The road to Reno stretches far ahead of us, but we all wish it is even further away then it is. I glance back. Style is working on his book, The Game. Every once in a while he reads a sentence to get some feedback. I’m sitting on the side bench staring through the darkly tinted windows at the passing space. We’re in the limo.

Just a few months ago Style told me he was going to get an SUV to carry his surfboards. Always at odds with the beaten path, I persuade him to buy a 120″ stretch caddilac limo instead. They’re cheap on ebay. A day after he agrees to buy it we’re in Houston driving it back to LA. I like people who are impulsive. It turns out to be a fabulous surf car, and a pretty great road trip vehicle at the same time.

Driving at the moment is Cliff, one of Style’s friends. A somewhat macho guy who is the head bouncer at a hot Hollywood nightclub, he’s the nicest guy in the world once you get to know him. They’re doing a movie or TV show or something about pro dirt bike riders, and we’re on our way to Reno to meet them and watch them ride. Always looking for an adventure to lay waste to my free time, I’m along for the ride.

“Ok, now when you pull up to the gas station, before you fill up come open the door for Tynan and I.”

It’s Cliff’s first time driving. We have a little tradition where whoever is driving opens the doors for the people in the back. It’s not a huge deal, but it’s a small touch that makes riding in the limo even more fun.

“No.”

He didn’t know that it was the “house rule”, so to speak.

“I’m not doing it. I’m not your bitch. You open your own door.”

Style and I look at each other.

“Dude, it’s just for fun. No one’s saying you’re anyone’s bitch. Just like when I was driving I opened the door for you and Tynan,” argues Style.

“Well, from now on I’ll open my own door,” replies Cliff, “You don’t have to be my bitch, and I don’t want to be yours.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I offer, “It’s just for fun.”

“I don’t think it’s fun. I think it makes me a bitch.”

“Are you THAT insecure in your masculinity that you think that opening a door makes you a bitch?” asks Style. There’s a reason he’s a great pickup artist.

We continue to argue as the opera lights of the limo whiz by the mile markers. Style and I are having a good time, but Cliff has serious moral quandries about opening the door for us. We actually call Cliff’s wife to discuss the subject. She agrees with Style and I.

Finally Style and I come up with an idea.

“Do you think that the dirt bike riders are bitches?” Style asks.

“Of course not. They’re men. And I GUARANTEE YOU none of them would ever open a limo door for anyone.”

I know where he’s going with this.

Style continues, “I bet that all of them are so secure they would open the limo door and not think twice about it.”

Within seconds a bet is made. If the majority of the dirt bike riders agree with Cliff, Style and I will each squeeze through the partition separating the chauffer from the passengers and exit through the front door. If the riders can agree that it’s possible to open the doors for the passengers without becoming a bitch, then Cliff must open the left door for me and the right door for Style every time we stop.

Everyone satisfied that they’ve made a good bet, the limo lumbers on. There’s silence - everyone’s thinking about the bet.

Ten minutes later we pull up to the gas station.

“It’s your limo. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Cliff opens the doors for us and we exit like gentlemen. We never asked the riders their opinion, but I have a hunch Cliff made a good decision.

I always help myself to the student discount when available. Sure, I don’t actually go to school, but I still have my UT ID, and I’d argue that I learn more on a regular basis than most college students. Before today I’d never had any problem using my ID.

I’m sitting at a poker table at Foxwoods Casino in Connecticut. I haven’t played in a while, and it’s good to be back. I step away from the table to answer my phone. It’s my mom and she wants to know where I am. I’m at the casino. She insists that I’m flying back to Austin at 7:30am the next morning. No, I was flying out on Sunday and planned on spending Saturday with the family. She checks, and she’s actually right - my flight leaves in only seven hours.

We pile into the car and begin the two hour journey back to my grandparents’ house where I’m staying. That gives me about 5 hours to sleep, pack, and leave the house.

I wake up bleary eyed and contemplate the parking situation at my new place. It’s random, but I’ve only gotten a few hours of sleep during the past two nights. The night before I stayed up late watching the midnight showing of that pirate movie (instant review = 0 stars. Don’t see it.) and then woke up early to go to the casino. Still delirious, with my mind out of my direct control I stumble out of bed and begin packing.

I pass the time on the flight playing scrabble with my sister and mother and by watching a documentary on the Concorde. It’s fascinating. A several years ago I found a great loophole to ride the Concorde for only $1000, but I couldn’t get anyone to go with me. Now I wish I went alone.

The plane finally lands in Austin and I dash for the downtown shuttle. There’s a bus that runs from the airport to downtown every forty minutes, the next one leaving five minutes after my plane lands. The bus costs fifty cents, but only twenty five if you’re a student. Obviously saving a quarter isn’t a big deal, but I might as well. My sister had given me a quarter for it on the plane.

I step onto the bus and deposit my quarter nonchalantly.

“I’ll need to see some ID.”

Really? It’s a quarter. It’s not worth your time.

“Sure.”

I hand my somewhat faded student ID, with the picture taken a full seven years ago, to the driver.

“Is this expired?”

My mind races. There’s no expiration date on it. I still look basically the same. Is there a new design?

“Yes.”

I don’t really like lying.

“Well, then why would you possibly try to use it?”

