Buck Neked

Yes, it has been too long since I've updated this blog with another fantastically interesting story of my embarrassing life. This one, however, is one for the memory books, or, the scrapbooks if you will. Can you imagine the joy that would come out of keeping a scrapbook of the most embarrassing and inconvenient moments of your life? I guess that's what teenage girls' diaries are for though right?

Are you there God? It's me, Period Polly.

Onward and upward.

So, once upon a time, as I've mentioned in my "Stacey" essay below, I spent a semester abroad living in Grantham, England and living in an over sized English Manor house that was turned into a University. Judging from the outside appearance of this building, you would think you were going to Hogwarts, or a "castle" as so many eager young students label it on their facebook photo albums. The interior, however, with its minimal furniture, monotonous dorm rooms and defaced, graffitied piping leaves something to be desired. Dumbledore would know how to interior decorate, especially with the revelation of his homosexuality. Girlfriend would at least put up some warm toned drapes and not skimp on some cute Persian rugs. But I digress...

At this University, there is an unspoken (or entirely spoken, let's be real) tradition of what is called, "the naked mile." This is supposed to take place on drunken nights, where the students will run from either the entrance to the manor, or the end of the mile long main road leading up to the manor, completely in the buff. Sounds fun, right? Sounds downright crazy, sure. Sounds erotic, naturally. Either which way, like so many one night stands, it sounded like a good idea to me...at the time.

My first "attempt" (yes I said attempt) at the naked mile occurred no more than 3 days after arriving to Harlaxton College in the end of August, when the weather was still warm and nothing was at risk of appearing less than impressive in the bitter winter cold. As my friends and I were walking back from the closest pub to school, conveniently at the entrance gates to the Harlaxton grounds (where the mile in question began) my friend, and professional over sized Olympian, Nick Steen, saw my inebriated state and used this to his advantage.

Nick: Hey Riley...you know what you should do right now? You should totally run the naked mile.

Riley: What?.....Really?......O-FUCKING-KAY!!!! HOLD MY PANTS!

(at this point, while my back is turned, Nick takes a picture of me disrobing, which he will still use as blackmail to this very day)

And off I go.

Now this was the first weekend everyone arrived to school, so everyone was entirely down to party, and had been at that same pub this evening. This resulted in me, and my penis, making many cameos in about eight different couples' walks home. All to which I would shout out, "ALOHA!" "COMING THROUGH!" "LEFT.....LEEEFFFTTTT!!" "I KNOW RIGHT?! IT'S ALLLLLL REAL, TOO!"

After about half way, I had just passed a couple and was making my way through an unlit part of the run, when I turned my head back around to see how far away I was from the nearest couple, and made the one naked mile fatal flaw. I was not prepared for neither speed bumps, nor pot holes.

Now, entering this school and whispering with your friends about the naked mile and when you'll actually complete it, you hear stories about stories that Lauren heard from Ben who heard from James that once a girl broke her foot while running the naked mile, or that some boy fell off the bridge into the stream that passed under the mile long road at a certain point. And everyone laughs together at these strangers' inconveniences and shameful attempts at a nude jog in the middle of the night.

It was because of this that as I stepped into the pot hole on the other side of the speedbump, and my ankle rolled as my entire weight fell upon it, that life suddenly moved at a glacial pace, and I was suddenly crumpling/flailing in slow motion with the one thought circling around my head...

(spoken in slo-mo voice)

"IIII CAAAAANNN'T BEEEE THIIISSSSS PEEERRRSSSOOOONNNN"

Thanks to man's natural inclination to protect the source of his offspring, I luckily rolled the bottom half of my body into a ball while the entirety of my body weight fell upon my right ankle, and my upper body crashed onto the gravel road beneath me, hands and face first.

I lay there in shock. My first priority was checking to see if everyyythiiing (wink wink) was intact. Score. I contemplated my next move...do I keep running? Am I broken? Why is my foot numb? Should I roll into a pond and kill myself now? But before I could think of a logical thing to do I heard voices coming up behind me. Luckily I had my boxer briefs crumpled in my hand. I threw them on and in my state of bodily shock, sprinted back to my dorm room, sat in my top bunk bed, and observed the blood spewing from my palms. As I got up to go find a band aide I collapsed due to my newly broken foot.

