My Latest “Quarterlife Crisis”
Have you heard this term before? Quarterlife Crisis? It’s my generation’s answer to the midlife crisis, only it hits in the 20’s. It’s a legitimate social phenomenon, based on the whole college/job atmosphere, changing expectations, etc. You can learn more about the details elsewhere. I’m mostly interested in bitching about my life.
Here’s my month: friends (one younger than me) have baby; other friend gets married; I turn 25. These are really individually all causes for celebration. I couldn’t be happier for AnK, as witnessed by previous post. I’m definitely looking forward to Pete’s wedding this weekend. All of my friends’ weddings have been awesome (this is the fourth in a year and a half). My birthday I’m far less excited for, and not only because 25 is looking down the barrel at thirty. The real problem with this is how far off I am on my life goals/plan*.
For a moment let’s ignore the fact that I’m currently unemployed, looking at changing career paths and living with my parents (those are all depressing enough on their own).
My original life plan looked like this (counting backwards):
Age 30: Have final kid. This allows me to not be an old parent. I would like to not be fifty when my youngest graduates high school. There’s lots of reasoning behind this (my parents are young, I want to be able to do stuff with them without being too crotchety, etc.).
Age 28-29: Have initial child/ren.
Age 26: Get married. This allows me to have a couple years of marriage without worrying about the whole kids thing.
Age 24-25: Meet my future wife (if I hadn’t already). Figuring at least a year of dating/engagement/etc. before marriage.
For this to all work out, I need to meet my wife, oh, right about nowish. This is complicated by the life situation outlined and summarliy ignored above. I’m just poorly situated for dating at the moment (never mind my freakishly small circle of-local-friends and outrageously lame social life). Needless to say, I’ve been on minor level freak-out about this since my buddies started getting married last year.
Ok, that was a little personal for this forum, but heck, if you know me, you’ve heard this before and if you don’t, then who cares, right?
Moral of the story: to my friends – slow down already! To the single ladies: now accepting applications! (Not that I’m desperate or anything, clearly…)
*The more realistic/rational/legitimate one, not to be confused with the previously listed life goals. Not that those aren’t important as well…
Welcome, Wesley!
Earlier this week (Tuesday to be precise), my friend and frequently referenced partner in webloggin, Andy and his wonderful wife had a baby!* This is marvelously exciting. Wesley Chibe Davis, welcome to the world little buddy. I look forward to many years of being your cool non-related "uncle" that teaches you all the things your parents wish I wouldn't (just kidding, AnK!). Additionally, you should know that, in my head, I've been calling you Wally all week (in honor of former Carolina Panthers tight end Wesley Walls). Maybe it'll catch on!** Congrats to all those involved.
*I hope by waiting till the end of the week, those of you that he would have hoped to tell himself have already heard.
**Again, to both Andy and Kristin, I have no intention to rename and corrupt your baby.
CK Survey Pt. III
This series seems to be quite popular given the number of search related hits I've gotten. Feel free to leave your thoughts, visitors. As always, here's my "don't sue my sorry ass" disclaimer: all of the portions in italics are directly reproduced from Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, Klosterman, Chuck, published by Scribner, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020, 2003. Buy it.
7. Defying all expectation, a group of Scottish marine biologists capture a live Loch Ness Monster. In an almost unbelievable coincidence, a bear hunter in the Pacific Northwest shoots a Sasquatch in the thigh, thereby allowing zoologists to take the furry monster into captivity. These events happen on the same afternoon. That evening, the president announces he may have thyroid cancer and will undergo a biopsy later that week. You are the front-page editor of The New York Times: What do you play as the biggest story?
I think in this situation you have to lead with our underwater ally Nessy and the 'Squatch. I mean, c'mon, I might have cancer. That's kind of loopholey on my part, I know. If the story is that the biopsy results are back and the prez does have cancer, that makes things a little more complicated. But it's not, so I'll take the easy argument. Also, I think it'd be awesome for the world's most pretentious paper to look like The Post for a day.
8. You meet the perfect person. Romantically, this person is ideal: You find them physically attractive, intellectually stimulating, consistently funny, and deeply compassionate. However, they have one quirk: This individual is obsessed with Jim Henson's gothic puppet fantasy The Dark Crystal. Beyond watching it on DVD at least once a month, he/she peppers casual conversation with Dark Crystal references, uses Dark Crystal analogies to explain everyday events, and occasionally likes to talk intensely about the film's "deeper philosophy". Would this be enough to stop you from marrying this individual?
