My Celeb BFFs: The Rock

            Not that I’m not perfectly blessed with my real BFFs—they’re the best BFFs anyone in the world could ask for. That being said, a girl needs something to aspire to in life, right? And it’s not like I want to replace my real BFFs with celebrities; I just want to add them to our group and go on adventures with them. Because I sense that all celebrities attract adventures. (But I could be wrong because I don’t actually know them.)

            The Rock’s friendship would come pretty easily, I feel. We could probably run into each other anywhere—like the grocery store because I just always picture him shopping for food—and I would stand there and debate for like twenty minutes if I should go over and talk to him while he examines the stems of broccoli crowns to find one that’s not all dry at the bottom. Once he had picked out 12 nice broccoli crowns, he’d turn around, see me, and smile expectantly because I’m standing in front of the bags and he doesn’t have all day to just stand there and palm a dozen broccoli crowns. But I wouldn’t know this—or maybe I would—but it wouldn’t make a difference because I’d be so thrilled that he was smiling at me in a way that assumingly meant let’s be friends that I would stand there, unblinking, with a giant open-mouthed grin.

            We’d probably speak at the same time.

            Him: Excuse me.

            Me: [stupidly] You’re The Rock.

            That’s when he’d give a little sigh because he thought he could have a normal grocery shopping experience today at Safeway without someone telling him who he is like he doesn’t already know and he’d nod tiredly and say, “Yes, I am.”

            And during that time, I’d process what he requested of me and pull six bags out for him, because he can’t do it while his hands are full of broccoli and I’d offer to help him bag them. He’d appreciate it because everyone expects The Rock to be so self-sufficient, but no human can bag broccoli while they’ve got a dozen crowns in their hands, and then he’d warily start a conversation with me because he still remembers how star-struck I was when he initially spotted me, blocking the way to the produce bags.

            It would probably be about eating healthy, and he’d have to constantly remind me that I can’t eat like him because I’m a 21-year-old female who didn’t professionally wrestle people for a living (that he knows of), which is disappointing because I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in the world who loves food as much as The Rock—this is also why we’re going to be BFFs. If you eat with someone every time you hang out, it’s impossible not to bond with him.

            We’d walk around Safeway together because our lists would magically coincide. (“Protein powder? I need that too—how uncanny!”) Before we knew it, we’d be going to the checkout together as he is telling me about how he makes the best pancakes and I respond by telling him that I can probably eat 50 pancakes, which is true, if they’re 1/10 the size of normal pancakes. But The Rock would think I was challenging him, even though I really only want to try his pancakes, so he would bet that he could eat more pancakes than I could and I would probably tell him that he undoubtedly could. At this point, we’d probably politely tell each other how nice it was to meet one another and then we’d head our separate ways—me, trying to figure out what to do with a kilo of protein powder.

            But The Rock can’t leave a challenge, even if he can already predict the result of entering an eating contest against someone one fourth his size. So he officially challenges me to a pancake-eating contest, to which my initial reaction would be “I can’t handle the chagrin of losing.” Then a more reasonable voice would sink in, telling me that I have the opportunity to eat pancakes with The Rock and that he’d probably like me better if I lost anyway. So I’d agree and we’d set off for his fancy house where he has a fancy kitchen to make delicious pancakes with.

            Once we got there, we would have a hilarious kitchen montage (probably in chefs hats and aprons) where we would make pancakes together, although The Rock probably secretly noted which pancakes were mine and gave them to me to eat because they obviously could never be as good as his, and after we made about 75 pancakes, we’d sit down to eat.

            Just as I’m finishing my 5^th pancake, The Rock would be finishing his 70^th, and I would look down at the plate and say what a shame it was that we ran out of pancakes because now we don’t know who won. Then The Rock would look at me like Who do you think you’re kidding, and I would shoot him a defensive look back that said Maybe I could have had six pancakes; you don’t know me. But then he’d start to get up, telling me he would be glad to make more pancakes and then at the risk of exploding, I would have to admit defeat in a small, pity-inducing voice.

            The pity would last for a full 30 seconds before The Rock would get up, holding the serving platter that once held 75 pancakes above his head and start to circle the kitchen shouting things like “YEAH” and “TAKE THAT” and “I WON. I AM THE WINNER. I AM THE CHAMPION.” Which would cause me to feel a little uncomfortable and start singing “We are the Champions” in a nervous, faulty soprano. He would turn to me (eyes slightly bulging), and I would quickly amend the lyrics to “you” instead of “we,” and, satisfied, The Rock would continue his victory parade around the kitchen.