Now, This wouldn't have been as big of a deal as it was, except the next morning was the entire school trip to London, where everyone saw me boarding and exiting the bus on my new antique wooden crutches. Now, I'm all for going vintage in Europe but this wasn't the accessory I had in mind. And what made it all the more poetic was that i couldn't even grip the support handles because my palms were still bleeding.

After finishing my pb&j on a lunch break bus stop on the way to London, the Headmaster of the college, walked up to me and my crutches, patted my back, and said..."gotta watch out for those potholes next time."

Awesome

Hugz befo u go?

This evening, one of my best friends from Las Vegas is making his exciting move to New York City to further pursue his acting dreams. His name is Jon. Now, if you saw Jon and I together I think it would be perplexing as to how we've been best friends for so long. If there was a police line-up showing those responsible for being the complete opposite of me, Jon could be picked out by that big-ass grinning Stevie Wonder swaying his head from side to side, while on the phone with Little Richard.

Jon is 24, cruising at an altitude of 5'6 while I fluctuate between 5'11 and 6'0 depending on how positive my day was. Jon is the type of go-getter personality who will be the first to introduce himself to you, manage being a trumpet player, drum major, theatre president and tenor in two different choirs while I'm the type of boy who will call my roommate out of her room to turn off the air conditioning, because this episode of “I Shouldn't Be Alive” is just too captivating for me to be bothered with chilly room temperatures and getting up to get a blanket, sweater, or adjust the heat myself. And while Jon is the type of person that will always let you know he thinks of you as amazing, talented, wonderful, and his best friend, I'm the type of person who makes nearly everyone feel ambivalent about our friendships due to my inability to not tell someone if they are, in fact, slutty and boring. Furthermore, Jon tends to be a gentleman who respects those around him, including their personal space, while I am someone who, when my friends were asked how they would impersonate me, said “Well, I'd probably try to unhook someones bra, grab their boobs, and then lick their face.”

But lo and behold, Jon and I have been best friends for about 5 years now. I call him to complain, laugh, annoy and frustrate. He knows more about me than most, which makes me feel naked in his eyes...which could also be attributed to the fact that when I get drunk I find it funny to try and slap him with my penis, but... as they say...toMAYto toMAHto.

What I envy most about Jon, however, is his forward nature when it comes to hugging people. Jon is the type of person who you know is always going to hug you when he sees you. Whether it be the second time you have met him, hell, even the first more often than not, you just have that knowing feeling that he is walking towards you for a hug. I wish I had this quality more than ANYTHING sometimes. I cannot begin to count the amount of awkward encounters I have with people including friends, elders, past coworkers, cast members and family members in which we both just sort of stand that awkwardly close distance to each other, kind of smiling, kind of shifting back and forth, maybe lifting up a hand and placing it on the shoulder because that in some way seems less uncomfortable than high fiving or shaking a hand, even though it ends up being more awkward than an Eskimo kiss could have been for chrissakes. I have no idea where this amazingly awkward tendency comes from. Its as if I have no middle ground when it comes to personal boundaries of people I know. There is a fine, fine line between completely awkward and unobtrusive, and then completely inappropriate and invasive. With people who I know are my good friends and best friends...well, good God all bets are off. My hands are on their butts, breasts and crotches while my tongue is most likely in their mouth. I pick them up when I see them, wrestle them to the ground, club them with a wooden stick and carry them back home to my cave for wild primitive sex whether they like it or not. Then, when it comes to those who are my friends in that way where its like, “I mean we're friends...but...not the 'you've seen me naked' kind of friend..sooooo...” I just wave to them from a distance of maybe 1 ft. apart, proceed to laugh uncomfortably, stare at the ground, put my hands in my pocket and look any way which is not in their face. In all actuality, I'm surprised I haven't been asked if I have autism by those who have to endure this side of me.At least it's all out in the open now...and anyone who reads this can now choose which side of the line they want to be on. It's like...you're signing a waiver that will hold me unaccountable for sexual harassment. So I cannot be held accountable for the following photos citing examples of said non-awkward behavior.