I glance around the bus. There are only a few people on it, but they’re all watching the drama unfold. I consider launching into a tirade on the benefits of going to school, the proper definition of a student, and the importance of learning throughout one’s life. I sense that he probably wouldn’t buy it, so instead I sheepishly explain that I thought I could still use it. I instantly wish that I had chosen to deliver the tirade - now I just feel like an idiot.

Struggling to come up with an analogy, he says it’s like trying to get money with an expired bank card. My natural inclination to argue surfaces and I point out how ridiculous that is. Our whole conversation is ridiculous. It’s over a quarter, and it’s obvious I’m going to have to pay another one.

“Ok… look… I’ll just pay the full fare. It’s fine.”

He continues to argue with me as I pat my pockets. Uh oh. I have no more quarters. I reluctantly reach to my back pocket.

When I was in Boston someone paid me who owed me some money. For whatever reason he only pays cash, so I have a thick bundle of twenties and hundreds in my back pocket. The hundreds are on the outside, making it look like even more than it is. I try to feel the bundle to pull out the smallest bill, but I can’t tell where the middle is.

I pull out the wad of bills and flip through it to find a one.

He looks at me with more contempt than I’ve ever experienced. Yeah, the rich kid is trying to rip off the city by a quarter when he has thousands in his pocket.

As I mentioned previously, my gas got turned off. I’m moving soon, so I’ve been getting my house ready to be sold. Part of that includes turning on the gas again so that the inspector can make sure everything’s fine.

At noon a knock lands upon my door. I open it and see a towering black man standing in the doorway. He’s at least six feet tall, at least four feet wide, and is wearing a hard hat. A grin spreads across his face.

“It’s the LOOOOOVEEE DOCCCTORR!!” he proclaims.

He remembers me from last time I didn’t pay my gas bill. I remember him, too. He told me stories about housewives seducing him as he turned their gas back on. It was fascinating.

As he walks around the house on his way to the water heater, heater, and gas meter he keeps singing one line.

“It’s hard out here for a piiiiiiiimmmmmmmmmmp”.

It’s a line from the mediocre movie, Hustle and Flow. After lighting the water heater he stares into space for a second. He snaps back.

“Hey. I wrote a song for R Kelly. I don’t know how to get it to him or anything. You want to hear it?”

Of course I do. He sings it and it’s actually really good. Even more impressive, it SOUNDS like an R. Kelly song. We chat a little more and I offer to make him a CD with my songs on it. He sees my microphone and asks if I record here. Yes. Can he come by some time and record? Sure. He agrees to record a chorus or two for my songs.

Later I go to have dinner with Evan and she mentions that she owns half of a booking agency. An hour later she texts me that she can get me a gig at a number of really cool venues here in Austin.

How cool is that? Any Austinites who read this can come see me rap live. I just have to make some more songs first. Best of all, I’m going to invite the gas guy, a.k.a. Roller Coaster, to sing with me.

As I may have mentioned before, I am a huge fan of cruises. Although I haven’t gone on one yet this year, I usually go on at least one or two every year. Where the cruise actually goes is wholly unimportant to me. Half the time I sleep through the stops anyway, and just stay on the boat. I just like having no cell phone, having great food available 24/7, and sitting on the back of the boat watching the waves.

It takes a certain type of person to enjoy a cruise. Usually that person is an old person. My friend Jonah and I are the two exceptions. I think we’ve gone on two cruises together, and each time we were the only people remotely close to our age. So much for meeting the hot ladies pirate-style.

On one such cruise we woke up at our usual time - 3pm. The boat was docked in Mexico, and was leaving at 5:30, meaning that everyone had to be on the boat at 5.

We strolled up to the dining room to get some food. We’d been to Mexico a few times prior, and unless you’re willing to wake up early and go for a long drive, there’s not much to see.

We sat down with an older couple named Rita and Willis for lunch. Rita and Willis are two of my favorite people ever. They’re an old black couple who have more personality than ten honkies combined. For some reason, be it weight, medical condition, or simply because of the style, Rita drives around the ship in a Rascal, an old person scooter.

Willis would order every single item on the menu during every dinner. Don’t get me wrong - Jonah and I would do the same exact thing. One day we ordered (and ate) 31 plates of food between the two of us. Due to voodoo magic (and the convenience of a gym upstairs) I have lost weight every cruise despite the high caloric intake.

The first entree that Willis ordered would arrive. He’d eat a good portion of it, but was usually full from the 3 soups, salad, bread, and 3 appetizers.

Then the second entree would arrive. He might peck at it.

When the third entree arrived, he would inevitably snap at the waiter.

“No, no, no, no, no no!”

I don’t think he meant to be rude about it, but it came off that way. He’d resume telling us a story, punctuated by Rita exclaiming “yes you did!” amongst self-satisfied laughter.

Inevitably I’d see the waiter approaching with the fourth entree, obviously pondering whether or not he should try serving Willis another dish. Every time he would wince as he offered it, only to be rebuffed by a second “no, no no!”

Every day this pattern continued. By the end I felt bad for the waiter.

We sat down with Rita and Willis while they regaled us with tales of their adventures in Mexico. We told them that we were about to go walk around in Mexica, but they laughed. It seemed odd.

We finished our food by 4:00. Plenty of time to walk around the shore for an hour and get back onto the ship.

As we exited the ship we couldn’t help but notice a large line of people snaking from the end of the pier to the ship. Why were they getting back on the boat so early? It was hot, so I assumed they had enough sun.

Jonah and I leisurely strolled down the sidewalk next to the ocean. We marveled at the strange trees, half finished buildings, and took pictures. By 4:25 or so we decided to head back.

