misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

In the summer of 1986, I took a three-day summer trip to Las Vegas with the family of Eddie Maschino, the incredibly eccentric (and incredibly adopted) friend I made in the first weeks of moving to San Diego. It was on a particularly sweltering day during this trip (useless fact, all days in Las Vegas are "sweltering") that I first became consciously aware of the fact that I was a pussy, or at least in the beginning stages of becoming one. If I was a pussy before this particular day in 1986 (i'm not sure of the biological and chemical makeup of pussys), I either wasn't aware of it, or hadn't been put in a situation that pushed my pussyness to the surface. The experience in question occurred at my favorite Las Vegas destination before becoming familiar with the pleasures of money loss, tequila shooters, and twenty-dollar dances. I'm talking about the (recently closed) Wet 'n Wild Water Park. Built in 1984, and positioned in prime location at the end of the strip, it allowed parents to drop off their kids for a day of fun while they withered away the day yanking the handles of slot machines.

It was on this day during the summer of 1986, surrounded by the delightful squeals of piglets (i mean little kids), the shimmering green light reflecting from the lazy river, and the scents of coconut sunscreen and corn dogs, that I first encountered Der Stuka.

This was the Mt. Everest of age 12. It was a 76-foot high water slide of pure drop, but it might as well been 40,000 feet, starting on a cloud. I heard rumors that your body hit speeds of over 10,000 mph on this slide. It was also heard that someone died on this behemoth at least once an hour, their body torn to shreds by the velocity. Sometimes, they'd get on the slide, and only an arm would come down.

I think I vomited a little in my mouth when I saw it. My stomach churned. I started to tremble. My mind went haywire. No fucking way as I going on that one. Every single cell in my body was in unanimous agreement. The Der Stuka was not for Mark Anderson.

Problem was, Eddie had the exact opposite reaction. I turned to him for support, hoping we'd both agree that only the insane would even attempt to ride that beast. Might as well try to ride a grizzly bear (see relevant blog for more information on tactics for this). Instead, Eddie's eyes lit up. He smiled widely, revealing that weird double tooth that comes out of the upper gums of some kids. "Let's go," he shrieked, as he ran towards the stairs. I froze. This wasn't a conscious choice for me. The pussyness had infiltrated my muscles, refusing them movement. I couldn't have moved even if Ving Rhames attempted to push me. As I stood there, heart spinning, the pussyness took over even more, forcing an excuse out of my mouth that made no sense (i think ultimately I told Eddie I needed more sunscreen or something, then ran off and hid, attempting to get my pulse down).

After three more trips to the Wet 'N Wild over the years, I never was able to tackle the Der Stuka. Metaphorically speaking, I still haven't. The pussyness has bulged and grown inside me, to the extent that today, the biggest risk I take on a yearly basis is riding the subway and eating Chinese food. I've never even been on an looped roller coaster, that's how far the pussyness has penetrated my existence.

Why am I bringing this up now? Mostly because of a conversation I had a few weeks ago with an orthopedic surgeon at a friend's birthday party. In the midst of your average drunken party conversation, I revealed to him the extent of my knee problems, cockily bragging how I've been living life without an ACL for the past two years (which I consider the highest sign of toughness in my life. i've never broken a bone, so the torn ACLs is all I have). I told him how I brave the pain to still run on a treadmill and just try to take one day at a time and get by. At this point, he absolutely crushed me by informing me that John Elway actually played his entire career without an ACL, including those 5 Super Bowls he played in. Thurman Thomas too.

Sweet.

I slithered away from that conversation, dropping the fake for-sympathy hobble i've adapted to my walk. For the past two years, I thought I might not be a pussy. Unfortunately, it seems to be a lifelong affliction. Some people win Super Bowls without ACLs. Others (the pussys) eat french fries, work in advertising because they're too afraid and untalented to try something truly creative, and write overly-long, boring blogs for disinterested readers in an attempt to relieve some of the guilt of being a total and complete pussy . (Luckily, none of you made it this far to read that).