I wrote this somewhere else, and out of laziness, I reposted it here:
We learned a few things at Prospect Park's Easter celebration a few weeks back: (1) the Brooklyn Cyclones mascot looks very similar to "The Capital City Goofball" from The Simpsons; (2) The Soulja Boy dance can be extended, without shame, to an event essentially religious in nature; and (3) if you provide small candy as incentives for children, they'll do pretty much anything. The single most important lesson we learned, though, was as simple in nature as it was beautiful in thought: the world can be a fair place.
In a sports culture dominated more by Barry Bonds' inflated head than Hanley Ramirez's sweet stroke, fixated more on doping in the Olympics than the sheer mastery of those who do it the right way in those Games, check this out: a four year-old boy, clad in only a too-too-large parka, participating in a spoon and egg race. It was a plastic spoon, and a more plastic egg, so not much was truly on the table here; then again, everything was. In the first few runnings of this race at the four year-old level, in which Parka Child had not participated, every competitor had taken the easy way out: start with egg on spoon, and as soon as whistle is blown, transfer egg to open hand and race to the other side. Egg and hand race. Not egg and spoon.
Parka boy arrived without much fanfare. His mother was on the other side, like most mothers of these tots. He did have this massive coat, which distinguished him from a few of the other participants. Within seconds, though, he was the clear favorite in my heart. See, as every other kid raced off to the other side, egg cupped in hand, my little warrior placed the egg gently on the spoon and walked. He didn't run; he walked slowly, and deliberately, as if a plastic egg falling on a stretch of grass was indicative of the universe ending. At about 12 feet past the start point, the egg fell. Most children, I'd reckon, would simply pick up the egg and continue from that spot; theoretically this is a breach of the rules, but I'm fairly sure I did similar things at age four, so I could let it go. My man here? He picked up the egg and returned to the start. He set out again. 17 feet in this time, and the egg wobbled before ultimately falling off the spoon. Back to the start.
I was amazed. Flabbergasted, even. How could one child be so atuned to the rules of this game, when every other combatant was grubbing candy out of a bag held by their parents at this point. This child, to me, represented everything that was right with the world. With the sports world. Hell, with life.
In this moment, when my brother in arms finally crossed the finish line (fourth restart), every Barry Bonds headline dropped from my consciousness, every cycling doping scandal faded from my cerebellum, and deliriously, gloriously, everything was right with the world. Because of a small child in an oversized parka carrying a plastic egg across browning grass in Brooklyn on a slightly overcast Saturday afternoon. Isn't that how it always happens?
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Post 6: Small Children I Find Amusing
I once walked through the park hungover on a Saturday late morning/early afternoon (once?). I had no idea where I was going; I just knew that if I lay around all day, I'd end up pissed at myself and probably more miserable than I normally am.
While walking through the park, I saw a kid - he couldn't have been a day over six - wearing a shirt that said "I'm Allergic to Homework." I found this awesome, because at the ages of five and six, homework is actually pretty sweet. It's always like "Read this 15 line story" or "What's the difference between African and Asian elephants? Color them both to find out." If I was doing that type of homework fifteen years north of when I actually was doing it, my life would be in a far better (worse?) place today.
The little dude with the semi-ironic t-shirt was on a skateboard (also odd, as I think skateboarding - like throwing a curve ball - has a minimum age limit above six). He did one run successfully, if by "run" you mean 20 feet down a completely straight stretch of park asphalt. His next "run," he actually tried a jump, and similar to the way the same situation ended in Little Children, he completely bit it. Absolutely wiped out, your first boogie board ride style. Mesmerizing, especially if you're hungover (more so?).
The semi-ironic, skateboarding litte dude got up and didn't even cry. Not a f'n drop. He just grabbed his board and marched back to the beginning of the straightway, doing it again as I walked out of his visual range.
I ended up at the Museum of Natural History that day, mostly reading about the Incans and sitting in the whale room, and I can't help but think if it wasn't for that determined little kid allergic to his two-digit multiplication homework, I mighta been at home long, long before that.