We arrived at the pier at 4:45 and lesuirely handed our passports and ship IDs to the guard. He told us to hurry up.

We started walking towards the boat when he yelled,

“No, you need to run!”

We looked at the boat and then at each other. Something wasn’t right.

We started running.

The boat was parallel with the shore, at the end of a T shaped pier. By the time we ran up to the head of the T, our mistake was clear. The boat was 25 feet away from the concrete.

We both doubled over laughing. We had wondered earlier what happens when you miss the boat, and now we had done it. The Mexican guards on the pier looked at us and laughed. They’d seen this before.

With big smiles on our faces we sheepishly walked back to the entrance to the pier. There was nothing we could do about it now.

We were wrong, according to the guard. He could get us a boat to take us out to the ship. He wanted $50, but we only had $30. In my mediocre Spanish I brokered the deal.

A small boat pulled up to the dock and we jumped onto the roof. We were led into the cabin and were given two orange life jackets. The boat sped off towards the cruise ship.

Jonah was sitting closer to the person in charge of the boat than I was. The hum of the engine was overpowering, so I let him listen to the instructions. I picked up bits and pieces. Something about going on the roof of the boat and taking off the lifejacket.

What I didn’t know at the time was that Jonah thought that I was figuring out what we had to do since I was speaking spanish earlier.

Before we knew it, we were right next to the ship. It towered over the small boat. How were we supposed to get up there?

The answer came to us suddenly. A hatch 20 feet above the water opened up in the ship and someone dropped down a rope ladder.

A ROPE LADDER.

Both ships are still moving.

I take off my lifejacket. The Mexicans in the boat start screaming at me. That wasn’t the plan. I fumble to put it back on as I climb onto the roof of the little boat.

With waves crashing below I lean towards the ship and grab the ladder. I climbed up to safety and watched as Jonah did the same thing.

For the rest of the cruise, we were the heroes of the ship. Everyone asked us about our adventure. Apparently they had been calling our names on the intercom for quite a while, and a good portion of the passengers had watched the debacle from the upper decks.

We were still confused about how we missed the ship until we returned to our cabin. The unread newsletter that had been slipped under the door that morning had a large headline across the top :

BE SURE TO SET YOUR WATCHES FORWARD ONE HOUR TO ACCOMODATE THE TIME CHANGE

Oops.

Here are some pictures :

If you’re wondering why I always put my name in the topics of these things, it’s not because I have a huge ego. I do have a huge ego, but I do it so that my name gets better search rankings in google. My goal is for people to be able to search for “Tynan” and for my site to be number one. Soon. If you want to help, like the almighty Magnus, you can link to my blog and put my name in the link.

Today Doug, Steve, Steve’s (ex?) girlfriend, Todd and I headed down to Canyon Lake, TX to do some tubing. You see, I bought the sweetest tube ever to bring to the lake. The thing actually flies 15 feet in the air behind the boat. I think I wrote about it before, but I’m not sure. Anyway, the first time we tried I skipped along the water, but didn’t really take flight because my weak human lungs couldn’t inflate the tube enough.

Today before going to the lake I bought two different pumps to ensure that the thing would actually inflate. As it turned out, the boat rental place had a sweet air compressor, negating the need for our own pumps. Oh well… you owe me one (two?), Wal Mart. Our rental boat was a shoddy looking boat most certainly manufactured before 1990 which was apparently very fast. The interior was a coccoon of brightly colored vinyl couches covered by a weathered bimini top. I climbed aboard and with the help of Todd, tied the monsterous tube to the boat.

Then it rained. Soon it was pouring out.

On the way over we spotted a school bus for sale by the side of the road. Since we weren’t going anywhere in the rain, we headed back to check it out. I walked aboard and felt a warmth in my heart that I hadn’t known since converting our first school bus. The ceiling was high - over six feet. This is a rarity in used school buses. The interior was in great shape, and it even had the same controls that our old one had. It was nostalia inducing. The price? $650. I’m sold. I was ready to pay cash but the owner wasn’t there. Oh well - if it drives as “good” as it claims on the windshield, I’ll have a new vehicle in the stable. BTYB tour, anyone? I’m coming to a highway near you.

The rain continued on, and the rental place told us we were probably out of luck. After putting the tube through an elaborate deflation process involving all five of us we began to discuss what to do next. Of course just minutes later the sun came up as if it had never been raining. Oh well.

Steve had an idea. Why don’t we buy a lake house? We quickly agreed that we should buy a lake house. For $500k-$1mil you can get an incredible lake house in canyone lake. It’s a lot of money, but if it were split eight to ten ways, it would be managable. After all, lake houses are more fun with lots of people anyway. We went to a gas station to get real estate advertisement magazines and then found a restaurant where we could eat while studying them.

We were immediately excited. There were incredible lake houses in our price range. Some were up to 5 acres, some had hot tubs, others had “media rooms”. I called up a real estate agent to see if we could be shown some properties that day. I always laugh when I give people my e-mail address “Tynan at better than your boyfriend…. “. After that she took us slightly less seriously. She was at home, but could e-mail me listings tomorrow.

Undaunted, we set off on our own to find some of these properties. The more exciting ones were in a division called “Mystic River”. We were met with one of those false-security gates. Usually 911 will let you in (ever think about how ambulances get in?) 2142 is another common bypass code for pizza delivery boys. It didn’t work either. We started serially calling every person in the directory. Only one answered and wouldn’t let us in.

