As far as other company office parties go...I can't really speak to them, but I can speak to mine. See my place of business is a bar, which means essentially my business is about parties and having fun. I'm paid to make sure you have a good time. Thus, when WE as employees are all told to have a good time, we know exactly how to do it.
1. Dress nice. You don't have to try and impress the world, But if you aren't feeling a sexy vibe (Not slut and not overdressed douche by the way.) Then try again.
2. Do not going into this event with expectations. It's a party, which means spontaneity is generally a good thing. If you go in with goals (Employee of The Year, impress a boss, kiss that cute coworker that's been flirting with you...or more) it tends to be a letdown. You should be letting go, trying to accomplish nothing other than maintaining a sliver of dignity and not getting fired.
That's it. Those are the only real rules. Other than that, go play and do what makes you happy. If you wanna drink a lot of alcohol, or only a little, both are fine. As long as your inebriation comes off in a positive light, you're golden.
Now the story of MY Christmas party.
I begin by deciding on my clothes, which would be simple. Black slacks, black shoes, black tie, white collared shirt. It's so simple, but after watching Mad Men for the past month you can't escape how awesome that combination is. It's pretty much timeless. (See also: Bond, James)
I then called a cab to get me to pre-party at a co-workers place. The woman driving happened to be a former co-worker from roughly 4 years ago which made the trip far more pleasurable. We talked about the party and the excitement that builds leading up to it and then the fun of the fall out after.
Upon arriving I feel pretty at home. It's early and I like being one of the people that needs to warm up. Walking into a party that's in full swing while you cold is not for me. I wouldn't say I'm stiff sober, but certainly I'm not as free flowing as I would be if I had one or two drinks in me. So being one of the first to arrives not only doesn't bother me, but it helps me warm up to the social atmosphere. If the party were to be compared to say pick-up basketball, I'm the guy that takes a lap and begins stretching so they don't pull anything.
After half an hour or so the bulk of the rest of the party arrives. Our host, has either intentionally or unintentionally given us a great ice breaker by giving us all nick names. Some he'd have to explain, some not, but it became an automatic in to a conversation that would not center around work. We work in some shots, and get in some pictures. In people are filling in their roles such as
The Picture Taker
They need to get pictures, and they need you to pose for not just one, but several. There is no way this can be a forgettable experience because this person will not let it. They brought they're Canon and will be damned if they don't get across just how awesome they believe this event to be.
Brings up Work Guy
These people are typically either A) socially backwards or B) believe YOU are socially backwards. More often than not it's the former and you'll be walked into a stupendously boring conversation about the value of something mundane (Copy Machines, Staplers, 5 hour energy). Overdressed Guy/Girl
Everyone hates this guy, and no matter what someone take this prize home. Even if everyone dressed down, there's one person who still managed to dress up a bit too much. This person usually recognizes their mistake and will try to fit in by either losing their jackets and ties, or making self deprecating jokes to take away some of the jealousy that will no doubt spring up for looking better than everyone else.
The Lush
They're going to love every minute of everything and they probably love you too. They believe they're good time will end with their lips around someone else and tonight would be a great opportunity for that to happen.
The Comic
This person will be making jokes the entire night, looking to be part of the necessary life blood of the party. A great person to be around through out the night. The comic is also probably going to get ass this night, because being funny and entertaining while people are drinking and losing sense of what people look like is probably a good thing.
There are variations but these seem to be the ones that stick out. After a few hours, the taxis arrive and we are off. I volunteer to take the first cab, inviting whomever into the cab. Again it doesn't really matter who gets in to me, I'm solely interested in arriving in the next stage, the actual party stage. Where we go to the rented out club to cherish our own.
I've been told that I'm up for employee of the year. A notion but one I don't particularly care for. Yes, I would like to be recognized, but I don't know exactly what criteria I possess that others have. I work physically as hard as anyone, but socially I know I'm probably below average. I'm a nice guy, but I can certainly become moody, and moody people are not necessarily the easiest to get along with. I probably would not vote for me for employee of the year because it's questionable how much I would get along with a second me.
That being said I start with the basics. We are greeted by our bosses, so I attempt to present myself as composed as possible to keep myself out of any light at all. I've been trying to keep it manageable all night so I go for a sipping drink with a whiskey on the rocks. However, little plastic cups filled with ice and liquor looks decidedly amateur, so after one I go to beer from then on.
At this point, the groups have been partying for roughly 3 hours and now some of us are starting to slip into their excess. Now the flirtations are getting a little closer. The jokes a little cruder, and the drinks seem to come a little faster. And right at this moment is when the Employee's of the Year are announced.
We have several since our company is essentially divided amongst the bars that make up the Hotel State College. So it's a long process, usually consisting of friendly rivalries between the establishments. We all pat ourselves on the back and then make a lot of noise for whomever wins the award. It's meant to feel good, but in the back of my mind it has always needled my competitive personality that I never won the award.
Afterwards, the party continues and the dancing really picks up. The dance floor is where you SHOULD want to be if possible. These are the people that have lost the most of their inhibitions and are more than likely feeling the party the most. I'm having a blast.
Sadly, like all good things, it comes to an end, and in the scramble, it becomes apparent that the after party will not exactly happen as planned. Some people will go back to where the pregame was held, some will go to the bar, and some will go to a second separate post game party. I'm torn. I wanted a seem less transition but it appears that there will be none. Also, I'm pretty drunk and unable to actually make sense of anything going on other than the fact I need to leave the club.
All in all, it was a great party with lots of fun had by all, and if I'm here to experience one again, I definitely will jump at the opportunity.
Oh and if you made it to the end....
The Top Ten
10. D2 9. Caroline H 8. Sean 7. Me 6. Caroline F 5. Rachel 4. Chelsea 3. Krimm 2. Steve 1. Tsunami (Rodney Bohner award winner 2010)
It's kinda hard to explain to everyone else. How I feel about living in this town and with it, your shadow. I like to prefer to keep my answers pretty concise and generic about growing up and living here.
"It's a great time, but I've been here a while" "It's quaint." "It's happy.", "No place like it." "You can have a blast and make memories upon memories" "It's simple" "I have never minded living here."
Being young in this town is town has always been easy. Possibly easier than breathing. It is consistently being reloaded with 18 year-olds. And good ones. You are for all intensive purposes a very large and very competitive university that is well respected across the country. I was born into an oasis.
The flux of youth and passion infiltrates everything, starting with the public school system and ending with retired alumni, who come back, sometimes years later to remember a certain period of time when they were immortal.
In the beginning it starts with student teachers, our administrators, our athletics, had some echo of Penn State to it. By the end of first grade I understood that you were the king of this town.
For many football (An extremely large part of the your culture) was a love/hate relationship. I would venture to say that most loved it, but there was always a certain backlash due to so many people in the area gushing over anything the team did. Think of something that was popular that you yourself hated. Usually everyone has something, maybe a rock band or television show. I ended up loving it, and I must confess you had a lot to do with that, even though I became a fan of Michigan rather than yourself for athletic purposes. Sorry about that.
On the educational side, we as an academic class were expected to make it into your halls. Minimum. This is not exactly the easiest thing in the world. Thousands of applications are denied by you, but somehow, being from this town, we were expected to get into the school. Yes we had a reputation somewhat of a great high school, a very competitive high school, but I wonder sometimes if that competition was so intense it burns out stars before they're quite ready to bloom.
To me, and I know I'm not alone on this, it gave me the impression the a Penn State education was somewhat mediocre. If we weren't at the top of our classes and headed to different prestigious universities, or accepted into the Penn State Schreyer's Honors College we were 'doomed' to 'just' a Penn State education. Clearly a warped point of view when held in the grand scheme of things.
Socially you never seemed to impact me in high school. A town that has been known as a party area did not actually make the high school a bunch of alcoholics and stoner's in Junior High. Yes some people did get exposed to drugs, alcohol and sex earlier than others but probably no different than any other high school, and considering that just blocks from the high school itself raging parties held by older brothers and sister's were happening all the time I'm actually somewhat impressed that our class held together so well.
