I swear I’m not dead, I’ve just been extremely busy pondering whether an NFL player or a bear would win in a foot race, and trying to sell babies on eBay. I will resurface one of these days.
-Zanramon
zanramon@addictedtowords.com
Conventional wisdom tells us that drinking alcohol is an activity solely for miscreants and rabble rousers. People that contribute nothing but pitchy renditions of “Danny Boy” to society, the veritable scum of the earth. Sometimes it seems that drinking is a worse crime than say, arson, or even public nudity (all three of which can go hand in hand in hand).
Well it’s currently 6:03 AM, and what I am about to tell you is going to fly in the face of everything you may think you know about imbibing freely and plentifully. I can say to you with reasonable certainty that your paradigm will be shifted.
As stated, it’s approximately 6 AM. I realize that this is not an unreasonable hour for many human beings to wake up and begin their day. My father has usually ran 5 miles, read a novel, cooked a turkey, and saved 8 orphans from almost certain death by 6 AM on most days. Even I have been through a multitude of phases in my life where I was consistently getting up at 6 AM. Be it voluntarily, such as when I would inexplicably show up for high school an hour early every day during my sophomore and junior years, or completely by force, such as when I worked* at a parking garage one summer.
However, as my life stands now, there is almost nothing that would cause me to get up at 6 AM. My earliest class is at 9, and that’s only once a week. My days are assuredly late-afternoon/evening heavy when it comes to activities that aren’t sleeping. So, to what do I attribute the fact that I am up, alert, and productive** so early this morning? I attribute it to alcohol. It may not make sense yet, but bear with me.
Last night, I attended a baby shower for a friend of mine, thrown by another friend of mine. Such as is often the case in situations like that, there are usually lots of friends of mine present. Needless to say, we all had a few drinks***, and a few laughs, and as most of us are 21 or 22 and graduating college in less than 2 weeks****, some of us had more than a few drinks. I was somewhere in between “a few drinks” and “more than a few drinks”.
It is assumed that waking up after a night of moderate to heavy drinking leads to a state often referred to as being “hung over”. This is absolutely true. As I’m sure many of you know, being “hung over” is brutal and incidentally is also the only time I’ve ever felt like my head had gotten stepped on by one of those morbidly obese Americans. I’m not sure if you’ve heard but they’re numbers are growing at an alarming rate. Possibly in preparation for an invasion. I digress.
But it’s not always true. There’s another phenomenon tied to drinking copious amounts of alcohol that occurs just as often as being “hung over”, often at the same very same time. This phenomenon doesn’t have a catchy title like “hung over” (although it clearly needs one). It’s non-catchy title that most people use, simply for the absence of anything else, is something like “waking up way too fucking early and not being able to fall back asleep despite the fact that I went to bed at about 4:45 in the morning”. Alcohol has a funny way of passing you out, and then far too soon afterwards; waking you up and keeping you up.
Common sense tells us that getting up “way too fucking early” gives you a few more hours during the day to get things done, or in my case, shift paradigms. I alluded to it in the previous paragraph, but this is almost never true due to the fact that those few more hours are almost invariably ruined by the fact that you are “hung over” and completely incapable of accomplishing anything other than eating greasy food or laying in bed staring at the ceiling trying to figure out how your shirt sleeve got ripped off the previous night, and who has it now.
This is not always the case though. Not everybody believes me, but there is a vaunted state in which you drink the precisely correct amount of alcohol, which activates the early hour of rising, but not the effects of being “hung over”. Suddenly you are wide awake at 6 AM and feeling great. This is extremely difficult to do, but today I managed to mix the chemicals right and achieve bliss.
In light of this new information, alcohol needs to stop being viewed as the root of all evil. When used properly it can be harnessed as an alarm clock that somehow eliminates all tiredness (until about 3:30 PM). From now on, each and every night I will drink the elusive perfect amount of alcohol to add hours of production to my day. I’ve done some admittedly exhaustive calculations to discover this perfect amount for me. Unfortunately, the perfect amount differs from person to person and also varies heavily depending on the type, color, and strength of the particular alcohol you are consuming.
(Pro tip: Mixing types of alcohol will unquestionably ruin any chances you may have had to find the perfect amount.)