Slightly disappointed, but still excited by the inevitable outcome of buying a sweet lake house, we headed home.

At the last minute Todd pulled into a brand new development. He drives an Audi All Road, which is one of the sweetest vehicles I’ve ever seen. I’m a huge fan of Mercedes, as you probably remember, but this thing is incredible. I would buy one. It’s a luxury station wagon (perfect for road trips) that has a built in adjustable suspension. One button click and we had a higher ground clearance than a suburban.

We blazed over the dirt road until we reached a little temporary building. There were actually people there. It’s not often that I get taken particularly seriously by vendors of luxury goods. How likely is it that a 25 year old (who looks 20) wearing a shiny sequin hat is seriously going to buy a million dollar house? However, the gentleman there didn’t even blink an eye.

We looked at the map, pointed to the most expensive lot, and he showed it to us.

The lot was gorgeous. It was a long strip of land that totalled about four acres. It started on a tall hill, where the house would be built, and extended way down to the water. The development even had a private airstrip for flying in. Whoa! I took a few flying lessons a while back but got preoccupied and stopped taking them. We need to get back on that gravy train, Elisia! Ultimately that particular place probably isn’t nearly as good of a value as we can find, but it was still fun to see.

I have another exciting project coming up soon that I want to write about, but I’ve already gone on for so long here. Tomorrow maybe …

We sat in the tiny passageway, exhausted. Our muscles were fatigued from overuse. We were over a mile deep into the cave, hours away from the surface, hours away from food, and hours away from water. Had our curiousity finally gotten the best of us? For the first time ever, I was worried for my life. I couldn’t imagine dying, but making it out of the cave seemed even less likely.

It started months ago. After exploring the small caves at Enchanted Rock, we were eager to tackle something a bit more challenging. A search on the internet led us quickly to Airman’s Cave - perhaps the most well known cave in Austin. What we didn’t know at the time was that it was also an advanced level cave. Few members of the caving community in Austin would attempt the cave. With an average ceiling of 18″, Airman’s cave was a full 2.5 miles long. But we didn’t really know that either. In fact, we knew nothing of caves or caving.

To access the cave, we had to take a hike down a dry creekbed and search for it. After wandering around for a while we spotted a large opening on the hill. That was it.

The cave was immediately difficult. Twenty feet into the entrance was a tiny passageway called “The Birth Canal”. It was so tight in every direction that I was forced to have my hands above my head at all times. If I put them by my side I would get stuck. Movement was only possible after exhaling.

The Birth Canal was a short section of the cave, and provided access to a larger cavern that was big enough to sit in comfortably. Beyond that cavern we were presented with a fork. We chose to go left and soon found ourselves in a dead end containing the bones of a few unlucky animals. Not the best omen.

We left the cave, and upon returning home searched for more information on it. The first site we came across showed pictures of people covered in mud, presumably who had made it all the way to the end.

“Wait. That’s Greg Geist.”

Greg was a 40 something year old science teacher who had become our friend when we were camping out for Star Wars (note to the ladies- I’m super cool). We’d lost touch with him after the movie, and to be honest, hadn’t really thought much about him.

But sure enough, we were looking at his web page, and he had successfully navigated the cave. Judging by his knee pads and crazy flashlight helmet, it wasn’t his first time either.

Interest in the cave waned over the next couple weeks as we became preoccupied with other adventures.

Then we ran into Greg.

More specifically, Terry ran into Greg on the UT campus. He asked him about the cave and Greg regaled him of his travels to the end of the tunnel. There was a huge room full of crystals, he said, and he would take us there.

We quickly arranged to explore the cave with him. We would have to get there early in the morning because it was an eight hour trek to the end of the cave, and another eight hours back. We agreed on the next saturday at 5am.

I hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep, but I’d gotten enough. I rummaged through my pantry and got a couple boxes of granola bars and some peanut butter crackers. I might get hungry. It didn’t occur to me that the cave experience was scheduled to preempt all three meals from the day. I packed my fancy flashlight, my digital camera, and the snacks. I put on an old T shirt, some cargo pants, and my combat boots. It was my typical trouble making uniform.

Shortly after arriving at Hayden’s house, the designated meeting spot, I stopped at a gas station and bought a couple bottles of water. I might get thirsty.

When I got to Haydens I met up with my fellow explorers. Austin, Terry, Jake, and Hayden were there. I don’t remember the specifics, but I know that a couple of them had stayed up all night. Jake had the foresight to bring Craisins, a peculiar dried cranberry snack. Austin had stocked up on water, as had Terry. Hayden didn’t bring anything.

I should have known that the day would be a disaster when Greg arrived. He opened up his trunk and pouring out came all sorts of spelunking devices. There were water packs, headlamps, and pads. He was wearing elbow pads, knee pads, a helmet with a lamp on it, and gloves. At the time it seemed like overkill, so we politely took one set of pads between the five of us and assured him we’d be fine. We wouldn’t be.

Still dark out, we hiked across the river stones in the dry creek bed. When we arrived at the entrance, we were very eager to begin.

Full of gusto, I took the more difficult entrance to the cave, which was even narrower than the birth canal. Even Greg didn’t take that route. We got to the main cavern and went right this time, leading us into the depths of the cave.

