The Sack Artist and Me

This weekend I had the distinct pleasure of attending a box social with none other than The Sack Artist (see his blog at TheSackArtist.blogspot.com). The party was at a mutual "friend's" house. It was a night filled with beer pong, rap music, and my own genius.

I have yet to discuss it in this blog, but I suffer from prosopagnosia or "Face Blindness". I can remember everything about you: age, weight, height, hobbies, address, bedtime, and favorite food that is easiest to poison. I cannot, however, distinguish between your face and a regulation size American football. It goes without saying that this could cripple my social life, but I've developed two systems to compensate.

The first, is simple: I fake it. When I see someone who recognizes me, I fight fire with fire and recognize them right back. You would be very, very surprised how well this works. If you stay general, nod along, and only volunteer the absolute minimum to the conversation, the person will never catch on to your complete absence from his/her interaction with you. Had I never developed prosopagnosia, I would still probably do this.

The second is simple: blinkers. I build a personal strobe light to be worn by the people I want to be able to identify. It is a one inch by one inch by one inch cube that flashes at an interval set by me. Each has its own flash pattern as I use the pattern to identify the person. Through some clever rewiring of the bulb and the use of KGB batteries, these puppies flash at a brightness that roughly triples that of our sun. To date I have only built eight, one for each of my brothers (that's seven). The final eighth model has had its proportions quadrupled. A larger model for a larger ally: The Sack Artist.

Sack is a mountain of a man, easily eight feet tall and tipping the scales at over 450 lbs. His face is unrecognizable to me, but I have it on good authority that it is bearded. Had I any grasp of what a beard is, I would insist his is the best. I had already been at the party for about an hour before he showed up, blinker already worn and activated. He would later tell me he wears it out on any occasion just in case he runs into me. Learning this could have brought me to tears had my tear ducts not been cauterized at age eight.

The combination of Sack's height, and the blinker's increased size had a rather interesting effect on the epileptics in the crowd. Lets just say the line for the beer pong table got much shorter. Capitalizing on the short line, Sack and I demanded the next open game. It was dominated largely by Sack as I failed to make a single cup. It ended with one of our opponents finding out that he did in fact have epilepsy. During his fall to the ground he knocked over three of his teams remaining cups, leaving one final cup teetering on the edge of the table. Thinking fast, I forsook trying to get my ball in the cup, and instead threw it directly at the cup. It fell from the table landing on top of our newly epileptic friend. His partner protested, and we all discovered that I am not as good at feigning remorse as I am familiarity. Everyone learned something during this game.

Post-game, it was becoming obvious that Sack and I were wearing out our welcome. We were receiving an ice cold shoulder, so we did what anyone would do. The bathrooms were both in use, so we had our sword fight in the master bedroom of the house. I touched all the produce in the fridge and dirtied the linens. Meanwhile Sack turned the thermostat up to 110 degrees, and stole the "Epilepsy Association of Chicago" sign. For the coup de gras, Sack threw me atop his shoulders, hoisted the keg over both of our heads, and began the 3.4 mile run to the nearest parking garage. Modern science will later describe this feat as: Wookie Strength. During our exodus, still sitting on his shoulders, keg still over both of our heads, he insisted I drink from it to lighten the load. Not one to question the logic of a man in the heat of Wookie Strength, I obliged.

Arriving at the parking garage, the immediate threat had been out run, but our hunger for beer pong remained. We were also missing a few key items as we had no cups, balls, table, or opponents. In the middle of lamenting our hopeless situation, the 62 ounces of beer I had guzzled whilst sitting atop another man's shoulders during a 3.4 mile run caught up to me. Sack's atrocious running form had shaken the beer in my stomach so much that the projectile vomit traveled over 12 feet, landing flush in a convertible. Without saying another word, I lept back to Sack's shoulders as he once again hoisted the keg over his head. He began to run laps around the parking garage. After I had chugged the requisite 62 ounces of beer, and he had run 12 laps around the garage, we found another convertible, took aim, and fired. Our night was saved. Later we developed a rough way of keeping score, imaginary opponents, and a name for this marvelous sport. I blacked out all of this information, but I can assure you that it was all very good stuff. I fully expect this game to become the next big thing. Completely replacing beer pong on college campuses.

Two days and three hours later, we both awoke at the exact same time. For a moment we assessed our environment, established eye contact , shared one succinct nod, and then both went our separate ways. I still believe he is out there partying it up, blinker in tow. It is worth noting that during our two day three hour hibernation in a parking garage, we were the stars of not one but three You Tube police brutality videos. Until next time Sack Artist.

-S.L.