Though this changes when I actually begin attending your classes and living in your rooms.
This is when I actually get the label of towny or local, or whatever term you like. I was raised here, I went to school here as well, and now for the first time those qualities put together to make me a minority.
We are also now looked at for a little guidance by our new contemporaries as we more than likely have a better grasp of the town. We know the town well, (Actually, I didn't and to some degree still don't, thus me continually sucking at directions). We can give background knowledge about frat houses and sororities. How to go about getting good football tickets. We feel as though we owe it to the kids that are new in the area to be their reference and guide.
However, I begin to grow exponentially in this age range in both emotion and maturity. I begin to find myself in relationship to bigger pictures and I eventually forget where I am from. I become lost in the world that is Penn State and not State College. And I do this in no different a manner than that of our other 'non-townie' friends. And possibly forever our youths is cemented at this time.
I think most people, regardless of circumstances would say that the peak of their "youth" occurs in this 18-22 year age range. Not necessarily the best parts of their life mind you, but of that feeling of innocence and wonder peaking and eventually slowly coming into larger conclusions about how the world works at large. We were young and invincible and it wasn't going to end. Just like everyone else.
And then....
It doesn't end
While others for one reason or another must leave this town, be it a job, a girlfriend or boyfriend, parents, or affordability...
I do not.
I could stay here forever and stay in touch with my young side forever. Stay in the mindset of a 22 year old and be happy. I could stay by your side and keep my mind in a state of youth and curiosity. I could stay invincible.
But I would most likely regret it.
Because while I have learned an unfathomable amount of knowledge in your shadow, Dear Old State, there is infinitely more beyond it.
And maybe I'll come back. I'm not burning the bridge. I just feel like crossing.
So I'm thinking sometimes I won't post all my entries on facebook. Some will just be for me and for the people that want to know what I'm feeling or posting about. This is a poem (could easily be made a song if i could play a god damn instrument) about a girl that you're feeling. Yah, it's sappy as fuck, but it's still good.
When it comes to heaven I don't see a light All I see is you
When it comes to dreams I don't see the night It's only ever you
Would rather leave Than ever lose Do anything I could To just be with you
When it comes to heaven I just see you When it comes to dreams It's always you.
As some of you know, I recently completed a relay marathon called the mOUnTaiN BACK (notice the capital letters spelling out 'Out 'n' Back'....kinda clever, kinda corny). This basically the story of that race.
When my friend Pig initially asked me about it, I was a bit hesitant. I had been running on a pretty frequent basis during the summer, but I certainly didn't think it was an extreme distance by any means and he used the word 'marathon' which I usually associate with 'Go Fuck Yourself'
As he described it, and I found that it would not be an actual marathon (Unless you chose go as a team of two) and the distances would not be that different from what I was already doing.
Except for the climb.
Previous to this I'd always run in a loop, so that my start point and end point were the same. So even if I had up hill parts on the journey i would just as much down hill to make up for it. This would be different. There would be in both of my 5.5 mile legs, a tremendous ascent. Over 1700 feet in total.
If that number doesn't really mean anything to you, it didn't for me either. I know that I go up and down elevations, but I had no idea how to exactly quantify it.
So in order to both prepare for the hills and still keep my loop for training purposes, I would just find as many steep hills as possible and go up them. Often failing on my first attempts and having to walk up the steepest points, but eventually I would gain enough strength to run my entire 6 mile loop with ''relative' ease. (Though I admit, it's not an easy activity to run that much.)
After a few months of training and dieting, race day was upon us. I thought I was pretty much prepared. With one exception.
Through all my prior running activities, I had my Ipod handy. The idea of running with no music seems torturous to me. I find that music can make it easy to facilitate motivation to keep running, often losing myself in the sound and words and paying no mind to the constant repetition of my feet and breathing patterns.
Today there would be no music devices, as they race managers deemed them a safety hazard due to constant traffic. A valid point I guess, but still a huge let down.
When I begin my leg of the run, my mind takes over. I decide to push early since the adrenaline won't let me do anything other than go at a brisker pace than I usually take. My mind is wandering, unfocused and pretty much uninterested in the race as a whole. It isn't until about 15 minutes into the run that I actually begin to enjoy myself and can keep the negative thoughts about being bored and tired away.
What thoughts replace them? Well, mostly those about not letting down my team, myself, and doing something that in the end I know I will feel better for doing.
As I move over the early stretch of flat land I'm conscious of the fact that eventually a steep clime will over the entire second half of the leg and need to keep some energy in the reserves for that reason, but eventually I begin encountering other runners and my competitive instincts kick.
I now am driven to be catch people and to not be caught. It's not something that I'm loud or boastful about, but now I'm running on confidence, I'm running like I want to be better than everyone else. Even though I am not by any stretch of the imagination a 'great' or 'elite' runner (I still couldn't do a Marathon) on this day I had my mind made up to be the very best I could be. I feel invincible.
I am trailing two guys that I plan to catch, I'm chasing, not too hard to go out of my way, but I'm sure I'm going to catch them. Then we turn the corner and I see the mountain path that we're about to take and immediately slow my pace.
The best way to describe what I'm seeing is a mountain side, with it's peak as yet beyond my sights. Like running up a ski slope in summer, except you started at a point where you have no idea when the end point is.
Now the two guys that are still running, and have not stopped, they are completely trekking the mountain without slowing their pace. I cannot. I have to go to a fast walking pace to catch my breath. This, in my own mind is a huge let down. I didn't want to slow, I wanted to run the whole thing, prove my metal and dominate like I thought I should. However my body refused to respond.
Now, knowing the other runners were out of reach, my focus returned to the fact that I had no desire to get caught. I picked up my pace again, hoping to reach the flat end of the first leg.
And then I can hear the crowd and the finish. I can tell they are just around the corner, and something inside me just breaks and I push as hard as I possibly can. I am no longer jogging, I am sprinting to the end, even though my lungs are pushed and my legs are burning. The sensation felt amazing, as though everyone understood exactly what I had gone through (In fact many had) and their cheers just made me want to finish that much more.
As I handed the baton to my teammate (who was rushed a little bit due to the fact that he had just finished...well, let's just say he need to drop some weight real quick). My teammates surrounded me and cheered as I began coughing uncontrollably. It was euphoric. Even though I spent the next 5 minutes catching my breath and attempting to stop coughing I couldn't have been happier.
When I began the second leg, the same scenario unfolded. I would push myself past competitors, leaving no doubt in myself that I couldn't be stopped, a feeling of invincibility would take hold and push me all the way to base of my last hill.
Unlike the last time I had no illusions of running the whole thing. My legs felt like jelly at this point, making the climb would be impossible without taking time walk.
However...
Knowing this was the last leg, knowing full well after this event there would be no other event I was counted on for, and also seeing someone behind me and making an effort to catch me, I knew I had to go harder. To push beyond my own limits to make sure I had nothing left and to leave this experience knowing I gave all that I could.
As the last half mile marker signaled my proximity to the finish I felt a flush of energy come over. I was almost there, I was going to finish, and I wanted to finish strong. Again sprinting as best I could to the end.
After my final baton exchange, I coughed for probably the better part of 15 minutes nearly throwing up at one point (I have exercise induced asthma, which affects me only after the event is complete.) Yet I could not feel better. The amount of drive exerted made me feel absolutely fantastic. The feeling of camaraderie with my other teammates, the fact that my family and friends were there to cheer me on honestly helped shape and made the high of the aftermath.
All in all, it was a tremendous experience, one I would like to have again.
And if YOU are interested....I'll be doing the Tough Mudder event on April 10th, and teammates would be awesome.
This only works if he resigns with the Pats by the way. Which I believe is a possibility.
Imagine you're Bill Belichick. Which means, imagine you're an asshole. You coach the Patriots, you've won three rings, but later it's revealed that you cheated by a whistle blower, (damn you Mangeni). You lost draft picks for this, but in essence you got to keep you're wins and super bowls because you have the Golden Goose that is Thomas Edward 'Tom' Brady, Jr.