Within a few hundred feet I was surprised at the size of the passageway. It was very wide, but the ceilng was only 12-18 inches from the ground. Crawling military style wasn’t very comfortable at all. Making the journey even less comfortable were our backpacks. There wasn’t enough clearance to wear them on our backs, so we shoved them in front of us.

The ground beneath us alternated between mud and sharp rocks. We took turns wearing one or two pads at a time, for which we were particularly grateful when crawling over the rocks.

Our enthusiasm, along with an occasional granola bar, fueled us and we reached the “Aggy Art Gallerie” with relative ease.

The Aggy Art Gallerie is a good sized cavern with a thick clay floor. Over the past 30+ years, explorers have dug up pieces of clay and made sculptures in the cavern. There were animals, cars, and words spelled out, along with more impressive sculptures. One such sculpture was a huge dragon that hung from the ceiling aided by fishing line. Someone had made a light switch with clay wires that created a maze around the other sculptures on the walls, and finally reached a clay bulb overhead. It was a very cool place, and we looked forward to making a tribute to our school bus on the way back through.

We pressed on through Karen’s Crawl, which was the most difficult part for me. Our group was divided between two mentalities. Half of us prefered the short but technically challenging areas, while the others liked the long monotonous passages. Karen’s crawl spites you not only with a 16″ ceiling, but also with extremely narrow walls. It’s clausterphobia-inducing, and very long. To make matters worse, the ceiling was primarily composed of sharp rocks. On the way in it hurt each time I hit my head. On the way back out I didn’t even notice.

Shortly after Karen’s Crawl was Sherwood Forest. I had anticipated a large cave where we could relax, punctuated by tree-like stalagtites. I was wrong. Sherwood forest was wide, but wasn’t tall at all. We all took a break and stared at the fossils embedded in the ceiling a food away from our faces. By now we were deep below a shopping plaza. Kinda makes you wonder what’s below you now.

I’d had enough, and I wasn’t alone. We had been crawling for a little over four hours and our muscles were sore. In fact, using my arms in any way was becoming a serious struggle. My thighs ached. I was hungry and thirsty. As we snacked on peanut butter crackers and water, we talked.

“Guys… I think we should go back,” I started, “Even if we leave now, we still have four hours to reach the surface again. All of my muscles are sore.”

There was a bit of chatter and everyone agreed that we should go back. We went home and lived happily ever after.

Well, that’s how the story would have been if my friend Jake wasn’t along for the adventure. The thing about Jake is that he loves to disagree. He’s a good debator, and will take any opportunity he gets. I remember once as an experiment arguing one point of view, and then a week later bringing up the opposite perspective that he had previously argued. As expected, he vehemently disagreed and argued, despite defending that position just a week earlier.

“We’re never going to come back here. We might as well push forward and make it to the end.”

Damn him.

It was that kind of logic that you can’t argue with. If you do, you’re a wimp. Predictably, we all agreed that he was right, one by one.

Agreeing that our backpacks were the primary source of our discomfort, we ditched all but one of them in Sherwood Forest and put a few water bottles in the remaining one. Our burdens lightened, we carried on.

Within a half an hour, Hayden had had enough. He wasn’t a typical participant in our crazy ideas, and he hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before. Now determined to make it to the end, we left a water bottle for him and continued on. As much as I wanted to make it to the end, I envied him. It seemed like being in complete sensory deprivation might be interesting. But then again, so was our trip.

A little further down the line we reached the “Wire Wiggle”. Who comes up with these names? I would have called it “The Satan Squeeze” or something more appropriate. It consisted of a short but steep dip down followed by an incline upwards. The low ceiling made that valley very difficult to squeeze through. Appraently this had once been the end of the tunnel, but some explorers had dynamited just enough so that they could get to the next area. I assume that they were midget children who were coated in petroleum jelly, otherwise they surely would have blasted more.

Finally out of water, we left the last backpack right before the wire wiggle.

We continued through the seemingly endless maze. Greg would frequently entice us to continue by saying that soon we would have more clearance and would be able to “crouch walk”. Crawling was making us weary. The crouch walks rarely seemed to come, and our muscles became more and more tired. Occasionally mine would give out, and I would fall to the ground. Our breaks became more frequent, and also less satisfying. Without any food or water left, they did little but give us a chance to catch our breath.

In the back of my mind I began to wonder how we’d ever make it back out of the cave. Making it to the end seemed incrasingly unlikely, and we still had to go back the way we came. If it weren’t for my pride, I would have given up. As we sat for our break, only five minutes after our previous break, I considered the very real possibility that I would die.

Someone suggested that we turn back. It could have been me. Every agreed this time, even Jake. Our spirits were low, everyone was worried, and none of our muscles could support our weight. As I had slithered across the ground I watched the little pebbles pass under me. They weren’t moving as fast as they had been before. If I pushed and the ground moved four inches behind me, I was happy. Greg was the only one who didn’t want to give up. He had been promising us that the end was right around the corner for at least half an hour. The false hope had kept us trying, but we didn’t care anymore.

We just wanted to make it back outside.

Greg suggested that he go on ahead and see how far away we were. Surely we were close, he said. Content to not move a muscle, we agreed.

Only a few minutes passed and we heard him yell.

“It’s HERE! We made it!”

We got a second (or is it ninth by now?) wind and scampered across the rocks. Sure enough, it was right around the corner. And it was magnificent.

