Ending the Year With a Clang

There are times when it's best to destroy the evidence and swear all witnesses to secrecy. And then there are times to just come clean. This, I have no doubt, falls into the former category. And yet here I go:

The first thing I must come clean about is that back in August, when Mickens documented the key-related idiocy of a "certain (unnamed) brumpelstiltskin member", he was referring to me: Mike-Michael. The second thing I must divulge is that, last night, yours truly dropped a chain of keys—house, car, mail, work, and spare—into a fricking sewer drain.

How did said mishap come to pass? Well, it all started with a dinner (frozen Margarita pizza) and a movie (The Dark Knight) date I'd scored with a beautiful woman (Oh, who am I kidding? I've come this far, I may as well bare it all: the film was Made of Honor.)

Just before leaving for my date, I inexplicably performed three impulsive, uncharacteristic, and irrational actions: (1) I changed out of my belt-fastened work trousers and into loose-fitting sweat pants that fall down if I put anything in their pockets; (2) I inserted a recently obtained candy cane—which I typically neglect to eat until at least July—into my mouth; and (3) I decided to check my mail on the way out of my apartment.

Hence, as I exited my flat toward my car, I had a wad of credit card offers in my right hand; a half-foot peppermint in my mouth; and a heavy, key-laden ring dangling precariously between my left thumb and forefinger.

As for what happened next, I honestly cannot recall if what slipped was an envelope from my fingers or the mint from my lips, but one of said culprits prompted the reflexively fatal opening of my left hand that—along with gravity—sent my precious keys into the drain (pictured above) over which I just so happened to be walking.

As luck would have it, the keys were soon recovered: the drain was not more than four feet deep, and using a broom stick and a metal hanger (pictured right) that the aforementioned beautiful woman mercifully drove over to me, I was able to "MacGruber" those bad boys back above ground within an hour.

As I reflect on the half-hour between the original blunder and when my Chivalrous Damsel rescued her Sir in Distress, I'm struck by the fact that I never panicked. Well, except for those 30 seconds when—like a ring that's a half size too small for one's finger—I literally could not dislodge my elbow from the sewer grate I'd moronically stuck my arm through.

That last point brings me to my conclusion: namely, the following list of last night's lessons learned, which I'd like to impart to you all:

1. Never stick your entire arm through the narrow opening of a sewer grate, especially one situated in a frequently trafficked alleyway.
2. Affix your spare key to a trusted friend or family member, not to the same chain as the original it's meant to replace.
3. Patrick Dempsey is significantly, almost impossibly, dreamier on the silver screen than he is on TV.

The Scarlett Letter

I’m not quite sure what it stands for (a cross between Adultery and Arugala, perhaps?), but the letter "A" has been permanently affixed to my breast.

Let me explain. The source of my shame dates back to 2 Jan 2008, when I volunteered for Barack Obama at a pre-caucus "Stand for Change" rally in Coralville, IA (task: cajoling attendees into signing in and revealing who they intended to caucus for). Before the event, two rumors began to circulate: (1) that, after his speech, Obama would pose for a group photo and individually shake hands with all volunteers; and (2) that actress Scarlett Johansson would simultaneously give a post-rally "stump speech" before a small group of local college students.

If rumor turned to fact, I realized that a terribly conflicting decision would await me: I could meet Johansson, whose breathtaking performance in 2003's Lost in Translation made a heavy-hearted then-22-year-old want to love again; or meet Obama, whose intellectual yet inspiring rhetoric made a cynical then-26-year-old want to hope again.

By the time the actual speech concluded, it had become apparent that both rumors were true. As I anxiously paced the corridors of the Coralville Marriott Hotel & Conference Center—suffering within from a fierce tête-à-tête between passion and reason—I was reminded of a certain Seinfeld episode involving a chess scene.

But just then, fate intervened. Having aimlessly stumbled into a random conference room, I looked up to behold a small group of eager-looking, predominantly male college students—their eyes fixed upon a rather nondescript closed door. Sure enough, Ms Johansson walked through. With one glance at her beauty, it was settled: I would not be meeting Senator Obama.

Fleeting thrill, forever regret
I do not remember much of what Ms Johansson had to say. This is largely because she did not turn out to be the most, say, captivating of public speakers (e.g., to paraphrase: “I’m supporting Barack because he like, you know, wants to stop global warming”), but also because I spent the better part of her speech nervously texting seven of my friends the following note:

Im in a room with scarlet johannsen right now. She is stumping 4 Obama. She is way cuter in person.

In response to this text (surely the most obnoxious $1.40 I’ve ever spent), one friend (code name: "DJ The Pleiades") quite rightly responded with a well-known, two-word phrase perhaps unsuitable for Mic’s Tape (suffice it to say it's an anagram for "Yuck UFO!"). Looking back, said text response was certainly deserved, but it was also redundant; in other words, I had already screwed myself...

For that one fleeting moment, lost as I was in Ms Johansson's smoky voice, I did not question my decision. But eleven long months of sober mornings-after have brought the weight of my actions into sharp, inescapable focus: I could had met the future President-elect, but I blew it.

As I look in the mirror and see this Scarlett Letter staring back at me, I accept what I have become. But what I cannot accept is for even one of you to repeat my mistake. Thus, readers, hear my plea: if forced to choose between Potential Presidency or Certain Celebrity, please, please, please let your cooler head prevail!