Escape Artists Never Die

There is a bridge near the county line that spans over the infamous Snake River, just between the forgettable town of Rigby (where the television was invented) and the strangely profitable Bear World resort. The bridge is hardly remarkable even with the vast river flowing beneath it, one could pass over the top of it without even realizing they had driven over a bridge much less a river named for its winding snake-like course. It was on a dark and unreasonably cold night that the forces of nature conspired against me to try and use this bridge to destroy me, my transportation, and Jessie's brand new guitar hero controllers. We had decided to be spontaneous and go somewhere fancy for dinner. Nothing says fancy like the Olive Garden so we headed out, even though neither one of us liked the Olive Garden at all. In fact I'd say no two people despised the place more than we did. Putting our preferences for fine dining to the wind we headed down to Idaho Falls to sit surrounded by the elite upper class of Eastern Idaho and stuffed our faces with breadsticks. Coming down to the city was no small affair so we had to stop in at Best Buy and see what kind of deals you can usually only find online. Jessie's love of guitar hero and making new friends by owning guitar hero convinced her that purchasing another controller was a genius move, although I wasn't so sure. We headed home at this point, leftover Olive Garden in our laps, guitar hero controller safely stowed away, and Funeral for a Friend CD in the player. It was a recipe for the perfect ride home, but dark forces were at work......

It had snowed a few days before but the roads were clear and the weather had been nice that day. There was still snow drifts off the sides of the road and in the median but there wasn't a flake to be seen on the roads themselves. We had just reached the bridge when all time seemed to slow to a crawl. There was some scientific miracle taking place that we were oblivious to until it was too late. The water under the bridge turned to condensation or something similar and caused the road above the bridge to be a pure sheet of black ice. We hit it and spun like a quarter on a lunchroom table. There was no time to do anything but prepare for the crash as it happened in front of our own eyes. We hit the guard rail and bounced into a ditch ripping the front and back of the car apart. The force of the impact shattered the rear view mirror into tiny shards and sent them flying directly into my face. The airbag exploded out just after the mirror and again smashed into my face. There was a thick, dark plume of smoke that erupted and a crunching thud. The sounds of "Escape Artists Never Die" blared over the car stereo as we sat in shock of what had just occurred. Fortunately neither of us was really hurt, and our wounds were easily tended to by the paramedics that came shortly after.

A few days ago I emailed my sculpture professor informing him that I had missed several sessions of his class due to a recent serious illness and that I had every intention of making up the work I had missed and also in attending the remainder of his class without fail. Today I was graced with his response. Unfortunately for me, he was unsympathetic to my plight and suggested I drop his course rather than give him the satisfaction of failing me for missing more than the allotted number of absences as clearly outlined in the carefully xeroxed syllabus provided each student on day one of the course. This news was even more unfortunate due to the giant red marking "REQUIRED TO GRADUATE" that appeared under the course title on my graduation plan. Needless to say it was a kick to the stomach to find myself in such a situation.

Today was a day of firsts. My roommate asked me to accompany him and several other friends to Buffalo Wild Wings (Which I'd never been to before) to see the UFC fight tonight. I'd never watched UFC and had no interest in it. I really don't understand the appeal, but then again I never understood the draw of watching a bunch of colorful cars drive around a circle for hours at a time either. After the internal injuries at the hands of my now-former sculpture teacher this morning, I felt like a night out on the town with the boys just might be the grandpa's cough syrup I needed. I followed another roommate down into town since I had no clue where this magical wing place was, and Dan said he would meet us there. We arrived and the place was packed, mostly with giant potato-shaped guys in MMA shirts and facial/neck hair. The wait was 30 minutes and I was immediately ready to throw in the towel. But rather than tap out like a wuss, I held strong and waited like a champ. (Yes I'm going to keep throwing out fighting terminology because I'm witty like that). Before we could be seated Dan texted and said he wasn't coming. I believe my blood literally boiled or at least simmered for a minute or two. Here I had come just because he asked me to, to a place I didn't care about, and to watch a fight I couldn't be less interested in, and it was now just I and a roommate I consider weird and disposable. Shortly after the fight started and the doors were closed. There was no more seating so we were basically out of luck. The manager took us aside and said "Hey, I got a spot for you. Follow me." We followed him down into the pit of drunken hooligans that call cage fighting a sport. There was a ramp that went down into the main eating area, and to the side of the ramp was a giant ledge. The manager pointed to the raised ledge and said "You can sit up there and watch the fight. I will send a waitress over to take your order." So we sat up on this ledge above the crowd. I'll admit it, it was awkward. But after the initial awkwardness wore off it was actually pretty awesome. All the staff seemed to love the peculiar arrangement, and everyone that walked by talked to us mostly remarking on how we had the best seats in the house. The guys immediately below us offered to toss us dirty dollar bills in exchange for a dance, which we of course graciously accepted. I stuffed my face with wings, watched grown men beat each other senseless, and had a great time. The final fight was between 2 women fighters, which I was surprised was even legally allowed to be broadcast. It was a great time, and a great fight too I must admit.

After the fight was over I headed out to Bowl-ero, which is one of the sketchiest bowling alleys I have had the good sense to walk into. The booming sounds of Bono and the boys laced with the sounds of ricocheting pins and rolling bowling balls is a sound that could heal the hearts of the broken masses. While waiting for my friend to bowl I was complaining about being stuck for another semester and the gall of my ever-aging sculpture assassin. My friend told me something I've heard again and again throughout my life. "Everything happens for a reason." Sitting on yet another ledge, at the Bowl-ero I recognized that I had spent a lot of time on ledges that day, but also that even when life comes crashing down around you, escape artists never die.