While walking through the park, I saw a kid - he couldn't have been a day over six - wearing a shirt that said "I'm Allergic to Homework." I found this awesome, because at the ages of five and six, homework is actually pretty sweet. It's always like "Read this 15 line story" or "What's the difference between African and Asian elephants? Color them both to find out." If I was doing that type of homework fifteen years north of when I actually was doing it, my life would be in a far better (worse?) place today.
The little dude with the semi-ironic t-shirt was on a skateboard (also odd, as I think skateboarding - like throwing a curve ball - has a minimum age limit above six). He did one run successfully, if by "run" you mean 20 feet down a completely straight stretch of park asphalt. His next "run," he actually tried a jump, and similar to the way the same situation ended in Little Children, he completely bit it. Absolutely wiped out, your first boogie board ride style. Mesmerizing, especially if you're hungover (more so?).
The semi-ironic, skateboarding litte dude got up and didn't even cry. Not a f'n drop. He just grabbed his board and marched back to the beginning of the straightway, doing it again as I walked out of his visual range.
I ended up at the Museum of Natural History that day, mostly reading about the Incans and sitting in the whale room, and I can't help but think if it wasn't for that determined little kid allergic to his two-digit multiplication homework, I mighta been at home long, long before that.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Post 5: Odd Classroom Motivation
I once took an adult education class, which is blissfully ironic because I'm neither "adult" nor do I do well in situations where people purport to "educate" me. It was conducted in a 6th grade classroom in New York City; I kinda took the class because I figured it would be a good way to meet other young people, but instead I was the youngest by about 15 years. It was pretty demoralizing.
More stories from this class to follow - the characters in there were pretty rich, including a guy who legitimately said "I like to make fuck" like the Bezerker character from Clerks - but one thing I never understood was a central poster in the classroom.
It was of an Alpine skier, and the message on it was basic: "Always do your best." I looked the guy up, and shamefully I can't remember his name now, but he had never finished higher than 4th in an Alpine race. "Always do your best" is noble indeed, but what when it doesn't really mean anything? How does a continually middle of the pack Alpine skier get his own inspirational poster for pre-adolescents? Who's green lighting these things? Was this done off someone's Blackberry while they were on the elliptical reading a Gary Smith article from Sports Illustrated? Was the wholesale company completely out of "cat hanging on a rope" posters? I'm utterly fucking confused.
More stories from this class to follow - the characters in there were pretty rich, including a guy who legitimately said "I like to make fuck" like the Bezerker character from Clerks - but one thing I never understood was a central poster in the classroom.
It was of an Alpine skier, and the message on it was basic: "Always do your best." I looked the guy up, and shamefully I can't remember his name now, but he had never finished higher than 4th in an Alpine race. "Always do your best" is noble indeed, but what when it doesn't really mean anything? How does a continually middle of the pack Alpine skier get his own inspirational poster for pre-adolescents? Who's green lighting these things? Was this done off someone's Blackberry while they were on the elliptical reading a Gary Smith article from Sports Illustrated? Was the wholesale company completely out of "cat hanging on a rope" posters? I'm utterly fucking confused.
Post 4: Ape'ing "Overheard in New York"
I asked my friend Saturday night, during a pre-party at her apartment, the best snippet of conversation she's ever heard in passing. You know, when you blow by someone on the street and get 3, maybe 4, seconds but nothing more.
Her response: "... and don't call me no more, because I'm tired of getting your ass out of prison..."
My answer: "... I'm 27 and my biggest accomplishment in life is fucking Steve Guttenberg in a public restroom..."
Hers was on 38th Street; mine was in a Barnes and Noble travel section.
Her response: "... and don't call me no more, because I'm tired of getting your ass out of prison..."
My answer: "... I'm 27 and my biggest accomplishment in life is fucking Steve Guttenberg in a public restroom..."
