Those first few months of life in Venice Beach were incredible: endless parties, midnight frisbee football on the beach, and a conscious disregard to utilize any productive component of the degree I'd just spent four long grueling years to earn.
The "real world" wasn't real to us at all...at least until the real "Real World" - MTV's show - rented the house two doors down from us, fixed it up, and were suddenly filming the 2nd season of their show: Real World Los Angeles.
To us, this was fantastic! We'd loved their inaugural season in New York a few months earlier, now the Real World would actually be in our neighborhood, on our block - we were their peers!
So on their first night of filming we grabbed a 12-pack and knocked on their door to welcome our new neighbors to the neighborhood - just as our neighbors had done to us a few months earlier. We had visions of sharing their rooftop hot tub and toasting our shared prolonged adolescence...
A gruff looking Production Assistant answered the door, "What?"
We held up the 12-pack, "Just want to welcome everyone to the neighborhood - we live two doors down."
"Beat it," he replied, adding a split millisecond before the door slammed in our faces, "and don't bother us again."
We were stunned, was the Real World really not real? Was their environment completely contrived? Controlled? Manipulated? And - more importantly - we were really not going to be allowed into this perfect world?
We were a nuisance. And as we departed the front entrance with our tails between our legs, it felt like our own fantasy world suddenly had a major chink in its armor. Our fantasy world was vulnerable.
Over the next few weeks, more attacks on our fantasy world began to appear: I got salmonella poisoning and was hospitalized...without any healthcare (an unbelievable bill), my best friend/roommate had to move back to New York, and my girlfriend of three years and I broke up. My fantasy world came crumbling down.
Rudderless, I too moved out, moving back home for a couple months until I could find a "real" job: a sales position with a large international company managing a Central Valley territory, and living smack in the middle of the heart/vulva of California: Modesto.
Now, with all due respect to the town that proudly touts the birthplace of the infamous MOAB restaurant (Meal On A Bun), unfortunately it's the LAST place you want to be single and liquid while in your early 20's. I was lonely, isolated and sad...and couldn't see any way out. My enjoyment of life had switched 180 degrees, and I couldn't bridge the chasm between fun and responsibility.
Even a MOAB technically couldn't fill the chasm...
A lot of this had to do with my single status. Breaking up after a long relationship is always difficult, and it became unbearably compounded in the glaring lack of nightlife on the streets surrounding MOAB. I soon lost all self confidence, basked in awkwardness, and struggled for any meaningful interaction whatsoever with the opposite sex. I was set up on a couple double-dates with friends through work, but nothing was clicking, as my low self esteem wasn't allowing me to relax and enjoy the moment. My blunderings became so desperate, that I found myself - twice - asking out waitresses because they were being nice to me (in the hopes of making a decent tip....). Both of these requests were met with, "Aw, that's so nice...but I don't think my boyfriend would allow me to go..."
I left both of these interactions feeling embarrassed. Sad. Broke. By the way, here's a helpful tip: showering a waitress with a gigantic tip to overcompensate for awkwardly hitting on them is like salting a gigantic, festering open wound. Just so you know...
For the next couple months I hid inside my shell. No way was I going to expose that soft underbelly and risk pain again. I plowed through my work days putting in 12 hour shifts, and pouring all of my physical and mental energy into anything and everything that would keep my mind occupied.
Then one day I stopped in at Tony Romas (the rib joint) to pick up some take out, and was met by a cute hostess about my age. Conversation flowed easily as I ordered my ribs and she started talking about her college work...
Later, hardened and distracted with both work and my calloused emotional state of mind, the scintillating aromatic vestiges of the smoky BBQ sauce that had penetrated the nooks and crannies of both the interior of my Grand Am company car and my head shocked me into awareness: that hostess and I had just kind of...hit it off!
I tried to shake it off and disregard the interaction, but couldn't. Tony Romas immediately became a staple in my lunchtime portfolio, and soon the cute hostess and I had quite a fun banter going on.
But I just couldn't get past my own pain and take the risk of asking her out. What if I was rejected? What if I misread the signs? What if she thought I ate too much pork?
A couple weeks of this back and forth continued until one day I gave myself a pep talk in the parking lot and demanded that I grow up. It was time to stop hurting. Time to earn some self confidence back and regain control of my life again.
It was also time to get some ribs: let's head in...
Of course, with this decision tucked in my craw, my interaction with cute college hostess suddenly became...bumbling again. Conversation stifled. Awkward pauses sprang up like asparagus shoots in the early Spring. This was not how I was hoping it would go...
But I forged ahead; I had a plan, it must be executed...
Unfortunately, "executed" is probably the correct word to use in this case. I finally managed to spew out an invitation to "get together for a MOAB or something...", and her previously effortless smile suddenly and tangibly became forced. My mind raced as I prepared for the worst...
"Oh, that's so nice..."
Ugh.
"...but I already have a boyfriend."
Such a gemstone in the tiara of life may have broken a lesser man. But instead, I left Tony Romas feeling strangely calm. Focused. Controlled. My path was suddenly clear and I could see what was ahead: whatever I wanted.
I had needed to reach rock bottom to realize that my tenure there was 100% self-imposed. This was insane; what had I been doing to myself? Wallowing in pity. Basking in shame. Drowning in BBQ sauce.
I look back now and it was clearly at that point that I decided to grow up. Immediately things changed. With my self confidence back in tow, I saw the world differently and it saw me...for the first time in a long time. Soon after this change in demeanor, Paige and I started dating - and none of it would have happened without my decision to grow the f up.
I never looked back. (I also never went back to Tony Romas again, but perhaps that goes without saying. MOAB, however...well, I could never permanently abandon that forbidden sultry diva...)
This week's Survivor clearly brought back that experience to me.
Why? Because it was PITIFUL.
Two contestants quitting with a week and a half remaining? Lame squared.
I'm disgusted in this season. Disgusted in these contestants. Disgusted that Jeff didn't extinguish their tribal torches with a violent unbroken stream of his own urine. In reality, even that would be too good for them.
Although DanOnka is a despicable character, as repulsive as her personality and "character" are, blame has got to go to whomever brought her up. She claimed to have no regrets, wouldn't have changed a thing, defended her decision to screw over her tribemates, take advantage of them, steal from them, lie to them, seek pity from them...but she is at the nadir of her being. She's a shell whose words are empty. Even she can't believe them any more, but if anyone back home is supporting her decisions, god (or whatever): help us all.
Good riddence - to both her and Purple Kelly. They didn't deserve to be there, and they surely didn't deserve to take up valuable space in my brian.
...And yet, as callous and dismissive as I am about them...I also secretly hope that they see the mistake of their decisions. Right their sinking ships. Jettison that BBQ sauce that is weighing them down.
There is another option girls - and it's even more satisfying, brimming with nutritional prowess and empowering to the fiber of one's being...
Just look to the bun in your soul:
...The MOAB in your soul.
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