The team is doing well and all, but what if you could get one over in the league? Well...
Well, how about you trade a talented, but known mouthy wide receiver for decent value, have him play mediocre to terrible against you (aka...throw the game). Have him then have hold a presser saying how much he loves the other team and hates it in Minnesota and takes NO questions about how he felt about only catching the ball ONE time for 8 yards.
Not only that, but what if Childress privatly called him out on it? He noticed him loafing, saw that he was uncommited and possibly...THROWING A GAME) This would be disastrous knowledge for Childress, it would turn the sport on it's head if it were true, and brew a firestorm that would make the ref scandal in the NBA look a fluff story. So you bite it and just cut the guy.
Now the only teams that would actually pursue him would be a contending team, but how much would a contending team actually pay a player to just be a terrible distraction? Think about it. You're the Steelers, another explosive weapon like Moss would be welcomed...except it's Randy Moss, he can be a locker room cancer, he plays when he wants. And he doesn't want to play for you....he clearly wants to play for the Pats. Even a crap team or young and uprising team wouldn't want to pay him just keep him from the Pats.
Knowing this, all teams pass allowing New England to pick his ass back up, having gained a third round pick and a win against a quality opponent (the Vikings) while weakening a team that was thought to be a super bowl contender.
He comes back to the team, knowing they pulled a fast one over the NFL, win the title laughing all the way.
Remember, you're Bill Belichick, you're a cheating asshole, you got caught cheating before. But everyone loved seeing Brady crush defenses he saw coming, so we just said fuck it.
This clearly works only if the Pats do resign him. He's still a talented player, so if he says he wants to play anywhere, he'll get picked up, but so far all we can tell is that he really wants to go back to New England. There is a possiblitly a contender could pick him up (say...the Jets) not play him or hold him out of practice, and basically pay him to NOT play for Pats...but who knows.
Again this is just a conspiracy in theory only. I certainly offer no evidence other than what I've heard and seen on media outlets. But it is kinda neat I think, even if it ends up being completely wrong.
The 'Price is Right' is awesome. I don't know that it can be disputed. For some reason, no one who is ever on the show has less than a shit-eating grin on their face. And I might say, warranted. Most are enthused to the point of jumping, fist pumping, aggressive high five-ing and giggling like like you're ten years old. Others actually go more extreme, dancing, leaping and putting on an overall show of hysterics you think that they may actually be planted or hand picked.
But you know they're not. You know that these people are actually being themselves. That the thrill of the opportunity to answer some silly questions about the prices of soap, cereal, and furniture may land you in a free trip for a lifetime or a new car. How would you react? Would the emotion of being swept into this bonanza overwhelm your senses and brain? Would logic cease to be? Or could you hold you're adrenaline and think about bids, probability and chance? This is actually the crux of the game. While the viewer can take out the adrenaline from the safety of their couch, the contestants obviously can not.
So what would I do if I actually were on the price is right? Well...
1) I'm not going completely sober. I'm using something to calm my nerves. Not a lot. Maybe a beer, maybe a hit of pot, but If I'm going to 'Come on down!' then I need to be slightly sedated to make sure I'm not too emotionally high. Now there is the possibility this would have the opposite effect and my endorphins would just go through the roof and I just collapse in a pile of brain mush, but I have a plan, so I'm gonna assume that I'm fine.
2) I'm up first to bid. This mean I literally must guess as close as I can without going over (duh). I have no one's bid to compete against, so I would bid exactly what I think the price is subtracting 50 dollars for some cushion. But after this, I'm playing off other people's bids as well. I won't get so caught up in their bids I don't think of what I'm actually bidding on, but certainly if I feel like everyone over bid (which feels like it happens at least once every episode) I'm going to bid that 1 dollar.
If I win, I plan on using a Tiger Woods/Michael Jordan/Kobe Bryant fist pump, point at the camera and mouth 'You Know It' while smirking ever so slightly, letting you know I'm both happy and have enough confidence that I expected to be here.
3) Assuming I've made it this far, I am now in a pretty euphoric state. Knowing my luck I won furniture, a bed, possibly exercise equipment, or a vase. But now I'm approaching my one on one game with Drew. Again, the most important thing would be to focus on the prices of the items and you're own history. I'd consult the crowd if I legitimately had no clue what the hell the price of bubble bath is or a hand bag. Really other than that I'm just playing the game.
If I win, pending the prize, I'm more than likely going to lose it. My Anthony Kiedis jumps will probably be in effect. I imagine at least one to two over hand fist pumps, followed by a brief John Wall dance.
4) The wheel. I'm crushing it. My call outs will go as follows. "I wanna thank the Lord, Jesus Christ, my Moms and Pops, Sarah, and all my homies in the projects of State College keeping it real."
or just thank whoever came with me to the show. Which would probably involve mostly Pickles staff members....(hint)
I plan to just push the damn wheel as hard as possible without looking like a jackass. 85% Power would probably be ideal so that the wheel moves with speed and I don't fall on my ass.
5) Showcase. The big deal. If I'm here I'm obviously stoked, but I'm almost immediately trying to calm myself, think but not over think myself out of the prices. If I feel my competitor over bid, i do not use the 1 dollar defense, instead just using a much safer bid than what I typically would.
If I won the showcase...
More jumping, possible exclamation to "Free Weezy" or an Antoine Dodson reference to "rapin ever'y body out here". I would definitely thank Drew, would mention that I loved the 'Drew Carey Show' growing up, and would ask protocol about the best way to sleep with one of the models.
I'd also ask him why the set looks like it's set up like the biggest and most expensive carnival tent in the world.
Sadly I am now out of college. At this point I'd say that 50 percent of the people I hang out with are now done with school as well. However one of the prime and most crazy times you could ever hope to have is a spring break. If it's spent anywhere warm, any kind of coast, the excess of youth and energy seem to overwhelm the area for the minute. And trust me, MTV will probably be there in some capacity. Cancun, South Beach, Ft. Lauderdale, Malibu, Hawaii, Dominican Republic...the list goes on. However, these trips take money, planning and effort. None of which I had in the Spring of 2010. I did have a good time, with friends that will always be friends after that non-trip we all took. This is the story of Spring Broke.
There were thoughts of going somewhere. Ideas had been floated. None acted upon. And now here we were in March, stuck in State College. There would be no warm weather either In fact, while the previous week had been rather nice, and the one following would be exquisite, the week where we had no responsibilities other than to show up to work, and have fun and forget about the troubles of the world was quite shitty. Wind, rain, and cold with little sunlight.
Lesser people would be deterred from going out. They might stay in. Watch re-runs of 'The Office', catch a basketball or hockey game. Read a book. My friends are not those kinds of people. They have off, and since we have no money to go on a real trip...we will still take leave of our realities, even if it's in mind only.
The beginning of the week was for the most part uninteresting, but still relaxing. If you went out, perhaps you shot some pool at a dive bar, or chilled watching sports. Maybe one or two of your friends went for a half-off-the-house Irish Car Bomb slug fest (My roommate...good work) on a Monday (and Wednesday). Either way everyone was prepping for Saturday. Saturday was designated as the day that we would get together and really go all out. Barbecue, beer, slapping the bag, etc. Shenanigans must ensue. from the balcony of the porch. Fortunately for myself I actually began the Saturday at work. Though the students were still gone, business was not that different than usual, thanks to the fact that the locals actually decided to come out from their suburban holes. This would keep me from participating in the early parts of preparation, ... the food preparation, setting up of music, hiding of various electronics, locking of certain doors, unnecessary pre-gaming and general awkwardness that happens when parties are just being setup/beginning.
When I do arrive, the timing is perfect, hot dogs and burgers are on and cooking, no one is sober, but no one is messy, and everyone is grinning, knowing that this is going to be a fun experience that everyone has been looking forward to.
