You wouldn't know it at first, but living among us, among all the crap and bile floating around this pee-pool we call society, are some things that do not suck. These things are in fact, cool. I am, of course, reiterating that I don't actually hate everything. Some things are awesome. This entry is about things that are awesome.
During the snow day this past week, I watched Back to the Future 2 and 3. I had never seen 3, and while not quite up there with 1 and 2, it still kicks ass. And so does the theme song. It's awesome. It's inspiring, and I love it. So while I was thinking about how cool the theme song is, and situations in my life where it might be appropriate (every time I enter a room?), I decided I would do a little top ten... in no particular order, because ranking things is a real bitch. Without any further ado, the Top Ten Movie theme songs!
1. Back to the Future:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4zSw2V_vW0Y
No surprise here. After all, the Back to the Future theme was the segue into the top ten. So, as for the theme music, it's awesome. It does everything a full-scale orchestral theme song should. Inspires one, pumps one up, and fills one with visions of fluxcapacitors and 1.21 Gigawatts of energy. Even that asshole Biff would love this theme song. Now where the hell is my hoverboard?
2. Star Wars:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EjMNNpIksaI
Obvious. There shouldn't be any head-scratchers in the first few selections here. The Star Wars theme is one of the most classic epic theme songs of all time. Right now you're thinking of that background of space where the narrowing text scrolls over and tells an unnecessarily complicated version of what the hell's going on. I mean, you're bound to figure it out in a few minutes once the movie starts, but who cares. This theme song kicks ass.
3. Jurassic Park:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VQTWNjr25WQ
Also obvious. I think the theme song actually outdoes the epicness of the movie itself, to tell the truth. Mind you, this movie is about escaped dinosaurs wreaking havoc on an island. So you tell me what that says about the theme song. Lots of glorious horn-playing in this one. I'd imagine the Pearly Gates have a similar soundtrack.
4. Pirates of the Carribean:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LZcMv0H1bI&feature=related
Our good friends Captain Jack, Will Turner, and that fine ass Elizabeth would swordfight around to nothing less. Fantastic string section that makes you want to take to the high seas. Raping and pillaging, that's your game. God, you're a douchebag. I would go so far as to say that this song is rousing. Yes, rousing.
5. Requiem for a Dream:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKLpJtvzlEI&feature=related
Ah, a twist. While all the theme songs up to this point have been lively, uplifting, and adventurous, now it's time for me to sucker punch you in the mouth with this one. This one has a slow pulsing beat that's designed to depress the crap out of you. But it doesn't slouch on the epic factor, no. Epicness comes in many forms. If you ever want to sit by yourself and think about how your life is in the shitter, this is the soundtrack for you. (I'd never heard this version, it actually picks up towards the middle and becomes rousing. Yeah, that's right, rousing.)
6. Rocky:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2PtvLTZS4Ik
Disclaimer: I've never seen this movie. Fuck you, I'm working on it. Good theme song, fantastic marching band material (I'm looking at you, UConn pep band), and despite me never having seen the movie to you I have seen enough clips and parodies to be able to construct a fairly perfect synopsis of this song's use in the movie. It's a montage whereupon Rocky is running up and down all those stairs in Philly, drinking raw eggs, and raising his arms above his head a lot. Pretty close?
7. Bond. James Bond.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ye8KvYKn9-0&feature=related
You're thinking of Sean Connery right now, aren't you? Yeah, me too. But when am I not? This theme song is great, and for some reason built a strong association between this type of swinging big band music and spies. Who would have thought? Love that chord at the end. Legendary.
8. Jaws
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5qhe08b3XgE
This movie is a favorite of mine. I have a strange fascination with those evil creatures of death, Great White Sharks. How the fuck did Richard Dreyfuss have the balls to get in that cage with Jaws' humongous ass in the water? The theme song starts off slow and brooding, and uses the effect of quickly getting louder to symbolize your impending death when his bad ass is comin' for ya. Love Jaws, love the theme. Oh, but the sequels are enormous piles of shit. Miserably bad.