Hers was on 38th Street; mine was in a Barnes and Noble travel section.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Post 3: A halfway decent vomiting story
When I was living in Connecticut, one of my friends was a diminuitive dude whose name will be withheld to protect his innocence. I want to say I was a first-hand part of this story, and I've actually retold it several times as if I was, but the truth of the matter is: it happened to my man in college, while at Northwestern, and I heard about it years later, at a Mexican brunch in New York City, long after my friend had left Connecticut for California, where he currently resides.
First thing you gotta know is: he was kinda short. Second: mildly goofy looking. He had the overall appearance of Macaulay Culkin circa 1990, but over 20. Like, if Mac had never grown up and become a strung-out weirdo who ultimately ended up landing Mila Kunis, he'd be this kid. Third: goofy persona at times as well. Entered most rooms with a cheery, if awkwardly placed, "Hey guys." Fourth: drank a lot (16 straight nights at one point; I was right there with him, as Hartford is a tough place to find interesting things to do), but never really a lot in one sitting. Fifth, because it may speak to his personality a smidge: once cut of work, then attended a casino night party with people from his work, as Facebook and MySpace were beginning to take off. He was in the boss' office within 48 hours.
Apparently, back in his collegiate days (in my version this happened on my front lawn, with mutual friends on the porch), he violated Element 4 above and did drink a lot in one sitting. Eventually, ergo, he began vomiting. Now, being mildly goofy and torridly drunk, he did the only thing he could "think" (insofar as anyone really thinks in these moments) and tried to distract attention away from himself. Only, he was pretty sick. So it came out like this:
"DON'T - (vomits) - LOOK AT - (vomits again) - ME! (vomits) I'M (vomits) HIDEOUS!" (vomits)
My friend once told me, on one of those occasions when I told this as a "first-hand" story, that if it weren't for a guy who looked like he was 10 screaming "I'm hideous," it would just be sad; that kicker makes it funny.
I tend to agree.
I've got 2 girls who vouch for the authenticity of the above story, and were actually first-hand when it happened. So, I'll go with 'em. DON'T LOOK - AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH - AT ME - BLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH - I'M HIDEOUS!!! RAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLPHHHHHHHHH.
Tremendous.
First thing you gotta know is: he was kinda short. Second: mildly goofy looking. He had the overall appearance of Macaulay Culkin circa 1990, but over 20. Like, if Mac had never grown up and become a strung-out weirdo who ultimately ended up landing Mila Kunis, he'd be this kid. Third: goofy persona at times as well. Entered most rooms with a cheery, if awkwardly placed, "Hey guys." Fourth: drank a lot (16 straight nights at one point; I was right there with him, as Hartford is a tough place to find interesting things to do), but never really a lot in one sitting. Fifth, because it may speak to his personality a smidge: once cut of work, then attended a casino night party with people from his work, as Facebook and MySpace were beginning to take off. He was in the boss' office within 48 hours.
Apparently, back in his collegiate days (in my version this happened on my front lawn, with mutual friends on the porch), he violated Element 4 above and did drink a lot in one sitting. Eventually, ergo, he began vomiting. Now, being mildly goofy and torridly drunk, he did the only thing he could "think" (insofar as anyone really thinks in these moments) and tried to distract attention away from himself. Only, he was pretty sick. So it came out like this:
"DON'T - (vomits) - LOOK AT - (vomits again) - ME! (vomits) I'M (vomits) HIDEOUS!" (vomits)
My friend once told me, on one of those occasions when I told this as a "first-hand" story, that if it weren't for a guy who looked like he was 10 screaming "I'm hideous," it would just be sad; that kicker makes it funny.
I tend to agree.
I've got 2 girls who vouch for the authenticity of the above story, and were actually first-hand when it happened. So, I'll go with 'em. DON'T LOOK - AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH - AT ME - BLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH - I'M HIDEOUS!!! RAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLPHHHHHHHHH.
Tremendous.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Post 2: "And by that I mean..."