From here on the night goes no different than any other house party night. There is keg stands, beer pong, flirting, beer bongs, stoners moving away to smoke for a minute, or possibly somebody got a hold of something else, in any event, the night is going strong. The energy seems to just grow and grow, people bring pasta salad, chips, beer, a bag of wine, a fifth of Jack Daniels. The people that have stayed here with us, that would join up for a night on the town on a Wednesday knowing in all likelihood that a group of 4-10 people would make up 25% of the patronage at any given bar; they're all here. And in that revelry is what made spring broke special. Everyone is on the same page for that whole week, and everyone seems to be together.
And thus begins the singing. I don't quite understand how or why we all got there, but somehow, terrible drunk singing is contagious at this point. Perhaps it was the song, perhaps it was just a moment, but we are all in unison singing Michael Jackson's 'Will You Be There', which may be better titled under "That 'Free Willy' Song". Now if you are some degenerate and have never seen the movie, here's a helpful youtube link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=33XPuLXJ6p0
Now, I have several theories as to why we started singing this song.
1. 'Free Willy' was a great movie from most of our childhoods, and even though looking back on it, we never really continued our love of whales until now. (Though I do admit, I made my Dad help me save one whale by calling that free number at the end of the movie and donating like 20 bucks, I got a dumb ass packet about the whale and never gave a shit again....sorry Dad.)
2. We were wrapped in our euphoric bliss. We felt on top of the world, and as friends conquered the town. This is (I think) not to dissimilar from what would happen had we actually had money to go on spring break. We would have a group of friends that would chill for the week, we would have some fun early, but in reality be really saving up for that last night, that last hurrah, where shit just starts hitting the fan. That at the end of this you know you have to get back to the grind so that you're squeezing every last bit of freedom out of this trip and you will do exactly, and in no uncertain terms, whatever the fuck you want.
3. Michael Jackson's shit got really hot after he died, the feeling had not subsided and thus even if you felt like the song was dumb as shit you felt socially obligated to sing along to fit in with everyone else
4. Well...we were all just pretty wasted at this point.
After this serenade the night continues at a raucous and chaotic pace. Eventually I turn to see key's being punched through beer cans. And for some reason my friends are discarding their shirts.
Typically I avoid these scenarios, I don't particularly like getting my picture taken, I don't typically like to be an exhibitionist of any sorts. I like attention, but only in reasonable doses, otherwise I become extremely self-conscious. This however, was spring broke. These were different circumstances than which I usually operate. (See also, Birthday, Hotel State College Christmas Party, Arts Fest, Home Football games and 80's parties.) So I too partook in the pic, the subsequent crush of the beer, and then, for reasons unknown even to myself, I leaped
I thought I could clear the hedges, and then, maybe, I don't know...role through through the brief stretch of lawn. I thought, I could make it. Looking back, it was quite foolish, but it was fun as shit and I don't regret it. My initial landing didn't hurt, which may have been in part to the fact that we were listening to punk rock at my time of departure. In any case, the effect was contagious and my stunts were then duplicated by various people which makes me feel good that I wasn't alone in that energetic euphoria.
And as the songs kept playing and times became timeless, you realize that's all spring break is. It's an opportunity to release energy with your friends and peers in as fun a manner as you can possibly express. And in our particular case it was good to know you could always escape if you wanted to, even if you didn't go anywhere.
If you like music, you are no doubt familiar with a few of the Internet innovations as a way to listen to music. Pandora, Grooveshark, and of course, the commercial beast that is Itunes. The latest innovation, by Apple(again) may be the biggest advancement in music that I've ever witnessed. A social network not only designed to let music lover's find music, but also to have an open interaction with the other musicians and fans.
As I've tested the application, I've downloaded one new album (The National-High Violet), began following certain artists, and looked through their recommendations and links. It's integration will then show followers what I'm listening to, what I've purchased, reviewed or commentated on. In short, it's an infinite discussion on music.
The concept is not new. I make cd's for my friends, they do so for me and that's one way to share. Or maybe a link on Facebook, or making a list to put on Grooveshark. But this is different, because you can actively choose, and people you know can put in their input.
Now I know, the songs on Itunes are not free, which is a turn off to some (I never mind paying. I think music is worth money. I may be in the minority on that though.) But it's definitely worth checking out, and you should definitely follow me. At worse, you just follow other artists and people and help shape the musical landscape. Worth a shot, no?
I have high hopes for this. I constantly ask people for new things to listen to. Or their opinions on older music. This looks like a place to everything, all at once.
I love the sport. It's physicality, it's violence, it's grace. I love it all. Football is such a phenomenon in America right now, even though the sport has been around for over 100 years. It crushes TV ratings, merchandise sales, and for all intensive purposes, seems to make us happy. I have no idea why at times. Sometimes I see the sport as possibly other cultures might, that it's just large, extremely fast men, running into each other as hard as possible.
But I also know the sport from what I've experienced. Starting with my first legitimized practice in the eighth grade.
When I first strapped on the pads it just felt different. Like I could march into a field and battle, do it amongst my peers, and then prove something about myself. I could find my niche. When I put on that uniform, I was no longer my civilian self, I was ready to take the mantle of a hero. I was ready to be something more than flesh and blood, when I put on that suit, I wanted to be a legend.
I don't know for sure that this is how everyone feels when they put on those pads. Maybe for some a baseball uniform does the trick, others basketball, or (God forbid) soccer. The first moment always seems to be the best. It's new, it's fresh, and full of opportunities start.
Then practice begins. And the initial skill levels become apparent. Some are fast, some slow, some strong, some weak. Tall, short, skinny, fat, everything in between. We are everyman. In this moment, this first moment, we are all here. And what's more, there is a place for everyone. Big guys to the line. The fast guys to the outside as receivers. The best athletes typically at quarterback, running back, linebacker.
As drills are performed, races run and lost, we begin separation. Some will no doubt be left behind (at least figuratively) and though they may never played a down, they still understand the lure of the sport of those that continue to play, some wishing they still did.
As I moved along, I found more and more nuances to the game. I found that speed and hand eye coordination were far more valuable than strength or size. That understanding the game including what the other player is attempting to accomplish on a specific play will give you an edge. Down and distance always matter. The clock, always matters.
I loved the struggles, the battle, the competition in every play. Unlike other sports such as basketball, soccer and hockey, footballs single play system allows for one team to momentarily lose, and then attempt to pick itself back up. The realization will set in that 'I just got beat' and you must recover mentally and physically. And if you do, the euphoria is unlike any I've ever really experienced, as though I fell while climbing a mountain, only to later run up to the peak and then claim it as my own.
The effort needed to perform in this sport is unique. At times, it's brute strength, others speed, technique, intelligence. It's an all encompassing sport. I cannot help but admire the ability of Peyton Manning, to not only throw a football, but to understand when and where to throw due to his reading of a defense. Likewise, I am in awe of the physical attributes of a Michael Vick, who can seemingly jog faster than 80% of humans can sprint.
It's an all encompassing sport, for the mind, the body and soul. It's America at it's purest. And that in all likelihood is why it makes us happy.
So, like many people who enjoy good story telling. Good TV (of which there is little), good movies, (of which there are more) music, (where the stories are more open ended and typically less literal, and there is tons of it out there) and books (I don't need to explain books as a story right?)
Tonight debuted what HBO billed as another great story. One that they believe in the writer who wrote the story so much that he was one of the top billed players in the series as well as director Martin Scorsese. Yes, Steve Buscemi is a lead, someone you know doubt of seen before even if you don't watch a ton of movies, (but may be unfamiliar with the name.) Otherwise the cast takes a few cues similar to Mad Men, casting mostly relatively unknowns. It's not the only similarity to Mad Men, which isn't a bad thing.
The story takes us to the 20's, where prohibition is in the process of being passed. And while the central stories will no doubt be taking place within the context of the set up of the dealings of crime and morality, the obvious length to which Terence Winter and Martin Scorsese went to create a living breathing can not be lost. In face time and time again they show how culture and the world in general was different. In social moray's, in legality, in social statuses, in language. The authentication of an age thought visually extinct, save for old photographs. This is very much of what Mad Men does as well, which is a brain child of another 'Soprano' writer, Matthew Weiner (Who should get all due credit for making a fabulous show, pitched it to HBO, and they sadly said no.)
