Through the Quad and Into the Gymnasium

"You know exactly what I mean. You've come a long way since Frank the Tank, and we don't want him coming back."

-- Marissa Ricard, Old School

So we start out at the J Bar last night. This is a rooftop bar near Petco Park in downtown San Diego. It is kind of an LA meets Miami Vice establishment, with couches, a pool and pink and blue neon lighting. We immediately run into a chick friend of Big Ed. This chick is a professional matchmaker or something, and she's there with a Friend. They are both wearing turquoise, the Friend's turquoise outfit being a strapless dress. So naturally I start asking her how her Prom went and make the obligatory "I guess I need to stay 18 inches away from you or a teacher will get me in trouble," and Richard Marx "Hold on to the Night" and Savage Garden "Truly Madly Deeply" jokes. Maybe it doesn't translate that well into print, but I was killing it. So I'm feeling it, and I start working the room and can do no wrong. The Friend gets pissed and starts pouting, but does give me her phone number before she leaves. You could say she was "off like a prom dress" at that point. Note that I keep referring to her as the Friend because I have no idea what her name is -- I'm sure I heard it at some point but wasn't really paying attention. That is kind of my M.O. actually. Anyway, the Friend is blond, 5'10" or so, slender build. In a bit of foreshadowing, she is cute enough to hook up with. However, not so cute that you'd feel compelled to take pictures and brag to all your friends about it.

So we head to a few other bars and, after the bars close, an adult establishment. Throughout the night I have been periodically texting with the Friend and also sending some booty texts to some other chicks. Eventually I speak with the Friend and she tells me to come over to her place. So I brush off some of the stripper glitter, hop into a cab, and start heading in the general direction of the Friend's house. She tells me the freeway exit, and I am to call back when we get off the freeway for further instructions.

So, like a good little helper monkey, I call her when we are off the freeway. Ring... ring... ring... nothing. Clearly she's just stepped into the shower and can't hear her phone. So I call again. Ring... ring... ring... Apparently the Bitch, I mean the Friend, has passed out. Granted, it is 3am at this point, but that is still awfully rude. Passing out before the person gets there violates every rule in the booty call book, especially if the person doesn't have the address. Typical chick, she wouldn't give me the address but had to give chick directions: Ummm, you take a left at the second light, near the Rite-Aid and yogurt shop. Then you turn again at the nail salon, and go up a hill and there's this house where a really cute dog lives. Then you go past that to where I sometimes go running and... why don't you just call me when you get close, it's too complicated. You know what isn't complicated? A street address, that's what. Nimrod. Anyway, I call one more time on the off chance that she answers. Nothing. I tell the cab to take me home.

Here's where the story gets interesting. I realize on the cab ride home that I don't have enough cash. I had enough cash to make it to the chick's house, and I have enough cash to make it part of the way home. Plus, my ATM card is pretty beaten down and it doesn't really work anymore - machines won't read it. My new ATM card is sitting at home with my unopened mail. So, naturally, I have the cab drop me off at the point where I can still afford to pay him. I just checked Google Maps, and that point is 5.43 miles from my house. A long freaking walk at 3:30am. But it is mostly downhill, and I am in one of the nicest areas of La Jolla. So, naturally, I decide to jog home. I mean, I'll get there that much quicker, I just did a 10K Mud Run at Camp Pendleton, and I am training for the Hermosa Beach Ironman, after all. My suede boots are probably not ideal for jogging, but they will do in a pinch. In those old commercials some guy runs a marathon in Rockport dress shoes, and these boots were certainly more expensive than Rockports.

It isn't all that comfortable to jog in jeans, a t-shirt and a button down. One tends to overheat. A good way to avoid overheating, I found, was to remove the jeans, t-shirt and button down. And I figured, while I'm at it, I'll go ahead and lose the underwear as well. That's right -- we're going streaking through La Jolla! It's risky, kind of exciting, and what are the chances that anyone will happen by at 3:30am?

Turns out the chances are excellent. I'm making good time, and thinking about taking a swim when I get to my house when I hear the familiar and normally not terrifying sound of an approaching car. So, thinking fast, I do what anyone in my position would do - I dive into the bushes. I don't think the car saw me. The headlights couldn't have been on me for more than a second or two. So, after the car passes I get up, dust myself off, hope no one has reported me as a Peeping Tom, and proceed with my early morning run. The rest of the run is fairly uneventful. However, I got pretty tired towards the end and I think the term "streaking" implies a faster speed than I was moving at. Luckily, the street lights on the way home are fairly few and far between. My only regret is that I didn't think to write GoldenPalaceCasino.com or ItsOKTOBlog.blogspot.com or something like that on my backside before the run. And that I didn't have enough cash for a cab ride home. Oh, and that I'm 35 years old and I thought streaking was a good idea.

The Friend called and texted me this morning to see if I wanted to have breakfast with her. Apparently people who pass out early and are not up running at 4am are bright-eyed and bushy tailed in the morning, and want to do things like "have breakfast." Me? Pass.