If you’ve ever seen a geode, then you’ve seen a small replica of the place we were in. The floors, walls, and ceiling were covered in crystals. Water ran over them and caused them to glisten when prompted by our flashlights. As happy as we were to experience such a scene, we were still exhausted. I wasn’t willing to expend the energy required to simply take a picture. It wasn’t worth it.

We pressed our heads against the wet ceiling to cool ourselves down. We joked and talked, but it was an act. None of us was ready to go back. Not having eaten anything in 4 hours was taking its toll, and it had been almost as long since we had had water.

We finally turned back and the reality of our eight hour crawl set in. Slowly, and punctuated by frequent stops, we made it back to the Wire wiggle. Terry went through first, and then I went through.

“I found our backpack!” Terry yelled.

“Please.. check for food or water,” I replied. I knew it was empty, but I was desperate. I had no energy and collapsing on the floor had become part of my gait.

“There’s nothing,” Terry said mournfully, “Oh WAIT! Craisins!”

It was Jake’s backpack, and in the bottom, under our empty water bottles, was a half eaten bag of Craisins. It was the best news I had all night. Behind me I heard Jake. He was stuck in the Wire Wiggle.

“Hold on,” I pleaded.

Terry stuffed his face with a handful of Craisins and passed the bag to me. I took a handful too. I’ve been privy to some delicious meals in my day, but I don’t know that any was as appreciated as those Craisins. I’d never had Craisins before, and had dismissed them as some stupid fad health food. But today, they were my best friend.

“Here, eat some of these,” I said to Jake, and handed him the Craisins. Instantly his spirits were lifted as well. Austin, probably eager to get access to the Craisins himself, pushed Jake while I pulled him. He finally got unstuck and made it to the other side.

Our energy renewed from the paltry 75 calories or so that we had each received, we pressed on with less frequent breaks. I’d like to think that we somehow would have made it without those Craisins, but you never know. As far as I’m concerned, they saved my life.

It was a two hour trek back to Sherwood forest, where the promise of granola bars and water lay. I fantasized about eating a granola bar. Maybe two at once.

We reached Hayden just as he woke up. We excitedly told him about the crystalline cavern at the end of the tunnel. By now we’d been in the cave for 11 hours, muscles working hard the entire time. If you want to simluate this at home, walk on a treadmill while lifting weights, and continue for 11 hours straight. My strength was so low that I had resorted to rolling sideways through the cave when the width permitted. I wasn’t sure which muscles the rolling was using, but I was happy that they hadn’t given up on me yet.

I finally caught sight of the backpacks. That last twenty feet seemed to take forever, but I finally made it. I lay on my back and stuffed my face with food. As the other got to Sherwood Forest I lobbed packages of crackers and granola bars to them as well.

Surely with bellies full of food and water, we’d easily make it back to the entrance. We were only four hours away. It seemed like forever, but knowing that we had made it twelve hours already was encouraging. Seventy five percent of the way there.

After eating, drinking, and resting for half an hour, reality set in. We had to go. Unfortuntately my excitement had caused me to eat too much too fast and I felt sick.

The last four hours were perhaps the longest. Every time we’d ask I swear that Greg said that we were three hours away. He would describe the upcoming obstacles, and was always correct. But it always seemed like there were three hours left. Maybe I was going crazy.

At one point I realized that I had dropped my flashlight. Crap. It cost over $100 and I loved it. I was last in line and I saw it just twenty feet behind me. It took me only a few seconds to opt to continue on without it. Nothing was going to get me to crawl more than I had to.

During the last hour I made a point to evaluate the situation in my head. Would I do this again for $10,000? I think I actually chuckled outloud. This torture wasn’t worth it. $100,000? No, I decided. Finally I considered that it might be worth it for a million dollars. Maybe. That’s how painful it was.

After what seemed like an eternity, we went back through the birth canal and emerged from the cave. Overall we had been in the cave for more than sixteen hours. I marveled at the height of the sky as we walked back to the car. I would never hit my head on the sky. That was comforting. We piled into the car and headed to a local hamburger joint. Everyone ordered the double cheeseburgers.

For the first time since the apartments, we were bathed in light. It was a funny sight. Our clothes, backpacks, and skin were caked in mud and dust, making us monotone. We looked as if we’d just survived a nuclear blast, which at the time seemed more pleasant.

I drove home and stripped naked in my garage. Even my underwear was somehow covered in mud and dust. I went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet. My floor is limestone. Looking at it, I had a momentary panic attack and felt like I was trapped in the cave. No. I was ok. I got into bed and closed my eyes. I had intensely realistic visions of the cave which jolted me awake. Finally after three or four tries, I fell asleep.

Since that day I’ve gone back through the birth canal, but no deeper. The cave was by far the most unpleasant experience in my life. But it was a good one. I’m now deeply grateful that Jake pushed us to continue to the end of the cave. More than any other experience, the cave taught me that our limits are FAR beyond what we could ever imagine. Also I learned that dried cranberries are life giving nuggets of goodness that should be praised across the globe.

Do you know what a paraglider is? It is perhaps the best invention of the past one thousand years - a cross between a hang glider and a parachute. It is somewhat of the best of both worlds - it packs into a large backpack, but when unpacked and put into the wind takes shape. Unlike a hang glider you don’t need a large hill or cliff to take off - the wind is enough to generate lift.

If this is half as exciting to you as it was to me, you’re already on ebay trying to buy your own paraglider. When I heard about them, my friend Austin and I immediately picked one off ebay and bought it. Normally they’re very expensive, but ours was reasonably priced. We didn’t know why at the time, but it turns out it’s because it’s a competition glider. That means that everything is sacrificed for the sake of speed including safety, maneuverability, and ease of use.