9. Shawshank Redemption:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTeE4wdfEVY&feature=related
A few years ago I officially anointed this as my favorite movie. In Shawshank's case, the "theme song" wasn't as painfully obvious as the others on the list, but there's no way this song couldn't be on here. No goddamn way. When this song cues up at the end of the movie I fight the urge to cry EVERY TIME. And this is from a hulking, bear-wrestling, whiskey-drinking, shave-with-a-rusty-jackknife man's man. Oh, and if for some reason you haven't seen this movie, stop reading and go watch it. Better yourself.
10. Braveheart:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ifr4aGA2o_A
Explaining why songs like these deserve recognition is getting old. The Braveheart theme is great and different from a lot of the rest on the list. The use of bagpipes will do that. Also it has a lot of quieter parts with flute stealing the spotlight. I'm secure enough in my masculinity to like a good flute. So, too, should you. Unite us. Unite our clans.
Honorable Mentions:
Indiana Jones - I'm sure I'll catch heat for this, but the theme song is cheesy. That's fine, because the movies themselves are cheesy, and that's certainly their appeal. I just find nothing stirring about the Indy theme. I want stirring.
Mission Impossible - Cool theme, just not cool enough to dethrone the Bond theme. For some reason I just couldn't include both. I don't know why.
The A-Team - This is a show, which is why it wasn't on the list. The song is fantastic. I hear there's a movie rumored to come out this year. I don't really care, but I like the theme.
So there you have it. The ten greatest theme songs in movie history (again, no particular order). Just like SportsCenter and Letterman, I can't avoid a good top ten. Feel free to disagree with me, arguing is just the cat's pajamas for me. Adieu.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Locker room heebie jeebies
I'd like to start this entry by calling out my readers. Yes, that's right. You're mine. I've been luring you in with subliminal messages for weeks now. Although to be honest, the.. umm.. liminal messages are pretty fucking awesome too. Liminal should be a word, thus I will use it despite its nonsensical nature. At the bar last night, I was approached by several bright-eyed fans, fans I didn't even know were fans. I think people who enjoy this blog need their own name. I will call you Cronies. Anyway, I was approached by Cronies and was thrilled to find out that the word is getting around. So thank you. I need to invest in a hit counter on this motherfucker so I know how many people are actually reading this shit. Pardon my French. Just wait until the subliminal messages inspire you to incite riots. So, people, keep it coming. Don't lurk in anonymity. Announce your Cronie-hood.
One quirk I've become quite fond of in writing this blog, this manifesto on living life properly, is the intro paragraph that has nothing to do with the main focus of the post. In this case, the futility has extended into the second paragraph. Every word you're currently reading is completely inconsequential. In fact, you're probably better off not reading it. It's extraneous. I'll ramble on semi-coherently and then start the next paragraph with "Anyway," followed by me getting to the point. I wish I had a toothpick to get this popcorn out of my goshdarned bicuspids.
Anyway, I went to the gym today. But wait, there's more. So, I'm not much of a locker room type of guy. I push the door open, and what the hell! There's half-naked dudes everywhere. It fucking stinks like sweat. I don't want to be in this place. For whatever reason, though, everyone else seems totally comfortable. Everyone is shirtless, chatting it up, having a grand ol' time, in no rush to get on with their workout. The locker room, to me, is a means to an end. I get changed there so I can leave. Apparently to everyone else, it is a sweat-drenched social Mecca.
In fact, in an effort not to belabor the point in the locker room, I wear what I'm going to work out in UNDER my sweats. What a novel idea. So in short, I pull off my sweatshirt and sweatpants and I'm good to go. I avoid changing my T-shirt because I don't want all the other guys to get jealous and cry due to my washboard abs. So at this point, there's an old dude changing to my left. Fast fact: at any given point, there are as many old guys in the locker room as there are on all the courts and exercise equipment combined. Old guys fucking love the locker room. I guess that's where they all go when they stop paying their dues for the Rotary club or something.
