The Virgin goes eye to eye with Bill Nye the Science Guy

I'm back! Because of bad decisions, long work hours, and what can only be crappy karma, I was hit with a combination of allergies, a cold, and losing my voice -- the latter through smoke inhalation nonetheless. Needless to say, I did nothing but drink tea and sleep last week. But I'm back with a vengeance with my most memorable DV task so far!

#36 Never Have I Ever: Met Bill Nye the Science Guy

Foreplay: There is no doubt that I am ruled by the right side of my brain. Mathematics and science simply elude me although I admittedly make no attempt to gather them.

However, there's no need for any of that mumbo-jumbo anymore since I learned everything I ever needed to know about science from one my few childhood idols.

Honestly, my list of childhood idols is quite short:

• Conan O'Brien
• Adam Corolla
• Bill Nye the Science Guy

Now, does it makes sense to you why I am the way I am?

The Down and Dirty: A glorious email from my alma mater invited me to come hear Bill Nye the Science Guy speak. There was no question in my mind that I was going to be there bright and early that morning.

Daywalker and her sister saved me a seat in the surprisingly small lecture hall when I arrived 30 minutes before the talk. Although the space wasn't completely full yet, there was no way it was going to be able to house everyone who wanted to see Bill Nye. And I was right. People were sitting in the aisles, crowding around the back, and -- no joke -- climbing over the back hall ledge to peek over the seats. There must have been at least 250 people in there.

The whole room was buzzing in anticipation. I could practically feel the child-like excitement vibrating from every twenty-something year old who had grown up watching the science show.

Finally, Bill Nye ran through the crowded aisles in his pressed suit and bow tie. The dude does not age! It's like he was cryogenically frozen next to Walt Disney, only thawed out to give hilariously enthused speeches in front of starry-eyed students.

Bill Nye's talk, titled " Our Planet Isn't What It Used to Be, So Let's Change the World!", was -- to put it simply -- absofuckinglutely astounding. He was charming, brilliant, and hilarious all the while focusing on astronomy, global warming, and power consumption. There was never a dull moment during his 2-hour presentation and it made my heart sing to see that Bill Nye still possessed the ability to present the most convoluted information in a fun and coherent way. Most of all, he made us feel like kids again -- blindly optimistic that we could actually make a difference.

The Afterglow: After the talk and subsequent Q&A session, a large crowd gathered around the man himself to shake his hands and snap a picture. I was obviously no different.

Daywalker grimaced at the mass of people but I was determined to fight my way up there to get a photo and tell Bill Nye that although he wants us to change the world, he has already done it himself. After staggering around for 10 minutes, I used my newfound assertiveness to force Daywalker and her sister up for a picture before stepping up to the stage myself.

Unfortunately, there was no time to pour my 8-year-old heart out to the man who made me build a make-shift seismograph out of bottle caps and kill a handful of my mother's white roses by tie-dying them. Instead, I gave him a half hug for my picture which he returned and offered a general thank you. I practically skipped out of the lecture hall.

It was an amazing experience to finally meet a figure that so strongly shaped your education and outlook on life. And not just you but probably 1/3 of your peers, too. Although I didn't pursue science in the long run, I still have a love for discovery and global impact.

I think that's why Bill Nye the Science Guy is so beloved by those who grew up watching the kooky bow-tied scientist and his antics: he made us enthusiastic that we could make a difference and change the world. He made me feel like a kid again.

The Virgin gets telephonetic

#32 Never Have I Ever: Had a psychic reading over the phone

Foreplay: I haven't exactly had the best experience with psychics in the past. I'm a person who believes in logic and science rather than faith and god(s). Yes, intuition exists but so does rationale and general common sense. I've just never been a believer.

