Stream of Conciseness
I'm gonna go ahead and ruin the irony for everybody right away; there'll be no brevity here.
I've got some catching up to do, so I'll start by rehashing one of the greatest weekends of my life.
About a week ago, Chris and I were talking- bullshitting if you will- after a few drinks. I'm not positive how it started, but I think he said something to the effect of: "Hey, you remember that time I got all wasted at Applebee's on that Sunday in Ann Arbor?" Oh, Chris. Of course I remember.
Less than 2 years ago, my friend Chris came to see me in Ann Arbor, well before I met most people reading this. As was the custom on the Friday nights before home football games, we had people over at our place, counterbalancing the party at our good friends' place next door. Michigan played Iowa at Noon the next afternoon (morning... noon is morning, no matter what anybody says), and we threw some legendary tailgates, so- of course- everyone got all bombed on Friday night. If I remember correctly- and I'm reasonably sure I do NOT- I threatened to fight one crowd of Hawkeye fans, and later made a cash wager with the stipulation that "if you win, I'll be here and you can collect; if I win, just don't come back and there'll be no hard feelings."
I am a professional gambler.
The night was great, Chris and I got drunk and played basketball on the court out back for money, and then we went to bed at like 4-5ish. Standard.
In the morning, I locked myself in my room like the pussy I am. By this point, most of my friends were used to my fashionably late 10:45AM tailgate arrivals, and stopped pounding on my bedroom door at around 9:15. Score. After I woke up, yawned, showered, took a quick power nap, yawned again, and changed into a sweatsuit, I meandered over to the tailgate, where I planned on drinking as few beers as humanly possible (~8) before heading to the game.
I did not make it to the game.
I was assaulted by a "short stack" as soon as I left my house. "Come on, Derek! You're not bongin' a full beer! It's a short stack!!" Ha. Ha. I'll take your 16oz. beer bong and earn myself some TailgatePoliticalCapital. "Bong Bong, says the RZA." (bong bong, says derek)
Ten minutes and 3 "short stacks" later, an old buddy of mine from highschool sprints over to me and pulls me away. "Jesus, Birch. I barely like you, but I don't think anybody could appreciate this as much as you could." Okay. That's a pretty good hook, man. I'm snared. "Chris just... He ate 12 hotdogs in 10 minutes. He was supposed to keep them down for an hour, but he asked if I'd let him puke after 50 minut-" Wait, wait wait. Chris is awake? And he's already won an eating contest?! "Yeah, can't you hear the chanting?"
After he mentioned it, the chanting was pretty obvious. Chris's name was being shouted in drunken-rythym pockets spanning both lawns. I briefly made eye contact with Chris- and I'm sure to this day that he paused and offered me a barely perceptible bow- before he ran off down the street to drink with his new legion of fans. The next time I saw him was 4-5 hours later, when he hammered on my door until I answered, so he could inform me that, "it's out-pass.... out pass?? It's time to... I'm going to pass out. Get up tonight, bitch!"
As I've gotten older, I've noticed that my friends are less likely to, year by year, to do the stupid shit they did the year before. Each year a number of people grow up appropriately, and become less inclined to participate when people like me push an absurd agenda. Chris used to fret about it. "Damnit, I'm not growing up, Derek. I'm just looking for one of those GREAT weekends, every weekend. I'll take a great day, man. I'll take one great day a semester. You know what I'm talking about." Yeah. I know.
Naptime (in the story, and in real life). More Stream of Ponchoness when I wake up.
I've got some catching up to do, so I'll start by rehashing one of the greatest weekends of my life.
About a week ago, Chris and I were talking- bullshitting if you will- after a few drinks. I'm not positive how it started, but I think he said something to the effect of: "Hey, you remember that time I got all wasted at Applebee's on that Sunday in Ann Arbor?" Oh, Chris. Of course I remember.