I don't think Boardwalk will try to mimic the Mad Men formula too much, and just try to pass over with a bigger budget and cursing. I think the writing and story ideas will be able to come a from a still original and fun place. ( A few interesting ones develop in the middle and in the end that completely took me by surprise).
It promises to be an interesting venture, and certainly one worth keeping up with.
Recently I had found myself thinking about sorority girls. Specifically the girls who seem to be in College ONLY to have fun, who live in a world of boys, alcohol and drugs. They seem mostly interested in being junior level socialites, trying to stay on top of fashion and parties, but lacking in areas such as individuality and intelligence. I'm not painting with a broad brush here. I know plenty of girls that were in sororities and are not this girl, or who were this girl and then changed.
These particular girls have been told there whole life that they're beautiful, sexy, and hot. They dated whomever they wanted, and could have sex with just about anyone they wanted.
I wonder if these girls know that in two years, maybe less, they will be replaced by someone younger, sexier, dumber. Because they do not appear to. They cling to their vanity as their only line of defense . In fact the only way they won't be forgotten with the rest of her 'sisters' is that she actually finds a future with a motivated guy that some how doesn't see or doesn't care about her slutty shallowness. They are social climbers that must use their vagina's to do the climbing.
I do not know what led them to this miserable level of self-esteem, where their self worth is directly tied to who they have and who they currently are sleeping with. Where sleeping with the star football player is better than sleeping with with the star frat guy, that's better than sleeping with an upstart musician. It's bizarre (Not sure if that's the same for all the schools out there. Certainly at Harvard, maybe being in an awesome band is better than athlete, just saying at PSU pecking order certainly begins at football player).
Keep in mind I'm not referencing all sorority girls in this, but I am saying that is something that goes on. And maybe it is all fine. If you land a that guy that turns out to be a Pro Athlete, kudos. Just saying you got lucky, and it's probably not the best way to get into a relationship. Oh, and if you're banking on you being hot forever, just remember that youth is the easiest thing to replace. In just a couple years someone else is going to take your place as super hot bitch. Sorry, seems to be evolution. So when you don't have anything to give to a guy except being a slut ready to give it up, don't be surprised when your options start to dwindle.
The solution? Recognizing your own voice and trusting it. Be an individual worth knowing, defining yourself not by who you're with, but by yourself independent of others. If you are defining yourself as the 'girlfriend of 'insert star player's name' than you have have no real self identity. In short, get a personality. The vapid, brain dead slut gets old. (Eventually. You do great for rebounds though.)
*Disclaimer, This is both based on knowledge I've gotten first hand as well as friends within the Greek system. I'm not talking about any of my actual friends that are from sororities. We wouldn't be friends if you were the girl I just described.
The bar that I work at is a hodgepodge of characters. No two people are really that close to each other in terms of type of personality. They range in style from jock, to sorority girl, to hippie, to stoner, to alcoholic, to ladies man, to husband, to wife, to home owner, to vagabond, to writer. And that's just a basic label, everyone is much more than that. We tend to have strong personalities, even if some are somewhat reluctant to show it. Due to our schedules, we tend to have few opportunities to really get together. Being in this college town, (repping you PSU) the staff is comprised mostly of college students of some capacity, undergrads, grads, law, etc. this basically means that if your not in class, you are probably studying or working, leaving very little time for a social life. Meaning that when the staff does get an opportunity to get together, we tend to let loose. We let loose like we may never get another opportunity quite like this one. This would be one of those times.
My roommate (we'll call him George Michael, yeah the same from the 80's story post) and I have decided to go out. He is coming off a tough break up and as a good friend I want to be there for him. Hang out for a few drinks, talk about whatever, joke, try and help him forget whatever is on his mind. He mentions that perhaps Sylas and Bill might be out. This signals a warning sign in my head. The last time a premeditated meeting of off duty staff occurred, I ended up shot-gunning a 4loco and passed out face down in a completely barren room that had yet to be moved into. Clearly if this night was going to happen I would need to be on my toes, because lost focus would mean in all likelihood a lost night. One when many interesting things may be happening but you might have been just a bit too inebriated to remember many of them.
We smoke a little bit of pot to calm the nerves before heading in. I love this practice. I'm a bit of an anxious person and will nervously sweat small social details like non-verbal communication, greetings, and what not. The act of smoking makes much more at peace with my surroundings, and less self-conscious.*
When we arrive we are greeted by the staff, who seems very happy to see us come through. Though also appear to perceive our current slightly sluggish state of mind and I am sheepish about the fact, but neither myself nor George Michael is apologetic about our actions. We're out to have fun. It's Friday night after all. We saddle up at a table, beers in hand, and so begins the night.
I start by picking George Michael's head about football. Football in America has become such an awesome phenomenon that I really think I can go anywhere in the world by just being able to strike up a conversation about that particular sport. I'd say about 85% of guys like the sport in America, thus making it a great conversation piece at any given time. Not more than ten minutes come by before Sylas and Will enter. I'm on my first beer. I am still fine, and feeling upbeat and curious how this night will go.
As Sylas and Will sit, the energy seems to build. Voices become boisterous, jokes become more regular, more vulgar, and our manager has just brought over a round of shots. It goes down easy, a short burn quickly replaced by the tartness of lime and sprite. I order another round. Now this was not something discussed at all. I just went by feeling. I felt like another round would just set it off right, set everyone in the mood. And it did. Soon after another shot, William orders yet another group of tasty, poisonous delights. So it goes. round after round ordered. consumed. Not so much of a word as to how or why yet somehow in the span of 47 minutes and 36 seconds we had consumed 8 shots and a few beers. It is not yet 10:30. I fear the worst for the coming assault we are about commit on human dignity.
We are attempting to fuck with our boss now. Our GM is coming down to bartending for the night. A rarity for sure, this is the first time in probably 3 years I've seen him take a bartending shift. I ask asininely for car bombs, knowing full well, that while they are simple steps to take, they are monotonous and tedious steps. He is not smiling as he takes the 3 steps to the right, the half pour of Jameson followed by the slow drip of Carolan's Irish Cream. I try to cheer him up, suggesting perhaps it might be fun to do the service thing again, an adrenaline rush perhaps.
"I fucking hate this shit" "Oh"
I had little success.
I return, the realization I may be overstepping my bounds clearly expressed on my face.
"Guys, I'm not doing that again. He's pissed. Someone else is welcome to go, but I suggest to use caution."
Chris, yet another off duty employee, has joined our pack and welcomes the challenge and agrees to go. He order's B52's, a layered shot that has to be eye balled and done with care.
"Are you guys fucking with me?"
Guilty. But at this point we're bullet proof. We're all having a blast. We're united in our off-dutyness, and general affinity for crazy nights out. And our boss quickly sees this, and embraces our joy. He may not like the regular customers, however the off duty staff are the people he trusts to make the place how he wants it. And if it's all in fun, with no malice, we are allowed to fuck with the boss.
The night proceeds flawlessly. Eventually we would split up and lose one another to the night, some would come back, others not. My personal adventure took me to the undergrad apartments and Griller's at the end of the night. chowing down with a couple of the girls who worked tonight. I'm not exactly sure how I got to their place, but they seem fun and happy to have me over as company. However one gets a phone call asking to come down and check a head wound to see if the victim should go to the hospital, and at this point I think it wise to take my leave. They are nice enough to call me a cab, and I part, hoping mostly to go home and fall asleep. I've already had a pretty fun night and can't see how it could become better. That's when the Cab pulls off to the side exactly at the foot of the drive way of the house that's best known as the "Canary".
The canary just happens to be where 2 employee's as well as two other good friends live. For those keeping track, it is also where I passed out from the shot-gunning of an orange 4loco. I can see movement on the porch and I just know I want to be a part of it. I'm out for adventure, I'm out to find what moves people.
