthy of Smokey and the Bandit.

What I had in determination was instantly over shadowed by my lack of hops. White men can't jump, not just a chance to see Rosie Perez's boobies, but a motto that I should have lived by. Instead I threw caution to the wind and left the ground thinking that leap would make me a legend. And it did. Not for the grace and dexterity with which I executed said leap, the legacy lie in the landing. How I didn't see Walter sitting on the far side of the s'more baker is still a mystery or a blackout if you want to be a dick about it. What I learned about physics that night stayed with me forever. Large tequila fueled mass flying through the air landing on computer lab award recipients ankle equals a trip to the emergency room for x-rays and a beautiful plaster cast. His ankle snapped like a toothpick dislodging a ham from Oprah's molars. I never drank tequila again, and Walter never again walked without a limp.

Ever do any drunken stunt work? Ever caused an injury due to drunken acrobatics? Ever successful clear the dreaded fire pit of doom?

Dixie Cup of Love: Walter and Jose.