But this is what you may not know, ladies. Old guys get full-on ass naked in the locker room. All the time. Out in the open. No towel, no stall. They just continue their conversations and make no effort to dress quickly. Haven't these guys ever seen a prison movie? Shit, here I am taking off my sweatpants with my ass touching the lockers behind me so that no one sticks their fingers in my butt, and these old guys are just doing the wang-out hangout. According to my sources in the female world, old ladies do not get butt-naked in the locker room. But then again, I don't see nearly as many old ladies as old men in the gym. Perhaps they have different solutions for re-living their youth. Crocheting? Ironing? Who knows.
This really isn't new. It's just that I had the blog on the mind after my ego-boosting experiences at the bar. (Tying the first paragraph back into the main point? 50 points. I guess it's not completely extraneous after all.) Literally every time I go into the locker room, there's a naked old dude. Possibly two. Oh, I don't search them out. They're right fucking there. Usually right when I open the door. Seriously, if you planned on getting completely stark naked, would you choose the locker RIGHT behind the door? Me neither. It's like these old dudes really want us to see their ass-tattoos from their Navy days. No, I didn't see an ass-tattoo, but that doesn't mean there wasn't one. I try not to look. Young guys get naked too sometimes, but it seems to only be swimmers. Fucking weirdos. Michael Phelps, eat your heart out.
God damned swimmers.
Anywhere else in society, if you see a naked old man, you're probably going to freak out. But in the locker room, there are no rules. I wonder if I just started pissing all over the floor, would anybody say anything? I'm telling you, this place is ass-backwards. Can we invest in like, a curtain? Stand behind the curtain when you drop trou, Chet. No exposed balls past this point, Walter. I guess that's the best suggestion I have to end the insanity of the elderly and the nude. (Great title for the Denim Douche movie, I have to say. Or maybe the sequel. DD 2: The Elderly and the Nude.) I just had to get it off my chest.
If any girls want to provide details on how things operate in the ladies' locker room (Hot, steamy details), or have information on the goings on of the old-lady locker room faithful, leave a comment or write something on facebook. I mean, I assume the majority of girls do those crazy Houdini tricks where they can take off or put on a bra or underwear under like half a dozen layers, but are there some weird exhibitionists who just whip 'em out? Are they also swimmers? Why do swimmers love to be naked? Do you enjoy my blatant profiling? I actually am curious about this shit. I'm fucked in the head.
One quirk I've become quite fond of in writing this blog, this manifesto on living life properly, is the intro paragraph that has nothing to do with the main focus of the post. In this case, the futility has extended into the second paragraph. Every word you're currently reading is completely inconsequential. In fact, you're probably better off not reading it. It's extraneous. I'll ramble on semi-coherently and then start the next paragraph with "Anyway," followed by me getting to the point. I wish I had a toothpick to get this popcorn out of my goshdarned bicuspids.
Anyway, I went to the gym today. But wait, there's more. So, I'm not much of a locker room type of guy. I push the door open, and what the hell! There's half-naked dudes everywhere. It fucking stinks like sweat. I don't want to be in this place. For whatever reason, though, everyone else seems totally comfortable. Everyone is shirtless, chatting it up, having a grand ol' time, in no rush to get on with their workout. The locker room, to me, is a means to an end. I get changed there so I can leave. Apparently to everyone else, it is a sweat-drenched social Mecca.
In fact, in an effort not to belabor the point in the locker room, I wear what I'm going to work out in UNDER my sweats. What a novel idea. So in short, I pull off my sweatshirt and sweatpants and I'm good to go. I avoid changing my T-shirt because I don't want all the other guys to get jealous and cry due to my washboard abs. So at this point, there's an old dude changing to my left. Fast fact: at any given point, there are as many old guys in the locker room as there are on all the courts and exercise equipment combined. Old guys fucking love the locker room. I guess that's where they all go when they stop paying their dues for the Rotary club or something.