Back in Summer '03, I had just graduated from college and was living down in Houston training for Teach for America. I lived at Moody Towers on the University of Houston campus; in the room next to me on the 9th floor, there was a kid who had been in the Middle East briefly. He called Moody "the worst conditions he had ever experienced," and he likely wasn't too far off. Within five weeks of living there, since I was staying in Houston for the next year, I inked up with three other dudes to move into a dilapidated psuedo frat house near the school we were taking graduate-level classes at. I'm pretty sure the first night we lived there, we had a keg party, but my timing could be slightly off. What's more relevant is the first weekend.
One of the other dudes, an Alabama native named Kendall (he hung a Bear Bryant picture in our living room), had a friend from home in town. At the time, I was pretty fond of rolling out one style of joke: essentially, saying something, adding "by that I mean," and then saying the complete opposite. An example: "This bar is awesome, and by that I mean can someone get me the check before I shoot myself?" If delivered with proper sarcasm, it's fuckin' pure gold. I'm not saying I ever delivered it the right way, or really, that I've ever delivered any joke the right way, but in this same summer I saw Robert Horry at a bar near Rice University and drunkenly contemplated aloud to him what his broader role in society was, so spare me any grief.
This Alabama kid's in town, and he's laughing at all these jokes (very few of which are funny). We're playing beer pong at about 6pm that Saturday, and I'm dropping lines like "I'm on fire, and by that I mean, I'm shooting like Mark Madsen." The kid is doubled over like the extra blond chick in some Jameson movie, and I'm feeling the flow.
We get to this bar, also near Rice (I suppose that was a theme of this period of my life, although the intelligence you would expect from Rice students never seemed to rub off on me), and the kid - damn, I wish I could remember his name - starts trying to do the joke style. You'd think it's pretty simple, right? "One statement" + "catch line" + "reverse the original statement in some way."
He couldn't do it.
For the life of him.
Brutal.
A sample: "This bar isn't very fun, and by that I mean, I'm not having such a good time." I ignored it for a bit - probably the first 3 or 4 - but then it got tiresome. He wouldn't give up the concept, but he couldn't master it; it was like watching a horrible cover band repeatedly butcher the same five or six songs across one "set." Around 11:30pm, while trying to hit on a girl I would eventually end up dating, I finally had enough and lectured him on the matter.
"Listen, bro, all you gotta do is start with one statement ---"
"Uh huh..."
"And then say, 'and by that I mean...' "
"Right."
"OK, so try it."
"Try what?"
"Pick a statement."
"About what?"
"Anything."
"These girls are pretty hot."
"OK, and then... 'These girls are pretty hot, and..."
"And what?"
"What do you say next?"
"I dunno. They're smoking."
"OK, try again. These girls are pretty hot, and by that I mean..."
"What do you mean? Look at 'em."
"OK. Just say what I say, cool?"
"Cool."
"These girls are pretty hot, and by that I mean..."
"These girls are pretty hot, and by that I mean..."
"Now, how could you finish that?"
"Finish what?"
"That sentence."
"Um. I want to get with them?"
"OK, see, that would be saying the same thing."
"Right."
"But you seem to find it amusing when it gets reversed."
*Blank stare.*
Went this way for another 45 to 60. Finally, right before I left, he dropped a halfway decent one: "This check is pretty big, and by that I mean, it's got nothing on Alabama." It made no sense - I assume Alabama is cheaper than Texas, honestly - but if had just slid in the words "New York" or "Chicago" or something, it woulda worked. Eh, it was like that Simpsons episode where Homer keeps going back in time, and finally comes back to "normalcy," 'cept his whole family eats like lizards. "Close enough," right? Close e-fucking-nough.
One of the other dudes, an Alabama native named Kendall (he hung a Bear Bryant picture in our living room), had a friend from home in town. At the time, I was pretty fond of rolling out one style of joke: essentially, saying something, adding "by that I mean," and then saying the complete opposite. An example: "This bar is awesome, and by that I mean can someone get me the check before I shoot myself?" If delivered with proper sarcasm, it's fuckin' pure gold. I'm not saying I ever delivered it the right way, or really, that I've ever delivered any joke the right way, but in this same summer I saw Robert Horry at a bar near Rice University and drunkenly contemplated aloud to him what his broader role in society was, so spare me any grief.