That is until Whiskey Sour once mentioned his mother's "intuition" in passing. I had to painfully extract the whole story from him but it turns out that she had predicted some eerily specific and accurate occurrences already. Now, I obviously don't buy into this type of thought but it was coming from Whiskey Sour -- the sort of guy who is as blunt as the end of a swinging baseball bat, who isn't afraid to cut you down to size and will thoroughly mock any situation. So for this guy to put himself in such a compromising position speaks volumes.

Soon enough I had an appointment with Madame Whiskey Sour.

The Down and Dirty: Originally our reading was supposed to be staged over GChat but at the last minute we decided to make it a phone call since it would be easier.

Whiskey Sour called and passed the phone over to his mother. She explained that she would answer my questions and then read me my cards (I'm assuming she meant Tarot). As with most readings, she asked for my full name, meditated (which is quite awkward when you're clueless and on the phone like I was), and then invited my questions.

I started off by asking about my career which, at the moment, is my focus in life. And she surprised me with an answer: Move to New York. Within a year. I've never even stepped foot east of New Orleans and although I've always wanted to go to New York, the idea of packing up my past 20-something years in Southern California and moving there without knowing a soul is daunting to say the least (shit-in-my-pants-while-curled -in-fetal-position-terrifying to say the most).

But, she said, this would lead me to my successful future career. Plus, I'd only be there 3-4 years anyway. Alright, I can deal with that. I have always wanted to get out of Los Angeles for a while.

Then came relationships and love and all that nonsense. I'll save the drama for my mama and just say that there were things I did and didn't want to hear. Some made me tear up a bit and others made me hopeful. One interesting tidbit was that I'd meet my future husband outside of the U.S. This was sort of surprising but dude! Maybe I'll bag me a Brit -- finally!

I asked a few more questions about random things and then she read my cards. At the end, we talked a lot about my moving to New York. I admitted that I was quite apprehensive to do it alone and she said I am a visual person (incredibly true) and simply needed to see myself there. She advised to me go rent "that Sex and the City movie" and visualize the streets and buildings and atmosphere of the city itself "but ignore those stupid girls and their problems". Hah, I love old Southern women who talk to God.

The Afterglow: Apparently, Madame Whiskey talks to God and he answers her. So it isn't necessarily a psychic reading rather than a Catholic conference.

I think I expected a more accurate reading. I mean, nothing was egregiously wrong -- except when I asked about my sporadic headaches and she said it was because I consumed too much caffeine; I don't drink coffee, tea, or soda so um... no? But I couldn't question her authenticity since it was a friend's mom (and you just don't do that to a friend's mom) and she was generous enough to take almost an hour out of her hectic schedule to entertain my stupid curiosity.

Maybe I'm disappointed because I didn't hear the things I wanted to. I'm still doubtful, hopeful, and a little heartbroken.

Whiskey Sour has obviously had many readings done by his mother so he and I exchanged notes, many on potential future relationships.

Whiskey Sour: I'm putting my heart through the blender here for something that may or may not happen.
Daily Virgin: Hey, at least you're not going to marry some foreigner who is probably using you for a green card.

The Virgin grows a ball

#18 Never Have I Ever: Let a Magic 8 Ball make my decisions

Foreplay: I wasn't expecting to do this particular D.V. task today but it was apparent when I found myself badgering Whiskey Sour about Blackjacket.

I had texted Blackjacket a noncommittal message the day after thanking him for helping me cross something off my list, not expecting a response. But less than 5 minutes later he answered: Of course! We'll have to work on some other things on that list. Dude, he used an exclamation point! Just like this one! My god, just look at it!

I responded with something aggressively witty. He dorkily LOLed. The conversation eventually died off soon after he suggested we get together another time to discuss the Oscars. But OMG!

I told myself I'd hold out until Wednesday to contact him again but I've never been one for patience. And if I was going to concede, I might as well go all in and ask him out, right? I incessantly pestered Whiskey Sour all morning. Is it too soon to text him today? What time should I do it? What's a good date idea? Oh god, am I putting too much thought behind this? Will he think I'm crazy?!