But this is what you may not know, ladies. Old guys get full-on ass naked in the locker room. All the time. Out in the open. No towel, no stall. They just continue their conversations and make no effort to dress quickly. Haven't these guys ever seen a prison movie? Shit, here I am taking off my sweatpants with my ass touching the lockers behind me so that no one sticks their fingers in my butt, and these old guys are just doing the wang-out hangout. According to my sources in the female world, old ladies do not get butt-naked in the locker room. But then again, I don't see nearly as many old ladies as old men in the gym. Perhaps they have different solutions for re-living their youth. Crocheting? Ironing? Who knows.
This really isn't new. It's just that I had the blog on the mind after my ego-boosting experiences at the bar. (Tying the first paragraph back into the main point? 50 points. I guess it's not completely extraneous after all.) Literally every time I go into the locker room, there's a naked old dude. Possibly two. Oh, I don't search them out. They're right fucking there. Usually right when I open the door. Seriously, if you planned on getting completely stark naked, would you choose the locker RIGHT behind the door? Me neither. It's like these old dudes really want us to see their ass-tattoos from their Navy days. No, I didn't see an ass-tattoo, but that doesn't mean there wasn't one. I try not to look. Young guys get naked too sometimes, but it seems to only be swimmers. Fucking weirdos. Michael Phelps, eat your heart out.
God damned swimmers.
Anywhere else in society, if you see a naked old man, you're probably going to freak out. But in the locker room, there are no rules. I wonder if I just started pissing all over the floor, would anybody say anything? I'm telling you, this place is ass-backwards. Can we invest in like, a curtain? Stand behind the curtain when you drop trou, Chet. No exposed balls past this point, Walter. I guess that's the best suggestion I have to end the insanity of the elderly and the nude. (Great title for the Denim Douche movie, I have to say. Or maybe the sequel. DD 2: The Elderly and the Nude.) I just had to get it off my chest.
If any girls want to provide details on how things operate in the ladies' locker room (Hot, steamy details), or have information on the goings on of the old-lady locker room faithful, leave a comment or write something on facebook. I mean, I assume the majority of girls do those crazy Houdini tricks where they can take off or put on a bra or underwear under like half a dozen layers, but are there some weird exhibitionists who just whip 'em out? Are they also swimmers? Why do swimmers love to be naked? Do you enjoy my blatant profiling? I actually am curious about this shit. I'm fucked in the head.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Superbowl time!
Here at the Douche, we like to keep things diversified. "We" of course, being used in a "well, that's simply not grammatically correct, but hell, let's not make a big stink about it" manner, such as asking a few friends, "How are we doing today?" That question, of course, is unanswerable. One can only answer for oneself, unless the few friends intend to answer as a collective. And even if that is the case, their collective response does not fully answer the question because it does not account for the quality of the question asker's day. To include him or her into the collective with no prior knowledge of his or her day would be presumptuous and downright rude, in this author's opinon. Furthermore, one can assume that the asker of said question would not have already informed the group of the contents of his or her day, as evidenced by his extremely introductory salutation.
The next time someone asks you, "how are we doing today?" Make sure you get a grip on their day first. It's just good manners.
Anyway, we here at the Douche, we (i.e. me, Ryan, aside from guest contributor Chad "Stabwound" Remington), like to keep things diversified. But lately I've noticed that the vast majority of my posts have to do only with things that I hate, or that I think are stupid. Ah, hate. Such a strong emotion. What is it about contempt that fuels my grammatical stylings?
Anyway, I figured (well, Brittney figured) I should write about something I love. Football. That's right, kids. Superbowl season is upon us. The greatest moment in the year for sports...the gargantuan zenith of the football season. The most watched game of the most watched sport. In America. We don't like soccer here.
So, we have the Steelers versus the Cardinals. Who would have thunk it? I had Titans/Panthers. Hey, what do I know? For those not too familiar with the NFL, let me summarize these two teams. It's not a surprise that the Steelers are here. Number 2 seed in the AFC, always finding a way to win close games, best defense in the league, scary good, huge hitters. Sometimes their offense is a bit wishy-washy, but that's what happens when your QB follows up a near-fatal motorcycle crash with a neverending string of concussions.