When I’m drinking each and every night throughout my life, I fully expect lesser people to call me such grating names as “bum”, “loser”, or “alcoholic”. Even without the “I’m rubber you’re glue” rhymes I plan on throwing back in the face of the naysayers, none of the labels pinned on me will be true. Because, despite the fact that I will be somehow surviving on an hour and fifteen minutes of sleep every night, each morning when these people are sleeping or lazily attending church or going to school or doing whatever petty activities they do, I will be fully awake and shifting paradigms.
Like I just did yours.
-Zanramon
*I mean this in the loosest sense of the word. One of my tasks was cleaning the garage and one fine day a few weeks into that job I discovered discarded needles and cotton balls in what I can only assume was a small lake of urine. After that I spent very little time cleaning and lots of time wandering up and down the parking garage looking at cars. I invented a game where I would stop on each side of the parking garage on each floor and look out over the side at the cars driving by until I spotted a BMW, a Lexus, and a Mercedes. Then I would proceed to the next side on the same floor, when all sides were completed I would proceed to the next floor down. It was really quite productive and fun.
**This is debatable. There’s a growing contingency of people who think that reading anything I’ve written is in no way productive, and may in fact be counterproductive. I know, I don’t understand it either.
***Although not the mother to be. Drinking while pregnant can lead to Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, which should not be confused with Fecal Alcohol Syndrome.
****Holy shit.
There’s something oddly compelling about that hat. Not only would it make Abe Lincoln proud, but it also seems to have an ill-advised level of transparency for a hat that tall. Leyland becomes a monolith while wearing it, a veritable reach to the Gods. It makes a statement, but not an overt one, nor one that I can comprehend. What is the deeper meaning and how can I discover it?
(Also bonus points for perfectly melding into the ATW color scheme.)
-Zanramon
My high school makes me proud. Every time we get in the national news it is for something absurd like this, when I was there it was for the “sleep in” in protest of us having the shortest school year in the developed world. How that is determined, I have no idea. Lincoln High School students exist on a different plane. Here’s the Death Star of senior pranks, in a good way…
From the Smoking Gun, Portland Prom Prank Probed:
APRIL 24–Oregon educators want law enforcement officials to probe who was responsible for mailing parents a letter on school letterhead suggesting that they supply students with alcohol at post-prom parties. The letter, a copy of which you’ll find below, was sent this week to families of students at Portland’s Lincoln High School. Recipients of the missive were urged to consider opening their homes this Saturday for parties as “a safe, secure place for students to have fun,” adding if adults “provide the alcohol, you can have peace of mind knowing that they did not acquire it illegally. Condoms were included with the letters–which were written on Portland Public Schools stationery–since “STD epidemics have spread through other high school communities and we want to prevent such an outbreak as best we can.” The letter was purportedly written by “The Lincoln High School Faculty and Administration.” Officials do not know how the letter’s creator(s) got access to school mailing lists. And while rather well written, the letter did include obvious clues that it was a hoax, including a supposed recommendation from the Oregon Liquor Control Commission. The state agency, the letter claimed, “stated that a fifth of alcohol, like Hennessy Cognac, is sufficient supply for at least 8 adults. One can assume that for 17 to 18 year old individuals, one fifth can probably be spread out to 4 students. Considering our reputation (Drinkin’ Lincoln), in some cases one fifth is only enough for a single person.”
Click through to see the letter. It’s even well written.
-Zanramon
As I type this, the Phoenix Suns are losing by 19 points to the San Antonio Spurs. It looks like they are going to go down 0-3 in this first round best of 7 playoff series, and in all likelihood, they’re season is, in the immortal words of some unspecified girl on either Laguna Beach, or the Hills; “Dunzo”. A Greg Norman syndrome of sorts.
It’s inherently sad for me to see these Suns struggle. They represent all that is good and noble in the NBA. They embody fun, seemingly effortless basketball. They try and score as much and as fast as possible, and they deal with the consequences later, a veritable college student drinking heavily on Cinco de Mayo. They’ve had all kinds of regular season success, and even moderate to strong postseason success, but can’t seem to grab that championship.
Their qualities alone are enough to make my heart frown when the Suns struggle, but even moreso, the rise and fall of the Suns parallels my college career, and to witness their last stand brings to the forefront the fact that I’m graduating in about 3 weeks. Appropriately, my college years will die with these Suns.