Granted, we all have our quirks. But this is just so freaking weird. I mean, if you told me that this person listed The Dark Crystal as their favorite movie I'd have my reservations. To take it to this level is just too much. I don't think I could handle it. On the other hand, at least she's not obsessed with Labyrinth.
9. A novel titled Interior Mirror is released to mammoth commercial success (despite middling reviews). However, a curious social trend emerges: Though no on can prove a direct scientific link, it appears that almost 30 percent of the people who read this book immediately become homosexual. Many of these newfound homosexuals credit the book for helping them reach this conclusion about their orientation, despite the fact that Interior Mirror is ostensibly a crime novel with no homoerotic content (and was written by a straight man). Would this phenomenon increase (or decrease) the likelihood of you reading this book?
Faintly homophobic disclaimer: to each their own, but let me reiterate that I love women*. That being said, I would most likely read this book. One factor here is the same thing that made me sit through that David Blaine special. If something becomes culturally significant, I feel an obligation to witness it, if only so I can let everyone know how lame it is. I'd also argue that if this book "turns" you gay, chances are that you were probably just subconsciously closeted to begin with, so it's good that it revealed your true inner self (another unintended possible result of the dream VCR?).
*For whatever reason, there's been an inordinate amount of confusion about this in the past. I maintain it's just cause I dress well.
My Minor Concussion
In honor of my buddy Jake's biannual return to the midwest this week, I present a story set in Wisconsin, land o' cheese. Last summer my married friends, whom I refer to as AnK, but you know from my constant referrencing of his site (namely Andy and his goofy organum*) took a little road trip up north to visit Jake while he was home from New Orleans. Another of our one-time roommates met us up there and a good time was to be had by all.
Although our "good times" are invariably laced with a great deal of alcohol, these good times kicked off in a far more relaxed (read, somewhat lame) fashion. We got the party started by watching portions of the Shark Tale dvd. I'm sure there was a logical reason for this, but I couldn't name it now if you paid me. This viewing included the "teach you to dance" special features, where I was taught to do "The Hustle". This will be important later. Once we had tired of this activity (which took far too long) we went downtown…to bowl…at two in the afternoon… Whooooooooooo!!!!
It was actually a pretty cool (and by that, I definitely do not mean temperature: apparently Wisconsin's a little behind on this cool new invention called A/C) little alley and we had all four lanes to ourselves. More importantly, we were in complete control of the jukebox. Even more importantly, like all good bowling alleys, their bar was open in the afternoon. So we had some bowly good times. I blew ass, as usual. However, I also started working up my buzz by four in the afternoon which never hurts.
From there it was off to Wal-Mart (small town mecca) to lay in some provisions for the evening's festivities (read, beer and liquor). Of course, this trip also included a stop by the local cheese shop. Shark Tale, bowling, cheese…don't tell me we don't know how to rock it!
The main event for the evening was many spirited rounds of beirut (the mother of all drinking games). Of course, Jake and I partnered up and proceeded to run the table for the majority of the evening. Over the course of time, more people showed up and things were started to actually look like they were happening. Blah blah blah…Party party party… You know the drill.
At some point in my alcohol induced haze, I decided that what I really wanted to accomplish for the night (aside from remaining blindingly drunk) was to crush a beer can on my head. If you haven't tried this…don't. After many many attempts (witnesses put the number at something approaching 12), I was left with a large red ring on my forehead, a minor headache (thank goodness for the numbing effects of alcohol abuse) and a plethora of slightly crushed cans. For the record, I never did get a good crush on any of those little aluminum bastards.** This however, was not the primary contributor to the title subject (my minor concussion).
That would have been caused by the massive piece of iron farm equipment. You see, what happened was… We were playing beirut in the garage. One of the balls escaped behind an old plow of some sort. I of course, dove across the floor to retrieve it. This was not how I injured myself. I managed to get hold of the ball without much problem. The plan was then to roll over, throw the ball back and right myself all in one smooth motion. Only problem was the aforementioned massive hunk of metal in the direct path of my head. Kablaam! No amount of alcohol was going to make me miss that one. I saw a flash, but didn't really think much more than A) that sucked and 2) that was way less smooth than I thought it would be. At the time, I didn't think much more of it.