This Alabama kid's in town, and he's laughing at all these jokes (very few of which are funny). We're playing beer pong at about 6pm that Saturday, and I'm dropping lines like "I'm on fire, and by that I mean, I'm shooting like Mark Madsen." The kid is doubled over like the extra blond chick in some Jameson movie, and I'm feeling the flow.
We get to this bar, also near Rice (I suppose that was a theme of this period of my life, although the intelligence you would expect from Rice students never seemed to rub off on me), and the kid - damn, I wish I could remember his name - starts trying to do the joke style. You'd think it's pretty simple, right? "One statement" + "catch line" + "reverse the original statement in some way."
He couldn't do it.
For the life of him.
Brutal.
A sample: "This bar isn't very fun, and by that I mean, I'm not having such a good time." I ignored it for a bit - probably the first 3 or 4 - but then it got tiresome. He wouldn't give up the concept, but he couldn't master it; it was like watching a horrible cover band repeatedly butcher the same five or six songs across one "set." Around 11:30pm, while trying to hit on a girl I would eventually end up dating, I finally had enough and lectured him on the matter.
"Listen, bro, all you gotta do is start with one statement ---"
"Uh huh..."
"And then say, 'and by that I mean...' "
"Right."
"OK, so try it."
"Try what?"
"Pick a statement."
"About what?"
"Anything."
"These girls are pretty hot."
"OK, and then... 'These girls are pretty hot, and..."
"And what?"
"What do you say next?"
"I dunno. They're smoking."
"OK, try again. These girls are pretty hot, and by that I mean..."
"What do you mean? Look at 'em."
"OK. Just say what I say, cool?"
"Cool."
"These girls are pretty hot, and by that I mean..."
"These girls are pretty hot, and by that I mean..."
"Now, how could you finish that?"
"Finish what?"
"That sentence."
"Um. I want to get with them?"
"OK, see, that would be saying the same thing."
"Right."
"But you seem to find it amusing when it gets reversed."
*Blank stare.*
Went this way for another 45 to 60. Finally, right before I left, he dropped a halfway decent one: "This check is pretty big, and by that I mean, it's got nothing on Alabama." It made no sense - I assume Alabama is cheaper than Texas, honestly - but if had just slid in the words "New York" or "Chicago" or something, it woulda worked. Eh, it was like that Simpsons episode where Homer keeps going back in time, and finally comes back to "normalcy," 'cept his whole family eats like lizards. "Close enough," right? Close e-fucking-nough.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Post 1: Here goes very little
I'm 27, and I have a job most people would classify as "cool," and I went to a good school for college, and I have a strong family and friends, and my Facebook profile is pretty bangin', all things considered.
Still, I pretty much have no life direction.
I own one t-shirt that says "Don't Tase Me Bro." It's cool content-wise, and it's a nice lighter blue color, although it's a little too tight on me. I own another that says "I'm So Excited... I'm So Excited... I'm So Scared" in homage to Jesse Spano's classic Saved by the Bell scene. It's maroon, and makes me look fat (likely because I am), so I don't wear it a lot. I drink way too much, and tend to latch onto the same inside joke when I'm drinking. Currently, it's the Chicago area t-shirts that say "Horry Cow" when they should say "Holy Cow," thus being horribly offensive to Asians while supposedly in praise of Fukudome. On a semi-regular basis, I try to read something like Slate, but I always end up wondering who's in first in the NL Central, and my attempts at improving myself are once again put down.
I probably masturbate too much too.
It seemed like a good idea, then, for me to create a blog where I relay generally unamusing stories, if for no other reason than to give me some more meaning. I've had a couple of blogs before; one time a guy from London e-mailed me and told me he was a regular reader. That was cool, although in all likelihood, it was my dad.