Let’s hope in our DeLoreans and drive* back to July 14th, 2004. An 18 year old version of myself had just graduated high school and was enjoying the rest of the summer before falling down the coast to college. The Phoenix Suns, coming off a 29-53 season, signed Steve Nash when the Mavericks weren’t all that interested in trying to bring him back. Both of our futures were bright.
The next four years saw the Suns win 62, 54, 61, and 55 games, arguably the most successful run in their history. The same could be said for me, I learned a lot, had a few drinks and laughs with friends, enjoyed the company of probably a few more beautiful women than I deserved, traveled around the world, and even fell in love once. The Suns and I both inhabited a charmed, higher level of existence.
This season, faced with their inability to get to the NBA Finals, the Suns made a bold, borderline reckless, trade. They traded Shawn Marion, a swiss army knife of a basketball player, and backup point guard Marcus Banks, to the Miami Heat for Shaquille O’Neal. It was unclear at the time whether or not Shaq was still alive. (Like I said, it was a bold trade.) The trade meant the end of the Suns as we knew them. Suddenly decision making was needed, sobriety was required. There were some half court sets, and definitely more throwing the ball into the post than anybody was comfortable with. The Suns were growing up.
So was I. I knew this was my last year. I did stuff solely for the sake of my resume. I added the extra internship and classed up the wardrobe. I had one foot on the next step and one foot still on the ground floor. I still would run and play, but always washed my hands afterwards. Suddenly decision making was needed, sobriety was required.
Now the Suns are crashing and burning, and if Game 1 was any indication, quite spectacularly. Steve Nash is getting old, Grant Hill is held together by scotch tape and Elmer’s glue at this point, we now know that Shaq is alive, but he’s certainly staring his own mortality right in the eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised to see some big changes for them this summer. The prevailing sentiment seems to be to make some trades and build around Amare Stoudemire and Leandro Barbosa. I like to think I’m not crashing and burning, but my college years certainly are. They’re just about over, it’s sad solely for that reason, but also because, like I said, their story played out a lot like the Suns did. Plenty of success, but ultimately their potential was never reached.
I don’t regret anything, but I know I could have stood out a bit more, really made my mark. Sometimes I was too content to do well enough, the equivalent of lots of regular season success and less post season success. I didn’t fail by any means, but I didn’t necessarily come through in the clutch. I imagine the Suns feel the same way, in no way do they regret anything, but they’ve got to feel a bit whistful about what could have been.
Both the Suns and I face uncertain times this summer and on. We’ll both be ending a really great chapter and hoping to write an even better one. I imagine J.K. Rowling felt like this after she wrote Half Blood Prince and felt Deathly Hallows looming. The pressure is formidable, and I hope I am too.
-Zanramon
zanramon@addictedtowords.com
*Or fly, I’m not really sure.
In an effort to get as little accomplished as is possible for a human of my mental prowess, I’m watching my eighth NBA game this weekend right now. And by this weekend, I don’t mean the vast undefined span of “weekend” which always includes Fridays, often includes Thursdays, and frankly can sometimes include any day other than Tuesday. No, I’m using the traditional definition of weekend, which is simply Saturday and Sunday. In two (2) days I have watched eight (8) NBA games. Admittedly not all of each one, but certainly more than 79% of all of them.
I guess the reason I’m explaining all of this is sort of to trick myself into finishing the weekend off with a bit of homework or pontificating or whatever else productive, but mostly because I wanted to share some ideas about redemption and masturbation.
As stated, I’m watching my eighth (8th) out of eight (8) possible NBA games this weekend. Currently, the Boston Celtics are playing the Atlanta Hawks. More than most teams in the NBA, these two teams embody the theme of redemption. The Celtics were awful last year, and after trading for Ray Allen and Kevin Garnett to join Paul Pierce this last offseason, have been rolling up wins like Del Taco workers roll up burritos, quickly, efficiently, and fairly easily. Vegas has them as the favorite to win the NBA title this year, which would almost certainly mean redemption for Allen and Garnett and Pierce, who are three (3) of the NBA’s best players yet have never had much postseason success.