When I arrive I'm greeted with high fives and hugs from people I've just met as well as friends that go back for years. It's my friends birthday at midnight, and we have a celebratory smoke. I am extremely intoxicated at this point, but I still feel incredible. My emotions are of joy and laughter, there is no negative emotion still in existence in this moment. And now our gracious hosts have suggested a jam session.
I love music. I really do. I can't stand not having music in my life, and honestly I feel like life gets just so dry with out it. So when people just start performing it, even at an amateur level, I get pretty psyched up. Right now I'm loaded on alcohol and THC, and I can think of nothing better but to attempt to have fun writing lyrics and singing along in a free style. How often do these opportunities happen anyway? Whatever I sang and wrote was, in all likelihood, terrible. Something about a girl wanting to play and get paid...some kind simple rhyme like that with minor adjustments.
At some point a girl steps in and begins to sing. She is much better than I am. Which is fine by me. I'm not trying to be a singer anytime soon. I probably should have listened to the drummer who kept insisting I should write my shit down, (I tried...I got 3 lines, all terrible, all scribbled horribly, and not really making any sense.)
I finally feel the need to rest. I stumble home to bed, having had what was in all likelihood one of the best times I've had all year. Mostly due to the beginning attitude of the guys night out.
*I'm anxiously awaiting to the results of California's marijuana laws. If it's successful, as I think many believe it will be, I think American culture will change in a way not so dissilar to when prohibition ended. Honestly, it's one of the biggest issues that is coming up in this country, and it should be discussed openly
For the record, this is not my original idea. It actually belongs to what I consider to be a great and original writer in Chuck Klosterman, who I wholeheartedly suggest you check out if you like to read at all. That said, this is the story of how I finally find something remotely fashionable to wear.
I do not give a flying fuck about fashion. I do hope I look good, and honestly I think the clothes I do wear I pull off. However I give about ten seconds of thought when I shop for clothes, if I shop at all. As many friends can attest, I rarely go outside the comfort zone of white or black generic t-shirt, jeans (or my favorite washed out black pants) and that's about it. On rare occasions I will go with a long sleeve collared shirt (what I consider my 'Frat Guy' shirt). But today is my birthday, and I would like to particularly fresh and honestly while I always think I look good, I've been told that my sense of style can be somewhat...lacking.
My solution? Go to places that actually put time and thought into who they are dressing. In every clothing store there are mannequins put on display to catch every one's eye. While perhaps you may think of getting that one shirt, or pants or hoodie, what if you just took the whole ensemble? And if you put as little thought into dressing yourself as I do, what would the reaction be if all of a sudden you look like you came out looking like you actually represent a whole line of clothing? Thus, my trip to go mannequin shopping at the mall begins.
State College has a relatively shitty mall when compared to anything Philadelphia, Pittsburgh or even Altoona. Styles are pretty limited, and while I don't mind the whole idea of being someone else, I still don't feel like representing the douche bags that blare out logos on their shirts like Abercrombie or American Eagle. It's lame, it's old and most of all, everyone in the town seems to think blaring out their status on a shirt is the coolest thing in the world. I would actually prefer if no one knew where I got my clothes and instead just looked at me for me. As I look at the mannequins in AE, Gap, and Aeropostale, all look like absolute douche bags to me. They don't have a dumb ass blowout on their head but with the clothes they're dressed in, they honestly want me give up. I glance at Hot Topic, but there is so much black on their mannequins that I get depressed just looking at the shop. Pac Sun seems to have some color, and looks the least douchey model that I can tell, and more obvious to me, a very cute little brunette to help me with my mission.
"Hello, can I help you?" "Why absolutely, can I have that?" I say, pointing in the direction of the mannequin repping a white hoodie, blue shirt, white undershirt, jeans, hat, straight pants, and other assorted doodads. "The hoodie?" "No, all of it." "Excuse me?" " I would like everything that mannequin is wearing...if you please" "Um...that may be a problem." "Why is that?" I ask, perfectly perplexed as to why I could not purchase the clothes that were on said mannequin. "Well, those clothes are mediums....and you are not."
This had not occurred to me. I am not the average male height, nor weight. Mannequin's are models, and they are meant to be closer to that average, an almost ideological model to be exact. This is an obstacle to my mission.
"Can I ask you why you need those clothes?"
I explain the situation, her face light's up, she is interested in this idea (who wouldn't be?).
"How about you just dress me? I'll trust you, you do whatever you like."
She leads me around the shop, she picks up pants, that in all honesty I doubt I can fit into, and a small vest(i don't fit into mediums...you thought that small was a good idea?) but I try them all on for her. She looks, me over, decides what works and what doesn't. I am the guinea pig of 6'3 California fashion in Pennsylvania.
She settles on a purple flannel, a black v-neck undershirt, and straight jeans. It's simple, it's flashy and yet not to the point of overbearing. I love it. With one exception. One of my best friends from work already has the shirt and rocks it well. He will be at my birthday celebration, and I can only imagine the comments that would ensue with me being a doppelganger, an imitator to his original style. That would blow. I suggest that I need an alternate. I am handed a blue flannel with white undershirt. Acceptable.
At the party, I mention the plan to only a few friends. The plan is to see what kind of reaction I would get, if any at all. One hole in my plan is the fact that it is my birthday. I do get more compliments than I think would be typical, but on a birthday, it's a difficult judge.
However following the birthday I begin to wear the original purple flannel (with full disclosure to my friend about the mannequin etc.) and the effect is profound. First, the girls think I look much better, and say so. All of my guy friends think I look infinitely more gay and say so. The fact that I'm single at this moment time lets me tune out the quips and taunts from my guy friends, as I'm much more interested in catching the attention of the opposite sex.
I've kept all the clothes, and to be honest, recommend trying this experience at lease once. I'd especially like to hear from some one who can pull off mediums. Sorry for the wait on a new post. Moving kept me without my computer and Internet for some time.
From time to time, they just occur. Most are not planned. But for some reason there will always be a story behind it. They may or may not involve alcohol, (leaning toward the 'may' side) or involve random bad ideas (again probably) and usually includes a group of roughly 3-6 people. This night has some memories, and though the images have faded slightly with time, they're still very vivid in feeling.
This was one of those times. This was Tequila night.
Drinking games exist through out the world, because, well games are 10 times more fun with a buzz. Drinking is supposed to be fun, and if you aren't having fun, I'd suggest not doing it. This particular night, I'm attempting to do a night of unparalleled drinking fun. Myself and my friend Mac are going to watch "The Big Lebowski" and attempt to drink a shot of tequila every single time they say the word 'dude'. Some of our other friends come as way, not to participate but to just watch. I thought this was peculiar since I thought this idea was fantastic.
I had not seen the movie in some time...
In the opening scene they say the word dude 3 times in less than 30 seconds. That's 1 shot every 10 seconds. That will make any one's stomach quiver a little, I don't care how much you fancy yourself a drinker. In the first 10 minutes I'm probably close to ten shots, and now even as I slow my pace to a crawl, I can't take back those first ten. This was a foolish idea, but now, I feel fun, I feel invincible, and I am alive. And I cannot wait to start dancing.
I cannot wait to dance because Mac is fading, he is tapping out, he has to throw up. I claim victory as Tequila night champ, I begin to shake, and Mac is unhappy with these actions. Somewhat playfully, very much drunk-ily, he shoves my dancing ass. I was not much for balance at this stage and promptly fall over laughing. Mac wants to go to the bar, at least he thinks he does. I want no such thing, however I do apparently want go home. Thankfully my friends settled me down and without much effort convinced me to just sleep on a comfortable (then) blanket.
The next morning, I awake on a shitty (now) blanket on the floor. I am told of my actions the night before, (and shown via video camera) and I again laugh. I allegedly had attempted to help my buddy up the steps to his room as he was unable to make it by himself. We all agree we shall not attempt anything of this nature again, (though we would later attempt the Rambo challenge issued by a Co-Worker within a year) and agree that while it was fun night for sure last night the hangover we are currently facing makes us all want to do nothing but lay down on very comfortable beds.