Less than 2 years ago, my friend Chris came to see me in Ann Arbor, well before I met most people reading this. As was the custom on the Friday nights before home football games, we had people over at our place, counterbalancing the party at our good friends' place next door. Michigan played Iowa at Noon the next afternoon (morning... noon is morning, no matter what anybody says), and we threw some legendary tailgates, so- of course- everyone got all bombed on Friday night. If I remember correctly- and I'm reasonably sure I do NOT- I threatened to fight one crowd of Hawkeye fans, and later made a cash wager with the stipulation that "if you win, I'll be here and you can collect; if I win, just don't come back and there'll be no hard feelings."
I am a professional gambler.
The night was great, Chris and I got drunk and played basketball on the court out back for money, and then we went to bed at like 4-5ish. Standard.
In the morning, I locked myself in my room like the pussy I am. By this point, most of my friends were used to my fashionably late 10:45AM tailgate arrivals, and stopped pounding on my bedroom door at around 9:15. Score. After I woke up, yawned, showered, took a quick power nap, yawned again, and changed into a sweatsuit, I meandered over to the tailgate, where I planned on drinking as few beers as humanly possible (~8) before heading to the game.
I did not make it to the game.
I was assaulted by a "short stack" as soon as I left my house. "Come on, Derek! You're not bongin' a full beer! It's a short stack!!" Ha. Ha. I'll take your 16oz. beer bong and earn myself some TailgatePoliticalCapital. "Bong Bong, says the RZA." (bong bong, says derek)
Ten minutes and 3 "short stacks" later, an old buddy of mine from highschool sprints over to me and pulls me away. "Jesus, Birch. I barely like you, but I don't think anybody could appreciate this as much as you could." Okay. That's a pretty good hook, man. I'm snared. "Chris just... He ate 12 hotdogs in 10 minutes. He was supposed to keep them down for an hour, but he asked if I'd let him puke after 50 minut-" Wait, wait wait. Chris is awake? And he's already won an eating contest?! "Yeah, can't you hear the chanting?"
After he mentioned it, the chanting was pretty obvious. Chris's name was being shouted in drunken-rythym pockets spanning both lawns. I briefly made eye contact with Chris- and I'm sure to this day that he paused and offered me a barely perceptible bow- before he ran off down the street to drink with his new legion of fans. The next time I saw him was 4-5 hours later, when he hammered on my door until I answered, so he could inform me that, "it's out-pass.... out pass?? It's time to... I'm going to pass out. Get up tonight, bitch!"
As I've gotten older, I've noticed that my friends are less likely to, year by year, to do the stupid shit they did the year before. Each year a number of people grow up appropriately, and become less inclined to participate when people like me push an absurd agenda. Chris used to fret about it. "Damnit, I'm not growing up, Derek. I'm just looking for one of those GREAT weekends, every weekend. I'll take a great day, man. I'll take one great day a semester. You know what I'm talking about." Yeah. I know.
Naptime (in the story, and in real life). More Stream of Ponchoness when I wake up.
posted by Derek at 9:27 PM
5 Comments:
Wang, when my blog wins the Pulitzer, opening the door for people like us to go mainstream, I picture this story will be turned into a terrible, obscenely padded screenplay, probably your fourth. The little massage at the end will be the same, but the director will play that music from the end of Animal House over it, changing the mood just enough send you into an artistic tizzy. Then we'll cash the check and go to Reno.
I'm in. Except we're going to Branson, Missouri. I know we're not big enough to be bigshots in Vegas, and I'm not willing to take the chance that the overflow to Reno would leave us straining to impress 36 year-old life-time smokers with too much make up and not enough self-esteem to give a damn whether we take them back to the Motel 6 or the Hilton.
So, Branson.
Part II comes later today
I think you underestimate the sexiness of a creepy looking Asian kid wearing a Pulitzer around his neck. Hell, I'll have a movie star girlfriend and a stripper on the side to fill in the gaps. You don't think Wallace Stegner had to beat them off with a stick?
Wang, if you're looking for some quick points, check out the music thread.
Hey
I just got back from Notre Dame for the Michigan game (if you can even call it that). I'm pissed though...I got a picture under Touchdown Jesus, but it was such bad quality you'd think it was Field Goal Noah...Or the less liked Pass Interference Mohammed
But anyways...Those Tigs aren't going away just yet. Cutting it too damn close though...
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