The past week was a celebration of Saint Patrick, someone the majority of party-going Americans know nothing about outside of thinking he was the patron saint of Guinness beer. He wasn't. It's kind of like Cinco de Mayo, which, for those of you who don't know, is not Mexican Independence Day. Both are meaningful days for many, but if it's just a good excuse to drink copious amounts of green beer/tequila, then call it what it is: "A Day That is Important for Some Reason I Am Unsure of, but a Day I Will Celebrate by Drinking an Alcoholic Beverage I don't Typically Drink" Day.
For me, the week was more about my growing anxiety over tornados and the fact that I am living in a geographical area that is highly tornado prone, finding some money on a walk, and my confusing discovery that the center of the universe is in downtown Tulsa.
"Isaac, you're now living in tornado country. Tornado alley, even."
Every time I hear that, and I hear it a lot, my mind scurries to somehow make sense of it, to neutralize it, but it just scares me.
Okay, you've got an alley, right, Isaac, I say to myself. I then think of every alley I have ever visited. My mind's racing.
What's the biggest? Ten, 15 feet across? Maybe bigger. Yeah, it has to be bigger than that.
But, I can't hold the thought very long, because as I internally debate the most grandiose alley I can imagine, I visualize a 130-mile-per-hour cyclone of destruction tearing through this child's playpen of an area, and I'm right there.
One could argue that I have spent a fair amount of time in a Caribbean country that lies in danger of hurricanes. But, and I think we should agree on this because I am right, a hurricane is a much different beast. First of all, in Belize, one can see it coming for four, maybe, seven days. I could play dominoes for 72 straight hours without even worrying about it. Also, Belize doesn't have a nickname like Hurricane Alley or Hurricane Sandbox or something else really tiny with a Hurricane in it.
If that wasn't bad enough, I now have this weekly reminder, outside of the constant barrage of "tornado alleys" from new friends and family, from the tornado warning system. I have been living here for several months now and each Wednesday at noon I'm startled.
"Whoa, what was that," I'll say aloud, all while seriously, seriously questioning my judgment. Oh yeah, it is only the security system that was installed to warn us all that a life threatening tornado is heading our way.
How silly of me! What's to be worried about?
On one of my breaks from paranoid shaking over possible high winds and tornados this week, I was on a walk and found some money. Once, when I was a young child I found $20. I walked with my head down and eyes glued to the ground for years. It's led to my less-than-perfect posture as an adult.
The money I found as a child went a much greater length than that which I found last Friday, albeit I most likely blew it on sports cards. I was hoping to get 75 miles out of this week's money; either that or an Adrian Peterson rookie card.
The setting for the remainder of my week's noteworthy events was downtown. The center of the universe you all know very well.
I try to get downtown as much as I can. I think it's an area with a great deal of potential. Potential I hope will be capitalized on.
While contemplating all the unused space, I, with the aid of Cristi, stumbled onto the center of our universe. It's northwest of the old Tulsa Union Depot, what is now the Oklahoma Jazz Hall of Fame. For us, it was a perfect stopping point on our walk about town/photo shoot. We like to jump off of things and take pictures. You know, fool our viewers into thinking we're flying. Most go for it. We're good.
The Center of the Universe was designed to be somewhat of a strange acoustic experience. When I spoke or Cristi answered, our voices made an odd echoing sound. After five or 10 minutes, the novelty of the echoing wore off and the top of the pedestrian bridge was transformed from a "cool echo-y place" back into just the middle of our universe.
Although I'm still a little confused about the title of the place and the physics of the acoustics, we got some good photos out of it. They will most likely result in my mother saying, "You really shouldn't jump so high. You could turn an ankle or worse." Sorry, Mom, I just love seeing myself soar through the air like that.
After the flying and echoing we met up with some friends at The Continental, 421 E. 1st St., for The Green Party.
I had been to The Continental for similar events in the past and enjoyed myself. I was at the Red Party in December and unfortunately failed to wear red. Not because I have a problem with authority, but because I had no idea when I left my home I would be attending a red-themed-party hours later. I'm not audacious enough to pull off no red at such a party, so I was just out of place.
I felt like a house painter at the Oscar's. Luckily, I was fairly confident there was little chance anyone would be giving me a statuette.
That Santa Claus was the life of the party. He always is. I bet he knew he was going to a red party when he left the house.
I learned from my blunder and this time wore green to the Green Party. I decided against going as a Leprechaun. I like attention, but I don't love it. The turn-out was good, the music was funky, but I kept thinking I was hearing that damn tornado siren from Wednesday's lunch break. Surely the deejays weren't sampling a warning signal in their house music.
No, it's only the paranoia, Isaac.
I walked to the bar and bought a beer and a couple of sodas. As I made my way back to the dance floor I thought to myself, I guess I won't be getting that 75 miles or the Adrian Peterson rookie card.
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