The redemption theme with the Celtics doesn’t stop with the players either. Their coach, Doc Rivers, was considered a very poor coach last year, despite the fact that his nickname would suggest a rather high level of competency. It was painfully apparent that he wasn’t a real doctor. He’s done a markedly better job this year, surely garnering some votes for Coach of the Year. Danny Ainge, the Celtics’ general manager is cruising happily on the fresh asphalt of Redemption Road as well after having what can gently be called rather limited success as a GM, not to mention being fleeced by Kevin Pritchard to take Bassy Telfair for what became Brandon Roy.
The Hawks on the other hand, managed to end the NBA’s longest current playoff drought this year. Atlanta has not qualified for the playoffs since 1999, where they lost to the Knicks and promptly traded Steve Smith for Isaiah Rider, a man who once kicked the female manager of a sports bar. I can only speculate to what type of kick Rider prefers. A dragon kick? A two footed jump kick to the chest? A Ryu/Ken sweep kick straight out of Street Fighter II? I digress. As a rule of thumb in life I like to avoid kicking managers in general, much less managers who are women. I don’t think anybody would disagree with me classifying that trade as a mistake. Thus, even though the Hawks finished 8 games below .500, at 37-45, qualifying for the playoffs at all has to be considered redemption.
This raises the question though, with all these obvious redemption themes weaving like a drunk driver all over this playoff series, why did I just hear “Dancing With Myself” over the PA system during a timeout? Isn’t that just about the least logical song to play during a playoff series like this?
Dancing With Myself is a song by Billy Idol that is ostensibly about masturbation, possibly while looking at yourself in the mirror. I fully understand that playoff series’ don’t have official themes, and the PA DJ’s probably aren’t really concerned about that type of thing anyway, but let’s put that aside for the sake of this essay. Dancing With Myself doesn’t fit the theme of redemption at all, and might even be the worst choice possible.
Masturbation is what one resorts to when they do not have an actual other human available for sexual pleasure, redemption is all about redeeming yourself. Maybe if Dancing With Myself was played a lot during timeouts last year, and I have to assume it was because it’s far too random of a song to just casually throw on the playlist this season, an appropriate song this year might be “Cradle of Love” (if we are sticking with Billy Idol) which not only was as high as number two (#2) on the charts, but is also blatantly and boldly about hooking up with a hot chick. Thus redeeming yourself if you spent all of last night masturbating.
With a little bit of forethought, Boston’s PA DJ’s could have firmly entrenched themselves in the upper echelon of PA DJ’s, but they squandered the opportunity. They certainly deserve credit for involving Billy Idol at all, and not sticking to such drivel as the Baja Men, but I just can’t ignore the magnitude of the opportunity. This redemption theme, so obvious it might even embarrass that rat at the end of “The Departed, should have continued to have been built upon. It wasn’t, and we’re left with a two (2) story split level rather than a Pearl Tower, a tragedy indeed.
-Zanramon
I watched Teen Wolf the other day for the first time since I was probably about eleven (11). I had forgotten both how awesome this movie is, but also how almost nothing in it makes any sense as far as werewolf, or more correctly, lycanthrope, lore goes. I’m absolutely willing to concede that I need to suspend my disbelief on some level in order to make most movies work, and I’m going to go ahead and concede the existence of werewolves. Problem is, this movie cuts down all standards we have established for werewolves. Teen Wolf knocks down all expectations we have of how a werewolf should be. As I said, it’s a deliciously awesome movie, but I want some effort on the believability scale. I know I should embrace pioneers, or we would have no George Washingtons, no Amelia Earharts, No Ansel Adams, not even any Krangs in our world, but for whatever reason, this perturbs me.
WEREWOLF STANDARD BROKEN #1: Werewolves can’t control when they change from human into human-wolf.
Other than the first time it happens to him, Michael J. Fox’s character, Scott Howard can change into the wolf whenever he pleases. Everybody knows that werewolves can’t control when they change into wolves, the moon controls it. Unless they are in Harry Potter, and that’s only because of a potion. Presumably, Howard didn’t have access to potions because there doesn’t seem to be any magic in his world. Except werewolves, which makes this weird quandary. How is this possible that werewolfery is the only magic in Howard’s world? I have no explanations, and to be frank I can’t think about this for too long because it’s far too confusing.