I posted to some newsgroups asking for advice, but no one would give me any useful information. They all insisted that I had to take lessons or would likely kill myself. Austin bought a book about paragliding that explained some of the basics and reiterated the warning that no one should attempt to paraglide without instruction.

When the paraglider came, there was no way we were going to let something like complete lack of skill stop us. At least I wasn’t - Austin sensibly declined to fly in it without lessons. The book warned not to attempt to glide in winds over 14mph. I checked the weather report and decided that 23mph was close enough. We headed towards the local middle school’s soccer field.

The paraglider was alot more complicated than we thought. It has hundreds of feet of lines connecting the harness to the wing. Even the harness itself was impossible to figure out. It appeared to be more of a chair than a harness. Austin and another friend, Matt, worked on unraveling the lines and wing while I tried to figure out how to attach myself to the seat-harness.

All of a sudden the wind gusted and began to inflate the wing.

Before we knew what was going on 3/4 of the wing was inflated and was whipped into the air. One corner of it was still tangled and wouldn’t inflate, so the wing didnt form the right shape. In it’s deformed state, it lifted me off the ground.

Oh - did I mention that I was wearing flip flops, a t-shirt, and shorts?

Because of it’s awkward shape, the paraglider came crashing down in front of me and lurched forward. I fell back down and began to be pulled across the field. Austin and Matt ran after the wing and jumped on it, finally managing to deflate it.

Unfortunately I had sprained my ankle and broken at least one toe. For about a week I could barely walk.

You might think I’ve learned my lesson, but after writing this I am inspired to try again. When I saw the rattlesnake I also discovered a HUGE field that will be perfect for this. I had pictures of this original incident, but I can’t find them for the life of me, so stay tuned for a video of me trying again.

Normally I’d be very hesitant to write about a celebrity - especially one who trusted me with her personal life by moving in with my friends and I. But… this is Courtney Love, so anything’s fair game. Just kidding.

Actually I don’t have a moral objection writing about her because I have basically only good things to say, and also because similar stories were already published in The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists. In case you missed the How I Became a Famous Pickup Artist series, The Game is a book which chronicles our adventures, written by the literary mastermind Neil Strauss, who was also a roommate at the time.

Meeting Courtney

Mystery and I were in New York preparing to be on Good Morning America. Ultimately we didn’t get on because Mystery’s flamboyant character and dress offended the conservative and frumpy program director, and they canned the segment at the last minute. Neil was asked to write a story about Courtney Love for The Rolling Stone. He had never met her before. As Mystery and I waited for our workshop to begin we got a call from Neil. He had forgotten his tape recorder and wanted to know if we’d bring it to him.

A chance to meet Courtney Love? Why not? We got the recorder, got a cab, and headed to her loft. She came down, looking better than I expected, and thanked us for helping. She had heard about the pickup artist thing and asked us a few questions about it. The interaction lasted just a couple minutes before she and Neil went upstairs to continue the interview. Overall I didn’t think too much of the experience.

Her Fans

I was never a Courtney Love fan. In fact, I’d barely even heard her music. Since getting into music I really didn’t listen to much other than hip hop.

I remember the first time I heard of her, though. I was only 12 or so, and I had my first girlfriend, Rachel, who I met at camp. Back then having a girlfriend was nothing more than a title. I’m not convinced I even kissed Rachel, but I had a little picture of her on my wall that I displayed with pride. Apparently a long distance relationship where neither of us talked wasn’t exactly what she had in mind, and she eventually dumped me. She told me that she looked like Courtney Love, and that her new boyfriend looked like Kurt. Beaming with pride, she related a story where someone yelled at her from a bus asking if she was Courtney Love. In retrospect, I don’t see the resemblance.

Eventually, I actually heard her music.

I had moved to Austin, Texas, my freshman year of high school. Coming from Boston, I wasn’t used to the heat at all. Being lazy, I didn’t want to play sports. Our tyrant of a baseball teacher ignored both concerns and put me in right field to play baseball.

“Come on cupcake. Get after that ball! If you ain’t gonna play, then you can just SIT OUT.”

The ball had rolled a foot away from me and my apathy warned me sternly not to go after the ball. Sitting out seemed like a fine option, so I joined the two other outcasts under the shade of a fold out table. They glanced at me quickly and then resumed their discussion on whether or not it was a wise idea to fill a bong with wine rather than water.

After realizing that I didn’t even know what a bong was, they began to explain everything. I’d never even met anyone who did drugs (that I knew of) until then. My education continued as my friendship with one of the kids, Jared, developed. Despite the fact that I had never touched a drug, alcohol, or cigarette, and the fact that he had abused nearly every drug as well as alcohol and cigarettes, we got along very well. He used to always talk about how Courtney Love was his favorite person in the world and how he would do anything to meet her. A couple years later we had drifted apart and he died from a drug overdose. I think if he knew how well I came to know Courtney, he would have really been amused.

Courtney Moves In

A few weeks after the New York trip, Neil approached the members of Project Hollywood.

“Hey… how would you guys feel about Courtney Love moving in with us for a few days?”

She had called him, saying that she moved back to LA and needed to be around people. She had a very nice penthouse on Wilshire Dr., but claimed that it was too corporate for her tastes.