The next morning, I awoke with a throbbing headache. Once I was up and moving, I became exceedingly nauseous. Granted, I had a lot to drink the night before, and these symptoms are not unheard of. However, I have been hungover plenty of times, and this time was clearly different. It wasn't until I had handed over my keys to Andy for the drive home*** that I put two and two together and realized that there was a good chance that I had inadvertantly concussed myself the night before. Not necessarily my proudest moment. But far from my worst either…
I nearly forgot! (I actual had to come back and edit this post). The Hustle! Despite my multiple head injuries, my most ridiculous contribution to that evening's hijinks was most definitely the fact that at the slightest provocation (ok, or sometimes with none) I would break out into an excessively exuberant (and uncoordinated) version of the hustle, complete with singing as taught by the fine folks on the dvd. I can only imagine what this must have looked like to innocent bystanders.
*Organum is about as far from orgasm as you can get, despite the eerily similar spellings. Well, unless there's some melismas and shit up in there, then organum is minorly orgasmic. If you got any of that, you're as big a loser as I am, so suck it!
**I've since been informed that the secret to a good can crush is to twist the can as you blast it into your head. This is not the kind of thing you think of when wasted.
***The fact that I let Andy drive my car (and across state lines, at that) clearly indicates that I was in some seriously bad shape.
CK Survey Pt. II
Because I don't have much original to say the last couple of days, let's have another installment of my reaction to Mr. Klosterman. Again, all of the portions in italics are directly reproduced from Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, Klosterman, Chuck, published by Scribner, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020, 2003. Buy it.
5. You meet your soul mate. However, there is a catch: Every three years, someone will break both of your soul mate's collarbones with a Crescent wrench, and there is only one way you can stop this from happening: You must swallow a pill that will make every song you hear–for the rest of your life–sound as if it's being performed by the band Alice in Chains. When you hear Creedence Clearwater Revival on the radio, it will sound (to your ears) like it's being played by Alice in Chains. If you see Radiohead live, every one of their tunes will sound like it's being covered by Alice in Chains. When you hear a commercial jingle on tv, it will sound like Alice in Chains; if you sing to yourself in the shower, your voice will sound like deceased Alice vocalist Layne Staley performing a capella (but it will only sound this way to you). Would you swallow the pill?
Now, I like Alice in Chains as much as the next guy born between 1975 and 1982, which is to say I find them vastly inferior to Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Stone Temple Pilots and really most alternative bands not called Hole. Needless to say, this is no way to go through life. If this person were really my soul mate, I believe that she would volunteer for the Crescent wrenching. I would, of course, try to "take one for the team", as it were, and down the pill, but she would do something drastic to prevent this from happening (perhaps even beaning me with a Crescent wrench as a preventative measure). From there on, I would continue to enjoy a wide variety of music and every three years would be wracked with guilt as she has her collarbone reset. Eventually she would come to regret her choice, resenting me for putting her in such a situation. We would both seek sanctuary outside of our relationship, only to find all other companionship lacking. Still, we would finally split up, only to have the three year anniversary come around again. She would be accosted once more by a wrench-wielding maniac and discover that her suffering is indepedent of our relationship. Her new partner would not be able to handle the pressure of handling this bizarre situation. We would eventually reunite and live out our days in constant fear of plumbers. The ironic twist to the story? We would discover a bizarre appreciation for the musical stylings of Alice in Chains and ultimately play one of their songs at our wedding.
6. At long last, someone invents "the dream VCR." This machine allows you to tape an entire evening's worth of your own dreams, which you can then watch at your leisure. However, the inventor of the dream VCR will only allow you to use this device if you agree to a strange caveat: When you watch your dreams, you must do so with your family and your closest friends in the same room. They get to watch your dreams along with you. And if you don't agree to this, you can't use the dream VCR. Would you still do this?
For some people, this wouldn't be too challenging. A lot of people remember their dreams vividly. I am not one of these people. I rarely, if ever, remember my dreams, and when I do only in the vaguest sense. For this reason, I believe the dream VCR would be a fascinating glimpse into my subconscious. I wish I could just remember my dreams better, so what could be better than being able to watch them play out? Despite this, there's simply no way I could possibly agree to this condition. Why? Here's the deal: I find watching movies with incidental sex scenes in the company of others fairly uncomfortable. Could I watch such a movie in the prescence of my friends and family if it starred myself? Sorry, I'm just a little too repressed for that.
Farmer Jim Battles the Porcelain Bowl
It seems that this category could just as easily be labeled "drinking stories", but ah well, such is life… Imagine if you will, senior year of college. It was April. This night was notable for two particular reasons: 1) My first experience making and imbibing jello shots and B) the Allen St Halfway Halloween Party.
I decided that being 21 and all, it was ridiculous that I had never had a jello shot. To rectify this situation, I ran to everyone's favorite discount mega-store, Super Wal-Mart* and picked up a few packets of jello (orange and blue if I remember correctly). On the way home I struck up Trails Inn Liquors (in retrospect this was a bizarre name for a store; what does that even mean?) for some Absolut and little plastic shot cups. Now satisfied that I had procured all the necessary supplies I headed back to Casa Del Locust Ct.