"Alright," Whiskey Sour sighed, "Now I understand why guys do the asking. Girls are way too analytical."

The Down and Dirty: In my time of need, I turned to the Magic 8 Ball. Alright, so it isn't an official Magic 8 Ball if you want to get technical about it.

I'm sort of embarrassed to use it, not because I'm letting a toy make my decisions, but because it's a Magic Date Ball. I'm not even fucking kidding. It's pink with "Date Ball" swirled across the top and comes equipped with valley-girl accented answers. It'll do only because I found it at work and am not willing to shell out money for this experiment.

As I gave it a hearty shake, I asked the appropriately named Date Ball, "Should I ask Blackjacket out today?"

It coyly responded with: I'm cool with that! ♥

Yes, with heart and all. Oh Jesus. It was like asking for words of wisdom from a Hooter's waitress. Maybe trusting a pink ball filled with glitter wasn't the best idea after all.

But then my coworker asked what I was doing shaking the ball so violently. I explained and he said I shouldn't base my life off of an inanimate object. I reminded him that he was the one who inspired this D.V. task.

"Why did I do that?" he asked while giving the ball a good rattle.

"That wasn't a yes or no question."

"I know. I just wanted to show you how -- Whoa!" I peered into the dark abyss of answers: No question! ♥

"Dude! It knew that wasn't a question! This Magic 8 Ball is omnipotent!"

For the rest of the day I got it to perkily answer a medley of questions such as: Is 6:24 a good time to text Blackjacket [sidebar: I'm neurotic with numbers, ok!]? (♥ It's lookin' good!) Should I eat these chips? (Sounds good to me! ♥) Should I go for a run after work? (Yeah, right!)

Man, this ball is good.


The Afterglow: This was actually a really fun experiment. It helped take a load of my mind and showed me that I tend to over-analyze most situations -- or just that I feel more confident making decisions when I can blame something/someone else. But I'll go with the more mature answer in this case.

The Virgin will make you her bitch

#16 Never Have I Ever: Been propositioned

Foreplay: First of all, I'd like to make it clear that I have NEVER wanted to be propositioned. Sure, I've joked about it a plethora of times, you know: College tuition is costing a freakin' fortune. Well, time to turn some tricks. Maybe even be a mail order bride (this statement was usually followed by the response of "Uh... we're already in America, dude").

But going with my set parameters, this was just a spontaneous experience I just couldn't not include.

The Down and Dirty: We're gathered at Speed Racer's abode in celebration of Hezekiah's brief visit to L.A. I don't know half the party but the free flowing booze quickly fixed that. A group of Speed Racer's hometown friends were in attendance and they seemed like generally awesome guys. One fed me drinks for most of the night. Another got low with me during a Flo Rida song. There was even a guy who looked exactly like Chris Martin from Coldplay. After a homoerotic dance party, an epic game of King's Cup, and taking shots of Deep Throat sans hands, the 10 or so of us settled down for a movie in Speed Racer's home theater.

During the movie I originally sat next to the makeshift bartender but when he went to grab a drink his seat was quickly swooped by another attendee who I will refer to as Skeezy Motherfucker from here on out -- you'll understand that moniker very soon. Now, Skeezy Motherfucker and I had been distantly cordial all night; he was a dry humor type and I was drawn to his more comical counterparts. So I thought it was odd but not out of bounds for drunk behavior when he started leaning over his seat to show me innocuous text messages he was going to send to his girlfriend during the movie.

That is until he slowly and deliberately typed out a text and glanced at me a few times before leaning over to let me read the screen. Meet me outside

Do you know the saying "to wear your heart of your sleeve"? Well, I wear my emotions on my face. And I'm pretty sure my face conveyed a convincing feeling of ?!

He gave me a pointed look with his bleary eyes and nudged my arm suggestively. All I could do was frantically shake my head and excuse myself to bathroom to collect my thoughts. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Who the hell does he think I am?! Okay, I thought, maybe he's drunker than I thought or maybe this is just a joke.

I washed my hands, flicked off the light, and exited the bathroom. But something didn't feel right. While my eyes were adjusting in the pitch dark hallway, I felt like someone's presence. "Hey," came a deep voice 6 inches to my left.

GAH!! I wanted to tell him that I wasn't interested or to get away from me or to insult his style of seduction but nothing I could say could have stopped the onslaught of what-the-fuckery that was about to spew from his mouth.

"Can I kiss your feet?"

Um. Excuse me? But there was no hesitation in his question.

"You're very beautiful and I just want to kiss your feet."

WHAT. As I stood there dumbstruck by his request, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the nearest room. At this point, I was ready to scream bloody murder and deliver a swift kick to his manly region but he sat down on the floor and gestured at a nearby seat. I gingerly perched on the edge of the bed, prepared to bolt if necessary.

"Can I please kiss your feet? And could you be mean to me while I do it?" Before I could stammer out an answer or even quirk a judgmental eyebrow, he reached for my foot and placed a chaste kiss on it. GAAAAAHHHHH!!

I recoiled in pure shock and all but ran back to the home theater. I began chugging water in an effort to sober up and get the fuck out of there. This was probably one of the handful of times I've ever regretted my last drink.

Skeezy Motherfucker slinked back to the room. Oh, maybe he's embarrassed and we can pretend that never happened. But no. Dude kept looking at me -- not sly, sideways glances but bonafide lean-over-his-seat-and-into-mine-full-on-stare-for-30-seconds-at-a-time looking. I wondered if it would be a party foul to scream, "Dude, get the fuck away from me!" in the middle of the movie.

He then poked my arm and leaned over to whisper, "Can I pay you to beat me?"

This emoticon best describes my face at the time: o_O

At that point his girlfriend called and after quietly chatting for a minute, he passed it off to my dance partner who happened to be her flatmate. As soon as the phone left his hand, he was back at my side, whispering dirty nonsense in my ear. Skeezy Motherfucker was growing increasingly desperate. Name your price. I just really want you to beat me. Seriously, I'll pay you.

Finally, Speed Racer turned around at all the whispering. I mouthed SAVE ME and he quirked an eyebrow but quickly gestured for me to follow him. He locked us in his bedroom and only then did I let out a strangled scream of horror.

The Afterglow: I cried sanctuary in Speed Racer's bedroom for a good 15 minutes, ranting about my potential career as a dominatrix, before feeling safe enough to venture back outside. We discovered Skeezy Motherfucker passed out on a couch, snoring like a storm was coming. Having sobered up, I hightailed it out of there while I still had a chance.

Part of me wishes I would've handled it differently but I honestly wonder what else could I have said.

Yes, I want to kick you in the balls but I'm afraid you'll like it.

The Virgin can see the future

#14 Never Have I Ever: Had a palm reading and tarot card reading

Foreplay: Generally, I'd rather not waste money on entertainment akin to setting a pile of cash on fire.

Fortune telling is all mumbo-jumbo for the most part. I can get better advice by... oh, say a Magic 8 Ball or plucking petals off a daisy than shelling out hard earned cash to a professional con artist who believes she can talk to dead people. I've observed friends perform cold readings before and it astounds me how many people lap this psychic stuff up.

I'm not going preach from my pedestal though -- astrology, magic, and psychics used to intrigue me. A much more naive version of myself visited a psychic a few years ago on one of those whoo!-crazy-summer-with-college-friends-yeeeaaaah! nights. After the "energy reading" a little voice in the back of my head kept chirping That was so amazing! She knew that you had a boyfriend! And that you're a confused college student! Wooooow!!

That voice was swiftly squished by a science textbook (my roommate's at the time; not that I would actually have a science textbook in my possession -- pfft).

The Down and Dirty: Hermosa and I headed to what his iPhone deemed as the "Best Psychic in L.A.". Because true clairvoyants are located right off Sunset Blvd in Hollywood. In a tacky hovel of a home office. Obviously.


As soon as we stepped in we were immediately accosted by a mother-daughter team. Hermosa was totally gung-ho about the psychic reading but I was much more apprehensive. Even though they offered a palm & tarot card reading package for $20, I thought of taking that bill and using it towards... oh, I don't know... 10 boxes of Easy Mac and a pack of temporary tattoos. You know, something actually worthwhile.

The daughter piped up, "I already see a lot of big things coming towards you very soon. You should do the reading so I can tell you more about them." If her pupils had suddenly dilated with dollar signs, she wouldn't have been more obvious.

But Hermosa hounded me into it and the mother relegated us to her two daughters, both in their early to mid 20s. We were led into their eerily clean living room where Hermosa was seated on the bleach-white sofa and I was taken to the glass dining table.

I seasoned her deck of tarot cards before she laid them out one by one in specific formations. My tarot card reading reeked of shit as she pulled it out of her ass. Oh, I've been working hard towards my career? Gee, don't know any other 20-something year old doing that. Sometimes I'm physically tired because of negative energy? You don't say.

The palm reading was even worse. She first opened by pointing between Hermosa and I and stating omnipotently, "I sense a connection between you two. Are you dating or friends?" What other options are there for two people who you saw walk in together no more than 15 minutes ago?!

And it just went downhill from there. She told me that I was closer to my dad than my mom; my mom is super affectionate while my dad responds to "I love you" with a nod in my general direction. Apparently, I'm worried about my younger sibling despite being the baby of the family. Oh, and then this lovely gem happened:

Back Alley Psychic: Someone who hurt you in the past is going to contact you soon if not already.
Daily Virgin: I've only ever had two boyfriends. One is now my best guy friend and I've hung out with the other on multiple occasions since amicably splitting.
BAP: Well, maybe a friend who you wanted something more with?
DV: Look, if I wanted something more with any of them, I would've gotten something more.
BAP: Perhaps a coworker? Are you sure?
DV: Please. Just... no.

At one point, she asked to change positions because the shadows cast on my palms were giving her an unclear reading. I would've given myself a facepalm had she not been holding my hands.

The Afterglow: Total waste of [Hermosa's] money. It was great dinner fodder for afterward but I could have gotten a more accurate reading from Panda Express' fortune cookies.

Hermosa had been so enthusiastic about his first tarot card reading that he asked his psychic about the significance of each card. Every. Single. One. Of them. As a result, she only dealt half of the deck and stashed away the rest. Subsequently, their readings ended far earlier than mine. So what did they do during this waiting period? The early-20-something year old psychic decided to go grab her infant and force Hermosa to play with it. For 20 minutes. WHAT.

I knew psychics were convincing scam artists but I didn't realize they were so skilled as to make Hermosa pay to be a babysitter. That little voice is in awe once again. Now, where the hell is a periodic table or flu pamphlet or something...

The Virgin is ridin' dirty

#13 Never Have I Ever: Ridden a mechanical bull

Foreplay: I don't think anything sticks out like a sore cowboy thumb in fabulously flamboyant West Hollywood more than Saddle Ranch Chop House. If Hell has an afterlife tailored to me, this is probably it.

It's a gimmicky magnet for every goateed tourist wearing Ed Hardy and local parties of women either christening a newly 21 year old or mourning for a future bride. They present Adios Motherfuckers in milk jugs, serve beach ball sized helpings of cotton candy, and have a resident mechanical bull to flaunt machismo and/or mammaries. Need I paint a more detailed picture?

The Down and Dirty: Watching tables of bros demolishing beer towers and listening to late 90s alt rock wasn't exactly how I expected to spend my Monday night but here I was, parked on a wooden bench and munching on corn bread. I had a mission: To mount that mechanical bull and ride it for all it's worth (its worth turned out to be $4 per ride).

All was quiet on the Western front until 10pm and then it turned into National Lampoon. Busty boozer after busty boozer mounted the machine only to grind with the motions for a few seconds before the operator compelled the bull to vibrate wildly. The rider would squawk as her bosom shook like seismisms and futilely place a hand over in false modesty. The operator would take this opportunity to toss her lumbering form onto the mats below.

I quickly noticed that women who lacked disclosed cleavage would be spared from the humiliating vibrations but were bucked off quicker than their exposed companions. I looked down at my own outfit: gray jeans, black tank top, slim-fit tuxedo jacket. Aw hell. There's nothing that screams I have A-cups! more than men's wear for women.

I nursed a couple of Blue Moons to treat my performance anxiety before finally stepping up to the gate. I kicked off my shoes and mounted the machine. The operator wasn't as skeezy as I thought and advised me to grip with my thighs before letting 'er go.

Clutching with my left hand and balancing with my right, I rode that sucker like Annie freakin' Oakley. At that point I was thankful for the miracle pelvis-relaxer that is alcohol. The operator refrained from any unnecessary vibrations but cranked up the level once I managed to stay put for more than 10 seconds. An iPhone video of my spin documented that I lasted 32 seconds before finally sliding off.

The Afterglow: I WANT TO DO IT AGAIN!! Yes, my thighs were sore and I ended up with my legs in the air, but MAN that was the most fun I could have with my pants on in that sort of situation.

My next mission: To stay on the bull for the entire ride. I guess Hell isn't so bad after all -- at least they serve beer.

Giddy up, cowboy!

The Virgin acts her age while boozin'

#6 Never Have I Ever: Consumed anything that was older than me.

Foreplay: I have no qualms with booze or things that are older than I am. Which is why I had no problem strapping on a pair of pumps, slapping on some red lipstick, and braving the dreary nighttime rain to meet a group of older friends for some old fashion boozin' in Downtown Los Angeles on a Friday night.

The Down and Dirty: After a failed attempt at The Edison (who knew people still wanted to get crunk in the rain? Right on!), friends and I made a hop, skip, and jump over to The Varnish. To get there, you have to first walk through Cole's, a rustic little restaurant. A dark door at the back of the establishment, guarded by a demure gentleman and a haughty hostess, opens up to an anachronistic, seated bar operating similarly to a Prohibition era speakeasy. Now, this esoteric attitude would be awesome if Cole's didn't already have a bar at the front of the restaurant...

But anyway, after our "15 minute" wait (aka 45 minutes) our party was led to a dim booth to commence our boozin'. Even though I was content with my Hot Buttered Rum, I couldn't help but be utterly intrigued by my tablemate's 23 year old shot of rum if only for the fact that it was older than me. I guess it didn't help that I was at least 4 years younger than everyone else at the table.


After a plethora of jokes about the rum's and my conception (har har, boozin' --> sexin'; got it), I took a modest sniff. The rum was warm and smooth going down but left a spicy bite on my lips. I'm not a shot kind of girl but the 1920s atmosphere definitely called for a classy thimble of aged liquor - neat. It was perfect for the speakeasy setting. I could practically taste the soap residue from the wannabe bathtub rum.

The Afterglow: After Varnish, I had a few more drinks along our Downtown bar hop, danced on stage at an Irish pub, and then woke up 4 hours later for work. Which is when I wrote most of this entry having successfully staved off a hangover. As much as booze acts like your BFF4lyf, in the end hydration is your friend, kids.

I'm still not a shot pounder; definitely a cocktail sipper even in a speakeasy. If I'm going out to a swanky bar that employs a bonafide mixologist rather than your neighborhood bartender, I'm getting the most complicated bang for my buck, damn it.

But still... how awesome is it to drink alcohol that was produced the same time your parents were conceiving you?!

P.S. I literally just read this article about how the U.S. government poisoned alcohol during Prohibition resulting in approximately 10,000 deaths. WTF, man?!