It was an easy decision, but figuring out where to stash her was a more difficult problem. Every bedroom was full, and offering one of the most famous women in the US a couch seemed a bit too ironic. Being Neil’s guest, his room was the obvious choice, but he had lots of notes and tapes, many of which covered his interview with her. He was worried that if she read them she might be offended.

So I offered my room. I figured that it would at least be an interesting story, and Neil offered me his bed in return. An hour later, she showed up at the door. She was right at home instantly.

Neil and I gave her a tour of the house. She generously offered to decorate our place for us if we could cover the necessary quarter million dollars in furniture and accessories that we would need. At that moment I realized that Courtney was in her own big world, and that we were going to find ourselves right in the middle of it.

A Strange Relationship

Courtney was both the daughter of the house and the mother of the house. One day she’d be putting out plates of muffins to make sure we had enough to eat and kicking out a girl who needed to go (Gabby). The next day I’d be up at night with her trying to figure out where her money went and reassure her that it was going to be fine.

Other than Neil, I got along with her better than anyone. I was happy to listen to her bizarre stories and struggles, would drive her around from time to time, and didn’t want anything from her. She was also overwhelmingly generous. Despite having most of her money stolen from her, she invited us to take anything we wanted from her apartment.

Fascinated, we ventured to her penthouse one night. The door was unlocked, as she said it would be. She had lost the key. The apartment was beautifully furnished, but we felt weird taking her stuff. Finally we compromised and stuffed our faces with a one pound box of godiva chocolates that we found. They would have gone bad by the time she got back anyway. Maybe.

Further prodding resulted in more visits where we actually did take a few things. I took her ipod and a really cool antique lamp, as well as some cool pillows to use in our pillow pit. I later offered to give her her stuff back, since I considered it a loan more than anything, but she said not to worry about it.

The Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches

Perhaps the funniest thing about Courtney was how she made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Until I met her, I didn’t realize that there was a normal way to make sandwiches, and also a rockstar way to do it.

Courtney would not be troubled by those annoying plastic clips that keep bread bags closed. With two hands she would tear apart the top of the bag and take the best slices of bread directly from the middle of the loaf. A mere mortal might worry that the bread would go stale and be unsuitable for further sandwiches. Not Courtney - there were at least five residents of the house, each with their own loaf of bread. Plenty of bags to rip.

She usually spent long periods of time in my room, examining the boxes and boxes of papers she had moved in. Her money had been stolen and she was determined to find out who did it. Thus, when she did leave the room to make sandwiches, she made lots of them.

Six or eight slices of bread would be harvested from the bag and laid on any clean (or semi-clean [or completely filthy]) counter surface. What happens next is a bit of a mystery. I never saw the sandwiches being made, but I certainly saw the aftermath.

You could tell where the sanwiches were, because surrounding their former positions was a layer of peanut butter and jelly. Inside the jars (which were left on the counter) would be at least two spoons. Sometimes more.

I’m no forensics expert, but it’s fairly obvious that she scooped up as much peanut butter and jelly with the spoons and carpet bombed the entire counter.

Did we mind the mess? Not particularly. It was amusing for one, and secondly she had the most amazing maids in the entire world. They would come to our house and make it look like a hotel. I’m pretty sure that if you just sent these two people to iraq, they would have the whole mess cleaned up in 24 hours at most.

Streaking

Courtney didn’t always wear many clothes. It’s not that she’s an exhibitionist. It’s just that if she’s more comfortable without clothes, then she’s not wearing any. In fact, I groggily stepped downstairs from Neil’s room the first night that she was in mine to find her at the bottom of the stairs in mesh panties. Surrounding her were the other inhabitants of the house, spellbound by her explanation of the conspiracy which resulted in her money being stolen (I’m actually pretty convinced that it was stolen, too).

Because of her high profile, we tried to keep it to ourselves that she was living with us. Other members of the pickup community weren’t made aware of our houseguest, nor were students of workshops - usually.

One day Mystery and I were teaching a seminar in our living room. Mystery was detailing the finer points of calling a girl when the double doors to my room burst open. Out came courtney, topless. She ran across the living room and into Mystery’s room.

The students looked at her, at each other, and then at us for a possible explanation.

“Was that…. ”

“… Courtney Love?” finished another student.

Before we could answer, she ran back across the living room back into my room. Yes. It was Courtney Love.

I later asked her what that was about and she said “I was trying to help you guys. It was social proof!”

Indeed it was. Social proof is essentially the concept that people who hold impressive company are thought to be impressive people themselves. In pickup this translates in many ways, one of which is having a cool friend out with you so that you can both reflect well on each other. Courtney was always fascinated by our trade. During later seminars she and a band mate or two would sit quietly in the corner and observe - with clothes on.

Crazy?

Before Courtney came to live with us, I bought into the general perception that she is crazy. The truth, though, is that she is actually extremely bright. She’s a mountain of quirks, but they just contribute to her being one of the most entertaining people I’ve ever been around. After witnessing how strong her personality was, I realized why she was famous and I wasn’t.

Over the months that she lived with us, we all fell in love with her. Despite her rock star status, she became part of our motley family. We’d sit all sit on the couch together and sing 90s alternative songs, she brought us to the tonight show when she was a guest there, and she’d try to help resolve any of our many disputes.

I’ll probably write a follow up to this post eventually - I have many other stories with her. There are also some in Neil’s book (the second half is all about our house and our drama), The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists.