Parting, nay, Welcoming Shots

As we march into the final month of the year, I think it is quite necessary to take a few modest shots at some well-deserving targets and, at the same time, toot a few horns because, lest we forget, it is only worthwhile to decry someone or something if there is a suitable, better-crafted alternative. Please forgive the list making.

First shot: Cheap Beer Makers

I am no beer snob. I'm surely no aficionado. No, I would not even call myself a beer enthusiast. I'm typically a whiskey or vodka guy. In fact, I tend to see the world through one of two lenses; straight up whiskey or ice-chilled vodka martini. But I do believe in standards. And I do believe in justice. Yes, I believe that no beer cheaper than mineral water has any reason to exists.

Before you draw your swords and polish your guns sights, let me say that I understand that there is a "functional purpose" for Beer-30, American Light, and Natural Ice. But functional purpose cannot be the sole justification for the production of streamlined, cat-piss-tasting, flat pouring, swill that has one of two destinations; a beer-bowling table or poured over a drunken cheerleader's naked gyrating body.

**Valuable Disclaimer: I have nothing against naked bouncing cheerleaders**

Cheap beer is wrong. Cheap beer is offensive. And cheap beer always endangers young people, in that they may taste cheap beer first and accidentally learn to like it and think it's appropriately representative of frothy, wonderful, relaxing beer. Cheap beer just gets in the way. Is there really an intense need for the savings point between a $8.00 thirty-pack of gnarly runoff and a $12.00 twenty-four-pack of medium palatable High Life? I, for one, think not.

Remember; Friends don't let friends get bombed on Keystone and attend Steve Miller Band concerts.

Second shot: Anti-Christmas people

What the shit is wrong with Christmas? Huh? Come on, folks!

Should Christmas celebration be exclusionary, super-christy, cost two mortgage payments, and start on October 24th? Nein! But does every misanthropic loud-mouth zealot need to make it his personal mission to shit on everyone who drops a dime in the jukebox and queues up Jonny Mathis a few days early? I THINK SURELY NOT, SIR!

Each year, I endeavor to spread one simple message, starting shortly before Thanksgiving; Let's enjoy Thanksgiving, as it is the best holiday of the year - honoring family get-togethers, copious conspicuous consumption, charitable donation, relaxation, days off work, and watching football, while most importantly not requiring any shopping or presents - and get warmed up for the happy season of Christmas, which at this point should be no more than a celebration of family get-togethers, copious conspicuous consumption, charitable donation, relaxation, days off work, and watching football, while begrudgingly accepting the need for but not over-doing the shopping and presents. Because, when you consider that Christianity did not adopt the 25th of December as the birth of its Lord until well after a thousand years of His existence, it shouldn't be offensive to anyone that we, the most commercialized and commercially driven society in history, agree to remove the religiousity from this holiday, which was not even recognized by our government as a national holiday until 1870.

Ragging on Christmas is counter productive. If you're pro-Chanukah or pro-Kwanza or pro-winter solstice of pro-whatever, just find some free-thinking Christmas celebrators and join the party. There's plenty of room for all faiths under the shining star. You can't tear down one while propping up the other. That never works.

Tequila shot: Fans of the term "aught"

Well, geeks, it's Smoke'em if you Got'em time. The clock is dutifully ticking on your decade. And while it's not as though these years will never be referenced but your glory days are coming to a close, at least for this lifetime.

For anyone who is completely lost on this; "aught" is a classical English name for the number zero, as in the ammunition .30-06 (thirty-aught-six) or the graduating class of '07 (aught seven.) Though the term is seldom used in American English other than in relation to those two examples, it is still a very valid, if not extremely dorky, piece of the English language. Yes, for those of you in love with the '80s or '90s, you can probably relate to those silly souls who are dedicated to the '00s (aughts!).

Boy, it just rolls off the tongue doesn't it?

Yes, the aughts will dial down to a close in just about 30 days and we, as a hard-charging society, will be thrust into the tens or teens or tweens or...

Shit. What is the geeky old-English term for these years that show about as much promise as Britney Spears' offspring. Boom! Did you see that? That joke reference was so AUGHTIES!!

Pointless but worthy

In most normal situations I would not blankly post something as basic as a link to a humor site, however, in this case, the humor is so epic and so sinfully nerdy that I felt it was too amazing to pass up. Having said that, please enjoy the stylings of one, Brian Murphy, and his awesome infinitely creative :

5 Star Wars Status Updates on CollegeHumor

Libations and Reflections...and a baby

Before I get started let me first declare the happy news that on this Sunday, November 22, 2009 I became an Uncle to Luna Elizabeth, and that's pretty sweet. A fond hug and kisses to her and her new parents out in the Pacific Northwest.

But moving on


Even though this subject is hardly "new birth" related or appropriate, since I had a full head of steam to discuss it long before Luna's emergence, I feel as though I have a duty to see things through.

In the fall of 1999, amidst a serious bout of self-importance and over-analysis, I decided it would be a worthwhile endeavor to formally hang up my spurs and quit drinking. What's more, I thought it worthwhile to keep a daily journal of my thoughts and realizations during the sobering process. Suffice it to say, the experiment, however noble and ambitious, failed after 32 days; a reasonable distance by any measure, yet less than the typically expected result in such an undertaking.

Yes, the temperance movement, as far as this writer was concerned, was an exercise in self-indulgence as much as it was an exercise in futility. Not only did I realize that my life lacked a certain luster without the fantasmical fermented glaze of late-night libations, but I also established that my interactions with my contemporaries lost a particular zest, the likes of which I'd become quite accustomed. The ladies had fewer interesting stories to tell me, the pals had less challenging gauntlets to lay down. All in all, my adventures were flat, lifeless, and, frankly, boring.

Now, I think I know what you're all saying or, at the very least, thinking. This sounds distinctly like the rationalization of a drunkard. Well, perhaps you're right. So what? In as much as I have learned to regret by socially lubricating my life so far, I have also learned that those tea-totalling phonies spend as much time judging those of us with no real regrets and little fears of the "outcome" as they as they do coming up with half-baked alternative activities to keep themselves busy while we, the professional drinkers, are toasting the town, the heroes, and full moon as it rises again and again. They haven't, in all their wise years of clear thought and unbridled discussion, figured out why the great drinking minds of our time wouldn't give up the pain, frustration, hangovers, and broken furniture for all the "do-overs" in the world.

There is something infinitely simple and elegant to raising our glasses. There is something infinitely pure. Come rain or come shine, on a good work day or a bad hair day, a well-made cocktail is more reliable than a Toyota or a tax audit. I keep my ice-cube trays fresh and my bar stocked, and there will never come a time when I cannot appropriately deal with the task at hand. The well-made drink has become my partner in success and in crime where all others have fallen short. It is on this one true thing that I can rely. And, as they say, when the chips are down, the vodka is straight up and the bartenders always enjoy my company; even if I'm singing the same old hard luck song.

Which brings me back to the fall of 1999, and my journal, and my quitting of the drink, and my inevitable discovery. It was a rough time in my life, no doubt. But the drink was hardly the culprit. I'm not sure how my friend Sean might phrase it but I think he would probably summarize the situation as something like this: you cannot blame the booze for all your mistakes, so why bother to exile yourself from the one uncompromising pleasure you've come to know in an attempt to rectify everything that has gone wrong? Sean is the only other really smart drinker I know. I certainly mean no offense to my other professional drinking brethren but he's got a fairly tight lock on the free-living attitude necessary to really appreciate a Tuesday afternoon fifth.

You see, the fall of 1999 turned into two things for me; a festival of self-pity and self-inflicted suffering, and a magnificent realization of simplicity. I discovered what really mattered to me, and WHO really mattered to me. I have a great life and she's still around too. So who needs self-serving and self-righteous platitudes about how "free" I felt on day 26? It was 32 days of avoiding the real problems by distracting myself with the inconsequential guilt of one too-strong hangover.

I have read the journal three or four times over and discovered two irrefutable truths in my reaction; I spent far too much time analyzing myself in the fall of 1999 and...
... I need a drink!

I hope you'll all join me in toasting one to good health. And one to true love.

And perhaps one to world peace. And one to wealth.

And one to Luna Elizabeth, who I predicted would arrive at an inconvenient time. Right I was. How perfectly inconvenient a time for a blessing.

Desperately Seeking Steve

Well, it's finally come down to it. It has finally come to this. I have resorted to scouring the internet, searching for companionship. But not the kind you'd think. No, still happily married and comfortably attached. No, a new lady is the last thing I need in my life. However there is one indelible void that exists and persists to remind me of its aching need for satisfaction; I need a Sports Buddy. Let us call him, "Sports Buddy Steve." Though I suppose a "Jack," "Peter," "Khalid," or "Constantine," would do the trick. The name of this buddy is inconsequential. His hight, weight, stature, hair color (if present), and like or dislike of Brazilian barbeque are of simply no importance. He must only be my intellectual equal and well versed in a knowledge of sports. <photo_source>

That's right, SPORTS!! Despite a thorough interest in politics, law, international relations, film and film criticism, I crave, more than almost anything (apart from food and drink), a buddy with whom I can sustain hours upon hours of fruitless conversation and debate about sports. Be it Sunday, Tuesday, or Friday, the time for sports discourse is almost always; now. Because, let's face it, sports are really really important but also not important.

No, no one will live or die by sports on this day (save the hopeless gamblers.) No two-point conversion or three-run homerun will save the cancer-stricken patient. Sports will impact little more than emotions and pocketbooks. Yet, I yearn to discuss it. I yearn to debate point over point over point and win versus loss, start versus sit. I wake up to sports commentary and I spend a fair portion of my evening reading up on the day's sporting news. And it is surely not just the score. The business of sports is at least as interesting as the outcome of the games that we watch, no matter how formulaic or predictable, over and over and over again. The world and workings of sports is just really really fucking interesting.

So, where is he? Where is my sports buddy? Since my move from Boston back home to New York City (and let's not get into how that shift has altered my sports life for the better) I have left behind dear friends and fellow sports addicts and, despite the beautiful trappings of e-communication, it just isn't the same to get the jabber on. My sports buddy is out there somewhere in this bright burgh; this iconic metropolis, which I wouldn't trade for all the tea in Beantown. My Steve may be out there right now, flagging a cab on 63rd street, wondering how much value there really is to a pinch-runner on an American League team or whether it ever makes sense to punt in the opposing team's territory.

Yes, my Sports Buddy Steve is about my age, about my education, about as keen on the Yankees and Steelers or at least not in love with the Patriots, Eagles, Ravens Browns, Red Sox, and Astros as I am. He understands that lots of what ESPN says is right and lots of what ESPN says is utter dog crap. He gets it when I say I have hope but I also am also Baseball Nostradamus. He respects my superstitious nonsense and doesn't field calls during football games. He understands my distaste for the NBA, and basketball on the whole, but loves to argue with me about how, "college players are out there for the love of the game." He is a lot like me but not exactly because...well... while I might love myself and talk to myself, I almost always agree with myself. I'm sure Steve has SOME divergent opinions.

If you're out there, Steve, please find me. There is a comical Monday Night Football game tonight between the Browns and the Ravens that I could literally spend 48 minutes making fun of.

Cramming Time... Cramming for what?!?!

So, it's 10:40 on a Sunday night and your homework isn't done? Well, sport, drop a few frosty cubes in a tumbler, cap the Stoli, roll that chair up to your computer desk and get crackin'. But wait, what if you're 28 years old, wrapping up a wasted (but enjoyed) day watching nothing but sports, and have no obligations until 9AM tomorrow...? Then, I suppose, you can keep the drink and just enjoy the awkward sense of incompleteness.

See, the thing is, I've had this nervous feeling every Sunday night since, let's say, 1994, when the world started demanding deadlines of me. Regardless of my actual homework status, I start to hear a small voice in the back of my mind, nagging me, prodding me, posing the inevitable questions; "What have you forgotten to do? What will you think of, right as you wake up tomorrow, and realize you've left to get done at the last second?" But the trick is, these days there isn't any homework. There is just the ugly prospect of going to work, which, I will grant you, is scarcely as ugly as having actually left a project, proposal, or paper off until 90 minutes prior to class time. But none the less, the feeling persists. I shut off the putrid Sunday night football and tv-movie options and proceed over to my tiny steel and glass desk with my drink and I ponder the missed educational opportunities of the day. I read, I type, I comment on the world at hand, all the while wondering, "Are you sure there's not a European History chapter you need to read and summarize for class presentation?"

No, there isn't. All that is over. The grown-up world offers me deadlines that pop up in Outlook reminders during the designated work hours. I seldom miss them and I even more seldom forget them all together. Work is work and play is play, and ne'er the twain shall meet. No more half-drunken compositions that simply get the job of "at least having something to hand in" done. No more hastily concluded team-research projects. No, this boy has only duty at 10:53PM on Sunday Sunday!! night, that is to get ready for bed, rest up, and be prepared for the inevitable shitstorm that will reign (yes, I mean it that way) over us all as the work week begins in just a few hours.

I suppose it isn't the worst thing in the world to have a built-in mental reminder to get things done. It would seem, though, that it would be far more useful if it reminded me to pay the gas bill, fold the laundry, or move the car on street-sweeper day. Who needs to be reminded to draft a preliminary thesis on the depiction of Asian-American supporting characters in early 20th century Hollywood cinema, when he manages financial accounts for a living? Damn books!