Guilty. I plead guilty. There are some shows you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that are just trash. And sometimes you just can't help it. You have to see if there is really is a reason that millions upon millions of people are tuning in to this show.
So I caved. I broke down and picked up the On Demand menu and hit the play over Jersey Shore. It both was and was not what I suspected. It is over the top, and yes the people in the house are very, very much wrapped up in their own drama. They often appear to fail how their interactions with other people affects people they say they love. They are also very unapologetic about it. Anyone that talks any kind of smack about the crew is labeled a hater, or jealous.
Think about the personalities that typically drive a reality show at any level. For the most part, these people love the camera, they love the spotlight on themselves. Shit, half the people on American Idol suck horribly at singing yet after getting kicked out in the first round, the contestants will whine and moan that they ARE good enough and deserve more time.
In the 'Jersey Shore' we get hit with personalities that think so much of themselves it's almost preposterous. Right upon meeting all of them, you notice that ALL are just completely confident in themselves, most people would think a little bit too much. This is pretty much the overriding context of the entire show.
The results of acting with such narcissism? Drama at almost every turn. Things go shitty in a hurry. Almost immediately, someone will become jealous due to lack of attention, or even just a perceived lack of attention. They will then act this out, by talking about themselves in some flattering manner, parading in underwear(Snookie) or lifting up their shirt (Situation.)
Eventually you end up disliking most, if not at all characters at one point or another. Ronnie for getting into a fight, (though to be honest, I am betting there were a fair amount of douche bags yelling at him for no other reason than there was a camera near by. Look, if you aren't part of the show, don't try to get on by being a fucking clown.) Situation for constantly creeping, Vinny for running his mouth and also playing girls, Snookie for being so dramatic and always needing attention, and so on.
But,
You also secretly root for them. You root for them to get it. That they do act like ass holes from time to time. That yes you should have fun, but don't aim to do so at the expense of someone else. Girls are not some commodity, and neither are guys. In some parts you think one might have turned the corner, maybe they'll be a reasonable human being for the rest of the series only to be proven wrong over and over again.
That's the unfunny version of why it has redeeming value. But if you don't find the Jersey Shore Shore funny, you may have to re-think your sense of humor. The irony that it wasn't just the characters that were on the show that were living up to the stereotype, but the surrounding crowd as well. From random girls calling each other sluts on the street, to the guy who actually hit a girl, the scum in the series was in no way limited to just the main characters.
All in all, I guiltily admit I enjoyed it. It's not high brow, it's at time brutal to watch as any random reality show on VH1, but their is a certain uniqueness to this group that separates it from any predecessor.
So i was listening to the whole argument about why pitching seems to be taking over this year. Specifically young pitching it seems. While everyone seems to blame in part PED's have probably in part kept the ball in the park a bit more, I was wondering about the effect of not having PED's in the game now has effected players confidence.
For example. If a young pitcher is coming into the league, and he KNOWS some of these guys are so juiced up they're gonna knock the ball all over the field I'm guessing he's a little bit more timid. OR has a standard amount of confidence that no matter what he would win even if they are.
Since the removal of PED's, now would a pitcher gain more of advantage mentally? Would he now think now that the hitter has lost something, or at the very least he believes the playing field is more balanced?
Conversely, have batters taken a hit to their confidence, knowing they can't juice? How dependent were certain hitters to that drug? If these athletes were using regular, than they developed at least in some way a habit. By the Major Leagues disrupting this habit, or at least attempting to, they have probably disrupted many players routines. I doubt that the breaking of that routine would send waves of confidence rushing in.
My basic theory is this. Since disrupted PED rules have come into effect, Pitchers, especially young ones, are more confident and successful.
While hitters, specifically aging ones, are by and large less confident, and less successful.
They happen all the time.All over the country.Its theme is almost as well known as Halloween, St. Patrick’s Day or the Fourth of July.But the 80's party is a completely different animal.The 80's party is not for the weak party goer.And you realize this early, exactly when you done one of the most ridiculous get ups of all time.
Who goes to 80's parties?Those who want shit to go down.Everything will need to go over the top, in one way or another. In fact, by just labeling something as "80's" it pretty much will guarantee that someone will be on drugs, someone will be naked, and at some point, however brief, you think the cops just might show up.
When you wake up the next day you think “There was no way that was real.That could not have happened".That is when you spy the camera.Someone, in their infinite wisdom, has brought a device that will chronicle the past events in graphical detail.This is typically a girl, who also is also most likely hosting the 80's party since planning and decorating are not guy activities.This device will be desired immediately after the party with a fervor that is almost inhuman by those who will be hoping to hold on to whatever dignity they have left.Fortunately, the host knows this, and typically gets to the camera first.
What is on that phone is a human train wreck.People all kinds of mangled, smiles that beam with insanity, eyes half open and unable to comprehend what is actually happening. Because everyone....EVERYONE who showed up in that ridiculous outfit went and got absolutely hammered.Dancing, drinking, drugs, and sex.The 80’s were just the quintessential party era, and it gets re-lived on a pretty regular basis.
This story is about my recent experience.It was grand, it was crazy.It made so much and so little sense at the same time my head nearly exploded.It started officially at 6 pm.
I've known about this party for probably a month.I had requested off work, I had intended to go, yet I had put zero effort into the costume aspect.This is okay, because I have at least one hour before I have to go over to my friends place and I have knowledge of where the Goodwill is.Goodwill and the thrift stores across America are the one stop shop for any kind of vintage costume.You can typically find ten to fifteen items that will work within ten minutes of simple browsing.I have decided on an old sky blue Nike running t-shirt and a pair of turquoise shorts made by Speedo.I did not initially think the shorts were swimming trunks, wrongly assuming that in years past Speedo was branched out and made types of pants that were not intended for swimming.However this would later prove fortuitous as I later learned there would be a hot tub at the house.I then picked up a set of glasses and wore my running shoes and 'bam': I was 80's jogger guy.(Except my shorts were swim trunks, but they certainly accomplish the look of jogger guy.)
Needless to say, as you put on your assembled outfit, you begin to realize just how over the top the shit is going to be.It has to be this way out of necessity because as you look in the mirror you cannot believe what you are actually wearing.And once you know how absurd you look, you know that the binge must occur, for no other reason than to settle your nerves and make you feel comfortable wearing tight, obnoxiously loud clothing.
As I arrive at George Michaels house (not his real name, WAS his real costume), I’m immediately offered a gravity bong hit.This is not where the party is, rather, George Michael will be driving me to said party since he has been to the house before and apparently not even the power of a GPS can direct me there.I accept the gratuitous hit of pot and proceed to watch a little bit of the Lakers game and talk to George about how I feel about wearing very short shorts and really hope I might be better off just staying with my sweat pants on.
The drive is about 20 minutes and we are one of the first to arrive.We are greeted by George Michaels girlfriend, who looks like an older version of one of the girls from Kids Incorporated, and friend who I can't really remember real well, but resembled some kind of grizzled hillbilly who also loved marijuana, but not as it appeared to enjoy brushing his teeth or getting haircuts.He seemed nice enough, but clearly was more into George Michael’s girlfriend than he should have been, but George did not appear to be threatened by this behavior.George Michael seemed way more interested in entering and getting out of the cold.
The house was large.I was told it was a big place but in reality I had no idea what to expect.I haven't been to a big house for a party in a long, long time, having recently been spending most of my party time at small college apartments and town houses or bars.The house had wood flooring for the most part, and in reality the whole of the house is wood.It feels like a giant, deluxe edition of a Lincoln log cabin.Hippies would probably love this place.