I'm gonna jump right in, since I haven't thought that far ahead regarding the overall format of this blog. Here goes very little. I hesitated on debuting with this, since it involves me smoking weed, which is something I haven't done in over six years, but it's generally unamusing enough that it seemed to fit the title and ultimate theme of this tome well.
The Wonder Years Stoner Story
I loved The Wonder Years. How could you not be? The father (D-Lauria) is incredible, the brother in that show (Jason Hervey) was nailing Missy Hyatt in real life, Danica McKellar eventually got racy when her career faded, which is so cliche it's almost perfect, and Fred Savage was, well, God in some respects. Daniel Stern, whose largest professional contribution was likely Home Alone for box office but in terms of his contributions was probably Bushwhackers, as the voice of the elder Kevin Arnold (likely on a therapist's couch) is epic.
'Round the beginning of the sophomore year of college, I was smoking a lot of pot. This was essentially a straight continuation of "end of high school," although it faded a bit frosh year (I gave way to drinking Milwaukee's Best). Right when I came back for sophomore year, I got bored with my frosh year friends, and I started hanging out with some new kids. They were a bit cooler, probably not even that much, but they smoked more pot, so it came along with the territory.
Three of these kids lived together, about 75 feet from me in the main sophomore quad, and they frequently had parties. I actually watched this and this on their couch, and both situations could be loosely defined as "parties," insofar as parties are large gatherings of people, often with no broader purpose than to not be where they really live.
In October of my sophomore year, these kids had a real, "official" party, the contextual difference being that an Evite was sent, word was spread overtly rather than subtly, and decorations were purchased, along with larger quantities of beer.
There's three basic things I remember about this evening:
(1) I saw a tremendously metrosexual dude unbutton the top three buttons of his shirt and sing "Livin' On A Prayer" to the applause of a room full of about 55 underaged drunk kids.
(2) My friend debuted a talking fish toy, which he would later hang on his wall. I think he called it "Brandon Bass," which later became the name of a dude on LSU.
(3) I got incredibly stoned and had one of the weirder experiences of my life. As I sat on their couch, surrounded by drunkeness and occasionally getting evidence of said drunkeness spilled on me, the high began to settle in. It was subtle at first; people would pass me, tap me as if they wanted to talk, but the dryness of my mouth would interfere. Gradually, it became more blatant: I was in no position to even organize original thought that could captivate a person for more than 12.4 seconds. I was f*cking baked.
At that point, I started focusing very closely on the door. I was transfixed by it, almost, which was funny, because it was just a blue door with paint chipping off it. Every time it opened, depending on the physical characteristics of the person entering, I envisioned them solely in terms of Wonder Years characters. For example, if this guy walked in, I saw him as this. If a dude looked gruff, he was instantly made into this. I started calling every brunette chick who got within eight feet of me "Winnie," which ultimately led to my early exit at the request of the hosts. I called the metrosexual dude "Kevin" twice in a span of 36 seconds, odd because "Wayne" might have been a more appropriate name; "What Would You Do..." crooned in my head for the entirety of the time this was going on (I have absolutely no idea at this point how long that was).
I hadn't watched Wonder Years in roughly five months prior to that moment, so what spurned it, I have no idea. You'd theoretically think that was the last time I smoked (I don't anymore); it actually wasn't. That story, entitled "Stepbrothers, Cake on the Wall, and the Broken Crisper Pan," can wait for another day.
Still, I pretty much have no life direction.
I own one t-shirt that says "Don't Tase Me Bro." It's cool content-wise, and it's a nice lighter blue color, although it's a little too tight on me. I own another that says "I'm So Excited... I'm So Excited... I'm So Scared" in homage to Jesse Spano's classic Saved by the Bell scene. It's maroon, and makes me look fat (likely because I am), so I don't wear it a lot. I drink way too much, and tend to latch onto the same inside joke when I'm drinking. Currently, it's the Chicago area t-shirts that say "Horry Cow" when they should say "Holy Cow," thus being horribly offensive to Asians while supposedly in praise of Fukudome. On a semi-regular basis, I try to read something like Slate, but I always end up wondering who's in first in the NL Central, and my attempts at improving myself are once again put down.
