On the night of Nov. 5, at Harder Stadium I was arrested and hauled to the Santa Barbara County Jail for public intoxication while wearing nothing more than a tuxedo g-string and handcuffs.

I started drinking at 2:00 p.m. that day in honor of UCSB’s big soccer game against Cal Poly later that evening. By the time I finished class around 6:00 p.m., I was trashed and psyched for the game. My friends convinced me to streak during the second half. However, the California State Penal Code for exposing one’s genitals in public requires that the person convicted register as a sex offender. In light of that, I decided not to streak in the traditional sense of 100 percent nakedness. So I dug through my closet and came upon a tuxedo g-string and cuff links, a party boy Halloween costume I had worn previously. It was perfect: essentially nude without exposing any genitals.

To conceal my identity, I painted a handlebar mustache and chop sideburns on my face. I also blacked out my eyes, like a raccoon. Painted on my back were the words “fuck Poly.” And, of course, no tuxedo is complete without a bowtie and cuff links.

After stripping both the clothes from my body and the ball from Poly’s keeper, I scored a goal of my own – the only goal of the game, I might add. The roar of the crowd made me feel like a pro athlete again. To my surprise, another streaker simultaneously jumped on the field with me. He was wearing a pair of Italian-themed underwear with a printed penis on the front, as if he were purposely hiding his own genitals. We must have read the same Penal Code.

Anyway, by now I had my eyes on the planned escape route. But in the chaos of the moment, my intoxicated legs just sort of tripped over themselves. The next thing I knew, my face was in the grass and some security guard was mounted on top of my backside. I remember him saying, “Got you good fucker! Got you!” Man, whoever you are, you didn’t get shit, okay? I fell down and you just sort of laid on top of me. And at least I’m not the one chasing a naked dude across a field in front of 10,000 people.

I slid with such force that, when I fell down, the front part of my g-string had slipped down to about mid-thigh. I thought for sure that my junk would be flopping for all to see when I got up, which would have completely defeated the purpose of me trying to cover up in the first place. In that split second, I pictured myself walking door to door through Isla Vista having to explain to all my neighbors why I’m a sex offender. But luckily the back part of the g-string was still fit firmly around the top of my buns and waist. The elasticity of the string snapped the sac package back into position when I stood up, like a slingshot.

What I remember most about the arrest was how damn itchy my body was: I was covered in grass from the fall, except I couldn’t do anything about it because I was cuffed. It was the most uncomfortable, hopeless feeling of my life. The cop wouldn’t itch my tummy when I asked him.

I had never been to jail before. But I think the combination of intoxication and exhilaration distracted me from any fearful expectations. Inmates gathered around the tiny windows of the holding cells and stared and laughed as I was being escorted through the complex in just my g-string and handlebar mustache with chops. Too bad their printer was broken. I couldn’t receive a copy of my mug shot. All the guards called all their guard buddies to come check out “this crazy dude in a g-string.” They searched me. They actually made me put my hands on the wall and spread ’em. When I was ordered by one of the guards to remove my shoelaces I asked, “How come? So I can’t hang myself?” He chuckled and looked towards my waist, referring to what I was wearing and said, “That should be the least of your worries at this point.” However, he was nice enough to lend me an official county jail jumpsuit for the night.

I didn’t sleep a wink. The drunk tank sucks. It was like being crammed in a public restroom with fifteen of the most disgusting, dirty, grungy men anyone could imagine. The concrete floor was cold and wet. But the worst part of the whole night was the damn cottonmouth. Holy crap. I would have done anything for some Chapstick and water.

I was released at 5:00 a.m. They were kind enough to lend me some pants, a t-shirt and an official pair of county jail boxers. But with no money and no phone, I couldn’t call any of my friends to come pick me up. So I figured, meh, I still have my running shoes on and I.V. can’t be any further than like three miles. I ditched the jeans in order to run faster. Picture a guy charging it down the 217 at 5:30 a.m. in white boxers with “county jail” printed on the side, and then you’ll have me.

It ended up being about a six mile run home, but a nice one. The sun was coming up and I was getting my day’s workout in. It was a fitting end to a night of the unexpected.