WEREWOLF STANDARD BROKEN #2: When werewolves are not in their human form, they are totally out of control.
When Howard turns into a werewolf he doesn’t go on any killing or maiming rampages. He doesn’t really hurt anybody at all, except for arguably Boof, but that has nothing to do with his wolfery, but rather his penchant for hot blondes. In fact, Howard’s only discernible difference, personality wise, when he becomes a werewolf is that he is far more confident than when he is a human. This really makes no sense to me either because if I were to become covered in hair and sharp teeth and claws it would not boost my confidence. It would most likely lower it. I doubt I would be comfortable in my own skin, as it were, anymore.
WEREWOLF STANDARD BROKEN #3: Werewolves dress poorly.
In almost every case of werewolves throughout history, they either wear no clothes, or just throw on some tattered rags and call it a day. The werewolves in Underworld sometimes have ripped pants (the Incredible Hulk look), but usually have nothing. Professor Lupin skips clothes all together. Animals generally skip clothes, lest they be considered whimsical. Disney is the gold standard for animals wearing clothes, and I highly doubt most animals want to be pigeonholed into the Disney stereotype, thus, they don’t wear clothes.
When Howard is a wolf he either wears his regular clothes, his basketball jersey, or an awesome Vanilla Ice Cream pimp suit. The suit needs no further explanation, as it is plainly and obviously awesome.* But even when wolf Howard rocks his basketball jersey, he does it in style with a headband, presumably as a tribute to one of my top ten (10) favorite NBA players of all time: Clifford “Uncle Cliffy” Robinson.
WEREWOLF STANDARD BROKEN #4: Werewolves can’t play basketball.
I’m not sure if this is a standard or not, but it should be. Werewolves basically just maul stuff and bite people, which is not conducive to holding a basketball, much less dribbling like Zeke, dunking like ‘Nique, and shooting like Thunder Dan Majerle.** It’s inconceivable that Howard turning into a werewolf would actually make him better at basketball. I could see if it would make him faster and able to jump higher, and maybe he’d even have quicker reactions. I just can’t see a werewolf putting it all together to become the best prospect since Harold Miner. And we all know how well that turned out.
I guess what I’m saying is that we really need some sort of standard set of rules when it comes to magical creatures. A veritable Montreal Protocol of the fantastical. Especially if we want them to ever have a chance of being accepted as something that sort of seems real, but ultimately isn’t. Like the abominable snowman, or of course, the chupacabra. Werewolves just want a chance, which takes us full circle, as that is sort of the underlying message of Teen Wolf. Give werewolves a chance, even though they are different. Give Boof a chance. She isn’t like a werewolf, yet she is still different. It’s the theme, it’s ok to compare girls to wolves. Just this once.
-Zanramon
zanramon@addictedtowords.com
*Maybe it does need a bit more explanation, he is not a pimp when he wears the suit. I apologize if I portrayed that Teen Wolf somehow involves prostitution and pimping.
**Sorry for not continuing that rhyme, but I couldn’t resist the chance to drop a Dan Majerle reference. I had a folder with him on it in 3rd grade.
Just as a heads up, you are entering rant territory. Turn back now.
Yesterday, I strongly contemplated slapping my professor in the face. I came up with slapping over punching because that seems less assault-ish. I decided against it, which is probably for the best. This is a class, that I might add is costing me (or more appropriately, my parents) a significant amount of money. I haven’t loved every single class I’ve taken here, but I haven yet to experience anything like this. It is shocking how bad this teacher is. If he were a movie, he would be Norbit, he has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. He’s not even so bad that he is unintentionally good, like any Fast and the Furious movie. We can’t even upgrade him in the pantheon of awful Eddie Murphy movies, the next step up would be Haunted Mansion, and at least that is rooted in Disneyland lore. This professor has no redeeming qualities whatsoever, at least as far as professing goes.
(And no, I won’t say who the teacher is, or what he teaches, lest my faithful readers get involved in any arson or other illegal activities.)
I would like to say that I despise this man because I got in an argument with him. There’s another professor I had a few times that I don’t really like because we didn’t see eye to eye on many things and I called him out on it. THe thing is, he was a decent teacher and undeniably knew what he was doing. This teacher (and I use the term in the loosest sense possible, he hasn’t caused a single chemical reaction in my brain) seems like a decent human being.