The Cardinals on the other hand...what? If you were to pick the least likely team to represent the NFC before the playoffs, it would have been Arizona in a landslide. They sucked HARD heading into the playoffs, and then brought on the sauce. They've been laying waste to supposedly better teams for weeks now. Every time you figure, "What a run it's been, but now they're playing X team. They're toast." It is because of that unflappable logic that I go against the grain and against the spread and pick the Cardinals!!! Uhh, let's say 27-21.
Next order of business. Fucking Bruce Springsteen. Alright, FCC. Ever since the Janet Jackson titty fiasco a few years ago, you've been sticking every old geezer with a washed up band on stage, so as to avoid any unwholesome behavior. Bono. Tom Petty. Paul McCartney (hey, below average solo career. Bite me. "Live and let die" is still a killer song.) Prince actually kicked ass, though. Best Superbowl halftime show I can remember, at least.
Springsteen is fucking terrible. I know two of his songs, and they both make me want to drink a bucket full of Emperor Scorpions so they can tear me open from the inside out. What a no-talent hack with a gassy chili-fart for a voice. Who else but a half-assed, boring, dipshit-with-a-telecaster, songs-stink-worse-than-Newark douchebag to fit the moniker "The Jersey Boy." Although, if Janet's tit hadn't happened, and we were still pulling from the uninspired top 40 pool, I have a feeling deep down in my duodenum who we'd be dealing with.
Lil' fucking Wayne. My arch-nemesis. One day, Wayne, we will fight. So, I don't know what's worse. Ancient relics of the past trotting out massively overplayed songs to an unenthusiastic crowd, or undeserving illiterate dickheads who never should have been famous in the first place trotting out their oversynthesized cookie-cutter bullshit to a hugely overenthusiastic crowd. Can't we just get Tenacious D for the halftime show or something?
Well, hey. I got to talk a little bit about the Superbowl, right? That oughtta be fun, huh? Beer, wings, football...
Aw, fuck it. The Patriots had the best record ever for a team that missed the playoffs. First time a team with that good of a record missed out since 1985. Everything still sucks.
The next time someone asks you, "how are we doing today?" Make sure you get a grip on their day first. It's just good manners.
Anyway, we here at the Douche, we (i.e. me, Ryan, aside from guest contributor Chad "Stabwound" Remington), like to keep things diversified. But lately I've noticed that the vast majority of my posts have to do only with things that I hate, or that I think are stupid. Ah, hate. Such a strong emotion. What is it about contempt that fuels my grammatical stylings?
Anyway, I figured (well, Brittney figured) I should write about something I love. Football. That's right, kids. Superbowl season is upon us. The greatest moment in the year for sports...the gargantuan zenith of the football season. The most watched game of the most watched sport. In America. We don't like soccer here.
So, we have the Steelers versus the Cardinals. Who would have thunk it? I had Titans/Panthers. Hey, what do I know? For those not too familiar with the NFL, let me summarize these two teams. It's not a surprise that the Steelers are here. Number 2 seed in the AFC, always finding a way to win close games, best defense in the league, scary good, huge hitters. Sometimes their offense is a bit wishy-washy, but that's what happens when your QB follows up a near-fatal motorcycle crash with a neverending string of concussions.
The Cardinals on the other hand...what? If you were to pick the least likely team to represent the NFC before the playoffs, it would have been Arizona in a landslide. They sucked HARD heading into the playoffs, and then brought on the sauce. They've been laying waste to supposedly better teams for weeks now. Every time you figure, "What a run it's been, but now they're playing X team. They're toast." It is because of that unflappable logic that I go against the grain and against the spread and pick the Cardinals!!! Uhh, let's say 27-21.
Next order of business. Fucking Bruce Springsteen. Alright, FCC. Ever since the Janet Jackson titty fiasco a few years ago, you've been sticking every old geezer with a washed up band on stage, so as to avoid any unwholesome behavior. Bono. Tom Petty. Paul McCartney (hey, below average solo career. Bite me. "Live and let die" is still a killer song.) Prince actually kicked ass, though. Best Superbowl halftime show I can remember, at least.
Springsteen is fucking terrible. I know two of his songs, and they both make me want to drink a bucket full of Emperor Scorpions so they can tear me open from the inside out. What a no-talent hack with a gassy chili-fart for a voice. Who else but a half-assed, boring, dipshit-with-a-telecaster, songs-stink-worse-than-Newark douchebag to fit the moniker "The Jersey Boy." Although, if Janet's tit hadn't happened, and we were still pulling from the uninspired top 40 pool, I have a feeling deep down in my duodenum who we'd be dealing with.
Lil' fucking Wayne. My arch-nemesis. One day, Wayne, we will fight. So, I don't know what's worse. Ancient relics of the past trotting out massively overplayed songs to an unenthusiastic crowd, or undeserving illiterate dickheads who never should have been famous in the first place trotting out their oversynthesized cookie-cutter bullshit to a hugely overenthusiastic crowd. Can't we just get Tenacious D for the halftime show or something?
Well, hey. I got to talk a little bit about the Superbowl, right? That oughtta be fun, huh? Beer, wings, football...
Aw, fuck it. The Patriots had the best record ever for a team that missed the playoffs. First time a team with that good of a record missed out since 1985. Everything still sucks.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Being Twenty-One is Horribly Unexciting.
Turning twenty-one, for all the hubbub, was supposed to be a life-affirming, destiny-altering moment. Like graduating high school or receiving a Bar Mitzvah. The twenty-first is supposed to elevate you in some way: to the ranks of the legal. Wow, I finally made it. Picture Tim Robbins as Andy Dufresne, on his knees in the lightning storm, arms outstretched towards the sky. If you don't understand that reference, do your fucking homework.
What exactly was it that I was expecting?
When I was 20, I had it in my head that people went to the bars all the time. Hell, every weekend. I, too, would go to the bars all the time, of course. I'll be twenty-one then. No fancy ID scanner or laser gun is keeping me out. Shit, I have lost time to make up for. My great tragedy in life, having a late birthday, has held me out for long enough. Much like Diana Ross, I'm coming out (to the bars). I want the world to know. Yadda yadda.
When I turned 21, nothing really changed. I was still broke. I had had dozens of people to buy booze for me for months by then, so it really only became slightly more available. When going with someone to the grocery store, instead of handing my associate cash and having them buy alcohol while I took care of the rest of the sundries, I would just buy it myself. And so I did. Here it comes...getting ID'd. That's right. Give me a look. I've got a baby-face. Just shaved, too. I've got to be underage. Just card me. I dare you.
"Can I see your ID?"
Oh, now you've done it. Get ready for the truth, sister.
BAM!!!!
"K."
That wasn't as exciting as it should have been.
Okay, so buying alcohol at the store wasn't really worth all the commotion, but hey...bars. I was able to get booze before but I wasn't able to go to the bars... this is the real money shot, right here.
I am outside of Black Bear in downtown Stamford. I am at the end of a line of about 20 people. It's freezing outside. I'm probably underdressed, both in warmth and aesthetic quality of my outfit. Who cares. Tonight is the night before Thanksgiving, a night in which eeeverryoonne will be out. "Dude, it's like a high school reunion." I finally get in, after the guy who looks like Jerry Springer's security guard lets me in. I am already in a bad mood. Upon entering the bar, I can't hear a goddamned thing. My friends are already there. I go to order a Bud Light... something simple, cheap.
"5 bucks."
Holy shit. Didn't see that coming. The sheer severity of the ripoff causes my knees to buckle. Despite the 500%ish markup in price, there are people pouring out of this place. The man literally twists off the cap and hands me a beer. I hand him a 5. He glares at me. Listen, guy. I've worked a lot harder than that and not gotten tipped. That's my bullshit reason. The real reason is because the beer was fucking five dollars. At the restaurant in Maine, Coveside, where I used to work, beers were 3.50. Or something like that...can't remember. Lame, but not $5 lame. My thoughts are racing. Not only is a six-pack of Bud Light 5.99, but I start to think of other things my 5 dollars could have afforded me.