Perfect.

Straaight Fighting..I mean Street Fightin

Whenever I get punched in the face, I hope I'll look this cute.

There was this one night, my second semester of senior year in college that two of my best friends, Titus and Alex, as well as myself decided to get amazingly drunk. So much so, that when walking from my house to Titus' house, Alex thought it'd be funny to try and jump on my back in order to get a “piggy back ride” on the walk over, and when he attempted this I simply fell face forward into the concrete and proceeded to bleed from the fresh gash over my left eyebrow. Before making it all the way to Titus' house, naturally the three of us got distracted and changed our game plan to sitting outside Alex's house (which was between the two) to drink some beers and pee on some walls. Out of the clear blue fucking nowhere comes a man, even more drunk than the three of us put together (which is sad that in my bloody, bruised state I could conclude this), who starts making his way towards us asking for a cell phone. I'm going to name him Chet. Now Chet was certainly a stocky individual, especially in the upper body department. By this, I mean he was pretty tall and fat. Chet seemed like the kind of guy that had a hard time stringing sentences together on a sober day, which just made his communication with us all the more indecipherable, leaving him only with ape like hand signals and chest beatings, besides a few choice, classy words. Like “Fucking” and “faggot.” Needless to say, Chet was a charmer.

Now, I like to describe myself as a primarily non-confrontational person. When I get intoxicated, however, I assume I am equipped with super human strength and rage that can only be tapped into when a friend of mine is being attacked. No, not even when I'm being attacked. I'm fiercely loyal...like a Schnauzer on crack. Whereas, when my friend Titus is drunk, he believes all of the world's inhabitants, including Al Qaeda I'd assume, are his best friends, to which he must offer alcohol or cigarettes to ASAP. Chet was no different. Though he be mumbly, smelly, stumbly, and bigger than any of the three of us, Titus invited him over to our stoop to begin a dialogue with this man, despite Alex's and my own very loud verbal protests. So, the conversation started with Titus asking, in a charming southern accent I might add,

“Uh, hey man..what's going on tonight”

“Ineedafone,” Chet chirped back, swaying from side to side.

“Oh, sure, well you can use my phone. Hey, whatchu been up to tonight?” Titus asked.

“I'm agunna kick your ass. Ima gun kick all of your asses!@#Wxd” was Chet's precious response.

And so begins my straight fighting tactics.

I jump up and yell, “Who's ass did you fucking say you're going to kick?”

You see, because I believe that when dealing with King Kong Karl over here, clarifying the situation may 1. give him time to reconsider his gracious proposal or 2. confuse the remaining brain cells he has operating at this point.

“I'm gunna kick allz ur ass$es” says Chet.

Shit.

Next, I don't say a word, but rather stare Chet in the face, lift up my beer bottle and throw it on the asphalt by his feet. This is a tactic I would assume works out in the nature as well, when trying to scare bears or sharks away by being loud and spectacular. Like...banging sticks together, or shooting off fireworks on a mountain top.

Chet seemed rather dazed and confuddled by this shocking exchange, which Titus saw and brilliantly used to our advantage.

“You see that guy over there who just broke the beer bottle? You don't want to fuck with him man...he's an ultimate fighter.” Titus said.

“What thuhhh fuxx you tuckin bout” Chet managed to deliver back.

“Im serious dude, look at him...he's bleeding from the face. He's fucking nuts” Titus continued.

“Wut? oh...oh shit. Hey man I wuz jes kiddin round. I dun wanna fight. We coool.” Chet said as his tone and attitude “subtly” shifted. And while he imagined me in a cage match putting the sleeper hold on an opponent with my two baby toes, Chet realized that my antlers were stronger, my roar was louder, and most importantly...mah dick was bigger.

So there you have it. Gimme some smoke, mirrors, blood, spectacle and pizazz and I'll rumble with you any day of the week Hetero Harry.

Wait

Alexi Murdoch. I am going to pay you to soundtrack my cloudy, windy days and car rides home at night.