As I enter the main room, accompanied by George Michael, his girlfriend, and Grizzle, I am being warned by George Michael that these people are a little on the young side.This is fine by me, for although I’m 26 now, my maturity level is approximately lagging by 4 years.As I look across the crowd and see the other party goers I now know that I definitely will not quite fit in.There is a guy wearing a Boy George outfit, who seems like he has quite the personality, but unfortunately also quite the gut.He will later become part of the life blood of the party, crushing shots and beer like it was his job, and dancing throughout.There is a young couple, who I think literally just got out of high school and clearly need to split up, because they are not quite prepared for what happens to people right after high school.With new found abilities to acquire booze, pot, and other assorted nefarious goods that seemed way out of reach when living with your parents, after high school is the first time to really expand you mind about what it is to live and make decisions.This is not conductive to a relationship in the slightest.There are more, but I’ll get to them later.Right now, I’m taking off my pants.
I'm taking off my sweatpants, making sure to smile and laugh because I’m nervous as shit, and it seems to put everyone else at ease.I'm a 6'3, 230 pound man at this point and not in any way on the small side.I've often been described as intimidating, which I find terrible because I want to often be seen as very kind and friendly. My mind and body could not possibly be at further ends of the spectrum.Because it is January, and it is very very cold right now.The lack of pants now seems like a huge mistake.I literally feel like I may play up the jogging man angle just to keep warm, and will at no point attempt to go outside. Instead I suggest a game of pong.Everyone just looks at me like I'm crazy.I know none of these people, with the lone exception of George Michael and his girlfriend.So I'm met with no eye contact and one guy angrily says his beer isn't here yet.
This is no good.I need to get drunk.I need it in a hurry.I don't want to start shot gunning beers or using the beer bong or begin taking shots because that's just what either rookies or alcoholics do.I need George Michael. George Michael knows at least half of these people.He must begin the pong.Thankfully he comes up the steps from the basement and also asks if anyone wants to play.This gets people in motion.Because George Michael is older, and probably cooler than everyone else, and they know George Michael.
As we begin to play, I team up with GM. and we start with typical early rust.Failing several times to hit the starting cup.This is of course due to the sober rule of beer pong, where it is literally impossible to hit a cup without taking a drink first.That ping pong ball might as well be air in your hand.And trying to throw air accurately is not possible.Eventually, after sipping on a beer I had in my off hand, I hit one cup, then another, then three, and then George Michael hits his first.All of a sudden I realize we are an unbeatable team.This proves to be mostly true.We win 5 straight games and several go to the wire and we decide it may be best to stop, since it's roughly 9 pm and we are already drunk.We decide on the resignation from the pong table.This actually has a dual purpose.I don't want to get drunk too early, and George Michael wants to smoke more.I kind of want to smoke, but more than that i want to take it easy and keep my wits about me.Because at this point I decide I really want to watch the oncoming train wreck more than experience it.
As we walk towards George Michael's girlfriends room, we are introduced to her cats, and I'm reminded how much I like cats.I have no real basis for liking cats except for that in my extreme youth, I read a ton of Garfield books.I thought Garfield was cool as shit, and thus all cats would be cool as shit.This is not a great reason, but I think that would be where my fondness of cats probably began.I think if I had watched lassie first, or read an equally funny comic about a dog, perhaps I'd be a dog guy first.I also wonder if anyone else thinks about this kind of shit but I doubt it.
We return upstairs, and now I'm feeling real good.Some girls are dancing, and somehow a circle forms. I don't know why circles always form when dancing but they do. I think it's some kind of weird ritual that is subconsciously handed down within human nature, no different than birds flying south for the winter.We like watching other people dance, no matter how bad it may be.I get peer pressured into the middle.I have no idea how, although the drugs and alcohol probably have something to do with it.I dance for what seems like hours, by myself in the middle of a circle.It was probably 2 minutes.
As the song finishes i head to get a shot.Someone then brings to my attention that there are moonshine soaked cherries.Now i have never had such a thing before and I'm the kind of guy that has a really hard time saying 'No' to new forms of fucking myself up.So i agree that moonshine cherries will definitly suffice since I see no jagermeister.
The taste was like nothing I've ever had before, and I seriously do believe it was a true moonshine, because it felt more like some kind of serum that doctors are dreaming up.I had either taken some serious form of booze or tried mystery cough syrup designed to kill water buffalo.
Now the party has picked up.Roughly 35 to 50 people were now throwing down drinks at a near record pace.3 handles of liquor are gone and people are scrambling to locate beer.One kid leaning against a stove inexplicably just lost it and fell straight to the ground like he just got shot by invisible bullets.Soon after, someone decided, on their lonesome, that it was time to hit the hot tub.He was the only one, and I immediately felt bad for this guy.He wanted the hot tub, but jumped the gun on it.Hot Tubs, while greatly need the perfect situation to get into.You can't just say "I'm going to the hot tub" and go and expect everyone else to join.So when George Michael passed the guy and asked him how he was doing, he seemed pissed.
"Well everyone said they wanted to go to the hot tub but nobody fucking showed".This is probably because that guy kept asking if people wanted to go to the hot tub.You don't ask that question.You just suggest it, and if people are dropping their shit to get to the tub then it'll happen.If they say "Yah probably, in a bit" and then take another swig of Sailor Jerry, you will no doubt be that guy ends up all by himself in the hot tub.
Now the dance floor has become the proving ground.Dudes are break dancing, and the pong table is being danced on by a professional motorcyclist lacking a shirt.At some point there appeared to be a lack of shot glasses and instead of asking the host if they could use something from a cubboard, someone decided that the candles laying around were roughly the right size for a shot glass.This would later give me a strange sense of happiness that the people loved to get super fucked up but had enough respect for the host that they would not go into a cubboard, or even ask to.Instead, they chose waxy shots of watermelon vodka.
I am laughing hysterically pointing this shit out to anyone in my vicinity.Which at this point been is either a) A really hot girl who finds me amusing, but probably too weird and old to really go for it now,b) A wall flower that's drunk as shit and still insightful BUT still super insecure about acne, their weight, or both or c) one of the guys who thinks he's cool and finds me mildly threatening due to my size and wants me to stop talking to the hot girl that he may or may not be fucking.
As I'm laughing, a girl comes up to me and grabs me by my shorts, hard.Like about as aggressive as I've ever been grabbed by strange girl.She says something i cannot decipher but included 'body, upstairs, and party.'to which I said..."excuse me?" hoping that in someway this would result in non blacked out sex.This would not be the case, as I was then promptly asked if i wanted to do Xanex and Red Bull.This girl was absolutely out of her mind and wanted to know if I wanted to get on her level.This is the aforementioned point where it briefly crosses my mind, that maybe, even in this remote mansion/cabin, the cops may just come by.
I decline the offer and ask if she's ok.Someone says she was passed out earlier and woke up, like some kind of partying zombie.Later in the night she would ask again if I wanted to party and do shots.I agreed to shots but confessed that I doubted that there was any alcohol left.
"Oh no, there's this red stuff."I looked down in terror to see she had picked up a bottle of grenadine, which to a young blacked out girl could be confused with a bottle of some kind of liquor.
"No no, I know what that is. That is definitely not alcohol, and you should not drink it."She looks at me like I'm somehow trying to stop her from having fun.Like it's somekind of ingrediant she couldn't handle."So you don't want this?"she repeats.
"I most certainly do not, and neither do you."
After a pause of considering that I am not her partying enemy she puts down the bottle.I feel tired and head down to my futon, for seeing the amount of bodies still standing and not getting home, optimal sleep conditions would be at a premium.I finally put my sweatpants back on and slumber.It is roughly 3:30 in the mourning.The amount of insane things I've seen over the past 9 or so hours is mind boggling, and will clearly not be forgotten anytime soon.
I awake 6 hours later to the haunting smell of bacon. George Michael's girlfriend has gone through the trouble of making breakfast for everyone, which to be sure is one of the nicest offers i've ever heard of after such an epic party. What i find most interesting is how much closer everyone is post party. We all saw each other in such ridiculous states of inebriation that we will never mention this to anyone ever again. (except me, undercover journalistic integrity, or I'm an ass, whichever.) All in all, it was a fantastic journey, one i'm not sure that I'll revisit, but certainly one that should be done at least once in a life time. Excess should always be done in moderation. I also notice some grenadine on the floor which was not there when I fell asleep.