-A whole high-school special at Garden Catering...well, that is before they upped the price a dollar. Fucking inflation. I shouldn't be eating that crap anyway.
-5 songs on iTunes...DC++ stopped working off campus, I'm getting bored over here.
-Five...five dollar... five dollar footlongs... dammit!
I love beer, but I miss my five. I'm drinking it and it tastes like beer. It tastes like the same beer I was drinking before I got here, that cost me like, 1.25. Furthermore, the reason we came out, to see old high-school folk, is also tanking. No one wants to see the people that are coming into the bar. Hesitant head-nods happen. I hated that guy. Oh well, it's been 4 years. We are all huddled in a corner, my group of friends and I, the same people that would have been hanging out had we not gone to a bar, except we'd be able to hear each other and we wouldn't be so close. Dave is breathing on me. We had been talking to two, maybe three people we used to hang out with, but ran out of things to say. So now they're right next to us but with their backs to us. I didn't notice...they must have found a seamless exit point. Gotta hate turning away too early. We all reach the same conclusion at once...fuck it. We grab some McDonald's and go back to my house. What do we have in the fridge...ah yes.
Bud Light.
It has been 2 months since my 21st and I've gone to the bar thrice. The moral of the story is that my life hasn't changed or gotten more exciting since that supposedly pivotal birthday. In fact, one may argue that my lack of social exploration given my newfangled legality, in fact, makes my life less exciting. But that's why there's nickel nights.
(Epilogue: I do regret stiffing that bartender. I've worked in restaurants and it's a shitty move. I chalk the move up to being in shock. Hey, you're going to get that once in a while when you work in an overpriced bar. Just saying.)
What exactly was it that I was expecting?
When I was 20, I had it in my head that people went to the bars all the time. Hell, every weekend. I, too, would go to the bars all the time, of course. I'll be twenty-one then. No fancy ID scanner or laser gun is keeping me out. Shit, I have lost time to make up for. My great tragedy in life, having a late birthday, has held me out for long enough. Much like Diana Ross, I'm coming out (to the bars). I want the world to know. Yadda yadda.
When I turned 21, nothing really changed. I was still broke. I had had dozens of people to buy booze for me for months by then, so it really only became slightly more available. When going with someone to the grocery store, instead of handing my associate cash and having them buy alcohol while I took care of the rest of the sundries, I would just buy it myself. And so I did. Here it comes...getting ID'd. That's right. Give me a look. I've got a baby-face. Just shaved, too. I've got to be underage. Just card me. I dare you.
"Can I see your ID?"
Oh, now you've done it. Get ready for the truth, sister.
BAM!!!!
"K."
That wasn't as exciting as it should have been.
Okay, so buying alcohol at the store wasn't really worth all the commotion, but hey...bars. I was able to get booze before but I wasn't able to go to the bars... this is the real money shot, right here.
I am outside of Black Bear in downtown Stamford. I am at the end of a line of about 20 people. It's freezing outside. I'm probably underdressed, both in warmth and aesthetic quality of my outfit. Who cares. Tonight is the night before Thanksgiving, a night in which eeeverryoonne will be out. "Dude, it's like a high school reunion." I finally get in, after the guy who looks like Jerry Springer's security guard lets me in. I am already in a bad mood. Upon entering the bar, I can't hear a goddamned thing. My friends are already there. I go to order a Bud Light... something simple, cheap.
"5 bucks."
Holy shit. Didn't see that coming. The sheer severity of the ripoff causes my knees to buckle. Despite the 500%ish markup in price, there are people pouring out of this place. The man literally twists off the cap and hands me a beer. I hand him a 5. He glares at me. Listen, guy. I've worked a lot harder than that and not gotten tipped. That's my bullshit reason. The real reason is because the beer was fucking five dollars. At the restaurant in Maine, Coveside, where I used to work, beers were 3.50. Or something like that...can't remember. Lame, but not $5 lame. My thoughts are racing. Not only is a six-pack of Bud Light 5.99, but I start to think of other things my 5 dollars could have afforded me.