Now I had done a little research on jello shots prior to my shopping spree. I knew that the standard method of preparation was to replace 1/4 to 1/3 of the water in the jello recipe with vodka. I decided this sounded too sissified (after all, we're already dealing with a chick "drink" anyway, right?) so I proceeded to mix mine with 1/2 water, 1/2 vodka. This was Big Mistake Number 1. Fast forward through the jello prep and I had two cookie sheets full of jello shots to pop in the fridge. Fast forward again to the removal of fully chilled and set jello shots.
At this point the only Locust Cters around were myself, my teetotalling roommate and her friend from home, also a relative alcohol virgin. Alright, I say to myself, more for me. I start pounding those glowing, jiggling little bastards. If you've never had a jello shot before, the whole idea is that you don't taste the alcohol. I could definitely tell there was something in there, but decided to forge ahead, completely ignoring the fact that every two or three jello shots was the equivalent of one real shot.
Fast forward half an hour and one half sheet of jello shots.
Shayne (my non-drinking roommate) and her friend decide it's time to go play some basketball at the nearby park. I think that sounds like a swell idea. We stroll our way over there, and I'm feeling the glow. I notice that I seem to suck way more than usual, but chalk it up to the dark and the fact that it doesn't take much to knock me off my already weak game.
Upon our return, Megan (roommate No. 2 in this story) is home. She decides to join me as I continue my attack on the jiggling masses. Shayne's friend also decides to partake. Between the three of us we manage to nearly finish off those fruity suckers. And by between the three of us, I mean that I inhaled almost an entire pan's worth while they combined to down the remaining half a pan.
At this point, I am well past sobriety, teetering on the edge of falling down drunk (a most literal term for myself, I'm afraid). At this point someone calls from the Allen St Halfway Halloween Party**
Halfway Halloween was basically an excuse for guys to look like even bigger morons and girls like complete and unabashed whores for a second time during the year, Halloween being the traditional first time. I had been avoiding this party mostly cause I was still pouting over a break-up. In my state of limited discretion, I decided this was dumb and it was time to go out. Only one problem…I needed a costume.
I charged up to my room and immediately began trashing my closet, looking for anything that could approximate a costume. Shayne came to my rescue with a straw hat. I threw on a plaid shirt and PRESTO! I was a cowboy! A very very drunk cowboy wearing shorts but a cowboy nonetheless. Shayne volunteered once again to chauffer my drunk-ass over to the party. Upon arrival, I hit up the keg and did the mingle thing for a period of time. At this point, the ridiculous amount of alcohol I had ingested via the jello shots was starting to catch up to me. It was then that I stumbled upon my buddies running the "shots for a buck" table upstairs.
I immediately commandeered a spot as a designated pourer. Shots-for-a-buck quickly became a one-for-you-one-for-me endeavor. This is the last thing I remember from this evening. The next morning I awoke extremely confused in the basement bathroom…of the townhouse across the street. To this day I don't know if I made it there of my own accord or not. The following portions of this story have been recreated by witnesses.
At some point in the shots-for-a-buck exersize, I began exhorting people to snort shots off the bottom of glasses. How I decided this was even feasible, let alone a good idea, we may never know. There are some photos of me in my straw hat lounging by the table. At some point, I made my way to the bathroom and proceeded to boot a multi-colored jello/alcohol mixture all over the place. I honestly have no recollection of this occuring. I didn't find out about that part until a good month after the party. In retrospect, I'm just glad I found the bathroom.
This must have been when I was removed from the party and carted across the street. There were a series of pictures taken here of me in various states of repose curled around the toilet. Beigler (one of the Allen Sters) was kind enough to post these online with captions such as "Farmer Jim Battles the Porcelain Bowl", "Down But Not Out", and "Farmer Jim loses the Battle…And the War".
The next morning, I woke up, took the time to reorient myself and called Shayne to come escort me back to Locust. Since that night, not my first bout of epic vodka-fueled stupidity, I have avoided vodka like the plague. In fact, it was vodka that had caused me to awaken in that particular bathroom, in a house in which I did not live, on a previous occasion. But that, I'm afraid, is a story for another day…
*I f-ing hate Wal-Mart, but this was before Valpo's Target really took off.
**My apartment was on Locust Ct, as previously mentioned. I had another group of friends who lived in townhouses across the street from each other on Allen St, across town (the short way).