It’s beyond me how he got hired at my University, or how he has stayed hired. Just to name a few of his better qualities:
1. He purposely obfuscates directions, like he gets some sinister pleasure out of confusing us. He won’t answer specific questions about directions on assignments, choosing instead to make us guess or use Ouija boards. He talks about his assignments like he is on the other end of a 24 hour psychic hotline, giving the most vague answers possible. And charging obscene amounts of money for it.
2. He acts like a child any time somebody questions the validity of anything. First of all, he takes it like a personal attack, and I’m not making this up, tosses insults back at you, even though you weren’t necessarily insulting him in the first place. I’m not shy about questioning whatever inane detail he has in every single assignment and I never get anywhere or get any of my questions answered. I’m more than happy to have a discussion about something but he doesn’t seem capable of it, or at least won’t let one commence. Calling him an overly self conscious Idi Amen would be fair.*
3. He is incompetent concerning his subject. I’ve kept it to myself, but there have been at least three times where he has said things that are completely and utterly false. And they weren’t throwaway details, they were rather important concepts.
4. I may be getting petty and mean here, but he has poor grammar. This man is paying what I’m sure is a decent salary to do what basically amounts to highway robbery, so I feel that I (my parents) have payed for the right to fling some shit at him. It will undeniably stick. Also, I guess I can take solace in the fact that, due to his poor grammar, this guy would bother my grandmother just as much as he bothers me.
Oddly enough, having this teacher makes me somewhat hopeful. Yes, on a class by class basis he makes me irrationally frustrated and angry, like a pre-2004 Red Sox fan but without all the hats and East Coast violence. But it gives me hope to know that, armed with this college degree I will earn next month, I can fake my way through most anything.I don’t plan on living my life like that. I’m still hoping I do something halfway cool, but it’s comforting to know that, if nothing else, I too can play tutorial videos to a class. And you know I would at least be more convincing in the stuff I make up.
-Zanramon
Note: I advise you not to do a Google image search for “bad teacher”. I just found that out the hard difficult way.
*To actually be fair, Idi Amen had a lot more um, genocide, than this teacher does. This is why you don’t write when you’re angry.
Bad policy: Writing shit that doesn’t really make sense. (See Chupacabra-Ryan Atwood essay, as well as about 20 things I’ve written in the past month that were so utterly painful I just never posted them here. This is not a soapbox for trash!) I’m not sure if my new moniker has gotten to me or what, but I’ve been having a serious identity crisis/lack of motivation/quarter life crisis on here. Naturally, I feel that my writing has suffered, even though I have been able to bang out something half decent here and there. I need to stop trying to make this something that it isn’t. ATW needs to become comfortable with itself again. Naturally, I’m overflowing with confidence as usual.
Good Policy: Get back to writing about my irreverent theories and musings on life. Start linking to cool stuff again. Write more news stories about things that never really happened. I do like the adventure of finding the most obscure possible references for post titles though, and weirdly relating images. Figure out a better way to categorize things.
I’m not promising a turnaround in a matter of days, but know I’m working on it. I’m like the Prince of Persia, I never die, I just have a time limit. I need some of those potions for more time. I think they were green.
Your loyalty will be rewarded when I crank the awesome meter back up to high soon.
-Zanramon
Addicted to Words has found salvation for the time being. Not religion, but a means to an end. Turns out a little consoling was all your Prime Leader needed. The solution was staring me right in the eye, albeit, it was my glass eye and my field of vision was limited. I was focusing on the peripherals, even though they say the straight and narrow is the place to be.
While the means is now there and I can assure you ATW will be around for the near future with some certainty, it doesn’t mean I’m any less busy or more creative. Graduation looms, and it promises to keep me overly busy, which means my mind might be elsewhere. I’ll try and regale you with as many essays as I can, but expect them to be precious gems for the time being.
So as to add a point to this post, here’s one of the better music videos I’ve ever seen. The artist ain’t bad either.
-Zanramon
zanramon@addictedtowords.com
"It has come to my attention that your site and it's very existence is putting a strain on all that is good in our universe."
-Unspecified James
And when we inevitably break all that is good in the universe, sorry.
Pay the piper.