I probably masturbate too much too.
It seemed like a good idea, then, for me to create a blog where I relay generally unamusing stories, if for no other reason than to give me some more meaning. I've had a couple of blogs before; one time a guy from London e-mailed me and told me he was a regular reader. That was cool, although in all likelihood, it was my dad.
I'm gonna jump right in, since I haven't thought that far ahead regarding the overall format of this blog. Here goes very little. I hesitated on debuting with this, since it involves me smoking weed, which is something I haven't done in over six years, but it's generally unamusing enough that it seemed to fit the title and ultimate theme of this tome well.
The Wonder Years Stoner Story
I loved The Wonder Years. How could you not be? The father (D-Lauria) is incredible, the brother in that show (Jason Hervey) was nailing Missy Hyatt in real life, Danica McKellar eventually got racy when her career faded, which is so cliche it's almost perfect, and Fred Savage was, well, God in some respects. Daniel Stern, whose largest professional contribution was likely Home Alone for box office but in terms of his contributions was probably Bushwhackers, as the voice of the elder Kevin Arnold (likely on a therapist's couch) is epic.
'Round the beginning of the sophomore year of college, I was smoking a lot of pot. This was essentially a straight continuation of "end of high school," although it faded a bit frosh year (I gave way to drinking Milwaukee's Best). Right when I came back for sophomore year, I got bored with my frosh year friends, and I started hanging out with some new kids. They were a bit cooler, probably not even that much, but they smoked more pot, so it came along with the territory.
Three of these kids lived together, about 75 feet from me in the main sophomore quad, and they frequently had parties. I actually watched this and this on their couch, and both situations could be loosely defined as "parties," insofar as parties are large gatherings of people, often with no broader purpose than to not be where they really live.
In October of my sophomore year, these kids had a real, "official" party, the contextual difference being that an Evite was sent, word was spread overtly rather than subtly, and decorations were purchased, along with larger quantities of beer.
There's three basic things I remember about this evening:
(1) I saw a tremendously metrosexual dude unbutton the top three buttons of his shirt and sing "Livin' On A Prayer" to the applause of a room full of about 55 underaged drunk kids.
(2) My friend debuted a talking fish toy, which he would later hang on his wall. I think he called it "Brandon Bass," which later became the name of a dude on LSU.
(3) I got incredibly stoned and had one of the weirder experiences of my life. As I sat on their couch, surrounded by drunkeness and occasionally getting evidence of said drunkeness spilled on me, the high began to settle in. It was subtle at first; people would pass me, tap me as if they wanted to talk, but the dryness of my mouth would interfere. Gradually, it became more blatant: I was in no position to even organize original thought that could captivate a person for more than 12.4 seconds. I was f*cking baked.
At that point, I started focusing very closely on the door. I was transfixed by it, almost, which was funny, because it was just a blue door with paint chipping off it. Every time it opened, depending on the physical characteristics of the person entering, I envisioned them solely in terms of Wonder Years characters. For example, if this guy walked in, I saw him as this. If a dude looked gruff, he was instantly made into this. I started calling every brunette chick who got within eight feet of me "Winnie," which ultimately led to my early exit at the request of the hosts. I called the metrosexual dude "Kevin" twice in a span of 36 seconds, odd because "Wayne" might have been a more appropriate name; "What Would You Do..." crooned in my head for the entirety of the time this was going on (I have absolutely no idea at this point how long that was).
I hadn't watched Wonder Years in roughly five months prior to that moment, so what spurned it, I have no idea. You'd theoretically think that was the last time I smoked (I don't anymore); it actually wasn't. That story, entitled "Stepbrothers, Cake on the Wall, and the Broken Crisper Pan," can wait for another day.
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