Thinking Outside the Box

Good evening, citizens. We've been really pleased at the turnout for the first web launch so far. The Facebook groups are gaining in number pretty quickly and we've quadrupled the number of hits to the website in just three days. Considering that only three or four people knew about it before, maybe that's not such a huge accomplishment. . .

Anyway, today's entry is about thinking outside the box to solve pressing problems. Hopefully, you'll come to expect this level of ingenuity on the Crawl. This story took place in the late afternoon yesterday when your friend Yankee was faced with the grave situation of only having three beers in the fridge and not wanting to walk the one mile to the store to get more. Let's face it- three beers is bringing a knife to gun fight for me. Three beers is that guy facing down the tank in Tiananmen Square. It's Rodney King vs. the LAPD, or the French against the Germans. If I'm going to have three beers, I might as well have a Diet Coke. I've worked for years on this tolerance and three beers just isn't going to cut it.

The nearest quickie mart is just over a mile away. We don't have a car. That's a long walk, two miles round trip. Plus, you have to carry the beer back with you. Liquid is heavy. Houston, we have a problem. I suppose I could take a night off from having a few beers, but that's not any fun, plus I have work to do on this project. Beer makes it much easier. I have my best thoughts with a few beers in me. More than three beers, that is.

Situations like this separate the men from the mice. Someone of lesser mental resources would have folded under the pressure. Truman didn't have a situation of this magnitude on his hands as he sat in the Oval Office with the order to drop a nuke laying on the desk in front of him. I wanted to achieve a respectable buzz at least and get some work done, but the world was against me. As I stared at the three beers on the bottom shelf in the fridge, still attached in their plastic rings with three empty rings next to them, I walked the route to the store in my mind. Then, like a bolt of lightning from Beer Heaven, the solution came. To call it an epiphany would be a gross understatement. Archimedes' "eureka" moment doesn't come up to the level of this idea. Raise your hand if you're ready for this one. Here it comes. . .



Yeah, blood donation. According to the police, if they can be trusted, as you consume alcoholic beverages, your blood alcohol level (BAC) increases. They've used this theory to lock up a bunch of my friends at one time or another. Luckily, thus far I've managed to escape their clutches. Let's assume their theory is true. It implies that as the the level of alcohol rises in relation to the amount of blood, the BAC goes up. Following this reason, if you reduce the amount of blood, you ought to be able to increase the BAC level faster, and most importantly, with less alcohol. Aha!

It just so happens that there is a blood donation center only a third of a mile from the house. It's on the same path that would lead to the convenience store, if one was inclined to walk that far. I placed my Yankee colors on my head, and walked out the door. I was at the door to the blood donation center in less than 15 minutes.

I've donated blood at this place before, albeit for less nefarious purposes than I now had in mind. They already had me in the system, which saved some paperwork. Today, however, it was intern day. There were four female interns in blue lab coats to differentiate them from the normal, white coated staff. They give you several options as far as blood donation. When asked which I'd like to undergo (the time involved in the various procedures varies from 20 minutes to two hours), I informed the receptionist that I'd go for whatever takes the most blood. Everything was going according to plan. She signed me up for a "double red", which means they hook you up to an "aphoresis machine" which pumps the blood out of your arm, skims off the parts that it wants to collect, then returns the remainders to your body. I was warned to avoid strenuous activity for several days. Two pints of fluid would be removed. The receptionist was almost apologetic. They really needed this type of donation right now. Thank you for coming in to help us out, Yankee. We really appreciate it.

Perfect. Along with my beers going further, I also get to feel like a minor hero. They drag you into a little room after you sign in and interrogate you regarding your travel and sexual habits. The gentleman handling my interrogation asked me if it would be alright if one of the interns came along. Three out of the four were above a seven on the hotness scale so I agreed. I got a decent brunette. I like brunettes.

The staff person ran down the list of questions, explaining to the intern what he was asking, etc. They reached the point where they got to prick my finger and draw a blood sample to make sure that I'm healthy enough to donate. She'd never done the finger prick before, at least medically. The dude got out the little device that pricks your finger and explained to her what he was doing. I withdrew my hand and calmly informed him that it was probably time that she got to try. He agreed reluctantly, as he talked her through the procedure. I looked her directly in the eyes as she jammed a needle into my finger and bled me into a small vial. Fortunately, she got it right the first time.

Getting to the point, they lead me from the room out to one of the collection chairs. Apparently, most people don't have the desire or ulterior motive to go through with this type of donation, so all the interns were gathered to watch them carry it out. I felt a little like I was being prepped for a lethal injection, with the weird machine next to the chair that they were hooking me up to. The guy handed me a current events magazine, six weeks old, and told me that my donation would take approximately 25 minutes.

I opened the magazine to a page with a graphic comparing Mariah Carey to Madonna. They claimed that Mariah Carey was the most successful female singer ever, whatever that means. I asked the guy if he agreed as he swabbed my arm down with iodine.

"Nah, man. Aretha Franklin's gotta be the queen,"

"That's a big girl." I responded

"Yeah, she's big for sure, but she's the queen."

He set me up perfectly. "Biggest queen since Freddy Mercury, right?" I asked.

He laughed so hard he dropped the needle and the iodine swab and had to start over. I'm not convinced that the interns understood what was going on, but it was funny. To take it a step further, as he was explaining how to insert the needle to the interns and stabbing it into my arm, I decided to scream. The interns jumped back, but luckily he kept his cool and taped the needle down, giggling softly. Apparently, I'm not the first person to pull that stunt. Who said blood donation couldn't be fun?

Anyway, I donated blood. Someone out there will get the benefit of the blood of a genius under pressure. Hopefully it carries over. Beyond that, the original mission was accomplished. I was a really cheap date. Three beers sent me right to the floor.

Proceed,
Yankee.


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