-A whole high-school special at Garden Catering...well, that is before they upped the price a dollar. Fucking inflation. I shouldn't be eating that crap anyway.
-5 songs on iTunes...DC++ stopped working off campus, I'm getting bored over here.
-Five...five dollar... five dollar footlongs... dammit!
I love beer, but I miss my five. I'm drinking it and it tastes like beer. It tastes like the same beer I was drinking before I got here, that cost me like, 1.25. Furthermore, the reason we came out, to see old high-school folk, is also tanking. No one wants to see the people that are coming into the bar. Hesitant head-nods happen. I hated that guy. Oh well, it's been 4 years. We are all huddled in a corner, my group of friends and I, the same people that would have been hanging out had we not gone to a bar, except we'd be able to hear each other and we wouldn't be so close. Dave is breathing on me. We had been talking to two, maybe three people we used to hang out with, but ran out of things to say. So now they're right next to us but with their backs to us. I didn't notice...they must have found a seamless exit point. Gotta hate turning away too early. We all reach the same conclusion at once...fuck it. We grab some McDonald's and go back to my house. What do we have in the fridge...ah yes.
Bud Light.
It has been 2 months since my 21st and I've gone to the bar thrice. The moral of the story is that my life hasn't changed or gotten more exciting since that supposedly pivotal birthday. In fact, one may argue that my lack of social exploration given my newfangled legality, in fact, makes my life less exciting. But that's why there's nickel nights.
(Epilogue: I do regret stiffing that bartender. I've worked in restaurants and it's a shitty move. I chalk the move up to being in shock. Hey, you're going to get that once in a while when you work in an overpriced bar. Just saying.)
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Fuck you, other drivers.
Having done a lot of interstate driving lately, I've come to understand that few things in life fill me with such venomous rage as highway traffic. As I sit there at a dead stop, I begin to fantasize. See, the world of fantasizing is just like advertising; sex and violence sell. Seeing as how I'm stuck idling in a vehicle and have nothing in the spank bank, it's about time I woofed down a hearty helping of the latter.
In my fantasy, I leave my car, run along the highway until I find the source of the congestion, and start snapping necks like Steven Seagal. Oh, the 70-year-old ladies rubbernecking, slowing down to observe an wrecked car on the other side of the divider. *SNAP!* The insanely overly-cautious teenage girl who never really learned to drive, yet somehow ended up with a license, and is now heavily applying the brakes on the middle of a hill with no cars in front of her. *SNAP!* The holier-than-thou fuckface in the Mercedes or BMW weaving in and out of traffic, passing on the right, tailgating, flashing his brights at people he feels are going too slowly. *SNAP!*
Forget about the logistics of hopping onto/into speeding cars on the highway in order to snap necks. Forget about the logistics of me correcting said car after it begins to careen off the road with a dead driver. It's my fantasy. Fuck you. (You can tell this is a big deal because this rant isn't even fresh in my mind. I haven't been on the highway since two days ago, but alas, my blood boils.)
My God, the world would be a better place without these people.
Dedicated and fortunate readers of The Douche, I put it to you...
-Is it really necessary to slow down to 30 mph every time there's a turn in the highway?
-Must I sit in stop-go traffic because someone is mowing the lawn on the side of the highway, and there isn't even a lane blocked??
-Why do people drive the same speed in the fast lane as the one next to it, so no one can pass?
I wish there was a way to remove all these types of douchebags from the highway. I estimate that traffic would reduce by a billion percent. Approximately. You see, there wouldn't be rubbernecking traffic because all the drivers would mind their own goddamn business. There wouldn't be random slow-downs on hills or turns because everyone would be at least semi-competent...or have a pulse. There wouldn't be accidents because coke-addled bankers wouldn't be weaving through traffic thinking they're fucking Barry Sanders. Can you just imagine?
Yeah. Socialism is a good idea in theory, too.
Sigh.
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