            Thinking I should probably make a move to leave, I would hesitantly get up and stand until The Rock circles the Italian-tiled island in the middle of his kitchen and faces me again. Then I would point toward the closest door as in I think I’m gonna go and start inching toward it. As I open it, a pit bull would rush in and tackle me, and The Rock would stop his lap and introduce her as “Muffy.” And Muffy would lick my face. And The Rock would say “Look, she likes you,” and then I’d get up and tell him that I have to go. Then he’d say, “Let’s do this again sometime,” which probably means, “Let me beat you at pancake-eating again sometime,” and I’d be like, “Okay,” because for the first time in my life I’d be at the table with someone who could eat more than me, and that’s confidence-building for a girl my age. So we’d make plans for next Saturday, and then I’d turn to leave, scratching Muffy on the ears before walking out the door.

            I’d say, “See you later, The Rock.”

             And when he says, “Call me Dwayne,” our status as BFFs is solidified.
~ToriannaLamba

Gangstas at the Beach

Perhaps the best part of attending private universities and CSUs is the early freedom. This is why a couple of days ago, my friend, Pilar, and I could be found at the beach. Both of us being profuse people-haters, we were overjoyed with the broiling weather, which meant that the beach would be an ideal temperature and there wouldn’t be a lot of annoying beachgoers because they’d all be in school.

            Yet, as most idealized beach days go, what we pictured was not what we got.

            The beach was packed—and not with old people who bask in the sun because it feels good on their joints. There were families with children who definitely should have been smashing blocks, spilling juice and throwing temper tantrums in kindergarten classrooms and there were masses of teenagers who definitely should have been safely asleep, drooling, inside their 3^rd period civics class. But no matter. It was the first beach day of the year, and—let’s face it—the people-watching was fabulous.

            Even the gangstas showed up for some fun in the sun.

            We first noticed them because of their mad slaps playing at a distance, which isn’t particularly unusual at the beach, but what caused us to continue to watch them was the fact that they never sat down.

            It wasn’t as if we expected them to lay out their towels and start sunbathing, but even the clan of high school boys nearest to us were lounging about on the sand. The gangstas didn’t even seem to have towels. Which explains why they were standing on the beach, I guess.

            But they were standing on the beach in normal gangsta attire. Not the saggy pants and extra-baggy t-shirt wardrobe (commonly referred to as “gangsta daywear”) but white tank top undershirt, baggy shorts, knee-high tube socks and Addidas mandal wardrobe (which I guess can now be referred to as both “the gangsta summer wardrobe” and “gangsta beach chic” since they seem to be interchangeable). I wonder if the socks helped protect their feet from the scorching sand.

            It occurred to me that perhaps the gangstas didn’t want to get into the water at all—that perhaps they came to the beach to listen to their music and stand around on the sand. Maybe people do that. I’ve still got a lot to learn of the world, so I won’t dismiss the possibilities. But then they blew my mind by wading into the water.

            They went one at a time—the first one was clearly very brave, for he submerged himself completely without complaint, while Pilar and I stood at the shoreline, discreetly wincing anytime the water surprised us by attacking above the knee. He began to shout at and taunt the others until the second one finally felt goaded into getting into the water as well; however, he had a tougher time than his friend. It turned out the socks did provide some protection against the sand, because as soon as they came off, Number 2 Gangsta had to do this rapid penguin-walk across the beach toward the water—but it was all in vain. The water was too cold.

            After a hefty string of expletives concerning the temperature of the water, he decided that he would venture no farther than either Pilar or I had gone, which is, again, understandable as the coldness of the water was not in proportion to the heat of the sand. While N2G tried to find the goldilocks zone of the water and while Courageous Gangsta made friends with the other brave souls who had submerged themselves below the neck, the third and final gangsta stood at a distance, watching his other two friends uneasily. Perhaps it was the sporadic curses issuing from N2G or perhaps it was the way the waves crashed over CG’s head—at any rate, the third gangsta did not look like he cared to swim.

            But they called to him. They heckled him. They beckoned to him from his area of safety into the chilly undertow of the sea. He was not easily persuaded. I don’t blame him; the chilly water and the lack of beach towels would have been enough to deter me too, despite the incessant heat radiating from the sun and reflecting off the sand. But true to gangsta tradition, the effects of peer pressure set in, and 3^rd Gangsta eventually found himself awkwardly can-canning across the steamy sand after his friends.

            N2G stopped shouting at his straggler friend and turned his complete efforts back into shouting about how cold the water was. It seemed to truly make him upset. 3^rd Gangsta didn’t stay long in the water. Shortly after his entrance, he evacuated, claiming to have swallowed a substantial amount of salt water.

            They left the water one by one, in reverse order, and soon they were back where they started, socks on, music turned up, trying to play catch with the ditching high schoolers. I’d say it was a brave venture and a new experience for all of them, and it was an altogether successful day at the beach for the gangstas.

~ToriannaLamba